Criminal Confections (27 page)

“And you know that . . . how?” Danny eyed my beer, probably wondering if I was going to finish it. He liked mixing it up sometimes. It was a good thing we were leaving via taxi.

I pushed my leftover beer across the table. Danny lifted it in a mischievous toast, then took a swallow. When he finished, he put down his glass, straightened a make-believe deerstalker hat atop his head (à la Sherlock Holmes), then gave me a grin.

“You know,” I mused, “I think you're enjoying this.”

“Nah.” He wiped his mouth, then nodded at a woman who passed by while giving him a flirtatious look. “I like being
out,
away from all the stuffed shirts. On our own again.”

I liked that, too. “I'm glad you're here with me.”

“Hey. Settle down, sloppy. One of your
other
biggest flaws is getting mushy when you're drinking. Try to rein it in, okay?”

I saluted. “You know,” I said, getting more somber, “it's possible that Bernard really
is
as nice as he seems to be—that he truly
is
grieving over Adrienne, sorry to have lost Isabel—”

“What was I saying about you not wanting to think the worst of people?” Danny shook his head. “Come on.”

“I mean it! I
like
Bernard. When he's not scaring me.”

“You need therapy.”

Reminded of the info Travis was sending me about Nina's husband, I considered checking my phone for his email. Travis had gone above and beyond on that request. He'd let me know that he hadn't wanted to “skirt the law,” but he'd done it. For me.

“Since you won't
leave
to be safe,” Travis had told me on the phone, rumbly and hot, “you didn't give me much choice.”

“Remind me to steal all your pants sometime,” I'd joked, imagining
him
without “much choice” except to gallivant around in his tighty-whities, shirtless and—more importantly—available.

But my superserious keeper hadn't gotten in on the fun.

“This information came from one of my friends in the Fed,” Travis had told me. “It's for your eyes only.
Not
Danny's.”

Privately, I suspected Travis simply didn't want his nemesis to know that
he'd
done something borderline sketchy by calling in a few favors with his highbrow government buddies.

But I'd agreed to stay mum. Now I made keeping that vow to Travis even easier by not looking for his email.

“If Bernard is innocent,” I told Danny, “then we have to consider what he said. He pointed the finger at Christian. Point-blank! No equivocating.” Not beyond window gazing, at least.

“Maybe Bernard was redirecting you on purpose.” Danny's keen gaze locked on mine. “There's no better way to dodge trouble than by throwing suspicion on someone else.”

I scoffed. He held firm. I reconsidered. “You think so?”

He looked away. Tightly, Danny said, “I know so.”

Well. That was all I wanted to know about
that.
I tended to overlook the nitty-gritty details of Danny's former life whenever I possibly could. It was better for us both that way.

Perkily, I moved on. “So, what do we do next?” I looked around the busy bar, absorbing its energy and grittiness and music. “The retreat is winding down, which means
I'm
running out of time.” I reminded Danny that it was still possible
I'd
been the original target, not Adrienne . . . and Rex was just a wobbly, unlucky ridge-trail runner. “If someone is after me, I want to know whodunit
before
I leave San Francisco all unaware.”

And vulnerable,
I couldn't help thinking.
Yikes.

Danny nodded. “We have to flush out the killer.”

I swallowed hard. “Make them tip their hand?”

“Otherwise, we won't have any proof. I have an . . . acquaintance who works with the SFPD,” Danny told me, nodding at another frisky woman. She brightened. “I can bring help if we need it.”

“But you don't think we need it.”

He shrugged. “I think we need to set your mind at ease.”

“You think I'm making this up?” I was offended.

“I think
you
weren't the target. But that doesn't mean there's not a killer on the loose. Who else have you talked to?”

We discussed all the other attendees I'd chatted with over the past few days. None of them had seemed even remotely suspicious to me—or had had any reason to want me (or Adrienne) dead. I sighed. “That leaves us with Isabel—”

“No good unless we can give the police proof.”

“Rex—”

“If he killed Adrienne, he's already got what's coming to him.”

“—Christian,” I went on. I made a face. “And Bernard.”

“Christian is the one to start with,” Danny told me decisively. I was still hung up on Danny thinking I was being paranoid about this. I'd been
clobbered
and
baked
! “He's a bully, but I don't think he has the stones to kill anybody. We can eliminate him first, then cast a wider net if we need to.”

“Okay,” I agreed, “but how do we flush him out?”

Maybe it was the discount beer talking, but I liked the idea of settling this mess, once and for all. I wanted it
done.
I didn't want to spend the next decade looking over my shoulder.

“Greed,” Danny said. “That's how. You'll have to make the first move. Christian would be suspicious if I approached him.” His gaze squared up with mine. “I'll have your back, though.”

With a shiver of trepidation, I nodded. We huddled up and made our plan together. We were drunk, we were amateurs at catching a killer, and we were probably out of our depth. But I didn't want to wait for another near disaster to take action. It had to be now.

Well,
tomorrow.
That's when everything would go down, we decided. Just then, it was too late for anyone but bar crawlers, club kids, and two world-traveling miscreants like us.

“This would be a very bad time,” I warned Danny as we raised a toast to our plan, “for you to be late again.”

He scoffed, then drank. “You can trust me,” my pal said. He flashed me another grin. “Your first EFT hasn't even cleared.”

Then, with that unsettling jokey rejoinder, Danny hustled me out of the bar and into the clear, dark night. I only hoped it wouldn't be my last lungful of Pacific breeze as I grabbed us a cab and sent us speeding across the bridge to Maison Lemaître.

Chapter 15

Predictably, by the time I woke up the next day, last night's bravado felt a million miles (and several beers) away.

What had seemed to be a stellar idea to me (trapping a killer) in the middle of a dive bar past midnight now seemed like a smoky dream. Or a movie. Who was
I
to augment my (already questionable) snooping activities with an honest-to-God
trap
?

I didn't have it in me, I decided as I showered and then got dressed. I wasn't anything close to a formidable killer-catcher. But I opted to look the part, anyway. Because what else would a cool, save-the-day type wear
except
for all black? All I needed to pull it off were my close-fitting black pants, a chic black top, my fast-getaway flats, and (in deference to the changeable weather near the Marin Headlands) Danny's jacket.

I'd kept it last night, after we'd parted at the door.

From the ankles to the waist, I was Audrey Hepburn. From the waist to the neck, I was James Dean. From there upward . . . I was stumped. My loose, shoulder-length hair and face (from the Slightly Hungover collection) stymied classification, until I remembered tomboyish ‘70s and ‘80s style icon Jane Birkin. That just about nailed it.

But I couldn't putter around getting my procrastination on all morning. Despite the rampant murder and confusion, I still had a consulting report to finish—and just hours to do it in before the plan Danny and I had brainstormed went into motion. I intended to finish writing my analysis of Lemaître Chocolates,
for sure,
today. I'd been working on my report in bits and pieces until now. All that remained was tying things together and formalizing my recommendations. All the necessary details were clear in my mind. Nothing was going to stop me. It couldn't.

Well, except for breakfast, I reasoned, swapping out my clutch for my reliable crossbody bag. No reasonable person would have denied me
breakfast.
I needed brainpower, didn't I? And I needed both hands free to navigate all the mouthwatering things on offer at the resort's ever-popular all-chocolate buffet.

Ordinarily, the buffet was a weekends-only thing at Maison Lemaître, designed to entice resort-goers and coax local city dwellers into making the trip across the bay. Today, though, I'd learned that the chocolate-chip brioche French toast, chocolate waffles, pancakes with cacao nibs and fudge sauce, almond mocha scones, white chocolate cherry muffins, and everything else were going to be available in honor of the retreat's penultimate day.

It was a decision I applauded as I slipped out of my room, then eyed the door to Danny's room in indecision. Deciding in the end to leave him to his beauty sleep, I headed for the nearest stairs. The fire door clanged behind me with just as much hollow creepiness as usual, sealing me inside the typically uninhabited service stairwell. Shrugging into Danny's jacket, I descended the stairs at double speed, jostling my headache.

At least it wasn't a concussion headache, I figured as I emerged onto the Maison Lemaître grounds and followed the sweet scents of chocolate and freshly brewed coffee toward the patio. What I was suffering from was a good old-fashioned overdose of lukewarm cut-rate beer (not to mention the ill-advised burritos we'd later stopped the taxi in the Mission to chase it down with).

In the buffet area, the lavishly dressed tables were full of retreat attendees. The sound of chocolate-business chatter rose to greet me; so did a few people I'd become friends with.

Getting to the end of the buffet spread took me a lot longer this time. Now that it wasn't dawn (or the early days of the retreat), my chocolatier cohorts were clearly feeling chatty. I entertained a couple of offers of consulting work (delivered on the QT, naturally), a few more offers of between-the-sheets “consulting” (Rex wasn't the only smarmy entrepreneur in my biz), and made a lot of promises to keep in touch with various suppliers, restaurateurs, and shop owners.

By the time I left the chocolate buffet, I had no memory of what I'd haphazardly dished onto my plate. Waving to the last friend I'd chatted with (the vivacious Torrance Chocolates rep), I veered toward an available table, then sat and took a look.

An overflowing plate looked back at me, chockablock with pastries, chocolate-chunk breakfast foods, a big smear of Nutella, whipped cream, and a mini ramekin of hot-fudge sauce. It was hardly balanced or complete, but that wasn't the point.

In my line of work, I see (and taste) a lot of chocolate. But I don't ordinarily get to do so off the clock, for my own pleasure. Eagerly anticipating doing exactly that, I unfurled my fancy napkin, fished out my heavy silver cutlery, then got down to business. With a never-ending supply of coffee coming from the attentive servers, a refreshing breeze blowing in across the grass and ruffling the nearby flowers, and no workshops, I was—

—unsurprisingly interrupted before I'd taken a single bite.

“Hayden!” Nina hustled over, smiling at me. Her gaze dipped to my overflowing plate. Her smile dimmed. “Are you okay?”

“I'm about to be, as soon as I tuck into all this.”

“No, I mean . . .” After casting a hasty look around, Nina hugged her clipboards. She took a seat next to me, then leaned in. “Are you okay after
Rex
? How are you handling things?” Her concerned gaze searched mine, then wandered to my breakfast. “I mean, you and Rex seemed pretty close. You wouldn't be the first person to try to drown her heartache in chocolate sauce.”

I burst out laughing. I couldn't help it. “
Me?
And
Rex
?”

She seemed taken aback. So did the people who glanced toward us at the sound of my chortle. Smiling, I waved them off.

“I'm not drowning my sorrows, Nina. I promise.”

“If you say so.” Her gaze skittered back to my face. “I
did
see the two of you cuddled up together fairly often, though.”

That was because he'd been putting the moves on me.
Ugh.

“I swear I'm not heartbroken over Rex. What happened to him is a tragedy, of course, but . . .” I put down my fork. It was apparent I wasn't going to be able to properly savor my praline
pain au chocolat. “
He wanted to consult with me. That's all.”

Nina's next glance at my cacao smorgasbord disagreed. She evidently couldn't fathom eating all that food unless racked with grief. Which made no sense to me. I lose my appetite when stressed. Who wants to eat when everything tastes like sawdust?

“I don't know why Rex would need to consult with anyone!” Nina brushed back her hair—as if a single strand would dare to be out of place. As usual, her appearance was immaculate—whereas (thanks to my very late night last night)
I
looked like something Poopsie had dragged in . . . then chewed on, then slobbered on, then dragged back outside. “Melt is one of the premier chocolatiers in the city!” Nina said. “Rex was
very
successful.”

Skeptically, I shook my head. “Nobody else says that.”

“Well, if you've heard otherwise, you've heard wrong!”

Too late, I remembered that
Nina
was the one who'd been close to Rex.
They'd
been the ones who'd cuddled up together. Right near this buffet, in fact. Maybe elsewhere, too, I realized belatedly. After all, Nina hadn't seemed 100 percent opposed to getting extramarital with Danny (at least not until she'd learned about his wrong-side-of-the-tracks past). Maybe she'd been more serious about Rex than I'd realized?

Either way, I was being insensitive. Rex's death had been a shocking surprise. Nina was probably still reeling from it.

“Those business rumors don't matter now,” I assured her in a gentle voice, patting her suit-covered forearm. “Rex
was
very well thought of in the end.” Maybe she'd seen the TV news reports, too. “I'm sure he'll be missed by many people.”

Including you?
I wanted to ask, but didn't.

Mostly because Nina was getting worked up again.

“Who told you Rex was struggling?” she wanted to know. “Was it that
Chocolat Monthly
reporter? Eden had it in for Rex, you know. You can't take anything she says at face value.”

“Nina . . .” I had to come clean. I could trust her with the truth. “I've seen Melt's business portfolio. Rex
really was
in financial trouble. I'm sorry if you didn't know that.”

She fidgeted, then flung out her arm. “Well, that doesn't matter to
me.”
She laughed, turning almost as pink as I'd been after my wrap adventure yesterday. “I just didn't want you to come away with the wrong idea, that's all. If
you
liked Rex, I wanted you to leave here with good impressions of him.”

Oh?
“That's sweet of you, Nina. But not necessary.”

A breeze sent a whiff of chocolate wafting upward from my plate. I felt keenly aware of my rapidly cooling brioche waffle. Also, I remembered too late that I'd forgotten (in my postdive haze) to look at Travis's email about Nina's husband.

Probably, when I did, I'd learn that Calvin Wheeler had done something heinous like mix recyclables with trash. It was hard to say what kinds of things an organized, straight-arrow type like Travis would find outrageous. For all I knew, my late-night barhop with Danny had put me on Travis's naughty list.

“You know,” I mused, unable to resist nibbling a muffin for strength, “I heard that Rex offered Adrienne a job at Melt. But she turned him down. Or was that just gossip, too? Do you know?”

It wasn't the most smooth or subtle segue, I'll admit. The link between Rex and Adrienne was tenuous. But Nina had known Adrienne even longer than I had. Maybe she could shed some light on one of the few things that still niggled at me about her.

Nina bit her lip. Her complexion had gone from embarrassed pink to mottled pink and white. I was glad I wasn't a redhead. For fair-skinned types like Nina, being out in the sun (the way we were on the serene and chocolate-scented patio) was brutal.

She gave the other breakfasters a cautious look. “No, that one is true,” Nina finally confided in a low tone. “Rex offered to pay Adrienne a lot of money to take over as head chocolatier at Melt. He was too busy pressing the flesh to do it himself.”

“That sounds like a dream opportunity,” I said. Even idiosyncratic, often nomadic restaurant workers enjoyed a big payday. “Do you know why Adrienne turned him down?”

Nina's gaze swiveled to mine. She sighed. “Because of me.”

I was surprised. “Because of
you
? What do you mean?”

She squeezed her clipboards, clearly reluctant to talk.

“I won't tell anyone, Nina,” I promised. “Especially not Christian, if that's what you're worried about. I swear.”

She gave me a ghost of a smile. “I heard he's trying to get his hooks into you next,” Nina ventured. “Are you going to—”

I didn't want to talk about my nonexistent future with Lemaître Chocolates. I'd already made my peace with
not
having that Victorian house, those window box flowers, that cable car ride, or that adorable four-legged friend of my own. Besides, I wasn't sure how to explain my reluctance to work for Christian without inadvertently slamming Nina's ongoing employment with him. Nina was sensitive. I didn't want to spark a new tic.

“You can't sidetrack me,” I interrupted with a smile, calling her out on her (probably automatic) PR gamesmanship. “How could Adrienne have turned down a job because of you?”

“It wasn't long after Christian took over,” Nina admitted. “We were all under the gun, worried about how things would turn out. With Bernard at the helm, I'd been at the top—choice corner office, big salary, all the perks and privileges . . . you know.” Her wave suggested those things were par for the course in our industry. Sometimes they were. Not always. “But all new execs like to make their mark. They like to put their stamp on things. Christian was no different. I thought he might bring in his own people. Adrienne did, too. We were both scared for our jobs.”

That made sense. “Bernard recruited you
and
Adrienne, after all. Right? You were both part of the old guard.”

“That's right.” Nina nodded, warming up to what were clearly difficult memories. Absently, she scratched her neck. “But Christian didn't want to make those kinds of changes, after all. He's a devotee of new management tactics—strategies designed to bring in new blood and fresh thinking. We all got foosball tables, big-screen TVs, junk food in the break room—”

“Like one of those tech companies,” I said, thinking of Google, Amazon, Twitter . . . any number of Silicon Valley start-ups.

“Exactly. We
also
got ‘exciting' new cubicles instead of offices. They were supposed to foster teamwork and creativity.”

I nodded. “You lost your nice corner office, didn't you?”

Nina nodded. “It wasn't that bad. Because I still had Adrienne! We were already friends. The new layout only brought us closer. After that, the kitchens weren't miles away from the PR zone anymore. We used to have coffee together every day.”

That sounded nice. I was never in one place long enough to forge workplace routines with anyone. “With all the turmoil going on, Adrienne didn't want to leave you alone,” I guessed, putting
two
and
two
together. I remembered how considerate my chocolatier friend had been. “That's why she turned down Rex's job offer. So you wouldn't have to deal with Christian alone.”