Criminal Confections (28 page)

Nina looked away. She fussed with her cuticles, then thoughtlessly nibbled on her fingernail. Then, “I'm afraid so.”

I understood. “It
does
make it easier, you know,” I told her, seeing how distressed she seemed. “If I didn't have
you
to talk to about Christian, I'd think I was going crazy for sure!”

At that, Nina laughed. She made a fist with her hands, seeming to realize belatedly that she'd started gnawing again.

“See? Now
I'm
going crazy!” she joked. “Thanks, Hayden. You always know just the right thing to say. I've been feeling so bad about all of this lately. I mean, if not for
me,
Adrienne—”

“Would have had a much less happy work life, I'm sure,” I butted in. I didn't want to hear another person (after Bernard) beat themselves up for a past decision that
might
(or might not) have wound up affecting Adrienne's well-being. “Believe me, I know how special Adrienne was. I do.” I had very fond memories of our time together. “That's why”—
I'm determined to track down her killer
—

“I'll be so sad to leave Maison Lemaître tomorrow.”

Nina gave a perceptive head shake. “You hesitated there, Hayden. I saw it!” She leaned in. “What's your plan, anyway?”

Nope. That sounded preposterous. It honestly did.

But whether she knew it or not, Nina could help make that happen. She had the direct line to Christian that I lacked. If my request to meet with him came through
her . . .
maybe that would be better than the approach Danny and I had dreamed up last night.

“I can't say,” I told her, indulging in my best cloak-and-dagger routine to coordinate with my ninja outfit. “But it all starts with Christian.” Handily, Nina would think I was talking about his job offer with Lemaître Chocolates. She clearly knew about it. So she wouldn't be suspicious when I said, “Do you think you can pass along a message to him for me, though?”

She stared at me fixedly, clearly sensing my covert vibe. “
Absolutely,”
Nina promised. “What should I tell Christian?”

“Tell him . . .” I paused, relishing the drama of the moment. This might be the only time I ever actively participated in bringing down a killer. Even if Danny thought Christian was just the first guy to knock off our suspect list, I knew better. Christian was the one! Besides, let's be real: It
was
going to be the
only
time I ever helped to catch a murderer. “Tell him I have something
very
important to give him,” I said. “Tell him he's
definitely
going to want this information. Tell him it's
more
than what he's been waiting for—
more
than I promised.”

Okay, sure. I was overselling it a tad. But I was a newbie.

“Right.” Gravely, Nina nodded. “Got it. I'll tell him.”

“Tell him . . .” I stopped, realizing that maybe it would be smart to go even
more
off plan. Just a little. After all, Danny and I had been fairly tipsy last night when we'd conceived of this whole thing. I frowned. “Where's a good place to stage a clandestine meeting?” I asked Nina. “To exchange something?”

She wouldn't know that I meant Adrienne's chocolate notebook. That's what Danny and I had decided to use as bait to lure each of our suspects into the open. They all wanted it.

“The spa,” Nina told me confidently. “It's deserted after hours. Even the staff members don't linger. You can meet there.”

“Good idea.” We broke down the specifics. “Thanks, Nina.”

“Any time.” She drummed her fingers on her clipboard. One of her omnipresent cell phones rang. At its tone, Nina jumped. Apologizing, she pulled it out. “I've really got to run.”

“I know. I'm sorry to keep you so long.” I felt bad for her. It was evident her stressful time hadn't ended yet. “I bet you'll be glad when the chocolate retreat is over with, right?”

Nina's newly flustered gaze met mine while she juggled her other ringing phone. For a heartbeat, she paused to look at me. “I'll be
so
glad when it's all over with,” she said in a heartfelt tone. “It's been so stressful. You have no idea.”

Then she scurried away, leaving me and my all-chocolate breakfast in peace. I looked down at it, considered having it reheated, then decided speed was utmost in this instance.

By now, Danny would be up. I'd need my strength to tell him that I'd gone (infinitesimally) off plan. Plus, there was always the risk he'd pester me to
jog
again. With a groan, I dug in.

Chapter 16

You know that feeling you get when you're trying to clear customs or waiting in line at the DMV or standing behind that one person at the supermarket who
still
keeps a checkbook? It's as though glaciers are melting while you watch. As though roses are blooming and dying in slo-mo time lapse all around you. As though time is absolutely
crawling
by, with no beginning or end. See, that's how I typically feel while thinking about working on any individual consulting report. I just. Don't. Want. To do it.

Actually,
writing
my report is fine. Always. Detailing all my analysis, explaining my recommendations, describing potential solutions for clients . . . I
like
those things. But every time I'm faced with breaking out my laptop and getting down to brass tacks, I feel the same old inertia trying to suck me down again.

In this frame of mind, going outside sounds awesome, for instance. So does taste-testing chocolates (to be double-triple-quadruple certain my initial impressions were accurate). Even reorganizing my duffel bag seems like a stellar idea. While trying to get psyched up to finish my report for Lemaître Chocolates, I'm not proud to say that I wound up engaging in all those time-tested pro-procrastination activities. And then some!

Maybe you've been there, so you know exactly what I'm talking about. Maybe you haven't. . . . In which case, you must be from Mars or something (sorry). In my universe, procrastination follows responsibility as night follows day. The only way out, I knew, was to channel Nike and “just do it.” Because waiting to feel “inspired” to work was about as futile as waiting to feel four inches taller. It just wasn't going to happen.

As a professional, I knew that. That's why I did what I always do and went through the motions anyway. I got out my Moleskine notebook. I assembled my research materials. I spread my market analysis spreadsheets on the bed. I put my laptop in the middle (with Rex's Melt portfolio acting as a makeshift lap desk), grabbed Adrienne's notebook (for safekeeping), then climbed into the unholy nest I'd created. There, amid everything I needed, there could be no excuses. I was there to work.

Since it was crunch time, that's what I did. I squinted and recollected and typed. I reviewed and evaluated and typed some more. I proofread and edited, double-checked and expounded. By the time I was done, I had fifty pages of charts and graphs, recipes and recommendations, percentages and paragraphs. It was, as usual, a pretty kick-ass piece of consultancy work. I wasn't too shy to say so. In my business, modesty gets you
not
hired.

I sighed and looked up, bleary-eyed but pleased with the results I'd achieved. You might not believe me, but as loony as it seems, this is all part of my “chocolate whisperer” process.

Part of my work is methodical. Part is analytical. But a
big
part of it is intuitive; the rest is creative. I need time for all those parts to gel into a cohesive whole. Technically, I'm delaying doing the typing. I'll admit that. But while that's going on, the chocolate-expertise centers in my brain are doing their own things behind the scenes, collating information, making connections, and spitting out useful ideas for me.

It's not a system that would work for everyone, sure. But it works for me. I get no complaints from my clients, and I have all the work I can handle, besides. So it's all good.

Tense from sitting still, parched from my marathon stint, I glanced out the window.
Uh-oh.
It was getting dark outside.

That meant it was almost time for my rendezvous with Christian. Or maybe it was past time. I'd zoned out
too
hard.

With a glimmer of panic, I picked up my phone. If I'd left for my spa-set meeting with Christian ten minutes ago, I'd only have been five minutes late.
Argh.
If chronic latecomer Danny could have seen me now, the irony would have killed him.

Shoving aside that thought, I scrambled to collect my things. Danny and I had gone over our plan in detail after breakfast. He'd promised to alert his friend at the SFPD, then wait in the shadows while I made the exchange with Christian; I'd promised to sub one of my unused notebooks for Adrienne's. That way, we wouldn't be forced to surrender the real thing. Under the circumstances, a decoy would be sufficient, we'd decided.

Besides, I was supposed to play it cool and not
show
the notebook until Christian had thoroughly implicated himself in Adrienne's murder. Easy-peasy, right? I actually thought it might be. Given how much Christian liked to hear the sound of his own voice, it was possible he'd
love
blabbing about his misdeeds. Not that I especially wanted to
hear
them, but . . .

That was part of the deal, I knew as I shoved everything I needed into my crossbody bag, slung it over my shoulder, then bolted out the door and down the (creepily deserted) service stairs. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous; I was. But just as with writing my report, the only way to have any peace of mind was to have this thing
done with,
once and for all. I needed to know who'd killed Adrienne (and maybe Rex). I couldn't rest easy otherwise. I couldn't exactly ramble around the world with my usual joie de vivre unless I knew I was safe, could I?

Breathless, I exited onto the freshly watered, twilit grounds with a sense of purpose, then followed the path toward the spa. In the distance, I heard laughter and conversation, music and the clatter of kitchen workers. I wished I was among those line cooks and sous chefs tonight, instead of heading toward a furtive meeting. I wasn't completely sure I could get Christian to come clean. But I figured I had as good a shot as anyone.

Ahead of me, the luxurious spa building looked peaceful and dark. Only its security lighting was illuminated. Far away behind me, the Maison Lemaître cottages and outbuildings dotted the lawn, barely visible squares of darkness against the ever-deepening sky. I would have thought the need for stress relief and pampering offered by the spa would have been a 24/7 thing, but apparently (I'd learned) it wasn't. Once happy hour rolled around, Portia and Britney had told me earlier, demand for spa services starting dipping; before dinnertime, it nose-dived.

I guessed once people were able to start knocking back cocktails, they started feeling pretty stress free anyway.

Wishing I'd thought to grab a tequila shot for courage (a handy tactic I'd picked up in Mexico City), I approached the spa's imposing entrance. As predicted, everything was quiet.

I glanced around, looking for Danny. Predictably, he and his SFPD friend were nowhere in sight. But they were the experts, right? They shouldn't have been visible. Unlike me.

I hauled in a breath, reminded myself of Danny's promise to have my back, then knocked on the spa door. Thrice.

That was supposed to be the signal I'd arranged. Using it felt ridiculously clandestine. Also, just plain ridiculous. I wished I'd arranged this liaison inside Christian's office.

Three (long) minutes later, I
really
wished I'd arranged to meet the younger Lemaître indoors. I hadn't thought to grab Danny's purloined jacket. It was getting chilly now that the sun had completely set. Shivering, I paced in the spa's entryway.

Was Christian standing me up? It looked that way, but I just couldn't believe it. He
really
wanted Adrienne's notebook, and I'd done a masterful job of (over)selling it. Frowning, I gazed across the darkened grounds, looking for him. Nada.

Unsure whether to stay or go, I pulled out my phone to check for messages. There was a confirmation text from Danny, letting me know he was at the Maison Lemaître bar with his law enforcement pal, a reminder to myself to read Travis's email, and a notification about my upcoming departing flight from SFO, but nothing from Christian. Grumbling with uncertainty, I decided to kill a few more minutes reading Travis's email.

It wasn't easy to view the whole thing on my phone's tiny screen, but I got the gist readily enough. Calvin Wheeler wasn't a thoughtless nonrecycler
or
an abusive husband, as it turned out—but he
was
unemployed. Travis's contact had turned up details of Calvin's arrest for “harassing” his former employer and making threats after having been dismissed from the firm.

The arrest was four months old, though. Calvin's accounting firm hadn't pressed charges. The whole matter had been dropped.

Its timing did make me wonder, though....

Suddenly, the spa's door silently
whooshed
open.

Nina stood in the entryway, unsurprised to see me.

“Nina!” I blurted,
quite
surprised to see
her. “
Where's Christian?” Surely she'd understood that she'd been supposed to arrange the meeting, not be present for it. Then I thought of another possible explanation for her being there. “Was tonight our spa date with Calvin and Danny? I should let him know.”

She waved. “You don't have to do that.”

But I whipped off a quick text to Danny anyway, just in case. A girl couldn't be too safe. “It's okay. Already done.”

With my plan engaged, I stepped inside the low-lit spa's reception area, eager to get this over with. It was probably going to be a no-go if Nina was there, though, I realized. Christian would be unlikely to spill the beans in her presence.

I wouldn't have wanted to confess to murder in front of her, either. Nina's enviable grooming, impeccable posture, and nonstop organizational skills were fairly intimidating. Heck, I wouldn't have wanted to confess to a hangnail in her hearing. Although, I noticed as I looked at her now, today Nina's manicure was history. She seemed to have finished what she'd started at breakfast this morning by gnawing all her newly polished nails to the quick. The end result looked . . . painful.

That wasn't all, either. Nina's blotchy complexion was back as she turned to me, then dropped her gaze to my bulging bag.

“Did you bring it?” she asked.

Her tone suggested we were swapping spreadsheets or finalizing marketing campaign plans, not (potentially) trading corporate secrets. But then, Nina didn't know all the details.

I doubted Christian would have enlightened her.

“I brought something for Christian,” I specified, putting my hand protectively over the spot where I'd stashed the decoy notebook. I looked around. “Is he here? Or is he running late?”

I hoped he was running late. That would disguise my own tardiness. I had a professional image to uphold, after all.

“Why don't you come this way?” Nina gestured toward the treatment rooms. A few feet away, the Zen fountain sparkled.

“Okay.” I was thrown by her being there, but I shrugged and followed in her wake, anyway. “I guess Christian just won't stage a meeting without turning it into a big production, huh?”

He obviously wanted Nina, his right-hand gal, to be there—probably for appearances. I didn't know if Christian imagined himself as some sort of cartoon supervillain or what, but he did like to seem important. His hubris didn't surprise me.

Maybe I'd inadvertently caused this snafu by going off script. Danny had warned me that I shouldn't have improvised.

Speaking of him . . . I peeked at my phone as we traversed the spa's silent and serene lounge area, then headed for the treatment rooms. “Christian had better not be planning on sharing chocolate-fondue body wraps with me!” I joked, glancing into that room as we passed it. “I'm off those for life.”

Nina said nothing. Probably, she was as irked to be taking part in this sneaky scenario as I was to be instigating it. I would have preferred that Adrienne was still alive, creating wonderful chocolates, and Rex was still kicking, smarming it up.

Nina was nothing if not forbearing, though. There was no trace of irritation in her expression as she showed me into the same room where I'd shared the hot-cocoa mud bath with Isabel.

Automatically, I glanced overhead, looking for security cameras. Earlier (while I'd been procrastinating), Danny had explained how they worked at Maison Lemaître. I wasn't surprised that there weren't any cameras in the treatment room. That would have been a serious violation of guest privacy. Also, what were the spa workers going to steal in here? Towels and pricey mud?

I didn't see Christian. “He
is
late. That figures.”

Nina turned. Her expression looked . . . pretty
weird,
frankly. The mottled pinkness I'd noticed earlier seemed to have spread from her face to her neck and lower, making her look blotchy all over. Her hands trembled. So did her voice, when she spoke.

“Christian isn't coming,” she said. “No one is coming.”

I didn't understand. “Didn't you give him my message?”

“He wants you to give
me
Adrienne's notebook.”

“Adrienne's—” I broke off, confused. I studied her more closely. “I never said I was bringing Adrienne's notebook.”

“But that's what it
had
to be, wasn't it?” Nina's voice echoed in the luxuriously tiled room. Nearby us, the hot-cocoa mud bath burbled away, making it feel vaguely steamy. I guessed the staff didn't turn down the heat all the way—probably, it was too expensive to crank it completely up and down every day.

“Either that,” Nina went on, clenching her fists, “or your consulting report.” She narrowed her eyes. “You found out
lots
of interesting things while working on
that,
didn't you?”

Her demeanor baffled me. The PR exec seemed more on edge than ever, but there weren't any official events going on here.