Criminal Confections (30 page)

“It was considerate of you to set up this nice deserted meeting place,” Nina went on next, looking around. The tiled walls had beaded with condensation. So had the floor. “That made things much easier for me. Easier than the chocolate-fondue body wrap equipment thing. It's so hard to arrange an accident when a bunch of chocolate-retreat attendees are hanging around.”

“That was
you
?” Then Nina hadn't been at the spa to have a manicure at all. She'd come there to get
me. “
But why?”

“Because I didn't succeed the first time, of course.” Nina's tone was eerily matter-of-fact. “It's all your fault that it's come to this. It was supposed to have been a simple overdose—”

I felt my heart stutter, then kick into overdrive.

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.
It had
all
been Nina, all along.

“—but somehow the glasses got switched,” Nina went on jumpily. “You got Adrienne's green juice, and
she
got yours.”

This was all getting a little too real for me. I backed up again, scanning the treatment room for a weapon. I noticed that the hot-cocoa mud bath still burbled innocently away, as though Nina and I might patch things up and then become spa buddies.

“It was supposed to have been
you
dead, all along. Not Adrienne.
Now
it's going to be.” Erratically, Nina beamed at me. She hugged herself, free (for the first time I could remember) of her clipboards and phones. “I've tried to kill you
three times
now, Hayden, but you just keep on getting away!”

“‘Three times'?” I stalled. My throat was so dry, I could barely force out the words. The hypercaffeinated green energy drink, the killer chocolate-fondue body wrap machine, and . . . ?

“I thought I had you with that lamp,” Nina explained conversationally, “but your friend Danny interrupted me.” She frowned. “That's how I thought of blaming him for it.”

Aha. “
If it's any consolation, I had a monster headache.”

“It's not.” Nina rummaged in her handbag. She pulled out something cylindrical, black, and compact. A collapsible umbrella? “Honestly, it's kind of a relief to have it out in the open,” she told me. “I've been
really
stressed about this.”

“No kidding?” I eyed her multiple nervous tics. Then I started panicking. I breathed in, forcing myself to regroup.

“Well, you'd better get undressed.” With whatever she'd withdrawn, Nina gestured to the side. She'd (helpfully?) placed a Maison Lemaître spa robe on the closest hook. “Your accident isn't going to be believable if you're fully dressed.” She pointed at my crossbody bag. “Just leave me your purse.”

I clutched it. Silently, I shook my head. I knew enough to try to delay her—to try to humanize us both. “It doesn't have to be this way, Nina. We can both leave here safely! I can make sure everyone understands that Adrienne's death really
was
an accident.” I wasn't sure how I was supposed to gloss over the fact that
I'd
been the intended target. Details. “Let's talk about this! I can see that you're feeling pretty overwhelmed.”

I backed up, all knowledge of my “brilliant” plan to flush out the killer falling out of my brain. I wondered if Danny and his friend had arrived—if they were somewhere near. If so, they were the most lackadaisical save-the-day cavalry ever. It looked as though I was on my own. Just in case, I scratched my head.

Danny did
not
burst in to save me. I almost sobbed.

“You won't find what you want in my bag,” I warned Nina as I pulled it off my shoulder. “All I put in here is a decoy.”

Everything felt surreal. I wanted this nightmare to end.

Apparently, so did Nina. She reached into the hot-cocoa mud bath, withdrew a hefty handful of mud, then tossed it on the floor. Then another handful. She smiled at her handiwork.

“There,” she announced. “That ought to just about do it.”

With a sinking sensation, I understood. I was supposed to “slip” on that mud and fall—probably to my death. A well-placed blow to the head would do it, sending my noggin squarely against the tile. This time, I'd have much worse than a concussion.

“I'm not just going to let you murder me
,”
I warned.

Nina looked exasperated. “It's not
murder,
remember? It's an accident. You're going to have a terrible, tragic accident.”

I swallowed hard. “I'm tougher than I look.” I thought it was only fair to say so. “I have backup right behind me, too.”

“Your macho buddy?” Nina laughed. “I think he's late.”

I did, too. Unfortunately. Goose bumps rose on my arms.

“Besides,” Nina added, “I brought backup, too.”

With a brutal gesture, she jerked the thing she'd brought. It telescoped outward with a horrifying sound. It was, I saw too late, an expanding baton—the kind police forces used worldwide.

With as much franticness as Nina had, I scratched my head. But my “help!” gesture did not summon my burly bodyguard, Danny.

“Come on,” Nina coaxed irritably, stepping nearer—probably to grab my bag. “There's no point delaying the inevitable.”

“I'm a master procrastinator,” I cracked, my voice warbling. “It's
always
possible to delay the inevitable.”

Nina didn't appreciate my attempt at humor. But she did come close enough for me to take a swing at her. Because one thing I'd learned in Barcelona was to never take
yourself
closer to an attacker. Only defend yourself in ways that let you keep your distance.

So as Nina came closer, her gaze fixed on my bag . . . I swung that thing as hard as I could. I caught Nina right in the face with my crossbody bag's full weight. She staggered.

I followed up with a sturdy kick, aimed right at the side of her kneecap. You couldn't aim for the front—that hurt, but it didn't throw an attacker (or streetwise mugger) off balance. As I'd prayed it would, my kick made Nina crumple. She went down.

So did her baton—and my trusty bag. Her weapon skittered across the floor; my favorite bag flew into the tub full of hot-cocoa mud bath muck. But I couldn't think about that just then. I was too busy mentally planning my next self-defense move.

Swearing a blue streak of Spanish profanities, Nina tried to get up. She slid on the mud, which she'd dropped on the floor a minute ago. Breathing hard, full of wild adrenaline, I adopted a ready pose.

Nose strike or eye gouge,
I repeated to myself, arranging my arms and hands.
Nose strike or eye gouge. Nose strike—

“That's enough,” Danny said calmly from beside me.

I whirled. He knew enough not to touch me. Not then.

He nodded at Nina on the floor. “Barcelona strikes again?”

Shakily, I shrugged. But we both knew that's what it was: the same fail-safe maneuver that had dropped that would-be mugger in Barcelona. Hey, I told you it was
effective,
right? I never said it was
complicated.
Sometimes it's better if it's not.

Tardily, I noticed Danny's uniformed friend dealing with Nina. It was a relief to have a police presence there—even if I couldn't help noticing that said police presence was curvaceous, brunette, and dishy . . . in an authoritative, capable way, of course.

“I thought you didn't like the police,” I said to Danny.

“Sometimes I do.” His gaze touched me, full of concern. “When it comes to you.” He traded a decisive nod with his attractive friend. “It was touch and go when I heard Nina's baton go into action, but I'm pretty sure we got it all.”

“Got all what?” Had they been outside the treatment room listening? “You couldn't have gotten anything.” Suddenly, I felt overrun with fear and frustration. “You were
late
! Again!”

Unable to hold back, I gave him a good smack to the arm.

“I wasn't late,” Danny argued, eyes widening from my blow. He held up his hands. “I was hanging back. Getting Nina's confession. You were handling things okay.” He eyed my head. “You'd better watch that itch, though. Might be dandruff.”

I couldn't believe he was laughing about this.

“We need a new SOS signal,” I told him sternly. Danny's police officer friend's radio burst to life. Raising my voice above the comforting sound of the SFPD deciding what to do with Nina, I added, “I think the old one is too complicated for you.”

“I think you're waiting too long to deploy it.”

“‘Too long'? I was scratching my head like crazy!”

“Like I said, you had it covered.” Danny slung his arm around my still-trembling shoulders. “Congrats, Hayden. You just caught a killer,” he said cheerfully. “How does it feel?”

“It feels . . .” I paused. “Like I
never
want to do it again.”

Then, at the officer's instructive nod, we headed outside together to give our statements (I assumed) and formalize my first (and last) covert catch-a-killer operation.

Chapter 17

As you might have expected, word spread quickly about Nina's arrest at Maison Lemaître. It might have helped that police cars came screaming up the resort's long, luxurious driveway just moments after my encounter with Nina in the spa. Even as Danny and I stepped outside, more officers were there waiting to meet us. We spent quite a while talking with them.

“This is serious stuff. And here I thought you were just making time with your hot detective friend,” I told Danny during a lull in the action. We watched as Nina was put into a patrol car. She looked dazed, defiant, and (obviously) irrefutably guilty. “You didn't tell me your ‘associate' was so cute.”

“There's a reason I was willing to hang out in the bar with her while you worked your way through our suspects.” Danny grinned at that reference to his role in our catch-a-killer plan, then nodded at his friend. “It wouldn't have been so bad if the effort had taken two or three or four nights.”

“It couldn't have taken that long,” I protested. “I would have had to leave San Francisco without knowing who was after me.” I shivered, remembering that I
had been
the target, after all. “I guess I'm not as 100 percent well-liked as I thought.”

“Nah. You're very well-liked with me.”

“Well, then. That's all that counts, right?”

“Damn straight,” Danny agreed.

I was pretty sure he was being extra nice to me. I had, after all, just been through a traumatic experience. I'd been really brave about it all, too—even if I had to say so myself.

“What I still don't understand,” I mused, standing in the darkness with the police lights flashing over us and all the officers hurrying around, “is
you.
You
liked
Nina. You stuck up for her. You made me have breakfast with her while you jogged!”

“All part of my cunning plan.”

“Ha. As if.” I poked him. “You had a crush on a killer.”

“I didn't have ‘a crush' on Nina. I was watching her!”

“Mmm-hmm.” I folded my arms against the cold. “Remind me to be skeptical of your people skills in the future. Whereas
I
—”

“Was totally fooled about Nina's intentions all along.”

Whoops. He had me there. “I can't be expected to be
good
at sniffing out a killer. I've never done it before!”

I hoped never to do it again, either. I hadn't been kidding. This was not something I wanted to make a habit of.

“Especially not when
this
is the result.” I lifted my still-soggy crossbody bag, which I'd fished from the hot-cocoa mud bath. It felt heavy with mud residue. “It'll never be the same.”

Danny shrugged. “It could have been worse. At least your overdue report wasn't in there.”

“My report
isn't
overdue!” At least it wasn't, as long as I delivered it to Christian tonight. “Plus . . .” Woefully, I eyed my bag. We'd made a lot of memories together. Vietnam, Wales, Denmark—I'd lost track of the countries I'd traveled through while wearing that bag. “You're clearly not a woman, if you can dismiss the loss of a favorite bag that easily.”

Danny looked down at himself. “You're just figuring that out now?” He grinned. “I think you need glasses.”

We both knew I didn't. But there was no point going there.

“What's more important is that Adrienne's notebook wasn't in there,” I informed him, grateful that I'd stowed it elsewhere before leaving for my rendezvous. “It's safe and sound. Although I still don't understand why Adrienne brought it to the chocolate-themed scavenger hunt in the first place. Even if Nina was right—and Adrienne didn't realize how valuable it was—that doesn't explain why she was carrying it around with her.”

“Maybe she needed it to work on her chocolates?”

“Maybe.” But if that had been the case, I knew, Adrienne would have needed it to finish the gilded caffeinated truffles we'd worked on together at the last minute for the reception.

“Well, what matters is that her killer's been brought to justice,” Danny said in a voice that meant he was ready to move on. He gazed toward the Golden Gate Bridge. “Now what's next?”

“The same thing that's always what's next,” I told him, joining his unsentimental gaze toward the bay. “Moving on.”

But first, I had a few people to square things with.

 

 

First up was Christian. I felt bad for suspecting him of murder (wouldn't you?), but more pressingly, I had a report to deliver to him. So I went back to room 334, pulled myself together, and grabbed my masterwork before I ran out of juice.

This time, Ms. Bored Blonde (Christian's admin) wasn't stationed outside his office. So I hefted my report and took myself inside. At his desk, Christian scowled at me.

“I have to go speak to the police,” he complained. “
Again.”

Leave it to him to make Nina's arrest all about
him.

“I won't keep you long.” I plunked my report on his desk. “There. Job done. Follow my recommendations, and Lemaître will flourish. If you have any questions, you know how to reach me.”

Via Travis, of course. All my official business was channeled through him. Travis said it was because I was too softhearted—because I would take every hard-luck chocolatier job that came around. I didn't think Travis was right.... However, looking at Christian's woeful face, I began to have my suspicions about me.

Trying to ignore my (supposedly) inherent softheartedness, I turned and headed for the door. Christian's voice stopped me.

“Hey, Hayden?”

“Yes?” I waited for him to try to make amends. After all, there
were
good reasons I'd suspected him of cold-blooded murder.

“When you talk to Eden from
Chocolat Monthly
about me, try to make me sound good, okay? I'd really appreciate it. Thanks.”

I laughed. “I won't be talking to Eden.”

“But if you
do,
just remember to talk me up. Thanks.”

“I won't.” I raised my hand. “Good luck, Christian.”

I made it a few more feet before . . . “Uh, Hayden?”

I sighed—then smiled liked the professional I was. “Yes?”

“Are you sure,” Christian prodded, “you won't reconsider that head chocolatier job?”

“I'm
absolutely
sure.” I wanted out of this cabal of liars, thieves, and backstabbers. Because even though Christian had turned out to be innocent of murder, he wasn't
innocent.

Besides, now that I'd glimpsed that upcoming SFO flight reminder on my phone, I was feeling pretty keen to get going.

Once a globe-trotter, always a globe-trotter, I guessed.

“I'm, uh . . .” Christian cleared his throat. He frowned, then gave me an honest look. “I'm sorry I was such a jerk about your report. Nina was really riding me about it. Every time you dodged me and I came away empty-handed, I felt like a loser.”

Did he want me to comfort him? “Forget about it. It's fine.” That was the closest I could bring myself to reassurance.

But Christian wasn't done. “So much so,” he went on—speaking rapidly, as though he didn't want to lose his nerve—“that I'm quitting Lemaître. I'm giving the company back to Bernard and going to work for someone else, doing what I really love.”

“Contract dictator work? Belittling people full-time?”

“Very funny.” He rolled his eyes. “Corporate raiding.”

That sounded about right to me. “Good luck,” I said.

God help the companies he tried to take over. I could only hope that none of them were good chocolatiers, like Torrance.

Then I took myself out of there before Christian could headhunt me into abandoning chocolate to rule the world instead.

 

 

The funny thing about packing, I've learned over the years, is that it's
clarifying.
While trying to fit all your worldly possessions (in my case, I
do
mean
all
of them) into a 22-by-18-by-10-inch bag weighing not more than fifty-one pounds, it's necessary to figure out what you
really
need and when.

Will this scarf double as a poolside sarong and a mosquito net?
you ask yourself.
Can I get by with only one pair of shoes, even on cobblestone streets in a European village? How much duct tape is really necessary for a flight to New Zealand with one layover?

The answers to those questions can be more illuminating than you might think. For me, packing up my things to leave the Maison Lemaître chocolate retreat behind me was . . . bittersweet.

Once I was gone, I knew, Adrienne would fade from my memory. Just a little. So would Bernard and Poopsie, Isabel and Rex, Christian and the murderous chocolate-fondue body wrap machine. Thankfully, so would Nina. I felt much
less
melancholy about that eventuality. I was still shaken by her breakdown.

I guessed desperation made people do desperate things. That was true even when those people had regular access to cocoa oil massages, cacao-bean-and-espresso-nib pedicure scrubs, and molten chocolate cakes (an oldie, but a goodie) with ice cream.

In the bright light of another springtime California morning, Nina's desperation felt much farther away from me than it had last night. I knew it would fade even more in time. I was glad that I'd caught her and relieved that I'd escaped. I didn't want my obituary to be printed for a
long
time yet. I definitely didn't want it to read “death by chocolate” as the cause of my demise. The irony of that would be too preposterous.

As clarifying as my packing ritual was—and as satisfying as crossing off Lemaître Chocolates from my to-do list was—it didn't take long. Within moments of hearing Danny's shouted (now routine) “Going for a run!” through the connecting door, I was up and in action. I was headed for breakfast.

This time, on the very last day of the chocolate retreat, I was getting some of those chocolate goodies—and I was getting them
hot.
But first, I had one more thing to do. So I grabbed Adrienne's notebook, skated downstairs, and caromed onto the grounds. As usual, they were stunning. So was the view. But I was content (for now) to keep moving. Anything else was a dream.

Seeing my little Yorkie buddy scamper up to me as I approached Bernard's cottage made me falter a
tiny
bit. But only that. Because as lovable as Poopsie was, I wasn't in the market for anything that would make me settle down. A dog. Travis. Or—

Isabel Lemaître ran in her dog's wake. “Poopsie! Come here,
ma petite
!” Laughing, she scooped up the Yorkie. “
Ma belle!”

On the porch behind her, Bernard watched inscrutably.

On the walkway leading to the resort's private cottages, a
very
well-built man stood wearing track pants, sneaks, and a muscle shirt. Hank, I presumed. Everything fell into place.

Isabel had run off with Hank, the personal trainer.

She glanced up, spotted me, and smiled. “Hayden!
Mon amie!”

Just as though it were perfectly normal to do such a thing while her lover and (I'm assuming) soon-to-be ex-husband looked on, Isabel rushed over to give me
les bises
—kisses on the cheek.

Have I mentioned that lingerie models can get away with things that ordinary mortals (like me) simply can't?

For a long, awkward (for me) moment, Isabel held my hand. She smiled at me. “Hank and I are in love!
So
in love that I simply forgot to bring my precious petite Poopsie!” She nuzzled the dog, still holding her Yorkie in her other hand. “I had to come back to get her, of course. And to explain to Bernie.”

Isabel gave her husband a jovial nod. He nodded back.

It seemed there were no hard feelings between them.

“But I simply cannot linger! Good luck, Hayden!”

Then, as unexpectedly as she'd appeared, Isabel hugged Poopsie closer, released me, and rushed across the grass to Hank. He caught her in his arms, gave Bernard a wave, then left.

Left alone on the porch, Bernard lowered his arm. Standing there all white-haired and abandoned, he no longer looked scary. He only looked . . . well, “relieved” was the best description. Probably because he didn't have to worry about what had happened to the missing Isabel. Bernard really
had
only been grieving, I guessed, not losing his mental sharpness to rapid-onset dementia.

My supposition was confirmed when I reached him. The founder of Lemaître Chocolates greeted me with a hearty handshake. “Hayden! I'm so glad you're here.” He lowered his voice, then gave me the full twinkly-eye treatment. “I got the impression last time that I scared you, and I'm sorry.”

He'd petrified me. Now I laughed it off. “No worries.”

“I didn't mean to,” Bernard explained. “I've been a little up and down lately. Ever since losing Adrienne, you see. The resort physician gave me some medication to help, but I think it was making things worse. I felt so foggy all the time. So moody.” Dolefully, Bernard shook his head. “It's not like me.”

“I never thought it was.”
Only for a few seconds. Over and over again.
Gladly, I patted his arm. “You heard about Nina?”

He nodded. “It's better to know. Just as with Isabel.” He scanned the resort's grounds. In the distance, his (soon-to-be) ex-wife walked arm in arm toward the valet stand with buff Hank. “Isabel knew that my heart really belonged with Adrienne. That only became clearer to us both after Adrienne died so suddenly.”