Dangerously Dark (12 page)

I wished I could take it all back. I wished I'd been warier about letting Tomasz mix up superstrength drinks for me.

“Fine.” I raised my chin. “You want to help? Then get in the car. Let's go.”

 

 

“When I said I wanted to help,” Danny grumbled to me sometime later that afternoon, “this
wasn't
what I meant.”

Disgruntled, he eyed the blowout on the table between us at a local chocolate shop. We'd ordered two flights of drinking chocolate—premium milk, white chocolate orange peel, and spicy Mayan for Danny, and delicious dark, cinnamon masala, and cardamom rose petal for me—plus an assortment of goodies to share. So far, we'd sampled a “firecracker” chocolate bar made with chipotle chiles and exploding Pop Rocks candy, a pretzel toffee swirl bar, and a honeycomb bar with crystallized ginger.

“Well, that's too bad for you,” I told him, trying to sound contrite (and probably failing—I was a little miffed). “This is what I need help with. If I'm going to lead Declan's culinary tour tomorrow, I have to bone up on the tour stops.”

“What happened to your die-hard procrastination streak?”

“I never had one.”

Danny almost broke his ribs laughing at that. He knew me too well—well enough to know I was avoiding a confrontation with him. He wanted a reaction. He was pretty close to getting it.

I had to say, though, the chocolate we'd tried was going a long way toward assuaging my soured mood. I might not have wanted Danny acting as an on-demand babysitter (courtesy of Travis), but I didn't mind having company as I ate and drank my way through some of the best chocolate-themed foods in PDX.

This was our third stop. So far, I felt okay about taking on Declan's chocolate tour. I was more ready than I'd thought.

“I've had enough.” Danny shook his head, pretending to voice a serious objection for a change. “I'm getting fat.”

I eyed his taut midsection and laughed. “As if.”

“I don't even like this stuff!” he complained. “Ugh. It's all so . . .
chocolaty.
What they did to those chipotle chiles was sacrilege. They belong in a freaking burrito. End of story.”

I attempted to give him a conciliatory look. “That's not true. Chiles and chocolate are both tropical New World fruits. Pairing them showcases their inherent richness. Or sometimes their fruity or smoky flavors. I would have preferred a nice guajillo chile to offset the floral flavors of the cacao, but—”

“Enough!” Danny groaned and gave me a time-out signal.

“—chipotles are more accessible,” I continued. “The lemon and grapefruit notes in my Bolivian cacao beans are nicely highlighted by the flavors in my cinnamon masala blend, though, so I'm scoring this one an A minus. How's your white chocolate?”

“Sweet.” Danny's face suggested that was a criminal offense. “Why don't any of these places serve suicide hot wings? Vindaloo pork?
Sichuan huo guo?
You know, actual
food
?”

“You are a masochist. Food shouldn't bite back.”

“Nah. That's where the adventure is.” Danny's eyes gleamed as he recalled some of our previous trips together. “Remember when I ate that phall curry in Birmingham?”

I did remember that dish. The Brummies typically made it with nine or ten different chiles, including habaneros and notorious bhut jolokia peppers—aka “ghost chiles.”

“There's a reason the Indian military has weaponized those ghost chiles,” I informed him. They'd turned them into tear-gas-like hand grenades to fight terrorism. “They are
not
food.”

“The chef
did
wear a gas mask while cooking it.”

“My point exactly.” But we were getting sidetracked. I nodded at my cinnamon masala drinking chocolate, redolent of black pepper, cardamom, coriander, and ginger. “Maybe you should have some of this. The cinnamon in it is good for you. It regulates blood sugar, reduces inflammation, boosts memory—”

“Yeah . . . who are you again?”

“Ha, ha. And it improves digestion, too.”

Danny sprawled in his chair, as comfortable in an upscale chocolate salon as he was in a street fight. He regarded me with his usual patience. “Are you done getting the upper hand yet?”

“I don't know what you mean,” I lied unconvincingly. Then, “Anyway, no. Which you might realize if you drank more of your chocolate. Go ahead. Take a big whiff,” I directed in my best professorial tone. “Did you know that the smell of chocolate increases theta brain waves, which promote relaxation?”

“I'm practically asleep already,” Danny drawled.

“Good. Because when I tell you what's been going on at Cartorama, you are going to freak out,” I warned him.

“I doubt it. By the way, Travis says you should cut down on the booze.” Danny fiddled with his demitasse cup of chocolate, appearing to have no intention of imbibing more. “I'm pretty sure he's conducting an audit of your liquor budget right now.”

That sounded about right. “What he should be doing is cutting back on my lodging budget. You should see the Airbnb that Travis set up for me this time. It's ridiculous.”

“Show me.” Danny aimed his chin at the door. “Let's go.”

“No way. I'm onto you, pal.” I tasted more of my cardamom rose petal chocolate. Its Middle Eastern notes were intriguing, if a tiny bit reminiscent of Grandma's linen cupboard. “You want to go there to get my things and hustle me out of town. I'm not leaving, Danny.” I was beginning to feel dizzy, thanks to all the sugar and high-test chocolate. “I mean, sure. Maybe it would be smart to just grab my suitcase”—it was always packed, anyway—“scratch ‘become a chocolate-tour guide' off my bucket list, and jet off to someplace less deadly,” I began.

“Good idea.” Danny nodded. “Let's make that happen.”

“But I can't abandon Carissa! Not now. She needs me,” I protested. “I'm her friend. I'm not the kind of person who skips out on a friend when the going gets tough. You know that.”

I'd finally gotten through to him. I could tell.

“I would agree,” Danny said, “if you weren't seeing
murders
around every corner.” He pronounced “murders” as if it had show lights and a Broadway marquee behind it. “You're overwrought. The fact that you can't tell you're overwrought only proves it.”

I hesitated for a second,
almost
buying that argument.

“‘Overwrought'?” I arched my eyebrow. “Have you been reading Jane Austen or something?” Then I got it. “
Aha.
Travis.”

Danny nodded, infinitely patient. That was one of his better qualities. At least it was when it wasn't aimed at convincing me I was hallucinating Declan's potential murder.

“I understand
murder
is unlikely,” I whispered, glancing around the mostly deserted chocolate shop as I tried to summon a modicum of patience myself. “That doesn't mean it can't happen.”

“It usually means it
didn't
happen, the law of averages being what it is.” Danny ignored the chocolate on the table between us in favor of studying my face. “I'm serious. Leave.”

“
I'm
serious. No.” I sipped my dark chocolate, crooking my pinkie to show I still had fight left in me. “Drink up.”

My protection expert didn't. “You hired me to advise you.”

“Right. You've advised me there's no risk here. So, what's the problem? I'm staying.”

Danny almost growled. “If there was really a murder—”

“You'd stay? And help me figure out whodunit?”

“This isn't a joke, Hayden. Why are you digging in?”

He'd used my given name. He was serious. I sobered up. “I already told you—I'm staying for Carissa. To support her. To help her launch Chocolate After Dark. Plus, I think I'm uniquely qualified to figure out who might have killed Declan. People open up to me, Danny. You know that. And, anyway, I'm already involved. I think someone might have
poisoned
me yesterday.”

My exaggerated ghoulishness only elicited a sigh. “‘Tommy' mixed your drink too strong. You were hungover, that's all.”

Lauren.
I silently cursed her knowledge of Cartorama, Muddle + Spade, and me. “It felt worse than a hangover.”

“But you're staying, anyway? Like I said, Travis was right.”

“I'm fine now. No worries. Now that
you're
here, you can help me.” After Maison Lemaître, I'd asked Travis to put Danny's freelance-security-expert services on retainer. I didn't want to pull rank with him, but... “You're going to help me, right?”

He eyed me with evident reluctance. “It wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs last time. You got hurt, remember?”

I pooh-poohed to show I wasn't scared. But I was.

I would feel a lot better with Danny backing me up.

“This is my second time sleuthing,” I informed him assuredly. “I'm a quick study. I'll have improved a lot by now.”

“How much better could you be? It's only been a few days.”

He was right. Not much time had elapsed since my adventures with homicide in the Marin Headlands. That was why Danny and Travis thought I was seeing shadows. I was sympathetic to their position (minimally), but that didn't change my intentions.

Or my suspicions. “My suspects are the Cartorama vendors.” No reason not to jump in with both feet, right? “Especially Janel, Austin, Tomasz, and Lauren. They were closest to Declan.”

“Lauren didn't do it.”

I grinned. “Too sexy to be a killer?”

Danny reconsidered. “Although she
was
sleeping with the deceased,” he mused. “Behind Carissa's back, too, so—”

“How could you possibly know that?”

He shrugged. “I coaxed. I deduced. I won. I know. Did you think I was just drooling over Lauren like a lovesick idiot?”

“If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck . . .”

“I was getting the lay of the land. Just in case.”

“Then you
did
think there might be trouble at Cartorama?”

Despite Danny's lip service to the law of averages, he'd taken the time to gather information. I found that heartening.

Even if he
had
dropped in on me out of the blue.

“What about Carissa?” Danny asked. “She's a suspect.”

“She is not!” I was appalled. “She's grief-stricken.”

“She's acting pretty strangely,” Danny disagreed. “Of everyone, Carissa has the most reason to mourn Declan. But she seems pretty freaking psyched that the wedding is off.”

I couldn't
entirely
disagree. “I think she's medicated.”

We discussed the likelihood of that, downing more chocolate as we got into the swing of things. Even my bodyguard noshed on more of the sweet stuff I'd selected for him, although he—like Declan—probably would show no signs of indulging later.

Men.
Was it possible that Carissa had offed Declan just because he'd made a mockery of her relentless need to diet?
Nah . . .

“What about everyone else?” Danny named a few other vendors in the cart pod. Evidently, he'd gotten to know everyone at brunch while I'd been outside snooping. If only we'd teamed up earlier. “Did anyone else have a reason to want Declan dead?”

“Not that I can tell so far,” I admitted, glancing at the chocolate shop's pierced, hipster worker. “But with you as my trusty assistant, I'll be able to cover a lot more ground.”

“Hang on. I'm going along with this,
this one time.
” Danny delivered that edict in no uncertain terms. “But only to prove to you that there
aren't
boogeymen hiding around every corner.”

“Mmm-hmm.” I nodded, knowing he'd bend later, if I needed him to. I couldn't risk looking him in the eye. Otherwise I might accidentally chortle with triumph. “Of course.”

“You need to stop seeing
murder
everywhere you look,” he insisted. “I don't intend to make a habit of this stuff.”

I appreciated his motives. I did. “Neither do I.”

I meant it. It's not as though I
like
murder and mayhem.

“Good. Then we understand one another.” Danny waited a beat. Toyed with the Pop Rocks bar. Eyed me. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Declan Murphy sounds like a real tool.”

I was glad he agreed. I was glad he was on board, too. If Danny was willing to analyze the people involved in the deadly goings-on at Cartorama, then he was committed to helping me. Once he was committed, Danny was (like me) too stubborn to quit.

“Yes! A complete jerk!” I marveled at our synchronicity. Then I realized I'd accidentally blurted out that comment with a lot more delight than the situation called for. “I mean, I never met Declan,” I told Danny in a more subdued tone, “but from what I can tell, he wasn't very nice—to Carissa or to anyone else.”

I told Danny about Austin's history with Declan. And about Declan's habit of responding to Carissa's “I love you” texts by typing “U2” . . . which she'd said made her “get a little stabby.”

“‘Stabby'?” Danny raised his dark brows with consternation. “She said that? And she's still not a suspect because . . . ?”

“Because she's my friend. She's not a killer.”

“You're too nice, Ms. Mundy Moore. As usual.”