Dangerously Dark (13 page)

I ignored that misguided remark and went on. “Janel told me Declan had a whole posse of women he'd slept with and discarded. Maybe including Lauren. Even if we know for sure they were seeing one another, we don't know how long they'd been together. Maybe they'd split.” I trusted Danny's intuition, but I wanted to verify for myself. “That makes Lauren and Janel suspects.”

“Agreed. Did you see the way Berk followed Janel into the back room earlier?” Danny glanced at the ceiling, remembering it. “If I didn't know better, I'd think he was tapping that.”

I made a face. “Classy, Mr. Jamieson.”
Ugh.
Also, “Why
couldn't
he and Janel be an item? Maybe Tomasz killed Declan because he was jealous. Or maybe Tomasz resented Declan for callously breaking Janel's heart after they hooked up.”

Danny's face told me he didn't agree—probably because Janel wasn't conventionally pretty. I thought that was shortsighted. People fell in love—or lust—for all kinds of reasons.

“Then you think love was the motive?” Danny asked.

I did. I'd believed the same thing at Maison Lemaître.

“Why not?” I asked. “There were a lot of intrigues going on at Cartorama. People sleeping around, trying to keep secrets—”

“No one can keep a secret forever.” Danny sounded as though he had experience in the area. There were things about my security expert I didn't know—and didn't want to know. “Nobody.”

I shivered. “Or maybe the motive was money,” I suggested, purposely distracting myself. I told Danny about the real-estate developers who'd tried to take over Cartorama's property. “Maybe they—or the pod's landlord—haven't given up yet?”

“It would be easy enough to find out. I'll tap—”

“Travis. Ask Travis.” I didn't want Danny interacting with any of his shady friends from his past, not even for the sake of quickly gathering intel. “He can run a background check.”

“If Janel's protest efforts were that effective, it ought to be easy to find a record of who the development company was.” Danny gave me a knowing look. “And I was going to say ‘Travis,'” he informed me with a wiseass grin. “We're best buds now.”

“Ha. That'll be the day.” Something else occurred to me a moment after that—something that made me feel instantly better. “This collaboration thing you and Travis have going on explains why he's been ducking my phone calls lately, doesn't it?”

Danny nodded. “He didn't want you to catch wind of what we were up to and bug out before I got here. I doubt a straight arrow like him trusts himself to talk to you
and
keep a secret at the same time.”

“Well, it wouldn't have been easy. I know Travis pretty well by now.” Reminded of what I'd learned about Declan and the people who thought they knew
him,
I told Danny about Declan's disparate likes and dislikes. “The weird thing is,” I explained, “everyone I talked to believed that Declan spontaneously loved all
their
favorite things just as much as they did.
Everyone.
”

My longtime friend nodded. “There's a reason for that. Ask any con artist. People open their wallets faster if they think they're dealing with someone who's similar to them.”

“And their hearts? Do they open them faster, too?”

Declan hadn't wanted money from anyone. Not that I knew of.

Danny shrugged. His silence made me think unhappy thoughts about his past, his unusual skill set, and my own (occasional) susceptibility to his bad-boy charms. Then, “Yeah. They do.”

“But then I'm always the romantic in a crowd,” I joked at the same time, moving on deliberately. “Just ask my exes.”

“I don't have to,” Danny said. “I have reason to know.”

His meaningful tone made me look away. I picked up my third demitasse of chocolate—the darkly delicious one—and drained it.

My cup clattered back into its tiny saucer. “Let's jet.”

I was on my feet and tossing down a tip before Danny could even blink. That's how I operated. On the move. Not tied down.

Not even to Danny. Or to Travis . . . and his sexy, sexy voice.

“Hold up, hotshot.” Danny grabbed my arm to stop me.

Uh-oh.
I straightened my spine. “Yeah?”

If Danny intended to slow me down again, I was going to bolt. I'd already spent enough time dithering about whether I should be concerned with murder or not. Now I had more practical matters to think about—such as finishing vetting the stops on Declan's Chocolate After Dark tour. I didn't want to implicitly endorse any place I didn't personally approve of. My reputation is all I have. In my business, credibility means everything.

After doing that, I intended to find a way to exculpate Carissa. I needed proof of her innocence. For Danny. Not for me.

I knew my old university friend was in the clear. But if I wanted to avoid going twelve rounds with Danny about it, I had to have some answers to trade. I needed to find out more about Carissa and Declan. I couldn't do that if Danny waylaid me now.

“Now what's the problem?” I asked him, hands on hips.

Declan's iPad swung in my bag, thumping me on the side.

“You tipped a hundred bucks.” Danny stuffed the bill back in my hand, giving me an inquisitive look. “You don't need to make it rain. You didn't even get a lap dance out of the deal.”

I shrugged, then brandished the money he'd returned. I strode to the table, dropped off the Benjamin, then smiled at the chocolate worker. “Have a good one,” I told her.

I would rather have died than admit I'd only meant to leave five dollars. Especially to Danny. He was touchy about my unearned inheritance. It was a sore spot between us. The least said about it, the better, I decided as I sailed back out again.

Besides, I could definitely afford it. It was no big deal. Even if I
did
feel vaguely, inexplicably
guilty
about all of it.

Out on the sidewalk in one of Portland's tawdry-but-appealing up-and-coming neighborhoods, I gestured through the window to Danny. He looked at the tip I'd left, plainly still bothered by it. Then he frowned and followed me out.

“I think you should drive the tour van,” I told him.

“I think you shouldn't push your luck,” he replied.

But I knew that was Danny's way of agreeing with me. I was glad. We were on our way to solving Declan's murder—as longtime friends, first-time tour guides, and two-time sleuths—together.

Eight

If you've never been to a funeral, I envy you.

At the best of times, in my experience, a memorial service is a sad blend of melancholy, remembrance, and regret—all stirred up with a heaping helping of unfamiliar formality, which leaves the mourners utterly off balance, uncertain of where to go or how to act or even what to say in those difficult moments.

Under those circumstances, inevitably, someone decides to stage-direct the whole thing, causing relief and hard feelings in equal measure. Once you drop in a few long-lost friends and estranged relatives, then add the horrible element of a young man “accidentally” dying unexpectedly, you've got a recipe for . . .

. . . well, for what happened at Declan Murphy's funeral, actually. Because it was, hands down, the weirdest service I've ever attended.

The first sign that something might go wrong was when I spotted Janel White, somberly dressed in head-to-toe black, lingering near the entryway of the funeral home. She was holding an elaborate bouquet of white stargazer lilies—one almost as tall as she was. As I approached in my own muted black dress and flats, my shoulder-length brown hair whisked into a subdued ponytail at my nape, I noticed the other mourners who were standing nearby her. As they moved, Janel jerked up her flowers to cover her face. Her lilies trembled as she hid behind them.

Then, as the other mourners began making their way into the funeral home together, Janel quickly crab-walked inside amongst them. I blinked and stared as she vanished into the mortuary. It seemed Janel was using Declan's loved ones as
cover.
But why?

Deciding I'd probably misunderstood what I'd seen, I headed up the funeral home's stairs. Inside, I heard organ music and low voices. Then one particular voice rose above them all.

“Okay, let's get this show on the road, everyone!”

Carissa.
Apparently,
she'd
taken on the role of stage director. As I stepped inside and bowed my head amid the mourners, wondering if I should have come at all, I heard her clap her hands for attention. “Come on! Declan wouldn't have wanted us all to be so sad!” Carissa urged in a hearty voice.

There were a few grumbles in response to that. Some apprehensive looks, too. I spied Carissa at the far end of the room. She stood near Declan's casket, dressed in a chic black dress that even I (who don't shop much) could tell was new.

Her auburn hair was wound up in a tasteful chignon, and she'd switched out her geeky tortoiseshell glasses for a pair of suitably serious black-framed specs. Her diamond engagement ring gleamed on her left hand, noticeable even at a distance.

“We still have the graveside committal service to get to!” Carissa called out, holding her hands protectively in front of her chest. “If we don't start soon, we'll ruin our schedule.”

I stopped, aghast at her seeming callousness. There were probably three dozen bereaved people there to pay their respects to Declan. It was a sizable turnout on behalf of a young man who'd only moved to Portland in the past year or so. Now, every one of them gaped at Carissa. An older woman near me glared.

I heard muttered complaints from farther away and rushed to my old friend's side. Because that's when I
also
noticed the tremor in Carissa's beseeching hands, the redness around her eyes, and the tautness in her neck. She held herself so rigidly, it looked as if her neck might snap at the slightest breeze.

Mourning Declan was clearly very difficult for Carissa. No wonder she seemed insensitive to everyone else. She couldn't help it. None of them knew her the way I did.

“Carissa.” I enfolded her in my arms, inhaling hair spray and perfume along with the funeral home's background aroma of candles and commercial cleaning solution. It was a nice place, as houses of mourning went, I guess, but I didn't want to think too carefully about what went on behind the closed doors I'd seen. “I'm so sorry. I'm here for you. How are you holding up?”

“Well . . .” Carissa's voice broke. She dabbed her teary eyes. “I've been better,” she struggled to say. Her next shuddering inhale seemed to restore her composure a bit. “How are you?”

“I'm . . .”
Heartbroken for you.
“I'm worried about you.”

As social niceties went, hers were both unnecessary and tragic. Her forced cheeriness reminded me, in an uncanny way, of the Carissa Jenkins I remembered from university—a woman who'd rushed her eventual sorority with glee, led the school's Spirit Week festivities, and jumped on any chance to have a good time.

But this new Carissa—the woman who'd lost her fiancé just weeks before her wedding—now looked pale and broken, nothing like the student I'd known
or
the upbeat ice-cream vendor with an unforeseen knack for manipulating liquid nitrogen I'd met.

It occurred to me that I didn't even know if Carissa had gotten along with Declan's family. Maybe there was some discord between them, and that's why she seemed so tense today?

Carissa blinked, then focused on me. “How are the tour preparations going? Did you have a chance to visit all the stops?”

I understood. She wanted distraction from her grief.

I obliged . . . even as I spied Austin trundling down the aisle between the folding chairs that had been set up for the viewing, dressed in a poorly fitting suit and another knit beanie—a black one, this time.

“Declan's tour is fine,” I assured Carissa. “I've met all the shop owners.” There had been only a few I hadn't known already. “I've tried all the best chocolates at all the stops.”

Carissa nodded, looking heartened. “Then you were able to access all the information on Declan's iPad?”

Ruefully, I shifted. Danny hadn't been wrong about my procrastinatory tendencies. I hadn't even turned on that iPad.

“Don't worry. I have everything I need,” I hedged.

A frown. “Really? Because some of the info was password protected. Even I didn't know Declan's password,” Carissa said.

I didn't want to get trapped by details. The important thing was reassuring Carissa and helping her feel better. My excuses for delaying my necessary pretour prep could wait.

“I've got it covered,” I told her. “Really. Don't worry.”

It was true. I'd find a way, I knew. I always did.

Around us, the funeral home was filling up. People were taking their places in the folding chairs, gathering to talk, and occasionally hugging. There was crying. There was music.

There was Austin, nearly prostrate at Declan's coffin.

“Oh no!” I exclaimed, nodding. “Look at Austin.”

Carissa frowned at him. “What's he doing?”

A sob rent the air. It came from Austin.

“
Ugh.
He barely knew Declan.” Carissa sounded annoyed. She rolled her eyes, then cast Austin an impatient glance. “Some people will do anything for attention, won't they?”

“I don't think that's it.” I squeezed her arm, gazing into her (irked) face. I guessed Declan really
had
kept his gamer-geek friendship with Austin under wraps from everyone at Cartorama. “Maybe I can help him. Will you be okay?”

“Sure. Go ahead.” She waved me off. “We'll talk later.”

Her apathetic tone left me dismayed. How could Carissa feel this indifferent to her friend Austin's suffering?

Unless Austin
wasn't
really suffering. Unless he really
was
grandstanding, as she'd suggested just now. Who would know better, me (who'd just met him) or Carissa (who knew him)?

I didn't want to think the worst of Austin, though. For the sake of keeping the peace (if nothing else), I hurried to his side. Behind Austin, the other bereaved waited their turns.

I tiptoed up to him, then hunched to peek at his face. It was almost obscured by his shaggy hair and beard. The sounds of sniffling and sobbing kept me on course. I felt sorry for him.

“Hey, Austin.” Gently, I put my hand on his shuddering back. His suit felt slippery and new beneath my palm. “Hi.”

He gave a mighty sniffle, then glanced at me. His whole face sort of
blubbered
in my direction. His eyes overflowed with tears. He fisted them away, then heaved a sigh.
Poor Austin.

“It was my fault,” he croaked. “I shouldn't have let him—”

“Shh. It wasn't your fault.” I put my arms around his shoulders, then lightly tugged him away from Declan's casket. “It wasn't anybody's fault. It was a terrible, awful accident.”

Even if it wasn't, this wasn't the time to debate it.

“I'll never forgive myself!” Austin protested hoarsely. He searched his pockets for a tissue, then produced one. “I can't.”

In the distance, Carissa rolled her eyes at us again. It was clear that grieving didn't bring out the best in my friend. I couldn't hold it against her, though. Losing someone is hard.

“Come on, Austin. Why don't we go over here?” I murmured.

He let me nudge him to the side. As we moved to allow other mourners access to the casket, I caught a glimpse of Declan's body inside. At the sight, my stomach somersaulted. For the past day or so, Declan's death had become sort of a puzzle to me. I'd almost forgotten that there was real loss—real
tragedy
—here.

If Declan had been murdered, I thought, the people who loved him deserved answers. They deserved justice, too.

But was I capable of giving it to them? I was just a globe-trotting chocolate whisperer, there to celebrate a wedding that wasn't. Despite my experience at Maison Lemaître, I wasn't the kind of person who poked her nose into other people's business.

Maybe, I knew, I ought to listen to Danny and Travis. Maybe I ought to launch Chocolate After Dark, then bow out gracefully. Maybe I ought to let Austin and Carissa grieve the way they wanted to, no matter how messy or inappropriate it seemed to be.

I decided that's what I'd do . . . until about fifteen seconds later, when things got even
more
messy and inappropriate.

“You!”
Someone's voice boomed across the room, full of anger and outrage. “What do you think
you're
doing here?”

Everyone hushed, including Austin. I craned my neck to see who'd spoken and saw an older woman, maybe in her late fifties, dressed in a knee-length black sheath dress and slingbacks. At her side stood a dignified-looking man of similar age, wearing a charcoal suit and laced-up oxfords. He reached for her hand.

“Carissa's parents,” Austin explained in a low tone, all but reading my mind. Mrs. Jenkins's outburst seemed to have diverted him from his own sorrow. “They
loved
Declan.”

That seemed reasonable. But it didn't quite explain what came next. “
You
can't be here!” Mrs. Jenkins pointed at someone, her face a mask of fury. “This is unwanted contact! A hundred and fifty feet! That's what the civil protection order said. You can't come within a hundred and fifty feet of him.”

She strode closer to whoever she was confronting. The other mourners edged aside to make room, murmuring and pointing. When they parted, I saw that Janel White stood at the center of the mêlée, looking as if she'd been shot in the heart. Her pale face was tear streaked, her blond bob a mess, her posture defiant.

“Declan's
stalker
has no place here!” Mrs. Jenkins cried.

Janel was Declan's stalker?
I darted a glance at Austin. He was busy gazing mournfully (and hungrily) at Carissa.
Uh-oh.

“That restraining order was a mistake.” Janel's voice quavered. She held her head high, her stargazer-lily smokescreen clasped in her hand. Those flowers now hung uselessly at her side. “Declan never wanted that. Carissa made him get it.”

“You liar!” Carissa came forward, eyes flashing. “I can't believe you had the nerve to show up here. Get out.
Get out!
”

Janel held her ground. “I just want to say good-bye.”

“Declan said good-bye to
you
a long time ago,” Carissa sneered. Her mother frowned and hugged her closer. “Just go!”

All the Jenkinses stood united against Janel. Mr. Jenkins—autocratic, gray-haired, and imposing—drew himself up.

“Young lady, I'd suggest you leave immediately,” he said.

Janel wavered. She glanced at Declan's coffin as though considering making a run toward it. Animosity bristled from the Jenkinses to her. I have to say, I was confused by all the drama.

I'd never had a chance to meet Carissa's family while we were at uni together. Now I was glad about that. They were scary, at least while being protective of their daughter.

Although this new “stalker” information
did
explain why almost everyone at Muddle + Spade ignored Janel. They had all adored Declan, believing
he
adored them and their favorite things. They were plainly on the anti-Janel side of this argument.

I'd thought when meeting Janel that she was a little peculiar, but
this
? Was Janel really Declan's stalker?

If she was, was she truly dangerous enough to warrant a restraining order? The whole thing seemed like overkill to me.

“You'll be sorry for this, Carissa,” Janel vowed. “Someday you'll regret
everything
you've done. I swear you will.”

Then she marched to Declan's casket, lay her white stargazer lilies on its closed lower half, and drew in a breath. Oblivious to the onlookers, Janel leaned down and kissed Declan's waxy face.