Dangerously Dark (28 page)

“Of course.” Danny cleared his throat. “I think Travis wears those monk shoes, especially when he's walking his dog.”

Dog?
I almost squealed out loud. “Travis has a dog? Since when? He never said anything to me about having a dog.” My imagination ran wild. I couldn't help it. I pictured Travis walking his dog, throwing a Frisbee to his dog, teaching an adorable toddler how to pet his (harmless and lovable) dog. “What kind of dog is it?” I asked eagerly. “I've always pinned him for a golden retriever type, but you know accountants.”

My dependable financial advisor was probably starting his pet-companion life with “affenpinscher” and ending it with “Yorkshire terrier,” in perfect alphabetical order.

“It's a dog.” Danny shrugged. “I don't know what kind.”

I gawked at him. “What do you mean, you ‘don't know'? Didn't you see it? Describe it to me. Do you have pictures?”

“I was interested in getting down to business, not making chitchat,” my security expert complained. “What's the big deal?”

The
big deal
was that Danny had been up close and personal with my
extremely
private financial advisor and he hadn't even had the foresight to spy on him for me. Sadly, I shook my head.

“You're hopeless. You
know
I'm dying to know everything there is to know about Travis! It's been driving me crazy ever since he took over for old Mr. Whatshisname, my former trustee.” I flung my hands in the air with frustration, feeling helpless. “You know how secretive Travis is. So why wouldn't you—”

“I'm not going to spy on Travis for you.” Danny squared his shoulders, then headed for the coffee shop's door. I trailed him in a cloud of disbelief. “Maybe he's secretive for a reason.”

“Maybe
you
just don't want us to get together.”

“Get together?” Danny arched his eyebrows. “Really?”

I ignored his suggestive tone. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. I do.” He squinted against the rain. We were secure under the coffee shop's diminutive awning, but its protection wouldn't last. “That's why I'm not helping you. See you later.”

I stamped my foot, still irked. Was Danny saying that he didn't want me to
get together
with Travis romantically? Or was he saying that he didn't want me to
get together
with Travis in a completely innocent, getting-to-know-you way? Or at all?

Were he and Travis in cahoots again or something?

Danny had known me long enough to understand that all I wanted was to be on equal footing with Travis. I didn't like that my (younger) financial advisor knew everything there was to know about me—my background, my finances, my whereabouts, my plans, the identities of all my friends—while I knew (almost) nothing about him. Unless, I guess, being aware that Travis liked to swim and run marathons counted as full disclosure.

I was here to tell anyone who'd listen: it
didn't.

Not that those tidbits didn't provide me with a few entertaining fantasies now and then. I'll confess, they did. If you'd ever heard Travis break down an itinerary in that husky, supersmart, tell-me-everything voice of his, you'd spin a few daydreams yourself. You simply wouldn't be able to help it.

Just like me.

There on the coffee shop's stoop, Danny studied me with a distinctly perceptive glimmer in his eye. I noticed it when I finally snapped to again, surfacing from my thoughts.

“What fantasy is Harvard up to now? Doing your taxes?”

He waggled his eyebrows, suggesting that
was
a euphemism.

Hmmph. Danny didn't know everything about me.

“If that's what you want to call it. Sure,” I told him.

Then I gave him a shove and breezed away toward my car. I wasn't exactly looking forward to visiting the police station, but it was the next step in putting Portland—and everything that had happened there—behind me. I might not love reporting in to Travis, but I
do
love being on the move. So I was ready to go.

Besides, anything was better than listening to Danny guffaw as he swaggered away, off to a destination that I belatedly realized I didn't know and now couldn't find out. He'd cleverly sidestepped my attempt to ask him—because
I'd
succumbed to making a dopey shoe joke, then forgotten to follow through.

Some detective I was,
I thought as I hurried through the raindrops and got into my car.
I couldn't even interrogate my own best friend.
It was a good thing I was heading out for a new chocolate-whisperer–consulting job soon. Because even though I'd gotten lucky this time (and found a way to nab Janel), I had a long way to go before I could consider myself ready to deal with murder and mayhem on anywhere close to a full-time basis.

My penultimate day in Bridgetown was a busy one.

First I went to the police station, where I met with a very professional and attentive detective to turn in my evidence.

He asked me a lot of questions, had a good long perusal of my passport, conferred with his boss and some other police officers, copied the conversation off my phone, then returned.

“Thanks for your help, Ms. Moore.” He offered his hand to me. “We'll be in touch if we need anything else.”

I'd already given him all my contact details—my name, permanent address (Travis's office), Social Security number, passport, phone number, and more. So I accepted his handshake.

“Then you're going to get Janel? I mean, Ms. White?” This situation probably called for formality, I decided.

“We'll take care of everything from here.” The detective skillfully maneuvered me toward the station's hectic reception area. “Don't worry about a thing. You've been very helpful.”

Hmm. “I get the sense you're not taking this seriously,” I pressed. “Is there something else you need as proof?”

“We'll examine the evidence you left. Thanks again.”

His brush-off felt routine. “There might be fingerprints.”

“We'll know that soon enough. Have a nice day, Ms. Moore.”

I didn't bother correcting him about my name. (Clue: it always has three parts.) Afterward, I certainly didn't feel all warm and protected, though. Not to malign the brave people who protect and serve, but I felt I'd gotten the bum's rush.

Maybe that was part of the reason Danny avoided the police, I reasoned as I dashed outside and called Austin. So far, the authorities hadn't been very receptive to my (amateur) efforts.

In my mind, I was Sherlock Holmes. In theirs, I . . .
wasn't.

I had to leave a voice mail message for Austin. It felt weird. But while texting is efficient, it's too limited. It doesn't fit the bill for every situation—say, apologizing for thinking someone was a coldhearted killer, when they were really just a nerd.

“Hi, Austin! Yes, it's Hayden. Yes, I'm actually calling you on your cell phone. Yes, I
know
it's disconcerting to get an actual phone call, but—” I broke off, realizing too late that Austin might not even bother listening to his voice mail messages. Most of my friends didn't. “I wanted to apologize,” I moved on anyway needing to have this said. “I'm sorry for”—
thinking you were a murderer
—”everything you've been going through. I hope I didn't make the situation worse for you.”

I drew in a deep breath, pacing down the slick sidewalks of the Plaza Blocks. Here, tall old elms and ginkgo trees blocked some of the drizzly rainfall. Around me, city residents walked by with shopping bags or strollers, briefcases or backpacks. I passed a big bronze statue of an elk and smiled to myself. Even after everything that had happened, I still liked Portland. I might not miss it
immediately,
but I would miss it eventually.

“How's Janel doing?” I asked Austin in a deliberately chipper tone, continuing my voice mail. “I know you two were getting pretty close. I mean, you
are
getting close.” Yikes. There was no point writing her eulogy already—although I knew the police would be closing in on her soon. “But even if Janel turns out
not
to be the one for you, hang in there, okay?” I felt compelled to say. “You'll find the right woman. And she'll
love
coffee and Nintendocore and vinyl music, just like you.”

I suddenly started to feel overwhelmed. Catching a killer was big. But dealing with the aftermath—even in a small way—was brutal. Austin would be better off without a murderer for a girlfriend, of course, but he'd still be upset for a while.

Thinking of men and girlfriends made me think of Danny and Lauren. I didn't know why Cartorama's burlesque queen appeared to be sneaking around behind Danny's back, but Lauren had never done anything except be kind to me. So I called her, too.

I was starting to see the (admittedly cowardly but undeniably time-efficient) benefits of voice mail by the time I'd left Lauren a similar
“nice to know you, sorry for all the sadness”
message. I figured Danny might have gone to visit her, in which case she'd be too busy to listen right away (if ever). But I'd done my part to help create some closure. That mattered.

I called Carissa, too, and delicately suggested she see someone. I thought a therapist could really help her. My old college friend would probably be too busy taking over the L.A. ice-cream world to deal with her mental health, but I hoped Carissa got some help, anyway. It was sad that we'd gotten back in touch, only to have tragedy (and change) pull us apart again.

Feeling lighter afterward, I walked past the green spaces of Lownsdale Square and Chapman Square, back to the street where I'd parked my car. I wanted to call Travis. Maybe I'd tell him about the Benson Bubblers, I thought. He'd appreciate the history of the iconic, old-timey bronze drinking fountains that a famous Portlander had installed throughout the city in the early twentieth century. Or maybe I'd tell Travis about the cocoa-balsamic drinking vinegar I'd sampled during the Chocolate After Dark tour. I liked razzing my financial advisor about “weird” foods he'd never try. He was ludicrously squeamish.

Maybe, I mused as I pulled out my car keys and spied the spare Muddle + Spade key that Tomasz had given me, I'd tell Travis about the unique shop I'd found in PDX, which served the best chocolate-dipped profiteroles (
choux à la crème
) that I'd ever had outside of the sep-tième arrondissement in Paris.
Mmm.

In case you're not familiar with them,
choux à la crème
are usually filled with
crème pâtissière.
Then they're stacked as a pyramid, bound with threads of caramelized sugar, and served up as a
croquembouche
to “crunch in the mouth” (to paraphrase the French) for dessert at weddings, Christmastime, and parties. In Portland, though, the shop I'd found filled their
choux à la crème
with chocolate ice cream
and
topped them with two layers of chocolate, making them
choux à la glace à double chocolat.

And
making thinking about them (plus drinking vinegar and drinking fountains) my latest vehicle for procrastination.

Aha. My old (non)friend (procrastination) had reared its ugly head again. That explained why I was suddenly experiencing an urge to craft the perfect trivia-filled phone call for my financial advisor.

I recognized my impulse to tune out by phoning Travis for what it was and deliberately started my rented Civic's engine instead. Travis would have listened politely, of course, but he wasn't a foodie (another thing I didn't understand about him). He wouldn't appreciate the difference between
croquembouche
—my scrumptious pastry find—and
charcuterie
—basically, meat. Plus, he'd be annoyed about all the French . . . even though he understood it. I'd once sneaked in some frisky phrases during one of our phone calls, and I
know
Travis had gotten tongue-tied.

Remembering that, I felt another urge to call him. It was powerful, like an itch I couldn't reach. Teasing Travis sounded a lot more appealing than driving through traffic, going back to my (soon-to-be-abandoned) foursquare house, and getting ready for my—

That's it,
I decided. That was the root of my craving to procrastinate. I didn't want to leave the cute house Travis had rented for me. I liked being there too much. Just like my relationship with Chow the cat (which had blossomed lately), my comfort level with my adopted neighborhood had grown. I didn't want to stuff my pashmina into my wheelie suitcase, sequester my family photos in my duffel bag, and leave PDX for good.