Dangerously Dark (9 page)

Austin chuckled, surprising me. “Nah, dude. I mean, I appreciate you jumping in to defend the honor of the nerd herd yesterday, but I get it. Declan wanted to impress Carissa. If I'd had a shot with her, I would have done the same thing.”

I appreciated his honesty. In my experience, it's too rare.

“Actually, I
did
have a shot with her,” Austin mused, “but all I got out of it was a chance to troubleshoot her equipment.”

I grinned. “If that's some kind of double entendre—”

His laughter was heartening. “It's not. I mean
I'm
the one who designed Carissa's liquid nitrogen equipment for her. The software component, at least. There were a lot of late nights spent debugging that thing. If it was going to happen with us . . .”

“. . . it would have.” I understood. “But you have someone now?”

Austin angled his head, confused. “Nope. Why?”

“Oh . . .” I remembered the way he'd deliberately avoided my (innocent) hand on his knee, but decided not to pursue it. “I just thought you would. You know, a nice guy like you.”

“Don't you know? Nice guys
never
finish first.” With his hands on his knees, Austin pushed upward. “So you're okay, then? No lasting effects from yesterday's debauchery?”

Belatedly, I remembered his reason for coming over. I'd been so busy talking with him, I hadn't thought about my (alleged) poisoning symptoms for several minutes. “You know, I think I'll be fine, actually.” I was relieved to realize it.

“Good. Then I'll leave you to it. I need to get down to Muddle + Spade. It's getting pretty late.” He trod toward the front door. “Next time,” he warned, winking, “take it easy.”

I followed him to the front door, still chatting away. I get that way sometimes. A respite from death makes me talkative.

“Hey! I only drank a few beers.”
And they destroyed me.

“Oh yeah? What did you try? Berk has some good IPAs and stouts on tap, plus some limited-edition hard ciders and perrys.”

“Chocolate porter. It was good, but it packed a wallop.”

“Ah, that explains it.” Austin grinned at me. “At Berk's place, chocolate porter isn't just beer brewed with cacao nibs added to the mash. It's porter
plus
added chocolate liqueur.”

That explained it. I'd essentially been downing two-for-one drinks yesterday. I was far too much of a lightweight for that.

It was possible that I'd gotten carried away with my murder theory. Most likely, no one in the Rose City was after me.

At the door, Austin stopped. “Just so you don't worry about it, Carissa's parents were going to contact Declan's family.”

Tardily remembering our exchange about that earlier, I angled my head inquiringly. “Really? How do you know?”

“They told me. We've been in touch. I'm the one who called them yesterday.” Austin looked away, seemingly absorbed in the homey, hand-wrought details of my entryway. I was onto his distraction technique, though. I figured he was upset. “You know,” he said, “so they could be there to meet Carissa.”

After Declan's body was brought to the morgue
. Neither of us wanted to say it. It was too horrible to contemplate.

“I'm the one who called the ambulance, too.” Austin lifted his chin. “I was right next door. I heard Carissa's scream.”

Our gazes met in what I imagined was mutual sympathy.

Of course
it was mutual sympathy. Otherwise, I'd be suggesting that cuddly Austin was some kind of gentle sociopath.

“It's a good thing you did,” I told him.

But I couldn't help thinking, as I showed Austin out the door and watched him galumph good-naturedly down the steps, that that's exactly what someone would have done if they'd
known
that Declan was already dead—known that Carissa would be screaming after finding his lifeless body. Otherwise, wouldn't Austin have come to find out what was wrong first, before calling for help?

Something about Austin's story didn't jibe. If Declan had really been murdered yesterday, I contemplated as I waved good-bye to Austin, there weren't only real-estate developers and landlords to consider. There were also fellow Cartoramians, too.

Like Tomasz Berk. Janel White. And Austin Martin.

I shivered and shut the door; then I went to track down my rental car. Austin had offered to give me a ride, but after everything that had happened, I'd decided it was safer to call a cab rather than hop into a car with a (relative) stranger.

This day wasn't going to start itself. Neither was my makeshift stint as a Bridgetown chocolate-tour guide. I had to get all the details about Declan's tour—and maybe call Travis again, too. I couldn't quite recall what I'd said to him when I'd drunk-dialed him yesterday.

Knowing me, it might have been a doozy.

Five

Remember how I wondered what I might have tipsily said to Travis? (Besides a pseudosultry “What are you wearing?”, my standard greeting for him?) Well, even as I exited the cab I'd taken to Cartorama, paid the driver, and strode into the middle of the cart pod, I still didn't know. For once, Travis had been “unavailable” to take my call. It was unprecedented.

Concerned over the way that
both
of my go-to guys seemed to be dodging me at the moment, I shrugged into my jacket and looked around. None of the carts were open. That was odd. After yesterday, someone at least should have been here setting up.

Maybe everyone had decided to stay closed today, out of respect for Declan? But I doubted any of the vendors could afford that kind of sentimentality. Their carts were popular, sure—but they were hardly deluxe. A few of them were basically held together with duct tape and determination. Their entrepreneur owners spent their limited resources on things that were more important than aesthetics, like scrumptious triple-chocolate cookies and down-home chocolate cream pie.

Finding myself alone amid the unopened carts, I frowned in confusion. My rental car was right where I'd left it parked on the street, but nothing else was as I expected it to be.

It was hard not to feel spooked. Sure, there was still construction going on in the distance—heavy equipment beeping as it backed up and workers shouting while clanking things—but here at Cartorama, all was silent. Eerily silent. Even the birds were quiet, leaving only the sound of wind to ruffle the trees.

Nope. Wait a second. The birds were there, chirping away in that brainless way they do. Okay, I was getting carried away again, creating a threatening atmosphere where none existed.

But I've told you about the eerie deserted-carnival vibe at the cart pod. It wasn't that difficult to talk myself into being creeped out. Especially when I glanced toward Churn PDX and the trailer where Declan had drawn his last chilly breaths.

Why had he been there so early (or so late)? Surely, topping off Carissa's equipment with liquid nitrogen wasn't a task that typically happened in the wee hours of the morning, was it?

Inescapably lured closer, I switched directions and veered toward Carissa's Airstream trailer. There was no one around to see me snooping, so the timing was right. Plus, my philosophy is that if something scares you, you have to confront it.

Unless you're talking about birds. In that case, run.

Holding my breath, I circled the trailer. There wasn't any sign that anything unusual had happened there yesterday. There wasn't even any police tape surrounding it. The authorities had determined that Declan's death was an accident. With no evidence to suggest otherwise, they'd had no reason to investigate.

That didn't mean
I
didn't. Nosily, I tried the trailer's door. Disappointingly, its latch held firm. I couldn't open it.

What I needed was Danny, plus his lock-picking skills.

Officially, of course, I disapproved of him using his less-than-lawful talents, especially on my behalf. But I couldn't deny that Danny's expertise came in handy sometimes. Thwarted in my quest to examine the inside of Carissa's trailer, I looked around.

No one was in sight. With a flash of inspiration, I bent and turned over a rock, looking for a spare key. Carissa
must
have stashed one nearby. She'd never been the most organized of college students, so she'd have wanted a backup. You know that recurring nightmare you have, where you're back in school and you've forgotten an exam—maybe even forgotten to attend an entire class for a whole semester? Well, that was Carissa in a nutshell. Scatterbrained but lovable . . . and always able to talk even the most hard-nosed professors into giving her more time.

Unfortunately, all I unearthed were a couple of worms and some topsoil. I muttered a swearword and straightened, brushing my hands on the back of my jeans. Yuck. Not only was I was no closer to getting into the trailer, but I was dirty now, too.

I turned to leave and almost stepped on something. Something
furry.
I yelped. It screeched, then streaked away.

Almost upended by my attempts
not
to step on whatever it was, I flailed my arms. My heart pounded. I put my hand on my chest and breathed hard, wondering if surprise could be fatal.

“What are you up to out here?” someone asked behind me.

Tomasz Berk.
I turned to face him. Shakily.

He must have seen the whole embarrassing thing.

I had no excuse for my snooping. So I did what anyone would have done. I went on the offensive. “What are
you
doing out here?” I demanded, hands on my hips.

He gave a lazy grin, then lifted something in his right hand. A plastic bowl. “Feeding the pod's resident cat, Chow.”

It had been a cat I'd almost tromped on. Whew
. “Of course you're feeding the cat, cat chow. What else would it eat?”

“No, her name is Chow. She's a stray, but we feed her.”

Of course they did. Of course
he
did. Just the way Tomasz looked out for Cartorama's vendors, he cared for the cat, too.

It was hard not to like a guy with those credentials.

He gazed at me. Affably. “What are you hoping to find?”

I remembered my blatant, inexcusable attempt to either break into Churn PDX or locate Carissa's spare key and let myself inside. What was
wrong
with me? One murder (maybe two) and I'm not myself anymore. Usually, I'm a live-and-let-live type. Frankly, I'm on the road too much to get overinvolved.

It seemed that suspicious deaths had a way of bringing out my nosy side. I wasn't proud of it. But I couldn't deny it.

“I think I dropped my earring over here yesterday,” I lied.

Yep, not proud of that, either. Until I knew more, it was better to keep my cards close to my chest. I hadn't done that at Maison Lemaître, and it had gotten me into trouble. Not that I suspected Tomasz of any particular wrongdoing. I didn't want to.

Especially not when he was looking at me that way, all warm and interested, with his finely muscled forearms showcased by his rolled-up shirtsleeves. Today's barman ensemble featured skinny black pants, a button-down shirt, and a dapper vest, plus excellent brogues. I'd say one thing for Tomasz—he had superior taste in men's footwear. The rest of him said
thrift store,
but his feet said they'd been custom shod on Savile Row in London.

Or maybe I was just channeling my mom's Anglophilia, dressing up Tomasz Berk in exactly the clothing that would have impressed her. Which was dumb, really. I wasn't going to bring a Portland mixologist home to meet my parents. For one thing, my mom and dad have developed a pretty solid (and understandable) skepticism about my transient urges to settle down with someone.

They know it won't last. But I'm always an optimist.

“Aha, I noticed you looking around for something.” Tomasz bought my fabrication without blinking. He hooked his thumb toward Muddle + Spade. “My windows overlook the cart pod. See?”

I glanced at those pristine renovated-warehouse windows and wanted to scamper away like the stray cat, Chow, had. Tomasz really had seen everything. I might have fancied myself an amateur sleuth, but I had a long way to go before I had any idea how to “investigate” matters with any degree of stealth.

Right now, hunches were all I had. That, and dead ends. For all my prowling around, I hadn't turned up any information yet.

On the other hand, that could change quickly, I knew.

“You're coming inside, though, right?” Tomasz's eyes twinkled at me. “Everybody's already there, having brunch.”

Carissa's engagement brunch. “It's still happening?”

I'd thought it would be canceled. But if it was on, that explained why Austin had been in a hurry to get to the bar.

I'd been so busy suspecting him, I hadn't questioned that. Or gotten myself ready to attend the same event. My skulking-around clothes weren't exactly dressy. I was geared up for a regular Sunday in the Pacific Northwest, not a gala brunch.

“Well, now it's more of a memorial for Declan than anything else.” Tomasz put his hands in his pockets, then glanced up at me from beneath his dark brows. “The funeral's tomorrow.”

At that, I felt suffused with sorrow. And shame. Plus regret. Carissa was dealing with the realities of her fiancé's death, and I was goofing around, pretending to be Miss Marple.

But there was still time to set things right. I had to stop overdramatizing everything and start being there for my friend.

“Of course I'm coming inside.” I bent and scooped up a pebble (aka my “earring”) for the sake of maintaining my alibi. Then I marched off toward Muddle + Spade, leaving Tomasz to catch up with me.

 

 

Inside Muddle + Spade, I expected to find sadness and shock, anecdotes about Declan, and reminiscences of times past.

Instead, I walked into a riot of laughter and feasting, togetherness and mutual support. Everyone was there. Carissa sat at the center, with Austin, Lauren, some vendors I recognized from yesterday but hadn't met, and (now) me and Tomasz gathered around her. Even Janel was involved—circulating with a pitcher of mimosas like a waitress, sure—but still, she was included.

They were all seated at one of the bar's big, roughhewn communal tables, with a row of Mason jars full of lighted candles for a centerpiece and plates of food all around. The aromas wafting upward from the spread—savory, sweet, spicy, and everything in between—made my stomach rumble. I was reminded that I'd been so eager to get to Cartorama (and make sure my rental car hadn't been towed or sabotaged) that I hadn't stopped for a nosh. It looked as though Tomasz's kitchen staff had the cure for that, though. I spied skillet scrambles, plates of French toast, pastries and fruit bowls, granola, and juice.

And coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. (Hurray!)

Everything was being served tapas-style, to be shared. It was plain that everyone was used to that custom, because they didn't hesitate to dig right in. Sunshine streamed in through the bar's windows. Indie music played subtly in the background. Everyone chattered away, their conversations creating a low hum.

If I hadn't known better—if I'd arrived today instead of yesterday—I'd have sworn nothing tragic had happened at all.

“Well, I guess now I can blow off my diet!” Carissa dug into a plate of chocolate chip pancakes, forking two of them onto her plate. “Sayonara, custom-fitted wedding dress!”

Her manic glee didn't bother anyone else, but I swear I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I realized that Carissa might have been crash dieting in preparation for her wedding—so she was probably legitimately hungry—but shouldn't she have been a little more, I don't know,
grief-stricken
?

Concerned, I went straight to her. “Carissa, how are you?”

“Starving!” She hugged me tightly, then pulled back. “You?”

I couldn't believe she was asking me that, just as though this were any ordinary day. I struggled to regroup. Carissa merely blinked at me, her face fixed in a pleasant expression.

My gaze darted to Austin. Without saying a word, he gave me the universal
drinky-drinky
symbol, pantomiming someone knocking back alcohol.

I frowned. Austin nodded, almost imperceptibly.

I understood. Carissa's amiable mood had been helped along by something, likely antidepressants prescribed by her doctor. Or a few of Janel's mimosas. Or maybe (unwisely) both.

“I'm fine.” Truly, I was worried about Carissa. Her face looked slightly drawn, her eyes swollen, her cheeks pale. I searched for something to do to help, not wanting to fall back on the old
“what can I do for you?”
routine, which put the onus on the grieving to orchestrate their own relief. “More mimosa?”

Argh.
I wanted to smack myself on the forehead. The last thing (possibly medicated) Carissa needed was to get hammered.

I searched the table for another tactic, but I was too late.

“Yes, thanks!” My friend held out her glass to me.

Unprepared, I looked for Janel with the mimosa pitcher. Instead, amid all the frivolity and sociability, I saw
Danny.

I blinked. I had to be imagining things.

But no. There he was, all burnished muscles, militarily short dark hair, and perceptive eyes. Right now, his eyes were sizing me up, undoubtedly seeing all the tumult I'd put myself through so far this morning. Danny knows me like no one else.

He could
see
that I'd woken up a wreck. That I'd already been rebuffed by a kindly nerd. That I'd been discovered while trying (and failing) to stage a clue-gathering trailer break-in.

Danny gave me a nod, then returned his attention to Lauren.

He was seated next to her, sure, but that was no excuse.

As I tried to process all that, Janel swooped in to refill Carissa's mimosa. I caught her eye and mouthed a thank you
.

“You didn't tell me you were bringing a plus-one!” Carissa beamed at me. I began to have doubts about her doctor's judgment in prescribing anything for her. She seemed . . . agitated. Leaning nearer, Carissa gestured for me to stoop closer. I did.

“Especially one who's so cute!” she bellowed with a wink at Danny, my supposed “date” for the occasion.

I'm not going to sugarcoat things. Carissa's elation was kind of unnerving. I got goose bumps all over again.