Criminal Confections (17 page)

Drifting away from the tedium, I let my gaze wander, appreciating all the effort that had gone into staging the event. Nina had done a spectacular job coordinating things. You would never know she'd had cause to stress out about it. The food had been divine. The drinks had been delicious. And the dessert . . . well, it went without saying that triple-chocolate mousse torte with boozy Armagnac whipped cream and candied orange peel was out of this world. Sated and slightly sleepy, I listened to the Torrance Chocolates rep accept a “renaissance” award. She managed to thank her boss, her boss's wife, her boss's father—pretty much anyone related in any way to her boss.

So far, Torrance Chocolates sounded like a lot friendlier place to work, I couldn't help thinking, than Lemaître did.

A breeze ruffled the tablecloths and threatened my hair. I tried to nudge a stray dark strand back into position, feeling grateful for the rapidly fading twilight and the flattering torchlight—which was doing an excellent job of hiding the hasty efforts I'd made getting ready. Away from the tables full of attendees, additional lights glimmered among the tree branches.

Far across the grounds, the Golden Gate Bridge arched over the water. Its cables and towers were illuminated to highlight its Art Deco features and famous International Orange paint color. The air smelled sweet with chocolate and redolent with flowers. It was warm. I was secure with Danny beside me. I hadn't received an industry award, but in that moment, I didn't care. Lulled by all the speeches, the fine food, the overflowing wine, and three kinds of chocolate, it seemed to me that I might have imagined everything—Adrienne's death, my own amateur poking and prodding among my informal suspects, even my concussion.

Then, a few awards (and subsequent speeches) later, Bernard took the stage and blew my newfound equanimity to smithereens. It started off mildly. Accepting an “initiator” award, the gray-haired Lemaître Chocolates founder beamed out at the audience.

“First, I'd like to thank everyone for coming tonight.”

Uh-oh.
Stifling a yawn, I prepared for the worst. Usually, when someone led off with “first,” it meant they intended to go on. And on.
And on.
Plus, Bernard had that faintly hesitant cadence to his voice that the elderly—and probably the more deep-thinking members of society—sometimes had while winding up for a good, long rumination. We might be here awhile.

Surreptitiously, Danny nodded at one of the servers—an attractive blonde—signaling for another Guinness. I silently requested more wine. As usual, we were on the same wavelength.

“Especially my dear nephew, Christian,” Bernard was saying when I tuned in again, “who kicked this doddering old fool out of his comfort zone and into a new life.” He gave his trademark twinkly-eyed grin to the attendees. “I'm grateful for that.”

He went on to natter about the subjects of chocolate, being on morning television in the ‘80s and ‘90s, and the challenges of marriage. Around me, people shifted. Bernard had officially entered the “play-off music” zone. But no one would have dared.

I reminded myself that this man was the patriarch of modern chocolate making as we knew it. It was because of people like Bernard that I have a thriving industry to work in at all.

“So I'd like to dedicate this award,” Bernard droned while servers circulated, delivering drinks at double speed, “to the woman who helped me see all that. The woman who
changed
me. . . .”

I swear, my head nodded drowsily. I wasn't proud of it, but it happened. Given what I knew of Isabel's disgruntlement with her marriage, I wasn't buying Bernard's blissfully wed routine.

Curiously, I glanced toward Bernard's just-vacated seat, wondering how Isabel was taking all this. She wasn't there.

In her place, Eden from
Chocolat Monthly
was seated.

Huh?
Maybe she'd decided to broaden her article's scope.

“So
this
is to you.” Bernard lifted his award. Atop its gilded pedestal, a crystal cacao bean gleamed. Choked up, Bernard added, “Wherever you are!”

Awkward.
Now other attendees had noticed that Eden was
not
Isabel. People began murmuring. Danny glanced at me. I shrugged.

I might not have jetted off to Barbados myself, but I wouldn't have been surprised if Isabel had. Right along with Poopsie. I'd miss that little Yorkie. And her keeper, too.

“I don't know why you had to leave,” Bernard wheezed, “but I'll never forget you! Never! No one will ever know what you meant to me.” He gave an enormous sniffle. “But I will! I'll—”

He broke off, sobbing as he clutched his award to his chest. Galvanized by his emotion, everyone stared silently.

Discreetly, Nina hustled to the microphone. She took Bernard's arm, then murmured something to him. He nodded.

I glanced again toward Isabel's vacant seat. Why hadn't she come tonight with Bernard? I hadn't noticed her missing earlier, but I'd been a little out of it (thanks, concussion!). It looked as though a new dose of drama had shaken up the retreat, though.

I didn't seriously think Isabel had refused to come see her husband fêted. Maybe she'd simply been too hungover to attend?

“Bernard Lemaître, everyone!” Nina's voice burst through the sound system. “Your inaugural ‘initiator' award winner!”

Looking uncomfortable, Christian stood to applaud. So did the Torrance Chocolates rep, a bean supplier, and others from my panel. Danny stood, too, inciting our whole table to rise.

By the time Bernard weaved past (tipsily or senilely, I wasn't sure which), he was making his way through a standing ovation. Everyone around me clapped. I did, too. It was a beautiful moment, seeing a mainstay of my industry honored in that way. Seeming touched, Bernard smiled, still led by Nina.

When he reached
me
amid the applause, though, he veered away from the PR rep. Suddenly determined, he grabbed me.

“
Don't
forget Adrienne!” Bernard told me intently. “Don't forget! Remember her the way she was—the way she
really
was.”

His gravelly voice and grave tone raised goose bumps on my arms. His hazy, pain-filled gaze penetrated mine. I didn't know if Bernard was suffering from dementia or not. But in that moment, it was clear to me that he was suffering from grief.

The question was . . . was Bernard mourning the (apparent) loss of Isabel? Or the loss of Adrienne?
Had
they been involved?

Before I could say anything, Nina led Bernard away. She was obviously controlling the situation before it could get any more out of hand. I had to admire her quick thinking. Thanks to her (typically) dedicated efforts, though, Lemaître Chocolates' founder was gone . . . and so was my chance to find out more.

After all the spectacle, however, I felt more lively than I had since before having my head smashed. That was a plus.

I poked Danny. “Hey, you wanna get out of here?” I asked.

He jolted, startled out of what he'd been doing—which was checking out the dishy blond server I'd noticed earlier. “Huh?”

“Never mind.” It was obvious he had another one on the hook. I wasn't sure how he . . .
Nah, scratch that.
I knew how he did it. “I just wanted to tell you you're officially off the clock.”

“Says you.” He swerved his gaze to me. “What's up?”

“The banquet's breaking up.”
And I want to find Isabel.
I had to know more. “I think I'm going to go for a walk.”

“Not without me, you're not.”

And that's how I got six-feet-plus of masculine company for my next excursion onto Maison Lemaître's darkened grounds—and accidentally foiled Danny's latest hookup plans in the process.

This new arrangement of ours might have its complications, I realized as we walked. I didn't want to get in the way of Danny's freedom. But I didn't want to wind up dead the next time somebody set their sights on something I had in my hotel room, either . . .
or,
it occurred to me as I remembered Christian's earlier visit to my (former) room, something I
didn't
have anymore.

I fished out my phone and dialed up Travis. Danny sauntered a few feet away, looking attitudinal. For the millionth time, I wished the two of them got along better. As the phone rang, I looked across the bay at the twinkling lights of San Francisco.

I could have been happy here, I thought. Minus the murder.

“Hey, Travis!” I felt a rush of well-being as the phone connected and my financial advisor's rumbling voice came over the line. Thrillingly. “What are you wearing right now?”

He chuckled. I won! Right away, I'd made him laugh.

“You never quit, do you, Hayden?” Travis asked huskily.

Was I dreaming, or did he sound happy to hear from me?

I cradled the phone, picturing him. Sort of. In my imagination, Travis was
hot.
Hot in a way that corporate headshots and social media pics couldn't have begun to capture—not that he'd allowed any of those to become public. (Yes, I'd snooped.) “Not if I can help it.”

“Well, I'm afraid there's one thing you might want to consider giving up on,” Travis said crushingly. I caught sight of Danny watching suspiciously. He didn't trust Travis's no-punches, no-rap sheet, no-parolees approach to life. “Your retreat. I don't think you should stay in San Francisco.”

I didn't say anything—but I did shoot a concerned glance at Danny. Apparently, he was prescient, because he'd predicted this outcome earlier. Travis
did
want me to quit gadding around.

Didn't Travis know how much gridskipping meant to me? I'd grown up rough-traveling the world with my (similarly) adventure-loving parents. Thanks to them, I'd been filling out supplemental passport pages at a comically early age.

Thanks to them, I knew there was no point getting comfy.

But Travis wasn't aware of my ancient history—or he didn't care. That was a number cruncher for you, I guessed. Either things added up . . . or they didn't.

“I got the results of your truffle tests today.” Travis paused. His voice lowered with authority. “We need to talk.”

Chapter 10

“That's right. We do.” I jumped in before Travis could deliver whatever bad news had him sounding so ominous. “I'm going to need to make some changes to my cash outflow.” I told him about Bernard's charity and my offer to match all of today's donations to it. That went off without a hitch. “And my budget.”

Travis gave a sexy
“go ahead”
rumble. So I did, watching as Danny put his hands on his hips and strode a few feet away. He might as well have been wearing a
NO MONEY TALK
T-shirt instead of a suit, because his demeanor made it plain that he didn't want to listen to me dole out my unanticipated fortune.

“I'm hiring Danny,” I told Travis. “For security.”

A pause. Then, “See,
that's
why I wanted to talk.”

I'd anticipated some pushback. Here it was. I drew in a deep breath. “Look, I know you and Danny don't get along—”

“I'm not much for prison pen pals.”

“—but he could be really useful to me here. It's done.”

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried about how Travis would react. I wanted to stay on friendly terms with him. Danny was one of the few sticking points between us. But I wasn't prepared to budge on the issue of one of my oldest friends.

In the distance, the lights of Maison Lemaître shined into the darkening evening. I glimpsed people milling around near the banquet picnic area. They seemed very far away now. Nearer to me and Danny, the resort's outbuildings and luxurious private cabins stood at moderate distances from one another, mostly deserted now because of the retreat's goings-on. Farther out, the waters of the bay shimmered in the glow of the city lights.

Travis heaved a sigh. “You know I can't stop you from spending your money however you want, but is this wise?”

“Why wouldn't it be wise?”

“Should I read you Danny's arrest record?”

“That's ancient history.” Not far from me, I saw Danny. His shoulders looked tense, his face stony. “You don't know him.”

“I know that you feel you're in danger there.”

Travis was right. I frowned. “Not if I have Danny!”

“Maybe even
if
you have Danny.” Travis went silent. Maybe he was sipping cognac in his high-tech office. Maybe he was loosening his silk tie. Maybe he was picturing
me,
too. “I don't want to argue with you, Hayden. But I think you should leave.”

“And go where? Home?” I did my best to laugh off Travis's slipup. “We both know I don't have one of those. Not really.”

“You could stay here. With me. Until you make other plans.”

Struck speechless by that, I went still. I couldn't help wondering what it would be like to bunk down at Travis's place. Everything would probably be clean, expensive, and ridiculously organized. Plus, I could make Travis read aloud to me daily.

I got shivers of anticipation just thinking about it. Which was enough to tell me I had to refuse. “Thanks, but no thanks. I'm fine where I am.” Which was on the move, sooner or later.

“Are you? You don't usually call me out of the blue.”

“I'm not calling you out of the blue. I'm calling you about
business,”
I reminded him, omitting my constant yen to hear his sexy voice. “The charity donations. Plus, Danny's salary will—”

“You sound stressed,” Travis interrupted in a husky, inviting tone. “Why don't you tell me what's been going on?”

Given that bedroom voice of his, I wanted to, but I refrained. “I'm fine.”

“Are you?”

“Of course.” Automatically, I dug in my heels. I don't like being told what to do, and I felt another big, fat
“Here's what you should do”
coming my way. I hadn't even told Travis about my room break-in (or my concussion) yet. Maybe I just . . .
wouldn't.

The fact that I was considering leaving out those details concerned me. It was possible that finding out if someone had purposely overdosed Adrienne meant more to me than I was willing to admit.

“Even though you overnighted truffles to me to ID as a possible
murder weapon,
you're still fine?” Travis pushed.

“I didn't say ‘murder weapon,' per se,” I objected.

“You didn't have to. Hayden . . .” Travis broke off. I pictured him pacing, all lean and muscular, in his imposing office. “It's obvious something bad is going on there at Maison Lemaître.”

“Were the truffles toxic or not?” I asked. “Could one of them have killed Adrienne?” I
had
told Travis about her death.

Typically, Travis set aside his personal feelings long enough to deliver the goods. He was a pro. “No. The levels of caffeine weren't high enough to cause an overdose. Adrienne would have had to eat dozens of truffles for problems to occur.”

“Good. Then I'm home free.” I shrugged, trying to loosen up my suddenly tense shoulders. “Well, have a nice night, Travis.”

“That's not all.” His tone brooked no argument. Evidently, when pushed, Travis could be a tough guy. I kind of liked that. He was hot when being commanding. “About Danny—don't you think it's convenient that he showed up there with you, right when everything fell apart and you needed security?”

I understood what Travis was driving at. I resented it.

I glanced at Danny. “It's not like that. I asked him here.”

My pal's ears perked up. He looked straight at me.

“Danny could benefit enormously from you,” Travis insisted, his voice raspy with urgency. “Isn't it possible he's making it
look
as though you need a bodyguard, when you really don't?”

That whole idea was preposterous. Offensive. Prejudicial. As a general rule, I'm not the biggest fan of reformed criminal types. But I
am
a fan of one of my oldest, closest friends.

“I'm going to pretend you didn't just suggest Danny is playing me,” I said, getting more annoyed now. “He's not.”

“How do you know he's not? It's all pretty coincidental.”

“A woman died!” I told Travis, clutching my phone with a suddenly shaky hand. I didn't like arguing with him, but I had to. I'm loyal. Nobody was bad-mouthing Danny. “He didn't kill Adrienne. He didn't break into my room. He didn't clobber me—”

“About that,” Travis broke in. “Did you really think I wouldn't see the doctor's bill come through today? We're not living in the Dark Ages. Financial transactions are immediate. You should have told me.” He gave a growl of frustration—a
seductive
growl of frustration. Damn him. “Come on, Hayden. It's me. I'm Mr. Attention to Detail. Just listen to me for once.”

“I'm fine. Just concussed. Thanks for asking, though.”

“Don't be like that,” Travis urged. I was already softening when he added, “
Don't
hire Danny and
don't
stay there.”

His know-it-all tone finally got the better of me. I might go all gooey for Travis's voice sometimes, but I never lose my wits altogether. I hadn't called him just to be bossed around.

“If I don't need a bodyguard—according to you—then I don't need to leave, do I?” I shot back. “Problem solved.”

I was really feeling shaky now. I didn't know if it was arguing with Travis that was affecting me or my concussion. This might have been one of those mood swings I'd been warned about.

“Look, Travis.” I relaxed my tone. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to take everything out on you, but I
do
have a minor head injury right now—and I think you're being just a little bit irrational on the subject of Danny. Just the way you've always been.”

I wished again I knew why they didn't get along. I was about to ask Travis—one more time—when Danny strode closer.

He grabbed the phone. “Hayden has to go. Bye, Harvard.”

He hung up. He seemed to seriously contemplate throwing my phone into the bay, too. Defensively, I snatched it from him.

“I was still talking to Travis! What is
wrong
with you?”

I was too dumbfounded even to lecture Danny about his habit of using pejorative nicknames for Travis. At least “Harvard” was printable . . . unlike some others. It fit. Travis was an alumnus.

Danny compressed his mouth. “He was upsetting you.”

So was Danny, at that moment. Because I couldn't help thinking . . . wasn't this
exactly
what he would have done if he
had
been trying to con me into hiring his security services—and now knew that Travis was throwing a monkey wrench into his scheme?

Maybe Danny and Travis didn't get along, I mused, because Danny wanted to swindle a fortune from me . . . and Travis wanted to stop him. But that was crazy. I would have given Danny just about anything he wanted. He didn't have to trick me to get it.

“Hey.” Companionably, I prodded his shoulder. “You know I've got your back, right? What's mine is yours, and all that?”

Darkly, Danny gazed out toward the bay. “Yeah,” he finally said, not looking at me. “But it's not, is it? Not really.”

I didn't know what to say to that, so I stayed mum.

The silence stretched between us—me, feeling upset over my skirmish with Travis, and Danny, obviously in a brooding mood.

We needed to move on. At least now I knew that Adrienne hadn't been overdosed by her truffles. That was progress. As for the rest of the information I needed, it was somewhere nearby.

I started walking. Casually, I asked, “So . . . any idea where Isabel and Bernard might be staying while they're here?”

Most likely, I knew, Maison Lemaître had a penthouse suite on the top floor. Even more likely, Christian had claimed it.

Danny gave me a long look. “As if you don't know. You've been purposely meandering toward it all this time.”

I hadn't been, but I didn't want to disillusion him. If Danny wanted to think I was some kind of sleuthing savant . . . why not? “Just for argument's sake?” I pushed. “To test you?”

He relented. “One of the cottages.” He pointed. “That one.”

I headed that direction, leaving Danny to trail me, trying not to wonder
too
hard how he knew everyone's room assignments.

 

 

A few minutes later, my knee had slowed me down and Danny had overtaken me. I looked at his back as we neared the cottage where Isabel and Bernard were staying, unable to stop wondering . . .

If Danny still had one foot in his shady past (and he did, as evidenced by his parolee pal, his unconscionable lifting of Rex's wallet, and his later profiling of that wallet's pilfered contents), then who was to say he
wasn't
pulling a con on me?

Nothing, that's what. Nothing except my intuition—which pinged madly as we reached the cottage and saw lights inside.

In the window, Isabel appeared. I stopped near a bush.

“Hey.” Danny looked over his shoulder, obviously mystified. “What are you doing? I thought you wanted to talk to Isabel.”

I did. I'd told him about my thoughts during Bernard's award acceptance speech—about wondering where Isabel was.

Now I knew. But she wasn't alone. Even as I bit my lip, another figure appeared. I could only see him from behind. But judging by his dark curly hair, he wasn't dear, graying Bernie.

I had a sinking feeling it might be Hank, the resort's personal trainer. Isabel
had
mentioned she might “get more” from him. She probably hadn't meant an effective triceps workout.

“She looks busy.” Indecisively, I lingered. Coming there had seemed like a perfectly innocuous idea . . . when I'd conceived of it. Now that I was there, though, I had my doubts. Should I really be poking into Isabel and Bernard's private life? Or Hank's? He could probably be fired for consorting with Isabel.

“Look, either talk to her or don't,” Danny said. “Just know that I'm blowing off something else to be here with you.”

The blonde from the banquet.
Duly poked, I took a step.

Raised voices came from inside the cottage. I stopped, then cast a quizzical look at Danny. He'd heard them, too. In unspoken unison, we ducked behind the bush I'd stumbled upon.

“You should have said so the other night!” Isabel yelled, sounding intoxicated (and infuriated). “I wouldn't have wasted all this time with you!” In the window, she gave the man a shove. “I missed a good opportunity tonight, thanks to you.”

Beside me in the sheltering darkness, Danny quirked his mouth. “Missed opportunity, huh? Isabel and I have something in common.”

“Shush!” I kept still, listening harder. I could almost make out the man as he turned. He left the curtainless window before I could positively ID him. I know I shouldn't have been snooping at all. It really wasn't like me. But if I was going to, I reasoned, I might as well do a thorough job of it.

“Fine!” Isabel's shrill voice came next. “Just leave!”

There was another indistinct voice, too low to make out.

Then the cottage door smashed open. Danny and I flinched.

Rex Rader appeared in the doorway, agitated and mussed up.

He pointed at Isabel. “Don't even
think
about telling him!”

“You either!” Isabel jerked up her chin. “Don't you dare!”

Meanwhile, I was pretty busy boggling over the idea of the two of them together. As a couple. Isabel . . . and Rex?
Really?