Dangerously Dark (14 page)

“I'll
never
stop, Dec,” she murmured. “I promise.”

Then, with that choked-up oath delivered, Janel turned her stocky body toward the other mourners, flipped them a matched set of middle-finger salutes, and left the service behind.

 

 

Janel's appearance at Declan's funeral left me with more questions than answers—and left everyone else with a month's worth of gossip, besides. I could tell, after Janel stormed out, that everyone present was eager to chatter about what had just taken place. But the sad situation required more decorum than that, so those conversations took place in whispers, between nods and sniffles and exchanges of much-needed tissues.

Everyone was
shocked,
they murmured.
The nerve,
they added. But I couldn't help admiring Janel's spirit and dedication, if not the way she'd upset everyone. She'd found a means to say good-bye to Declan, despite plenty of resistance, and she'd done it
her
way, besides. At her exit, Austin actually laughed.

No one else did. It wasn't appropriate, especially at a funeral. But Janel's newsworthy arrival (and departure) loosened up Declan's memorial viewing in a way that nothing else could have. Different mourners came together to express their outrage. Carissa basked in an outpouring of sympathy. Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins stood at the center of it all—with Declan's parents, who apparently lived in Portland, too—indignant and protective.

I sat in the rearmost row of folding chairs with Austin, next to a row of flickering lighted candles, at a respectful distance from Declan's casket, wondering why—if a protective order had really been necessary against Janel—Carissa's parents knew so much about it. I mean, some parents were more involved in their children's lives than others. But that seemed . . . weird.

“They're both lawyers,” Austin informed me when I asked him. He seemed to be feeling better. I was glad. In a low voice, he added, “As soon as Carissa complained to them about Janel, they lowered the boom but quick. Declan was barely involved.”

Interesting. “Was Janel really stalking him?”

“If by ‘really stalking him,' you mean ‘really,
really
wanting to be his girlfriend,' then yes,” Austin said. “She was.”

“But surely Declan didn't actually need a protection order? He was a pretty big guy. Janel is a lot smaller than he was.”

“Sometimes it's not about strength.” Austin's gaze wandered to Carissa. Locked on. Held. “It's about persistence.”

I was starting to think
he
seemed like a stalker himself.

Hoping I'd misread him, I gave his shoulder a companionable nudge. I nodded toward Carissa. “You're worried about her.”

“Aren't you?” His attention transferred back to me. “She's acting strangely. I mean, maybe that's the antidepressants talking. Who knows? But I hardly recognize Carissa anymore.”

That was surprising. “Really? In what way?”

“Shush!”
A grandfatherly type turned to quiet us. The glare he delivered from beneath his bushy gray eyebrows was fearsome.

The minute he turned to the front again, Austin and I collapsed into silent, shared giggles. That was a compulsorily solemn occasion for you. Sometimes it brought on inadvertent rebellion. Not that I was at risk of doing a full Janel-style, flying-middle-finger salute. I wasn't. I had control of myself.

“Carissa used to be really positive,” Austin told me, seeming to take comfort in our conversation. “Bubbly, even.”

That meshed with what I remembered of my friend.

“But the last couple of months—” Austin shook his head, his face sorrowful. “She hasn't seemed like herself. Some of the time, Declan
really
seemed to get on her nerves, you know?”

I did know. I knew that must have given Austin unwarranted hope that he and Carissa might eventually be together, too.

I nodded. “Prewedding jitters, maybe?” I guessed.

“Maybe.” Austin fussed with his funereal black beanie. “I think it was more than that, though. I know it sounds crazy now, but I think Carissa was going to break it off with Declan.”

I didn't think so. But as I reconsidered Carissa's palpable relief at not having to diet to fit into her wedding dress, plus her glee at the brunch-turned-wake yesterday, I had my doubts.

Carissa sometimes seemed more
angry
with Declan than anything else. That would have fit with Austin's theory. But maybe she was simply angry with Declan for leaving her.

“If so,” I settled on saying, “she wouldn't have been the first person to ever call off a wedding at the last minute.”

Austin gave me a speculative look. Wisely, I clammed up.

At least I did until I saw Tomasz and Lauren near the other set of chairs, that is. He was outfitted in an immaculate black suit that
had
to be borrowed, because I doubted a mostly broke barman could afford such a thing. Despite my gypsy upbringing, I
do
understand the finer things in life, so I recognized the trademarks of the house of Arnys, on the Rive Gauche in Paris.

Arnys's bespoke tailoring stands out in the same way that fingerprints do, especially to someone who's seen it before (like me, via Uncle Ross). Tomasz's suit wasn't an Armani or a Gucci; it didn't carry an obvious label. Recognizing an Arnys garment is more subtle than that. Let's just say, this was the suit that Clark Kent would have worn if his alter ego had been James Bond instead of Superman. It was the suit that an international man of mystery would have worn to go undercover, stylishly and perfectly. Not that I thought Tomasz understood as much.

He was wearing that suit as if it came from Goodwill, with zero reverence for its tailoring and quality fabrication. It was endearing, actually. Where another man might have subtly (or subconsciously) peacocked around, soaking up admiring glances, Tomasz turned all the attention onto other people instead. It was almost as if he didn't
want
to be seen looking so fantastic.

Ahem.
In a sad, funereal context, I mean. Of course.

Beside him, Lauren really
was
wearing clothes from a thrift store. She looked typically theatrical in a close-fitting black dress, high-heeled pumps, and (I'm not making this up) a pillbox hat with a veil. Think “sexy Jackie Kennedy,” and you've got it.

The whole getup made her look as if she had something to hide. I mean, let's be real—a veil is meant to
conceal.
That's its entire raison d'être. Lauren was keeping something hidden.

Was it her affair with Declan? Or something more sinister?

I didn't know when the two of them had slipped in to pay their respects to Declan. I wasn't surprised Tomasz had shown up with Lauren, though—or that he was currently in the midst of making introductions while the viewing continued. Berk seemed to be a classic “connector”—a person who thrived on creating links between people—so, naturally, he would have felt at home anywhere.

“Hmm, they're arriving late,” I mused to Austin, trying to lead him into giving me more Cartorama gossip.

“I'm surprised Lauren is here at all,” he muttered darkly.

I sensed more info on its way and leaned nearer to catch it while watching Lauren and Tomasz. “Really? Why's that?”

Silence.
Confounded, I glanced at Austin beside me.

His malicious glare was back. It was focused on
me.

“You obviously already know.” His tone was low and menacing, his voice shaky. “So, why keep playing dumb?”

His vehemence shocked me. “I'm not playing dumb! I'm—”

Investigating.
I couldn't very well say that, could I?

Regardless, I never had the chance. Because Austin shot me another killing look, then burst upward from his chair.

It tottered in his wake. He swore and kicked it.
Hard.

Since Austin wasn't an inconsiderably sized man, the chair practically crumpled as it fell backward, leaving me stunned.

Its crash against the floor drew every gaze in the place. By then, though, Austin was already stomping away. He didn't care. Lauren did, however. At least I thought she did—her veiled face turned toward Austin as he marched out of the funeral home.

An instant later, she whispered to Tomasz, then followed.

That was
definitely
my cue. I checked to make sure Carissa was okay—since it seemed almost time to begin the eulogizing portion of Declan's memorial service—then made a beeline for the mortuary's door, following Lauren. I couldn't add much to the fond remembrances of Declan's family and friends. But with a little effort, I might be able to learn who'd wanted him dead.

In the long run, that was more valuable. Grateful for my practical flat shoes (honestly, most of the time, I'm wearing kitchen clogs, so I don't get all atwitter about footwear), I followed the same path that Austin (and then Lauren) had.

Halfway there, someone stepped in my way.
Tomasz.

I can't say I was 100 percent unhappy to see him. I mean, sure, he was technically thwarting my nascent investigation. But honestly, he was doing it in a pretty easy-on-the-eyes way.

Maybe, it occurred to me, stress had messed up my usual equanimity. Because it wasn't typical of me to go all gaga over a guy—or anything else for that matter. I'm pretty even-keeled.

Most of the time, I know what to do and how to do it—and I get on with doing it, wherever I happen to be. For example, I wouldn't order a Lyon wine while consulting on a chocolate job in Burgundy. While in Burgundy, similarly, I wouldn't think of offering fewer than four cheek-to-cheek kisses to someone. That's just the custom, no matter how it's done elsewhere in France. (FYI, if you're in Paris,
deux bises
are expected.)

On the same note, I don't tip after meals in Japan (it's considered an insult), and I don't
ever
jaywalk in Düssel-dorf. The Germans don't do jaywalking—they do rules. Just like me.

What I'm saying is, when it comes to cultural mores, I'm capable of fitting in. Except sometimes, of course. Say, if those mores insist I be unaffected by the tall, rakishly handsome bartender who'd just stopped me to say hello.

Tomasz took a look at (what must have appeared to be) my distraught expression (since I knew Austin and Lauren were getting away) and pulled me in for a sympathy hug. I melted.

Unlike Carissa, Tomasz Berk didn't smell like hair spray and perfume. He smelled like soap and expensive wool, mingled with what my finely honed chocolate-whispering senses told me was a trace of chocolate. I'd never seen him eating any delicious cocoa treats, but that obviously didn't mean Tomasz never did.

That whiff of chocolate reminded me, unfortunately, of everything else that was on my agenda for the day. Declan's funeral, a check-in phone call to Travis, a consult with Danny, and then—much later—my inaugural Chocolate After Dark tour.

I didn't have time to waste. So I pulled back, then patted Tomasz on the lapel of his fancy suit. “Nice Arnys,” I said.

Then I winked and headed outside, knowing—the way a woman always does—that the probable riddle of what I'd just said (and the mysterious French way I'd said it) would make Tomasz wonder what I'd meant all day long. Exactly the way I wanted him to do.

That would teach him, I decided as I stepped into the fresh springtime air outside,
not
to know the provenance of his suit. Because while Arnys was now closed, its excellence appeared to live on—just as my ambitions to find Declan's killer did.

 

 

In the end, I stumbled upon Lauren and Austin outside the funeral home much sooner than I'd expected. That's because, this being Portland (aka the epicenter of bike culture), Austin had put on his black suit and black beanie and ridden his bicycle to Declan's memorial service. Even now, as Lauren stood over him in her ultradramatic funeral garb and harangued him, Austin fumbled with his bike's U-lock, trying to get away.

“. . . can't
believe
you actually showed up here!” Lauren shrieked as I approached. “If you hadn't gotten on your high horse about covering for us, Declan would still be alive!”

Austin's shoulders slumped. Oblivious to me, the street full of parked cars, and the rest of the world, he finally wrenched open his U-lock. He pulled it free. Not looking at Lauren, he wheeled out his blue road bike from its parking spot. He pulled on the nylon backpack he'd dropped at his feet, then straightened. His getaway was clear. Still, he hesitated.

So did I. I wanted to hear what he said. I slowed down. Then I realized I should smarten up my gumshoe game, in case he or Lauren noticed me. I ducked and fussed with my shoe.

“If
you'd
taken no for an answer,” Austin said through what sounded like gritted teeth, “Declan wouldn't have been scrambling at the last minute like that. He would have paid more attention to the nitro tanks! He would have seen—”

“It wasn't
my
fault!” Lauren interrupted. “I never asked Declan to sneak around. I asked him
not
to! Didn't he tell you?”

“He never had a chance to,” Austin protested.

“All I wanted,” Lauren said, “was for him to be with
me.
”

“Well, he didn't want to be with
you,
did he?” Austin shot back, hard and fast. “Not when it came down to it, he didn't. If you'd realized that, like, two days earlier, he'd be here now.”