Death Is Like a Box of Chocolates (A Chocolate Covered Mystery) (23 page)

Bobby grabbed me then and didn’t let go. Bean skidded to a halt next to a police car with Erica right behind him.

“You killed Denise? With my chocolate?” The outrage I felt made my voice shake. “You tried to kill me?”

The principal shook his head. “I didn’t . . .” he said, but his voice was so full of sorrow that it sounded like a confession.

The chief himself walked up to read the principal his Miranda rights, taking the photo out of his pocket and clicking on the handcuffs.

Erica wrapped her arm around my shoulder and tried to lead me away, but I stopped when Peter’s eyes watched me over the roof of the police car before he was helped inside. It seemed like an apology.

“Why?” I asked as he was driven away.

No one answered. We were shuttled away by the police and went back to the store.

“Did you see the photo?” I asked Bean.

He nodded. “An old car moving past a barn,” he said. “Seems like it was taken early in the morning using some kind of trick photography that elongated the exposure.”

“How do we
know
he killed her because of it?”

That brought Bean up short. “Actually, we don’t.” He thought for a minute. “Unless we can figure out something from the photo and get him to talk.”

“Wait,” I said. “What kind of car was in the photo?”

“A classic Corvette,” he said. “Light blue. Maybe sixty-seven?”

My heart sank. That was the principal’s car.

• • • • • • • • • 

H
ow did people live on so little sleep?
I thought as I poured my third cup of coffee in my kitchen the next morning. This mystery-solving stuff was exhausting. And unsatisfying. I wanted to march into that jail and shake the principal until he told me what the hell was going on.

Erica knocked on the door and stuck her head in.

“Morning,” I said in my grouchy voice.

She was carrying her laptop, looking way too awake for how long she’d slept. “I’ve been checking out these photos, but I don’t know why he would steal this one.”

“Did you check all the geo-stuff?”

“Zane taught me how, but like the others, the geotags are missing,” she explained. “He’ll help me when he gets out of class.”

“That barn’s familiar,” I said. “Isn’t that the Grubakers’?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s the only barn around here that doesn’t have some kind of sign on it.” She brought up Google maps and zoomed in. “That’s close to Peter’s house. He could have been coming from anywhere.”

“Then why is the photo worth stealing?” I asked. “And maybe,” I felt a hitch in my throat, “killing over.”

“What do men try to hide?” she asked.

All I could think about was Colleen’s husband, Mark. “An affair?”

“But to kill to hide it?” she asked.

Some people will do anything to save their reputation
, I thought, except for not having an affair in the first place. “Why wouldn’t he just get divorced?”

“Peter’s wife has a great deal of money from her family,” Erica said. “Maybe he didn’t want to change his lifestyle.”

“Let’s try to put some pieces together,” I said, “and see if any of it makes sense. After Denise successfully blackmails Larry, she tries her hand at blackmailing the principal with the photo. He makes her senior-class photographer and maybe that’s not enough for her. So he feels like he has to get rid of her.”

“But why kill Larry?”

I thought for a minute.

“Maybe Denise and Larry were working together?” I ended with a question mark because it seemed so ridiculous. Denise couldn’t stand Larry.

• • • • • • • • • 

C
hief Noonan held the press conference announcing the principal’s arrest in the murder of Denise Coburn. I felt that I had to be there, but the event didn’t help my dissatisfaction that I didn’t know the whole story.

The chief thanked the fine police work of Detective Lockett and the Maryland State Police but seemed to be more in charge than at the other public meetings. When he was asked by a reporter if the principal had also killed Larry, he said, “He’s a person of interest in that crime as well, and we are investigating.”

Not many of my neighbors were there. Maybe everyone in town was press-conferenced out, as well as dumbfounded that someone we all trusted for so many years was an alleged killer.

We had very few customers that day. We often had a lull on Thursdays, but never on Fridays. I’d assumed that chocolate was part of every weekend, and now I wondered if our customers were mad at us.

No one would have even known our role in the principal’s arrest if it wasn’t for stupid Reese. I discovered when I woke up that she had posted on her blog breathless details about how Erica and I had tricked the principal, and fellow townsfolk, in order to lure him into a trap.

Even with the press conference, not everyone believed the principal had done it, as we overheard from our few customers. The Larry theory—that Larry had killed Denise and then been killed by one of his criminal buddies—was still winning, but unless Peter came up with a great explanation for stealing a photo by Denise, I expected more people to change their opinions.

Bean came by to let us know that the principal’s wife had come home long enough to bail him out and head back down to DC, and now Peter was holed up in his house refusing to see anyone, not even a lawyer.

I spent the rest of the morning on the phone answering questions from the ten people who were entered in the Great Fudge Cook-off and taking it far too seriously. They all started with comments about the principal, but soon segued into what they were really calling about, how to make sure their fudge would win.

Kona had supplied each of them with a numbered plastic container and would be the one to place the entries on the trays. After the grief people had given us when we narrowed down the entries from forty to ten, I was grateful that I wouldn’t be judging the final round.

The fudge would be judged on flavor, consistency and appearance. If I had a nickel for every time one of the cooks had asked which of these categories would be given more weight, or how important color was, or if their prize could be in cash instead of a gift certificate to our store, I’d be rich.

Since it was such a slow day customer-wise, I did a quick online search for Get Me Some Solar but the only iffy thing I could find was a bankruptcy in Florida by the owner. He’d been a pool contractor but started the solar company years before.

Mayor Gwen stopped by our last official Great Fudge Cook-off meeting, which we held during Jolene and Steve’s lunch break. For the first time ever, Gwen’s hair was disheveled and she wasn’t wearing her mandatory Ralph Lauren scarf. No wonder. We had a crazy crime spree right before the town’s big weekend and the longtime high school principal was allegedly the killer of one of her citizens, and a possible killer of someone else.

The only other customer in our store was a man in his fifties in a sports jacket who brought a sandwich in to eat with his dessert. Before he took a bite, he always inspected the area where he was about to bite from. It was oddly fascinating to watch. Peek, bite, chew, swallow. Repeat.

I tore my eyes away. “How are you holding up?” I asked Gwen. “You look like you could use a hug.” Not that I was offering.

She shook her head. “I’m fine. Thank God the nightmare is over and we can continue with our normal safe lives here in West Riverdale.” It sounded like something she’d been forced to say more than a few times.

“I still can’t believe it,” Erica said. “I’ve known him forever.”

The mayor’s face tightened. “Let’s try to move past this tragedy and make sure this weekend is a success.” She pulled out her phone. “I noted a few more ideas.” Grim determination had replaced her normal cheerleader enthusiasm.

• • • • • • • • • 

A
s the day wore on and our customers only dribbled in, I convinced Erica that we might want to distance ourselves from Denise’s show and ask Emberton to run it alone. Reese’s article was beginning to make me think people were blaming us for the principal’s arrest.

I wasn’t totally convinced of his guilt myself. “So you really think he bashed Larry’s head in too?” I argued with her in the back hallway while I was taking a break from making Cardamom and Orange Caramels for my more adventurous customers.

Zane stuck his head out from his office. “He couldn’t have.”

“What?”

“I checked his schedule. The principal was at a school board meeting when Larry was killed,” he said. “He couldn’t have killed Larry.”

Oh. My. God.

E
rica convinced me to be the one to contact Detective Lockett. “I think he secretly wants you,” she said.

“You’re dreaming,” I told her but made the call.

He picked up right away and I told him what Zane had figured out, that the principal was at the meeting and didn’t kill Larry.

“We know.” He spoke with exaggerated patience.

“So who killed Larry?” Anxiety laced my words.

I could feel his exasperation through the phone. “Thank you very much for the info. When we figure that out, you’ll be the first person I call.”

“Was that sarcasm?” I asked.

“Whatta ya think?” He hung up.

“He didn’t tell me anything,” I said to Erica. “I told you he doesn’t want me.”

“Who doesn’t want you?” Bean asked.

I jumped. “Will you stop sneaking up on us? I’m beginning to think you get all of your stories by eavesdropping.”

“Only the best ones,” he said. “Who doesn’t want you?”

Was he jealous? That thought pleased me a little too much.

Erica seemed delighted to tell him. “Detective Lockett.”

“Interesting,” he said. “What were you trying to get out of him?”

I filled him in on what Zane had figured out. “I wanted to find out if he still thought that Larry killed Denise.”

“I don’t think he ever believed that,” Bean said.

“Then why did he let the chief imply that at the press conference?”

He shrugged. “Could be anything. Maybe trying to put the real killer at ease.”

Kona rushed back and pointed an accusing finger at Bean. “You didn’t tell her!”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “That pumpkin lady is here.”

“You mean Hillary Punkin? Here? Now?” I followed the frantic Kona back to the front, worried what my hair, face, everything looked like. Erica followed behind.

Kona took charge. “I’ll get a box for her to sample. You be, um, gracious or something.” Her desperate tone made me realize that she was as invested in the store as I was.

A group of very fashionable people dressed only in black were outside staring at our store, surrounding Hillary Punkin.

I couldn’t miss her. She was tinier than me and had flaming orange-red hair sticking up in a modified mohawk. She looked like a lit matchstick.

I swear I could see her psychotic little pupils from here, even through her sunglasses.

How should I handle her? Fawning deference? Snottiness that she’d respect? Definitely not what I felt like doing, which was throwing up.

Why hadn’t I figured this out ahead of time?

“They never told us she was coming!” I hissed.

Erica gave me a little push. “Go out there and invite her in!”

Hillary must have deemed our store good enough to enter, because one of her entourage opened the door for her. I was speechless. On TV, Hillary was tiny, but in person she was doll-like.

She walked in wearing a yellow dress, looking like the sun with her entourage circling around her in a galaxy of yes-men planets. They all clutched matching orange plaid–covered notebook computers with her logo on them.

I was jealous. Where was my entourage?

Erica moved around me. “Ms. Punkin. Welcome,” she said, not sounding worried that the devil herself may have arrived.

“Oh this shop is delightful!” Hillary said, clasping her hands together. One of her assistants typed that one-handed into his notebook. I wanted to record it and put it on our website.
Hillary Punkin said our store is delightful
. Just to get it out there before she went all random on me.

Erica gave my arm a little yank, luckily on my good arm. “This is Michelle Serrano, the amazing chocolatier I told you about.”

“Nice to meet you,” I started, but then Hillary walked right up to me and stood on her toes to give me a hug. She wore tiny ballet shoes, making her seem even more pixielike, and I had to bend over to reach her, not a normal occurrence for me.

“I feel like I’ve known you forever,” she said. “My folks have been following your town’s news blog and told me that you helped solve the murder of your very good friend. I knew I had to meet you in person.” She turned both hands up like a politician gesturing during a debate. “A crime-fighting chocolatier. Why didn’t I think of that?”

She followed Reese’s blog? We were doomed. “I could have my own comic book,” I joked. Erica stepped back as one of Hillary’s assistants took a bunch of photos. I tried to lose the weird, stressed-out smile that must be on my face. “I’m kidding. It was just a onetime thing.”

“Of course.” She patted my arm. “Do you have a minute to show me around?”

“I’d love to.” Uh-oh. Our dining area was practically empty. “Um, it seems like our townspeople don’t know how to take the whole principal thing and are staying home today.” That was my story and I was sticking to it.

“So you sacrificed greatly to right a terrible injustice,” she said, and then mouthed, “
Write that down
,” to another assistant.

“Well,” I said, “I’m sure they’ll be back another day.”

“So where did you find your friend?” She peered around the dining area with ghoulish delight.

“Excuse me?”

“Your friend,” Hillary said. “The poor victim.”

I met the eyes of the assistant taking notes, who gave me the tiniest nod. Did that mean “answer the question” or “yes, she’s nuts?”

“Well, we rearranged everything and that furniture has been taken away,” I said carefully.

Hillary gave a little pout. “Oh, pooh.”

Pooh?

“I heard she had chocolate in her mouth,” she said. “Did you see it?” She gave a morbid little shudder. “Was it, like, dripping out?”

I turned to Erica, my eyes opened wide.

“We’re still too traumatized to talk about that,” Erica said in a smooth but firm tone. “Would you like to see the kitchen where all of Michelle’s magic happens?” She held her arm out indicating the direction to the kitchen with all the composure of a game show spokesperson.

“I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to,” I said, and then inwardly cursed myself for appearing so ridiculously self-conscious. My kitchen was perfect for me.

Hillary sighed as if suffering a major disappointment, which made me want to make her feel better. She had one of those faces that you just wanted to see happy. I controlled myself and led her to the kitchen with her entourage trailing behind her. She walked in, her ballet shoes practically silent on my linoleum floor.

“It’s darling.” She clasped her hands together. “And what are you making here? Do I smell cardamom?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s a new recipe. Would you like to try it?”

She stopped still, stunned. Oh man. I blew it. Hillary had strict rules for tasting chocolate. I had glanced at her long list of requirements the week before, but hadn’t expected her to actually show. I tried to remember what they were: spring water from Europe, not the United States, at room temperature; chocolates representing the best we had to offer, placed in a box and given to her assistant; absolutely no hazelnut anything; and some others that hopefully didn’t apply to me.

Kona saved the day. “I’ve included one of those in this box for later.” She handed a box to a relieved assistant.

“Would you like to see the bookstore?” Erica broke in. “We have your latest cookbook on display.”

Hillary perked up at that, and I stayed at the back of the pack with Kona as they moved out. “Did I blow it?” I asked quietly.

“No, not at all.” She tried to reassure me but her voice was tight with worry.

• • • • • • • • • 

I
t was very early Saturday morning and I yawned along with the other volunteers in the West Riverdale Community Park. Tents, tables and chairs were being unloaded, and Erica directed like the gentle tyrant she was, ruthlessly keeping us all on schedule.

I was grateful she’d taken over the tour with Hillary and her entourage the afternoon before, including avoiding answering any more inappropriate questions from the twisted Hillary, and delivering our guest to the only bed-and-breakfast in West Riverdale. Her staff had arranged to stay in a motel near the highway. They asked when Hillary was to be at the park, but were quick to say there was no guarantee she’d show up. She was one loony lady.

Beatrice had helped Emberton at Denise’s photography exhibit the night before. She had called to say that the crowd was somber but sales had been pretty good. Emberton had not figured out the exhibit’s dual role. He appeared to just be happy with the additional publicity caused by the principal’s arrest.

This morning, Beatrice was pushing her fist into her lower back before unloading more tools from the Duncan Hardware panel truck. “I’m too old for this.”

Erica was happy to report that she’d received emails from a few of the local hotels, saying that some of their cancelled reservations were calling again to rebook. The news about the principal’s arrest was spreading. Maybe tourists were feeling that West Riverdale was safe again.

I couldn’t help my mixed emotions about that. Guarded happiness that our Memorial Day events might actually be successful after so much work. But sadness that Denise had died and that someone I admired might be guilty of a horrible crime. And maybe the worry that whoever killed Larry was still around, regardless of the theory that one of his criminal buddies was responsible. I tried hard to get that out of my mind.

Erica jogged over to where I was trying to push the magical button on my tent leg that would allow it to go higher. Jolene, Steve and a drama kid with streaks of purple in his hair waited patiently by the other three legs, which had gone up without a problem. “You’re not going to believe this!” she said.

“What?” I grunted as it finally moved. I held up the leg with my fingertips, trying to get the pin to pop back out through the hole so it would stay up. Right about now, I’d believe anything. “Did Zane find something?”

She frowned at me. “We are not thinking about that this weekend, remember?” She held up her phone and I saw the headline,
Hillary Punkin Supports Crime-Solving Chocolatier
.

“What is that?” I was flabbergasted.

“It was posted early this morning on the Grand Chef Network’s website! It’s about her visit to the store, and our role in the principal’s arrest.”

“I checked her site ten times!”

Erica reached out to jiggle my tent leg, and of course, the pin dropped into place. I grabbed her phone and read the short release announcing that Hillary would be judging our fudge contest. Then it went into some detail about how Erica and I had been the masterminds behind the photography exhibit trick that had uncovered the alleged killer of promising photographer, Denise Coburn, in a town besieged by a crime spree. “Did you read the whole thing?” I asked. “Crime spree?”

“Yes,” she said. “That part’s a bit much, but what great publicity!”

I wasn’t convinced. It was bad enough having Reese’s ridiculous blog spouting her ideas on our involvement in the principal’s arrest. But I felt distinctly uneasy about having thousands of Hillary’s followers believing this version.

Erica’s balloon arch arrived, weaving back and forth until it was anchored to the ground, and soon red, white and blue tablecloths were being clipped to tables.

I took a breather. The park looked awesome. The sun came through the trees, highlighting individual leaves in a glorious display of nature. The way the park gazebo was lit reminded me very much of the barn in Denise’s photo.

“Hey, Erica,” I said. “Can you come here for a second?”

“Not really. I have to check on the coolers—” She focused on me and worry shot across her face. “What now?”

“Over here,” I said, to get her alone. “Look up through those trees.”

She sighed. “Okay. Trees.”

“In Denise’s photograph, the sun was coming through just like this and hitting the barn just like that. It had less light, more stark, so it was probably taken even earlier in the morning.”

“And?”

“So to catch the light that way, the side of the barn with the sliding door has to face southeast,” I said. “The Grubakers’ barn faces west.”

She frowned. “We have the wrong barn.” She brushed her bangs aside with one hand, trying to figure out how to do more even though she was stretched to the limit. “Okay, we have to prioritize. We’ll figure out which barns face southeast later. Tomorrow. When the cook-off is a huge success, our artists sell the pants off of their work and the book-signing makes beaucoup bucks for the Boys and Girls Club.”

“It’s a deal,” I said, but couldn’t help feeling that another shoe was waiting to drop for our town.

I shook it off and went back to decorating. An hour later, the park was festooned with the red and blue banners, contrasting nicely with the white pop-up tents. Like a patriotic circus.

“It’s beautiful,” I told Erica, who smiled widely. “Anything still to do?”

“Not at this moment.” She sounded a little surprised.

“I’m heading over to meet Kona and Kayla at the shop,” I said. “We’ll be back to set up for the fudge contest and our booth.”

She turned to answer a question from one of the electricians, and I hopped into my minivan.

While Erica was in charge of just about everything else, the Great Fudge Cook-off was definitely my responsibility.