Death of a Chocolate Cheater: A Food Festival Mystery (4 page)

“Yeah, like, one lady wrote in and said the chocolate doesn’t flow evenly down the tiers. Harrison told the lady she didn’t set up her machine right and should get someone who knows how to put things together to do it.”

“Wow,” I said. “Sounds like he’s a little short on customer-service skills.”

“Another lady said the chocolate is either too thick like pudding or too watery, never just right.”

“What did he say to that?” Aunt Abby asked.

“He wrote back, ‘Follow the directions better and use better chocolate, not the cheap stuff.’”

“Jeez. It’s a wonder he’s still in business with that attitude,” I said.

“My favorite one was from someone who complained that the fountain was lopsided. He told her to put it on a level surface, as if she wouldn’t already have done that.”

Aunt Abby frowned. “Well, I’m not looking forward to meeting Harrison Tofflemire—that’s for sure. You’re right; he is a jerk.”

“There’s a bunch more like those,” Dillon said. “Complaints about the temperature, the design, the weight of the thing, how flimsy it is. Plus how hard it is to get it fixed or get a refund.”

“We’ll have to see what his chocolate tastes like,” Aunt Abby said. “If his Chocolate Falls machine is so shoddy, I’d imagine his chocolate will be too. It may be game over for Mr. Tofflemire.”

“Maybe not,” Dillon said, raising an eyebrow. “He may have an advantage at the festival—at least with the guys. Get a load of this.” Dillon turned his iPhone toward them, revealing two beautiful, buxom girls dressed in skimpy cheerleading outfits.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“‘Jezebel’ and ‘Delilah,’ his college-age twin daughters. At least, that’s what I call them. Apparently, they help out at his shop—and they wear those cheerleading outfits. According to Harrison, business is booming, with guys coming in off the streets to buy chocolate-covered whatevers.”

Aunt Abby shook her head. “Well, he may pull in the most money, using those kinds of visual lures, but when it comes to the contest, taste will tell.”

Dillon shrugged. “Next there’s some chick named Mon-it Richards.”

“Mon
et
,” Aunt Abby corrected, pronouncing the name with a French accent: Mon-
nay
. “Like the painter, dear.”

“You know her too?” I asked.

“I’ve heard of her. She owns a truck that makes ice-cream-cake cones in all kinds of flavors and colors. As a matter of fact, she’s been trying to snag a spot for her I Scream Cupcakes truck at Fort Mason for months.”

“Okay, so Moh-NAY,” Dillon said, mocking the French pronunciation. “I suppose it’s Ree-SHARDS, not Richards?”

Aunt Abby shrugged him off. “What did you find out about her?”

“She’s hot,” Dillon said, staring at his iPhone screen. After a few seconds, he turned the screen around so we could see.

She was hot.

She had shoulder-length dark hair that tumbled over one eye and a beauty mark under the other, heavily made-up eye. Her pouty lips were painted bright red, matching her red fingernails. She appeared to be posing in front of her truck in a tight black leotard-looking outfit, as if presenting her business—or herself—like Vanna White might do showcasing a winning prize. With that too-tiny waist, those larger-than-life breasts, and that self-confident smirk on her face, I hated her immediately. This competition was
on
.

“Better keep her away from Jake,” Dillon added.

I glared at him.

“Who else?” Aunt Abby said, distracting us from a possible food fight.

Dillon checked his notes on his iPhone. “Some dude named Griffin Makeba. Calls himself the ‘Pie Man’ and owns the ‘Piehole’ truck.” Dillon used air quotes at each pie reference.

“I’ve seen it around,” Aunt Abby said. “He parks illegally at a bunch of different places until they run him off. Pies? How much competition can he be? Besides, he’s just a kid.” Anyone under forty was “just a kid” to my sixtysomething aunt.

“His pies are getting good write-ups on Yelp, Off the Grid, and Food Mafia. He says he uses his
grandmother’s secret pie recipe, the one she used to make as a cook for a plantation owner. He says the secret has African roots, but he won’t give out the recipe or talk about the ingredients.”

“Hmm. Secretive, eh?” I said, as if I were about to take on the role of Sherlock Holmes. “Interesting.”

“I’ve never been a fan of chocolate pie,” Aunt Abby said. “Too sweet, too gushy, too intense. My mother used to make chocolate silk pies for my dad for his birthday, but I only ate the ice cream that came with it.”

“So that’s why you’ve never made a chocolate pie?” Dillon asked. “Because you don’t like them? Did you ever think I might want to try one?”

“Guilt trip,” I whispered to Aunt Abby. “Just ignore him.”

“Is that it?” Aunt Abby asked.

Dillon looked at his phone. “There’s one more. Some old lady named Wendy Spellman. She supposedly has a little shop at Pier 39 called Candyland.”

“Wendy Spellman?” Aunt Abby exclaimed. “Oh my goodness! Wendy’s an old friend! I didn’t know she was competing.”

“Was she from culinary school too?” I asked, remembering her friendship with George Brown, now deceased.

“No. We met in high school. We used to be in the Cooking Club together at Balboa High. I lost track of her when I went to culinary school and she went to community college. After all these years, we reconnected again on Facebook.”

Dillon rolled his eyes. Facebook was so yesterday for the younger generation, but the older folks had embraced it. I had closed all of my social networking accounts after I found out about Trevor cheating on me because I’d found out about it on
his
Facebook page.

“Have you talked to her in person? Do you know anything more about her?” I asked.

Aunt Abby shook her head. “All I know is from her Facebook postings. She posts about her candy shop a lot—the pictures of her candy creations are incredible—but she never mentioned she was entering the contest. I keep meaning to get over there and say hi, but I’ve been so busy.”

“Didn’t she stop by when Dad died last year?” Dillon asked.

“As a matter of fact, you’re right,” Aunt Abby said, looking off into the distance. “I forgot about that. She brought that lovely wreath made out of candy. How could I have forgotten?” She looked at Dillon. “And how did you happen to remember her with all those people who came to the memorial?”

Dillon made a face. “She seemed kinda crazy.”

Aunt Abby huffed. “No crazier than I am. Besides, sane people are boring.”

“What did she do that makes you say that, Dillon?” I asked, curious about Aunt Abby’s old friend and now competitor.

“Well, first, she wore that bright-colored dress and big hat full of flowers, as if she were going to the Easter parade or something.”

Aunt Abby nodded. “She always did have a flair for fashion.”

I kept my snort to myself.

“Then she went around tasting all the food without taking any on a plate, like she couldn’t commit to any one thing and had to have it all. It was weird.”

“She’s a culinary artist, like me,” Aunt Abby said. “We taste things. It’s the way we roll.”

I had to stuff another snort at her choice of hipster lingo. My aunt, the gangsta/thug wannabe.

“That’s not all,” Dillon said, raising an eyebrow. “She was, like, flirting with everyone there.” He suddenly turned bright red.

“Oh my God!” I said, grinning. “You think Wendy Spellman came on to you!”

Aunt Abby blinked. “Are you sure, Dillon? I mean, she’s my age. I hardly think she’d be interested in a college boy.”

“Oh yeah? Well, when she hugged me, she put her hand on my butt.”

I didn’t think Aunt Abby would have a comeback for that bombshell, but she surprised me and said, “Well, you’re a very handsome young man, Dillon.”

I could no longer hold back my laughter.

Dillon glared at me and slammed the laptop closed. “That’s it. You want my help? Forget it.”

“Oh, don’t be that way, dear,” Aunt Abby said. “We’re very grateful for all that you do. I don’t suppose you found out what the other contestants are making for the competition.”

Dillon’s frown softened. “Not yet. It’s apparently top secret. But I will.” The gleam was back in his eye.

At least I knew what Jake was making—those killer mocha cream puffs. But I hadn’t had the chance to tell him that Aunt Abby was in the competition too. I wondered what he’d think of that.

Not that I cared.

Aunt Abby brought the caprese pizza to the table, along with a fresh green salad filled with cherry tomatoes, Kalamata olives, and mozzarella cheese. Everything looked and smelled delicious. No one could beat Aunt Abby’s cooking, even if she’d honed her skills at the local school cafeteria. I took another long sip of wine in preparation for my first bite.

“Well, the competition doesn’t sound too stiff,” I said to Aunt Abby. “I’m sure you’ll cook them under the table, so to speak.” I helped myself to salad and a slice of pizza, putting everything on my plate. “Although Jake may have a slight edge,” I added quietly.

“What?” Aunt Abby said, frowning.

I looked up at her. Uh-oh. Did I just say that out loud?

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said, trying to spear some lettuce leaves with my fork.

“Darcy . . . ,” Aunt Abby said.

“Really, it’s nothing. That woman we saw him talking to? I didn’t tell you, but that was Lyla Vassar. She’s a feature reporter for Channel 2.”

Aunt Abby’s eyes widened. “Uh-oh. Don’t tell me she’s going to do a story on him for TV.”

I shrugged and looked down at my food, not wanting to see the disappointment in Aunt Abby’s face. “Even if she is, I wouldn’t worry. It won’t help him,” I finally said, trying to reassure her. “Granted his cream puffs are great, but your whoopie pies are out of this world.”

I glanced at Dillon for reinforcement, but he was busy on his laptop again. It must have been important enough to keep him from eating. Ordinarily, nothing came between food and Dillon’s mouth.

“Dillon?” I asked. “Did you find something else?”

Dillon frowned, keyed in a few more strokes at rapid-fire speed, then eventually looked up at me. “Uh . . . I don’t think Jake’s getting a special feature on TV from that news chick.”

“Why not?” I asked. “You didn’t see them this afternoon. They were having quite the conversation. She was flirting her ass off with him.”

Dillon closed his laptop. “I think they call it nepotism or something.”

I frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”

Dillon sighed. “That reporter—Lyla Vassar?”

“Yeah. What about her? Did you find something?”

Dillon hesitated.

“What? Tell me!”

Still frowning, he looked up at me with his big brown eyes. “Lyla Vassar is Jake’s ex-fiancée.”

Oh my God. Jake had never told me her name, and I had never asked.

What the hell was his drop-dead-gorgeous ex doing sniffing around Jake again?

And touching him.

And kissing him.

There could be only one reason.

She wanted to be friends . . . with benefits.

Or more. She wanted to get back together.

The San Francisco Chocolate Festival couldn’t come fast enough. I needed something to distract me from thinking about Jake. I hadn’t seen him much in the last two weeks, mainly because I’d been avoiding him after spotting him with his ex. Plus, Lyla had been by several more times to see him, disappearing into his cream puff truck for who knows what.

I made the mistake of checking her out on the Internet. As a feature reporter for Channel 2, she was all over the place. Black-tie charity event for Children’s Hospital? She was there, dressed in a black-and-white suit and interviewing the mayor. Bay to Breakers run? She was there, making her souvenir T-shirt look like an exclusive designer top as she chatted with the station’s sports reporter. Gay Pride Parade? She was there, draped in a rainbow of colors and talking with Gavin Newsom, a leader in San Francisco’s gay rights causes. Polar Bear Plunge? She was there, wearing barely anything more than a bikini and goose bumps as she plunged into the freezing water at Aquatic Park.

And hardly a long blond-highlighted hair out of place.

So this was Jake’s ex? Beauty-queen looks, workout body, and popular TV personality? With her back in his life, no wonder he hadn’t been available lately.

I did a little more research, suddenly obsessed with Lyla Vassar, and found so many links, it would have taken days to read every detail. I decided to focus on her Facebook page and had easy access to her “Lyla Vassar, Channel 2” page. Her personal page offered little information to people who weren’t friends, so I put in a request, hoping she’d think I was a fan and maybe give me clearance. In the meantime, I scoured her professional page and learned five useful tidbits:

1. She’d been at Channel 2 since leaving college six years ago, after winning the titles of “Miss California Animal Rights,” “Miss Keep California Green,” and “Miss Gilroy Garlic Festival.”

Great. She really was a beauty queen.

2. Her relationship status was “single.”

Uh-oh. I thought Jake had said she’d taken up with the DA who prosecuted him.

3. She was “super grateful” for the award she received for her exposé on the city’s homeless pigeon population.

Seriously?

4. She thought San Francisco was the “Best City in California!”

and

5. She was “totally psyched” about her upcoming feature on the San Francisco Chocolate Festival.

I was doomed. Now that I knew she was “single” and “psyched” about the Chocolate Festival, I was certain something was going on between her and Jake. When Jake did call, I let it go to voice mail, and when he stopped by, I told him I was too busy to take a break. There was no way I could compete with Drop Dead, and after my breakup with Trevor the Tool, I wasn’t about to get my heart broken again so soon. By the end of the week, he seemed to have gotten the message. The calls and drop-by visits had stopped and I hardly missed him.

Crap. Who was I kidding?

Luckily, I had lots to keep me busy. With the Chocolate Festival a day away, Aunt Abby had Dillon and me making whoopie pies until I was sick of the sight of them. She hoped to collect a bunch of tickets from attendees for her contest entry, win that ample prize money, and hopefully gain fame from being featured on the Food Network show. Success came down to a bite-sized melt-in-your-mouth dark-chocolate-and-raspberry-mocha- cream sandwich.

At seven p.m. the night before the festival was to
begin, I stood in Aunt Abby’s kitchen, dressed in black slacks and a black silk blouse, waiting for my aunt and Dillon to finish dressing so we could head for the preview party. Reina Patel had invited the judges and contestants to a private soiree at the Maritime Museum, so we could all get acquainted, taste the chocolate contest entries, and celebrate the hard work it took to participate in the Chocolate Festival.

I hadn’t wanted to go, knowing Jake would be there, but Aunt Abby insisted, and I couldn’t let her down. However, I planned to keep a low profile, hence the black outfit, and hopefully go unnoticed not only by Jake, but also by Polly Montgomery. I was worried if she found out I was part of Aunt Abby’s team, she’d vote for anyone but my aunt.

“I’m so nervous!” Aunt Abby announced as she entered the kitchen, little Basil scuffling at her feet. She was fiddling with an earring, trying to insert it into her pierced left ear. It was a tiny silver spoon that went perfectly with the tiny silver fork that dangled from her right ear. She wore a pink floral blouse over slinky pink pants, with matching pink heels and a pink shrug over her shoulders. I’d never seen her so dressed up. She looked like a strawberry ice cream confection.

Dillon sauntered in behind her, this time rat-free. To my surprise, he’d changed out of his usual slacker garb and was wearing what looked like brand-new black jeans and a collared button-down black shirt I didn’t know he owned. He’d even added some product to his normally porcupine hair in an attempt to tame it, and he held a white tie in his hand as if it were a snake. His
only concession to his normal style were his red Converse athletic shoes.

“Mom, why are you nervous?” he asked his mother.

Aunt Abby and I stared at him, openmouthed.

“What?” he asked.

“You look . . . nice!” I blurted.

“My handsome son!” Aunt Abby added, grinning. “With a tie!”

Dillon actually blushed. “Chill out. It’s just a costume. I’m going as a waiter to blend in and do a little eavesdropping at the party.”

“Clever,” I said. “All you need is one of those half-aprons those avant-garde servers wear.”

“You mean, like this?” he said, pulling one of Aunt Abby’s aprons from a drawer and folding it over before tying it around his waist.

“Perfect!”

“So, Mom. What are you nervous about? The competition?”

“No, no. I plan to ace that.” Aunt Abby checked her reflection in her shiny kitchen toaster. “It’s this damn party! I hate these fancy froufrou things.”

“Well, you look adorable,” I said. “Cute earrings. And with that outfit you’re going to
kill
at this party as well as at the competition.”

She shrugged. “I’m only going so I can chat up the judges like all the other contestants are probably going to do. Thanks to Dillon, I know something about each of them, so I can carry on a decent conversation.”

Dillon had been researching the judges and contestants on the Internet and filling his mother in on what
he’d found. I doubted any of his information would help her win the contest—the proof would be in the pudding, or in Aunt Abby’s case, the whoopie pies—but I supposed a former cafeteria lady could use all the help she could get.

Dillon turned to me and frowned. “Why are you dressed like me?”

“I’m not going as a waiter, if that’s what you mean,” I said. “I’m just keeping it simple. We’re only backup players in Aunt Abby’s gastronomic theater, remember?”

Dillon shook his head. “Copycat.”

“Dork,” I said under my breath.

“Time to go!” Aunt Abby announced before we started a food fight.

I put on my black linen jacket and led the way. We would have taken my VW, but the backseat was a little snug. Dillon’s dirt bike was out of the question, so we opted for Aunt Abby’s Prius. I drove us to the Maritime Museum on Beach Street, located between Aquatic Park and Ghirardelli Square in the Russian Hill area of San Francisco.

It would be hard to miss the museum, even on a foggy night. The Works Progress Administration had funded the construction of the Art Deco Moderne building back in 1939 as a public bathhouse, but today it was part of the San Francisco Maritime National Historic Park Service. From the outside, the museum looked like a ship, painted white with round portholes, two decks, and a naval flag at the top of the third story. The inside had been renovated several times and
currently featured colorful murals from the WPA era by artist Hilaire Hiler. The building included a steamship room, showing the evolution of sailing power, photo murals of the city’s early waterfront era, scrimshaw art and whaling weapons, and an intact shipboard radio and teletype.

I found parking on the street and squeezed the Toyota into a space between a Smart car and a Fiat to avoid valet parking. Tonight’s party was being held on the veranda overlooking the bay, so we entered through the gray double doors, held open by a man wearing a crisp naval uniform, and headed across the room and out the door. Outside, the area was filled with round tables covered in white tablecloths, each featuring centerpieces made of long-stemmed chocolate roses. I glanced at the spectacular view of sparkling yachts moored at Aquatic Park, and Alcatraz, Angel Island, and Tiburon beyond. Although the spring night was clear—unusual for San Francisco in any season—most of the guests still had on their suit jackets or elegant wraps against any sudden chill, as they drank from fancy wineglasses and champagne flutes to warm their insides. The conversations seemed animated—no doubt focused on the topic of chocolate. A three-piece jazz band played softly in one corner, mostly ignored by the attendees.

We checked in at the welcome table and found our name tags. I looked around for the bar and spotted it on the far side of the veranda. Before I could sprint over, Abby managed to swipe a drink from a passing waiter, then took a deep breath and headed into the crowd. Dillon, apparently forgetting he was dressed as
a waiter, snagged a fancy-looking appetizer from another waiter, who frowned at him, and popped it in his mouth. I helped myself to what turned out to be a chocolate-dipped asparagus tip, which was oddly tasty. All I needed was something to wash it down with, like a giant glass of wine.

I made a beeline for the bar and surveyed the offerings. Besides the usual chardonnays and merlots, the choices included a chocolate red wine, a chocolate stout beer, a white chocolate champagne, and chocolate cordials in edible chocolate shot glasses. I opted for a chocolate chardonnay, took a sip, then felt hot breath on the back of my neck.

I whirled around to find Dillon standing right behind me.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just getting a drink like you.”

“Well, don’t sneak up on me like that,” I said.

“Why so jumpy?” he asked.

“I’m not jumpy,” I argued. But I was, and I knew why.

Jake. Where was he?

I took the glass of wine from the bartender and stuffed a dollar into the tip jar. Dillon asked for the chocolate stout, garnering another eyeballing—from the bartender this time—which he ignored. After I took a long sip of my drink, I stepped back into the shadows to observe the crowd. Dillon joined me and began pointing out the various judges and contestants.

“How do you know who’s who without reading their name tags?” I asked, squinting to see if I could make out any names.

“Their pictures are in the program,” he said, holding up a folded piece of paper I had somehow missed. He handed it to me.

I took another mouthful of wine. The drink had a weird aftertaste of chocolate, but the alcohol was beginning to do its trick. I felt more relaxed with every gulp.

Dillon nodded to a man with dark curly hair and a Mediterranean complexion who was talking to a blond woman with her hair up in a twist, wearing an eye-catching red velvet gown.

“That’s Frankie Nudo,” Dillon whispered, as if worried someone might hear us over the animated conversations coming from the crowd. “He owns the Choco-Cheese truck.”

I glanced at the paper Dillon had given me and read Frankie Nudo’s short bio. Most of it I already knew, thanks to Dillon’s Internet sleuthing. But the program included something even Dillon hadn’t been able to discover—Frankie Nudo’s entry in the chocolate competition.

“Chocolate Goat Cheese Truffles?” I made a face. “That doesn’t sound good at all.” I studied the man a moment. While he seemed to be talking animatedly with the blond woman, his eyes darted around the room, as if he were looking for someone.

Dillon’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s the woman he’s talking to? Her back is to us.”

“Looks more like flirting to me,” I said. “She keeps leaning in and putting a hand on his arm. Get a load of that ring on her finger. Is that a diamond?” The sparkler on the woman’s finger must have been the size of
a chocolate M&M—and about the same color. A chocolate diamond?

Frankie seemed to spot someone he recognized and frowned. Then he quickly downed his beer, gave the woman in red a superficial hug, and made his excuses. I watched as he headed into the crowd and disappeared.

As soon as he turned to go, the blonde looked around, no doubt for someone else to flirt with.

I recognized her immediately from her picture in the newspaper.

“Oh my God, that’s Polly!” I whispered to Dillon. “I hope she doesn’t spot me.”

Dillon frowned. “Why not?”

I filled him in on the negative review I’d given to one of her ex-husband’s restaurants.

“I doubt she cares or even remembers,” he said.

“I’m not so sure, and I don’t want to ruin Aunt Abby’s chances for winning if Polly is still holding a grudge against me.” I turned away to make sure she didn’t see me. “What’s she doing now?”

“She just chugged the rest of her drink,” Dillon said. “Now she’s setting the glass down on a table . . . and she just snatched another drink off a waiter’s tray. Looks like she’s not one to let her mouth go dry for very long.”

“You said she’s supposed to be quite the party girl,” I said, not surprised at Dillon’s observation. “Is she talking to anyone else yet?”

Dillon shook his head, then said, “Wait. . . . She’s heading for another guy. . . . I think it’s Harrison Tofflemire, the Chocolate Falls guru. What did he enter in the contest?”

I was about to scan the brochure when a woman came up to me holding two empty wineglasses. She wore a long chocolate-brown sheath, slit up the side and embellished with sequins and rhinestones. Her black shoulder-length hair d her face, and she’d emphasized her dark eyes with a heavy layer of eyeliner, making her look even more exotic. Her long nails were painted chocolate brown, and one sported a diamond stud that matched the tiny diamond in her pierced nose. A long silk scarf, light beige and dotted with silk-screened chocolate chips, was draped over her neck.