Death of a Chocolate Cheater: A Food Festival Mystery (5 page)

I was about to admire her themed scarf when she said, “Why are you two just standing there? You’re supposed to be circulating the drinks and hors d’oeuvres. I didn’t hire you to help yourselves and stare at the guests.”

My mouth dropped open. Apparently she believed Dillon was one of the waiters, but did she actually think I was part of the serving staff too?

“I’m sorry, but I’m—,” I started to explain, but Dillon cut me off.

“Yes, we’re sorry. We’ll get right to it.” He bowed his head subserviently.

I blinked at Dillon’s response but kept my mouth shut and watched as he took the two glasses from the woman’s hands. She gave us the once-over, then said, “See that you do, or you won’t be working for me again.” With that she turned on her dark brown high heels and returned to the crowd.

“What a beeotch!” I said. “Who does she think she is?”

Dillon hushed me. “That’s Reina Patel, the event coordinator. She’s the one who’s running this show, and she can get us kicked out of here if she feels like it. Mom says she’s a bit of a diva. She’s even having the event videotaped to submit to one of those Food Network shows—a kind of behind-the-scenes thing. Starring her, of course. Mom said this is her first year hosting the Chocolate Festival, so she’s probably worried about every little thing.”

So that was the woman who had called Aunt Abby and told her about George Brown’s death. “Why didn’t you tell her I’m part of the competition? Why did you let her think I was staff?”

Dillon grinned. “It’s more fun this way. When she realizes we’re both on Mom’s team, she’ll be all flustered and embarrassed. And besides, it might work to our advantage if we act like waiters. No one will notice us, so maybe we’ll hear things. . . .”

Dillon was always scheming.

Moments later the videographer appeared from out of nowhere. His digital video camera was focused on Reina, obscuring his face, but from his clothes he looked like a typical college student in jeans and a T-shirt. He followed Reina from a distance of a few feet as she began greeting the various guests.

I returned to the program to see what Harrison Tofflemire was entering in the contest. “It says here he’s created something called Chocolate Kahlua Falls. Sounds interesting.”

I studied the man who was currently talking to Polly. He was hefty—dare I say fat—as if he’d been
enjoying many of his own Chocolate Falls over the years. Balding, with glasses, a rosy gin-blossom nose, and pudgy fingers wrapped around the wineglass stem, he looked like a man who’d had success early and then gone to pot. But his less than appealing appearance didn’t seem to stop Polly from fawning all over him. She alternately straightened his bow tie, patted his Buddha tummy, and giggled at his jokes. Jeez. Next to him stood two bored-looking young women in identical skimpy tight dresses more appropriate for clubbing than a reception.

Dillon nudged me, causing me to nearly spill my drink. “Careful!” I said.

“Check it out,” he said, ignoring my complaint. “It’s that French chick.”

“Monet?” I scanned the area, trying to pick out someone who looked French, then realized that was impossible. “Where is she?”

“Over there.” He pointed her out. “She’s headed straight for Polly and Harrison, and she doesn’t look happy.”

I watched as the frowning, thin woman joined the twosome. Harrison’s attention suddenly shifted to the attractive newcomer, who had obviously pleased Harrison, while Polly seemed taken aback by the intrusion. While Polly was still trim and in good shape for a woman her age—I guessed fortysomething—she had nothing on the younger, prettier French pastry chef. Monet sported white blond hair cut in a smooth bob, her makeup expertly done. She wore a skintight silver sheath, the top cut low enough to reveal ample pale
breasts and bottom cut high enough to show off long, slim legs. She towered over Polly and Harrison in her silver stiletto Manolos. Harrison looked downright hypnotized by her.

“Wow.”

I glanced at Dillon. Like Harrison, he was staring trancelike at Monet. “Close your mouth, Hacker-Boy,” I said.

Men.

I wished I could hear what Monet was saying to the other two guests, but the noise of the crowd prevented any eavesdropping. She kept glancing around the room while she talked, and I wondered who she might be looking for. I checked the program to see what the Frenchwoman was offering for the contest. “Hmm. It looks like the girl from I Scream Cupcakes is entering something called Chocolate Scream Cakes, whatever that is. She probably doesn’t want to give away too much before tonight’s preview tasting.”

Dillon still hadn’t broken his gaze. I waved a hand in front of his frozen face. “Earth to Dillon.”

“Uh, what?”

I sighed and checked the brochure. “Never mind. Any sign of Griffin Makeba, the Pie Guy, or Aunt Abby’s friend Wendy Spellman?”

Dillon tore his eyes from the dessert called Monet, searched the room, then pointed to a young African American guy sitting alone at a table, seemingly reading the brochure. “That’s him.”

Griffin appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He was sipping what looked like a glass of
water while glancing up occasionally to observe the other mingling guests. Much like the videographer, he had not dressed up. Instead he wore faded black jeans and a T-shirt with a graphic of a pie in the middle. Underneath were the words “Fill Your Piehole.” He, too, was frowning.

I checked the program. “Griffin’s entry is called Chocolate Cherry Tarts.”

I glanced back up to see an older woman with short gray hair, wearing a long Victorian-style dress, join him. They shook hands, said a few words, then sat sipping their drinks in silence and watching the crowd.

“Oh boy. That’s Wendy Spellman, my mom’s friend,” Dillon said, indicating the older woman sitting with Griffin. “I hope she doesn’t see me. I don’t need another butt massage.”

At that moment, Wendy spotted Dillon, gave him a big smile, and waved him over. Dillon smiled meekly and waved back, muttering to me through clenched teeth, “Great. If I’m not back in five minutes, come and rescue me.”

I giggled and watched Dillon pick up a tray from the bar, set two waiting drinks on it, and head over to join his mom’s friend at the table, still posing as a waiter.

I was about to take a sip of my wine when I heard a familiar voice behind me. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Recognizing the voice, I turned around.

Jake Miller.

Apparently my waiter disguise hadn’t fooled him.

I sucked in my breath when I saw what he was wearing—a smart black suit fitted perfectly to his
muscular body, paired with a bright Grateful Dead tie. I’d never seen him so dressed up before. Had he looked like that when he’d worked as an attorney? I had a feeling all he had to do was smile at the women in the jury box and they would have voted his way.

“Jake!” I said, feeling a sudden heat wave envelop me. “Uh . . . you made it.”

Lame, I thought. But what was I supposed to say at an awkward moment like this? How’s your ex?

“You look really great,” Jake said, eyeing me up and down.

I felt my face burn and let out a half smile. “Oh, this? I’m just trying to keep a low profile. It’s Aunt Abby’s night tonight.”

“Well, you’d look terrific in anything. Here.” He handed me a brown-colored drink in a champagne flute.

I set down my empty wineglass and took the one he offered. I held it up to the light to examine the unusual color. “What is it?”

“Mocha champagne. It’s not bad.”

I took a sip. Like the other chocolate drinks, it tasted weird, but at the moment, I figured I could use another boost of courage from the alcohol.

“Sorry we’ve kept missing each other these past couple of weeks,” Jake said.

“Yeah, you know . . . I’ve been helping my aunt get ready for this event, and you’ve been—” I stopped myself.

He nodded. “I was surprised when I heard your aunt had entered the competition. You never mentioned it.”

I wanted to say, “I never got the chance with your ex around,” but I didn’t. I kept it light instead of snarky. “Yeah. How about that?” I sipped the champagne. “So how’ve you been?”

“I’ve missed you,” Jake said quietly. I turned aside so he wouldn’t see the hurt on my face, but I could feel his eyes on me as I watched the party guests.

“I missed you, too,” I said as casually as I could. “I know you’ve been busy too.” I wondered if he’d get my drift and confess he’d been seeing his ex.

Instead, Jake took the drink out of my hand and set it down, along with his. He took my hands and turned me toward him. “Listen, I really am sorry about being out of touch lately. Like I said, I’ve been dealing with something and it’s taken up a lot of time. But I don’t want to jeopardize our friendship. . . .”

“Friendship?” I repeated. Was that what he thought this was? I pulled my hands away.

“Darcy, I’ve wanted to tell you what’s been going on, but . . .”

I took a deep breath. “But what, Jake?”

“But it involved another person.”

“I figured as much.” I looked out at the crowd. I knew who he meant—Lyla Vassar.

He took my chin and turned my face toward him. “You know I was engaged before, right?”

“I vaguely remember,” I said.
Oh boy. Here it comes.

“Well, Lyla—that’s her name—she came by a couple of weeks ago—”

“I know.”

Jake blinked in surprise. “You know?”

I nodded. “She seems to make regular visits to your Dream Puff truck. I assumed—”

He cut me off. “Oh . . . you assumed . . . No, no, Darcy. She needs my help.”

I’ll bet,
I thought.

“She wants me to help with her divorce.”

So she can marry you.

“Brad—the guy she married, the guy she left me for—he was the DA who prosecuted me when I got disbarred. When I lost everything, she dumped me and ran off with him.”

I suddenly felt sorry for him, but it still didn’t change anything.

“Now,” Jake continued, “she wants out. She found out he’s been having an affair with the court stenographer, and now Lyla wants a divorce.”

I frowned, trying not to show my skepticism. Had this Brad guy really cheated on Jake’s ex-fiancée? Or had Lyla come to her senses and realized what a great guy Jake was? Possibilities poured through my mind like a chocolate fountain.

“Sorry to hear that,” I said evenly, “but I thought you weren’t practicing law anymore. How are you going to help her? And why? You don’t owe her anything.”

But I knew why. In spite of everything his ex had done to him, Jake was a genuinely nice guy, and not the type to hold a grudge. Besides, she was drop-dead gorgeous. And maybe he was still in love with her.

“I’m helping her because her parents asked me to.”

I remembered that Lyla’s parents would have lost
their life savings if Jake hadn’t helped them out back when he was a corporate securities attorney. When he discovered one of his clients was bilking investors out of their money—including his ex-fiancée and her parents—he told them to pull their money out in order to protect them. But he was indicted for securities fraud and disbarred for breaching the attorney/client privilege. That’s when he turned to creating cream puffs.

Still, why would Jake help his ex-fiancée and her parents now?

“Jake, you’re not a private detective. You’re not even a divorce lawyer. Why doesn’t Lyla just hire a professional to do all of this? Why get you involved?”

He shrugged and looked away. “Honestly, I’m not sure I understand it either.” He shook his head. “Guilt, maybe.”

“What do you have to feel guilty about?”

“I was a workaholic when I was at the law firm. I know I neglected her. That’s probably why she left me. Brad gave her the attention she wasn’t getting from me. That’s part of the reason I didn’t try to get reinstated to the bar. I realized after all was said and done that I didn’t have much of a life outside of work, and I wanted to change that.”

“Jake, are you sure she’s not just trying to get you—” I stopped myself.

“Back?” Jake broke into a grin. “Darcy . . . are you . . . jealous?”

“What?” I felt my face turn the color of Aunt Abby’s dyed hair. “No! I’m just trying to look out for you. . . .”

“You actually think Lyla wants to get back together
with me?” He laughed. “I’m flattered, but there’s not a chance in hell of that happening.”

I started to ask if he was really that naive, but my response was interrupted by a scream. The room went deadly silent.

I immediately looked for Aunt Abby to see if she was all right. I spotted her sitting at the table with her friend Wendy. Both were staring openmouthed at the table next to them, as were the rest of the guests who had heard the scream. I leaned in to see what had happened.

The limp figure of a woman lay facedown on top of the table, not moving.

I recognized her from the blond twist of hair and red gown.

Polly Montgomery.

“Oh my God!” a woman shrieked. “Is she dead?”

The festival judge lay sprawled across the round table. She wasn’t moving.

Jake pushed through the encircling crowd, shouldering his way to the table. I was right behind him. “Someone call nine-one-one!” he said as he reached in to feel Polly’s neck.

I heard a muffled giggle and looked around to see who was rude enough to laugh when there was a dead woman lying in the middle of a table.

It was the dead woman. She raised her head and blinked her glassy red eyes.

The crowd gasped.

She rolled over onto her back and giggled again.

So, Polly Montgomery wasn’t dead after all. She was simply dead drunk.

“Whoopsh!” she said, grinning as she looked up at Jake. “How about a li’l help, handshome?”

“She’s all right,” Jake announced to the onlooking crowd. “Everyone, give her some space.”

Polly waved her arm around. The chocolate
diamond on her finger sparkled in the light. “Hello? Need a hand here, big boy.”

The crowd began murmuring at the spectacle Polly was presenting. Like a gentleman, Jake took Polly’s arm and hoisted her up to a tenuous sitting position on the table. She shook her head as if trying to clear her vision. “Whoa!” she said. “Why is the room spinning?”

“Are you okay, Ms. Montgomery?” Jake asked.

“’Coursh I am,” Polly replied, as the crowd whispered around her. She glanced at the table. “Must a’ shlipped on a wet spot.”

“What were you trying to do? Stand on the table?” Jake asked.

She shrugged. “I just wanted to make an announshment.”

“Well, next time don’t try to stand on a table in heels,” Jake admonished.

“How else was I ’posed to get everyone’s attenshun?” She swung her feet onto a chair, using it as a step down from the tabletop. She swayed precariously on her perch.

“Well, you’ve got their attention now,” Jake said. “Why don’t you come down and make your announcement? It’s a lot safer.”

As Jake reached to help Polly down, Reina Patel came rushing up, her dark eyebrows pinched in a frown. “What happened? What’s going on? Get her off the table this instant!”

“Calm down, Reina.” Polly leaned into Jake’s strong arms. “I just got a little dizshy. I’m fine, but I could use a drink.” She winked at Jake.

He took Polly by the waist and guided her feet to the floor. Polly’s hands lingered on Jake’s arms a few seconds too long for my liking before she brushed off her gown and touched the back of her French twist. She snatched up a half-empty glass of wine from a nearby table and downed it. “Great party, Reina.”

Reina reached for Polly’s free hand. “I think you need to come with me—”

Polly cut her off and yanked her hand away. “Wait a sec. I wanna tell everyone who I’m gonna vote for tomorrow so they can all relaxsh.”

The crowd hushed, waiting to hear what Polly was about to say. Before she could speak again, Reina took her by the arm, more forcefully this time.

“Come on, Polly. You need to get your beauty rest before the big day tomorrow. Besides, we don’t want to spoil the fun for everyone tonight.”

Polly blinked slowly, then stared at Reina as if just recognizing her. “Ooookay,” Polly said, nodding like a bobblehead doll.

Reina relaxed her grip and led the intoxicated woman toward the doors. Polly stumbled a couple of times along the way, tripping over her long gown. I noticed the videographer a few feet away, taping the scene, and wondered if this was something Reina wanted to capture on tape.

“J.C.!” Reina snapped. She swiped her fingertips across her throat, signaling “cut” so he’d stop taping. “Help me, would you?” The twentysomething man named J.C. lowered the recorder and took Polly’s other arm.

“I’m fine! I jus’ need another drink,” Polly mumbled before she and her two escorts disappeared behind the exit doors.

“Where are they taking her?” Aunt Abby whispered to me.

I shrugged. “They’re probably sending her home in a cab.”

“Wow,” Dillon said, as the party guests slowly resumed their conversations. “She’s totally wasted! But I guess that’s normal for her. I saw a bunch of selfies on her Facebook page, and she looked shit-faced in about half of them. Plus, I overheard some people talking about her drinking problem.”

“What did they say?” I asked Dillon.

He shrugged. “Something about how much she was drinking tonight and how her glass was never empty.”

“I wonder how she expects to judge the contest with the hangover she’s sure to have tomorrow,” Aunt Abby said.

“It sounded like she’s already made up her mind,” I answered. “And we haven’t even tasted the entries yet.”

Aunt Abby glanced at Jake. “She’ll probably choose your cream puffs, Jake.”

Jake shook his head. “I’m sure it’ll be your whoopie pies, Abby.”

“They’re both fantastic,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Actually, I don’t think it’s going to be either one of you,” Dillon interrupted.

“What?” I asked.

“I’ve been doing a little recon,” Dillon said.

“Recon?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, you know, surveillance. I wanted to see if I could get a line on the other judges—Simon Van Houten and Isabel Lau. Figure out their tastes.”

I perked up. “You mean, you’ve been spying on them.”

Aunt Abby’s eyes widened. “What did you find out?”

“Not much. As soon as Polly joined them, they got real quiet and looked kind of nervous.”

I frowned. “Did Polly say something to them?”

Dillon shrugged. “Yeah, but I couldn’t hear what it was. All I know is, Van Houten’s face turned red and Lau looked like she’d seen a ghost.”

What had Polly Montgomery said to the two judges to make them react that way? Did it have anything to do with the death of Judge George Brown?

Too bad I didn’t have time to do some eavesdropping of my own. Sirens interrupted my plans. Someone must have called 911, because moments later EMTs and police officers burst in and all conversations came to an immediate halt.

*   *   *

Jake handled the cops—he happened to know a couple of them from his years working as an attorney. One in particular was an attractive Asian woman who wore the equipment-laden uniform as if it were a fashion statement. He explained the situation, told them Polly had left, and suggested they talk to Reina when she returned if they wanted to know anything else. With no real harm done, the cops and paramedics took off. I was ready to head home too, done in by all the party
drama at the end of a long day of helping Aunt Abby prepare her chocolate entry.

“Attention, everyone,” came a voice over the sound system. Reina Patel was back, as was the camera guy, J.C. If he was trying to be unobtrusive, it wasn’t working, not in those baggy jeans, Avengers T-shirt, and wild hair Reina didn’t seem to notice or care, as long as he was filming. She stood in front of the band, holding a microphone, looking tired, with dark circles under her eyes. She smoothed a few strands of mussed hair as she waited for the murmuring crowd to quiet down.

“Attention, please!” Reina repeated. She nodded to J.C., and he began recording the audience, finally focusing on Reina. With her hair limp, her lipstick faded, and her designer scarf missing, it appeared this event was taking a toll on Reina. I felt for her. The scene with the drunken judge must have been her worst nightmare.

“Thank you, everyone,” Reina said. She glanced at J.C. as if to make sure he was recording before continuing. “I appreciate all you’re doing to make this year’s Chocolate Festival the best ever!”

The enthusiasm in her voice rang false, but I admired her for trying. She nodded and smiled as the group halfheartedly applauded themselves.

“I’d like to share a little background on the Chocolate Festival with you,” Reina continued.

Seriously? I thought. Now? Wasn’t it a little late for a history lesson? Poor Reina didn’t seem to understand that the party was essentially over. But the crowd politely stood listening and sipping their drinks.

“As many of you know, the first Chocolate Festival was held back in 1849, the year after gold was discovered in California. What you might not know is, Frankie Nudo’s great-great-grandfather, Dominic Nudo, came over from Italy to strike gold, but instead found another type of gold—liquid gold in the form of chocolate—which he sold to the miners at profitable prices. He was so successful, he opened up the Nudo Confectionary Company a few years later, and that’s when he really struck it rich. If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be hosting our annual Chocolate Festival this weekend, right here where it all started. Keep in mind, the event also raises money for the city’s homeless population, a very worthy cause.”

Dillon mumbled under his breath, “Maybe it should go to the Diabetes Association.”

I elbowed him, hoping no one else had overheard his snarky remark.

“Today,” Reina continued, “the annual Chocolate Festival has evolved into a two-day celebration encompassing nearly a full city block. It features more than fifty booths of chocolate vendors as well as various food trucks, plus live music, chef demonstrations, chocolate-eating contests, and of course, the chocolate-tasting competition. And you get ten tastings for twenty dollars!”

A cheer and more applause broke out. Glasses clinked. I searched for the other contestants and caught a glare between Frankie and Monet. Interesting. Harrison said something to the twins that made them roll their eyes. Griffin stiffened and blinked nervously
several times. Wendy stood by my aunt, the two arm in arm like the old friends they were.

“This year, our twentieth year, I’m proud to be your event coordinator. I’ve added a few new features, including a Wine-and-Chocolate Pairing, where you can taste wine and chocolate together, a Chocolate-to-the-Death Ice-Cream-Eating Contest, where contestants down bowls of ice cream without using their hands, and a Chocolate College, where folks can learn all about making and cooking with chocolate.”

Murmurs of pleasure and interest filled the room.

“But tonight, as special guests of the festival, I have a treat for all of you, to show my appreciation for your participation in the competition.” Reina smiled broadly. She seemed to have gotten a second wind. “Please follow me upstairs to the second-floor ballroom.”

She signaled to J.C. to turn off the camera and led the way out of the room.

The crowd mumbled as they headed for the stairs or elevator, most still holding their champagne flutes and wineglasses. I looked for Jake and spotted him in the corner talking on his cell phone. I wondered who was on the other end. Drop Dead?

Aunt Abby, Dillon, and I took the stairs to the second floor. I was initially curious about the “big surprise,” but with Polly’s recent intoxicated performance, I felt I’d had enough surprises for one night.

We entered the lavish ballroom, where I imagined many a fancy event had taken place over the years. Giant colorful murals covered the walls, depicting scenes from under the sea, along with old sailing ships. The
tiled floors meant there had been dancing, and the mini stage was obviously set up for a live band.

Currently the stage area was occupied by a giant plastic vat the size of my VW. It was filled three-quarters full with a dark, thick liquid. One sniff and I knew immediately it was melted chocolate. Two large rollers, half-submerged in the liquid, churned the contents inside the vat, creating a roiling mini ocean of fragrant dark brown waves. I had to admit, it was impressive.

Reina stood next to the vat, holding her microphone. As soon as everyone was assembled in the room, she began addressing the crowd again.

“Welcome to one of the largest vats of chocolate in the nation!” she said proudly, as if she’d constructed it herself. The audience applauded, probably because it seemed the right thing to do.

“The chocolate will be on view to Chocolate Festival participants during the two-day celebration, but you’re getting a preview of this magnificent beauty.” She smiled at the camera.

The crowd didn’t seem as excited as Reina. Her smile fell, and she segued into the next part of her speech, reading from index cards she held in her hand.

“As most of you chocolate connoisseurs probably know, chocolate was made from the Theobroma cacao trees in Mexico and South America for more than three millennia. We can thank the Maya and Aztecs, who created the very first chocolate drink. Unfortunately, it was a very bitter drink, and it wasn’t until the
Europeans added sugar and fat that it became the delicious and popular chocolate we know today.”

Several people in the audience yawned. I wondered where all this Wikipedia stuff was going. I glanced over to see if J.C. was still recording. Indeed, he was capturing every moment.

Aunt Abby nudged me. “You know, those same chemicals can kill dogs and cats. I never give Basil any chocolate, no matter how much he begs.”

I smiled at Aunt Abby’s comment, then turned my attention back to Reina.

“Now, most of our cocoa comes from the Ivory Coast, thanks to Frankie Nudo and his successful family business.”

Reina gestured toward Frankie, dressed tonight in an ill-fitting suit, his dark hair slicked back. The crowd turned to him. He humbly bowed his head, and they dutifully applauded.

When the applause died down, a voice called from the back of the room, “I wonder if his business would be so successful if he didn’t use child labor!”

The crowd gasped and looked for the heckler. J.C. turned the lens of his camera on the young black man wearing jeans and a T-shirt that read “Fill Your Piehole.” Griffin Makeba, the Pie Guy. I glanced over at Frankie, who stood a few feet away. He’d turned beet red.

Reina snapped back, “I’m sure I don’t know about that, but I doubt it’s true. Child labor is illegal.”

“Not in Africa!” Griffin called out.

“Hey, buddy!” Frankie Nudo stepped up through the crowd. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! My people aren’t involved in that kind of thing, so shut your piehole!”

Griffin mumbled something under his breath, then downed the rest of his wine, turned on his heel, and left the room.

“All right, everyone,” Reina said, forcing a smile, “as I was about to say, we’re here to celebrate chocolate, not complain about it.” She laughed self-consciously into the camera. “Did you know that cocoa beans were so valuable in the past, they were used as currency?”