The Diva Steals a Chocolate Kiss (7 page)

Dear Natasha,

I bought chocolates for my girlfriend on the anniversary of our first date. I thought it was a very romantic gesture. But I found most of them in the trash a few days later and overheard her telling her girlfriend that they weren’t very good. What gives? Chocolate is chocolate.

—Confused in Chocolate Bayou, Texas

Dear Confused,

Are you a coffee drinker? You probably have a favorite coffee. Like coffee, chocolate starts from beans, which can vary in flavor and quality. Chocolate goes through a long process before it ends up in a pretty box. Sugar, milk, cream, and other ingredients are added because raw chocolate is bitter. Your girlfriend probably has a refined palate like me. Next time, pony up for the expensive stuff and don’t be swayed by the prettiest box!

—Natasha

Glad I wasn’t still in my bathrobe, I walked to the door and opened it.

Mitch’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he appeared uncomfortable. He tugged at the collar of his navy blue golf shirt. “I apologize for dropping by unannounced.”

“No problem.”

“You can’t imagine what we’ve been through with Joe missing. I’m afraid none of us are at our best right now.”

I invited him in.

The kettle whistled. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“Yes, thanks. Don’t worry, I won’t stay long.”

I poured tea for the two of us. “Milk, sugar? Lemon?”

“Milk and sugar, thanks. I don’t think I’ve ever been in this house. I like the old fireplace in the kitchen. Gives it a special touch. Seems like no two houses in Old Town are alike.”

I handed him a mug of tea and perched on the edge of a chair next to the fireplace.

He sat opposite me in the matching chair. “I’m told that you’re pretty good at solving murders.”

I didn’t respond. I barely breathed as I waited to hear what he wanted.

“I’d like to hire you to find Joe.”

Didn’t see that coming. In fact, I found it rather interesting that he wanted me to locate Joe, but he didn’t mention the murder in Joe’s guesthouse. And then I realized what he had implied. “You think Joe has been murdered?”

Mitch held up his forefinger. “Now, I didn’t say
that
. We just want to find him.”

“I’m not a private investigator.” The truth was that I would probably snoop around anyway, if nothing else, as a courtesy to Joe. It wasn’t every day that someone hired me and then disappeared.

“That’s okay. I don’t care if you’re licensed as long as you locate Joe. We’re all, well”—he gulped air—“the truth is that we’re falling apart exactly when we need to struggle
to save Amore’s reputation. The idiot who murdered Arnaud on Joe’s property better not ever run into me.” He clenched his fist in anger. “Someone must want to make Amore look bad. The irony is that if he weren’t dead, I would think it was Arnaud himself who was the killer.”

I didn’t quite follow and frowned at him questioningly.

“You know, to make Amore look bad by murdering someone at Joe’s house so people would think one of us is the killer. And during our big anniversary week! This will get more press coverage than the anniversary.”

Was he worried that a member of the Amore family
had
killed Arnaud? Or was I just trying too hard to read between the lines? I could feel my jaw clenching. “Why are you keeping Joe’s disappearance quiet? I thought it was better to go public with these things in case someone saw him.”

“Our first concern is kidnapping. We’re told it’s prudent to not broadcast anything so a kidnapper won’t know we went to the police and so that annoying copycat types won’t get involved and confuse the situation.”

Those thoughts had never entered my mind. I could see the point, though.

“Was there a ransom note?”

Mitch held up his open palm. “We haven’t found one. I hear they usually make a phone call with demands. In addition, it sounds just awful, but there’s also the business to consider. Perhaps you are familiar with the saying
there is no bad publicity
?”

I nodded.

“It’s not true.” He held up his hands and moved them apart in the air as though depicting a headline. “‘Joe Merano Disappears on Sixtieth Anniversary of Amore Chocolates’ is the worst imaginable publicity. At least I thought it was. Turns out ‘Amore Competitor Murdered in Merano Guesthouse’ is far worse. We are
not
having a great anniversary.”

“I’m very sorry, Mitch—about all of it. But I’m not in the
business of investigating crime. I’ve just gotten lucky a couple of times. That’s all.” I couldn’t possibly take money for it.

Mitch gazed around my kitchen. “I could pay you quite handsomely.”

By Old Town standards, my house was huge. But in comparison to Joe’s place, it was a very ordinary home. I could tell he was searching for my weaknesses.

“I would be perpetrating a fraud if I took your money. Really, you need to go to someone who knows the ropes. There are a lot of private investigators around. I’m sure one of them would be thrilled to help you out.”

He glanced up at the portrait over the fireplace.

Mars’s Aunt Faye had left us the house, and I had bought out Mars’s share in our divorce. I kept Faye’s portrait over the fireplace in honor of her memory.

Mitch cocked his head a little bit. “For Nonni and Coco?”

Now I felt a smidge of guilt. He had hit on the one thing that I knew to be true. Coco was a wreck.

But at that moment, Wolf knocked on my door.

Mitch gazed at me. “What’s
he
doing here?”

“I promised I would print out the guest list of the people at the tasting last night.”

Mitch stared at me for a long moment. “Yes, of course. Of course you would think a guest killed Arnaud!” He sounded relieved.

I tried to hide my surprise. Clearly he did
not
think a guest had been the culprit. So that’s how it was. He thought a family member murdered Arnaud. Was that why he hadn’t asked me to find the killer?

I opened the door for Wolf.

After a polite exchange of greetings
,
Mitch moved toward the door. I followed him out on the little stoop. As he left, he said, “I hope you’ll reconsider. We could use your help.”

He strode away, crossing paths with Nina, who ran toward me still wearing her bathrobe. “What’s going on?”
She seized my arm and whispered, “What’s Wolf doing here? I saw him drive up.”

“The new chocolatier is dead.”

“Huh? When? Where? How?” demanded Nina.

We entered the kitchen, and Wolf asked, “Did he want you to find Joe?”

So much for keeping their secrets.

“Joe Merano is missing?” cried Nina. “I wondered why he didn’t make an appearance at the chocolate tasting.”

Wolf stared at me. “You’re not going to do it, are you?”

“Of course not. Well, maybe a little on my own. Joe was very good to me.”

“Stay out of this, Sophie,” growled Wolf. “I’m serious.”

I raised my hands. “No problem. Tea all around?” I put the kettle back on and took two more yellow mugs out of a cabinet. “I was planning to make a quiche, Wolf. Want to stay for brunch?” Inspired by a dish I had tried the night before, I mixed batter for indulgent chocolate raspberry muffins.

“Thanks for the invite but I’ve been up most of the night.”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t printed off the guest list yet. It will only take a moment.” I popped the muffins into the oven and excused myself.

When I returned a few minutes later, Nina was pouring water into the mugs, including mine. “How could you not tell me about the murder?”

“It was late.”

“I
cannot
believe that I didn’t know about any of this,” she muttered.

I handed Wolf the list and thanked Nina for preparing the tea.

She sat down next to Wolf and perused the list of names over his shoulder. “Who had a beef with Arnaud?”

I preheated the oven and pulled ingredients for the crustless quiche out of the fridge. “A beef with him? Who even knew him?”

I chopped salty ham and a couple of slices of leftover
bacon. Using my vegetable peeler, I cut thin slices of savory Asiago cheese. And for a little veggie in the mix, I sliced three tiny baby zucchinis that had grown in my own garden. After whisking the eggs with salt, pepper, sage, and garlic powder, I greased a glass pie dish with sweet butter and scattered everything except the eggs in it. I mixed milk and a splash of heavy cream with the eggs and poured it gently over the ham, cheese, and zucchini so they wouldn’t be dislodged. For the final touch, I sprinkled Parmesan cheese over the whole thing. I slid it into the oven next to the muffins.

“Do you two really think you can find Arnaud’s killer by looking at a list?” I joined them at my kitchen table.

“I recognize a lot of these names,” said Wolf.

“Oh! I almost forgot to mention that two of the winners, Lori Speer and Cheryl Maiorca, came back to Joe’s last night. At least that’s what they claimed. Either one of them could have been hanging around the whole time, I suppose.”

“The killer coming back to the scene of the crime, eh?” asked Nina.

Wolf snorted. “You watch too many crime shows on TV.”

“Are you saying they don’t come back to the scene of the crime?” asked Nina.

“Would you?” asked Wolf.

“Maybe. If I was nervous and wanted to know what was going on and whether I was a suspect.”

“Is it definite that he was strangled?” I asked.

Wolf sipped his tea. “We won’t know for sure until the autopsy report comes back, but that was how it looked to me. We did a pretty thorough search but didn’t find much in the way of items that might have been used to strangle him.”

“No ropes?” asked Nina. “Doesn’t everyone have rope somewhere around the house?”

“Nothing that matched the marks. A rope often leaves a pattern that reflects how it was twisted or braided. Sophie, do you remember if he was wearing a tie?”

“Ordinarily, I might not recall, but it was very
distinctive—a cream-colored background, covered with a print of truffles and chocolates. It was hanging around his neck loose when I saw him.” I thought back. “He didn’t have it on when we found him.”

Nina cried, “That’s it, then! That’s what the killer used to strangle him.”

“Or he took it off,” said Wolf wryly.

The muffins filled my kitchen with the scent of chocolate. I took them out of the oven, placed them in a basket lined with a yellow napkin and set it on the table with plates.

Wolf and Nina helped themselves immediately.

“I bet it was someone in the Merano family,” mused Nina. “You know, getting rid of the competition. Especially since he made such high-end, famous chocolates.” Her expression changed to a pout. “Bummer, though, I always wanted to try one. They were supposed to be incredible.”

“What was so special about them?” asked Wolf. “Chocolate is chocolate.”

Nina laughed at him. “You neophyte! You can’t be serious.” She watched him. “You are! Really? You can’t tell the difference in flavor and texture?”

Wolf shrugged. “I know these muffins are good. And I learned not to eat unsweetened baking chocolate. I did that once when I was a kid. Yuck. That was a bitter mouthful.” He chuckled at the memory and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Guess I better get going. Thanks for the muffin, Sophie.”

“You’re not staying for brunch?” I asked.

I could read his expression all too well. It was best if we didn’t socialize anymore. Sad as it made me, I realized that he was right.

Wolf took the list, opened the kitchen door, and looked back. “Stay out of this, Sophie, you hear me?” He closed the door.

“Wait!” I jumped up and went after him. “Wolf! Let me see that list again.” Standing just outside the door with Wolf, I scanned the names as fast as I could. When I didn’t see
the name I was looking for, I read through it again. “There’s no Arnaud on here. He crashed the tasting.”

“Good catch, Soph.”

“So that kind of eliminates a planned murder, doesn’t it? No one knew he would be there.”

Wolf grinned at me and kissed my cheek. “Thanks for the list, Sophie.”

And right behind him, Alex was crossing the street, headed for my house. His chest heaved, he closed his eyes momentarily, and he left, walking far too fast for me to catch up.

Not again.
But then it dawned on me that maybe it was a good thing, because he had seen me with two different former flames. Clearly, what he had seen was meaningless. Alex would probably realize that himself when he got over being huffy. I returned to the house. “Arnaud wasn’t on the guest list.”

Nina’s eyes were big. “That doesn’t make sense. How did he know about it?”

“It was advertised everywhere. And he was staying in the same hotel as the contest winners. I’m sure they talked about it publicly. He probably went along with a group of them and no one thought anything of it. I should have insisted Randy take the tickets.”

“It was one of the Meranos.” She gazed at me with big eyes. “I bet Joe killed Arnaud!”

I pulled the quiche out of the oven. “Joe’s entirely too nice. You know, when we realized the body was Arnaud, Mitch said that people would think the Amore family had killed the competition. I guess he was right. That was your first reaction.”

I checked the time. “Shall we eat outside before it gets too hot?”

“I’m not even dressed yet.” Nina flapped her hand. “Aw, who cares? No one will see me in your backyard. I’ll help you carry things.”

We loaded a couple of trays with food, cutlery, napkins, a tablecloth, and tea, and headed outdoors into the cool morning.

As we walked along the side of the house, Nina said, “This is the best time of the day in the summer. No humidity, not hot yet—”

She stopped walking so abruptly that I nearly smacked into her.

“There’s someone out there,” she hissed.

Dear Sophie,

I’m so frustrated. I’m trying to bake brownies but every time I mix the melted chocolate into the other ingredients it gets little hard specks in it. What am I doing wrong?

—Slumber Party Diva in Bakersville, Florida

Dear Slumber Party Diva,

You’re probably trying to mix warm melted chocolate with ingredients that are too cold. Ice-cold ingredients will make the butter fat harden. Make sure all your other ingredients are room temperature before mixing in the warm chocolate.

—Sophie

Most people might just be surprised to find someone in their backyards, but Nina and I had been through some scary times together and had learned to be cautious.

Nina stepped to the side so I could peer around the corner of my house. In my outdoor room, a tiny woman sat in a lounge chair with her feet up. Nonni!

“It’s okay,” I said to Nina as I headed toward the covered patio. “Good morning, Nonni!” I called.

She clapped her hands. “You bring me breakfast? Umm, such a lovely smell.”

“I hope you’ll join us. We have plenty.”

Nina muttered, “I’ll grab another mug of tea.”

I glanced around. “Is Coco with you?”

“No. I walk here.”

It wasn’t a long distance for me but Nonni was a good bit older. “That’s quite a walk.”

Nonni smiled. “Is nothing. In Italy we walk everywhere. Not like here. Coco takes the car two blocks. Is good to walk. Healthy.”

She was living proof of that. “Have you been here long?”

“Not too long. Is very pretty, your garden. The birds sing, butterflies sit on flowers. I see zucchini and tomatoes growing.” She swung her legs off the chaise longue and settled at the table.

“When I come, Mitch is in your house. I decide to wait until he is gone.”

I threw the Riviera blue Provence-style tablecloth over the table and unloaded the trays. Nina returned with tea, a plate, and extra cutlery before I was finished.

“You didn’t want Mitch to see you?” I sat down and cut the quiche.

“Mitch is like, hmm, how you say,
gallo
.”

I glanced at Nina, who shrugged.

“Is big bird on farm,” said Nonni.

“Turkey?” asked Nina.

“Noooo. Like turkey but smaller. In the morning he says
chicchirichì
.”

“Rooster!” I guessed.

Nonni pointed at me. “Mitch is rooster.” She raised her elbows as though her arms were wings and thrust out her
chest. “Mitch makes a lot of noise and walks around like he thinks he is pretty—but he has no teeth.” She laughed and then sighed. “But Mitch loves Coco. He would do anything for his Coco. Dan has made a better choice. Stella is very nice to me.”

“Mitch isn’t nice?” I asked, worried.

“Oh yes. But he is bossy.” She pointed her finger around. “Like the rooster, always telling everybody what to do.”

“How is Coco?” I asked. “Is she still upset?”

“That girl. She loves her father. Joe is a good man. When we come to America, Joe was just a little boy. We had nothing. His father and I work every day in our store. Every day! And Joe, he work with us, sweeping and learning how to make chocolate.”

“You must be very proud of him.”

“I am! But I worry about him.”

Nonni ate her quiche with gusto. “The zucchini is from you garden?”

“It is!”

“
Delizioso
!”

“Nonni, somebody told me that Nonni means grandfather and not grandmother. He’s wrong, isn’t he?” asked Nina.

Nonni laughed. “Mostly Nonna is grandmother, but little Coco always call me Nonni and now everybody does.”

I had a strong hunch that Nonni hadn’t walked all the way to my house in the hope she might find brunch waiting for her. But I let her take her time in getting around to what she wanted.

She finished her quiche before she said, “We have big problem in family. Maybe you can help again?”

Oh boy. It would be a lot harder to turn down sweet Nonni. I leaned toward her and said very gently, “You need to hire a professional to find Joe.”

She blinked hard. “My heart, it is broken. I tell myself Joe will come home. No, no. Is problem with Coco. The man who died, Arnaud Turnèbe? This is not his real name.”