The Semi-Sweet Hereafter (13 page)

Jeremy's agent frowned. But I didn't think she was senile. Even after tippling whiskey, she seemed pretty sharp to me. The shrewdness I'd noted before had returned, glimmering in Claire's eyes. I began to think she'd drawn Gemma there on purpose.

Maybe that's what she'd been doing via her selfie earlier.

Oblivious to those machinations, Gemma looked around. She seemed breathless, eager, and very proper. She definitely had that “lady in public, temptress in the bedroom” routine nailed. Most of the men in the tearoom—not that there were many, in such a feminine environment—were watching her, enthralled by her beauty and poise. She deserved more than life as a has-been.

At her show of graceful helplessness, one of her entourage added another chair to our table. Gemma took it, crossing her legs coquettishly. “You don't mind if I join you two, do you?”

“Of course not!” I waved toward our tea. I'll admit, I was a little starstruck. Like many people, I'd watched Gemma on TV. I'd bought her popular cookbooks. I'd tried out a seductive, throaty purr—similar to hers—during a chocolate-tempering demo.

The client had asked me if I were coming down with a cold.

But Gemma remained focused on Claire—and what she needed from her. Delicately, she frowned. “Did you hear from Andrew?”

“Yes. He doesn't want you back,” Claire said bluntly.

I wasn't sure I should be privy to this conversation. But there was no way I was leaving. I wondered who Andrew was.

Gemma's face fell. “But Hambleton & Hart need me!”

Aha. Andrew must have something to do with them.

“Not anymore, they don't.” Claire flashed me a contrite look, silently apologizing for Gemma having crashed our meeting. She signaled for the check. “Hayden, I'll call you later.”

“But they
do
need me!” Gemma insisted, putting her hand on Claire's arm to detain her. “I have a new idea—a brilliant one. Now that Jeremy is gone, I thought I'd have another chance!”

Her desperate tone was unmistakable. That's when I snapped out of my fangirl trance and recognized the situation for what it was. No matter how appealing Gemma Rose might be, she'd had every reason to want Jeremy dead. He'd stolen her position. He'd taken her spot on the best-seller lists. He'd supplanted her at Hambleton & Hart. He'd cost her millions of pounds in income.

He'd replaced her in the hearts of the world's food lovers.

As far as Gemma Rose was concerned, I realized, Jeremy Wright had been an obstacle to everything she deserved.

But could she have committed murder to reclaim it?

I watched as Gemma anxiously picked up a cream bun and bit into it, her gaze fastened on Claire as she paid for our tea.

Gemma Rose was left-handed, I saw. I had another suspect.

* * *

I'd scarcely made it two steps toward the sumptuous hotel lobby before Danny intercepted me. His long strides covered the fine Aubusson carpet at an alarming rate, making the porter and desk clerk stare . . . along with a few interested female guests.

As usual, my security expert looked
fine
. Even dressed in a pair of casual black trousers and a white shirt, Danny Jamieson was eye-catching. Without trying to, he stood out. Probably because of all the muscles, the air of command . . . and the smile.

That's what surprised me as he caught my arm. Danny didn't usually look that unabashedly happy. I couldn't help gawking.

“What happened to
you?
” I asked, noting the energy pouring off him. He looked like a kid at Christmas—a big, strong, dark, and handsome one. Okay, he looked like a full-grown man, and nothing else. “You look as though you just won the lottery.”

That took him aback. He glanced at me. “You know I don't screw around with gambling. What's the matter with you?”

I shrugged and kept walking. Danny easily kept pace with me as I led us out of the upscale hotel and onto Piccadilly Street.

There, people moved just as fast as we both did. We merged with them, keeping pace with the locals and dodging tourists.

“Why didn't you tell me you were meeting Gemma Rose?”

Now it was my turn to be taken aback. “I wasn't. She crashed.” He must have seen Gemma join me and Claire. “Why?”

Because . . . “You've got to keep me in the loop, Hayden.”

“I just told you, I didn't know she was coming.” I gave him an inquiring look. His rugged profile revealed nothing. “I'm not sure
she
knew she was coming. It looked like a last-minute thing. You must have seen the way she came into the tearoom, all breathless, as though she was afraid of missing Claire.”

Danny remained mum, navigating us both through the crowd, past a Boots pharmacy and a cell phone store. He kept one hand on the small of my back, making sure no one jostled me.

He needn't have worried. People took one look at him and made a path. His default demeanor was daunting. Unapproachable.

“She
was
afraid of missing Claire,” he told me.

I grinned. “Now how could you possibly know that? I know you're a ninja at shadowing me, Danny, but come on. Be serious.”

“Gemma Rose got . . . waylaid on her way into the tearoom.”

He made that cryptic comment and kept striding onward. But another grin broke over his face, boyish and pleased. What the . . . ?

Then I got it. “
You
waylaid her. She was late because of you?” I stared at him. “You were flirting with Gemma Rose?”

Danny shrugged. “Sometimes you've got to seize the moment.”

For a few more steps, I considered that. Then, “You're a fan, aren't you?” His grin broadened in response. “Danny!”

“I may have watched a few . . . hundred . . . episodes of her show.”

This was news to me. “You have a crush on Gemma Rose!” I couldn't help jabbing him in the ribs. “That's adorable.”

He scowled at my teasing. “Try to rein in the squee-ing when she comes over, all right? Just be cool. No autograph requests.”

I laughed. Then I realized he was serious.

“You have a date with Gemma Rose?
The
Gemma Rose? And
you?
” Danny seemed so pleased, I
almost
didn't have the heart to add, “But she's a suspect in Jeremy's murder. You can't date her.”

His expression of disbelief floored me. “Yes, I can.”

“No, you can't. Gemma Rose just ate a cream bun with her left hand. You know what DC George said.” It occurred to me that I didn't know his last name, so I waved that off. “No. No way.”

“You don't seriously suspect Gemma.”

“I certainly do.”

“Because she's left-handed? You're reaching.” Danny tossed me a censorious look as we reached the next Underground station entrance. We made our way downstairs amid the throngs of people. “This new tactic of yours—being twice as suspicious as usual—has gone too far, if you're suspecting someone like Gemma.”

I stuck to my guns.
“You
always say I'm too trusting.”

“Well, now you're too suspicious.” He stepped onto the escalator, leading the way for both of us. “Just back off.”

I wouldn't. “Gemma Rose could have wanted Jeremy dead.”

“So could anyone. So what?” We descended. Danny glanced over his broad shoulder at me. “She was carrying a purse in her right hand. That's why she ate that bun left-handed,” he pointed out. “You probably didn't notice, because you were already convicting her of bludgeoning Jeremy to death.” His lips quirked. “As if Gemma could even carry that heavy metlapil.”

“She's a woman, not a weakling,” I objected as we reached the platform. A train whizzed past, sending gusts of warm air washing over us. I squeezed shut my eyes, then refocused on Danny. “Hasn't it occurred to you that Gemma Rose might know that you're with
me?
She's smart. Maybe she's using you to find out what I've learned while investigating Jeremy's murder.”

Danny's expression looked incredulous. “Not bloody likely.”

“It's possible,” I insisted, unmoved by his sardonic use of that British slang. I could be stubborn too. “Watch out.”

“You watch out,” my bodyguard shot back irritably. He didn't look at me, but most of his earlier gleefulness had left his face. “I'm seeing Gemma later, and you can't stop me.”

“I'm seeing Liam later, and you can't stop me.”

“I don't care about stopping you.” Danny touched my elbow, steering me backward. I was dangerously close to the yellow line that marked the platform's edge. One overeager commuter, one overzealous bump, and I'd be toast. “I'm too happy to bother.”

I studied him and saw that it was true. “Just be careful,” I relented. We could handle an argument. We always did. “Keep an eye out for tricks. Or murder plans. Or evidence! I need some.”

“I could say the same to you, about Hulk Hands.”

“I don't think Liam is guilty. Just misguided about sugar.”

“You've got to watch yourself,” Danny told me as our Tube train arrived. “I know you wish you'd been faster off the blocks in Portland and San Fran, but you might be overcompensating for your gullible nature this time. Not everyone is a killer.”

Gullible?
I couldn't believe he was saying that to
me.

“I'm not the one who's being gullible here. You are—the guy who's about to date a possible murderess.” I stepped over the gap and onto the train in front of him. I grabbed the center pole with one hand, then swayed as the train left the platform. “I don't want you to wind up like Jeremy did, Danny. I mean it.”

“I
mean it,” he said, finally breaking into a smile that was meant purely for me. “Just take one step back, Nancy Drew. Don't wreck this for me with Gemma Rose. We . . . have something.”

He sounded so over-the-top hopeful that I thought he was joking. Then I glanced at Danny's face and knew he was serious. Uh-oh. Had my security expert just fallen for my latest suspect?

I didn't know. But it sure seemed possible.

“Fine. You can be my ‘boots on the ground' with Gemma Rose,” I compromised. “Let me know if she seems guilty or says anything incriminating. Tell me if she mentions murder.”

Danny grinned. “Har, har. If it were that easy, anyone could do what you do—what you've already done twice now.”

Twice now.
He was right. But I didn't want to think about those incidents—about catching killers and everything that entailed. It was all still too unnerving. I hadn't yet come to grips with my unwanted new role as part-time amateur sleuth.

“You'll do it?” I pushed. “You'll watch Gemma Rose for me?”

His dark look said he didn't want to. Then, “Yeah. Okay.” He stared out the train's window as we reached another station. “But only to prove you wrong about Gemma. And you
are
wrong.”

We'd see about that, I knew. But first, I had work to do.

Nine

The only thing I didn't learn at afternoon tea with Claire Evans, I realized as I parted ways with Danny on the street level and went to earn my chocolate-whisperer keep at Primrose, was exactly what might be in Nicola Mitchell's tell-all book.

I decided to call her. While Jeremy's former assistant and I hadn't exactly hit it off like long-lost sisters during our kaffeeklatsch, we'd had a reasonably pleasant time. Plus, I thought I knew how to persuade her. So I set up another meeting, explaining that I wanted to make good on my offer to “hook her up” with some tasty, newly enhanced treats from Primrose.

Two birds. One stone. I had to multitask these days.

From the moment I greeted Nicola—bearing chocolate caramel popcorn, double chocolate bark with salted almonds, and vivid green pistachio truffles made with Dumante liqueur, all arranged on a tray in Primrose's signature demitasse cups—she was putty in my hands. I would have liked to have credited my
fait à la maison
sweets for that fact, but I figured Nicola's newfound malleability had more to do with having just made a million pounds on her book deal than it did with my culinary wizardry.

That kind of payout would have put anyone in a good mood.

Even a murderer?
Chilled to think it, I watched Nicola carefully. She dug right into the goodies—with both hands, I noticed inconclusively—doing her best to make up for lost time.

Evidently, the rigors of Jeremy's and Liam's “clean eating” regimen had really bothered Nicola. They would have bothered me too. We had that much in common. Plus, I've had dead-end jobs too—even if I didn't profit quite so handsomely from them. It was possible Nicola couldn't afford much in the way of indulgences.

Well, not until recently, at least.

“Oh,
yum!
” she exclaimed, mouth full. Her eyes rolled back in her head with pleasure. She gave a happy wiggle. “I never thought I'd be back here, but
this
is a good reason to come.”

I'd joined her in Primrose's upstairs seating area—a small loft overlooking the neighborhood and its green trees. The only seating was a single café table and chair, one armchair, and a love seat–size settee, which we both squeezed onto. I'd set my tray of goodies on the loft's coffee table. Below us, the chocolaterie-pâtisserie was not quite as busy as I'd have liked.

I still hadn't made sufficient inroads training the staff. They were progressing, though. Hugh, in particular, had emerged as a leader of the group. Faintly, from the warm kitchens, I heard his distinctly accented voice shouting a command to Poppy. I felt gratified by this development. He'd gotten comfortable. Given more time, he'd master a skill he could be proud of.

In the meantime, everyone downstairs had swiftly learned to make chocolate caramel popcorn, chocolate bark, and pistachio truffles today. We'd had only a few mishaps along the way.

“Did you used to come here often?” I asked Nicola.

“Sometimes.” Jeremy's former assistant bit into a truffle. She groaned with enjoyment, then waggled it toward me. “These are
really
nice. So's the popcorn. And the chocolate bark.”

“Thanks, that's kind of you. It's all in a day's work, though. I had plenty of help.” I indicated the kitchen downstairs, watching as Nicola swigged some fizzy, house-made lemon soda. “I appreciate your taste-testing for me. I can use the feedback. My taste isn't everyone's taste. But if you like those, please feel free to tell everyone you know,” I kidded. There was nothing more valuable than authentic word of mouth. “Maybe a few strangers, too. We need more business around here.”

“So I noticed.” Nodding, Nicola swept her curly auburn hair from her eyes. She seemed open and eager to help. “This place used to be packed all the time. Poor Phoebe. It must be breaking her heart to see Primrose struggling after all these years.”

“I think it would be, under other circumstances.” When she'd hired me, she hadn't known calamity would strike. “She's managing as best she can, though. It's difficult for her.”

Nicola looked skeptical. “Difficult
not
celebrating.”

I was surprised she was being so cruel. I guess it showed.

“Don't get me wrong,” Nicola went on. She nibbled some chocolate bark. “I like Phoebe. We were friendly when I worked for Jeremy. But he was a tyrant. And not just to me, either.”

She was hinting at supposed marital troubles between Jeremy and Phoebe again. But I'd found no sign of disharmony anywhere.

“Jeremy must have had his good qualities,” I argued, inhaling the buttery scents of shortbread and chocolate layer cakes that permeated Primrose. I hadn't run into Nicola while I'd been chocolate whispering at Primrose. For all I knew, Nicola had been an abysmal assistant, and Jeremy had rightly sacked her for her inadequacies. “What about his charity?”

“Jeremy's Jump Start Foundation will be getting
very
little mention in my book. You've got to stick with a theme, yeah?”

“Jeremy's giving back to the community doesn't fit?”

“Absolutely not. Jeremy was a selfish, vain control freak, and that's the story I'm sticking to.” Nicola nibbled on a cluster of caramelized, chocolate-drizzled popcorn. “Even if he hadn't been, nobody wants to hear he was just a regular bloke who happened to be discovered while knocking up burgers for his friends. That's rubbish! Just between us, it's much better to say he was a gold-digging egomaniac who clawed his way to the top. Plus, now that he's gotten killed for his misdeeds?” With sham amazement, Nicola shook her head. “That's utter genius. I couldn't have made up a better plot twist if I'd tried.”

Killed for his misdeeds.
Was that how she'd justified bashing him in the head with that metlapil? I couldn't exactly ask Nicola that. Instead, I found another, less gritty observation. “‘Gold-digging' isn't usually applied to men.”

“It is when they marry the daughter of a peer.” Now Nicola sounded crisp. Knowledgeable. I had the impression she was practicing for her upcoming TV appearances. “Jeremy's marriage to Phoebe benefited them both. Falling for Jeremy took Phoebe off her pedestal. It made her seem much more human than she otherwise would have, which helped make Primrose popular—at least it did
.
In return, Phoebe opened doors for Jeremy. He got the legitimacy he'd always wanted. Once he had it, though—”

On the verge of telling me, Nicola broke off. Her gaze wandered downstairs. From our vantage point, we could see part of the chocolaterie-pâtisserie's seating area, which contained a few customers. That was all. Not the counter, not the barista's espresso machine, not the shelves and baskets full of chocolatey baked goods and confections bagged in cellophane for takeaway.

Then I realized she was looking outside, at the sidewalk. I couldn't detect what had caught her attention. There were two mums there, holding hands with their children. Plus one dog.

I eyed that little group—and their companionable spaniel—with a pang of longing. I'm pretty happy globe-trotting. But a part of me does sometimes yearn to put down roots—to find out what it's like to have a home, a husband, a few kids, a dog . . .

“—he forgot it was Phoebe who gave it to him,” Nicola continued abruptly, just as though she'd never let her attention wander. “He just took his place among the posh set and never looked back.”

“It's hard to be grateful sometimes.” I tore away my gaze from those women and their children. “You get used to what you have. You forget what it was like before you had it.”

“Not me,” Nicola swore. “I'm not
ever
doing that.”

She seemed unusually fixated on class and privilege. “Did you come from a tough background too?” I asked, thinking that might be one explanation. “From a council estate, like Jeremy?”

“No, I'm solidly middle class.” Nicola narrowed her eyes. For the first time, she ignored the treats. “I didn't come here to talk about me. I thought you wanted to know about Jeremy.”

“I wanted to know about Jeremy's advert,” I specified. That's what I'd told her over the phone. Really, I wanted to find out what scandalous secrets her book contained. Casually, I bit into a pistachio truffle. It was delicious. “Do you know who I can contact to clear out all that A/V equipment from the Wrights' guesthouse? I'm staying there, and I'd rather—”

Not be reminded of murder every time I wander into the kitchen
, I'd been about to say. But Nicola interrupted me.

“You're
staying
there? But you weren't there . . . that day.”

I blinked, surprised at her alert tone. “No. You were?”

That
was a new development. I'd assumed Jeremy had been alone with his killer. DC Mishra had given me no indications to the contrary. Nor had George, her colleague, when we'd spoken.

“I was around.” Nicola waved vaguely. “Running errands for Jeremy. Being belittled for doing the wrong thing. The usual.”

I widened my eyes. “Did you see anything suspicious?”

Nicola shook her head. “I'm not supposed to say.”

“Did you talk to the police?” I pressed. “DC Mishra?”

“I guess
you
did?” Jeremy's assistant gave me a mistrustful look. “Must be tough, being a foreigner in a big city like London, suspected of murdering someone as famous as Jeremy.”

I began to see why Nicola might annoy someone— especially someone like Jeremy, who had a demanding job to do. He needed help, not backtalk. But I tried to play along, all the same.

“I'm not a suspect.”
Not officially.
Frankly, I wasn't sure about that. But I
did
know that if Nicola had been with Jeremy on the day he died, she probably had some information I needed.

“I didn't do anything wrong,” I added firmly. “Really.”

Unbelievably, Nicola cracked a smile. “Oh,
I
know that.”

Chills ran up my spine. Did she “know” that because
she'd
murdered Jeremy? Because Nicola was a crazed, taunting killer?

I choked on my next bite of popcorn. “Really?” I managed.

“Of course. Hayden, I'm practicing fielding tricky questions! See? I turned that last one straight around on you.” On another loony smile, Nicola nudged me, shoulder to shoulder. “My agent told me I should prepare for tough interviews. I haven't done any yet, but there's loads of interest already. I have to be sharp, right? I have to be ready for positively anything. I have to be
watchable
, too. Hashtag Nicola Mitchell.”

“Right.” As she made Twitter air quotes with her fingers, I wanted to punch her. Also, tech-savvy Claire, who I knew must have been responsible for that advice. “That's really smart.”

“Isn't it?” Nicola munched more chocolate bark while another customer wandered upstairs. She frowned at him. He left.

I was privately impressed by her ability to clear the loft. Could other people detect something menacing about her too? Or was I just overreacting to all the murder in the air?

“I'm
so
pleased at the reception my book news is getting so far,” Nicola ambled on in a chatty, completely friendly way. “But I didn't mean to get you caught up in it, of course. I'm so sorry. I obviously got carried away, accusing you just now.”

“No problem.” Maybe it was time to call it quits. But I still needed to follow up about the book in question. “So—”

“I
know that you weren't the one who offed Jeremy, because I know you weren't there,” Nicola said breezily before I could steer our conversation in that direction. “I was there. Jeremy was there. The crew were there. Andrew Davies too, of course.”

Him again.
“From Hambleton & Hart?”

Nicola nodded. “Yes. He's the CEO. He inherited the whole company from his mother's side of the family. He's a sweet man.”

Hmm.
I had my doubts about that. “Is he?”

Another nod, followed by what appeared to be a preoccupied smile. “Andrew took a very hands-on approach to things. He was always there when a new advert was being shot.” Nicola's grin widened. “I'm definitely namedropping him in my book. Maybe I should play up that angle? Mention how Jeremy basically made a bigshot like Andrew Davies crawl on his hands and knees?”

“Maybe. What do you mean? What went on?”

“It was all to do with Jeremy not wanting to promote Hambleton & Hart anymore, despite his agreement with them. Liam had convinced him their products were ‘toxic,' so . . .” Nicola gave me a “What can you do?” shrug that I completely understood. “Andrew came up with the idea of having Jeremy do the advert without actually using any of the products on camera.”

I recalled the boxed Hambleton & Hart mixes that I'd glimpsed on the guesthouse's counter. “They were backdrops?”

“They were going to be, until Liam showed up to yell at Jeremy about being a ‘bad example,' especially to children.”

Liam had been at the advert shoot too.
Nicola hadn't included Jeremy's personal trainer in her roundup. I wondered who else she might have inadvertently omitted. Maybe she wasn't the strongest “witness” I could have consulted, but I was stuck with her. For now, Nicola was the best I could manage.

“That's when Claire stepped in to save the day,” Nicola told me, looking delighted with the woman I knew she'd taken on as her agent. “She was rearranging things in the background, trying to appease both Jeremy and Liam, when she spotted that huge mortar and pestle setup. She brought it to Andrew Davies.”