The Semi-Sweet Hereafter (7 page)

I'd felt sorry for Nicola earlier. But, going forward, I needed to remain skeptical, I reminded myself. When dealing with suspects, I needed to stay detached. Wary. In San Francisco and in Portland, I'd (almost) taken too long to identify who was responsible for all the wrongdoing. This time, I didn't intend to make the same mistake. This time, I planned to remain deeply suspicious of
everyone
in Jeremy's life, no matter how innocent they might seem. To me, no one could be above suspicion.

If Jeremy had a sweet, loving, gray-haired old granny who knit scarves for the less fortunate, she was on my suspect list.

Danny and Travis constantly insist that I'm too nice—too inclined to always think the best of everyone. I knew they were exaggerating the situation. All the same, I couldn't let my (potential) blind spot trip me up. I had to be smarter. I had to stay alert to possible subterfuge—which seemed likely to be what Jeremy's assistant had employed at the café today.

In hindsight, Nicola had obviously had other motivations to meet me than simply retrieving her things. She'd also wanted to instill doubt about Jeremy's character and his marriage. Because she'd wanted her boss dead? Because she'd wanted him for herself and had been spurned? Because she'd disliked Phoebe for some reason—maybe resented her privileged status—and wanted to implicate her? Maybe Nicola was the one who'd sneaked into the guesthouse and bludgeoned Jeremy to death with that metlapil, and she'd needed a scapegoat (like Phoebe) for her crime.

I shook my head at the supposition. I didn't think so.

For one thing, Nicola would have had a hard time hoisting that metlapil effectively, much less fighting off Jeremy's inevitable defense. For another, despite my mostly favorable impressions of her, I'd only ever heard Nicola described as “mousy.” That hardly made her sound like a cold-blooded killer.

On the other hand, even the mousiest person could be pushed too far. Couldn't they? I sighed, knowing it was still possible I was barking up the wrong tree. Had Jeremy's murderer known him at all? It might still have been a random, anonymous killer.

Maybe I ought to leave the investigation up to DC Mishra, I debated as I pulled my cell phone from my bag. After all, the detective constable hadn't called me back in. Maybe she told all her witnesses not to leave town, as a matter of course. Maybe I didn't need to worry about winding up in a British prison.

I didn't know. But I did know I was supposed to have checked in with Danny by now. I wanted him nearby, for protection and (frankly) for comfort. For a sounding board, too.

My quick-thinking, longtime pal was invaluable for that. But we'd decided it would be too weird if my on-call bodyguard shadowed me during my chocolate-whisperer duties. That was a distraction no one needed—not while the bakers were still baffled by buttercream and confused by chocolate chip cookies.

Listening to the distant drone of the gigantic standing mixer as it mixed a batch of pillowy Swiss-style icing at that moment, I dialed. Trying to look as though I hadn't just been riffling through Phoebe's office on purpose, I wandered toward Primrose's storeroom, where the shop kept stacked bags of flour.

I sat on one of the piles, those fifty-pound bags easily supporting my weight. They were dusted powdery white and wouldn't do my jeans any favors, but those were the breaks. I'm fastidious with work but not too concerned with fashion. I did like Phoebe's cardigan, though. With London's sometimes drizzly weather to contend with, an extra layer was definitely needed.

I wished I'd found something more incriminating in that pocket. A receipt for a metlapil bearing Phoebe's credit card number, perhaps. Or a “how to cudgel your husband” manual.

I couldn't afford to be naïve about my consultee. I knew that. But it was still difficult to think of Phoebe as a killer. The most horrific crime she seemed capable of was unrepentant snobbishness. Besides, Phoebe had an alibi: her party. George had already let slip to me that they'd confirmed her presence at some la-di-da private soirée near Westminster that night.

Danny didn't pick up. Uneasy, I disconnected my call.

Had my best (platonic) friend arrived at the murder scene and become a victim himself? There
was
a killer on the loose. Danny had been planning to “secure” the guesthouse (whatever that meant) before I joined him there. In a former life, he would have been casing the place for a burglary. But those bad old days were behind him. Now he only used his powers for good.

I took advantage of my relative solitude to write myself some investigatory notes in my trusty, omnipresent Moleskine notebook. It was something I wished I'd done more of in San Francisco and Portland. I guessed the third time was the charm, because I actually managed to put down some cogent observations and theories while sitting on the flour-sack piles with the reassuringly familiar hum of restaurant work going on nearby.

With that done, I put away my notebook and pencil. Yes, paper and lead, nothing fancier. While my friends encouraged me to use a more modern, technologically savvy means of making my to-do lists (and sometimes suspect lists), I knew better. It wouldn't do to run out of batteries or encounter a malfunction while globe-trotting. There aren't a lot of power outlets on the road to Machu Picchu. Internet reception isn't as reliable on a cacao plantation in Madagascar as it is in downtown Los Angeles.

I'm happy to stick with something I can count on.

Like Danny. Usually. Where
was
he?

Irked, I texted him an exclamation point. Just that. It was our own private emergency code, designed to bring him running.

I knew I shouldn't have been the girl who cried wolf, but rules were made to be broken, right? Besides, I'd just uncovered a serious flaw in our alert system. How was
I
supposed to know if
Danny
was okay? Short of tagging him with a secret GPS tracking device—which he'd probably find, laugh at, and crush beneath his big-booted foot anyway—I didn't have many options.

I slung my crossbody bag over my shoulder, brushed the worst of the flour from my backside, then said good-bye to the staff. Everything at Primrose was under control. That meant I had a few hours to myself. I needed to spend them investigating.

* * *

I stepped outside the chocolaterie-pâtisserie with my phone to my ear, breathing in the assembled scents of sugary goodness, damp pavement, and faraway exhaust. A double-decker Routemaster chugged past me, vibrant in iconic Bus Red. A nearby square beckoned with green grass and trees. Shops lined the street, full of chichi merchandise geared to the upscale neighborhood and bearing centuries-old frontages that had been meticulously maintained. There weren't any other bakeries or confectioners in the area, but there were those corner pubs and some cute cafés.

I pondered stopping in some of them to study Primrose's competition. I was, after all, still responsible for seeing the shop succeed. But then my call connected. I stopped to listen.

Liam Taylor's voice-mail message rumbled into my ear, nearly as full of depth and sex appeal as Travis's out-of-office dispatch. I seldom heard the latter. My financial adviser rarely quit working. Maybe he'd only turned on voice mail the one time, purposely to titillate me. If so, it had definitely worked.

I may or may not have called in three or four more times.

“I'm out training another client right now,” Liam's message continued, full of rounded British vowels and certainty. “But leave a message, and I'll get back to you with the best way to—”

. . . kick sugar, gluten, and fun out of your life,
I imagined but didn't technically hear. That's because I suddenly found myself gripping empty air. Someone had snatched away my phone.

A mugger? London was home to a few of them, of course.

I inhaled hard, ready to unleash my patented anti-mugger maneuver. It was physical, fast, and (almost) foolproof. I'd learned it in Barcelona. If I haven't mentioned it before, I make all kinds of friends while I'm traveling. Spanish, French, and Italian men seem to be especially concerned with making sure I know how to handle myself. Partly thanks to them, I could.

Scarcely thinking, I whirled. There was a man close to me.
Too close.
I aimed a sturdy kick at the side of his kneecap. It would at least momentarily incapacitate him, long enough for me to grab my cell phone. Not that I recommend attacking someone for a mere possession. I don't. But I couldn't help acting.

To my amazement, the man stepped out of range. I looked up.

Danny towered above me, looking irate. “Hey. Watch it.”

I smacked him on the shoulder. “Where have you been?”

Secretly, I was flooded with relief at finding him safe. Officially, I was panicked that he'd been off-line for so long.

“Shadowing you, dummy.” His affectionate gaze meandered over me. Maybe a bit too lingeringly. “What's the emergency?”

His scowl returned. Passersby caught sight of it and purposely detoured around us both. Even while not annoyed over a false-alarm summons, Danny tends to be menacing. He's taller than most men, full of (well-deserved) swagger, and willing to throw down at the merest provocation. Remember how I said Hugh Menadue was bellicose? Danny Jamieson is like twenty Hughs.

With me, he's a teddy bear. Mostly. With other people?

Let's just say Danny never backs down from a fight. Not of any kind. He fought to go back to school and earn two college degrees. He fought to establish his own personal security firm. He fought to be put on my payroll as beefcake on call—a decision he was probably regretting just then, by the looks of him.

I couldn't help gawking, though. With pleasure, not fear. Danny is gorgeous, muscular, and devoid of the kind of ego that typically destroys the positives in those two attributes. He loves birthday parties and
Antiques Roadshow,
dive bars and fast cars, hanging out with me and pestering “Harvard.”

He didn't have any reason to go toe-to-toe with Travis. I think he just enjoyed skirmishing. Travis was the same way.

Danny caught my affectionate look and deepened his scowl.

What's the emergency?
reverberated between us. Whoops.

I went on the offensive. “You were supposed to pick up all my calls,” I reminded him. “You were supposed to guard me!”

“I was. I am.” He crossed his beefy arms. “I always will.”

Okay. Before you start imagining some dreamy bodyguard-meets-chocolate whisperer scenario here, let me set you straight. Danny and I are friends. That's it. Yes, he sometimes spouts mushy stuff like
I always will,
but he's all business.

“You were guarding me how, from a pub? With a pint in hand? Come on, Danny,” I shot back, undaunted. “I was on the lookout for you all day.” He was hard to miss. “I never saw you.”

He smiled. Fearsomely. “I'd make a pretty bad tail if you saw me, now wouldn't I?” He handed back my phone. “Liam Taylor is at The Green Park right now, making a client do a million burpees. That's why he didn't answer your call. Try later.”

“I don't see how you could possibly know that.”

“Yet I do. You're not the only one with skills. And that's the way we both like it, isn't it?
Mysterious.
” Teasingly, Danny waggled his eyebrows. I laughed. He sighed, then got serious. His gaze probed mine. “You're okay? No emergency?”

“Nothing your being here can't solve. How about a drink?”

“Best idea you've had all day,” he said. “Come on.”

Maybe, I decided, I could find out about Jeremy in the pub.

Five

I wasn't the only one who had the bright idea of finding out about Jeremy in the dark, oak-paneled, decorated-with-soccer-banners pub that I scouted for us around a corner and down an alleyway. No sooner had the publican served us our bitters—a whole pint for Danny, a half for me—than he went right back to the conversation he'd been having. About Jeremy Wright.

It took a few seconds for that reality to filter in, though. The pub was noisy, filled with rough-and-tumble builders (“construction workers,” to us Americans) there for an after-work pint. One of them delivered a fresh round to his mates. In return, he was greeted with hearty cheers and manly laughter.

Danny locked eyes with him. The builder looked away first. Apparently satisfied, Danny raised his glass to me. “Kanapai!”

It meant (roughly) “cheers!” in Japanese—something you might hear in an
izakaya,
the Japanese equivalent of a pub. I recognized it. I was the one who'd taught it to Danny. But I wasn't sidetracked. I returned his toast and duly took a sip.

Then I nodded at the builder. “What was that all about?”

“Nothing.” Danny rotated his shoulder, then took a big slurp of his pint. Our bitters looked dark and tasted darker.

“Come on, Danny. I know something was going on just now.”

He relented. “That guy was eyeing you. That's all.”

I almost burst out laughing. “So what? Maybe I like him.”

Danny's knowing, lopsided grin said he doubted it. “Maybe.”

Anyone else would have thought Danny was jealous. I knew better. Defiantly, I sneaked a glance at the bloke in question, intending to prove my point. He was short and stout, clad in grimy work clothes and steel-toed boots. He looked rough, like the kind of guy Jeremy would have become if he'd stayed in his East London neighborhood. Jeremy was . . . lucky he'd gotten out.

I probably shouldn't have thought so. Especially given the unfair advantages Jeremy had enjoyed since marrying Phoebe and finding culinary success. But I couldn't help it. The builder, as he sauntered over for his turn at the dartboard, had the same cockiness, the same virility, and the same accent Jeremy had had. Not the stereotypical British accent Americans thought of—the cultured, short-voweled, clipped-consonant dialect heard on
Downton Abbey
—but something earthier. Realer. Happier.

I liked it. But I didn't fancy that builder. Danny was right. Not that I intended to admit as much. Fortunately, that was the moment I caught wind of the conversation going on between the pub's barman and the woman standing a few feet away.

“Did you ever see him with this guy?” She turned her cell phone's screen toward the barman. “Were they here together?”

Impatiently, the barman spread his palms on the scarred wooden bar, his face a study of creases and bushy gray eyebrow hairs. He frowned and shook his head. “Don't think so.”

“But he
did
meet people in here,” she nudged. “Women?”

I pegged her as a journalist. Medium height, midtwenties, possessed of a dark bob and all-black clothes. She was probably from the East Coast, maybe New York. She'd bought a gauzy scarf since coming to London, but its exactingly tied folds marked her as an outsider as clearly as did her insistence on grilling the reluctant barman. A Londoner would have thrown on that scarf with a lot more insouciance. A Londoner would have known, too, that most publicans don't respond well to being interrogated.

I leaned nearer. “Maybe I can help,” I suggested to her, indicating her cell phone picture. “I'm Hayden Mundy Moore.”

“Oh, thanks.” She smiled. “Are you from around here?”

I gave a careless wave, blessing my travels for the jumbled accent they'd given me. Maybe Mr. Barclay had pegged me for a gauche American, but she hadn't. I gestured. “Let's see that.”

She hesitated, but not because she was wary. She'd noticed Danny. He had a way of making most women lose their composure.

I could practically feel the charisma rolling off him. When he turned it on, he
really
turned it on. Good thing, too. He must have realized what I was up to and decided to help.

Carelessly, the journalist handed me her phone. I could barely grab it before she edged past me to cozy up to Danny.

“I'm Ashley Fowler. Are you from around here, too?”

Too
. She'd definitely bought my loosely contrived cover.

I peered at the phone's screen while Ashley and Danny made small talk. He said he was from L.A. She squealed with delight and announced that she was “so psyched!” to meet an American.

“Nobody ever talks to you here!” Ashley exclaimed. “Forget about a nice little chat over drinks. It's not happening. Plus, they're all so terribly proper, aren't they? Ugh! Ridiculous.”

I knew the builders nearby were probably rolling their eyes at her sweeping (and inaccurate) notions of British propriety—not to mention her over-the-top rendition of an English accent. But I was busy examining the photo she'd shown the barman.

The man pictured looked rumpled, awkward, and vaguely clammy. Although he wore a nice suit and tie, his sandy hair was unruly. His cheeks looked ruddy. Overall, he seemed . . . harmless.

That was my overwhelming impression. I didn't recognize him, but I stored away his likeness in my memory, just in case.

“Nope, sorry. I'm afraid I've never seen him before.” I handed Ashley her phone while the pub grew noisier around us. We should have had our pints outside. “Who is he? What did he do?”

“Oh, nothing. He's not a criminal or anything, if that's what you mean.” She waved blithely, briefly transferring her gaze from Danny to me, then mentioned his name. I'd never heard of him before. “He's part of a story I'm working on.”

“Mmm.” Lazily, Danny smiled at her. “You're a journalist?”

He made it sound like the most desirable occupation ever. I almost guffawed. But first I (briefly) considered a career in journalism. Hey, I'm only human. It had been a difficult week.

I can't be on guard against Danny's charm 24/7.

“Yeah. I'm assigned to the Jeremy Wright story. I was over here on vacation for a wedding and got called in on it. Just my luck, right?” Ashley rolled her eyes. “I know he was famous and everything, but seriously? All this fuss over one guy?”

I felt slighted on Jeremy's behalf. “He was beloved around the world. Didn't you see all the mourners? All the memorials?”

I'd passed by one of Jeremy's restaurants on the way to Primrose earlier. Its portico had been piled with mementos.

“I guess so.” She shrugged and twirled her hair, eyes fixed on Danny's broad shoulders. She licked her lips. “All I know is the British press is rabid about this story. I'm only an intern right now, but if I get a scoop, I can get some real attention. Maybe a permanent position. And a big, fat paycheck, too.”

I doubted that's how journalism worked, but what do I know? I melt chocolate for a living. I taste truffles for money.

It's a nice career, but I'm aware it's not rocket science.

“You deserve it, if you're tracking down leads all the way to an out-of-the-way place like this one,” I told her.

She brightened. “I know, right? Turns out, Jeremy Wright loved going to skeevy places like this one, though.”

As she aimed her chin toward the (doubtless) antique carved oak bar and its polished brass fittings, she didn't notice one of the customers of that “skeevy place” staring lustfully at her. Danny did. But he didn't leap to her rescue as he had mine.

I knew he would if things got dicey. But until then...

“How did you uncover that tidbit?” I asked, wide-eyed.

You've probably already guessed that
disingenuous
is a poor fit for me. But you've got to do what you've got to do, right?

“This pub was in one of his cookbooks,” Ashley told us. “I was supposed to be combing them for material—for pictures that hadn't already been seen a million times in other publications—but I knew I could do more. That's why I came down here.”

I made a mental note to examine Jeremy's cookbooks myself. It was possible they would yield some clues, either to Jeremy's true nature or to his relationships with the people around him.

“He did this one book about regional British cooking.” The reporter flirtatiously stroked Danny's bulging biceps. “It was packed with pictures of dingy, old-timey pubs like this one.”

Nearby, the barman frowned. Danny soothed his hurt feelings by buying two more rounds—one for the three of us, and one for the table full of builders. That perked up the publican nicely.

“And one for yourself?” Danny offered in lieu of a tip.

That was Danny for you. Generous to a fault. Especially when it came to the regular working stiffs of the world.

“I could show you some of the pubs sometime.” Ashley was snuggling closer to Danny when I checked back in. She gazed up at him expectantly. “I'm planning to hit up all of them for clues. You know, all except the ones really way far away, in, like, Newcastle, or whatever. I don't have an expense account or anything, but I have a feeling you won't mind treating us both?”

Oh, great. Danny's largesse had gotten her more excited.

“The local media pretty much have things locked down around here anyway,” Ashley confided with a toss of her sleek bob. She pouted her lipsticked lips. “I've got to be creative to get by. But, you know, I can be very, very creative when motivated.”

“I'll bet you can.” Danny's voice rumbled under another shout from the dartboard. “I wish I could come with you.”

“You can't? Really?” She looked crestfallen. “Why not?”

“I'm booked on another job.” He meant me, I knew.

“Is it dangerous?” Ashley breathed, clutching him harder.

He must have told her about his bodyguard-to-the-stars gig. That detail was like catnip for a certain kind of woman.

“I don't think so.” Danny shrugged, outlining his pub mat. “So far, it's pretty routine. The risks might be exaggerated.”

I frowned, knowing he still meant me. That had probably been a dig at my false alarm earlier. Maybe I deserved it, but . . .

“It sounded dangerous to me,” I argued in my own defense. “Really dangerous. People have already gotten”—I broke off, unable to say
killed
without alerting Ashley that we were both investigating the same murder—“seriously hurt.”

For the first time, she gave me her full attention. Her pretty face filled with disbelief. “Are you a bodyguard, too?”

Ha. I tried not to spit out my mouthful of bitters. “No.”

Unless the bad guys needed an expert opinion about Trinitario cacao beans versus Forastero and Criollo—or a hands-on demonstration of melting chocolate using an ordinary household hair dryer—I wasn't equipped to do the same things Danny did on a regular basis. Detect threats. Disarm threats. Rinse and repeat as needed, all while remaining inscrutable.

Even I couldn't tell if Danny was genuinely interested in Ashley, and I've known Danny for ages. He was just that enigmatic. For better or worse, that quality was part of his appeal. Women seemed to go crazy for Danny's unknowable side.

And his physical side, too. All except me, of course.

Speaking of me, though . . . I was getting antsy. I was pretty sure Ashley wasn't leading us anywhere close to finding Jeremy's killer. Members of the U.K.'s tabloid press were the ones desperately in need of lucrative stories, not journalists in the U.S. If anyone in the media had gotten murderous with Jeremy, I doubted Ashley would know about it. Aside from her seeming lack of experience and insight, if the way she'd been fondling Danny for the past few minutes was any indication, Ashley was right-handed.

The killer, George had said, was probably left-handed.

It looked as though we were back to square one. Even if Ashley Fowler had despised Jeremy more than she hated “skeevy pubs” and a lack of chitchat, she probably wasn't our killer. I doubted she had the wherewithal to discover who was, either.

Silently, I gave Danny our top-secret SOS signal: a barely detectible head scratch. Originally, we'd used it to ditch dates that weren't going well. Lately, we'd been forced to adapt it for more multipurpose use. Our circumstances had changed a lot since the days when we'd trawled SoCal watering holes together.

I wasn't talking about the “circumstances” of my inherited fortune, either. While that's not exactly Danny's favorite subject to deal with—even though it had brought me (wonderfully) into orbit with Travis—it wasn't relevant to the second (ahem) head scratch I delivered.

My longtime buddy caught on. We excused ourselves.

On the way out, I had an idea. I motioned for Danny to wait, then caught the barman's attention. I watched him lumber over with chary eyes and a bar towel thrown over his shoulder.

“I already told your friend everything I'm going to.”

I smiled. “I know. Thanks.” It was time to play my hunch. “I want to settle up for Jeremy Wright. Somebody has to pay his bar tab, right? All the beer for his parties wasn't cheap.”

For a long moment, the barman only glowered at me. I held my ground. If what Mr. Barclay had said before was correct, Jeremy had thrown a lot of wild parties at his town house. His drinks had to have come from someplace. The local (Jeremy's “favorite neighborhood pub” to you and me) seemed a good bet.

Eventually, the barman's head for business won out. He gave me a nod, then went in the back. While a puzzled Danny looked on, I waited. Then I watched the barman return with a notepad.