Behind Chocolate Bars (12 page)

*   *   *

I
believed her. We got to the mall early for our meeting with Chuck, and watched all the families shopping together as well as the teens who had nothing better to do than hang at the mall. I'd spent a lot of time at the mall when I was a teen too.

Since I'd only seen Chuck passed out on the couch and wasn't sure I'd recognize him, we'd printed out his Facebook profile photo.

He showed up on time, but I had to look at his photo twice to make sure it was the same person. He looked like he hadn't shaved in days and wore a black leather “tough guy” jacket and sunglasses. When he took them off to look for us, he winced at the light coming through the glass ceiling. He saw Erica's wave and joined us at a table.

Up close, his eyes were red and puffy and the smell of alcohol seemed to emanate from his skin. Like he'd been on a bender the night before and his body was trying to get rid of the toxins.

“Hi, Chuck,” Erica said. “I'm Erica and this is Michelle.”

“Hey,” he said. He turned a chair around and sat on it backward, full of aggression. “Where's the money?” He smoothed the hair out of his eyes with a gesture that seemed much younger than a twentysomething's.

She slid the cash over to him. “Thanks so much for your time.”

He grabbed it and shoved it in his jacket pocket, seeming ready to bail at any moment. “What do you want?”

Over his shoulder, I noticed Junior coming down the corridor. Uh-oh. Chuck was being followed and no one on the West Riverdale police force would like us talking to him.

I stood up to block Junior's view. “Would you like to go into Kelly's Pub and get away from this crowd?” I asked. “Our treat.”

“Sure.” He pushed up from the chair. “I gotta eat.”

“We're very sorry for your loss,” Erica said as we walked through a pack of teen girls squealing about something on their cell phones to the restaurant at the other end of the food court. “It's hard to lose a friend in such a terrible way.”

He grunted.

Really? A grunt? I glanced over at him and saw an expression of grief wipe away the tough-guy look for just a moment. Then he shook his head once as if getting rid of the bad feelings.

I looked over my shoulder as I went into the restaurant and saw Junior heading the wrong way.

I knew Erica was anxious to ask more questions, but she waited until we were seated. The restaurant was decorated like a stereotypical Irish pub, with photos of Ireland on the walls along with an
Every Day is St. Paddy's Day!
sign, and
too many four-leaf clovers to count. Someone had tried for some originality by painting a mural on the wall but even that was pretty hokey, with castle ruins, rolling green hills and cows spotting the landscape, and a tiny leprechaun with a pot of gold in the corner.

When the waiter in a Kelly-green T-shirt came over to take our order, Erica asked for iced tea, probably hoping Chuck would follow suit, but he ordered a pint of Guinness. It was way early for me, but I ordered a pint of Harp so it didn't look like we were ganging up on him. I'd just have to nurse it.

The place was empty, and our drinks came right away. We ordered our food and Erica started. “The super said you and Faith were friends.”

He snorted. “I bet he didn't have anything that nice to say about me.”

She shrugged, waiting for him to answer.

“She used to come over and party,” he admitted.

“Did you date?” she asked.

He snorted again so hard he choked a little. “Hell no. No way could I afford her.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He stared at me, as if evaluating how much we knew.

“She only dated guys with money,” he said. “And I didn't think of her that way.” He paused, as if dredging up a memory. “Well, not since the beginning.”

“Why not?”

He struggled to explain, as if figuring it out himself. “She knew how to keep things on a certain level, like a friend level, right away. Acting like, you know, a guy would.”

Erica raised her eyebrows.

“Like putting her feet up on the table,” he said. “And, I don't know, burping and shoving food in her mouth. She acted different around the guys she dated. More ladylike.”

“Do you think she did that on purpose?”

“Sure,” he said. “She was letting me know right away where I stood. It was cool.”

“Did you know about her business?”

He stiffened.

“Talking to us can only help you,” Erica said. “We know you didn't kill her.”

Chuck looked like he wasn't sure he believed her. I wasn't sure myself if she'd meant it.

The waiter brought our food. Chicken Caesar salad for Erica and corned beef sandwiches and fries for both Chuck and me.

Chuck took a big bite and chewed before answering. “I couldn't miss what she was doing,” he said. “'Cause those guys were at her place sometimes. At first, I thought . . .”

“What?” Erica asked, her fork holding a large chunk of lettuce in the air.

“That she was some kind of high-class hooker, you know?”

“But she wasn't,” she said.

He shook his head. “Not at all. When I got to know her, she explained her whole setup to me. Genius, really.”

“You mean the way she organized it all?” Erica seemed genuinely interested.

“Yeah,” he said, getting enthused. “And how she played those guys. They were so easy to fool.”

“Believing that she actually liked them?” I asked. I took a huge bite of the perfectly seasoned corned beef, gooey
Swiss cheese and wonderfully acidic sauerkraut. I was in heaven.

“Yeah.” He curled his lip. “And sending her money and stuff. Idiots.”

“I'm surprised they didn't get mad when they figured it out,” Erica said, but he didn't seem to realize what she was fishing for.

“People are stupid,” he said. “Most of them never did. And if they seemed suspicious, she always had a reason why she couldn't see them anymore. Like she was moving or too sick for a relationship. Or getting back together with her cop husband. That scared a bunch of them off.”

“Did she talk about any of them in particular?” I asked. I took a sip of Harp, which went perfectly with my delicious salty sandwich, dripping with cheese.

“Mostly just this one really rich guy.” He sipped his Guinness and wiped the foam off his lip. “He belonged to some country club and she dumped everyone else to focus on him.”

“When was this?” Erica asked.

We were getting good at this tag-teaming.

“About a month ago,” he said. “But he ended it.”

“What happened?”

“They had a big fight,” he said. “I could hear her yelling on the phone with him from my apartment. See, he was pretty old. He really dug her and had even changed his will to give her some money if he croaked or something. And then some really weird stuff started happening to him, like things going wrong in his car and at his house, and he accused her of causing them.”

“Wow,” I said. “And did she?”

“No!” He looked insulted. “She didn't want him dead. She wanted to live that country club life.
With
him,” he emphasized.

“Do you remember his name?” Erica asked.

“It was weird. Like Newton Goodman or something like that.”

“Newell Woodfellow?” Erica asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” he said, turning cautious. “How'd you know?”

“He's kind of a big deal around here,” I said, covering for her. “So they broke up?”

“Yeah,” he said. “And she was really unhappy about it. Because she didn't know anything about those accidents and he didn't believe her. It kinda made her more, I don't know, determined to find someone else to marry and maybe not do this anymore.”

Was that when she started dating Oscar? I thought about what it must be like, for him to be the focus of all of that manipulation.

“So she wasn't worried about anyone finding out that she played him and getting angry?” Erica asked.

He shrugged. “She never had a problem.” Then he paused. “Except a few weeks ago, she said one of her exes might be following her. And to let her know if I saw anyone watching her apartment.”

“And did you ever see anyone?”

He shook his head but looked away. “I'm not really outside much. But then she said she talked to the guy and took care of it.”

“How?” I asked.

He shrugged. “She kinda implied that she kicked his butt.
She knew self-defense. She said she had to, with her line of work.”

“Did she ever mention him following her again?”

“Nope.” He ate his last bite of sandwich, while I debated finishing the sandwich or eating the fries. The sandwich won.

We'd been avoiding the elephant in the room. “So how did her belongings end up in your apartment?” I asked.

He swallowed as if finding it difficult, and looked down at the ground. “I was really drunk, and I was mad at my dad, who said he was cutting me off. Again. Faith sometimes helped me out and I always paid her back. When my parents came around. She said I was the only one in the world she loaned money to. But I guess she was in a bad mood or something, and she told me off. She had all this nice stuff and so much money . . .”

“And you cracked under all that pressure?” Erica asked.

“Yeah,” he said, he shoulders slumping. “She went out on another date when I was thinking I could be homeless. And that was the same night . . .”

“The night she was killed,” Erica said.

“Yeah,” he said. “But I would never hurt her. As soon as I sobered up, I woulda given it back.” He paused. “But then I heard what happened to her and I knew the police would think I did it. I didn't know what to do.”

“Do you have any ideas about a possible suspect?” I asked.

“I don't know,” he said. “But if any of those guys found out how they were played?” He shook his head. “Who knows what he'd do?”

“N
ewell Woodfellow broke up with her?” I asked. “It's a good thing we're going to the Halloween gala tonight. We can ask him about these accidents.”

Erica stared out the window, her brain probably going over every facet of her investigation project plan and this new information about Newell. “Yes,” she said absentmindedly. “I'm just wondering why someone like him dated her, and what possible reason he could have to kill her.”

“To keep his money?” I asked. “That seems to be what a lot of rich people like to do.”

“But they weren't married. If what Chuck said was true, and he really did change his will, he could change it back. Perhaps it's something to do with his reputation,” she suggested. She pulled out her laptop and I lost her to her spreadsheets.

I let my mind consider other possibilities. “Maybe she was pregnant with his baby!”

She laughed. “I think the police would have figured that out. And then there'd be DNA evidence.”

We were approaching our town. “Are you going to the store or home?”

“You can drop me off at the store,” Erica said. “I have a few things to work on but I'll be home in time to change before Phoenix picks me up at seven.”

“I have to be at the country club at six,” I said. “In all my catering waitstaff glory.” Of course, I'd be going in the back door.

Erica frowned. “You can't take the minivan.”

“Oh yeah.” I was supposed to be undercover, and my car was wrapped with an advertisement for my chocolates.

“My car should make it, but I know you don't want to push it. We can stop at the charging station after the gala or maybe you can switch cars with Bean at May's party.”

She knew I had “range anxiety” when her electric car's charge read less than twenty miles in the metaphorical gas tank.

“Bean's going to May's?” I asked. “I didn't know that.” I couldn't imagine that he could fit a cat into his life. He barely had time for me. “I have to pick up chocolate to take to the party.” The fact that my hostess gifts were always chocolate just might be the reason I was invited to any parties at all.

I dashed into the store while Erica followed more leisurely. Kona was chatting with ladies who had stopped over for truffles, tea and gossip after their weekly bridge tournament in the community center, and Kayla was gift-wrapping a huge coffee-table book for an older couple.

Kona called out, “Hello and good-bye!” as I rushed by the counter. I pulled a pre-chosen “traditional” box from the cooler in the kitchen and went out the back door, where my minivan was parked.

May had a delightful little house not too far from Main Street, and I arrived only a few minutes late. I'd been there before, surprised that she'd kept her décor free of anything remotely related to flowers, other than the florist-themed gifts in her kitchen—the mechanical flower that danced to music, a photo of flowers with
Be Calm and Smell the Flowers
on it, and a little sign that had a small, medium and large bouquet of roses with
How Mad Is She?
written beside it.

She said she relaxed better in a simply decorated home. Her walls were painted cream, with very few items hanging on them, and her furniture was modern with clean lines.

For the party, she'd brought flowers from her store and had decorated in an adorable winning-lottery-ticket theme, with enlarged lottery tickets and Maryland Lottery checks taped to the walls. The checks were made out to
Winner of Free Kitty
and with
A lifetime of happiness
on the line where the dollar amount was normally written.

“Welcome, welcome,” May said. “I'm so glad you could make it—especially since you brought chocolates.” She hugged me and happily took the box. “I'll put this on the dessert table. But I'm hiding it in the back.” She laughed. “Drinks are in the kitchen and food is on the dining room table.”

Truffles immediately came over to me, winding his way through the crowd and mewing. I sat on a beige ottoman and let him climb on me, petting his soft fur. “I'll miss you
most of all, Scarecrow,” I whispered, unexpectedly fighting back tears.

Bean must have seen me arrive, because he handed me a soda and sat on the chair opposite me. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I drew it out, my disappointment most likely written on my face.

He wore an unbuttoned green flannel shirt over a T-shirt and khakis, and his brown eyes were sympathetic. He held out his plate piled with appetizers. “Mozzarella sticks? Mr. Zelini brought them.”

“My favorite,” I said. Truffles jumped to the floor and then crawled up my leg again, his tiny claws digging in. He sniffed the food before taking off to chase after Nibs.

“How'd it go at the mall?” he asked.

The background noise of the party made it hard for anyone to overhear us, but I decided to talk in code anyway. “Interesting,” I said. “He knew her pretty well, including her whole operation.”

“Got some names to go after?” he asked.

“Aren't you in the middle of your own deal?” I asked. He was investigating something to do with prison guards. As usual, he didn't discuss it with anyone except his editor, but I'd overheard a conversation about it.

“I can do two things at once,” he said. “But I may have to cancel our date night tomorrow. I have an appointment to interview a Baltimore cop.”

I shrugged off my disappointment. “No problem.”

“You should come and check out the progress on the house,” he said with enthusiasm. He'd painted his office and the bedroom and more furniture had been delivered.

My pulse quickened at the mention of his bedroom. “Sounds like everything's on track.” I was proud of my nonchalant tone.

He gave me a lazy smile. “You'll have to come over and celebrate.”

I blushed. “Absolutely.”

He held my gaze for a moment and then looked away, pushing out a breath as if he'd held it too long. Whoa.

Just then May clapped her hands. “Can I have everyone's attention? It's time for what you've all been waiting for.” She waited until all of her guests had gathered in the living and dining rooms and quieted down.

Truffles slid his way back to me and crawled up to cuddle in my lap, as if understanding that something momentous in his little life was about to happen. I was surprised to see that my hands shook as I petted him.

I shouldn't be worried. May had carefully vetted everyone on the list, and Truffles would be well cared for. Maybe I could drop by and visit him. I hadn't asked for any details of who was on her list, but now I wished I had.

“Last chance to put your name in!” May had asked everyone to write their name on a small piece of paper and place it in a bowl. “I'm going to pick names out of the hat, I mean, bowl, and if your name is called, you get to pick your kitten.”

Iris called out from near the kitchen, “Yun better pick ma name first!” and the crowd laughed.

“Drumroll, please,” May said with a smile, and her guests obliged, tapping on whatever surface was close to them. She put her hand in the bowl, moved it around dramatically, then pulled out and unrolled the tiny paper. “And the first name is . . . Benjamin Russell!”

Almost everyone cheered good-naturedly, while a few people said, “Aw.”

I blinked, not sure I'd heard correctly. I turned to look at him, my mouth open.

He stood up, his eyes on me. “I pick Truffles.”

*   *   *

“I
can't believe you were first,” I said. I had given up trying to hold Truffles in my lap and had put him back into the cat carrier that May had provided for each new owner. The little brat was sticking his tiny paw through any hole close to the latch, attempting to escape so he could explore this new world of Bean's car. I was tagging along on his trip to the pet store before trading cars with him for the country club.

May had told Bean, “This lil' bugger takes after her momma,” when she'd patted him good-bye. There may have been a little relief on her face.

Bean looked a little sheepish.

“What?” I asked.

“Don't tell anyone,” he said. “Especially Iris.”

Iris had been deeply unhappy about not getting a kitten and let everyone know it. None of the new owners should be eating at the diner anytime soon.

Bean went on. “May and I kinda had an arrangement.”

“Really?”

“She knew how attached you are to Truffles, even though you can't keep him yourself. I wanted to make sure I got him so you could still come to see him. But neither one of us wanted to
cheat
cheat. So I suggested, hypothetically, that if I were to roll my name up into a tiny ball she just might be able to reach around and pick it out first.”

For the second time that day, I was dumbfounded. “I love you guys,” I blurted out, and then was horrified. “I mean, you know what I mean. It's just such a nice thing for you to do. Both of you. For me.”
Stop talking right this instant
, I told myself.

His head had whipped around to stare at me, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out what he was thinking. “Everyone loves you,” he said simply, and turned to watch the road.

I started sweating and desperately searched for a new subject. “May said Coco was getting spayed on Monday, so I guess she won't be showing up on my porch again for at least a week.”

He winced at the word “spayed.”

“What?” I said. “You're taking Truffles in soon, right?”

“Let's just call it ‘the procedure,'” he said.

I snickered. “We should stop at the Pampered Pet Store. They have May's list of recommendations for food and toys and stuff. Knowing her, she probably has a cat bed made out of mink on there.”

He smiled, giving the little joke far more than it deserved. “From what I remember from having cats growing up, they don't need much more than food, water and a paper bag.”

“Right,” I said. “Let's see how many toys you'll have when we leave.”

*   *   *

W
e got out of the Pampered Pet with only one bag of cat toys, but also food, bowls, an elaborate “cat condo” with a scratching post, and most important, an automatic litter box.

“What are you going to do when you travel?” I asked.
Bean had visited countries in the most remote parts of the world, sometimes for months at a time.

“I'm cutting way back on that,” he said. “And between you, me and Erica, he'll be taken care of.”

I smiled at the idea that he thought we'd be connected in the future.

I helped him put all cat-related items in the now-empty room that was destined to be a home gym, and watched Truffles ignore it all to go straight for the closed door when we opened the carrier.

“Not happening, cat,” Bean said, amused. Truffles stared right at him as if challenging his authority. Then he walked over to meow and wind around Bean's ankles, choosing diplomacy, and probably cunning, over outright defiance.

Bean looked adorably baffled when Truffles ignored even a mouse toy filled with catnip to explore the room for alternate escape routes.

“You're going to have your work cut out for you,” I told him. “Can you hold on to him while I get out the door? I have to go serve some rich folks their appetizers.”

*   *   *

I
wanted to dislike the members of the Dulany Hills Country Club, but everyone I served was delightful, thanking me for their appetizers and seeming to have a wonderful time at the cocktail party, as if hanging out with a bunch of old friends. Not everyone was dressed to the nines. Plenty were in what I'd consider business casual, with a few men in golf shirts, their discarded sports jackets hanging on chairs. Maybe rich people weren't so bad.

I returned from the kitchen with a tray of bacon-wrapped
scallops and saw Phoenix and Erica handing their coats to the coat-check clerk. A little crowd had gathered and even though I stood on my tiptoes, I couldn't see Phoenix's date.

Then the crowd parted and I saw him. I couldn't have been more stunned.

Detective Lockett.

His amused eyes took in my black vest and white shirt and shocked expression.

I ran through our short history and the clues clicked into place. Detective Lockett and Phoenix were a couple. I smiled and walked over to him. “Bacon-wrapped scallop?” I offered.

He shook his head at me with a mixture of annoyance and entertainment. “What are you up to?”

Phoenix put his hand on his arm, wearing a ring that matched Lockett's. “Be nice to the staff, Roger.” His eyes laughed at me, delighted with his surprise.

It was hard for me to think of him as Roger.

“Nice ring,” I said.

He started to say something but was interrupted by a man with a Southern accent. “Detective!”

“We'll talk later,” Lockett said, and turned away.

Erica had taken the opportunity to zero in on Newell while the detective was distracted. She'd sent me his photo from the Board Members page of the country club website, and he looked exactly like I'd expected—a well-kept man in his sixties wearing a conservative suit and red tie. He had arrived alone and taken a seat at the corner of the ornate wooden bar. He had plenty of company as members greeted him while ordering drinks and then moved out of the way
for others getting their drinks. A good location for not getting stuck talking to anyone for very long.

Erica must have talked Phoenix into introducing her to Newell. They were discreet about their goal, but if anyone was watching like me, they'd see the pair making a slow but inexorable journey to Newell's end of the bar. It might have taken a shorter amount of time, but Phoenix seemed to know just about everyone along the way, pausing to say hello and introduce Erica.

I desperately wanted to watch, and could busy myself with cleaning up discarded glasses in the corner only so long. Finally, after making it through the phalanx of Phoenix fans, they were standing right beside Newell Woodfellow the Third. Luckily, Lockett was distracted by his own conversation with the Southern man, who gestured a lot with his hands.