Behind Chocolate Bars (13 page)

The room for the cocktail party portion of the evening was elegant but small for so many guests, and I couldn't hear anything across the room. But I was watching when Erica turned to chat with Newell as they ordered drinks.

An elderly woman in a gray suit with green trim grabbed my sleeve when I attempted to move closer. “Could you be a dear and get a pillow from the library? I'm afraid this old back just can't handle these chairs anymore.” She looked up at me, smiling with big cheeks like a chipmunk. “Not one of the frilly ones. Those little knobbies are even worse than nothing. One of the smooth satin ones.”

“Of course,” I said. I stopped in the kitchen to ask which of the many doors led to the library, then stepped into the dim light of a lavish room with books from floor to ceiling—Erica's
idea of heaven—and grabbed the first non-knobby pillow I could find.

“You're new here,” a man's voice said from near the fireplace as I turned to rush back.

I gasped. “Sorry to disturb you. I didn't know anyone was in here.” It didn't help that he looked a little bit devilish with the way the fire played over his face, shadowing half of it.

He stood up and took a step toward me. “But you look very familiar,” he said, his voice both playful and curious, as if we were in a game. “Where do I know you from?”

“I don't know.” It came out a little defensively as I edged toward the door. “I have to take this back.”

“I never forget a face,” he said. He tapped his finger on his chin in an impish manner. “Let me think.”

“Can I get you something?” I asked, and took a step backward.

“Not at this moment.” He kept his eyes on me as I rushed back to the room where the cocktail party was being held. I delivered the pillow, following the woman's directions to place it behind her lower back, and moved to the corner to watch Erica operate.

The man from the library appeared beside me and I jumped. “You're that chocolatier who solves mysteries!” He looked around the room in time to see the expression on Newell's face harden, which didn't bode well for us getting any information. Newell got to his feet with a scowl and headed for the farthest door from us.

“You're asking Newell about Faith?” Library Man asked with a shocked expression. He was short, just a couple of
inches taller than me. His face was thin, and his hair was graying at the temples. “But why?”

“What?” I managed after my heart calmed down. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Erica spoke to Phoenix before heading over to me.

I took a few steps away from the man to meet her. “What happened?” I asked quietly.

“As soon as I mentioned Faith, he got extremely angry and walked out the door.” Erica seemed surprised that she'd caused such a response.

“You are so wrong.” The man from the library had stayed right on my heels.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Ullman Childers.” He held out his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

I shook his hand, even though his greeting was said in a mocking tone. Why did all these rich people have odd names?

Ullman Childers looked at Lockett, who was staring at us with narrowed eyes. “Let's go somewhere quiet, so I can explain.”

M
inutes later we were housed in a small meeting room of the club, surrounded by mahogany walls and flowered overstuffed chairs mixed with ancient leather couches that were as soft as butter. I expected Lockett to burst in at any moment. Maybe Phoenix was keeping him away.

“What can you tell us about Newell?” Erica asked. She looked perfectly at ease in her black cocktail dress and tasteful gold jewelry, her long legs tucked against the chair like a perfect lady.

“He's a dear friend,” Ullman said. “But he can be a bit stodgy, which happens to people who are born with as much money as he was.”

“You weren't?” I asked.

“Born with a silver spoon in my mouth?” he asked. “Oh heavens, no.” He leaned toward us as if letting us in on a
delicious secret. “I have far fewer zeroes in my bank account than all of these people, but I'm valuable in a whole other way.”

“And what way is that?” Erica asked.

“I am a fund-raising genius,” he said. “And that's me being modest. All of these people here have their pet charities—all very important and meaningful organizations in their own way—and I help them raise tons of money for them.”

“How?” I asked.

“I'm a charming bastard,” he said simply, as if that explained it. “I used to be a stockbroker. It's the same basic steps to get people to part with their money.”

Erica changed gears. “How do you know Newell wasn't involved?”

“He was head over heels in love with her,” he said. “He'd never hurt her.”

Erica shifted in her leather chair. My face might have shown my skepticism too because Ullman gave an impatient sigh. “He doesn't have it in him,” he said. “He's simply incapable of violence.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“People like him don't really live, if they're not careful. They just cling to what they have. Being conservative in everything they do. After his second even-more-boring-than-he-was wife filed for divorce, I encouraged, dared him even, to date outside his very insular circle. I wanted to push him out of his comfort zone.”

“And he met Faith,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “She was so delightfully—how should I say it?—
not
conservative. Young. Adventurous. A breath of fresh air. Or so I thought.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I noticed pretty early that she was an operator,” Ullman said. “It takes one to know one.”

Erica raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Asking the man to donate to some horse charity that seemed pretty irregular,” he said in a dismissive tone. “Getting him to pay for her car repairs. It was rather distasteful.”

“Did you tell Newell what you thought of her?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said.

“And what did he say?”

“By then it was too late,” Ullman said. “He was completely enamored of her. He had an excuse for everything she did.”

“That must have been upsetting for you,” Erica said, “to see your friend taken in like that.”

His expression turned wary. “Dear girl, I had nothing to do with her murder.”

“Of course not,” Erica said. “He eventually saw the light, right?”

“Yes,” he said. “And none too soon.” He stopped, obviously hiding something.

“How did that happen?” I asked.

He pursed his lips. “Okay. Since Newell will most likely spill the beans as soon as Phoenix's beau gets to him, I'll confess.”

“What?” I prompted him.

“When I found out that ninny had actually
changed his will
to include her, and then
told her about it
, I hired a private investigator.” He raised his chin as if proving that he was proud of his actions.

“What did the private investigator find?” Erica asked.

I bet she wanted to get a look at
that
report.

“That she was a scam artist,” he said. “Just like I suspected.”

“What did Newell say to that?”

“At first he didn't believe the report on her criminal past,” he said, “but then he encountered little mishaps and came to believe he might be in real danger. From her.”

I sat up straight. Chuck had mentioned that Mr. Rich Man had dumped Faith because of “accidents.” “What kind of mishaps?”

“A railing on the deck of Newell's house was tampered with, and one of his employees was injured. The temperature of his water heater was turned way up. Then the brake line of his collectible Porsche was cut,” he said, turning angry. “Right after Newell changed his will? They couldn't all be coincidences.”

“His brake line was cut?” I asked. “What happened?”

“Nothing, but only because he saw the brake fluid on the ground before he drove it,” Ullman said, his voice indignant. “He could have been killed.”

“And that's when Newell broke up with her?” Erica asked.

“Yes,” Ullmann said. “But just in case he wavered that time, I was forced to apply some social pressure.”

“What do you mean?”

“He still didn't believe his little girlfriend was capable of such things, but then I told all of our friends how utterly stupid he was being, and with everyone, including his rather demanding family, clamoring for him to get rid of her, he finally called it quits.”

We stayed quiet for a moment.

“Are you still friends?” I asked.

“No, not at all like before,” he said in a somber tone. “But at least Newell is still alive.”

*   *   *

I
was up early the next morning. I planned to spend the entire time before our late Sunday opening waiting for Leo. If he didn't show up in time, Erica would open up for me and call Kayla in for backup.

What were all these early-morning motorcycle rides about? Was Leo running from demons or riding toward something better?

I parked in front of his apartment building in the shade of a huge elm tree that would hide my chocolate-photo-covered minivan until he was too close to drive away. I still wasn't quite sure what I was going to say to him. Leo had experienced so much loss in his life. First our parents and then his fellow soldiers. Even his leg. It was no wonder he'd experienced PTSD. But he'd been doing so much better. He shouldn't have to go through that pain again.

He pulled up just as I was about to call Erica and let her know I'd be late. I waited for him to park in his assigned spot in the garage and take off his helmet before approaching him.

“Good morning!” I said cheerfully and handed him a coffee the way he liked it, with a lot of cream and sugar.

He smiled tightly, knowing it wasn't a social call, and took the now-not-so-hot coffee. I noticed that his face looked leaner, as if he'd lost weight in the past week.

“You working out?” I asked.

He shook his head and took a sip, not looking me in the eye.

“Not eating?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Not hungry.”

“Leo,” I said. “You know you have to keep your diet and sleeping schedule and everything consistent.”

“Right,” he said. “Like you take such good care of yourself.”

“This isn't about me.” I'd practiced that line. “I'm worried about you.”

He looked incredulous. “If you were worried about me, you'd stop this nonsense.”

I bristled at his manipulation, but made myself stay on track. “It's not your job to take care of me anymore,” I said. “You have to take care of yourself. How are you doing on that?”

And with that question, his belligerence left him. He sat down heavily on the concrete wall leading to his steps. His stooped shoulders telegraphed defeat.

“Leo?” I asked, wanting to cry.

He whispered, “I can't . . .”

I sat down beside him and rubbed his back. “What is happening?”

“I don't know.” His face was so lost, I got scared.

I wrapped my arms around him and hung on tight, tears coming to my own eyes. “Can I ask you some questions?”

He nodded once stiffly.

“Are you still seeing your therapist?”

A nod.

“Are you still taking your meds?”

Another nod.

An intense wave of relief washed over me. If he was doing both of those, he could weather this storm.

I blinked away my tears. “Worst day ever?”

He took a deep breath and the tension in his body relaxed just a little, and he shook his head.

*   *   *

N
othing was solved with Leo, other than me letting him know several times that I loved him no matter what. We didn't discuss the whole him-being-overprotective thing, and I really hoped that was behind us.

Lockett stopped by the store after our lunch rush. “So you talked to Mr. Childers last night.”

I wasn't up to sparring with the police, especially after such an emotional scene with my brother.

“What are you talking about?” I tried to look innocent. “Coffee?”

“Sure,” he said, sliding into a stool at the counter. “You look tired.”

I shook my head, not rising to the bait. “Thanks for the compliment.”

He waited a moment. “You don't look so bad.” His voice was gruff.

I sighed. “I'm fine. I just had a difficult conversation with Leo.”

“I get it,” he said. “So I won't yell at you.”

“You promise?” I asked.

He raised his eyebrows in a
don't push it
way before admitting, “Mr. Woodfellow was on our radar too. We had an appointment to talk to him this morning, and he said Erica had ambushed him at the country club last night. He's not pleased that a fellow country club member betrayed him.”

“First of all,” I inserted, “he gave you an appointment? He totally blew us off.”

Lockett's jaw tightened. “I guess it's more difficult to blow off an officer of the law.”

Oh yeah, there was that. “Second of all, he really used the word ‘betrayed'?” I asked. “Is he going to challenge Phoenix to a duel?”

Lockett smiled. “I believe there's an unwritten code, or perhaps even a written one, that Phoenix broke.”

“Did Newell confess?” I asked. “Did he do it?”

“Because of Erica's little stunt, Mr. Woodfellow had his attorney with him,” he said.

“So he's guilty?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Just careful. He actually has an alibi. He was at a fund-raiser for the next congresswoman for Frederick.”

I opened my mouth, about to say, “But—” except he cut me off.

“There are photographs in the paper,” he said.

I opened my mouth again, ready to tell him that maybe he should look into Newell's way too involved friend.

“And his buddy, your new best friend, Mr. Childers, was at the event as well.”

I scowled. “Are you psychic?”

“No,” he said. “But much to my dismay, I'm beginning to understand how you think.”

“What about all of those accidents Newell had?” I asked. “They have to mean something.”

“Now that's still a mystery,” he said. “He never reported them, but since they may be connected to this murder, we're
looking into them. Unfortunately, any evidence is probably long gone.”

“Do you think Faith was behind them?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” he said. “Unless she knows how to cut a brake line and break into a house to turn the temperature up on a water heater.”

“I wouldn't put it past her,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows. “Anything you'd like to share?”

I ignored his question. “Ooh, are we becoming work buddies, like, colleagues?”

“Don't push it,” he said.

“So, rings,” I said. “That sounds serious.”

“Yes,” he said, his face warning me not to go there.

I'd have to find out how serious from Phoenix.

“Are you going to ask Reese about her progress?” I regretted it as soon as the words left my mouth. Was I feeling competitive with that dingbat?

He sighed. “Not that you'll listen, but this murder was particularly brutal. You all should stop what you're doing, Reese included. The victim was beaten with a baseball bat, even after she was dead. Whoever did this is a maniac.”

*   *   *

A
fter Lockett finished his coffee and Wild Huckleberry Milks and left, I realized that he hadn't mentioned Chuck, which meant he probably didn't know that we'd talked to him. That was good, because we had new questions for Chuck.

I went to the office to call Bean, who was waiting for a phone call from his contact in Baltimore. “Can you use your
burner phone to get a message to Chuck?” As a journalist, he often used prepaid, untraceable cell phones with his sources.

“Sure.” He sounded amused that I was using the phrase “burner phone.” It did make me feel kinda cool.

“Can you ask him to meet us at the same place for a meal this week?” I asked.

“Will do,” he said.

“But don't offer fifty bucks this time,” I said. “Maybe he'll do it for a free lunch.”

“You know what they say,” he started.

“I know, there's no such thing,” I said. “How's Truffles?”

“A handful,” he said. “One: he never sleeps. And I'm not sure how long I can keep him as an indoor cat. He's always trying to get out. It's a good thing he's cute.”

“Aw,” I said.

“Colleen brought the kids over earlier,” he said. “They all had a great time but Truffles is exhausted.”

“I'll bet,” I said. His sister Colleen's twins were adorable but could certainly tire out a tiny kitty.

“I gave Erica a key for you,” he said, his voice casual. “I was hoping you could check on him tonight if I end up staying later than I planned.”

“Sure,” I said, looking forward to seeing that little monster again.