Behind Chocolate Bars (16 page)

“Sure,” she said. “Are you okay?”

I blinked at her. “But you've been in business for, like, ever, and I've been around only a couple of years.”

She tilted her head as if trying to figure out what I meant. “We're partners.” She paused. “And best friends. Nothing can affect that.”

I blew out a breath, suddenly having to blink back tears. “But don't you worry that it would change things?”

“No,” she said. “It's just numbers. And probably a legal document.”

“But . . .”

“Are
you
worried that it'll change things?” she asked.

I took a moment to answer. “Yes.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Then we won't do it,” she said. “But let's see Phoenix's recommendations and decide then.”

I handed her the folder. “Phoenix said this is everything we need.”

She put it to one side. “Great. Let's look at them on our own and discuss it when things aren't so crazy.”

I nodded and changed the subject. “How's Dylan?”

She paused. “I'm not sure.”

“Did you ask him anything?”

She shook her head. “No. He's here for a reprieve. Not a bunch of questions.”

*   *   *

T
he next day, we met Chuck at noon at the mall, this time inside Kelly's Pub. Erica had driven me to the next town to pick up my rental minivan, which wasn't anywhere near as cool as mine. I had to reject the one that stunk of cigarette smoke, but after driving this one a few miles, it started to smell a little like wet dog.

Once again, Chuck reeked of alcohol. I suffered for our investigation and had another Harp to match his Guinness. My mouth watered at the memory of the corned beef sandwich, and I kept looking over my shoulder after we ordered to see if our waiter was returning with our food yet.

Erica asked Chuck if the police had told him anything yet.

“Not a chance,” he said with bitterness. “But they're not following me anymore.” He wore his black leather jacket but had lost his tough-guy sneer.

“We had a few questions that only a true friend of Faith's could answer,” Erica said. “And it seemed like she didn't have many of those. Did you ever meet her other friends?”

“No,” he said. “She kept most people at a distance.”

“So you were her only real friend?”

He paused, looking like he was trying to get his hungover brain synapses to fire. “I guess so. She made some other friends, like this one lady, but they didn't stick around very long.”

“So no other friends?” I asked. “That she didn't meet online?”

“Not really. Maybe her pawnshop guy.”

“We met him,” I said. “He seemed like a good guy. He really misses her.”

Erica let him take a sip and then asked, “Did she like any of the guys she dated?”

“Sure,” he said. “She wasn't a monster. But she was real practical. She needed someone who could take care of her. But she didn't date guys she didn't like. For very long, anyway.” He waved his hand around. “Maybe because there were just so many out there.”

Erica nodded. “Did she ever fall in love?”

He thought for a minute. “She got really excited about one guy that she didn't meet online. He didn't know about, you know, her business, and she liked that he thought of her as innocent or something.”

Just then, our waiter brought our food. Now I was more impatient for information and not the food.

“Did she
say
she was in love?” I asked as soon as the waiter left.

“Not in so many words. She said he made her happy, just
hanging out with him. She could relax around him, instead of having to fake it like with that rich guy at the country club.”

“Do you remember his name?” Erica took a sip of iced tea, acting casual, but her intent look gave her away.

He shook his head.

“Do you remember anything about him?”

“Only that she was really mad when she found out he didn't have as much money as he said he did,” he said. “He lied to her about owning the place where he worked.”

“What did he do?” I asked.

“I don't know,” he said, clearly wishing he could help us. “I think it was some kind of small business, maybe a blue-collar job?”

That narrowed it down.

“Why did they break up?” I asked.

“It was kind of a combination of things. The rich guy got serious about her at the same time she found out the other guy lied about owning that company. She can't—couldn't—abide lying.” Then he seemed to realize what he said. “Ironic, isn't it?”

“Did she have any family that she was close to?”

“She told me she had a brother who was married to a horrible woman who kept them apart.” He took a bite and chewed, wiping his mouth with his other hand. “But another time she said they were estranged, on account of her dad's abuse.”

“Abuse?” Erica said.

“Yeah,” he said. “But to tell you the truth, I wasn't sure if it was real or not. Whenever she drank a lot, she made up a bunch of stuff. And one time she said her dad used to hit her.”

“Did you think it really happened?” I asked, appalled.

He shrugged. “I know it sounds bad, but you could never really be sure with her.”

We waited.

“But if it was true,” he said. “It would explain a lot.”

“Like what?” Erica asked.

He shrugged. “Like how messed up about men she was. And, you know, why she cried for days when her dad died.”

“Days?” I asked. It didn't fit with the mean girl we'd heard about.

“She was a weird chick,” he said. “But I still miss her. She was a lot of fun.”

*   *   *

A
fter Chuck left, Erica called Bobby to ask him about Faith's brother. After some persuasion, he told her that Vaughn Monette had identified Faith's body, which hadn't been easy. She'd been so badly beaten up that the only way he knew for sure was a small tattoo of angel wings on her hip.

Bobby had probably told Erica that last bit to scare us.

“Another road trip?” I asked after Erica called Zane to look up Vaughn's address in Frederick for us.

We decided to surprise Faith's brother, and drove straight from the Irish restaurant to his home. We found a woman in her early thirties planting bulbs in the flower bed out front.

We debated waiting for a man to arrive on the scene, but after the third time the woman looked over at our car, we decided we'd better talk to her before she called the police on us. It was the kind of neighborhood where people didn't hang out in cars. I was surprised she hadn't called 911 already.

“No comment,” she said as we walked up.

“Oh, we're not with the press,” I rushed to say.

She pointed to a tiny No Soliciting sign at the end of her walkway. “I'm not buying anything.”

“We're looking for Vaughn Monette,” Erica said.

“I'm his wife, Nancy,” she said. “What do you want?”

“We're looking into his sister Faith's death,” Erica said. “We're hoping you can shed some light on what she was like.”

“Are you with the police?” She stood and began taking off her gardening gloves, pulling one finger at a time.

“We're here because a young boy has been falsely accused and we're trying to clear his name,” I said.

She stared at the row of bulbs she was working on, as if daring them to not be in a straight line, and then turned her glare on us. “You think you can implicate my husband?”

“No!” Erica said. “Not at all. We're just trying to find out all we can about her from the people who knew her best. We understand that your husband has an airtight alibi and has no motive.”

Either she got that information from Bobby and didn't tell me or she was getting good at making up stuff so we could get our questions answered.

Nancy blew out a breath. “You sure sound like those police.”

“I'm a bookstore owner and Michelle sells chocolates.”

Part of me bristled at the dismissive tone in Erica's voice even though I knew she was trying to let Nancy know we weren't a threat.

“I'm just surprised it didn't happen earlier,” Nancy said, with anger in her voice.

I caught my breath.

“Oh,” Erica said. “Because of how she . . . made money?”

“You mean conning men into falling in love with her and then bleeding them dry until she tossed them aside like garbage?” Nancy said in a cynical bray. “Yes, that's why. Maybe she was killed because she was a manipulative sociopath who only thought of people as targets to get something out of.”

“That's what we keep hearing,” Erica said. “Was she like that her whole life?”

“Sure was,” Nancy said. “She had their parents convinced she was an angel and blamed Vaughn for anything bad she did. With those big brown eyes, she had them totally fooled.”

She looked at the house across the street, and I turned in time to see a curtain twitch.

Nancy turned away, making it difficult for her neighbor to see her face. “I told Vaughn it started because she was born premature and wasn't expected to live,” she said. “And the entire family called her a miracle child her whole life. I took just one psych class in college and learned enough to know that she had full-blown Narcissistic Personality Disorder.”

I could think of a few people who probably had that.

“By the time they figured it out, it was too late,” she said. “They sent her to shrinks and everything, but that woman thought she was the center of the world and that everyone owed her. Finally her parents just moved far away from her.”

“What did she think about that?”

“She didn't care one wit,” she said dismissively. “Just kept sending them letters asking for money. I believe it's why they died so young. Wondering what they did to deserve a child like her.”

“Can you tell me what her relationship was like with your husband?”

She jutted her jaw out. “He's too much like his parents. He'd tell her to leave him alone but he still let her in once in a while, hoping she'd somehow grown up.” She snorted. “I kept telling him she was a complete narcissist and would never ‘grow up.'”

“Did she come around a lot?”

“Not often, and only when she wanted something.” She gave a satisfied smirk. “But not anymore.”

W
hoa. What did that mean?

“When was the last time you saw her?” I asked, treading lightly.

“Two weeks ago,” she said. “She actually knocked on our door and said she was here to take ‘her niece,'
my
daughter, out for a mani-pedi, like she had any right to do that.” Her face flushed deep red at the memory. “She said my husband had told her it was okay, but I know for a fact he would never approve such a thing. So I shut the door in her face.”

“And then what happened?”

Nancy looked away as if she didn't want to tell us the rest. “She knew what was good for her and she went away.”

“Are you sure that's all?” Erica asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I have to go pick up my daughter now, so it's time for you to go.”

“Thanks so much for your time,” I said. “Just one more question. I'm sure it's not true, but Faith told someone that she'd been beaten by her father. Did you ever hear anything like that?”

Nancy's face went white and then red in such potent rage that I involuntarily took a step back.

“That. Is. Impossible.” Her voice was deep and forceful.

“You sound sure,” I said carefully.

“I am,” she said. “I knew their parents very well. They were the nicest, kindest . . .” Her voice trailed off and her anger vanished, replaced by a deep sadness. “I can't believe Faith would say something like that. But I guess even now she has the power to horrify me.”

I couldn't think of anything to add. Erica handed her a card and we headed to the car. I noticed a curtain move again across the street, as if someone had shifted behind it. Maybe a nosy neighbor would give us more. I looked back to see Nancy watching us. It would have to be another time.

*   *   *

K
ona handed me the store phone as soon as I got back. “It's Bean's biggest fan,” she said, her brown eyes laughing at me.

When I raised my eyebrows, she filled me in on the joke. “Honor Tambor.”

I held back a groan. She'd already sent us pages of information on her classmates, mostly outlining insults from a decade ago. I answered, “Michelle Serrano,” in my cheery voice.

“Hey, Michelle. This is Honor,” she said. “I really hate to let you know this, but the cat is out of the bag.”

“What do you mean?”

“I kinda told my best friend from high school about the plan for Benjamin, and you, to come to the reunion and she told a few people and now everyone knows,” she said, not sounding all that sorry. “Someone even put it on the special Facebook event page.”

I gritted my teeth. “Okay, then,” I said. “That'll make our, I mean, his job harder, but we'll give it a try.”

“Um,” she said, “and someone posted Benjamin is probably investigating Faith's murder.”

I took a deep breath. So much for going undercover. How would we question people when they knew exactly what we were up to?

“He's not,” I said. “Except as it relates to the reunion.”

“I told them that, but you how people are.”

Yes, I did.

“They're all excited to meet Benjamin,” she rushed to say. “I mean, both of you.” As if that would make me feel better.

“Thanks for letting me know,” I told her.

“See you soon!” she said.

Kona had been listening to my side of the conversation. “Trouble with Bean's fan club?”

“Yeah,” I said. “The president can't stop gossiping to save her life.”

*   *   *

T
he next two days flew by as we prepared for the festival opening. I couldn't believe I was actually looking forward to a high school reunion. It wasn't even my school. But
I was wearing my special-event dress that gathered in a high waist and then fell into a frothy blue and green skirt, and Erica had loaned me her dark blue pashmina, which made me feel elegant when I wrapped it around my shoulders. Bean had on his dark gray suit with a white shirt, and we both looked dashing, as Erica had said when he picked me up.

“Dashing?” I'd made fun of her, even though I actually did feel a little dashing. Of course, wearing anything that wasn't chocolate-stained was a step up for me.

I'd given Bean the rundown on the bullying information Honor had sent over. She'd included a copy of the yearbook, and I looked at any name I knew with interest. I knew some people never really left high school, but I couldn't imagine that someone would kill because of a long-ago stolen boyfriend, ostracizing, or being the victim of a food fight. Zane and Erica had gone over the attendee list and no one had a high enough murder quotient to pay special attention to, but we'd do our best.

We were almost at the hotel that the Buckey Central High School class of 2006 had rented for the event. “I was looking forward to going undercover,” I complained to Bean.

“I'm sure you were,” he said. “Who were you going to be?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know. Cheerleader? Jock? Science kid?”

I snorted.

“You could've pulled off any of them,” he said, parking in the lot in front of the hotel.

“Right,” I said. “So what are we looking for here? No one's going to come out and say, ‘I hated Faith Monette enough to kill her
.
'”

“You'd be surprised,” he said as we got out of the car. “Just buy people a few drinks and then create a little competition centered around who knew more about Faith, and they'll start spilling all kinds of information.”

“Maybe I should watch you, the master,” I teased.

He smiled and grabbed my hand. “This could actually be a good time. All the fun of a reunion without the pressure to appear successful.”

“Like you'd have to worry about that.”

“Plus, I already have a date.” He pulled me close and kissed me, causing my head to spin.

I tried to steady myself. “So you don't have to pick anyone up.” I sounded a little breathless.

“Exactly.” He opened the door to the hotel. “Just fun and games tonight.”

“Except for that pesky murder investigation,” I reminded him. And myself.

We looked at the sign in the hotel lobby and headed for the Regency Ballroom.

“I say we party first and question murder suspects later, when they're soused,” Bean said.

“Soused?” I asked. “Is that what they teach you in Journalism 101?”

“Exactly,” he said. “Wait and see.”

Honor greeted us as soon as we entered the lobby. “Benjamin!” She took in our clasped hands and her mouth fell open. I thought that only happened in cartoons. “Oh,” she said, her disappointment shining through. “You get a bag.” She tried to sound enthusiastic but her tone was flat.

He let go of my hand to take it. “Thank you for allowing us to attend. We thought it would be a good idea to sit back
and observe at first to get the lay of the land before we start asking questions. Do you think that's a good plan?”

She positively glowed. “Absolutely.”

Bean pointed. “Reunion this way?”

Honor gave a little game-show wave. “Right down the hall.”

We walked toward the open doors of a ballroom where Gwen Stefani's “Rich Girl” was blasting. I hadn't thought about what to expect, but this room wasn't it. At our high school reunions, we were lucky to have a few streamers taped up in the school gym, but this looked like a cocktail reception for a wedding, with flowers on every table and wandering waiters offering appetizers. I grabbed beef taquitos from a passing tray.

When I got closer, I noticed the little cards on the tables saying the flowers were donated by an alumnus. I wondered if the hotel owner was an alum as well. Something made me look up. A net full of red and gray balloons was hanging from the ceiling, ready to drop whenever scheduled.

I put my clutch down on a table and opened the bag Honor had given me. Inside was a small program of attendees as well as handouts and giveaways from local businesses. I showed them to Bean. “She got companies to sponsor this thing?”

“Looks like it,” he said and pointed to the dance floor. “Come on. Fun first. Let's blend in.”

We joined several couples under the disco lights, and I felt a momentary panic. I hadn't danced in years. But then Bean smiled and started stepping in an unexpectedly smooth move, and I joined in.

He was just the right kind of dancer, comfortable without taking it too seriously, and I found myself trying a little
harder than my normal technique of moving my feet and arms around in a dancelike movement without actually committing to dancing.

After “Don't Phunk with My Heart” and “Feel Good Inc,” the slow songs started. Bean held his arms out and I moved close for Green Day's “Wake Me Up When September Ends.”

“If we were in high school,” Bean whispered in my ear, “I'd be trying to look down your top.”

“If we were in high school,” I murmured back, “I'd be smacking you.”

He laughed, and I could feel the rumble in his chest. I looked up at him and his laughter died. Something hot sparked between us, and I took a step back. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Ready for a drink?”

We headed for the open bar. While we waited our turn, a slide show started with photos from this crowd's high school years, interspersed with attendees' answers to the survey questions.

Honor joined us in line to hand us our name tags. I fought back an urge to cross out the “jamin” and add an “a” to Benjamin to make it say “Bean.” “You have to meet Faith's best friend from high school.” She looked around and spotted her sitting at a table with a small group.

Honor was definitely blowing our cover. I sighed. It was time to get to work.

*   *   *

T
wo hours later, I had to admit that Bean was right. Getting the sources soused and challenging them to perform information duels, metaphorically of course, worked. We
focused our questions on reunions in general and how much they kept up on social media.

An In Memoriam page of the slide show was on repeat, with Faith's high school photo and thoughtful comments from her fellow students. I must have seen the phrase,
A bright light is among the stars
about a hundred times. Each time the slide came around, we were able to point to it and bring up the unfortunate tragedy to affect their classmate.

At first, they all had only nice things to say about Faith, but as time wore on, they started revealing more and more about the darker side of this popular mean girl. Everyone seemed willing to share at least one story of her being hell-bent on causing misery to another student. Even her best friend said she was afraid of Faith sometimes; that if you weren't part of her posse you were fair game for all forms of abuse.

After a completely wrenching tale from a man about Faith convincing him to invite her to prom in an elaborate production that involved playing his saxophone outside her window and having the whole thing, including a rude rejection, filmed and passed around, I had to take a break.

The fact that the man went on to Juilliard and was part of fabulous jazz band in DC and was so cute and cool that a lot of the women were making googly eyes at him didn't make me feel any better. Okay, maybe a little.

Honor walked by, her face flushed with whatever was in her martini glass, and perhaps the fun of revisiting her high school glory days. She also may have been acting on her leftover crush, hanging on to the captain of the swim team, who still had his V-shaped physique from his days on the pool deck. She'd mentioned that a lot of attendees were
staying at the hotel so they could drink and not drive. I wondered if that would lead to some unintended, or intended, endings to the evening.

The most interesting piece of information we gathered was that no one had seen or talked to Faith since she went off to college ten years before. She'd dropped all contact with everyone. Even her so-called best friends hadn't thought much about her since she left town ten years earlier.

The music was cut off and the DJ made a garbled announcement. “Will the owner of a blue Honda Accord with license plate (something, something) come to the registration table?”

Bean and I had been talking to two of the high school's smartest women, one of whom had passed the state bar exam on the first try. He turned his head to focus on the DJ's words and met my eyes. “Excuse me,” he said to the women and we headed to the door. He must have been able to decipher the gobbledygook.

“Yours?” I asked on the way.

“Sounds like it,” he said.

Two hotel security guards waited at the registration desk.

“I'm pretty sure the Honda belongs to me,” Bean said.

“Sorry to hear that,” one of the guards said. “A hotel guest noticed that your tires have been slashed.”

“What?” I was stunned.

“Got any enemies?” the other asked.

Bean stopped still. “I'm an investigative journalist,” he said, as if that explained it. “Have the local police been called?”

“Yes, sir,” the security guy said, sounding a little suspicious.

Bean turned to me. “I'm calling Bobby. Do you want to continue in there or come with me?”

“Go with you, for sure,” I said.

“Right this way,” a guard said, as if we didn't know where Bean's car was parked. “Any idea who coulda done this?” he asked as we followed him.

“No, sir,” Bean said.

I almost snorted, but I was too scared. Luckily, the guard didn't ask if I could think of anyone. My guess was that someone in that ballroom was angry about our questions, and that was scary. I filed through everyone we had talked to. No one stood out.

Then I wondered if Bean had considered that it might be someone from the story he was working on. Had we been followed from West Riverdale?

We were some couple, weren't we?