Behind Chocolate Bars (3 page)

She blew out her breath in a “pshaw,” pretending she didn't believe me. “So, two specials?”

We both knew to give in. “Sure,” Bean said good-naturedly.

I waited for Iris to head over to the kitchen and yell our order to the cook. “What else are you buying?”

He'd already ordered the basics to be delivered the next day. A bed and dresser, desk and chair, breakfast table and bar stools. Little pieces of life. “But I wanted to see the couch first.”

Iris returned, holding our waters in one hand. She set them down and sat beside me. “What you two lovebirds up to?”

“Bean bought a house,” I said.

She gave him a long look. “Ain't that nice,” she said. “You settin' to stay, then?”

I held my breath, and then Bean's phone pinged. He pulled it out and then a few more phones buzzed, vibrated and rang around us.

“What is it?” I asked him.

His face turned grim. “Someone found a body here in West Riverdale.”

“Who?” I asked, my voice faint.

“A woman,” he said, focused on his phone. “No identity yet.”

Iris pulled her phone out of her apron pocket and tapped at it. “Dat's right. They found 'er at Green Meadows Estates.”

She looked up, eyes narrowed. “Beaten to death.”

A
nother murder in our small town? Green Meadows Estates was on the outskirts, close to the highway, but still technically part of West Riverdale.

After a fitful night of sleep, rolling over several times to grab my phone and see if anyone was sharing anything new, I'd abandoned my morning run in favor of another cup of coffee before heading into Chocolates and Chapters.

The police were keeping a tight lid on the details, not allowing neighbors or the press anywhere close to the crime scene. I was sure that Reese Everhard, owner of the town newspaper, was gnashing her teeth about that. She'd decided long ago that lurid headlines like
Are Drones Spying on YOU?
and
Keep Your Children Safe from Predators on Halloween!
were the best way to bring readers to her newspaper website. She'd probably been pacing at the crime scene tape,
badgering the young officers assigned to watchdog duty. From past experience, I knew that woman would stop at nothing to increase her viewership.

I even stooped to reading Reese's news blog. The headline was
Murder Streak Strikes Fear in West Riverdale
with a photo of the small crowd around the police station. Then she went for broke.
Once again, someone was viciously murdered in our sleepy little town of West Riverdale, Maryland. Just hours ago, the battered body of Faith Monette, a resident of Frederick, was found in an abandoned building in the defunct Green Meadow Estates.

Is the killer living among us?

Even though I knew Reese dramatized anything and everything, her words made me uneasy as I drove to the store.

Monday was usually the best day of the week, when I put aside all of my worries and focused on the chocolate plans for the next seven days, including the new flavors I would create. I juggled making enough to meet the demands of my regular customers—like my hotel and gift basket clients, or like Tonya, who bought exactly six Green Apple Indulgences every Tuesday—with bringing back seasonal favorites—like pumpkin, which everyone fell in love with in late September and discarded like a summer romance in early December. And of course I introduced other recipes to see if I could create new favorites for my customers.

I stood in my storeroom and inhaled the scent of my supplies, which never failed to inspire me. The mellow cocoa fragrance of Felchlin milk chocolate and the sharper bite of their dark chocolate, both from Switzerland and the base of all of my truffles. The nuts and dried fruits that
added flavor and texture. The spices with the right amount of magic to bring them all together. I'd learned long ago that no amount of talent could make up for low-quality ingredients, and I used only the best.

Then I realized that Dylan hadn't arrived yet. He was never late for our early-morning sessions, which continued to surprise me. When I was that age, nothing could've gotten me out of bed before I absolutely had to. And he was supposed to bring pumpkin seeds to incorporate into new recipes.

I waited a few minutes and then went into action. Dylan would just have to miss the fun.

For some reason, I was drawn to bitter flavors today. Dark chocolate, licorice and coffee, with a little sour lemon thrown in. Not all together of course. I went into mad-scientist mode, pulling out my recipe binders and spreading out all kinds of ingredients on my counter.

I quickly chopped up the dark chocolate tabs and added cups of them to the double boiler. I was going to push the envelope today, which meant I needed a lot of tempered chocolate to work with, because some of my experiments might not be successful. As the first batch of dark chocolate melted, I stirred, releasing the intense notes of coffee and nuts, and even a hint of citrus into the air.

Maybe the bitter flavors meant I was feeling a little unsettled. A murder in town could do that to a person.

It took me far too long to shut off my mind and lose myself in my ingredients. But eventually the beauty of making chocolate—the action of mixing and pouring the delicious mixture in molds, adding the nuts and fruits, and finishing with decorative touches—soothed me, and I relaxed.

*   *   *

I
didn't talk to anyone until after we opened, when I grudgingly rejoined the human race. Kona had followed our normal Monday process, setting up the store on her own and leaving me to work alone in the kitchen.

“What's new this week?” she asked, her brown eyes shining. She and Kayla would be helping me make the chocolates throughout the week, but Kona got as excited as I did about the new flavors.

“Lemon Zest Darks, Anise Stars, Cocoa Bean Drops, and Nutty Turtle Milks.”

“Only one new milk this week?” She looked at me. “You okay?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Just wondering if you're, I don't know, in a mood,” she said, frowning.

My assistant knew me far too well. “You got that just from the chocolates I made?”

“I calls 'em as I sees 'em,” she said flippantly, and then her eyes became worried. “Wait. You're not going to get involved in that murder, are you? I mean, I like the extra hours, but you guys can't keep risking your lives like that.”

It was unusual for her to be so serious, and I felt a pang. “We have no reason to get involved.” I tried to change the subject. “How are things at Kona's Kreations?”

Kona had started a website to sell anything anyone could want for a bachelorette party—except for male strippers—and business had been booming. Her company was the only place to get anatomically correct chocolate party favors that actually tasted like chocolate.

But she wouldn't be distracted, and she handed me her phone. “Look what crazy Reese wrote.”

Reese had added on to the article I'd read earlier, including a long rant about how the West Riverdale police were failing to keep our town safe. That might rile up some of the townspeople but it could also make the police mad enough not to give her any information.

Several people had posted comments below the article. Most were simple
May she rest in peace
remarks about the poor woman who'd been killed. Almost all of them were anonymous, one of them saying, “A bright light is now among the stars.” The rest of the comments were spam promoting websites offering financial advice, miracle diet pills, and scam businesses offering high incomes working from home.

Erica quickly walked up to the counter from the back. “Oscar just called me,” she said in a concerned voice. “Dylan's been taken in for questioning, and Oscar is on a job an hour away. He wants us to get Dylan out.”

“Questioning?” I asked. “For what?”

Just then Quinn and Tommy ran through the front door. “Erica! You have to help Dylan!”

Erica raised her hands. “It's okay. We're going there now.”

Kona pointed to the door. “Go!”

“I'll drive,” I said, still confused. “Come on.”

The teens and Erica rushed out the back with me and piled in my minivan. I'd taken the backseat out to put in shelves for truffle delivery but could fit three passengers.

“The police station?” I asked.

When she nodded, I asked again, “What is he being questioned about?”

“They think he's involved with that woman,” Quinn said, agitated.

“What woman?”

“The dead one they found last night!”

“What do you mean by ‘involved'?” I asked. “Do they suspect him of something?”

“I'm sure it's some kind of misunderstanding,” Erica said, dialing the phone. “Oscar. I have a lawyer friend who can help. May I call him?”

We could all hear his panicked “Yes, of course.”

They said their good-byes and Erica clicked on the contact list on her phone. Someone answered in a clear, businesslike tone. “Law offices of Antony Marino. May I help you?”

“Who's that?” Quinn asked me.

I met her eyes in the rearview mirror. They were wide with worry. “A great lawyer,” I tried to reassure her while Erica told Marino's assistant who she was and that she needed to speak to her boss immediately. Antony Marino was the criminal defense lawyer we'd worked with before. He was A Big Deal in Washington, DC, and I knew our little West Riverdale police department would not be happy to face him again. “He'll be able to help Dylan.”

A few months earlier, Bean had called in a favor to get Marino to take the small-town case pro bono. I just hoped there was some debt left to repay, or better yet, that Erica was jumping the gun and Dylan wouldn't need Marino to get involved at all.

I turned the corner onto Cedar Lane and could see a small group of teens standing in front of the police station. A few of them were members of the comic book club. How
had they all heard about this so fast? And why weren't they in school?

As soon as I came to a stop, Erica jumped out.

“Erica!” The teens all tried to speak at once. I thought I heard the word “thugs” a few times, but no way could that apply to West Riverdale Police Chief Noonan. He was way more grandfatherly than thuglike.

Then I noticed the state police car parked on the street. Which probably meant that Homicide Detective Roger Lockett was inside.

Lockett could definitely seem a little thuglike, but I'd had enough experience with him to know how to handle him. Most of the time.

Erica got control of the group. “It's okay. I'm getting Dylan out.” She looked at me and jerked her head toward the kids before going inside.

It took me a second to realize that Erica wanted me to see what I could find out. I joined the group of teens. “What's going on in there?”

“The police came into school this morning to arrest Dylan!” Trent's thin shoulders shook with outrage. He was a freshman at West Riverdale High School, one of the younger club members, and along with Tommy and Quinn, one of Dylan's good friends. “They think he had something to do with that woman they found at Cuesta Verde.”

Townspeople had nicknamed the Green Meadows development “Cuesta Verde,” the name of the housing project in the
Poltergeist
movies. With the development's half-finished abandoned buildings, it had gained a kind of haunted-house status in the town.

“That's not true,” Quinn said. “They're just asking him questions.”

“Right, that's all.” Trent managed to sound sarcastic and worried at the same time.

“Why are they questioning him?” I asked.

Quinn was about to say something and stopped.

Then Trent started to say something, and Quinn shook her head at him.

“Trent?” I asked.

He looked at Quinn and then Tommy. “I don't know.”

“Quinn? Tommy?” I asked, my worry coming through. “What do you know?”

“Nothing,” Quinn said, but her eyes slid away.

“Stay here,” I said, and went inside.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, Erica's boyfriend, Lieutenant Bobby Simkin, was working at the front desk. He'd recently gotten a military-short haircut and looked even more imposing in his uniform.

That hadn't stopped Erica. “I need to see him,” she said in an angry voice that meant she'd already said it more than once.

When he shook his head, she grabbed his hand across the counter. “Now.”

He glared at her with no hint that they had a personal relationship, even though the whole town knew they were dating.

Another deputy, who everyone called Junior, stood by his desk as if to back him up if he needed help. He looked like he couldn't be older than eighteen, but he could be counted on in tough situations.

She shoved a few pages of club paperwork at Bobby. “Call his father. He told me to come down here. And technically,
I could be considered his guardian, based on what his father signed.”

Bobby glanced at it and handed it back to her. “That's a permission form. He's not on a field trip.”

She tried another tactic. “His lawyer is on the way. He instructed me to tell you that all questioning of this minor must cease immediately.”

“I'll take that under advisement,” Bobby said. When Erica eyed the trapdoor that she'd have to lift to get past the counter, he warned, “Don't.”

The door opened to the interrogation room, also known as the lunch and dinner room for the police department, and Erica gave up the legal maneuvering. She yelled, “Dylan. This is Erica. Do NOT answer any questions! A lawyer is on the way.”

Detective Roger Lockett stuck his head out with an incredulous expression. His eyes zeroed in and he realized it was Erica yelling. And I was standing beside her. The same two people he'd warned before to stay away from his homicide investigations. And here we were interfering with his interrogation.

His eyebrows slammed together so fast, I almost heard the boom. Okay, that was a bit of an exaggeration. But he definitely looked thunderous. Then he was joined by West Riverdale's chief of police, Eric Noonan, wearing the same expression, with white hair instead of brown.

I grabbed Erica's elbow to drag her away. “We'll wait outside for the lawyer.”

When she protested, I muttered, “Don't worry. I'm sure Dylan heard you.” The whole building had heard her. “He won't say a word.”

A camera flashed as soon as we reached the door, and we held up our hands like pop stars fending off the paparazzi. It was not far from the truth. Reese Everhard was clicking away with her camera as if we'd personally confessed.

“Really, Reese?” I said. “It's light out, for heaven's sake. You don't need that stupid flash.”

She lowered her camera for a minute while pulling out a microphone and pointing it our way. “Do you know the identity of the woman who was found dead at Green Meadows?” she hammered away, pretending to be impersonal, like a real journalist. “Was it a crime of passion?”

Since Reese was generally in contention for the most idiotic reporter of the year, we ignored her.

She gave up on us and shoved her microphone into a teen's face. “Is the suspect a friend of yours? Is he capable of cold-blooded murder? Or are you here to make sure your friend isn't the victim of police brutality?”