Behind Chocolate Bars (4 page)

When the boy simply scowled at her, she turned to another. “What do you think about this crime wave hitting our sleepy little town?”

She certainly had a point there, but Erica moved in between Reese and the kid.

“I believe that
child's
father owns Geppetto's Shoe Store, one of your advertisers,” Erica pointed out. “Perhaps you should try to find someone over the age of twelve to harass.”

Reese actually looked concerned for a moment and then saw Tommy, who had a full beard. She took a step toward him, microphone extended.

“I'm eleven,” he said, with a straight face.

Reese, who already resembled a tall awkward bird, stuck out her lower jaw, looking for a moment like a pelican. Then
a van from a Baltimore news station turned down the street and she scampered off, elbows flapping, without a word. Most likely, she wanted to get to her office to post her version of the story online first.

Two more vans from rival stations drove up as well. Detective Lockett was not going to be happy about any of this attention.

Erica and I herded the teens away from the growing media. I was sure a few of them would have loved to be on TV, but not in this situation. Once we had them around the corner, Erica answered her phone and listened intently.

I took a few steps away from the group. “What's happening?” I asked when she hung up.

“Marino's almost here and as much as he'd love the publicity for himself, he wants to keep Dylan away from the cameras,” she said. “So he's going in to arrange for Dylan's release. Then he'll exit through the front door, and make a statement to draw their attention, while I take Dylan out the back door. You bring the car there and wait, so we can jump right in.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “What about the kids?”

“Hey, guys.” She moved into the center of the pack. “It may be a while, but we're taking Dylan out another way and bringing him to our house until his dad shows up. Can you keep those reporters toward the front of the building? And, Quinn and Tommy, can you get back to your car on your own?”

The group responded with enthusiasm and I slid away to move the minivan into position while Erica went back inside. As I waited behind the police station, I couldn't stop thinking about Dylan. He was only sixteen and already had to
deal with so much. He shouldn't have to handle being accused of something so terrible.

And he was a good kid. A hard-working employee, genuinely helpful to customers. The way his friends rallied around him was proof. Then I thought about their reluctance to answer questions. Were they hiding something?

Erica walked out with Dylan in a dark sweatshirt with the hood pulled around his face. They both rushed into the car and I took off as fast as I could go.

“You okay?” I asked Dylan as he pulled his hood off his head and squished himself into the back corner of the car, seeming even smaller than before.

He answered with an automatic “Yes” that he couldn't possibly mean.

“Marino's the best,” Erica said over her shoulder. “He'll fix this.” If I knew Erica, she was already figuring out how to find out more about the victim, the first step toward uncovering suspects other than Dylan.

“Thanks for calling him,” Dylan said politely. He certainly didn't look like a murderer, with his hands scrunched up in his jacket pockets and his brown shaggy hair falling into his eyes.

“I missed you this morning,” I said.

He looked surprised, as if he'd forgotten all about coming in. Then his phone rang and he looked down at it. His face hardened. “I'm out,” he said into the phone, his tone flat.

I could hear that it was Oscar's voice, but I couldn't make out his words.

“I'm fine,” Dylan said. After a few “okays,” he hung up.

“Was that your dad?” Erica asked.

“Yes,” he said. “He'll meet us at your house.”

There was something definitely wrong between Dylan and Oscar, but now was not the time to pry.

We made it back to the house and walked into the kitchen. Erica gestured for Dylan to sit at the table and she sat opposite him.

“Hot cocoa?” I asked.

“No, thanks,” he said.

When I just stood in front of him, surprised, he relented. “Okay, sure.”

Erica started in gently. “Dylan. What did Detective Lockett tell you about . . . what happened?”

He shrugged his shoulders, in that teen way guaranteed to drive adults crazy.

I moved over to the stove and put my cow teakettle on to boil. My Tropical Cream hot cocoa was Dylan's favorite, sure to soften him up for Erica's questions. I used the best cocoa powder, measured in only enough sugar to make it this side of sweet, and added dried orange zest and a little cayenne pepper for kick. It was like a warm chocolate volcano in your mouth.

Dylan took a deep breath. “He said a woman named Faith Monette was killed at the community center of Cuesta Verde, I mean, Green Meadows Estates, and that something that belonged to me was found near the . . . body.”

M
y hands shook and I banged the mugs together, the clang causing both Erica and Dylan to look at me from the kitchen table.

“Sorry.” You'd think I'd be used to dead bodies in West Riverdale, the way the last few months had gone.

“Did you answer any questions?” Erica asked.

“I just said that I didn't know anyone with that name,” he said, choosing his words carefully.

His tone had changed. We both knew he was lying.

Erica paused. “You're sure you don't know her?”

I peeked out of the corner of my eye while I stirred my homemade mix into the mug.

He glanced up at her, with a hint of helplessness. “No.”

She looked at him steadily, an accepting expression on her face.

“I don't know.” He moved his eyes to the ground, but his voice wavered.

We heard car doors slam outside and saw that Tommy, Quinn, Trent and two others had arrived, their cars lined up behind Tommy's hearse. I guess they'd decided to skip school. They gathered on the porch, and Dylan went out to join them, probably to get away from us. Erica followed him out to the porch while I got more hot cocoa ready.

I could hear them talking self-consciously about upcoming comic book releases, ignoring the elephant in the room, or on the porch. I brought out a tray of steaming mugs, the sweet fragrance of cocoa filling the air. The railing groaned under the weight of two of the boys reaching for mugs. Erica waved them off and they hopped down to sit on the stairs.

Erica gave them a moment to sip at the cocoa, but before she could ask questions, Oscar arrived, screeching his pickup truck to a diagonal halt in front of the hearse. Oscar ran toward the porch but slowed when he saw Dylan hadn't moved. Then as if something broke inside him, Dylan dashed down the stairs and hugged his dad in a way I was sure he'd be embarrassed about later. We couldn't hear their short conversation, but it was punctuated by some forceful questions by Oscar and sniffled answers by Dylan. We all stood rather awkwardly on the porch, wavering between joining them and staying out of the way.

Erica walked down to greet Oscar and they talked, again in a frustratingly quiet way so I couldn't hear. She handed him a card, most likely Marino's, and Oscar and Dylan headed for the car.

Dylan turned, his eyes sweeping over all of us on the porch, and said a heartfelt, “Thanks.”

We watched them drive away. The rest of the teens seemed unsure if they should still be there. They sent meaningful glances at one another over their mugs of hot chocolate, and then looked away. None of them met Erica's eyes. They knew something. What could it be?

The ever-observant Erica didn't miss any of it and got to the heart of the matter immediately. “The only way to help Dylan is to tell us everything you think might be relevant,” she said.

Silence. Tommy peered sideways at Quinn, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

Erica didn't let up. “Tommy? Quinn? No ideas?”

Nothing.

I stayed out of it. Erica was the one they knew well and trusted from their comic book club meetings.

“That doesn't sound like you guys at all,” Erica said. “You're usually full of ideas, all kinds of ideas.” Her intense expression betrayed the cheerful tone she used.

Still silence.

“Wow.” She sounded so disappointed in them that I couldn't imagine how they weren't spilling everything they knew. I was ready to make something up to avoid her sad expression.

“Who's up for more hot cocoa?” I asked in an effort to alleviate the uncomfortable silence on the porch.

Quinn stood up. “Not for me. Thanks. I gotta go.”

The others shot to their feet with a bunch of “Me toos” and they started placing their empty mugs on my tray.

Erica let her shoulders drop. I thought it was a little dramatic, but maybe that's what worked on teens. “I guess when you're ready to help your friend, you'll tell me what you
know,” she said. “In the meantime, the police will come to their own conclusions.” She went inside totally composed, not even letting the screen door slam.

I stayed behind as they all shuffled away with guilty backward glances.

Their silence made me even more nervous for Dylan. What were they hiding?

*   *   *

E
rica didn't speak until we'd cleaned the mugs and headed back to work. I recognized her deep-thought expression and waited until we were almost at the shop. “So, do you think we should look into this?”

She blinked a few times from the passenger seat, as if not sure where she was. “First, we need to find out why the police are interested in Dylan. And if that's easily resolved, we have no reason to investigate.”

I nodded. “That makes sense.”

“But if Detective Lockett persists in this line of inquiry, we may have no choice,” she said.

Uh-oh. The more upset Erica got, the more snotty she sounded.

It wasn't her fault. She'd always been the town genius who aced high school, college and grad school, and she was expected to talk that way. Sometimes I still wasn't sure how she and I, the community college dropout, became best friends.

“What did Oscar tell you?” I asked.

“Just that he's keeping Dylan at home, from school and the store, until this all blows over,” she said.

I hoped that would be soon.

The store was bustling with gossiping customers when we arrived. “Thank goodness you're back,” Kona said. “It's been crazy.”

Erica stopped to talk to her sister, Colleen, who was working on the bookstore side, and then headed toward her office in the back. She was most likely typing “Faith Monette” into her computer as fast as she could open it.

I grabbed an apron from behind the counter and asked the next customer, my neighbor Henna, “What would you like?”

Henna was the poster child for finding yourself at any age. After her husband's death, she'd re-created herself as an artsy hippie. Today she'd wound tiny flowers through her now-blond hair, and wore several silver bracelets on each arm. “A chocolate torte, please.”

“Coffee?” I asked. Henna had recently let up on her health food habits to include caffeine.

She nodded. “Have you heard anything about that poor woman?”

I shook my head. “Just what everyone else knows. Why?”

“I thought Erica might have learned something from Lieutenant Bobby,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper.

I didn't mind gossip, especially when it brought in customers, but not when it came to my best friend. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

She snorted. “Right. I know you two are going to get involved in this. It's in your blood.”

I curled my lip. “Ew. It is not.”

Then Detective Roger Lockett came into the store and my brain went on high alert.

Henna looked over her shoulder and turned back with a
smirk. “I'll bet you five dollars that you two are investigating it by the end of the week.”

I thought about Erica's comments in the car and the look on Lockett's face. “No bet.”

“Good morning, Detective,” I called out cheerfully. “Coffee? Chocolate? Both?” Maybe I could find out something to clear Dylan so we wouldn't have to get involved.

He sat down on a stool at the counter, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. Even that tired, he emanated a tough energy, with his wide shoulders and long-ago-broken nose. “The largest coffee you got.”

Henna lingered by the cash register until I shot her a
get lost
look. She smiled knowingly and went out the front door.

I poured coffee for the detective and slid the creamer over. He reached for it and I noticed a ring on his left ring finger. The wedding ring finger.

Whoa. I thought about how to ask him about the ring. It wasn't that I couldn't imagine any woman being interested in him. He was attractive in a rumpled big-guy kinda way, and when you threw in that authority-figure thing, it even overcame his somewhat surly nature. It's just that he'd never talked about his personal life with me.

I pulled out some of my Wild Huckleberry Milks and put them on a plate in front of him. “Yinz guys have a tough night?” Lockett had a strong Pittsburgh accent and I had picked up some of the region's unique expressions from an ex-roommate who was also from Pittsburgh. I enjoyed trying them out on the detective, but he might not appreciate it as much as I did.

He gave me a sardonic look. “You could say that.”

I leaned my elbows on the counter with chin in my hand
like I was listening intently to whatever he had to say. “You're not here for the coffee or the truffles, even though those Wild Huckleberry Milks are awesome, if I do say so myself. We put the preserves on the top, and the berry flavor is intense. So what's up?”

“Can I just drink my coffee in peace before you harass me?” he asked. “Actually, I'm here to speak to Erica.”

“Okay,” I said, “but I think she's in her office talking on the phone with Marino.” That was a lie, but I knew mentioning Dylan's lawyer would bother him.

“Great. A media circus is the last thing this town needs.” He bit half a truffle. “Awesome,” he said grudgingly, as if not wanting to admit it. Then he popped in the rest.

I let him savor it for a minute, giving it the right amount of respect before asking, “You mean we should count on Reese's journalistic standards to get our information?” I was sure he'd already read her insulting column.

He shook his head. “Yeah. We really enjoyed her ‘Keystone Cops' line.”

“She's a wordsmith,” I said with sarcasm.

“I was told that Dylan worked here.” He looked down at his truffle. “Do you know him well?”

That got me ruffled. “Really? You're here looking for gossip?”

His jaw tightened, probably gritting his teeth like he usually did around me. “It's called an investigation.”

“He's a good kid,” I said in a flat tone, and then changed the subject. “I like your ring.” Just then it glinted in the light coming through the front window. “Are those diamond chips?”

“Yes,” he said, looking wary.

“So, you're married?” I probably shouldn't have used that slightly incredulous tone.

He raised his eyebrows. “This is so sudden,” he said. “Aren't you taken?”

I tilted my head. “Actually, crotchety, reclusive older men aren't my type.”

He winced. “Ouch. You went for crotchety
and
old?”

“Okay,” I said. “I'll stop being nebby about your personal life.” I paused. “Nebby” was Pittsburgh-ese for “nosy,” and I wanted to get it out there before he used it on me.

“You're going to be nebby your whole life,” he said.

I realized that could have two different meanings. “You mean, like,
curiosity killed the cat
nebby?” I asked.

“No,” he insisted. “Like
old lady spying on neighbors
nebby.” He took a sip of coffee. “You okay? You don't usually focus your annoying questions on me.”

I pursed my lips, as if considering which way I wanted to go. “You'd rather I ask questions about that dead body at Cuesta Verde? I mean Green Meadows?”

“You're calling it that too?” He glanced around to see if anyone was close enough to overhear. A couple of customers looked away, trying to seem uninterested. “If Erica is done with her phone call, perhaps we can talk in the back.”

I glared at several of my nebby customers.

Lockett picked up his coffee, his ring sparkling again, as if begging me to ask.

“So, a promise ring?”

“Let it go,” he said.

I smirked. I'd get it out of him soon enough. I led the way back to Erica's office.

Erica shut her laptop as we walked in. She must have
already started researching the murder victim. “Detective Lockett,” she said. “How nice of you to stop by and give us an update.”

He ignored her maneuvering. “Ms. Russell. Want to show me what you're hiding on your laptop?”

“Of course,” she said with such warmth that I thought she meant it. “As soon as you show me a warrant.”

He smiled, as if he knew he never had a chance.

“What can I help you with?” she asked. “You'd like some information on Dylan, I suppose. Can you tell me why you'd even begin to suspect a young boy like him?”

“First of all, he isn't so young,” Lockett said in his tough-guy voice. “He's just small for sixteen. But plenty big enough to use a bat and kill someone.”

A frisson of alarm went through me, and not just at the word “bat.” Lockett seemed to have his sights set on Dylan, and he had chosen his words to deliberately scare us.

“A bat?” I asked.

Erica went into investigation mode right away. “Was the murder weapon found?”

“No,” he said.

“But you found
something
that led you to Dylan,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “His Green Lantern key ring.”

My heart stopped for a moment before speeding up. The
Green Lantern
was Dylan's favorite comic book series. I knew his mom had given him a key ring with the superhero's symbol on it. He'd never talked about it, but I suspected that was one of the reasons he carried it every day.

Erica's face went still for a minute and then angry. “There must be thousands of those. How do you know that one is Dylan's?”

“It has a Duncan Hardware Store rewards tag that we traced to his father and his house key on it,” he said in a no-nonsense tone.

Erica shook her head. “He could've lost it or loaned it to someone.”

“Yes,” he said. “That's what we were trying to find out when we were talking to him at the police station. Unfortunately, we were interrupted by a disturbance in the lobby.”

Erica didn't react to his dig. “He was talking to you before that?”