Behind Chocolate Bars (5 page)

“No,” he admitted. “But he would've.” At her skeptical look, he added, “Believe me. I know how to handle a sixteen-year-old kid.”

“And it's legal to question a minor without his parent present?” she challenged.

He scowled. “There are gray areas, and this was one of those.”

“So the victim's name is Faith Monette?” I asked, trying to get them off that topic. I wondered if Erica had already told her assistant and tech guy, Zane, to research the victim. He was an online wizard who could dig up all kinds of information, maybe something to take the heat off Dylan.

“Yes,” he said. “Did you get that name from Dylan?”

He sounded like he was going to try to lead us somewhere. To shake up his rhythm, I spoke quickly. “It's not a secret. Reese blabbed it to the universe.” When he scowled, I changed the subject. “Most of Green Meadows was abandoned when the developer went out of business. What could the victim possibly be doing there on a Sunday night?”

He frowned. “We don't know,” he said. “But it's not where she was killed.”

“What?” I asked.

“Her body was left at the Green Meadows community center,” he explained. “We're looking for the original murder site.” He used our stunned surprise to ask his own question. “So what do you know about Dylan and his family?”

Erica shrugged. I could see that she was taking time to figure out how much to tell him before she could ask more questions. “He's a bright kid. A straight-A student who's planning to go to college for electrical engineering. Obviously I know him as an employee and a member of the store's comic book club, and he's fantastic at both of those—committed and caring. He's close to his father. You're probably aware that his mother moved to Florida this summer, after somewhat of a scandal. He's a devoted son. His friends love him.” She paused. “I'm not sure what else I can add, except that I know he's not capable of killing someone, especially with a bat.”

I held back a shudder.

“We have reason to believe there was more than one assailant,” Lockett said, carefully watching her reaction.

Suddenly the room felt absolutely airless. Was this why the comic book club members weren't talking?

D
etective Lockett was not happy that we rushed him out of there soon after he dropped his second bombshell. Before he left, he informed us rather emphatically that whoever was responsible should come forward before the police found the site of the murder. That it would reveal more clues and make it harder for him to offer any kind of deal to the killer. “Or killers,” he'd added.

“This isn't good,” I said to Erica. “We have to help Dylan.”

“Absolutely,” she said.

“Time for a project plan?” I asked.

Erica thought any problem could be solved with a ruthlessly organized project plan. “Of course.”

Zane West walked in, sighing with a put-upon air. “I know,” he said. “You want me to look into that woman's murder. What do you have?” Today he wore his usual boating look—a green
and white striped T-shirt with matching green long shorts and a bright yellow windbreaker, collar up. He pushed his hipster glasses up on his nose with one finger and sat down at his desk, which was wedged into the small office next to Erica's.

Zane studied computer science in college and was the tech expert of most of the Main Street shops. His burgeoning, not always quite legal, skills to access information us normal people couldn't get to had come in handy before.

“I'm so glad you're here,” Erica said. “You know we can't do this without you.”

He looked pleased even though he knew Erica's tactics as well as the rest of us. “Name? Age? I don't suppose you have a Social Security number.”

Erica smiled. “Faith Monette. She lived in Frederick.”

“That's it?” he said. “Wunnerful.” That last part must be sarcasm.

I left them to work their computer spelunking magic and stopped over to see how Colleen was holding up. Just a few months before, we'd had our town's first murder in a decade, and the victim had been Colleen's best friend.

“Can you believe we have another murder in West Riverdale?” she asked. She'd recently started highlighting her light brown hair, which made her face seem brighter somehow. Or maybe it was because she was happier in general after ditching her cheating husband.

“I know,” I said. “It's terrible. Are you okay?”

She nodded. “Did you see the news coverage of Marino?” she asked. “He zoomed up to the police station in that stretch limo, wearing that bowler hat and brandishing his cane at the reporters.”

He must have done a good job drawing attention away
from Dylan's escape out the back. “He does arrive in style,” I said. “Did he talk to them?”

“Of course,” she said. “His usual, ‘While the death of this beautiful woman is certainly a tragedy, let's not compound the tragedy by rushing to judgment of an innocent young boy.'”

Her pretend-deep voice caught me by surprise and I laughed.

“I can just imagine his courtroom bellow booming down Cedar Lane,” I said. “Did he use his ‘In this great country of ours, everyone is innocent until proven guilty' bit?”

“Oh yeah,” she said, and then we both sobered.

“What do you know about Dylan?” I reached over to straighten an already neat stack of the latest Michael Connelly book, feeling uncomfortable that I was essentially inviting gossip about one of our employees and a child. And I'd given Lockett a hard time for exactly that.

“He's been great here,” she said. “His mom, Gilly, was in my Bunco group, but I never knew her very well. We were all completely surprised that she, you know.”

That she ditched her family and ran off with a married man?

“Does she keep in touch with them?” I asked. “Or anyone around here?” Maybe now would be a good time for her to provide some support, to her son at least.

“She used to be friends with Yvonne, but they had a falling out,” Colleen said.

“Boys and Girls Club Yvonne?” I asked.

She nodded. “Some of the Bunco moms thought Yvonne was letting Gilly know what was happening with her son.”

“What's wrong with that?” I asked.

“Oh, you know how judgmental people can be,” she said.
“A bunch of them said that Gilly didn't deserve to know what was going on after what she did.”

“That's too bad,” I said.

“Personally, I think they're happy Gilly's gone and Oscar is single,” Colleen said.

“Really?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” she said. “He started dating right after Gilly left, but nothing ever worked out,” she said. “Some of the Bunco crowd say he's still hung up on his ex-wife.”

“A few?” I asked.

“It's a small town,” she said. “A nice guy with a decent job? He's a great catch.”

I felt my phone buzz and looked at the screen. It was my brother, Leo. I waved my cell at Colleen in the universal “I have to get this” symbol and answered it. “Hey, Leo.”

“You're not investigating this thing, are you?” he demanded without a greeting.

“What are you talking about?” I winced at my defensive tone.

Our parents had died when I was fourteen and Leo was eighteen, and even though he'd officially been in charge of parenting me, he'd always acted like a big brother and not a “parent.”

“Don't play dumb,” he said. “I know the kid works for you, but that doesn't mean you need to get involved.” He sounded almost frantic.

“Leo, are you okay?” I asked. “You never worried like this before.”

“I'm fine,” he said, with so much emphasis it couldn't be true. “This isn't about me. It's about you and your safety.”

“Why don't you come to the store and see that I'm totally safe,” I said, trying to sound reasonable.

“Just promise me that you're staying away from this whole mess,” he said.

“Leo,” I said. “This isn't like you. What is going on?”

“Promise me, Michelle,” he insisted.

I took a deep breath. “You know I can't do that,” I said quietly. “Why don't we have dinner tonight and talk about this?”

He hung up.

*   *   *

J
ust like always, whenever something newsworthy happened in our town, we had more customers than our usual Monday. They ate my Booberry Whites and pretended to browse books, but inevitably joined together in little chattering groups. As I served coffee and chocolate, making my way around the tables and chairs of the dining area, I overheard snippets of conversations. “And after all he went through with that nasty divorce, to have his son accused of something so awful. Such a shame . . .” and “I can't imagine that boy doing something that terrible. He just cut my grass and refused to take money!” and “Superman would pull his freakin' head off!” Okay, the last one probably wasn't about the murder.

May Jensen, owner of the Enchanted Forest Flower Shop next door, bustled in after her lunch break, the scent of roses trailing after her. She'd always worn clothes the color of whatever flower she had on sale—today's outfit was a pumpkin scoop-neck shirt along with a rust-colored corduroy skirt—and
she'd recently started wearing flowery perfumes to add to her marketing ploy.

“Orange roses?” I predicted, automatically getting her usual order of Spicy Passion Darks ready. She loved any of my chocolates that had a zip, but especially this combination of spicy and tangy.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, bringing her wrist to her nose. “Is it too strong?”

“No,” I said. “You know me.” Erica liked to say I was hyperosmic, because of my ability to distinguish between scents. It was a curse in the gym, but was a huge asset in making chocolate.

“Whew!” she said. “I wanted to invite you to the Coco Kitten Lottery party on Saturday.”

“Wow! That time went by fast. Are the kittens old enough to leave their mother already?” Coco had started off as a stray cat that visited a bunch of the Main Street shops for meals, and wormed her way into the affections of the whole town. She had given birth to six kittens and we were all enthralled by their adorable behavior. My favorite was Truffles, one of the boys that May had let me name. He was always the first to come to me, climbing up my pants with his tiny claws, demanding my attention. He was also the one who seemed to take after Coco the most, trying to get out of anyplace May attempted to keep them. The only thing that seemed to work was a closed door, and he was most likely working on a way to escape that too.

Coco had finally settled down in May's home with her kittens, and we hadn't seen her wandering Main Street since then.

“Yep, the vet said this week is fine,” she said. “I'm going
to pull names from a hat, and the winners get to pick their kittens.”

I felt a pang of regret that I wouldn't get one of Coco's kittens. But neither Erica nor I were home enough to take care of one and there was a long list of West Riverdale citizens who were dying to get one of the well-loved Coco's babies.

“What time is the lottery party?” Maybe one of my assistants could close up on Saturday. And since I was free early, maybe after May's lottery party I could have a Saturday evening date with Bean to make me feel better about not getting a kitten. And maybe— I stopped myself right there. We were still new to this dating thing.

“Three o'clock,” she said. “Are you sure you don't want to throw your name in the hat?”

I sighed. “Just can't.”

*   *   *

D
uring a lull later in the afternoon, Kona was preparing a tray of smaller sample-sized versions of our Fleur de Sel Caramels, the scrumptious, mouthwatering bestsellers and what we readily admitted were our gateway drug. “The Knit Wits Yarn Store is demonstrating a new loom,” she said. “I'm going to take these over to get a few more of their customers hooked.”

“Great idea,” I said. Once people tasted their perfect combination of sweet chocolaty exterior and smoky, liquidy caramel inside with a sprinkle of sea salt on top, they'd be totally addicted and come into the store for more.

Of course, as soon as she left, a group of ultrarelaxed customers who had just finished their yoga class came in,
quickly followed by a group of moms who'd just dropped off their children at the dance studio in the same rec center. I rushed around until they were all served and happy.

Our friendly neighborhood accountant, Phoenix Keogh, strolled in, and I almost wished I'd been the one to take the tray to the yarn store. I hadn't yet compiled the end-of-quarter financial reports he wanted. We weren't scheduled to meet for a few days, but sometimes he asked questions ahead of time so he could prepare. I needed my own time to get everything ready, at the last minute, if past performance was any indication, so it always flustered me when he showed up. Like when I saw my dentist in the grocery store and checked my flossing job with my tongue before talking to him.

“Good afternoon, Michelle,” he said, radiating a calm joy that was uniquely Phoenix. “Your business is booming, I see.” He looked around with satisfaction as if he was personally responsible for it. He wore his normal businesslike attire, a gray suit, a blue button-down shirt that matched his eyes and a colorful tie pulled loose.

Now that I knew him better, I realized that being one of his clients probably had helped us along. He was the best networker I knew, regularly updating us on the business news of other clients through his newsletters and social media. He was his own public relations firm, free to his customers.

Phoenix had been one of the first openly gay students I'd known in high school, invigorating the Gay and Straight Alliance Club with his bright energy and skillful handling of the bullies. He'd started blogging back then, before
everyone in the world was doing it, and had won national awards for encouraging diversity and acceptance, all of which had paved the way for his Ivy League education.

A lot of us were surprised when he'd returned to West Riverdale after grad school and a stint in a public accounting firm to set up his own accounting business. Erica's store had been one of his first clients, and luckily, he'd given me the same “old friend” discount when I signed on with him.

“The regular?” I asked, already moving to make him a cappuccino.

“Absolutely.” He sat at the counter. “I wanted to thank you for your referral. It looks like we'll be working with May.”

“That's great,” I said. “She's a very cool lady. I guess now we'll be hearing all about peonies and poppies in your newsletters.”

He smiled. “Whenever the poppies are on sale or otherwise newsworthy.”

I kept my eyes on the machine while it steamed the two-percent milk he preferred. “Before you ask, I'll have that P&L you want before we meet, so don't worry.”

“You mean, don't nag,” he said with a rueful expression. He reached into his pocket and slid a wrapped box toward me.

“You didn't need to do that,” I said. I poured the milk into the wide-mouthed mug and spooned the foam onto the top, the coffee scent filling my senses and making my mouth water.

I handed him his coffee.

“Open your present,” he said. “I hope you like it.”

I tore off the paper and opened the box. It was a paperweight molded to look like my chocolate bars. I traced my
logo,
Chocolates by Michelle
, below the
Chocolates and Chapters
one. “It's perfect. Thank you!”

He took a sip of his cappuccino, his eyes looking pleased. Then he cleared his throat. “I actually wanted to get your permission for something special.”

“What?”

“You and Erica put your stores together more than a year ago,” he said in a careful tone. “What do you think about taking it a step further and combining the accounting to make it one business? In a financial sense, I mean.”

I stared at him, surprised. While the name on the store was Chocolates and Chapters and our customers could pay for items from both stores at the same cashier stand, we tracked the items independently through our accounting systems.