Death Is Like a Box of Chocolates (A Chocolate Covered Mystery)

A bitter end . . .

I went back to the kitchen and picked up my cell phone. And an extra-large copper ladle. Just in case.

The light came from a small reading lamp we’d placed on a side table. I flicked on the overhead lights, which were the superefficient kind that came on slowly as they warmed up. I paused, ready to pounce or run away if anything moved.

The perfume was even stronger in here, mixed with something kind of almond-tinged that I’d never smelled before, medicinal on the surface but dank and dark underneath. When I moved closer, I saw very long legs sticking out from a high-backed chair facing the bookstore. Denise was the only person I knew with legs that long.

“Denise?”

Nothing.

I walked over and saw that she was leaning her head against the right side wing and holding on to her stomach as if she’d fallen asleep in pain. A box of my chocolates sat in front of her on the coffee table and I couldn’t help but notice they were all Denise’s favorites, Amaretto Palle Darks, and that three were missing. “Denise?” I touched her shoulder.

Still nothing. My heart started to pound.

I shook her shoulder this time and her head dropped forward, chocolate froth falling from her mouth.

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

DEATH IS LIKE A BOX OF CHOCOLATES

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2014 by Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62102-8

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2014

Cover illustration by Mary Ann Lasher.

Cover design by George Long.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

To my mom, Pat Sultzbach, for instilling a love of reading and writing in me, and to my dad and stepmother, Jim and Lee Hegarty, for their steadfast love and support.

I’d like to thank Jessica Faust, who waved her magic agent wand and made my writing dreams come true, and my wonderful editor, Robin Barletta, who said “Yes” and then proceeded to make this book so much better.

This book wouldn’t exist without my incredible critique group, the Denny’s Chicks, Kelly Hayes and Barrie Summy.

I would not be writing today if it wasn’t for the gentle editing of my first critique group, Betsy, Sandy Levin and the late Elizabeth Skrezyna. Special thanks to the members of RWA-San Diego, for their years of workshops, enthusiasm and unwavering support.

Love and thanks to my best friends, Lynne Bath and Lori Maloney, who always support me and make me laugh! Thanks to my Artist’s Way group: Amy Bellefeuille, Sue Britt, Hilda Majewski and Cathie Wier, for their creative inspiration every day. A “Ya-Ya” shout-out to the ladies of Ssusan’s Salon, especially our leader (and plot twist guru), Ssusan Forte O’Neill.

Thank you to my book club for their love of the written word, and to my Moms’ Night Out group for fourteen years of fun and great company! Thanks to Cindy Aaron for her support of this project.

Special gratitude to Michael Hegarty, a talented artist and wonderful human being.

Thanks to Jeremy, Joclyn, Madhavi, and Matthew Krevat for their ongoing support and enthusiasm for my writing.

Special thanks to those who provided technical assistance:

Patty DiSandro and Kristen Koster for their Maryland knowledge.

Elizabeth Gompf, RN, BSN, CCRN, and Dr. Susan Levy for their medical expertise.

Jim Hegarty for website and technical assistance and his delightful humor, some of which found its way into this book.

Isabella Knack, owner of Dallmann Fine Chocolates, the best chocolates in the world.

Manny and Sandra Krevat for their photography expertise.

Brian Lowenthal, of Brian Lowenthal Photography, for his photography expertise.

Donna Lowenthal for her project-planning expertise.

Annette Palmer, co-owner of Earth Song Books and Gifts.

St. Michael’s Chief of Police Anthony T. Smith for his help with police procedure.

Judy Twigg, for help with the Russian language.

Nick, for technical assistance.

Any mistakes are my own.

And most important, mountains of gratitude and love to my brilliant, beautiful and creative daughters, Shaina and Devyn Krevat, and the love of my life, my husband, Lee Krevat. I’m definitely the lucky one!

“I
don’t do cupcakes,” I told Erica, who obviously hadn’t been listening to me in the two years we’d been best friends.

“I know, I know.” She waved her hand around as if dissipating my nonsense and reached over the counter to grab a Fleur de Sel Caramel from one of the trays I was about to parade around in front of the store. While I’d enjoyed a huge rush in the week leading up to Mother’s Day, maybe I could entice a few more customers into buying chocolate for their moms before the special day was over.

“Have you ever seen me bake even one cupcake?” I asked her. Erica and I shared a store on Main Street in the town of West Riverdale, Maryland. She and her sister, Colleen, managed the family-owned bookstore in one half of our space while I ran my chocolate shop in the other half. I should have known she wanted something when she crossed over to my side during such a busy Sunday afternoon.

“I get it,” Erica said, nibbling the caramel. “You’re a chocolate snob, I mean
chocolatier,
and you don’t bake. Oh wait. What did that DC reporter call you? ‘Michelle Serrano, Chocolate Artisan.’”

“Glad we got that straight,” I said. “I suggest Summer Berry Milks. Grown-ups love them, yet they have that element of whimsy that even rug rats appreciate.” I dumped newly ground coffee into the machine and turned it on. The fragrance of the coffee mixing with the ever-present chocolate scent made my mouth water even though I’d been experiencing it all day. Owning Chocolates and Chapters never got old.

Erica rolled her eyes. “Someday your distaste for anyone under the age of eighteen is going to bite you on the butt.” She pushed her librarian glasses up on her nose and gave me The Look. The one that somehow combined puppylike begging with steely-eyed command, and inevitably made everyone do her bidding. Maybe that’s why she’d won the Future Leader award so long ago at our high school graduation. “Cupcakes decorated with softball icing are even more whimsical than chocolates.”

I crossed my arms.

“It’s for the good of the Boys and Girls Club!” she said.

“I’m not baking cupcakes,” I said.

Erica seemed astounded at my stubbornness. “Really? Remember that beautiful field where you showed Sammy Duncan that girls are better hitters than boys?” She threw her hand out as if pointing to it. “You know, the field that needs to be reseeded every single year?”

She was pulling out the big guns. Before she could remind me that playing sports at the Boys and Girls Club was the main reason for my annual success in the West Riverdale Softball Tournament, I gave in. “Fine. But I’m not making them. I’ll ask Kona.”

“Awesome!” Erica was enough of a master manipulator not to show anything except gratitude, but I was sure she’d gloat later.

“‘Awesome’? Is that an official Fulbright scholar expression?” I said to pay her back.

Erica had come home two years before, just as I was opening my shop. My whole life, I’d heard of Erica Russell, girl genius, who went to Stanford on a full scholarship, got a master’s in writing, and then became a Fulbright scholar. I still wasn’t clear what that was.

I totally expected her to stick her nose up at me, the community college dropout, but we’d become best friends, and now business partners and housemates.

She made a note on her spreadsheet. “My next victim, I mean prospective donor, is Denise.”

“Do not harass the committee,” I said. “We’re lucky they haven’t run for the hills with the way this thing has exploded.”

Back in February, when Erica had suggested a Great Fudge Cook-off to celebrate the one-year anniversary of our renovation, I’d jumped at it. Our normally mild Maryland winter had been brutal, and after what seemed like the thirtieth nasty ice storm of the season, anything that made me think of spring was welcome.

I’d imagined a group of fifty or so neighbors gathered in our store, tasting all the entries, and buying
real
chocolate from me to wipe the taste of fudge from their palates. Erica would send out photos and a press release to the local papers, and the resulting articles would remind everyone that they needed more candy and books in their lives.

But taking the suggestion from the mayor to schedule our contest during West Riverdale’s Memorial Day weekend celebrations had been a big mistake. Somehow our little fudge contest had mushroomed into the opening event of the first ever West Riverdale Arts Festival in the park. And our book signing the Sunday night before Memorial Day now included a silent auction fundraiser for the Boys and Girls Club. We counted our blessings that the actual parade on Monday hadn’t been added to our plate. The parade committee was an exclusive group of old-timers who wouldn’t think of letting anyone under the age of sixty interfere.

I delivered steaming cups of coffee and a small plate of assorted chocolates to the table of grandmothers showing off photos of grandchildren on their phones, and discreetly left the bill on the table.

Erica continued when I returned to the counter. “I’m donating the I So Don’t Do Mysteries series and some Michael Connelly first editions for the silent auction.” Erica also ran a thriving used and rare book business out of the storage room in the back. “And you’ll be really happy about the big surprise I have for today’s meeting.”

“What is it?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” She gave me a mysterious smile and headed back to her side.

I picked up my tray and opened the front door as Erica’s sister, Colleen, struggled through with one blond-haired two-year-old boy on her hip and the other twin rebelliously dragging behind her.

“Erica,” Colleen called after her sister with a rush of relief. “Can I leave the twins in the play section while I take Prudence to her dance recital?”

The two sisters worked well together, but lately Colleen had been busier than usual with kid duty, and Erica had taken up the slack. I sometimes wondered if Colleen would even be working in the bookstore if she hadn’t become pregnant with her first child during her freshman year of college. She didn’t have Erica’s love of books, though she enjoyed the business side of the store. But back when she was eighteen and pregnant, working in her parents’ bookstore was a good option while her husband, Mark, finished up his business degree.

While Colleen made an effort to appear somewhat professional when she worked in the store, today she had on a stretched-out orange cardigan that had seen better days, and her hair was falling out of her wilted scrunchie.

“Sure, but where’s Mark?” Erica seemed confused as the twins ran toward the wall of brightly colored bricks that separated the small play area—what I called the first circle of hell—from the rest of the store.

Colleen scowled. “He says he has the flu. He just got back from yet another trip and he’s too sick to do anything. And the nanny is out of town.” She sounded mad at both of them.

If I had twins like Gabe and Graham, I’d have the flu pretty often too
, I thought, as they expertly opened the childproof gate and double-teamed a boy twice their size, wrenching a firefighter’s hat away from him.

“I guess,” Erica said. She ran to comfort the howling victim as Colleen gave a helpless flutter of her hands and escaped. Through the front window, I could see her daughter, Prudence, wearing a lime-colored leotard and fancy headpiece and waiting in their ancient Volvo station wagon. That girl had the patience of a saint, or even better, the patience of an older sibling of twin boys.

I took a step to help Erica, but instantly the wailing stopped and the twins were soon sitting in Erica’s lap waving around the latest cardboard books. I watched for a moment and, sure enough, one of them whacked Erica in the jaw with a book before settling down.

The Pampered Pet Store across the street was holding their monthly adoption event and when I went outside with the sample-sized caramels, the local animal lovers emptied my tray in a few minutes. Kona called these petite caramels my “gateway drug.” Once people ate this perfect bite of caramel wrapped in creamy chocolate, with the tiniest sprinkle of sea salt on top, they always came back for more.

After serving the burst of customers who’d followed me back into the store, I did a spot-check of our dining area, which was perfect. It had been Erica’s idea to remove the wall between the two stores to increase our usable space. We’d all survived the renovation, but Colleen and I had grumbled a lot more than Erica, maybe because she could visualize what it would look like today.

A homey, welcoming room with books lining the walls, tempting customers to pick one up and read in an overstuffed chair, and the smell of chocolate enticing them to choose from my selection of sinful sweets. Chocolates and Chapters had become an unofficial community center for our little town. Our smattering of mismatched couches and coffee tables now hosted various committee meetings, knitting circles, book clubs and, my least favorite, birthday parties.

I straightened a painting from a local artist who was new to our rotation wall. Erica had told me ahead of time that he interpreted famous paintings using the opposite on the color wheel, so the paintings appeared familiar and strange at the same time.

My assistant and right hand, Kona, walked in from the back kitchen with a tray of assorted tortes, her specialty. I was lucky to have her. Although I still didn’t understand why, sometimes customers wanted pastries instead of chocolates. And while I could whip up a thousand truffles in a few hours, I couldn’t bake to save my life.

“I just volunteered you for a couple dozen softball-decorated cupcakes for the book launch,” I told her.

“No problem,” she said, her almond eyes laughing at me. She knew how I felt about cupcakes. “By the way, I opened the latest shipment from the supply company.” She paused. “Did you order a lot of the new jeweled cocoa butter? They charged us extra to rush it.”

“Oh, yeah.” I tried to appear nonchalant. “That’s okay.”

“What are you going to use it for?” she asked.

I avoided answering her. “Just thinking about a few new ideas.”

“Want me to cover the front so you can try it out?” Kona knew how much I loved to play with anything new, but I had plans for that gold cocoa butter that no one could know about. “I put it in the kitchen.”

“Um,” I said. “I’m going to try it out at home, but I want to look at it for a minute.”

She started placing the tortes in the one measly glass display case I allowed for pastries. “No problem. I’ll handle the counter.”

“Thanks.” I headed to the back kitchen to see if my new gold cocoa butter would do the trick. We had a small kitchen out front where customers watched us dip fruit in chocolate or put finishing touches on the truffles, but we did most of our work in the larger back kitchen.

I didn’t want our customers to see the messy part of my magic, like when we mixed ganache by hand to achieve the ideal consistency; or smelled the caramel to ensure the ultimate balance of smoky, almost-burnt sugar; or scraped off the untidy “feet” of my truffles so they were perfect.

I picked up the bottle of gold cocoa butter. It looked a little like gold paint now, but once I melted it down and airbrushed it across my chocolates, it would look amazing.

• • • • • • • • • 

W
e scheduled the weekly cook-off meeting for right after our regular early Sunday closing. I was setting up when Erica lugged her ever-increasing Great Fudge Cook-off file box to the largest table in the store. Located in the back corner, it was where high school students crammed for tests, or pretended to, retirees met to plan their day trips, and an endless supply of PTA moms coordinated school events.

Even the always-put-together Erica looked a little drained from balancing the twin terrors and customers.

Without comment, I handed her a Balsamic Dream, her favorite truffle—dark chocolate ganache with a rush of balsamic vinegar. “How did the recital go?”

“Colleen said it was delightful,” Erica said, enjoying her treat.

“Did Mark make it?”

“Yes,” she said. “He had a miraculous recovery just in time to see it.”

Denise Coburn walked through the open back door of the shop, tiny magenta shorts emphasizing her incredibly long legs that always made me feel like a hippo. A pygmy hippo. And she was the giraffe undulating across the African plains.

Undulating? I was hanging out with brainy Erica too much. “Hi, Denise,” I said as she slouched into a chair across from Erica.

“Hi,” she said as part of a long-winded sigh. She’d pulled her thick auburn hair into a huge bun that magically stayed in place on the top of her head with only one clip, and once again I cursed my own wispy strawberry blond hair that behaved only as long as it took me to leave the salon.

Denise’s photography studio, next door to our shop, catered to families and smaller businesses in our town. She’d recently landed the contract for the local high school’s senior portraits, but everyone knew she dreamed of selling her artsy work to galleries in Washington, where people had more money to spend on that stuff. Personally, I thought her creative photos were out of focus and just a bit odd. Who wanted a blurry photo of a shiny penny in a gutter hanging on their wall?