Death Is Like a Box of Chocolates (A Chocolate Covered Mystery) (2 page)

“Tough day in the photography trenches?” Erica pulled out more files and a color-coded spreadsheet.

“I guess,” she said, picking up a truffle. “Another delay by that gallery owner I told you about.” She bit off one tiny corner and put the rest down. How do people do that? Of course, she couldn’t resist my Amaretto Palle Darks, the only candy I’d ever seen her eat in one bite, but I’d sold out of those earlier in the day.

“The gallery in DC?” I popped a whole Mayan Warrior in my mouth and let the chocolate melt on my tongue, the spicy cayenne tickling the back of my throat just like it was supposed to. “What happened?” I asked as I sat down.

Denise shrugged. “He left a message telling me he had a family emergency and had to reschedule our meeting tomorrow. And I’d cancelled all my sessions for the trip up there.”

“I’m sorry,” Erica said. “Why not email them? Once he sees your photographs, he’s going to just adore your work.”

The eternal optimist.

Denise sighed dramatically again. “He said he has to meet me first. He believes my montage of work is an inward expression of my outward view of the world.”

What a load of BS. I was about to warn her that this dude might just have a casting couch when the final two members of our committee walked in.

Steve and Jolene Roxbury arrived in their usual geek chic: Steve, the high school science teacher, wore an ancient T-shirt of the periodic table, and Jolene, the math and drama teacher, wore a shirt that read, “Half playwright. Half ninja.”

“Love the shirt,” I told her.

“Thanks!” Jolene said. She gave a little “Hi-yah!” along with a karate chop. “Gift from Steve-o when I got my black belt in tae kwon do.” She and her husband both put a few Bacon-and-Smoked-Salt Truffles on their plates and sat down while I retrieved the coffee.

Jolene tasted her chocolate and moaned. “Oh, Michelle. I
love
this new concoction.”

“The only perk of being on this committee,” Steve agreed. He pulled out his smartphone. “Look!” he said, showing us photos of Jolene in her karate
gi
, the white fabric vibrant against her dark skin. Her proud grin as she held her black belt made us all smile.

Ever-efficient Erica started to hand out notes just as some teens loitering upstairs noticed the Roxburys. “Yo, Mr. and Mrs. R!” they yelled, hanging dangerously over the wooden balcony. Erica obviously hadn’t kicked out her comic-book-section regulars.

When Erica had found out that teens drove all the way to Frederick to buy their comic books, she’d started stocking them. And since she loved comic books as much as any of them, she’d started a book club named the Super Hero Geek Team.

“Yo,” Steve yelled back. “Stay away from my issue of
Justice League International
.”

One of the inmates of West Riverdale High waved a comic book back and forth and taunted in a singsong voice, “Got it right he-re.”

“You bent it!” Steve barked. “I don’t want that one.”

One of them noticed the time on the huge clock at the front of the store and yelled, “Dinner!” as if an emergency was happening, and then they all ran out the front door.

I let out a little “Whew,” and Erica smirked at me.

“Just go over your notes.” I got up to lock the front door. “And give us our marching orders.”

“Yay!” she said. “I love obedient minions.” She passed out copies of the action items list. “We have a lot to do in less than two weeks, but everything seems to be coming together.”

She opened up a tri-fold display board and pointed to a color-coded, minutely detailed project plan that looked like it could win the high school science fair. “First the book launch and Boys and Girls Club fundraiser. Michelle has graciously volunteered cupcakes for that evening,” Erica said without a hint of sarcasm. “I made a list of some of the Boys and Girls Club volunteers for other food items.”

“I can make my world-famous guacamole,” Jolene offered.

Erica said, “That’d be great, but we need to focus our resources on our top priorities. The most pressing issues right now are more donations of silent auction items and getting the word out to ensure high attendance at both of our events.”

I whispered to Jolene, “You’re a ‘resource.’”

Erica ignored me, moving on to talking about chair rentals and hosting duties that night. She looked right at me. “Let’s talk about the fudge contest,” she said, smiling with excitement. “I have an announcement.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Hillary Punkin is judging!”

“What?” I gasped.

“Hillary Punkin, star chef of the TV show
Life by Chocolate
, has agreed to be a celebrity judge for the West Riverdale Great Fudge Cook-off!”

Oh. My. God.

H
illary Punkin at the West Riverdale Great Fudge Cook-off?

Hillary was the Grand Chef Network’s premiere pastry chef who traveled the country “discovering” local chocolatiers. Panic welled up in my chest. Hillary either loved or hated the chocolate and her opinion never made sense. In one show, she adored lavender essence in her truffle. In the next, it made her gag on-screen. She seemed to have no clue of her own irrationality. But she had a huge audience and could make or break a business.

“Is she doing a show here?” My lips felt numb.

“No,” Erica said, oblivious to my dismay. She barely watched TV, let alone cooking shows, and had no idea what she might have set in motion. Just like the beginning of any horror movie.

“She heard about your chocolates winning that blind taste test,” Erica said, sounding proud. “She’ll be in DC for a show, so she has time only for the contest. But ever since she hinted at it on Twitter, our website hits have gone through the roof!”

“Cool!” Steve said. “That should help attendance for the whole weekend.”

I pasted a weak smile on my face, and Erica’s eyebrows drew together as she figured out I was less than ecstatic. She continued with her action items, which included everything from confirming the balloon arch orders for the festival to getting more volunteers to help set up chairs for the book signing.

Yes, my chocolates had won the prestigious
Washington Food Scene
magazine’s third annual blind chocolate taste test, and now Erica insisted on putting “award-winning” in front of any mention of my products. But Hillary might just be contrary enough to want to prove them wrong.

Even if Hillary wasn’t doing a show here, she always had a “Yay or Nay” segment at the end, and it was particularly brutal—just a shop’s name and location with a happy yellow “Yay” or nasty red “Nay” after it and no explanation as to why.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to call off Hillary
, I thought as panic fluttered in my chest. I’d built a nice business making chocolates for a ritzy hotel in Georgetown, bed-and-breakfasts in Virginia, and gift basket companies that sent my chocolates to clients all over the East Coast. Much of my sales were due to word of mouth, and if Hillary Punkin slammed my chocolates, I would be in trouble.

On the other hand, if she loved my chocolates and gave them a “Yay,” who knows how much my business would grow? It was a dilemma.

A knock sounded on the front door and I tensed when Gwen Ficks waved at us through the window. I stood up to let her in, the usually cheerful bells on the front door now sounding like a warning. Gwen had been West Riverdale’s mayor for five years, winning her second term easily even though the town’s economy had taken a hit along with the rest of the country’s. She’d lost a ton of money when the bad economy had completely stopped sales of the new housing development she’d invested in, and she was working hard to try to turn the town’s fortunes around.

She was the one who’d convinced us to hold our Great Fudge Cook-off during Memorial Day weekend. And somehow the whole thing had snowballed into the beginning of her “Save Main Street” effort, the result of four struggling shops closing up in the last year.

West Riverdale was probably the one town in the country not named after an actual river. Founded by the River family centuries ago, we were close enough to Antietam National Battlefield to pick up a few lost tourists rambling their way back east. The only building of any historical value we had was the Rivers Mill, which had been used to store artillery during the Civil War and was now an artists’ cooperative. The River family had settled what was then known as Riverdale back in colonial times, but other than some Main Street buildings that were considered “historical” just because they were old, people in search of history had a heck of a lot of other towns to visit instead of ours.

West Riverdale’s Memorial Day parade used to be a big event for our town, as people came from all over to experience historic small-town life. Like a vacation in the 1950s before they returned to their high-tech lives. But parade attendance had declined in recent years and Gwen was determined to do something about it.

As a Main Street shop owner, I supported anything to increase business, but every time the mayor stopped by our meeting, she added to our workload. Her single-minded attention to the town’s revenues during this weekend made me think that maybe our town was worse off than she maintained in her speeches. Especially since she’d railroaded a sales tax through town council that went into effect for Memorial Day weekend only. It was an accounting nightmare for any business in town.

“I wanted to stop by and personally give you the good news,” Gwen said as she buzzed over to stand beside Erica’s chair, her light citrusy perfume drifting by in her wake. She wore her trademark suit jacket and Ralph Lauren scarf over jeans, straddling those “I’m-so-professional” and “I’m-just-like-you-folk” impressions that politicians have to do.

“The Best Western by the highway is at full capacity for the entire Memorial Day weekend!” Gwen said.

“Whoo boy!” Steve pumped his fist in the air.

Gwen went on. “I knew that new slogan would do the trick. We may have to change our name to Mayberry.”

Gwen “Fixit” Ficks believed any problem could be solved by throwing a slogan at it. Erica had used
West Riverdale: The Mayberry of Maryland
, in her latest press release, touting our extremely low crime rate in a time when the rest of the country seemed to be going crazy.

“This is due to all the hard work of you gals—and guy.” Gwen winked at Steve. “I’m so excited I can barely contain myself! This weekend is going to be a huge success.”

While Gwen was saying all the right things, she seemed a little subdued. For her, anyway.

“That’s great news,” Erica said, with a little wrinkle in her forehead that indicated her mind was already thinking of all the ways the news affected our plans.

“And I thought of one more little push we could do,” Gwen said.

Inside I groaned. That was why she wasn’t as cheerleader-bouncy as usual. She knew piling more work onto our committee wasn’t cool.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the new solar project at West Riverdale High,” she said. “Principal Palladine has been so forward thinking! It will save the school district a ton of money. How do you feel about: ‘West Riverdale: The Greenest Town in Maryland’?” She smiled as if delighted with herself. “See? It’s a play on words. Our lovely rolling green hills and the fact that we’re helping the planet by using our sunshine for clean energy. It’ll appeal to a totally new demographic. The company we’re working with is called Get Me Some Solar. Isn’t that cute?”

Gwen turned her smile wattage up.

Here it comes
, I thought. Even gung-ho Erica seemed worried about what Gwen would ask us to do next.

“And it would be great if you could give them an excellent spot at the Arts Festival. You know what they say. ‘Location, location, location!’”

West Riverdale’s first Arts Festival was fast turning into the West Riverdale Flea Market. We’d started off with the best intentions, limiting the booths to only quality artists, but when we’d run out of those, anyone with a check and something to sell could buy a spot. Now one side of the park would have artists selling their work, plus a few booths I’d have to categorize as “crafts,” but on the other side, customers could buy tools from Duncan Hardware, organic cheese from Farmer Henry, and hubcaps of questionable lineage from Frank’s Finds.

I would be one of the food vendors, along with Zelini’s Italian Kitchen, Bubba’s Southern BBQ, and Sweeney’s Weenies.

Of course, the highlight of the day would be the Great Fudge Cook-off right after the grand opening. Kona and I had narrowed down forty entries to the top ten in a blind taste test. These entries would be judged by Mayor Gwen and the chefs of two highly respected restaurants in Frederick, the closest “big” city to West Riverdale. And now Hillary.

“I’ll let you busy bees get back to work. I’m heading up to DC tonight for some meetings tomorrow. Working hard to get funding for more solar projects.” Gwen headed for the door. Just as she opened it, she turned around and the whole group inhaled. “I told Get Me Some Solar that we’d include their flyers in the bags we’re handing out. Thank you all so much. This is going to be amazing!”

After she was sure Gwen was truly gone, Jolene said, “If that woman didn’t work so hard for this town, I could hate her.” She sighed. “It could’ve been worse. At least the math team and drama club volunteered to help stuff the bags.”

“Well,
we
volunteered them,” Steve corrected. “And they’ll be around all weekend for anything we need.”

“Michelle,” Erica said. “Can you contact the other hotels? If they’re selling out as well, we have to be prepared.”

I nodded, now worrying if I had enough supplies for an influx of tourists. That wasn’t a bad problem to have but I’d still have to deal with it.

“Steve,” Erica said. “That solar project is an amazing opportunity for you and your students to study green energy.”

“You bet,” Steve said. “We already have a weather station, so we’re going to compare how much energy the solar panels produce given different weather patterns.”

“Speaking of weather.” Erica was in total efficiency mode. “What’s the latest prediction?”

“We’re keeping an eye on a tropical depression that could head this way, but so far, so good.” He went on to talk about the latest results of the campus weather station.

Tropical depression? In Maryland, that often led to rainstorms that felt like monsoons. Which would suck. Tourists were notoriously finicky. A prediction of rain could cause a lot of them to change their plans.

Worrying about how to plan for an unknown number of potential customers made me miss Erica’s usual rah-rah speech at the end of the meeting, but given the expressions of happy resolve on the faces of Denise and the Roxburys, it must have been effective.

After the good-byes, I escaped to my storage room to evaluate my supplies. Being surrounded by my chocolate and sugar and spices made me feel like the possibilities were endless.

I counted my bags of Felchlin dark chocolate, smelling their cocoa richness through the sturdy wrapping. Would I use them to make simple but amazing caramels, filled bonbons or elaborate truffles decorated with airbrushed designs? I could decide. I was queen of my little chocolate world. Wizard of the magic I’d create in my kitchen. Some people thought of chocolate as an expression of passion and love, but to me chocolate was food and family and friends. It meant kindness and giving.

I estimated that I could create several thousand truffles from my stock. Should I make that many? We also had to keep up on my hotel and website orders.

Emergency supplies were an option. Already prepared little chocolate cups, ready to be filled. Or gourmet cream centers waiting to be dipped. It was cheating, but they were delicious in their own way, just not a true Michelle chocolate.

I was working out different scenarios when Denise surprised me by opening the door and sliding in, closing it behind her to keep out the humidity even though it wasn’t yet horrible for May. I held up my finger and then completed a calculation.

She waited, a troubled frown on her face.

“What’s up?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Not ready to go home.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. Denise’s mother had moved in with her while she had fought cancer. She had died two months ago. Denise must not want to face her empty apartment.

Too bad Colleen wasn’t here. She was Denise’s best friend and confidant. And I was terrible at making people feel better.

“Good news about our weekend, right?” I tried.

She nodded, still preoccupied. “I found some black-and-white photos my grandpa took of Memorial Day parades from a long time ago. Do you think if I made copies people would buy them?”

“Sure,” I said. “Sounds like you’re having the same problem I am—figuring out how to plan for attendance we can’t predict.”

“I know, right?” She ran a finger along a metal shelf filled with silicone chocolate molds.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, but then bit her lip.

“Are you worried about something?” With Denise, it was better to be direct. While we’d developed a courteous working friendship, she held a lot of herself back. “Thinking about the break-in?”

Two weeks earlier, I’d arrived at the building to find the security alarm turned off and Denise’s studio torn apart. I’d called 911 and then Denise. Stacks of photographs had been tossed around, as if someone had been searching for something. Denise had looked scared to death and then mad as hell. She’d told the police that nothing was missing and that she had no idea who could’ve broken in, but no one believed her.

Erica and I hadn’t figured out how much to push. We all used the same security code for the back hallway Chocolates and Chapters shared with Denise’s studio, but we had different security codes for our store and our storage rooms.

The security company said someone who knew the code for the back hallway and the specific code for Denise’s area entered the building at three in the morning and searched her studio. We had our suspicions. Denise had a tendency to fall for bad-boy looks, and her last boyfriend had the bad-boy habits to go along with them, including a history of burglary and car theft.