Dangerously Dark (18 page)

 

 

My designated four minutes had long expired by the time I rounded the corner and all but skidded to a stop at Carissa's trailer. Danny was already there waiting for me. Arms crossed, he lounged in the
open
doorway, full of smugness and certainty.

If the Cartorama vendors hadn't already turned on their industrial-chic festival lights overhead, I would have missed the open doorway
and
Danny's expression. It was only around 7:00
P.M.
, but the cart pod was already shrouded in dusk.

Chocolate After Dark was aptly named, it turned out.

“You did it!” I squealed, happy my efforts to stage a fallback plan hadn't been for nothing. Also, high on the knowledge that I'd gotten a new lead
and
a date
and
a compliment on my intimidating levels of personal awesomeness. “Yay!”

“Way to be cool.” My security expert glanced behind me as though looking for an excuse. “Here's a switch—
you're
late.”

I laughed. “I bet you've been waiting years to say that.”

“Years . . . and five minutes. Five minutes too long.”

“Funny.” I divined that now was not a good time to tell Danny about my date. I nodded at the open door. “Nice job.”

Despite his acerbity, I could have hugged him. I'd been worried about getting access to Carissa's Airstream. On TV or in the movies, snooping around looks easy. In real life? Not so much.

For instance, right now, there were several vendors working at their open Cartorama carts. Plus a number of customers. Any one of them could have spotted me and sounded the alarm.

I felt ultraconspicuous. Danny could tell.

He motioned. “Get in here. We've got twelve minutes.”

But with the door standing wide open, twelve minutes felt like an eternity. I took a moment to marvel at our success.

“And
you
said you didn't bring your lock-picking set.”

Danny wasn't much for gloating. “I didn't. I never lie.”

Well, that was true. At least . . . Danny never lied to me.

His dark gaze met mine. I sauntered to the trailer and met him at the open doorway. “I get it. It was already open, right?”

“No.” He looked offended. “Look, the advantages of picking a lock are exaggerated. Usually, it's a lot easier to get inside another way. You break a window, you kick in the door—”

“But the windows aren't broken and the door is intact.”

He looked around the cart pod. “There are other ways.”

“Such as?” I shouldered past him and stepped inside. Even after I switched on the lights to push back the twilight, the trailer's interior felt gloomy and chilly, dangerous and dank.

I didn't like being inside it. Being in the space where Declan had drawn his last breaths—where Carissa had almost died—affected me in ways I hadn't anticipated. I felt sorry for Declan, sorry for his family and friends . . . scared for myself.

What if someone had rigged this place to be a death trap again? What if I suffocated like Declan? Or froze to death?

My nervous glance skittered to the twin liquid nitrogen tanks standing at one end of the trailer's approximate sixteen-by-seven-foot interior. Even though I knew Austin had already fixed the safety mechanism, they gave me the willies. They might as well have been two gigantic bombs. While I knew there were no such things as ghosts (of course), I couldn't deny feeling strange about stepping onto the spot where Declan had died.

“Such as getting a spare key from Lauren,” Danny admitted as he followed me in, squashing my self-inflicted scare-a-thon.

Aha.
Now I knew the Sweet Seductions vendor had a key. That meant that Carissa, Janel, and Lauren all had access. Who else?

Danny shut the door behind us. “I told her you needed to get some things out of Carissa's trailer for use on the tour.”

I turned to him. “Really? And Lauren folded, just like that? She handed over the key?”

Danny studied the trailer's interior with a practiced eye, not drawn in by my incredulous tone. I wondered what he—a former thief—saw in the space around us that I didn't. Or couldn't.

“No wonder there was a murder here,” I nitpicked, aware I was being pointlessly indignant—aware, too, of the key Tomasz had just given me to Muddle + Spade. Maybe I didn't want Danny and Lauren to be going steady, the way Tomasz had joked. “Cartorama's security practices are abysmal. Lauren just gave away Carissa's key, huh? What if
you
were a murderer?”

Danny's knowing gaze flicked to me. “Lauren and I have talked. We know one another. She doesn't think I'm a murderer.”

“Well,
that
would be the best cover, wouldn't it?”

My security expert went silent. He roamed around the trailer, running his hands over its stainless-steel surfaces. The Airstream Classic had been customized for foodservice with built-in prep tables, lowboy chilling units—one fridge and one freezer—to make up the bases of those tables, and nearby shelves for storage of cooking implements, aluminum individual ice-cream containers, recyclable spoons, spare spiroid paddles, and more.

It was a tight fit. There was barely room for all those things plus me and Danny. The trailer was clean and tidy, though. It was actually pretty cool, in a retro way. The stainless-steel backsplash and countertops were quilted; the storage areas were edged in the style of a 1950s diner, with aluminum groove-face nosing. If Carissa hadn't been in mourning for Declan—and
I
hadn't been inside on less-than-aboveboard terms— I would have congratulated her on her well-thought-out ice-cream cart.

“We're getting together later, so stop it with the murder talk,” Danny said. “I know what you're trying to do.”

My search for proof of sabotage ground to a halt.

“We're not getting together,” I disagreed, purposely misunderstanding so he'd tell me more. “I have homework to do for the chocolate tour. Once you crack Declan's iPad password—”

“Lauren. And me. We hit it off.” Blithely, Danny pointed upward. “There's the intake register for the ventilation. We should definitely check that. It's the only one in here.”

I didn't care. “You? And Lauren? Since when are you in the market for dates? What about that nice SFPD detective?”

“Somebody put the kibosh on that by uncovering a murder.”

He meant me. “You didn't have to come here. I didn't ask you to,” I reminded him, hands on hips.
Danny and Lauren were going to be a couple.
Well, it made sense. She
was
dishy. “Do you really think it's wise to date a potential murderer?”

Lauren was officially on my suspect list, after all.

Danny shrugged and pulled over an unopened cardboard box full of Dantifold Lowfold dispenser napkins. “It's one drink.”

I recognized his improvised step stool for what it was. I grabbed an offset spatula, then took the initiative and stepped up onto the cardboard box before he could. Even packed full, a case of paper goods wouldn't begin to hold Danny's weight. Above me was the intake register for the trailer's ventilation system. “I get it. You're investigating Lauren, right? That's smart. I can use the help.”

“What you could use is a screwdriver to take off that intake register.” He steadied me with one hand on my thigh, making my leg tingle. “Unfortunately for you, I'm fresh out.”

He was dissembling, not confirming that he was only dating Lauren to help me investigate. I frowned, even as I brandished my thin stainless-steel spatula. It was only four inches long or so, but it worked like a dream to remove the register's two screws. I handed Danny the spatula to hold, propped up the register with one hand, then dropped the screws into his palm.

“Working in a kitchen, you learn a few shortcuts,” I explained, relishing the look of revelation on his face. I liked having an advantage with Danny. It didn't happen often enough. “Hold onto me so I don't fall. This is a little difficult.”

“You should let me do it, then.” But he complied.

Now both his big hands were holding me tightly. I'll admit, it was a little distracting. Danny is strong. Also (I may have mentioned) unfairly good-looking. I've had my moments of being drawn to his strength, his machismo, his loyalty, and his big heart.

Or maybe I was just feeling competitive with Lauren. Who knows? Either way, I got what I needed. A secure boost upward.

Carefully, I pulled off the intake register, then inspected it. I needed evidence of some kind, and . . . voilà. There it was.

“It's not even dusty.” I handed the register down to Danny, feeling disappointed in Carissa. “I bet it's been moved recently.”

That counted as evidence, right? The fact it was clean?

I wished I could have believed it
wasn't
incriminating.

“Or Carissa is a neat freak.” It was nice of Danny to give her the benefit of the doubt. He peered up. “See anything?”

I didn't. Not really. The ventilation shaft was dark. Also, my viewing angle was awkward. The trailer's ceiling was probably only eight feet from the floor. My height, plus the box I was standing on, plus the distance to the shaft, meant that I had to stand on tiptoe and crane my neck just to see inside.

I caught a glimmer of something shiny. My heart leaped.

“Hand me those spring-loaded interlocking tongs, will ya?”

Nada. Danny gazed around the trailer in obvious bafflement.

“The things that look like giant tweezers,” I clarified.

He still looked puzzled. “Yeah, it's been a while since I plucked my eyebrows,” he cracked. “Point to what you want.”

On behalf of my mom (who's prone to handing my dad a pair of pliers when he wants an Allen wrench), I felt vindicated.

I pointed. Danny handed up the tongs, then resumed his hold on my leg. His shoulder bolstered me, too, as he gazed upward.

“Here we go.” I inserted the tongs into the ventilation shaft. It was narrow, but the tongs were long—the perfect tool for tossing a salad, flipping a roasted pepper,
or
withdrawing evidence of a murder. I held up what I'd found. “Plastic wrap.”

To be specific, it was a scrap of commercial-grade clear cling film. The same crinkly stuff that Janel had sneaked out of Carissa's trailer. I'd only been able to reach it with my tongs—
and
my greater-than-Janel's height. Otherwise, I would have missed it for sure. I felt a distinct chill as I examined it.

Danny must have, too, because he frowned up at me. He didn't even admire my prize. “You got it. Now get down.”

“This doesn't belong up here.” I gestured with it—still on the tongs—toward the ventilation shaft. “There's no good reason anybody would shrink-wrap a ventilation shaft.
And
it's the same stuff we saw Janel with after she was in here.” I couldn't help feeling victorious on behalf of my beleaguered friend. This was proof of sabotage for sure—but it wasn't proof of
Carissa's
sabotage. “That means
Janel
must have rigged the ventilation.”

“Or Carissa did,” Danny disagreed, “and Janel found it.”

“The likelihood of Janel investigating is pretty slim.”

“But not impossible. We're doing it.”

“Yeah, but we're special. Right?” I didn't want to believe that Carissa had done anything wrong. My friend
wasn't
a cold-blooded killer. I would have known somehow, wouldn't I?

I didn't want to think my judgment was that skewed. Even if Danny and Travis both did. They thought I was too softhearted. I knew better. At that moment, for instance, I felt far from softhearted toward Janel. Especially if she'd killed Declan.

“You'd better come down.” Danny signaled for me to step off the box and clear out of the trailer. “Let's get out of here.”

I was too busy clinging to my hopes to do that. “Carissa couldn't have arranged something like this.” Needing to believe it, I examined that scrap of plastic wrap. After seeing Janel, I knew there'd been much more of the stuff a few days ago. Enough to block the trailer's ventilation completely (and invisibly). Enough to allow the levels of liquid nitrogen to build up and ultimately kill Declan. “Even if she had, Carissa isn't stupid. She'd have had the sense to come back and remove it herself.”

“She's been pretty busy pretending to be sad about Declan.”

Danny's sardonic tone bothered me. “There
must
be another explanation.” Reluctantly, I traded him my tongs for the intake register. I replaced everything the way we'd found it, then accepted his hand down. I watched as Danny put back the napkin box precisely in its former location, expertly hiding our tracks. “It's got to be Janel.” I took back my tongs and scrutinized that scrap of plastic wrap. “I know it.”

Danny shook his head. “The most obvious solution is usually the right one.” He glanced at the time. “I know you don't want to think the worst of your friend, but you hadn't seen each other in person for almost ten years. People change. You've changed.”

I had. I'd changed into someone who spied on my friend.

Well, as true as that was, I couldn't accept the rest—the part that suggested Carissa was guilty of killing her fiancé.

They said there was nothing so deadly as a woman scorned, I remembered (roughly). But I wasn't even sure if Carissa had been aware of Declan's extensive infidelity. As far as I was concerned, her ignorance was as good as proof of innocence.