Dark Chocolate Murder (4 page)

The night
before her big move, she lay stiffly in a sleeping bag on the living room floor.  Nothing remained of her furniture, and her back had suffered for it.  She pored over her flight itinerary one last time: Monaco didn’t have an airport, so her plane would land in Nice, France, after two stressful connections.  Shakily, Belinda put the itinerary aside and switched on her laptop computer.  Checking her email, she saw that Lenore had sent a message.  To Belinda’s surprise, the content of the email was a poem:

The Snow Drift

In the other direction,

The one I expected to guide me home

Drifts the snow that blocks my path, carves me like stone

And makes everything seem like an obstacle

Is the bright, fresh road over there an illusion?

Or does it contain the path to lead me home?

If I were brave, I would follow its light

Ignore the fierce avalanche

Drift of snow that blocks my path and imposes night

And makes me wonder which way leads home

Is it a place that is lost forever?

Or one that I have yet to uncover?

From the north, it appears the lights are extinguished

In the west, it is darker still

And the south is most bleak, egg-white, ill

But the east claims the sun and a hopeful direction

One I shall follow to the home of my invention.

At the end of the email, Lenore had written a short message:
Hey Girl
,
hope you liked my poem! I’ve never shared this one with anyone.  But I thought it would be perfect for you, Miss Vagabond.  Have a safe trip and God bless.

With tear-stained cheeks, Belinda replied:
I LOVED it! It was so inspirational.  Just what I needed.  You are a poet. Own it.  Live it.  Thank you for being such an incredible friend.  PS Check your mailbox soon for postcards from your Miss Vagabond!

*****

The next morning, as Belinda was packing her carry-on bag, her back suddenly spasmed.
  Doubling over in pain, she cried out and mentally cursed the rolled up sleeping bag in the corner.  Walking crookedly over to the medicine cabinet, she pulled out a bottle of painkillers and swallowed three of them.  The bottle of painkillers was auspiciously the only item she hadn’t packed yet.

“I guess somehow I knew
I would need these this morning,” she grumbled.  “How am I going to sit on the plane for so many hours?”

Switching on her laptop, and lying flat on her back to ease the pain, Belinda reread Lenore’s poem.  Gathering strength from the inspirational verses, she ignored the twinges that knotted together the nerves of her lower back.

“But the east claims the sun and a hopeful direction…One I shall follow to the home of my invention,” Belinda recited the last verses aloud just as the buzzer of her apartment rang.

The taxi driver.  He was fifteen minutes early.  Struggling to get to her feet, Belinda thought about her own pending journey east.  She hoped it
would prove to be a “hopeful direction,” but as her back spasmed repeatedly, she did not feel certain at all.

*****

That night, Belinda sat on the plane as it soared over the
murky Atlantic Ocean.  She had taken two more painkillers, and a numbness had replaced the sharp pains in her lower back.  Inwardly, she knew it had not been the sleeping bag that had caused her back to go out, well not exclusively.  It was also the unprecedented stress that this voyage was causing her.  She had traveled so infrequently in her life, and now she was moving clear across the globe!  It seemed like sheer folly.  But as the plane coasted over the ocean, the words of Lenore’s poem replayed in Belinda’s mind, and she drifted asleep with thoughts of a “bright, fresh road” and a “home of her invention” waiting for her on the other side of the Atlantic.

*****

Nice, France

Slipping on a pair of shades to shield her eyes from the sun flooding the Côte d’Azur Airport, Belinda marveled at her new surroundings.  Elegant, statuesque women in designer dresses and shoes breezed through the airport.  Equally well-dressed men in both casual and formal suits glanced appreciatively at Belinda as she strolled by.  In her tight blue jeans and pink cotton tee-shirt, she was conspicuously American, but also conspicuously beautiful.  Depleted from the multiple flights, Belinda’s face was completely
au naturel
without a drop of cosmetics, and she still walked with a slight stiffness in her lower back.  She could not imagine why the Frenchmen wore such bemused expressions on their faces as she passed.  But it thrilled her nonetheless, and she was startled when someone tapped her on the shoulder from behind.

“Belinda! I’ve been calling your name!  Didn’t you hear me?” Crystal asked as she pulled her sister into a tight embrace.

“No! I must have been daydreaming.  This airport is so pretty!” Belinda marveled, squeezing her younger sister lovingly.

“The airport
just the beginning! Wait until you see Monaco!” Crystal promised.

Jean-Jacques appeared from behind with a cold bottle of spring water that he presented to Belinda.  He had aged slightly since the last time she saw him, but he was still an attractive man with his salt and pepper hair and amiable features.

“
Bienvenue
!” He welcomed her with a European-style kiss on each cheek.  “We thought you might be dehydrated after all that flying.”

“Oh, I am, thank you!” Belinda opened the bottle and drank the water thirstily.

“You look great, Belinda.  I think the European lifestyle agrees with you already!” Crystal praised as Belinda shot her a shocked look.

“I’m a mess, but you’re a sweetheart.  Thank you.  I mean,
merci
.  I’m going to have to start speaking French now, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are, but I’m sure any
one of those men who were staring at you would be happy to be your tutor,” Crystal winked.

Crystal didn’t understand why her sister didn’t realize how gorgeous she was.  The only thing she could attribute it to was Belinda’s
unhappy marriage to Daniel.  He had always told her she was fat, when in reality she had the curves of a Roman goddess.

Belinda looked at her incredulously, “You saw that?  I guess men here are more amorous than
those in the United States.”

“Of course we are,
” Jean-Jacques assured playfully.

“Oh, hush!” Crystal scolded.  “Come on, let’s go to the car.  It’s a short drive into Monaco.  Just make sure you have your passport and visa handy, Belinda.”

“I’m wearing them around my neck, see?” Belinda pointed to the document holder she wore as a necklace.

“Oh, yes,
” Crystal grinned.  “Between that and your blue jeans, it couldn’t be more obvious that you’re a foreigner.”

“Thanks,
” Belinda quipped sarcastically, though she was not affronted.

“I think you’ll find the guest room
in our house well-appointed and to your liking,” Jean-Jacques offered.

“Yes,” Crystal agreed.  “It’s in a private section of the house overlooking the garden.”

“It sounds lovely, but I want you to know this is only temporary.  As soon as I get over my jet lag, I’m going to find a location for my chocolate shop and then an apartment,” Belinda said firmly, not wanting to impose on her sister and brother-in-law any more than necessary.

“No rush,” Crystal assured.  “We have the space, and you are welcome to stay as long as you want.”

“Absolutely,” Jean-Jacques concurred.

The ride from Nice to Monaco was filled with laughter and conversation---and sights Belinda never imagined she might see.  As she stared out the window at the spar
kling coastline and quaint boutiques, she wondered why she hadn’t done this sooner.

“It’s gorgeous here,” Belinda breathed, rolling down the window to inhale the
salted air and feel the wind in her hair.

“It really is, and you’re going to love it.  I cou
ld never live anywhere else now,” Crystal said.

“Well, I can see why.” Belinda nodded her head, relishing the dry Mediterranean breeze fanning her face.

In fifteen minutes time, Jean-Jacques was pulling into the winding driveway of the house he shared with Crystal.  Belinda’s eyes widened at the imposing size of the Georgian style home.  She stifled a gasp as Jean-Jacques stopped the car inside a multi-level parking deck.  This was not a house at all; this was a mansion.  They could have been in Beverly Hills right now for all she knew.

“Jean-Jacques likes to collect
vintage cars, as you can see.” Crystal gestured to the half dozen antique sports cars that crammed the deck.  “But we have every-day cars as well.  So don’t feel like you have to take the rail to get around.  You can just use one of the cars.  You did get an international driver’s license, right?”

Belinda frowned. 
“No, actually I didn’t.  That’s one thing I didn’t think of,” she replied, not sure if she would want to cruise around a foreign country in someone else’s car anyway.

“Oh, that’s too bad! Well, I’m home during the day, and I can dr
ive you wherever you need to go,” Crystal offered cheerfully.

Belinda stepped out into the perfect Mediterranean climate.  It was warm but not oppressive
ly so.  With the near zero percent humidity, the air was sublime.  Belinda didn’t need the rail system or her sister as a taxi service; she would be delighted to walk everywhere in this weather.  But she didn’t relay this idea to Crystal.  Instead, she just nodded and murmured, “Mmmhmm, thanks.”

Cordially, Jean-Jacques carried Belinda’s bags up to the third floor where the guest room was located.  Belinda was astonished.  In front of her was a master size bedroom overlooking an open air terrace with a spectacular garden view.  Inside the bedroom was a private bathroom with
a hot tub and dressing room adjacent.  A vibrant garden bouquet soaked in a vase on a handsome mahogany armoire.

“You guys, this is not a guest room!  It’s a
luxury suite! I can’t believe it!”

Belinda thought ruefully of the sad little apartment she had inhabited after her divorce.  Located on the first floor of a dilapidated building, the apartment was not only tiny but also incessantly loud.  With a grimace she recalled her upstairs neighbor who had played bass guitar
off-key at all hours of the night.  That apartment had been like a rowdy college dorm, and this suite was a veritable sanctuary in comparison.

“It’s
just the guest quarters,” Crystal shrugged, as though she were unimpressed.

Belinda reflected how Crystal had become accustomed to a life of luxury and appeared just the slightest bit---spoiled.  She hated herself for thinking it, especially with Crystal’s warm hospitality, but it was true.  Brushing aside the
judgmental thought, Belinda resolved not to be envious of her privileged sister and palatial home.

“Well, it’s lovely.  I am so grateful to have this space to myself right now.” Belinda squeezed Crystal’s hand.

“It’s all yours.  Jean-Jacques and I will leave you to relax for a few hours.  Meet us in the garden for lunch at 2:00.  Lunch is the biggest meal of the day in Europe, so don’t ruin your appetite with any snacks!” Crystal sauntered out of the room with a grinning Jean-Jacques following her.

With a pang of sadness whose source she could not identify, Belinda
flopped onto the bed and stared out the window at the trees swaying in the Mediterranean breeze.  Eventually, the whispering leaves of the trees lulled her into a siesta.

*****

On the other side of Monaco, Pierre Cédaire was barking out orders for an upcoming luncheon at his restaurant.  Members of the royal family had reserved the banquet room for a private lunch, and Pierre was frazzled to his wit’s end.  His staff regarded him curiously; already of a dark temperament, the man seemed to be growing moodier every day.  And no one could explain it, least of all Pierre.  His restaurant’s success was growing in spades every day, but it did not fulfill him.

Resisting the temptation to light up a cigarette and go back to his old ways, Pierre walked outside for a breath of fresh air.  He knew but would not acknowledge what was really gnawing at him: he needed a woman.  Since his divorce, Pierre had been alone, constantly preoccupied with growing his business and raising his four-year old son as a single father.  The loneliness was starting to take a toll on him.  If he kept acting so insolently, his staff would probably quit, and his professional life would be as desolate as his pers
onal one. Unwilling to allow his budding empire to crumble, Pierre hurried back inside the restaurant and rolled up his sleeves.  The head chef looked at him in surprise.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Pierre said gruffly.  “Hand me that wooden spoon.”

The chef obeyed, and Pierre stirred the pot of creamy
béchamel
sauce, willing to work alongside his staff to make every detail perfect for the royal family’s luncheon---and to preserve what he had just begun to build.