Death Is Like a Box of Chocolates (A Chocolate Covered Mystery) (13 page)

“Is this,” I gestured toward the house, “something we should worry about?” I immediately felt like a wimp.

He hesitated and got out again. “The reason I stopped by is it’s clear someone is trying to implicate Mark. Additional evidence was found in his house. So any information you guys know, you need to tell us.”

“You mean the needles?” I asked.

“How do you know about that?” he demanded.

“Reese yelled it to me when she was pissed,” I said. “I don’t think she meant to. So it’s true?”

He nodded.

“Bobby,” I said. “You guys have to realize that no one is stupid enough to leave needles they used for a murder in their own house.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Okay, Mark and Colleen aren’t stupid enough,” I insisted. “Someone tried to frame them, very clumsily, I might add. And that was after trying to implicate me.”

His eyes smiled. “You gotta stop playing detective.” He looked up when Erica’s shadow fell across the window. “I’ll let you know if an arrest is . . . imminent.”

I watched him drive away but a small part of me wondered what the chances were that Colleen had seen Denise’s messages on Mark’s phone. And what she’d be capable of if she did, even if Denise was her best friend.

When I went inside, Bean and Erica had started cleaning. We finished quickly, but I knew we’d be finding flour and sugar in odd places for a long time. Ant season was sure to be a killer.

Bobby and the crime-scene tech surmised that someone had come in and scouted out the ground floor, stopping to search my computer, where the techs had found fingerprints not belonging to any of us. They wouldn’t tell us if the prints were Larry’s.

If it
was
Larry, and he was searching for the laptop he’d dropped outside Denise’s apartment, he’d be able to tell very quickly that it wasn’t the same computer. Mine was plastered with stickers of mouthwatering truffles all over it.

I reminded myself to back up my data as soon as the techs left. Although sadly nothing had changed about my business since it had auto–backed up on Sunday.

At some point, the prowler had gone upstairs, taking two hundred dollars in cash from Erica’s desk, rifling through her papers and then finally ending up in the kitchen.

There he or she had made the kitchen a disaster area, and left, according to the flour and sugar-filled footprints. Bobby knew, but the techs didn’t, that our little project plan was most likely what caused him or her to go nuts.

If it was Larry, he must be pretty desperate to get that computer if he’d risk breaking and entering when the whole town was looking for him. Or maybe he knew that everyone who was anyone would be at that meeting.

Luckily, Erica had her laptop with the whole investigation on it, and we were able to rebuild the plan on the wall after Bean went upstairs.

“The flash drive!” she said. “I can’t believe I forgot it.” She pulled out the drive from her pocket and stuck it into the side of her computer. I finished taping up the last sheet of paper and looked over her shoulder.

A pop-up asking for a password appeared on the screen.

“Shoot,” she said. She tried a few different words but nothing opened it. “Maybe Zane can crack it. You know, he worked on her website. People use the same password for lots of things. He may even know what hers was.” She pulled out her phone to send a text. “I’ll have him meet us at the store tomorrow.”

“We could always give it to Bobby,” I said.

She gave me a “yeah right” sneer. “Maybe after we copy it. If he’s nice.”

“So what the hell happened with you two?” I asked her.

“Who?” she asked, but her face stiffened.

“Nice try,” I said. “With you and Bobby. It seems like you guys have some unfinished business.”

Erica’s face closed down. “
There is no past that we can bring back by longing for it
.”

“Is that a quote or something? Does that mean you’re longing for your past with Bobby?” I asked. “Tell me.”

“It’s not important.” But her stressed tone made that a lie.

I went for the big guns. “Denise is dead. We worked with her for almost two years and hardly knew her. Don’t you wish you’d straight out asked her why she wanted to be a photographer so bad? Or what the deal was with all the bad boys? Or how she got all that hair to stay in place with one little pin? And really, any of us could have found those chocolates and eaten one.” I gave a fake shudder and paused.

“I’d never have known why you two broke up.” I was shameless. But it was time for her to spill. “It must have been pretty bad if you can’t forgive him so many years later.”

She thought for a second and then took a deep breath, as if she’d made a decision. “So it was our senior year,” she began. “And I got that full-ride scholarship to Stanford.”

“What did Bobby do?” I, like the rest of the town, believed that he was the one who’d screwed up.

“Nothing.”

“What?” I said, surprised. “Really?”

She paused. “Everyone assumed he did something wrong.” She looked a little lost, so unlike her. “But it was me.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“There was this admitted student weekend on campus,” she said, “and my parents let me fly out there.”

“Okay,” I said.

“And.” Her voice got quiet. “I met someone.”

“Oh.” And then a longer, “Oooh.”

“Actually, I met a lot of people, from around the world, who were so smart and accomplished.” She paused. “And sophisticated.”

“Hmm,” I said encouragingly.

“And I got this stupid idea that I didn’t want to be held back by my state-school boyfriend.” She sounded thoroughly disgusted with her eighteen-year-old self. “So I broke up with him.”

“Ah.”

“Right before graduation.”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“And then he drove his motorcycle through the stands, ended up in jail, and lost his scholarship to UM,” she said. “So when you say he looks at me, he’s not looking at me the way you think. He’s looking at me because I ruined his life.”

“Hmm,” I said. “His life doesn’t seem very ruined to me. He’s perfectly happy being Lieutenant Bobby here in West Riverdale.”

She looked like she didn’t believe me.

I went on. “And when he’s looking at you, I
know
he’s not thinking you ruined his life. He’s thinking he’d like to ruin those clothes you’re wearing.” She looked confused. “Like rip them off and haul you off to that goddess bed of yours.”

Erica flushed.

“But you’ll never know until you ask him.”

She avoided my gaze, but I think I saw interest flare. “Maybe I will. So what’s going on with you and Bean?”

“Nothing!” Turnabout was not fair play.

T
he next morning I sat in my car outside the shop. It was dawn and for the first time ever, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go in.

The shop felt threatening, all dark and closed up in the early morning gloom, instead of full of possibilities. Who killed Denise? Someone I knew? Why did they use my chocolates? Could it really be Mark?

I took a deep breath.

Erica had warned me that the store would feel different. She’d taken all of my equipment from home to be part of the cleanup and they’d told her that my kitchen shelves and drawers would be empty and my spic-and-span utensils, pots and bowls would be piled up on the tables for me to put away. My storeroom was bare. I didn’t want to think about what they’d done in the dining area where Denise had died.

Then Coco leapt up onto the porch, as if waiting to welcome me. I got out of the car and sat on the porch that was damp with morning dew. Coco climbed into my lap, purring loudly and making me feel better. After a minute of petting, she nipped my thumb as if to say, “Where’s the food?” Erica drove up. The cat took one look at the car and ran off.

Erica got out, wearing a Chocolates by Michelle T-shirt. “I thought you were running,” she said, “or I’d have been here sooner.”

I jumped up to hug her, and heard another car approach. It was Kona, in her decade-old Honda decorated with Hawaiian hibiscus flower decals, with Kayla in the front seat.

Tears popped into my eyes at the unwavering support of my friends.

Kona yawned as she got out and threw her peace bag over her shoulder. “Are we ready?” Her brain kicked in. “Oh my God. Did they throw out the coffee?”

I laughed and shoved a new five-pound bag of Dublin Roasters coffee beans into her hands. “Your first duty is to make the strongest coffee you can. We’re going to need it.”

“I second that motion,” Kayla said, pushing back an adorable curl that had fallen into her eyes. Her mop of blond ringlets was even more disheveled than normal.

Erica did the honors and opened the door. I noticed right away that the scent of chocolate was missing. But by the time we’d emptied the minivan of the bags of chocolate and other supplies that had heavily damaged my credit card, it was starting to smell more like it should. My home away from home.

The four of us moved to the dining area and stood silent for a moment. The cleaning company had taken away the couch and rearranged the furniture. Most people wouldn’t notice the new arrangement but it was jarring to me. “I don’t like the flow,” I said.

“It’s fine,” Erica said, but her voice was gentle. “Let’s get to work.”

Even though I knew everything was clean, I felt the need to wash it all again. First I put out food for Coco, expecting it to be back at some point. I started tempering my new batch of chocolate on the stove while we scrubbed, and then began to put everything back in the kitchen where it belonged.

When it was time to cook, I told Erica she should work on what she needed to do to reopen the book store. Kona and I had developed a rhythm long ago that worked well, and Kayla was beginning to understand how the process flowed.

Erica wasn’t known for her attention to detail in the kitchen, and cheerfully left to work with her books. “Zane should be in soon,” she said on her way out. “He found a first edition of
A is for Alibi
at an estate sale yesterday. It’s not in the best shape, but may be worth a lot.”

We’d decided not to make a big deal of our little side project and didn’t mention the flash drive to my assistants.

As if summoned by her words, Zane strolled in from the back door, dressed like an eighties Ralph Lauren commercial. With his argyle sweater, Bermuda shorts and boat shoes, he looked like the kind of rich kid from the Eastern Shore who’d be voted “Most Likely to Take Over Daddy’s Business” in his yearbook.

Since his dad was an organic goat farmer, I doubted that was Zane’s plan. I think he’d do anything to avoid goats.

He’d found the perfect job as Erica’s assistant and all-around techie for her used and rare book business. His mother had been the town librarian for years, so maybe loving books was genetic. He was also getting his computer science degree and had built our very cool website that included everything about my chocolates, Erica’s new books and an auction site for her rare books. He’d created websites for a lot of the Main Street shops.

Maybe the preppy look was a thing among computer kids. The older I got, the more I realized that tons of subcultures existed out there that I knew nothing about.

Erica jumped up from her stool. “Did you bring it?”

“Of course,” he said. “Let me get my gloves.” They headed off toward his office, which was basically a renovated storage closet.

After tucking her long sleeves in her oven mitts to avoid the often spattering caramel, Kona poured the sugar into the hot pan and began stirring, the most backbreaking job in the kitchen. It required single-minded attention. The slightest mistake could send it into a smoking mess. A bigger mistake could result in a fire that would stink up the place for days.

I checked the temperature of the tempering chocolate and then put a huge pot onto the second stove to work on the ganache. I poured in the cream and stirred. I’d been a little worried that the chocolate would somehow feel toxic to me, but I was at peace for the first time all week.

• • • • • • • • • 

E
very two hours we took a break to stretch our backs, arms and shoulder muscles and get off our feet for a while. We’d made enough caramel for hundreds of our standard sized Fleur de Sel Caramels and several hundred more of my tiny giveaway “gateway drug” caramels. The caramel filling would need to cool overnight so we could finish them in the morning, including sprinkling my special sea salt on top.

Since the secret was out, I assigned my cousin’s bachelorette chocolates to Kona, who thought the project was hilarious. She even volunteered to ship them and get them out of sight.

We’d also finished batches of the tangy Raspberry Surprise Darks and Milks and refreshing Mint Julep Milks, which were cooling on my shelving unit. All was right in my little world.

Erica joined us for the second breather. Of course, our conversation turned to Denise’s murder.

“So who do you think did it?” Kona asked and took a drink from her chai tea.

“Killed Denise?” Erica asked matter-of-factly. “What do you think?” She’d taken me aside a little earlier to let me know that Zane had tried all of Denise’s passwords that he knew and none of them had worked on the flash drive. Now he was using some kind of program that hackers use to crack passwords. I didn’t even want to know if it was legal.

Kona pulled her sandwich out of a paper bag. “People keep talking about her ex-boyfriend from Westminster.”

“He’s at the top of the list for me,” I said.

“He’s a strong suspect,” Erica said, taking a sip of her coffee. “But maybe we’re all just trying to reassure ourselves that it’s not someone we know in West Riverdale.”

“Anyone else people are talking about?” I asked Kona.

She looked sheepishly at Erica. “Well, everyone knows about . . . Mark.”

Erica nodded. “Of course. Who else?”

Kayla jumped in. “Well, Opal saw Denise taking photos in the Giant Eagle parking lot and went off on her. It was a few days before she died,” she said. “She even knocked over Denise’s tripod and her camera broke.”

“Was Opal mad about the senior portrait job?” I asked.

“That’s what I heard,” Kayla said. “She accused Denise of sleeping with someone on the school board to get that gig. Then Denise yelled back saying she didn’t need to get the job like Opal did.”

“That sounds intense,” Erica said. “Is that true about Opal getting the job that way?”

Kayla shrugged. “It was forever ago. Who knows?”

“Anyone else?” Erica asked.

Kona gave me a sideways glance.

“Me?” I asked, horrified. “What possible reason would I have?” It was barely palatable for crazy Reese to have her conspiracy theories, but my neighbors? People I see every day?

“Not really.” Her words rushed out. “They just watch too many cop shows where anyone remotely attached to the victim is a potential suspect. And, you know, they say poison is a women’s weapon.”

“What possible motive do I have in this fictional world they live in?” I asked.

She looked down, obviously not wanting to answer.

“Tell me,” I insisted.

“Well,” she started reluctantly. “One story is because you were secretly in love with Larry.”

I rolled my eyes. “Even Denise wasn’t secretly in love with that scumbag.”

“Another is that you wanted to take over her space.” She rolled her eyes like that was ridiculous.

“And I’m willing to kill for it?”

“People are idiots,” she said, with the cynicism of a twenty-year-old.

“Who else?” Erica asked.

“That angry butterfly lady,” Kayla said. “Everyone knows she was mad at Denise for keeping her out of some dumb art group.”

“What do
you
think?” Erica asked.

Kona frowned. “She was a photographer. I think she got photos of someone doing something they shouldn’t.”

Like maybe Mark
, I couldn’t help thinking.

• • • • • • • • • 

E
rica stuck her head into the kitchen. “You have to see these,” she said, holding her computer. “Zane really came through—broke the password on the flash drive.”

I was painting gold cocoa butter on my milk chocolate coins with a racing horse imprint for the upcoming Preakness.

“Five minutes,” I said.

“Hurry.” Her face was deadly serious. “It’s important.”

I put down my brush. “Show me.”

She turned the computer around. Two enlarged photos of Larry carrying a computer monitor and then a bulging bag out of a house at night filled the screen.

“Is that who I think it is?”

“Yep,” Erica said. “And look at this.” She clicked over to another page that reported crimes in the area. A burglary in one of the new developments was highlighted. “Zane matched the photo geotags to that house.”

“What’s a geotag?”

“It’s info that can be automatically attached to a digital photo,” she explained. “Denise recorded a lot of technical data with her photos. Photographers like to do that so they can evaluate how the photo came out based on how they set it up. She also recorded time, date, latitude and longitude. Zane matched it to that house at the same date and time that it was broken into.”

“Holy cow!” I said. “That’s why Larry was searching for her computer. She had proof of him stealing stuff from that house.”

“And if he knew she had these photos,” Erica said, “it might be motive enough to kill her.”