Death Is Like a Box of Chocolates (A Chocolate Covered Mystery) (3 page)

“No,” she said. “That was nothing.”

“That’s so weird that nothing was stolen with all of your expensive equipment,” I said.

She turned to face me. “Do you ever just want to get the hell out of West Riverdale?”

“What?” I asked, confused by her abrupt change of subject.

“Out of this town. ‘The Mayberry of Maryland,’” she added with mocking finger quotes.

“Not really.” I’d spent my whole life here and never felt the urge to try a more exciting way of life. “It’s my home. You should talk to Erica. She’s the travel fanatic.”

“I don’t know how she lives with herself, having to come back here.” She scowled. “If I got out of West Riverdale, you’d never see me again.”

This was getting weird. “Did something happen?” I asked her. “You sound really upset.”

She took a deep breath and tried to sound more upbeat. “I just don’t think I can take another winter like we had. If I had the money, I’d move somewhere that was warm all the time.”

“You could take some awesome photos of a tropical beach.” I played along. “Maybe after you sell a bunch of photos in that gallery, you can afford a great vacation.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Like
The Eighties at Echo Beach
.”

“What’s that?”

“A photography book,” she said. “Erica knows it.” She opened the door. “Thanks.”

I felt an “I guess” after it, maybe because I knew I hadn’t helped. I should’ve called her back, but I had to finish my projections. I love making chocolates, but planning to make chocolates was not nearly as much fun.

“I
’m heading out,” I told Erica in my most innocent voice. No way did I want to let anyone in West Riverdale know about my top-secret project: making X-rated chocolates for my cousin’s bachelorette party. Luckily she lived in Washington, DC—far enough away that no one would find out. Not only would these chocolates alienate the pious folks in town, but I’d never live it down with my friends. And I really didn’t want to be called on to make adult chocolates for every bachelorette party in the area.

I’d hid the risqué molds at home, but for some reason, I felt like a criminal sneaking out my airbrush equipment and going back in for the chocolate and flavorings. These bridesmaids didn’t want to buy the crappy bachelorette chocolate they could order online; they wanted high quality chocolate in a variety of flavors, and they wanted them sprayed with gold. I didn’t even want to know why. What would the rest of that high-end bachelorette party entail? Channing Tatum dancing out of a cake?

I shut down my side of the shop and waved to Erica, who was doing the final walk-through. The weather was cool enough that I could take care of this special order at home, package it up and send it off before anyone knew what I was doing.

I heard a meow as I pulled the back door shut.

A brown-striped cat sat at the edge of the wooden porch behind the store. It stared at me with green eyes that caught the glow of the setting sun.

“Hi, kitty.” I took a step toward it. “Are you lost?” It didn’t have a collar.

I looked around as if I could figure out where it had come from. Had it escaped from the Pampered Pet adoption event? “Hold on,” I said to the cat, and then felt foolish for telling it what to do as if it could understand me. The haughty expression on its face didn’t help.

I put the last of my supplies in the car and called the pet store to see if they were missing a cat. No one answered, so I left a message. Most of the Main Street shops closed early on Sundays until after Memorial Day. The cat waited on the porch. Should I take it home?

I’d never had a pet growing up. My mom always said my brother Leo and I were enough to clean up after. Looking at her fur, a name popped into my head. Maybe I could keep it and name it Coco.

I leaned down to pet it and it pushed back against my hand and purred. But when I tried to pick it up, it squirmed away like a slippery ferret.

Ah, trust issues. A cat after my own heart. “It’s okay.” I sat down on the edge of the porch and it started rubbing against my leg, purring once again. “Coco,” I tried.

It seemed to like that and I melted a little. What a cutie. After petting it for a few minutes, I tried again to pick it up, still not sure what I would do with the poor thing.

“Meow!” This time it swatted at me as it twisted away, as if to teach me a lesson.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “You don’t want to be picked up.” I couldn’t take it inside. The health department would have a fit. “Wait here.”

I opened the door and the warning alarm came on, letting me know that Erica had locked up and activated the security system using the front door panel.

Coco hopped off the porch, and by the time I went in to disarm the security system and came back out, the cat had disappeared.

It probably belonged to someone in the neighborhood, but just in case it actually was a starving stray too scarred by life on the streets to trust me to return, I went into the kitchen and scrounged around for cat-friendly food—a bit of cream poured into a small plastic tub and a chunk of cooked bacon. I reset the alarm and left the treats against the wall on the porch.

The lights were on in the Duncan Hardware store across Main Street and I made a quick decision to buy a new air hose for spray-painting with my gold cocoa butter. Almost all of the parking spots were open so I whipped my minivan into one of them and headed for the aisle I knew well. I still hadn’t figured out how to keep my air hoses from clogging regularly.

Principal Peter Palladine was stocking shelves halfway down, wearing the red apron of Duncan Hardware employees.

“Moonlighting?” I asked him. If I’d known he was here, I could’ve brought him some Black Forest Milks. My accountant always complained that I gave away too much of my product, but trying one or two made almost everyone buy more. Except for the cheapskates. And most of the time I liked sharing my yummy chocolate with them too.

He chuckled. “Just helping out Sammy on his new expanded Sunday evening hours,” he said, sounding a little like a commercial. “Plus, with a kid in med school, I could use all the extra pennies I can get.”

I couldn’t help but smile back. Principal Palladine was so proud of his daughter that he fit “kid in med school” into any conversation he could. “How’s she doing?”

“Great!” he said. “Actually loves working with a cadaver.” He shook his head in wonder.

“Following in her mom’s footsteps,” I said. His wife was a physician’s assistant who almost single-handedly ran a free clinic in one of the poorest areas of DC.

“Anything I can help you with?” he asked.

“Just need a new hose for my airbrush machine.” I picked one off the metal hook.

“Let me know if you need some help,” he said. “Those buggers can be tricky to change.”

“Thanks,” I said. I’d been maintaining my equipment for years and wouldn’t have a problem.

“You working on something special?” he asked. “Anything else you need?”

“Nope,” I said quickly. “Just maintenance.”

He gave me a funny look, that principal intuition always working.

“Thanks Mr. Palladine.”

“Peter, dear,” he insisted.

Old habits die hard.

Beatrice Duncan was manning the checkout. She and her husband, Harold, had helped her son, Sammy, buy the hardware store when his boss retired but they hadn’t realized that business acumen didn’t necessarily go along with tool enthusiasm. Sammy was great when you needed to find the right ratchet wrench but wasn’t so good at balancing a bank statement.

“You guys are open late,” I said. “For a Sunday.”

“Don’t I know it.” She pushed her fist into her lower back. Her short gray hair was gelled to stand straight up. “Sammy thought it could bring in some new business.”

“Good idea,” I said, even though I was the only customer in the store.

She shrugged. “It was worth a try. We just need to hang on until Memorial Day weekend,” she added with a hopeful expression that made my stomach sink. “We put coupons in your Fudge Cook-off program and ordered a ton of flags and souvenirs for the tourists.”

“Cool!” I handed over the cash for the hose, resisting the urge to tell her to keep the change.

Worry ate at me all the way home. This wasn’t the first time I’d learned that a lot of people were counting on that weekend. What if we didn’t pull it off?

• • • • • • • • • 

I
t was dusk by the time I pulled up in front of our house, but our next-door neighbor, Henna Bradbury, must have been looking out for me. Henna had gone through some kind of metamorphosis when her husband died a few years before, letting out her inner hippie and changing her name from Carol. She now spent her days painting elaborate neon designs on fabric and wire to create butterflies of all sizes that she sold online.

Henna stomped over, her long gray hair pulled into a side ponytail and her rainbow skirt swirling angrily around her legs. She stopped beside my car as I got out. “Michelle. You have to do something about that Denise.”

“I do?” I asked.

She went on like I hadn’t spoken. “She is the biggest thorn in my side. How dare she tell the Arts Guild that I’m not a real artist!” She was so mad, she was actually shaking.

“Denise wouldn’t say that.” Although I had a recent memory of someone mentioning that Denise liked being president of the guild a bit too much.

“Oh no?” Henna drew herself up to her total height of five feet, two inches. “Are you telling me my best friend Sadie is a liar?”

“Oh, of course not,” I rushed to say. “Is there any chance she misunderstood?”

“No.” Henna was adamant. “At last week’s guild meeting, I petitioned them yet again for membership. I told them all about my beautiful art flying all over the world. Then they asked me to leave for their discussion, and today I got a note saying that they regret to inform me that I wasn’t accepted.” She scrunched up her hand like she had most likely scrunched up the note. “I needed a unanimous vote, and Sadie said Denise was the only one who voted no.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “But do you really need that stupid guild?” I picked up my air compressor and chocolate from the minivan, trying to indicate that I needed to get moving.

Henna’s look of shock made me realize how important this was to her. “It’s more than just an honor to belong to that guild,” she said more quietly. “They do group advertising that results in sales. Real sales. And there’s a beautiful sense of community.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “But your work is finding its audience without them. Maybe even more of an audience than some of the members have.”

“You can say that again,” she said. “Including your friend Denise.”

“What?”

“Sadie told me. Denise was close to losing that store but somehow came up with the money.” She frowned. “If she’s having that much trouble making ends meet, she might not be around too much longer. Once she’s out of the way, I’ll get in for sure.” She turned around and trudged back to her home.

“I really am sorry,” I called after her. What did Denise have to gain by blocking poor Henna’s membership?

I hadn’t taken two steps when a motorcycle zoomed up to stop beside me, forcing me to jump back. As I was about to swear at the idiot driver, I recognized him through the tinted visor.

Leo.

What was my brother doing riding a motorcycle?

He turned off the bike, put the kickstand down and stabilized himself before swinging his prosthetic leg over to stand up.

He grinned. “Hey, Berry,” he said. His nickname was due to my insistence as a child that strawberry blond hair was far prettier than his dark brown. “You like it?”

I was speechless. “How the . . . ?” My voice trailed off but he knew what I meant.

“Harold Duncan modified it for me.” He pointed to some equipment that meant nothing to me. “He put the gear shift and kickstand on the other side. Cool, huh?”

To say I was conflicted was an understatement. Leo had returned from the war in Afghanistan vastly changed from the happy-go-lucky adventurer he’d been his whole life. And it went much deeper than the loss of his leg.

I’d hoped that getting out of Walter Reed and coming home to West Riverdale would help him, but depression had followed him. And when he wasn’t depressed, he was angry. At the war. At the world. At himself.

I’d forced him to see West Riverdale’s only psychiatrist, who was helping Leo fight his demons. He was getting better, but every once in a while he slid back toward the precipice, which was even more terrifying to me than his early episodes of depression.

We’d lost our parents in a car accident when Leo was eighteen and I was fourteen. His whole life he’d dreamed of being a Marine, and he put that dream on hold to take care of me. Once I turned eighteen and got a “real” job, I’d convinced him that it was his turn, and he enlisted.

And look what that got him.

I tried to talk, but all I did was sputter a little, and he laughed. A real laugh.

“Wow.” My voice was faint.

Luckily, Erica drove up in her electric car and saved me. “Cool ride, Leo,” she said as she got out. “A Harley?”

“Sure is,” Leo said, and they launched into a discussion in another language of pingel shifts, hand clutches and other mechanical nonsense.

I remembered what I was holding. “I’ll be right back.” I took my supplies into the kitchen and came back out.

Leo gave me a wave as he drove off.

“He knows you’re not too happy with him and that bike,” Erica said with sympathy as she plugged her car in. Since we didn’t have a garage, she’d had a special charging unit installed in our miniscule driveway.

“How could it possibly be safe for him?” I asked.

“Maybe that’s what he likes,” she said.

We walked up the wooden stairs. “Has he responded to that veteran’s organization?” Erica asked.

I shook my head. While the whole town wanted to rally around their hometown war hero, Leo had blocked himself off from anything having to do with the military. Lately, he’d been ducking the parade committee who wanted to include him in their Memorial Day celebration.

“It takes time,” Erica said and headed upstairs. We split a rambling hundred-year-old house with a wraparound porch that needed a paint job. The house had been converted into two apartments decades before. Erica had her own space on the second floor, with a kitchenette that was fine for the basics. We shared the living room on the ground floor whenever we had company, and she used my much larger kitchen when she needed to cook a big meal. Erica didn’t need much sleep and sometimes took on research projects in her free time for a number of professors. I found it reassuring to hear her pacing long into the night, as she thought about some problem she was working on.