Death is Semisweet (8 page)

Junior Foster nodded. “Oh, it’ll be a good show. The mayor is coming, along with several members of the city council and some of the chefs who will be making chocolate creations for our big charity extravaganza on New Year’s Eve.” His voice was flat and lifeless.

Claude walked in. If it was possible, he had shrunk in the last few days, his suit looking even more like it was walking around without him, his hair thinner and more colorless. He reeked of miserable. He shot a hard look at his brother, then turned to Oliver. “There was a message on my desk to be here at six for a meeting. What’s that about?”

Junior looked blank and shrugged his shoulders.

Oliver checked his watch and went over to the windows that overlooked the new addition to the plant. The plant was only running one shift, the Christmas candy rush over a month ago and the candy shipped. The place was deserted, silent, the area outside the building spotless in anticipation of the visitors the next day. “And here you are, Claude, right on time. I like working with people who follow directions.” Oliver gestured for the two men to join him. “Your brother and I were just talking about how tomorrow was going to be quite a show. Well, I have a little show for the two of you right now.”

Junior and Claude walked cautiously toward the windows. “What in the hell are you talking about?” Claude snapped. He made no pretense of civility to Oliver Bodden since Junior had confessed the snags in their agreement. The man was a snake, and no better than a common thug who snatches other people’s property on the street. The sooner the lawyers figured out how to get West African Cacao out of this partnership, the better.

As the three men peered down at the concrete pad between the old part of the factory and the new part, a parade of six forklifts came around the corner, each manned by one of the “advisors” from Africa, men who had arrived in Kansas City earlier that day. The forklifts were piled with burlap sacks of cocoa beans.

Oliver turned to the brothers with an ugly smile on his face, the smile a combination of triumph and anticipation of what was going to happen next. “Unfortunately you didn’t follow my most important direction, when I told you that Foster’s would be using only nibs from my country, and my company.” The forklifts were dumping the sacks of beans in a big pile in the middle of the concrete pad. “When I was searching for a space to locate my office, look what I found. Buried under beans from my country were beans from Brazil, from Mexico, even from the island of Samoa, a locale that I didn’t know grew cacao trees. Very enterprising of you to locate them. Too bad you won’t be able to use them.”

Two of the men who worked for Oliver down on the pad were now splashing gasoline from red cans over the mound of cocoa beans in their sacks. Just for good measure, they were cutting the burlap with big hunting knives so the gasoline would have direct contact with the
beans. Junior turned and went to the phone on his desk. He dialed 911.

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Oliver Bodden said calmly. “We wouldn’t want the fire to get out of hand, now would we.”

A loud whoosh from outside brought Junior back over to the window, cordless phone in hand. The 911 operator answered as he and Oliver and Claude stared silently down at the mountain of burning cocoa beans. “Yes, operator. I want to report a fire at the Foster’s Chocolate Factory. Yes, that’s the correct address. No, it isn’t life threatening, just…just some supplies, but hurry.”

Claude grabbed Oliver Bodden by the tie and tried to shake him, a futile gesture as the older man was at least thirty pounds thinner than Oliver. “Who says it’s not life threatening, you punk? How dare you destroy our property? You won’t get away with this! You won’t get away with any of this. This isn’t some primitive country with a bunch of warlords killing each other …”

Junior Foster grabbed his brother’s hands and Claude reacted by swinging his fist at his brother. He connected with Junior’s chin solidly. Junior’s head snapped and he let go of his brother’s arms and touched his face gingerly. “You son of a bitch,” Claude raged. “You got us into this. Now you better get us out of it.”

Oliver Bodden was ambling away from them, like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Learn from this little demonstration, gentlemen. And please don’t involve me in your family fisticuffs. I’m sorry I can’t stay for the fire department. I’m sure they’ll find that it was a nasty case of arson. Some neighborhood kids, no doubt. You have no idea how it started, now do you?” He didn’t even pause for a response. “I’m late for a dinner engagement.
See you in the morning. My compatriots will see themselves out as well.” He left the office.

The cocoa beans had become a raging inferno. But the bags had been placed on the concrete pad far from any other equipment and from the two wings of the factory. Nothing would be destroyed but the bags of beans. While two men watched the fire, the other four men had been busy parking all the forklifts in a neat line far to the side of the main building so they weren’t involved in the conflagration. Now the men all disappeared around the new addition the way they had come in, silent and focused on getting out of there, but not running. They seemed to be used to this kind of work.

The sound of the fire truck sirens started in the distance.

Claude was staring, transfixed, at the flames. He came back with a little jump and turned from the window. “I’ll call the insurance company,” he said coldly, not apologizing to his brother for the punch, and walked out.

Junior went downstairs to meet the fire captain. It was going to be a long night.

H
eaven moved along with the group as if she were on a conveyor belt. There was a bottleneck up ahead where Foster’s Chocolate representatives were passing out press kits and trying to figure out if each guest was someone important or just a writer for the free apartment guide that folks read at the coffee shop. They’d invited anyone you could call “press” by any stretch of the imagination.

The crowd of about fifty people had been directed to the back of the plant, where a brand-new building stood. A side sliding door on this new building was partially
open and Heaven could see rows of chairs set up. As they shuffled along, Heaven noticed the black stains on the concrete pad they were walking on. It looked like the site of a big bonfire. Heaven wondered if Foster’s had come up with a new Kansas City wood-roasted flavor of chocolate just for all the barbecue lovers.

“Are you Heaven Lee?”

Heaven turned around to see who had asked. It was a pretty young woman with an official-looking Foster’s Hostess badge. “How could you tell?” Heaven said with a smile and a glance at her kitchen clothes. “The person from your office asked me to wear my whites,” she said by way of apology for her attire. Heaven did have on her chef’s coat, a hot pink ski vest over it, some black-and-white striped baggy chef’s pants and high heeled ankle boots in hot pink suede. The accessories helped.

“We have a special place for you all to sit, right next to the stage. Rick Bayless is here from Chicago and Dean Fearing from Dallas, I think. And the pastry chef from the American Restaurant,” the hostess cooed as she slid Heaven out of the line and toward the open door of the plant.

“We chefs don’t have to say anything, do we?” Heaven said in alarm. She was embarrassed enough wearing her professional clothes out in public.

“Oh, no,” the young woman reassured her. “Mr. Foster will just talk about the event and the cookbook and have you stand up a minute. Are you shy in crowds?”

Heaven almost laughed. This woman obviously knew nothing about her. “No, I just like to know what’s happening ahead of time.” The woman deposited her in a chair next to the stage and glided away.

Heaven surveyed the room. Several big pieces of machinery were covered with white tarps. There must be
more to this gig than the announcement of a charity event; either that or the artist Christo had been working here. She saw three reporters from the
Kansas City Star
, two people from the business desk as well as the food editor. The area set up for the press conference filled up fast. There were assorted print writers from local lifestyle magazines that Heaven recognized, plus three television camera operators and their talking head reporters, and of course, various city officials.

As people settled, more pretty women passed cups of coffee and chocolate chip cookies. Heaven snagged one as they went by, wondering why they were having baked goods instead of their own candy.

Then she leaned up to the next row of chairs to say hi to the pastry chef from the American. Soon, the two out-of-town chefs were seated next to Heaven by Miss Hostess and the four cooks got into a deep discussion about Oaxaca and the seven different mole sauces, most of which contained some chocolate.

The sound of microphone feedback from the small platform next to the chefs brought them back to the here and now.

“Hello, everyone,” Junior Foster said to the crowd as he tapped the microphone nervously. It gave out another yelp of feedback. Someone jumped up on the stage and adjusted a knob under the tabletop podium, probably the guy who owned the PA system and rented it out for affairs like this.

“I’m Harold Foster, Jr., and this is my brother Claude.” He indicated a gaunt man sitting next to him on the little stage. Brother Claude didn’t look so good. “We sure have enjoyed celebrating the fiftieth year of Foster’s Chocolates, the company our father started right here in Kansas City. Since our stock went public
twenty-five years ago, the value of our company has increased tenfold and we’re proud of that fact too. To top off the year, we’re sponsoring a gala New Year’s Eve Party at the Fairmont Hotel to benefit the food bank of Kansas City, Harvester’s. There will be lots of food and two bands and for dessert, we’ll be featuring the chocolate desserts of some of America’s most renowned chefs.” He looked over at the four people in chef’s outfits. Heaven was embarrassed about the “renowned” part. She certainly didn’t think she was in the same category with Rick Bayless. “These generous artists are each creating a new chocolate recipe for the evening and all the recipes will be printed in a cookbook. All the sales from the book will also benefit Harvester’s. Representing the hundred chefs around the country who are participating are these four to my left. I’m sure you all recognize Kansas City celebrity Heaven Lee,” Junior said, and Heaven got up and gave a big wave. Next the other three chefs were introduced and the crowd clapped. The camera operators shot a few feet of film, in case this turned out to be the big moment of the whole morning.

Junior motioned to some workers hovering at the back of the chairs. They started rolling two dollies forward, one on each side of the room. There were stacks of what Heaven recognized as ten-pound blocks of chocolate on them, but they were wrapped in a hot pink foil that Heaven didn’t recognize. Miss Hostess and her crew, with big smiles, were passing these out to the assembled group.

Now the mayor had the microphone. “Until a year ago, I knew very little about the chocolate business. I still don’t know much, but I do know that Foster’s is the biggest boxed candy maker in America. Those guys back
there in Hershey, Pennsylvania, beat Foster’s out for sheer volume with their bar candy. But from now on, watch out, Hershey’s.” The mayor, a great speaker, was priming the pump. “Foster’s is joining Hershey’s in not only making great candy, but now Foster’s will process their own cocoa beans, what is called second-tier chocolate production. This will provide two hundred new jobs for the Kansas City area.” A nice round of applause greeted this news.

That means the city gave Foster’s a big tax break on this new build-out, Heaven thought. She felt superior in her knowledge of the chocolate terms the mayor had bantered about since she’d already had a chocolate production lesson from Stephanie. She could actually follow along. From the looks on the faces of the rest of the crowd, most of them just understood the general drift that would lead their stories or be something they could brag about to their constituents: new jobs. “Now,” the mayor said, wrapping up, “Harold Foster is going to give us a tour of the new operation so we’ll know what the heck second-tier chocolate production means. Harold, thank you for placing this facility here in Kansas City.” The mayor led the group in another round of clapping.

Junior Foster took the cordless mic back from the mayor. “Please take this commemorative block of Foster’s semisweet chocolate home with you. Attached to it is the recipe for the wonderful chocolate chunk cookies you’ve been enjoying this morning, a recipe that will be in the Harvester’s cookbook. Why don’t you just leave your chocolate on your chairs for a few minutes while I show you how we made those ten-pound blocks.” He stepped off the little platform. His brother and the mayor followed. Miss Hostess gestured to the chefs to
fall in behind and they did, with everyone else straggling along. Two workers, big black men speaking to each other in a language Heaven didn’t even recognize, removed the first tarp.

“The first step in turning cacao into chocolate is to roast the beans. This state-of-the-art oven roasts the beans at a low temperature, 100 to 150 degrees Celsius, or 212 to 302 degrees Fahrenheit. This brings out the chocolate flavor in the beans, much as roasting brings out the flavor in coffee beans,” Junior explained as they hovered around the big ovens, the smell of chocolate strong in the air.

All of a sudden, someone goosed Heaven and she whirled around to find Sergeant Bonnie Weber standing behind her with an impish grin on her face. “Shhh,” Bonnie said with a finger to her lips. She could just imagine Heaven using a loud and colorful phrase after that pinch. Heaven gave her an “I’ll get even with you later” look and they walked on to the next station, where another tarp was being removed.

“This is the winnowing machine,” Claude Foster reported. Heaven guessed the two brothers would be taking turns with the description duties. “It cracks open the seeds.” Claude waited for a moment while the winnower did just that, then he showed the little morsels revealed inside. “The outer husks are sold for gardening and other purposes. These nibs, from West Africa, are then blended with nibs from other countries.” Claude’s head seemed to swivel around the room nervously as he described this process. When his eyes hit the big black men who were assisting, he visibly blanched, then he jutted his almost nonexistent chin out and continued. Was it a mild form of defiance? “The combination of different
nibs is what gives a chocolate house a distinctive taste.” Claude started moving toward another big machine that was being unwrapped. He stole another glance around the room. “Then we go to the grinder, or as it’s called, the mélangeur, where the nibs are ground into a paste called chocolate liquor.” Huge granite rollers went into action.