Death of a Chocolate Cheater: A Food Festival Mystery (16 page)

The louvered window opened a few inches. “Who is it?” Monet called out, peering through the cracks in the slats.

“It’s Darcy Burnett,” I said, “from the Big Yellow School Bus across the way. I wondered if I could talk to you for a minute.”

Silence. Then the sound of the door opening. Seconds later, there stood Monet, a big smile on her face as if she were thrilled to see me and hadn’t been screaming and threatening someone’s life only moments before. There wasn’t a hair out of place, her makeup was still perfect, and she was wearing bright orange capris and a tank top that showed off her thin but curvy figure.

“Come in,
chéri
!” she said cheerily. “I could use the company while I clean up. The only people I’ve talked to all day have been customers.”

I blinked, surprised she could turn on the sweet charm so quickly. Was that a customer she’d just been yelling at?

I stepped into the truck and glanced around for signs of foul play—a dented blender? A bloody mixer?
The place was immaculate. Not a cupboard door off its hinge or a cooking utensil bent around the faucet. What was up with all that slamming?

Was Monet some kind of Jekyll and Hyde who could easily switch from murderous monster to delightful host at will?

I only hoped I didn’t say anything in the next few minutes to make her mad.

“So, Darcy, will you join me for a drink?” Monet asked, smiling broadly, her perfect white teeth sparkling. “It’s my own special concoction. I call it a French Kiss!”

She didn’t wait for my response. Instead she pulled down two soda-type glasses from a cupboard and took out a carton of chocolate ice cream from the oversized freezer. She dropped two scoops in the large blender that sat on the counter, poured in a shot of coffee liqueur, a shot of chocolate syrup, a shot of vodka, and a shot of crème de cacao, and whirled all the ingredients until they were smooth and blended. Then she poured the contents equally into the soda glasses, added straws, and handed me a glass. She sucked down half the drink in record time.

“God, I needed that!” she said, taking a breather from all that sucking. “It’s been a wild day, hasn’t it? First that judge gets killed, and then that old lady gets arrested, and then all those nonstop customers screaming for ice cream cupcakes. I’m exhausted. And we have to do it all over again tomorrow before the
contest. I don’t know if I’m going to live through all this. How’re you holding up in your aunt’s school bus?”

I took a sip of the drink and said, “Better now. This is delicious!” I knew I was overdosing on chocolate today, but I couldn’t help myself. The drink was dynamite. I just had to be careful I didn’t explode.

“So, you sold a lot of your ice cream cupcakes?” I asked, easing into my interrogation. I’d blown it with Frankie and didn’t want to find myself at a dead end again.

“Tons!” she said, then paused to down the rest of her chocolate drink. “If the number of tickets I collected are any indication, I just might win this competition tomorrow—” She stopped abruptly and covered her mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m sure your aunt is doing well too. Maybe we’ll all win!” Monet busied herself by cleaning her empty soda glass as she backpedaled from her remark about winning.

“The competition is certainly stiff. Everyone seems to be getting big crowds. Jake’s Mocha Dream Puffs had long lines. Harrison’s Chocolate Falls looks popular. Griffin’s Chocolate Pies and Frankie’s Choco-Cheeses seem to be a hit. I wonder how Wendy’s Candyland Chocolates would have done?” I hoped I’d segued gently into the reason I’d come—to find out what she might know about the murder of Polly Montgomery and Wendy Spellman’s guilt or innocence.

“I think you can forget about Frankie’s cheesy entries. I don’t think he has a prayer of winning. I told him that when he entered this contest, but he wouldn’t
listen. He never listened to anything I said when I was with him.”

“You and Frankie were . . . together?” I asked, trying to sound surprised. Dillon had already discovered that the two had been married, but I wanted to know more. Had he been the one she was screaming at over the phone?

She sighed. “Married, actually. What a mistake that was. Frenchwomen should never marry Italian men. We’re much more composed and less temperamental.”

She hadn’t sounded so composed a few minutes ago.

“So you two are divorced?” I asked the leading question.

Wiping her hands with a dishcloth, she turned around to face me. “Yes, thank goodness. We started our business together, but we disagreed on
everything
. He thought he was a rock star in his chef’s whites. Only trouble was, he couldn’t keep them on around other women.”

I nodded, trying to appear sympathetic. “So his infidelity is really what caused the breakup,” I summarized.

“Yes, but let’s not talk about that.” She waved the damp cloth around airily. “I get angry all over again when I think of it. He actually believed sleeping with one of the judges would help him win the chocolate competition. Now that she’s dead, so are his chances. Serves him right, the pig.”

Frankie had slept with Polly? Monet had just dropped
a bomb and didn’t even seem to know it. I’d heard Polly had gotten around, but apparently so did Frankie. I wondered if Monet could be considered a suspect in Polly’s murder, since her ex-husband had been romantically involved with her? Hidden jealousy?

“You don’t suppose Frankie might have killed Polly, do you?” I was curious how she’d react to such a pointed question.

“You mean, if Wendy Spellman didn’t really do it?” she asked, her pencil-drawn eyebrows raised.

I shrugged.

“You think Wendy’s innocent?” It apparently hadn’t occurred to her that Wendy might not have killed Polly.

“My aunt thinks so. She knows Wendy well and is sure she didn’t do it.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Monet frowned and crossed her arms in front of her. “You think someone else killed Polly, like Frankie?”

I said nothing.

“You don’t mean me?” she said, her voice rising. Where was that composed Frenchwoman I’d been talking to a moment ago?

I shook my head. “No, of course not—”

“How could you think I killed Polly? Because she was sleeping with my ex-husband? You’re out of your mind! He’s a pig. I loathe him. If anyone had to die, I wish it had been him.”

“I was just—”

She cut me off. “Why don’t you go ask him if
he
killed Polly? He’s the one you should be talking to!”

“I did. He said—”

“He said what? That I killed his only chance at winning the contest? That I dumped her in a vat of chocolate because I was jealous? That I’m happy she’s dead because . . . because . . .”

The door to Monet’s truck burst open. Frankie Nudo bolted inside, his face flushed, his dark eyes wild.

“Go on. Tell her, Monet! We can hear you all over the festival!” Frankie shouted, spittle collecting at the edges of his mouth. “Tell her why you’re glad Polly is dead.”

Monet grabbed the closest thing at hand—a heavy metal ice cream scoop—and threw it at Frankie. He ducked just in time to avoid being hit in the head.

“Get out of here!” she screamed, searching for another object to throw at her ex-husband.

“Not until you tell her the truth and stop spreading lies!” Frankie yelled back.

Monet pulled out a large knife from a drawer and pointed it at Frankie. I backed up, caught in the middle, and tried to flatten myself against the freezer.

“You can’t hurt me!” Frankie hollered. He stepped forward, grabbed Monet’s wrist, and twisted her arm, causing her hand to open. The knife went flying and landed an inch away from my foot. I stepped on it to keep the two of them from trying to get it.

Monet tried to slap Frankie, but he held her wrist tight.

“Polly was blackmailing you too—wasn’t she, Monet?” Frankie snarled. “Just like she was me. She knew you never attended Le Cordon Bleu, like you’ve been claiming all these years. You never attended
any
cooking school. And you lied again about your credentials when you
signed up for the contest. But she found out, didn’t she? Did you kill her because of that, Monet?”

Before Monet could say anything, I felt the truck bounce again. I turned to see Jake enter, followed by a security guard. The tiny truck was getting crowded. We were nearly elbow to elbow.

“What’s going on here?” Jake asked. He glanced down at the knife blade under my foot. His eyes widened. “Are you okay, Darcy?”

I nodded and let out a breath.

Frankie released his grip on Monet’s wrist and stepped back, his fisted hands at his sides.

“Did he hurt you, ma’am?” the security guard asked. Thin, with glasses, a sparse mustache, and an oversized uniform, he looked dazed, as if domestic violence during a chocolate festival was out of his league. His name tag read C
LIFFORD
P
RICE
.

“Of course not,” she said. “I can take care of myself.” She rubbed her wrist where Frankie had gripped her tightly.

“Hurt her?” Frankie argued. “She threw that metal scoop at me! And she tried to stab me with that knife!”

“Is this true, ma’am?” Clifford the security guard asked while Jake took in the scene.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Monet said. “I couldn’t possible hurt him with a little ice cream scoop. As for the knife, I simply dropped it.”

Clifford combed his thin mustache with his fingertips. “Do you want to press charges?”

“For what?” Frankie asked. “She tried to kill
me
!”

“Assault? Battery? Trespassing?” the security guard offered.

“She invited me in,” Frankie said. He glanced at Monet.

She gave a one-shouldered shrug.

“How about disturbing the peace?” Clifford offered weakly.

“No. Just get him out of here,” Monet said. She waved him away.

The guard tried to take Frankie’s arm, but Frankie jerked away. I felt for Clifford—he was half Frankie’s size and carried no visible weapons, unless he planned to hit him with his cell phone.

“Don’t worry. I’m leaving,” Frankie growled at Monet. He spun around and got in my face. “But watch out for this nosy lady.” I knew he was still speaking to Monet, even though he had his finger inches from my nose.

“Why?” Monet asked. “Because she might find out the truth about you? Of course, it’s hardly a secret that you’ve slept your way into the business. Is that what Polly had on you, Frankie? She found out you were cheating on her like you did on me? Did she catch you with one of Harrison’s daughters and threaten to tell him?”

Frankie was fooling around with Harrison’s daughters? Whoa.

“That’s none of your business, Monet. I’m just saying, watch out for this chick. She’s desperate to save her aunt’s friend. She tried to pin it on me, and I’ll bet
she’ll try to do the same to you and anyone else she feels like.” Frankie glared at me. “Isn’t that right, Scooby-Doo?”

One more second and I swear I would have scratched his eyes out, but he turned and left before I could get out my claws. Scooby-Doo? Excuse me?

“Come on, Darcy,” Jake said, noticing my rising ire. “Let’s go see your aunt. I’m sure she’s wondering where you’ve been.”

Monet reached a hand forward as if to stop us. “Wait.”

I turned back. “Yes?”

“All that stuff Frankie said about me. You don’t believe him, do you?”

“It’s none of my business whether you went to cooking school or not,” I said.

“No, not that. I mean about Polly knowing and trying to blackmail me. . . .” She trailed off.

I said nothing. Monet had a motive to murder Polly—to keep her background safe and protect her reputation while winning a chunk of money and appearing on TV.

But then, Simon, Isabel, and Frankie all had motives too.

*   *   *

Jake and I headed across the way to Aunt Abby’s bus, while Clifford the security guard reported in on his walkie-talkie before driving off in his little golf cart. Although there was still a light on inside Aunt Abby’s bus, when I tried the door, it was locked. I knocked; no answer.

I looked at my watch. It was past eight. Aside from Monet and Frankie’s trucks, most of the lights were out in the other trucks and the festival area looked like a ghost town. “I guess she and Dillon have gone home for the night. They’re probably working on more whoopie pies. I should join them. I’ve had enough ‘interviewing’ for the night.”

“We can do some more tomorrow,” Jake said. “You learned a lot already.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” I said. “It seems like everyone I talk to had a reason to kill Polly. Apparently she was blackmailing everyone but you, me, and Aunt Abby.”

“Don’t forget Wendy,” Jake said.

I shook my head. “I haven’t. She’s the reason we’re doing all of this.”

“Want to come over for a cream puff?” Jake asked.

I was torn. I wanted to spend some alone time with Jake, but I was so tired from the day, all I wanted to do now was go home, see if Aunt Abby needed help, then curl up in bed and start over in the morning.

“I’d love to,” I said, “but I should check on Aunt Abby, see how she’s doing with those whoopie pies.”

“Okay. I’ll walk you to your car. It’s gotten pretty dark around here.”

He was right. It was downright gloomy, even a little creepy, without the customers, vendors, music, and noise. The area was lit by only a few streetlights and the glow from some nearby shops.

Jake took my hand as we headed for my car. It felt both comforting and exciting to walk with him, hand
in hand. As we passed between Aunt Abby’s bus and Wendy’s truck, Jake pulled out his cell phone and clicked the flashlight app to light the way. Walking in the dim light, I didn’t notice anything unusual until he shined the flashlight on my VW.

“Oh my God . . . ,” I whispered as I stared at it in disbelief.

Someone had poured some kind of dark, slimy ooze on my car. Starting on the ragtop, goo had spilled down over the sides, over the windows, and onto the front and back fenders. It was a thick, drippy mess.

As I got closer, the smell of chocolate filled my nose. I reached out and touched the sticky slime.

Liquefied chocolate.

Something caught my eye. A message, scrawled on the chocolate-covered window:

“I know what you’re doing
.
”