Death of a Chocolate Cheater: A Food Festival Mystery (18 page)

I peered in closer. “Is something written there?”

Jake focused the light on the front of the RV. Someone had scrawled something at the top of the window—in chocolate:

“Now I know where you live.”

Jake got out his cell phone.

“Don’t,” I said, holding up a hand.

He frowned. “We’ve got to report this, Darcy. It’s the second time someone has threatened you.”

I sighed and felt my shoulders drop. “I know. But not tonight. Please. Whoever did this is probably long gone and left little evidence of his identity. I’m so tired. Could we call Shelton in the morning?”

“Really?” Jake hesitated for a moment, then tucked his cell phone into the pocket of his black jeans. “Okay, but I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

We headed back inside, and Jake locked the door behind us. He looked at the couch-bed, spotted the lever, and opened up the bed. “Got any extra blankets?”

“Are you sure you want to sleep there?” I said, surprised. “It’s not very comfortable.” Truth be told, I wouldn’t have minded his arms around me while I slept.

“You need sleep, Darcy. And there’s no way either of us would get
any
sleep if I come in there with you.” He nodded toward the bedroom area.

I smiled. He was right. And as much as I wanted to feel him lying beside me, I was too tired to argue. I yawned, kissed him good night, and went into the bedroom, sliding the door closed behind me.

I changed out of my jeans and Big Yellow School Bus T-shirt and into my long Tinker Bell nightshirt, then fell into the small but cozy bed. I closed my eyes, snuggled down under the covers, and took a deep breath, ready to welcome some much-needed sleep.

Half an hour later I was still staring at the
Peter Pan
wallpaper, my mind wide-awake while my body ached for sleep. Thoughts swirled like churning blades in a vat of chocolate as I wondered who had sent those warnings, why Polly had been killed, and who had drowned her in that chocolate.

I also wondered if Jake was still awake too.

I finally gave up the ghost, got up, and quietly slid open the door to the living area. The soft sounds of Jake’s deep sleep were comforting, and I envied him the ability to just check out like that. I’d never been one of those people who falls asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. Turning off the body was easy. Turning off the mind, not so much.

I got my laptop from the small kitchen table and returned to the bedroom, sliding the door closed behind me. At least I could put my insomnia to good use. While Dillon seemed to be able to find out anything about anybody with his unique but questionable computer skills, my high-tech sleuthing abilities weren’t quite as gifted, so I turned to my favorite search engine to see what I could find on my suspects. I’d already
talked to Simon and Isabel and knew their secrets—at least, the ones Polly had been blackmailing them for. And Frankie and Monet had let the proverbial cat out of the bag regarding their baggage. But I knew little of Griffin and Harrison, the two other contestants that Simon said were also Polly’s victims.

I did a search for Griffin Makeba, the Pie Guy. He had a great rep for his wares, with lots of positive Yelp reviews, but that’s all I could find. His Facebook page was strictly self-promoting—that is, pie promoting—with little personal information. I’d have to ask Dillon to dig deeper if I wanted to know what Polly might have had on him. So far, a dead end.

The name Harrison Tofflemire, on the other hand, came up repeatedly on the search engine. I skimmed the usual reviews of his Chocolate Falls business—mostly positive—and read an interview he gave to
Chocolatier
magazine about his success story. It was the usual spiel: Came from nothing. Never went to college. Started his own business. Invented the Chocolate Falls gizmo. Fame and fortune followed. I wondered why he’d bothered to enter the contest. He already seemed to have everything.

An instant message popped up on the side of the screen.

r u there?

Dillon!

Yes, what’s up?
I answered. As a reporter for the newspaper—former reporter, that was—I had
trouble using text slang in my messages. My old English teacher, Mr. Tannacito, was always looking over my shoulder, and I couldn’t shake him, even in a text.

cant sleep
, Dillon wrote.
been digging into those contestants u asked abt.

Great! I was just googling Griffin and Harrison’s names but didn’t find anything interesting. You get anything?

I watched the cursor beat for a few seconds, then,
gt the 411. griffin makeba, the dude protesting the choc from the ivory coast . . .

What about him???

Guess where he gets his choc . . .

The Ivory Coast!

Bingo
, Dillon wrote.
he’s been buying it from simon’s family for years—at a discount. apparently he threatened to expose simon senior’s working conditions, so they cut a deal with griffin 2 shut him up and decreased the price.

OMG
, I typed. I couldn’t help myself. Text slang
seemed to be contagious when chatting with Dillon.
So the blackmailee was also a blackmailer! How did you find out?

2EZ. I knew simon’s co has lots of back doors and fake names. But once u go down that tunnel, ur bound 2 find gold. Or in this case, choc. J

Great job, Dillon! Thanks! Anything on Harrison Tofflemire? All I could find was how smart, savvy, and successful he is—and most of that came from his own mouth.

HAS. BRB.

Hold a second. Be right back.

I waited, all sleep forgotten at this latest news about Griffin. I couldn’t wait to learn what else Dillon had found. Seconds later he was back.

looks like HT didn’t actually invent Choc. Falls. got a bunch of lawsuits pending. Canuck co. claims he stole plans 4 their Chocolate Cascade. When HT brought his gizmo out, CC went broke, filed bankruptcy and lawsuits against HT. He’s got high-powered attys fighting this, all on the down-low. Sounds like he got rich off someone else’s idea.

You’re awesome!
I gushed over the keyboard.
Both of those guys had secrets they didn’t want uncovered, both worthy of blackmail. And according to what Simon overheard at the party, Polly knew all about them. Either one of them could have killed her. Wendy has to be innocent.

Yo, abt tht . . .

Uh-oh
.
What???

Wendy wrote 4 George Brown’s magazine under a fake name.

A pseudonym? What was it? What did she write about?

She called her column Chocolate Crimes, and used the name Candy the Chocolate Critic. Wrote reviews on local choc stuff—companies, restaurants, ppl in the choc bus. None of the articles were very sweet, IYGMD.

I got his drift. Wow. If Wendy criticized everyone in the chocolate business—and word got out who she was—she wouldn’t have many friends left. And she might even have a few enemies. Did someone her for the murder of Polly Montgomery to get even?

G2G
, Dillon messaged.
Gaming time w/ the guys. TTYL.

I thanked Dillon again, then switched off the laptop, closed it up, and set it on the small built-in table next to the bed. I wasn’t any more relaxed than I had been half an hour ago—in fact, I was more wired than ever—but at least I had information on my last two suspects, Griffin Makeba and Harrison Tofflemire.

I lay down and snuggled into the covers again, hoping exhaustion would take over my brain as well as my body. I must have slept eventually, because the next thing I knew, someone was tapping on my bedroom door. I glanced at the Mickey Mouse night-light/clock. Six a.m.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I called out through the door.

“Breakfast!” came Jake’s too-cheery voice. “Time to get up. Detective Shelton is on his way over.”

“Seriously?” I grumbled. I threw off the covers and staggered into the tiny shower with the too-sensitive hot/cold nozzle and weak water pressure. Fifteen minutes later, I was awake, clean, dressed in a fresh Big Yellow School Bus T-shirt and jeans, and ready for coffee, if not for the day.

I slid the bedroom door open and shook my head at the sight.

Jake, Detective Shelton, and Aunt Abby were gathered around my small table, drinking coffee and eating a Continental breakfast of cream puffs and whoopie pies. The only one missing was Dillon. Apparently he got to sleep in.

“Good morning, sweetie,” Aunt Abby said.

I pulled up the only empty chair left and sat down. “Morning,” I mumbled, then sipped the latte that was waiting for me on the table. “Glad you could all stop by.”

“Jake told us what happened last night,” Aunt Abby said, a worried look on her already made-up face. Over her Big Yellow School Bus T-shirt and khaki slacks, she wore a flowery linen jacket that came from Chico’s, her favorite store. The jacket had to be an afterthought for Detective Shelton’s sake; otherwise she’d be wearing an apron.

She reached over and patted my hand. “Are you all right, Darcy?”

Detective Shelton also looked spiffy for the early-morning hour, dressed in his usual dark suit, with a red tie and product in his hair. I was beginning to wonder if the detective and my aunt were on some kind of date. As for Jake, he could have worn a torn and mismatched pirate costume instead of the jeans and T-shirt he’d worn yesterday and he still would have looked hot.

“I’m fine, thanks to Jake,” I said, then blushed, wondering if she knew he had slept over. Ha. Of course she did. Nothing got past Aunt Abby. But I’d have to set her straight on the sleeping arrangements.

“The crime-tech guys will be here soon,” the detective said. “You should have called me last night.”

Jake raised a traitorous eyebrow at me.

“Sorry, Detective. I was just too tired,” I explained. “I figured it would be much like the vandalism to my car and I could deal with it better in the morning.”

“Did you sleep . . . well?” Aunt Abby asked. Her eyebrow was also raised, but for another reason. I knew what she was implying. “You still look a little tired.”

“No, I didn’t sleep well,” I said to her, then blushed again at what she was probably thinking. “I mean, I was on my laptop with Dillon half the night. He found out some dirt on Griffin Makeba and Harrison Tofflemire. So yes, I’m tired.” I took another gulp of the latte Jake had made with my one-cup machine and prayed it would help keep my eyes open the rest of the day.

“What did you find out?” the detective asked.

I filled him in about Griffin’s connection to Simon’s company and Harrison’s lawsuit. “Did you find out anything about all this chocolate hurling?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “The techs from last night didn’t find any prints on your car. Whoever did it must have worn gloves.”

“So there’s nothing you can do?” I asked, frustrated.

“We’re doing all we can, and we’re taking these threats seriously. You should too. I hear you’ve been asking questions.”

“I’m being careful,” I said. “So doesn’t this mean Wendy Spellman is innocent? She couldn’t have left that message on my car and the RV since she was in jail.”

“I’m not sure the two incidents are related,” the detective said.

“They have to be!”

The detective took a deep breath. “Listen, think of it this way: While we have her in custody, she’s safe. But we can’t rule out the possibility that she may have an
accomplice. Maybe she and someone else committed the murder together, and we haven’t caught the other guy yet. For now, that’s supposition. I won’t know anything for sure until I have all the facts.”

More silence and coffee sipping as we pondered the detective’s latest theory. An accomplice? Who? Why? The questions popped up faster than chocolate-covered kettle corn.

Finally Detective Shelton pushed back his chair and rose. “Well, thanks for the coffee and pastry. I’ll let you know what else the techs learn after I get the next report. Jake. Darcy. Abby.” He nodded to each of us, his eyes lingering on Aunt Abby; then he stepped out of the Airstream, leaving a mild earthquake and the scent of a spicy cologne in his wake.

“Well,” Aunt Abby said, rising from her seat. “I’d better go finish up my whoopie pies. If today is anything like yesterday, I’ll barely have enough. Thanks for the cream puff, Jake. Now I know why Darcy spends so much time at your truck.” She shot me a knowing smile.

“I’ll come help you in a few minutes,” I said. “I have a few things to share with Jake.”

Her smile widened. “You two take your time.” Somehow that simple sentence sounded terribly suggestive. I felt my cheeks go up in flames. As Aunt Abby headed out of the RV, she left me to face Jake with my bright red tell.

“You were up all night chatting with Dillon?” Jake said, thankfully changing the subject.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I said.

“It sounds like Polly was blackmailing everyone in
the contest except your aunt and me,” Jake said. “Even Wendy had something to hide, which unfortunately still makes her a suspect.”

“Maybe they all did it, like those people in
Murder on the Orient Express
,” I suggested, although I didn’t mean it. While Agatha Christie could get away with something like that, it just didn’t happen in real life. Did it?

“What do you want to do now?” Jake asked, finishing his coffee. He cleared his place, rinsed his coffee mug, and tossed the leftover pastry papers into the trash can.

“Go back to bed,” I said.

Jake grinned. “Works for me.”

I smiled. “Actually, I think I’ll talk to Griffin and Harrison. See if I can get them to say something about Polly, why she was blackmailing them, and whether they have a tell that says ‘I’m the murderer. Look no further.’”

“That’s the spirit, Sherlock. Grill ’em, get a confession, and slap on the cuffs.”

“Not funny. What are you doing to help Wendy while I’m putting my life at risk?”

“That’s not funny, either,” Jake said, turning serious. “This time I’m coming with you. And if anyone tries to throw chocolate on you, I’ll kick their ass.”

I burst into laughter. Jake pulled me close and kissed me. He tasted like a chocolate cream puff. And I could never have too much of that.

A loud banging on the door startled me. I looked at Jake. He moved me back behind him, then opened the
door. Two police techs stood at the bottom of the steps, dressed in white
CRIME SCENE
uniforms.