Death of a Chocolate Cheater: A Food Festival Mystery (9 page)

Aunt Abby grabbed the spatula from his hand. “Spill it, or you’ve had your last whoopie pie!”

“Okay. Okay.” He licked his fingers where the
creamy mixture had dripped. “I did a little research last night after looking at the ME’s report. Guess what I found out.”

“For God’s sake, Dillon, just tell us,” I snapped. If Dillon didn’t quit teasing us soon, I was going to spatula him to death. “We don’t have all day! We’ve got a festival to prepare for!”

He took a deep breath, no doubt for dramatic purposes, then said, “Well, it seems Polly Montgomery sent e-mails to the other judges hours before the party.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

He gave me a “duh” look. “I hacked her e-mail, of course.”

“You make it sound so easy,” I said.

“It is,” Dillon replied. “People are lazy, and they want to keep their passwords simple and easy to remember. I could figure out yours if I wanted to.”

Aunt Abby’s red-rimmed eyes were wide. “We’re getting off track. What did you find out?”

“They were kinda weird,” Dillon said. “I printed them out. Be right back.”

Dillon set down the cereal box and trudged to his room, returning in a few moments with two sheets of paper. He handed one to his mother and one to me. I read mine over:

From: Polly Montgomery

To: Isabel Lau

Subject: A reminder

If you want me to forget what you’ve done, then don’t forget what to do. . . .

I leaned over and read Aunt Abby’s paper. The
e-mail was identical, except for the name of the e-mail recipient. It was sent to Simon Van Houten, the other judge. I looked at Dillon.

“This is pretty incriminating stuff!” I said to him, grinning.

“What do you mean?” Aunt Abby said, confusion written on her face.

“Don’t you see?” I said. “It looks like Polly had something on the other two judges. Something they probably wanted her to forget. And in exchange, she wanted them to do something for her.”

“Like what?” Aunt Abby asked.

I shrugged. “I’m not sure, but I have a feeling it had something to do with the chocolate competition.”

“Yeah,” Dillon said. “Like sway the vote . . .”

I pulled out my cell phone and tapped in a saved number.

“Jake?” I said as soon as he answered.

“Hey, Darcy. What’s—”

“I need your help,” I said, interrupting him. I didn’t have time to waste on chitchat; nor was I in the mood.

“Oookay. Good morning to you too,” he said. “What’s so urgent?”

“Sorry to be so blunt, but it’s crazy here, getting ready for the festival, and something’s come up. I’m hoping you can help.”

“I’ll do my best. What is it?”

“Can you talk to one of your cop friends and see if you can find out exactly who’s on Shelton’s suspect list?”

A moment of silence, then, “Wait a minute. Are you saying you think Polly was murdered?”

He obviously hadn’t heard. “Apparently Polly’s head wound wasn’t consistent with the mixing blades, or something like that. She may have been hit over the
head and then pushed into the vat. Detective Shelton is going to call it a homicide.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Uh . . . I have connections in the police department?” I offered weakly.

“You mean Internet connections, namely Dillon,” he said. “He’s going to get himself in big trouble one day.”

Too late for that,
I thought, remembering that he’d been kicked out of college for hacking.

“So, will you?” I asked.

“Isn’t your aunt seeing the detective? Can’t she just ask him?”

“No.” I stole a glance at Aunt Abby as she listened to my side of the conversation, then whispered, “They . . . broke up.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Jake offered.

“I have a feeling everyone at the party last night is a suspect, including us and including you.”

Another moment of silence. I wondered what Jake was thinking. Finally, he said, “All right. I’ll see what I can find out. But Shelton can’t be serious about the four of us. He knows us.”

“I agree, but he probably has to include everyone anyway. And since Aunt Abby isn’t seeing the detective right now, our source has dried up.”

“What do you mean, ‘our source’?” Jake asked. “You’re not getting involved in this, are you?”

“I’m already involved,” I argued, “since I’m a suspect in a murder investigation. Until Shelton finds out who killed Polly, that’s probably not going to change.”

More silence on the other end.

“By the way,” I added. “Dillon learned something interesting about Polly that may be related to her death.”

“Darcy!”
Dillon hissed in the background.

I glanced at Dillon, who was glaring at me. Uh-oh. Had I said too much?

“More hacking, I assume,” Jake said.

“No, no. He . . . uh . . .
overheard
something . . . at the party.” I wished I were a better liar.

“What?”

I glanced at the e-mail Dillon had printed out. “Uh, something like, ‘If you don’t want me to forget . . . then don’t forget what you need to do. . . .’”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jake asked. “Makes no sense.”

“It does when you hear who she e-mailed—I mean, who she said it to.”

“Okay, let’s cut the crap, Darcy. Dillon obviously hacked into Polly’s e-mail. Who did she send the message to?”

I blushed, caught in my lie. Dillon leaned over as if to grab my cell phone. I stepped beyond his reach. “Isabel Lau and Simon Van Houten—the other two judges.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. We have proof. But I can’t exactly take it to the detective without getting Dillon in trouble.”

“So what do you want me to do? I can’t just tell him about the e-mails either. He’ll want to know how I found out.”

“Tell your cop friend you heard that Polly sent some
interesting e-mails and to check her computer,” I said. “Maybe that will narrow down the list and we’ll be off the hook. If the judges were being blackmailed by Polly for something they didn’t want known, then one of them might have killed her. Or maybe they both did it together,” I said, thinking of Agatha Christie’s
Murder on the Orient Express
,
in which Hercule Poirot investigates the death of a disliked victim named Ratchett and learns that nearly everyone in the cast had a motive to kill him, which leads to a clever and twisted ending.

“Okay. I’ll pass the word along and try to find out who’s on the list, but if Dillon gets in trouble, I can’t help him. I’m not an attorney anymore, remember? I’m a cream puff guy. And by the way, there’s no legal protection for cream puff guys either. If Shelton gets suspicious about the information, I’m not going to lie.”

“I understand,” I said.

“Besides, I’m sure he’s got his guys on that computer already. If there’s something there, they’ll find it.”

Jake was probably right. Dillon had beaten Shelton to the information, giving us a little head start. He’d eventually find those e-mails she sent to the two judges, and we’d be officially off the hook.

“Thanks, Jake. Call me if you find out anything, okay?”

“Will do,” Jake said, then added, “You owe me now, you know. Big-time.”

I smiled in spite of my recent irritation over his visits with his ex-fiancée. “I’ll give you an extra whoopie pie the next time I see you,” I said without thinking.

“Mmm. A whoopie pie,” he said, his voice low and sexy.

Leave it to Jake to take it as a euphemism.

I blushed and hung up without saying good-bye.

*   *   *

By ten a.m., Aunt Abby, Dillon, and I had finished preparing for the festival and had loaded everything into Aunt Abby’s car. We caravanned over to the Ghirardelli Square area, where the festival would take up a full city block. Aunt Abby was in the lead, with me second in my VW Bug, and Dillon on his dirt bike. I kept checking the clock as if I had OCD, more because I was hoping to hear back from Jake than because I was worried about making it to the event on time. Until I knew what he’d learned from his cop friend, this gnawing anxiety wouldn’t go away.

We parked in the lot reserved for staff, and with arms full of whoopie pies, headed for Aunt Abby’s school bus, already in its assigned spot. The closed-off street was lined with food trucks, as well as vendor tents filled with chocolate goodies, street foods, crafts, clothing, jewelry, and other merchandise popular at festivals. The rich scent of chocolate made my nose tingle, and I inhaled deeply, wondering if I could get high on just the smell.

The three of us spent the next hour setting up shop in Aunt Abby’s school bus, getting ready for the onslaught of chocolate-starved addicts. While my aunt started another batch of pies, Dillon removed the ones we’d already made from their boxes and I arranged them on
doilied platters to entice the customers. I caught Dillon sneaking a couple when his mother wasn’t looking but couldn’t blame him. They were killer.

A few minutes before the event opened at eleven, I stepped outside the bus to see if I could snag a coffee from the Coffee Witch, one of the trucks participating in the festival but not the competition. Maybe I could even get a cream puff from Jake’s truck before the feeding frenzy began.

I looked around at the nearby food trucks, each offering some sort of chocolate goody but with its own twist. Wendy Spellman’s truck, Chocolate Candyland, was parked next to Aunt Abby’s bus, on the right. The colorful truck featured giant pictures of sweets reminiscent of the popular children’s game, Candy Land, most dipped in chocolate. The truck itself looked good enough to eat, with all the chocolate-covered candies from my past—lollipops, gumdrops, licorice whips, sour balls, and so on. I couldn’t see Wendy through the closed louvered windows and figured she was busy inside, no doubt preparing last-minute delights like everyone else.

Across from her was Chocolate Falls, owned by Harrison Tofflemire. His truck was painted with a giant replica of his chocolate fountain gizmo, whirls of chocolate cascading down to look like a waterfall. His attractive twin daughters were dressed in skimpy brown shorts and low-cut tops, giggling as they set out dipping sticks and imprinted napkins. I caught a glimpse of Harrison leaning out the window, reprimanding the
girls, who rolled their eyes as soon as he withdrew his head.

Next to him, directly across from us, was Griffin Makeba’s Fill Your Piehole truck. The vehicle was covered with mini pies that appeared to fly around as if caught up in a pie tornado. Griffin stood outside checking out the other trucks, a frown on his face, his arms crossed. Was he worried about the competition? Or was that just his natural facial expression? Some people were like that, always frowning. Others, like Aunt Abby, presented a happy face as their default look. Me? I felt like I showed every emotion, often to my embarrassment.

Frankie Nudo’s Choco-Cheese truck was parked next to Griffin’s. It was a simple design featuring a giant wedge of cheese, a plus sign, and a chocolate bar, with the words “Choco-Cheese!” scrawled across the top. The thought of combining cheese and chocolate just didn’t have any appeal for me, in spite of my love for chocolate and cheese—separately.

Across from him and on our left side was Monet’s I Scream Cakes, a reconstructed postal van painted pink with brown polka dots that looked like scoops of ice cream. Monet and Frankie were also out front, and it sounded like they were arguing about something. Whoever put these two in close proximity must not have known their history.

Just beyond her was Jake’s Dream Puff truck, and across from him was the Coffee Witch, offering Willow’s caffeine-infused magical potions, always my first stop when I arrived at the Fort Mason food trucks.
She’d created a new chocolate coffee drink to sell at the event, hoping to build up clientele. Her latest concoction was a salted caramel and chocolate smoothie she called Devil’s Brew. I made a beeline to see if I could snag a cup before the crowds took over.

Suddenly I heard my name being called.

“Darcy!” I looked around and saw Jake’s head poking out of the service window of his truck. Hoping he had news, I detoured over.

“What did you find out?” I said to him as he leaned out, his muscular arms propped on the ledge.

“You need to work on your social skills,” Jake said. “You might want to start with a cordial opening, like, ‘Hello, Jake,’ or something along those lines.”

“Sorry,” I said, looking up at him. “On top of everything—the festival, the competition, the party—this new development about Polly is making me crazy. Not only are we suspects in a murder case, but I’m beginning to wonder if there is a killer on the loose. Two judges are dead, and he may go after others—”

“Two?” Jake interrupted me. He disappeared from the window, and seconds later the door to his truck opened. He bounded down the steps.

“You didn’t know?” I said, confused.

“You’re not saying you think George Brown was murdered too—do you?”

“Frankly, I don’t know. It seems odd that he suddenly gets hit by a car and dies right before the festival. Then, the night before the event begins, another judge is found dead, drowned in a vat of chocolate. Don’t you think there might be a connection?”

“George Brown’s death was an accident,” Jake said.

I shrugged.

“Darcy . . .”

“Never mind that now. The festival is about to begin. What did you find out about Shelton’s suspect list? Are we still on it?”

“There is no list,” Jake said.

“Yes, there is. Aunt Abby said—”

“Not anymore,” Jake broke in.

I frowned, not comprehending the words coming out of his mouth. “Seriously? Why? Did they find out who killed Polly? Was it one of the judges?”

Suddenly, without warning, two SFPD cars pulled up near the back of Aunt Abby’s bus, lights flashing.

“Oh my God!” I said. “Aunt Abby!”

I bolted for the school bus, then stopped just as I reached the open accordion doors. Aunt Abby and Dillon came running down the stairs.

“Are you all right?” I said to her. She looked perfectly fine, but something was going on.

“Yes,” she said. “Are you?”

I nodded, glanced at Dillon, then saw two uniformed officers appear from behind Aunt Abby’s bus, accompanied by Detective Shelton.

Dillon ducked back into the bus.

Uh-oh.

Before I could grab Aunt Abby and wrap her in a protective embrace, the cops made a sudden and unexpected turn to the right. They weren’t coming to Aunt Abby’s bus to arrest Dillon for hacking.

A small crowd had gathered next door, made up
mostly of other food truckers. I joined them and watched as one of the officers pounded on the door of Wendy’s Chocolate Candyland truck, while Detective Shelton stood back with another officer, who had his hand on his holstered gun.

“Police! Open up!” the first cop ordered.

The door to the truck opened and Aunt Abby’s friend, Wendy Spellman, peeked out wearing red reading glasses and a candy-decorated apron over her long dress.

She looked absolutely terrified.