Murder Melts in Your Mouth (13 page)

“It's a dream come true, sweetie pie.” Eric was much more animated than his subdued partner, and he bounded across the living room to drop the dog leash in a box marked
Butch
. Over his shoulder he said, “Did Daniel tell you why we're going?”

“No,” Daniel said. “Not yet.”

Eric laughed. “We're staying in a house next door to my cousin. She's having a baby next month.”

He sent a merry glance at Daniel, who sighed with feigned weariness and said, “Tell Nora the rest. You're dying to.”

“We're adopting the baby! We're going to be dads!”

“I'm terrified,” Daniel confided. “But Eric's totally gung ho.”

Exuberantly, Eric led the way to the cheery kitchen, where he filled a glass vase with water from the tap. “Oh, don't be silly. Daniel will be a brilliant father. He's the conscientious one. We'll stay in Spain for a few months until we think we're ready to fly solo as parents. Can we invite you to the adoption party?”

“Of course.” I helped unwrap the lilacs from the paper. “I'd love to come.”

“Bring a present,” Eric commanded as he tucked the flowers into the vase. “Maybe something in the heirloom category, like a random silver spoon. Or something you've used yourself and swear by. Don't you have experience with poppets?”

“Babies? Not much.”

I chatted with the two of them for a few more minutes, but keeping in mind their dinner plans, I soon bade them good-bye.

As I went down the stairs, I couldn't help thinking about Emma and her unborn child. When had the whole concept of family turned so topsy-turvy? All I wanted was a baby of my own, and it seemed I was the only person with empty arms.

On the sidewalk outside, I briskly pulled myself together. No wallowing. I checked my watch. I had plenty of time to meet Crewe at the convention center as long as I didn't keel over during the hot walk. The tall buildings around me blocked out the sun as it dropped lower in the sky, but the heat still radiated intensely from the broiling pavement.

I managed to keep up a steady amble, but once I ducked into a Talbots store to cool off a little while pretending to check the sale rack. Plenty of other overheated women were doing the same thing.

Sufficiently refreshed, I went outside, and under the red awning I called home.

“Hey, Aunt Nora,” Rawlins said when I identified myself. “Whassup?”

“I thought you had to work.”

“I'm at work right now.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to—”

“Hey, I'll take any phone call that isn't Regan. The busy signal will drive her nuts.”

I laughed. “Okay. Was everybody alive and well at the farm when you left?”

“Def Con Zero—perfectly quiet. Grandma was still upstairs with the weird guy. I don't want to know what they're doing, but I think I heard a cocktail shaker. Anyway, Grandpa's cool with it. He's with the twins right now. They're digging a fire pit.”

“A—? It's not too close to the house, is it?”

“No, it's out in the field. They want to set off fireworks from it on the Fourth of July. Grandma's planning a big party.”

“Of course she is. And she'll use the national holiday as an excuse to make it more extravagant than ever.”

“Sounds bitchin' to me. Think Mick could get us some fireworks? The real stuff?”

“Don't count on it, Rawlins.” Michael seemed hell-bent on the road to self-destruction already, and buying illegal fireworks for minors seemed like an unnecessarily risky side detour. I began to wonder if I could get my hands on some tranquilizers instead of pyrotechnics. “How was Lucy?”

“She and her imaginary friend were tormenting Henry.”

“Henry's still there?”

“Yeah, he's cool. We're all cool, Aunt Nora. You're as bad as Regan. Stop with the worrying.”

“Okay, Rawlins. Thanks for the update.”

“Anytime.”

I closed my cell phone. Ready to make the final assault on the convention center, I took one of the narrow side streets, walking hurriedly past alleys that were crowded with overflowing Dumpsters. Certainly a less tourist-friendly glimpse of the City of Brotherly Love. A rear exit for one of the city's parking garages had been blockaded by union workers protesting the use of scabs during the parking strike. But the heat had chased away picketers. Instead of human protesters, a giant, inflatable rat stood in protest, its humming motor keeping it full of hot air.

I passed the rat and crossed Broad Street, then cut up some side streets.

At the stroke of six, I found Crewe waiting for me in the shade of the overhead walkway. A throng of people streamed past him into the convention center. In the traffic jam on the street, we heard a squeal of tires and a crash. I turned around to see a TV truck up on the curb, having barely missed hitting a busload of tourists. Immediately, four taxis pulled every which way and blocked the street. Typical convention center gridlock.

Crewe's first words were, “Have you heard from Lexie?”

“Good heavens, she's not still with the police?”

He looked grim. “She must be. I've tried her cell phone a dozen times, and there's no answer.”

“She hasn't been arrested, has she?”

Crewe shook his head. “If she had, somebody would have called me from the paper.”

“Should we skip the Chocolate Festival, Crewe? Go over to the Roundhouse to check on her instead?”

“The police won't let us see her. I already tried.” Crewe took my arm and guided me into the busy convention center. “Maybe we can be more useful to Lexie here. I should find Jacque Petite, but I understand he's been skipping all the Chocolate Festival events, for some reason. The organizers are going nuts.”

He pointed at an immense poster that showed the famously cherubic face of Jacque Petite, a Food Channel chef who had become world famous for his almost sensual use of chocolate in various kinds of cooking. His cookbook had lingered on best-seller lists for months, and his packaged chocolates were selling nationwide. It was impossible to look up at his broad smile and warmly knowing, chocolaty eyes without smiling.

Only Crewe was immune. He said, “There's somebody else I think we should talk to here.”

“Who?”

“Elena Zanzibar. She's launching some chocolate spa-treatment products at the festival. If we get lucky, we might get a shot at questioning her about what happened yesterday.”

Along with an enthusiastic crowd, we went up the escalator to the entrance of the convention center's large exposition space. The intoxicating scent of chocolate wafted over us as we arrived in the doorway of a chocolate lover's paradise. Crewe and I were swept under a huge Zanzibar banner that stretched over the doorway. Two smiling hostesses in golden aprons offered us trays of Zanzibar spa samples. I dodged a spritz of a chocolate-scented perfume.

Dozens of other exhibitors were lined up in long, crowded rows, displaying every imaginable form of chocolate. Flags advertising famous chocolatiers hung from the rafters. Small purveyors of artisan chocolates gave away samples. People rushed inside, eager to start tasting the goodies. I saw one dazed and happy woman leaving the building, her arms weighed down with huge shopping bags full of chocolate.

“Crewe,” I said, “I think I might faint with ecstasy.”

“Steady,” he advised. “The key to doing a foodie show is to pace yourself. Don't sample everything right away, because you'll be too full to enjoy the pièce de résistance.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Let's head to the stage. I think Elena should be finishing up her presentation about now.”

We took a right turn past a bower of trees and flowers decorated to look like a chocolate lover's Garden of Eden. A miniature mountain was decorated with flickering candles and strewn rose petals, with a path of candy bars leading upward to a giant claw-foot bathtub filled with warm chocolate. A fountain of creamy chocolate flowed into the tub from a statue of a naked man pouring from a ewer.

The tub had been painted with the Zanzibar logo.

And reclining in the tub—with the cascade of chocolate running over her bare toes—was none other than my sister Emma.

“Good Lord,” I said to her. “Are you completely naked?”

F
rom her prone position in the bathtub, Emma lifted a mug in a toast. It was supposed to look like a cup of hot chocolate, but I was willing to bet she was drinking vodka.

With a woozy grin, she said, “If you want to see a riot break out, I'll stand up.”

Crewe stared into the tub. “That doesn't look very sanitary.”

“You're not supposed to drink it.” She splashed her chocolate bath. “You're supposed to fantasize. It's some kind of Zanzibar spa potion.”

I said, “I should have known you weren't giving candy bars to kiddies.”

“Hell, no. This is an R-rated chocolate show. There's a woman around the corner who makes lollipops in very interesting shapes, Sis. You ought to buy a few dozen to give your stuffy friends next Christmas.”

Emma didn't seem to mind the throng of people who stared at her as they moved toward the other exhibits. In fact, she seemed to enjoy her role. She smiled broadly and waved to everyone.

Suddenly furious with her, I snatched the cup out of her hand. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“Hey! Give that back!”

“Can't you think about someone else for once?”

“Who?” she demanded.

“Your baby! You've been given a miracle, Emma. A blessing! And you can't see that?”

“Dammit, Nora, give me my drink.”

“No.”

“This is none of your business.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “But you can spend one hour not drinking, and after that, another hour. And maybe a few more hours until you sober up and think straight about the child you're bringing into the world.”

“Why the hell do you care?”

“You know damn well why,” I said.

“Screw you.”

“He already did,” I shot back just as crudely. “But apparently he prefers you. The least you can do is take care of his baby.”

Emma let out a string of curses that turned heads, but I was unmoved. I walked away with her drink in hand.

Crewe caught up with me. “Wow, Nora, I've never seen you so…so…”

“Pissed off?” I said. “Well, stick around. If she comes after me, there's going to be a fistfight.”

Even though I was only half-kidding, Crewe looked horrified.

A passing waitress offered us dark-chocolate-dipped strawberries from a boutique patisserie in the suburbs. Crewe turned her down. I grabbed one. I needed to self-medicate, and chocolate was the nearest sedative.

“I'll talk while you eat,” Crewe said as we inched into the crowd. “This morning I spoke with some of the reporters who are covering Hoyt Cavendish's death.”

“Mmph?” I swallowed. “What did you learn?”

“First of all, there's some kind of news blackout going on. The police are controlling all information about the investigation—and I mean serious control. The DA has promised somebody will get fired if there's a leak. I thought the radio silence was because Hoyt was a powerful and influential man. But the reporters say this feels different—like the police are holding back something really big.”

I wished I'd thought to get an extra napkin. I licked chocolate from my thumb. “Any theories about what the big information might be?”

“That maybe somebody important is a suspect.”

“Crewe, the building was crawling with Philadelphia fat cats. The important suspect could be half a dozen people, even Lexie.”

“The police can pinpoint nearly all of the big names at the time Hoyt went off the balcony. Only a few were alone or can't explain exactly where they were in the building.”

“Not just the building,” I said. “Scooter Zanzibar—remember?”

“Yeah, he looked guilty as sin when he arrived at the restaurant.”

“He called me this morning.”

Crewe stopped dead. “Chad Zanzibar called you?” He couldn't control the astonishment in his voice. “No offense, Nora, but what for?”

“He wants to follow Michael around. To research his next acting role.”

Crewe laughed. “I can see Mick giving acting tips! What did you tell the kid?”

“That I have no contact with anyone in organized crime.”

In my handbag, my phone rang. When I picked up, Michael's voice said in my ear, “Hey. Where are you?”

“At the convention center.”

“I'll be there in half an hour.”

“What's wrong?”

“It's all good,” he said, soothing.

But he hung up without explanation.

Crewe guessed the identity of my caller by the expression on my face. “So much for no contact with anyone in organized crime.”

The serendipitous timing amused Crewe, but I tucked my phone back into my bag and frowned. “That was strange. Michael's coming here in half an hour.”

I didn't want to see him. Not with my sister around.

Crewe didn't notice and gathered my arm in his hand. “That gives us enough time to talk to Elena Zanzibar. There she is.” He pointed.

A mob of chocolate lovers had come to a standstill in front of a small stage where beautiful models in slinky spa bathrobes held containers of various products. Elena Zanzibar herself stood with a microphone in her hand. She wore a gold lamé formal gown that sparkled in the bright lights. A luxurious chocolate-colored wrap encased her shoulders. Her hair was precariously tall, and her makeup more colorful than ever.

In the audience sat a dozen similarly coiffed ladies—Elena's fan club. One carried a hand-lettered sign:
We'll do anything for you!

Elena was giving a rambling speech. Before edging closer to listen, I decided I'd better ditch Emma's drink, so I headed over to a strategically placed trash can. As I prepared to toss the cup, I took a quick sniff of the contents. To be certain, I took a small sip.

And discovered it wasn't booze after all, but plain ginger ale.

Emma had been drinking nothing more potent than soda pop, I realized with a pang of guilt. Maybe she'd been sober all along.

“Oh, dear,” I said.

Crewe looked around at me. “Something wrong?”

“Something right,” I said. “For once.”

There wasn't time to go apologize to my sister. Elena's presentation came to a conclusion, and the crowd broke into polite applause. The fan club jumped to their feet, clapping with enthusiasm. Elena cast them a strained smile. Two television crews had been filming her remarks, but they shut off their lights as the applause died down.

A tall man wearing stage makeup took the microphone from Elena. “Don't forget to come back Friday night when we feature the great Jacque Petite—star of the Chocolate Festival!”

More applause, but most of the crowd dispersed. Given the choice of free chocolate or the autograph of an elderly cosmetics executive, everyone seemed eager to move off in search of the free samples. The man with the microphone gently helped Elena off the stage.

Crewe and I worked our way close to the autograph table and soon found ourselves in front of Elena as she signed head shots of herself. The photo, I noticed, had been taken at least twenty years ago.

“My dear Nora!” She pushed the remaining head shots aside with hands that were encased in opera gloves. “Surely you understand what a sacrifice I've made to come here. I wanted to stay at home, but my VP of PR insisted I honor my commitment to the new spa line.”

“I'm sorry you're unwell,” I said. “You're very brave to come tonight.”

I introduced Crewe, and Elena tugged her gloves higher before extending her hand to Crewe. “Hello. I knew your father.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Zanzibar.”

Crewe's father had been a notorious philanderer, a subject that Crewe found painful, so he switched subjects with the ease of a man who often steered conversation away from unpleasant memories. He said, “I was very sorry to hear of yesterday's tragedy.”

She nodded, forlorn. All the energy she had shown the previous day had been sapped away. This evening Elena looked haggard beneath her makeup. Her eyeliner was smeared, and she had chewed off half of her usually perfect lipstick. In a shaken voice, she said, “Would you be so kind as to escort me to my car?”

“Of course. Would you prefer we call a doctor?”

As best she could, Elena tried to collect herself. “A doctor can't fix a broken heart.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said. “Hoyt's death is a terrible loss.”

“Terrible loss?” she cried, losing the last shreds of self-control. “I'll tell you about terrible loss! The bastard stole nearly fifty million dollars from me.”

I gasped. “He stole from you?”

“I thought he was my friend! I thought I was helping him by giving him my affairs to manage. But he was stealing me blind. I'm broke!”

“Surely not completely—” Crewe began.

Elena's chin trembled. “My grandson brought me all the facts and figures last night. For years Hoyt steadily drained all my accounts.”

“I'm shocked,” I said.

“You and me both.” She tried to look haughty, but managed only to look frightened. “How can I possibly help my grandson's movie now? He's so angry with me.” She tugged at her gloves again. “Nora, didn't your grandmother sell off her jewelry to keep your family going when things went to pot?”

“Yes, she did.”

“You must give me a contact—the name of someone who can help me.”

“You're upset,” I soothed. “Everyone's upset. It's too soon to make important decisions.”

“I must raise cash immediately!” Her gloves slipped lower, and I saw bruises on the fleshy part of her arm. But she was too distressed to notice. “My grandson doesn't deserve to have his future ruined this way. I was devastated by Hoyt's death, but now this! A violation of trust!”

“I spoke with Brandi Schmidt this afternoon, and she—”

“Brandi Schmidt! That hussy!”

Crewe cleared his throat, and with an inclination of his head indicated that the television news crew still loitered nearby.

Elena got the message. But instead of shutting up, she pulled the two of us to the edge of the stage to continue our discussion. There, she said, “I know I can trust the both of you when I reveal that Hoyt and I had an understanding. We were going to marry later this year.”

“I had no idea, Mrs. Zanzibar.”

“We wanted to keep it quiet.” She summoned her dignity. “I'm very glad of that. Especially now that things have turned out to be so ugly.”

Crewe murmured, “I'm very sorry for your—uh—loss.”

“My point is,” she said, “that nasty Brandi Schmidt was probably milking Hoyt for all he was worth. And he was milking
me
! For once, she's not the victim here. I am!”

Elena's handlers finally noticed her distress and swooped over to take charge of her. She introduced me to her assistant, a tall, chic woman wearing a corporate suit and a capable expression. A pin shaped as the Zanzibar logo flashed on her lapel.

Elena tried to calm down. “This is Cherry. She's going to spend the night with me. Isn't she a saint?”

Cherry shook my hand with a crushing grip, then Crewe's. “You shouldn't be alone, Mrs. Z.”

I was glad to see Cherry help Elena into a golf cart and whisk her off the exposition floor. Elena needed someone she could trust close by.

“Well, well,” said Crewe. “Elena was going to marry Hoyt Cavendish?”

“Question is,” I said, “when did Chad discover Hoyt was stealing from his cash cow? Before or after the murder?”

“And did Chad blame his own grandmother for losing the money to Hoyt?”

“You saw her bruises?”

“Hard to miss,” Crewe said. “Even with the gloves. Do you think that little shit beat his grandmother?”

We looked at each other, thinking over what we'd just seen and heard.

“I'd better go after her,” I said. “If she's in danger, she needs our help.”

“I think she's safe for the moment.” Crewe flexed his hand, as if remembering Cherry's strong handshake. “Her assistant looks as if she could rip Scooter's head off.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“I'm starting to see why Lexie was so upset last weekend.”

“You think she discovered Hoyt embezzled money from Elena's accounts?”

We exchanged speculative looks, and Crewe said, “There were a lot of clients who attended that meeting in Lexie's office.”

“Dollars to doughnuts, I bet Hoyt stole money from all of them. No wonder Lexie went ballistic.”

“Come on.” Crewe edged away. “If I can't find Jacque Petite, I've got one more chocolate purveyor I want to see tonight.”