The Semi-Sweet Hereafter (11 page)

The venom in her tone startled me. “Claire?”

“Jeremy's agent. She was afraid of losing his income. Then she lost him altogether.” A tiny smile quirked Phoebe's lips, as though she'd just discovered the sole upside of her husband's death: it had inconvenienced his agent. “I suppose now Claire is sitting pretty with Nicola for a client. She didn't even wait for Jeremy's body to be cold before chasing the deal, that cow.”

I was so surprised to hear sophisticated Phoebe use that slur that I almost laughed. But I kept my composure instead.

I still had questions. I couldn't wait to ask them. Delicately, I glanced toward the paper, wishing I'd read it from front to back before arriving for Phoebe's tutoring session.

In a careful voice, I asked, “What scandals were there?”

S
EX!
S
ECRETS
! The tabloid had promised outrage aplenty.

Phoebe tossed me a patrician look. “I will not dignify that with a response, Hayden. You're better than that, aren't you?”

I felt chastised. But I was still dying of curiosity. Exactly what, I wondered, did Jeremy's former assistant know about him?

A quick perusal of the article over Phoebe's shoulder told me the cover story had been a teaser, revealing only that “sex, secrets, and scandals!” would be forthcoming in Nicola's book.

Exactly when, I wondered further, had Claire—Jeremy's agent—put together that deal? Before Jeremy's death? Or after?

The timing made a difference—and might make Claire a suspect, depending on how lucrative the publishing contract had been. A sensational tell-all book was one thing; a sensational tell-all book about a beloved celebrity after his untimely death was another. Surely those circumstances would improve sales.

Enough to prompt a convenient murder? Maybe.

How long, I mused, had Nicola been writing her book? She would have naturally run into Claire while working for Jeremy, so making a connection with his agent wouldn't have been difficult. After that, all Nicola would have needed was material—an exposé enticing enough to fuel a deal.

It would have had to have been a real doozy of a deal to make Claire risk alienating Jeremy, her biggest client.

Claire had to be listed in Jeremy's phone. I still had it. I could call her right now. But what would I use for an excuse?

I'd like an advance copy of Nicola's book
probably wouldn't fly. But at least, it occurred to me, I knew why Jeremy's former assistant hadn't jumped on my job offer at the café.

Nicola hadn't needed another lowly assistant or server job. She hadn't had to put up with abuse or being unceremoniously sacked. Not when she'd had a publishing contract on the table.

I
had
to find out more. But first, I had to get free.

“Well, shall we get baking?” I asked brightly.

Phoebe looked astounded. “After
this?
Are you mad?” She grabbed her cell phone. “I need to make some calls, don't I?”

Then, just as I'd hoped, she vanished into her town house's private salon, talking in hushed but horrified tones to whoever was on the other end of the line. I heard a raving mention of “that skank!” then made my getaway to the guesthouse.

Clearly, there'd been no love lost between Phoebe, Claire, and (maybe) Nicola. It was up to me to find out why. Stat.

Eight

Claire Evans proved to be the easiest person to start with. Jeremy's agent was so eager to bask in the limelight that she agreed to meet with me right away, largely because I'd anticipated her urge to make the most of the publicity garnered by Nicola's tell-all book and had suggested that we meet at one of London's most visible spots: a ritzy hotel at teatime.

Claire hadn't been able to resist being seen in such a prominent spot, which was how we'd come to be seated across from one another in a glorious nineteenth-century hotel tearoom. We made small talk across the starched tablecloth while mirrored walls, ornate birdcage chandeliers, tall potted palms, rococo columns, and the occasional gilded statue surrounded us.

A pianist played in the background. The tearoom's windows were arched and resplendent, accented with silk shantung draperies and golden-fringed tiebacks. The floors were polished marble. Fresh flowers were everywhere. The upholstery fabric for a single chair probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

It was fancy. It was popular, too, full of tea takers.

I know what you must be thinking. That I, ordinary Hayden Mundy Moore, couldn't possibly clean up sufficiently to fit into such a swanky atmosphere. But I'm here to tell you that my lifetime of globe-trotting has made me into a chameleon. I don't like to blend in, but I'm perfectly capable of it.

Just as I know not to totter in shaky stilettos on Parisian cobblestones or wear a skimpy miniskirt into the Basilica San Marco in Venice, I knew better than to turn up to London's afternoon tea in jeans and a T-shirt, with kitchen clogs on my feet and my hair in a baker's bandanna. I knew to actually comb my hair and put on some lipstick, even though my usual makeup routine doesn't extend beyond much lip gloss and (maybe) mascara. I knew to put on a dress and some nice shoes, too.

Okay, so they weren't sky-high L. K. Bennett heels of the variety Phoebe and her friends favored. I would have broken my neck in those. I like to move quickly, besides. But I'd managed well enough, in my knee-length dress and ballerina flats, to make Danny do a very satisfying double take on my way out.

I'd done a pirouette, to extend the experience. He'd offered up a low wolf whistle, to meet my expectations.

“You clean up nice,” he'd said, “for someone who's willing to rake cacao beans on a planation in overalls and a hat.”

“Don't lose track of me, just because I look different.”

“It'll take more than a dress and some lipstick to throw me off,” Danny had assured me, his expression opaque. Naturally, he'd insisted on following me to my meeting. “Let's move.”

I wasn't sure where
he
had “moved” to since then. I couldn't see him anywhere at the hotel. He'd declined to put on a suit and invite Ashley to tea as a cover for shadowing me. Instead, Danny had greeted that perfectly reasonable suggestion with a dark arched eyebrow and a firmly voiced, “No way in hell.”

At his look of horror, I'd almost laughed.

As the pianist's song ended, a momentary quiet settled over the tearoom. I looked at Claire Evans, then continued with my excuse for asking to meet her: a (made-up) book of my own.

“I envision the book to be an exposé of the chocolate world,” I told her. “Like any luxury industry, chocolate making has its share of drama and intrigue, machinations and secrets. I've seen them all during my career. It's time to share.”

“Why here? Why now?” Shrewd and tweedy, with her gray hair perfectly coiffed, Claire was in her sixties and hard to fool. She reminded me of a fast-forwarded version of London's “Sloane Rangers,” girls who'd dressed in pearls, pashmina, and preppy clothes in the '80s. These days, the Duchess of Cambridge, Kate Middleton, was their goddess, with her wellies and gilets. “Why not contact someone you're familiar with in America?”

I'd anticipated that question. “I don't have an agent in the U.S. As far as ‘why here' goes, I expect to be in London for quite a while yet. My parents live in Mayfair. I'm planning to spend some time with them while writing the book.” At least part of that was true. I did want to see them while I was abroad. I smiled. “Besides, I like it here.” That was true too.

Claire gave a narrow-eyed nod, clearly not convinced. “If your book is as scandalous as you claim, no one in the chocolate industry will ever trust you again. You'll be forced to quit.”

“I'm ready for that.” I wasn't at all ready for that.

It was a good thing this was just a ploy, designed to gather intel from Jeremy's agent. I would have preferred being honest, but
I suspect you of murdering your client to increase the marketability of Nicola's book
wouldn't endear me to her.

Plus, it was possible that
Nicola
had murdered Jeremy to increase the marketability of her book. She was certainly better off financially now than she'd ever been as his downtrodden assistant. I gathered that I must have glimpsed her going into that Covent Garden jeweler because she'd been buying herself a bauble to celebrate her forthcoming tell-all of Jeremy.

While I pondered the cold-bloodedness of that, Claire scanned the room. I sensed she was feeling antsy. Judging by the smell of stale cigarettes emanating from her clothes, Claire was a smoker. If I wanted to keep her interest, I needed to be more engaging. Otherwise, she'd skip afternoon tea altogether and hop onto Piccadilly Street to satisfy her nicotine craving instead.

“This is sensitive information.” I didn't want to namecheck Nicola Mitchell, but she
was
the instant-book sensation of the moment. The legitimate and tabloid press had been breathless with the news of her “million pound” book deal. “I heard you were
the
person to come to with material of this sort.”

Claire perked up. “You've heard about Nicola's book?”

“Of course. Everyone has.” I adopted a sad mien. It wasn't difficult. I truly felt sorry about the situation. “I've met Jeremy Wright. His death was tragic. I still don't know how it could have happened, but it's made me doubly aware of how tenuous life can be. I might not have years and years ahead of me. Unless I act now, I might never get to write my . . . memoirs.”

I gave that final word deliberate emphasis, making sure that Claire realized my (hypothetical) written reminiscences promised to be scandalous. I wanted to hook her quickly.

“What companies, exactly, are we discussing?” she asked.

I had her.
Having already considered this, I cited some of the world's top chocolate concerns, from boutique brands to global conglomerates. “I can't disclose everything now, of course,” I demurred before I got carried away. “Not without a deal in place. But I can say that what goes on is . . . surprising.”

Claire leaned closer. “Are we talking about CEOs skimming profits? Managers sleeping with their secretaries? Workers sneezing on the production line? What do you have to spill?”

I hesitated. “I don't have a book outline per se. I don't want to reveal any specifics yet. I'm still planning to meet with a few other interested parties. But that doesn't mean—”

Jeremy's agent tut-tutted. “There's no need for that!”

She signaled a server who'd been lingering attentively nearby, dressed dapperly in a suit and tie. In a flash, several of his colleagues appeared, bearing the accoutrements of a cream tea—so named because it includes Britain's famed clotted cream.

At this point, I should probably clarify that, as fancy as it sounds, a “high tea” is actually much less formal than a cream tea or a full afternoon tea. A “high tea” is what working-class families have when they tuck into a late-day steak and kidney pie. An “afternoon tea” is what the Queen of England has.

Today, it was what
I
was having with Claire, too.

In the center of the table, another server placed a three-tiered silver cake stand. Its lower level contained savories—neat rectangular sandwiches such as cucumber, cress, chutney, and egg mayo, each with its crusts trimmed off. Its middle tier held those items that were neither savory nor especially sweet, such as miniature cream buns, scones, and crumpets. Its top (and most interesting to me) tier showcased bite-size petit fours, shortbread biscuits (“cookies,” to you and me), and pastel-colored macarons.

You're supposed to nibble at those foodstuffs in order, from the bottom to the top. With fingers only, please—as useful as it might be, cutlery is verboten at a proper tea service.

I couldn't help thinking that some of it should have been chocolate. Someone was leaving an opportunity unclaimed here.

Delicate china bowls appeared on our table, each containing something delicious. Devonshire clotted cream. Strawberry jam. Lemon curd. White and brown sugar cubes with an accompanying pair of tiny silver tongs. Wafer-thin, almost translucent lemon slices. A tasteful silver pitcher full of fresh Guernsey milk.

The tea service itself arrived next, clad in gleaming silver plate and already warmed, with floral bone china cups and saucers beside it. Loose-leaf teas were brought after that. Oolong, Darjeeling, Lapsang souchong, Ceylon—enough to make my head spin. It was like choosing from chocolate varietals, only I'm not an expert in tea. But the server didn't know that.

“Miss? Your preference for tea?” he asked, ready to serve.

All at once, I knew exactly what to ask for. “Earl Grey. Hot. No sugar, please.” Travis would have been so pleased.

While the niceties of tea service continued in a parade of ritualized brewing, waiting, pouring, and embellishing, I did my best to guide my conversation with Claire in a new direction.

It wasn't easy. DC Mishra would have had a smoother time finding out what she wanted to know from her “sources” than I ever did. I wasn't a detective. I didn't think I'd get away with acting like one. My best bet was to rely on human nature—and my own ability to create camaraderie with people I meet. I've done that for a long time, without even thinking about it. Pilots in São Paulo, jazz musicians in New Orleans, surfers in Queensland, and glassblowers in Samobor . . . they've all opened up to me for genuinely interesting and enlightening conversations.

Of course, I hadn't been trying to investigate a murder linked to any of those people. But Claire might cooperate.

Hoping she would, I gave her a direct look before tasting my tea. No pinkies in the air, either, by the way. It's just not necessary. It was delicious
.
I sighed, then put down my cup.

“You must have a challenging job,” I said as a friendly change of subject. “All those clients, so many of them famous . . .” I shook my head in sympathy. “I know what it's like to cater to the demands of people who are used to getting their own way.”

“You're not wrong about that!” Claire trilled, watching intently as the servers receded to their watchful places nearby. Surreptitiously, she slipped a flask from her purse and tipped it toward my cup with raised eyebrows. “Shall we indulge?”

I demurred. Claire added a healthy pour to her cup. Maybe she wasn't so savvy after all. It wasn't even five o'clock yet.

I'd noticed she hadn't opted for milk with her tea. No wonder. A shot of whiskey would have curdled the whole lot.

“You're sure?” She offered her flask again. I noticed it matched the tea service. “We could toast to our impending deal.”

I shook my head. She tucked away her tipple, then took a healthy slurp of her Darjeeling. She sighed contentedly.

“This must have been a difficult week for you,” I said.

A nod. “Indeed. It was such a shock to hear about Jeremy.”

“I love his books and TV shows. Was he fun to work with?”

“Jeremy? Fun?” Claire rolled her eyes. She drank more tea, draining her cup in record time. I guessed the whiskey had cooled off her brew. A server unobtrusively poured her more. Jeremy's former agent added more whiskey, leaving her flask on the table this time. “He was fun at first. Energetic, eager to please, full of ideas and enthusiasm . . . and sex appeal. Whoo!”

Claire fanned herself, oblivious to the other tea takers turning at the sound of her excited exclamation.

“Let me tell you, Hayden. I can take people places,” she assured me, eyes bright. “Before Jeremy, everyone thought no one could be more successful than Gemma Rose. She tapped a market that no one else had. She merged food and sensuality without being tacky. Especially for us Brits, that was titillating.”

“I haven't heard much from her lately. Did she retire?”

“She might as well have.” Blithely, Claire bit into a miniscule ham and chutney sandwich, thinking about my question while she chewed. “Jeremy eclipsed her almost immediately. Gemma Rose was popular, but Jeremy was stratospheric. Thanks to me. You see, I knew there was an appetite for a sexy male chef. Everyone else underestimated women's interest in such a thing. But especially after a certain age, women can be just as voracious as men!”

She made pantomime cougar claws and gave me a growl.

I laughed. I couldn't help it. “Equal-opportunity food voyeurism. There's nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“Not at all!” Claire emptied her second teacup. It was swiftly and attentively refilled from a freshly brewed pot. “Gemma Rose wrote that book, but Jeremy perfected it. He'd watched Gemma for years. He'd been a big fan.” She gazed at the chandeliers overhead, lost in reminisces. “The day his cookbooks shot past Gemma's in total millions sold, he was so thrilled.”

“I'd imagine so. That's a very big deal.”

Gemma Rose had been the doyenne of British cookery for nearly a decade, I knew. She'd turned everyday cooking into irresistible foreplay. There'd never been a spoon she wouldn't lick, an olive oil bottle she wouldn't fondle, a food that hadn't compelled her to moan with pleasure. She'd created her empire based on culinary knowledge and sensuality, and she'd had the best-selling cookbooks, popular television shows, and fans to prove it. I hadn't thought about Gemma's slump in popularity as a direct result of Jeremy's ascendancy, but Claire did.