The Semi-Sweet Hereafter (14 page)

Mortar and pestle setup? Nicola had to be talking about the metlapil that Jeremy had been bludgeoned to death with, and its accompanying metate
.
It would have looked like a colossal mortar and pestle to someone unfamiliar with such kitchen equipment.

I leaned forward, riveted by Nicola's story.

“Then what happened?” I asked. “Did Andrew take it?”

Maybe the head of Hambleton & Hart was my likeliest suspect. I didn't know if there had been fingerprints on that metlapil. My impromptu tête-à-tête with the London Metropolitan Police Service hadn't reached that stage. It likely never would.

“Jeremy didn't take that thing, that's for sure.” Nicola appeared to be on the verge of laughing. At my rapt interest? Was she playing me? “He wanted no part of it.”

“Why not?” I asked. “Didn't he like Claire's idea?”

Nicola's only response was a coy look.

Frustrated, I sighed. “You know, I've been interviewed before. If you chop up your talking points this way, they won't be understood properly. People will take things out of context. You have to deliver the information succinctly and clearly.”

That approach would definitely help
me,
at least.

“Oh.” Briefly, Nicola wrinkled her forehead. She gave me an astute look. “In that case, the only person I saw touch that thing was Claire. She did it to demonstrate what Jeremy was supposed to do. Not to get ready to kill him, or anything.”

“I understand.” She wanted to protect her new agent.

“Honestly!” Evidently, Nicola sensed my reservations. She looked around the chocolaterie-pâtisserie, then leaned nearer on our shared settee. “See, Claire's idea was all about S.E.X. Jeremy was supposed to take that stone club thing and pretend to make something with it. But not
really
cook. You know.”

I didn't. Not at all. I raised my eyebrows.

“He was supposed to get, you know,
sexy
with it. They were going to cut images of him doing
this
with shots of the food.”

After another furtive look, Nicola demonstrated a salacious gesture. It was the sort of thing a man might do with his, uh, not-kitchen-related “equipment” as a means to seduce a partner.

“All while he talked about making food,” Nicola added. “With the intimation that Jeremy was sexy, cooking was sexy, and Hambleton & Hart were sexy too. Sex was Claire's go-to tactic.”

No kidding. “In that case, we're lucky she suggested Jeremy use a prop,” I joked, having finally understood the situation. “Otherwise, who knows how risqué she'd have gotten?”

We both laughed. European advertising tends to be liberal, compared with what we might see in the U.S. Nudity is fine, for instance, usually in context to sell soap or something similar. Claire's suggestion, though, sounded practically pornographic.

Nicola sobered quickly. “Andrew Davies was
mad
for the idea. I've never seen him so excited about anything—not even Hambleton & Hart's range of banana-flavored custard cups, and those are cracking good, believe me. But Jeremy wouldn't do it.”

I didn't blame him. “What happened?”

Nicola shrugged. “They argued. Jeremy stomped away. I went to soothe him. He shouted at me. I cried. He was so mean!”

“That sounds very unfair to you,” I consoled her, wishing her recollections of the event weren't quite so self-centered.

“It was!” Nicola sounded outraged even now. “Very unfair.”

“Is that when you made up your mind to write your book?”

I asked that question softly, carefully, concerned about spooking her before I learned what I wanted to know
—
when she'd written her book and when Claire had struck a deal for it.

But Nicola wasn't bothered. She was on a roll.

“No. I was well into it by then,” she told me. “You don't think I stuck with that dreadful assistant job just for the dismal money, did you? I planned on writing my book about Jeremy all along, from the moment he hired me. I was just biding my time, watching him, waiting to gather sufficient material.”

“Oh. Isn't that clever of you?”

Or, you know, appalling
.
No wonder everyone had had the impression that Nicola was mousy. She'd been staying in the background on purpose, the better to eavesdrop on Jeremy.

Confident now, she puffed up her chest. “I'm only sorry Jeremy and Phoebe hadn't had any children yet. Can you imagine the stories I would have had to tell? Talk about scandal!”

Aha. That must have been why Nicola had been watching those mums and children outside Primrose. She'd been brainstorming.

“Maybe you can get a job as a nanny next,” I deadpanned.

This was so much more awful than I'd expected. Nicola seemed virtually conscienceless. I'd thought she was bitter about being sacked, sure. But that didn't explain how she'd schemed, all along, to intentionally betray someone who'd trusted her. Jeremy had deserved better than that.

“I won't need a nanny job,” Nicola assured me with a telling smirk. “Not now that Jeremy's conveniently kicked it.”

I felt queasy. I actually regretted every bite of chocolate I'd just eaten. That was a genuine rarity in my line of work.

Nicola noticed. Her brow creased with concern. “Too soon?”

I gave her a bewildered look. “Too soon for what?”

“Too soon to joke about Jeremy's death. I thought I'd try a lighter tone. On telly? I do want to be entertaining. Honestly, no one wants to buy a book written by a drudge, do they?”

I couldn't believe she was being so blasé about this.

“I'd go for a more subdued tone,” I advised dryly. I couldn't tell if Nicola was overexcited by her own publicity or inherently tactless. “At least until after Jeremy's funeral.”

It was scheduled for tomorrow, Phoebe had told me during our most recent lesson. She'd done her best to arrange a service that would be both warm and respectful—not an easy feat, given the public mourners who were anticipated to crowd the event.

Partly motivated by that fact, I was visiting Jeremy's foundation with Liam later this afternoon. I hoped he wouldn't be able to smell chocolate on my breath. Maybe I'd buy gum.

“All right.” Nicola gave me a thoughtful nod. “Thanks, Hayden. You've been very helpful. Oh, and please don't tell anyone what I've told you today. I'm planning to include some of this in my book. Maybe
you'll
even make a walk-on appearance!”

I gathered that I was supposed to feel honored by that. But I didn't. “Honestly, I'd rather stay out of it. You understand.”

“Not really.” She glanced downstairs again, then offered me a disturbingly fixed smile. “Who doesn't like being famous?”

Well, Jeremy, for one.
Despite his ambition, I couldn't help thinking that celebrity hadn't been all he'd hoped for.

I tried to laugh off the disparity between me and Nicola. “Not you, I hope! Because it sounds as though your book is going to be a fantastic success.” I leaned nearer and tried to seem as awestruck as possible. “What's going to be in it, anyway? I read in the papers about wild parties, secrets, scandals . . .”

“All that and more!” Nicola promised, giving nothing away.

“Maybe you could sneak me an advance copy?” I glanced at the (now demolished) treats I'd brought. “Just between friends?”

She caught my intimation. “I would, but it's not even fully written yet. Funny, right?” Her expression hardened. “I'm still waiting for the end of the story. I can't go forward until all the loose ends are tied up, can I? That's what I told Claire.”

Loose ends.
The way she said it alarmed me. I began to wonder if Nicola wanted to be famous for more than having the inside story on Jeremy's wild lifestyle and bullying ways. Seeing her just then, I wondered if Nicola wanted to be famous—at least in her own mind—for having bludgeoned Jeremy to death with “that stone club thing” and gotten safely away with it.

More than gotten away with it. Profited from it.

“Your publisher must want the book quickly, though,” I conjectured, shoving away that gruesome thought. “Right? So they can benefit from all the publicity surrounding Jeremy's death?”

Nicola looked like the cat who swallowed the canary. “I don't think they'll have any trouble capitalizing on that.”

“You're probably right.” Danny, however, had been wrong. There was no way I could be too suspicious. Not under these circumstances. If anything, I had too many possible killers to keep up with. “Did they move fairly quickly on the contract?”

“My publisher? Gosh, I love saying that!” Nicola beamed. She squinted to remember the details. “Yes, fairly quickly. Claire said so, at least. Those big deals take time, though. There was an auction and everything. It was so exciting!”

“How did you keep it from Jeremy? He must have noticed his agent calling you, right? Didn't he wonder what was going on?”

Nicola gave a relieved giggle. “Fortunately, he was already dead. Otherwise, things would have been much trickier. But it did take a while for Claire to respond to my initial query.”

Hmm. That didn't clarify the timeline at all. Claire could have considered Nicola's tell-all book without telling her. She could have hatched her own plan to kill Jeremy and boost sales, only afterward locking down the rights to his “biography.”

Nicola evidently didn't sense my maudlin thoughts.

“Hey, now that we're friends, maybe you can cater an all-chocolate spread for my book launch party!” she suggested in her lilting accent. She looked irrepressible. And (maybe) super guilty? I didn't know. “That would be brilliant, yeah?”

I couldn't agree. “We'll see. If I'm still in London.”

I hoped I'd be gone, having long since caught Jeremy's murderer and cleared my own name with Detective Constable Mishra.

But Nicola didn't know that. “Fab! I'll phone you!”

Then, after a few more handfuls of chocolate treats on Nicola's part, we went our separate ways, me feeling no less sure of Nicola's potential guilt . . . and her feeling no less thrilled by profiting from Jeremy's death. If that didn't make her seem remorseless and cold, then I didn't know what would.

Dancing on Jeremy's grave, I guessed. But surely it wouldn't come to that. If nothing else, Jeremy's loyal fans would make sure such a desecration didn't happen. And speaking of them . . . it was time to find out exactly why Jeremy had earned himself so many devoted admirers. It couldn't just come down to nice hair, cut abs, and a talent for sexily slicing beef, right?

With Liam by my side, I was about to find out.

Ten

I'd just tucked into a lovely forkful of creamy white-chocolate raspberry tart when the guesthouse's doorbell rang.

Liam. He was early. Uh-oh.

We'd agreed to meet at “my place” for our visit to Jeremy's charity, since its headquarters in East London were served by a complicated patchwork of public transportation. From Chelsea, we'd have needed to take two buses, an Underground train, a DLR light-rail train,
and
then walk a bit to get there, so Liam had offered to drive us both. I was glad. My world-traveler skills have a serious gap—they don't include driving on the left.

It was possible, it occurred to me as I chewed double-time and then stashed my plate of raspberry tart in the Smeg brand refrigerator, that those transportation issues might be partly responsible for keeping the people of that borough struggling. It was difficult to have a good job and a good life when you spent so much of your day making an arduous commute.

But I wasn't in London to deal with social issues. I was there—at the moment—to try to swallow my forbidden chocolate before Liam detected what I'd been up to. I'd done pretty well, so far, with my daily allotment of cardio. Running around in one of the city's green parks was an excellent stress reliever. But going without chocolate, sugar, wine, or bread? No way.

I wiped my hands on my jeans and headed for the door.

“I'll be right there!” I called, fussing with my ponytail.

I hoped Liam's abstinence from treat foods hadn't given him some kind of superhero-level detection abilities, like former smokers who could hear a cigarette being lit at fifty paces.

I didn't want to make him angry. What was I, crazy? But I also didn't want to quit chocolate. For me,
il cioccolato
answers every question.

I opened the guesthouse's door with a smile on my face, hoping to bolster my sham image of sugar-free virtuousness.

Detective Constable Satya Mishra stood there. Double uh-oh.

Stone-faced in her uniform, she confronted me. “I didn't think you'd be quite so happy to see me, Ms. Mundy Moore.”

I blinked. “DC Mishra!” Instantly, my palms began to sweat. Could I dry them without looking guilty? Doubtful. “Hello!”

She gestured inside. Authoritatively. “May I come in?”

“That depends. Is this a prelude to arresting me?”

DC Mishra angled her head. “Should I arrest you?”

I gave a nervous laugh, wishing sincerely that I wasn't one of those people who feel instantaneous guilt when police officers flash their patrol-car lights behind me in traffic, even when I haven't done anything wrong. It's an automatic response, like wanting to eat chocolate when seeing it. Or shaking.

Could she see my hands trembling? I clasped them.

“Of course not. And of course, you can come in.” I stepped back to allow her to enter, hoping that wasn't a dire mistake.

When in doubt, be polite.
That's what my mother always said. Given that her other golden rule was
Mothers are always right,
I decided to trust Mama Mundy Moore on this one.

“What can I do for you today, Detective Constable?”

She looked amused. Then stern. “You can stop trying to do my job.” Satya Mishra ambled around the guesthouse, leaving me to trail after her. She studied the furnishings, the copy of Jeremy's best-selling British cookery book I'd been reading, and the shoes I'd kicked off beside the sofa. Then she studied me. “Stop harassing people about Jeremy Wright. The department has received several complaints about your ‘interference.'”

I frowned at her, unable to argue. “Who complained?”

Her stern countenance deepened. “Then you don't deny it?”

How could I? I'd done it. I'd “interfered” with everyone I could think of who might have had an opportunity, a motive, or a means to kill Jeremy. I'd be doing more of the same tomorrow and the day after, too. I picked up his cookbook, hoping to avoid squirming. I hugged it. “I can't help being curious, given the circumstances,” I admitted. “But I haven't harassed anyone.”

“Well, see that you don't.” DC Mishra paused. Seeming on the verge of saying something else entirely, she settled for, “I know about your history—about your involvement with recent crimes in the U.S. You'll find we aren't as tolerant here.”

“Oh, no?” My hairline was growing damp. I was so nervous that my hair was perspiring. Oh, god. “Why is that?”

“Solving crimes is a serious matter. It's not a hobby.”

“Of course not. I realize that.” I wanted to groan with frustration—at myself and at my unpreparedness. I should have anticipated that this would happen eventually. I hadn't exactly been circumspect about questioning people. “I'm not looking for a hobby, believe me. I'm busy enough as it is! I never wanted to get involved in any of this,” I assured the constable, spreading my arms wide in overt innocence. “I'm just a chocolatier.”

“I'm told chocolate making has its share of intrigue.”

I gaped at her. That was, almost to a word, what I'd told Claire Evans during our meeting about my supposed tell-all book.

“Have I been bugged?” I asked. “I didn't do anything!”

“Just don't leave town. And stop talking to my witnesses.”

Aha. DC Mishra must have been following me, just as Danny had been. That made sense. He hadn't met her, so he wouldn't have known to alert me. That was something else for me and my security expert to work on. You know, if we ever needed to solve a murder again. I earnestly hoped it wouldn't come to that.

“I'm sorry if I've interfered with your investigation,” I said in a conciliatory tone. “But DC George gave me the impression we might share information, so if you've found out anything more about Jeremy's death, I'd love to—”

She cut me off. “My colleague was misinformed.”

I frowned. “Really? Because he was so”
—much more friendly and helpful than you—
“open about the investigation. I thought—”

“He's been suspended.” DC Mishra gave the cookbook I'd been hugging another look. “Do we understand one another? Back off.”

She raised her (intimidating) gaze to me. I tried not to quiver. But this was too important to back off from. For Jeremy.

I know I should have trusted the police. That's sensible and expected. But in case I haven't mentioned it before, the last two times this happened to me, the police assured everyone the deaths had been accidental. I'd disagreed. I'd been right.

You can understand why I'm doubtful these days about the official means of detecting murders and tracking down killers.

“I'll try not to get in your way,” I promised. Then curiosity got the better of me. “Why was George suspended?”

Silence. DC Mishra examined the A/V equipment remaining in the kitchen. Then she said, “We've called someone to pick up all this gear. It should be out of your way within a few days.”

She meant Hambleton & Hart. I thought it was prudent not to say so, given the circumstances. Flaunting the things I'd learned while questioning people wouldn't strengthen my case.

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that.”

She gave a curt nod, then adjusted her baton. Police officers in Great Britain don't generally carry firearms. They're issued batons and incapacitating sprays instead. But I've had run-ins with those telescopic batons before. They scare me.

Jeremy's book slipped a few inches in my sweaty grasp. I adjusted it, catching sight of his handsome, sunlit image as I did. In the back-cover photograph, he stood in a field strewn with poppies as Phoebe clung to his side, laughing and fussing with his hair while wearing one of those floaty white dresses.

“They look so happy, don't they?” I observed wistfully.

I wished we could all just rewind and go back to that field—those days, those smiles between two people who seemed to be in love, not (according to Nicola) on the verge of divorce.

Satya Mishra's stern demeanor wavered. For a nanosecond.

“I have that book,” she confided. “Jeremy's recipe for chargrilled kofta kebabs is wicked.” Her smile reached me.

For a moment, we gazed at the cookbook in unison, both of us lost in memories of Jeremy. I didn't think either of us had known him particularly well—not on a personal level—but that didn't mean we didn't feel a certain fondness for him. We'd let Jeremy into our homes. Our kitchens. Our lives. That mattered.

That meant DC Mishra was at least as motivated as I was to find Jeremy's killer. Aside from it being part of her job, I thought she wanted to track down the murderer for Jeremy's sake.

I glanced away to hide my newfound affability toward the detective constable and glimpsed Phoebe through the curtained window. She stood in her garden with her arms protectively folded around herself, watching me and Satya Mishra. Phoebe was someone else who wanted to see Jeremy's death explained.

I nodded toward her. “Did you come to see Mrs. Wright?”

Satya Mishra shook herself. “No. Just you. Stay out of my case, Ms. Mundy Moore.” Then she nodded. “I'll see myself out.”

Then she strode to the guesthouse's door and did exactly that, passing a startled-looking Liam on the stoop as she did.

How long, I wondered, had he been lingering there? Had he overheard us? I quickly followed her there, trying to find out.

DC Mishra gave him a nod, too. “Mr. Taylor. Good day.”

She knew him, then. Had she questioned him?

Liam's slightly uneasy look suggested she might have.

Tardily, he raised his arm. “Cheers, Detective Constable!”

His action drew Phoebe's gaze toward him. As it did, I saw something pass between them. Was it longing? Loathing? Simple joint remembrance of Jeremy? Guilt? Something else altogether?

From my angle, at least, it was impossible to tell. I hadn't stopped to think about Phoebe and Liam's relationship.

I couldn't do so then, either. Because after saying her own pleasant good-bye to the detective constable, Phoebe chose that moment to huff toward me with her patrician nose in the air.

She ignored Liam, her vaguely red-rimmed eyes fixed on me. Had she been crying? It seemed likely. With Jeremy's service happening tomorrow, Phoebe was under a great deal of stress.

“What did DC Mishra want?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

Aha. Her huffiness was concern, I realized. Maybe I'd made it into Phoebe's inner circle. “I'm fine. She just”
—wanted me to stay out of Jeremy's case—
“wanted to check on me. And let me know they'd be coming to clear away the A/V equipment soon.”

I don't know why I didn't tell Phoebe I was looking into her husband's murder. Maybe because I thought it would bring up painful memories for her. Maybe because I didn't want to give her false hope. Maybe because it sounded so preposterous.

Yeah, that was definitely it. Preposterous.

Who was I to think I could track down a killer, especially ahead of the police? I'm good at making a to-die-for double-chocolate strawberry milk shake or a wildly detailed to-do list—not at sneaking around, investigating murders, or theorizing.

I was doing my best, though. It was all I could do.

“You haven't seen the papers?” Phoebe's apprehensive gaze probed mine. “There are rumors of misconduct in the police department. Several officers are being examined in the case.”

As far as I was concerned, that only bolstered my position. I
had
to investigate, didn't I? Especially if the authorities couldn't be trusted to do the right thing. “Yes, I heard.”

“You can't believe those rags.” Liam interrupted us with a scowl. “Just look at this. I thought I was done with this.”

He showed me a tabloid. I squinted. “Is that
us?
”

Irritably, Liam nodded. He crumpled the newspaper, but I could still see the paparazzi image and accompanying headline.

Below the headline was a fuzzy photo of me and Liam, at the park, discussing my nascent healthy-living regimen. The unknown photographer had chosen the specific moment when I'd touched Liam's granitelike arm while commiserating over Jeremy's death. Without context, though, we sure looked cozy. Especially with Goldie panting at our feet. We looked like . . . well, a family.

No, we didn't, I told myself.
Toughen up, Hayden.
This was no time to indulge my occasional yearnings for a hearth and home, for a dog and a husband, for a bedroom that didn't come with an electronic keycard and a TV you could check out on.

“This is ridiculous,” I told Liam. “You have a right to make a living.” I transferred my gaze from the tabloid to his troubled face. “Does this kind of thing happen to you often?”

“More often than I'd like,” Liam grumbled. “I'd thought it would quit.” His gaze shifted to Phoebe. “You know, nowadays.”

I understood. He meant,
Nowadays . . . now that Jeremy is gone.

Or maybe he meant,
Nowadays . . . now that I took care of the problem.
It was still possible that Liam had bashed Jeremy in the head with that metlapil. Maybe because he'd been fed up with what amounted to being surveilled twenty-four hours a day?

It was creepy, I acknowledged, to know we'd been watched.

I understood, thanks to my faithful reading of those same tabloids, that Liam and Jeremy had been featured regularly. The media had followed Jeremy's unnecessary “battle to lose weight!” with tacky zeal. His “fitness quest” had been highlighted only slightly less frequently than sly shots of his “burgeoning bald spot!” and crudely circled close-ups of his barely noticeable smile lines (“new wrinkles!”).
Uh-oh,
those papers had cooed to their avid readership.
Is sexy Jeremy losing his cool?