The Semi-Sweet Hereafter (5 page)

“Those aren't exactly simple dishes to do well,” I pointed out, grabbing a nearby tea towel. I crouched to deal with the spill on the floor while Phoebe helpfully moved out of the way. I couldn't expect her to do it. She employed a cleaning service to come in twice a week. She'd probably not even recognize a mop.
There. All done.
“Why don't I help you? I can teach you. Then, when the time comes, you can do the demo on TV.”

“Would you?” Phoebe gazed at me as if she were mentally outfitting me with a marble pedestal in Trafalgar Square. I was her hero. “That would be brilliant, Hayden! It really would.”

“I'm happy to do it,” I told her truthfully. Teaching people about chocolate and baking comes naturally to me. Plus, I like a challenge. I gestured at the mess. “If there's anything else I could do, I'd be happy to do that, too, Phoebe. It looks as though you're getting things sorted around here.”

Discreetly, I nodded toward the breakfast nook table full of items. If she were cleaning out Jeremy's things already, that would be surprising but not completely unexpected. Everyone dealt with grief in different ways. I'd noticed earlier that Phoebe hadn't been wearing a wedding band among her sparkling jewelry. Maybe she was planning to bury it with her husband?

“Oh, those are Nicola's things. Nicola Mitchell, Jeremy's personal assistant. I can't imagine why they're still here, can you? No one goes anyplace without their phone these days.”

Nicola . . . the “girl” who'd left here crying?

“I'll handle returning them.” It would give me a chance to ask Jeremy's assistant a few things. “Anything else? Maybe some breakfast that doesn't include three pounds of butter?”

Phoebe actually smiled. Faintly. But still. I felt glad.

“I couldn't eat anything now, could I?” she demurred. “Those vultures outside might catch a glimpse. They've got telephoto lenses, don't they? I'd find myself in the tabloids in an instant, caught in one of those dreadful ‘who's gained three stone' articles.” She gave an aristocratic shudder of distaste.

Her mention of camera lenses reminded me of the equipment in the guesthouse. I didn't want to be indelicate by discussing mundane details, but I wanted that stuff moved out of there. The more I could do to return the place to normal—with the approval of the police, of course—the better. Policeman George had already cleared my return to the guesthouse. Danny was meeting me there later.

“I'll make sure all the curtains are closed first, then I'll whip up some breakfast and call the cleaner to take care of this mess. Whenever you're ready, we'll start our lessons, too.”

Phoebe brightened. “You're a wonder, aren't you, Hayden? You really know how to take charge. I'm so glad I hired you.”

“I'm glad, too.” For the first time, I thought maybe we could become friends. Speaking of which . . . “Is there anyone else I could call to come stay with you? Your family? Your friends?”

She shook her head, her expression distraught. “No. I don't want them worrying about me, do I? If they see me this way, they'll think the worst. For now, let's just muddle through.”

I nodded. They call it a stiff upper lip for a reason, right? I figured British people were made of pretty stern stuff.

“If that's what you want,” I agreed. “But if you change your mind, please let me know. I really do want to help.”

Conspicuously, Phoebe perked up. I wanted to think it was because I'd arrived to keep her company. But it was something else entirely. Phoebe had an idea, I learned an instant later.

“Could you make me a proper full English breakfast?” she asked with her eyes alight. “Fried bread, brown sauce, bangers, and all? I might even have some black pudding and mushrooms around here. I really fancy a fry-up. I haven't eaten since—”

She broke off.
Since Jeremy died,
was obviously what she'd been about to say. Tactfully, I nodded. I patted her arm.

“Anyway.” Phoebe tossed her head imperiously. I could easily imagine her at boarding school somewhere, taking riding lessons and learning how to curtsy. “Jeremy quit making them for me after he started training and eating ‘clean.' He wouldn't so much as touch a fried potato or Primrose's pastries.” She gave a moue of distress. “Once you're past thirty, it's all downhill, isn't it? The pounds simply want to pile on, don't they?”

I was already rummaging in the enormous side-by-side refrigerator by then, looking for all the necessary supplies. Eggs, of course. A couple of rashers of back bacon. Sausage. One sad tomato—but that wouldn't matter, since it would be broiled.

Phoebe watched as I worked. She seemed pretty comfortable with her role as spectator. I experienced a flicker of concern about that, now that I'd taken on the role of her baking tutor.

“Do you have any tinned beans?” I asked, searching.

“Of course. Don't we? Somewhere.” She gave an airy wave. “Amelja puts away all the groceries. Just don't tell Liam.”

Her giggle gave me pause. I wheeled around. “Liam?”

“Liam Taylor. Jeremy's personal trainer.” Phoebe gave an eager look at the tinned beans I'd found. A fry-up isn't my cup of tea—I like the Euro approach to breakfast, with coffee and a slice of baguette or pastry—but Phoebe seemed over the moon at the prospect. “He explicitly forbade all processed foods for Jeremy. No tinned beans. I wonder how he's dealing with—”

She broke off on a sob, her eyes filling with tears.

That was grief for you. Here one minute, gone the next. It was surreal to be discussing routine details when something so monumental as losing a husband had happened. But there we were.

“I'll check on Liam,” I volunteered. “Don't you worry.”

For a moment, Phoebe sharpened. “I'm not paying you extra. Just your agreed-upon consultation fee. For Primrose, not me. You know that, don't you? If you think this is some sort of—”

“Of course not.” I smiled at her. “I only want to help.”

A moment passed. Very faintly, I heard the members of the media outside, shouting to the fans who'd gathered. I wondered what Phoebe thought of the world's adoration of Jeremy. Did it comfort her? Did she resent sharing his memory? Or did she have a reaction I couldn't even guess at? After all, I've never been married. I've had three ex-fiancés, but that's it for me.

“In that case, I'll lend you Jeremy's cell phone.” Phoebe settled in at the peninsula, arranging her lithe frame onto one of the expensive-looking stools. “You can find whatever you need on that thing. DC Mishra gave it to me, not long after they—”

Processed his body.
That's how the detective constable had described the scenario to me. It all sounded so cold-blooded.

Necessary, of course, in light of the circumstances. But I still wished everyone could have been spared the investigation.

“She's very impressive, isn't she?” I interrupted, lapsing into Phoebespeak before I could stop myself. “I don't know where some people get such a sense of authority and command.”

“It's called breeding,” Phoebe sniffed. “And education.”

Her haughty tone stopped us both cold. Evidently realizing (too late) that she wasn't conversing with one of her snobby friends—who would understand “breeding,” of course—Phoebe blinked at me. I guessed maybe we weren't destined to be pals, after all. She seemed to view me as the hired help. That's it.

“I'll have a friend staying with me in the guesthouse for a few days.” I decided to take advantage of the situation. Even if it didn't show, Phoebe must have felt a modicum of embarrassment to have spoken to me that way. “You don't mind, do you?”

Just as I'd anticipated. A headshake. “Of course not.”

And that's how I secured lodgings for myself and for Danny, during Wimbledon, in one of the busiest cities in the world. I'd wondered if Phoebe might object to my having a guest, but now I'd handily leveraged my way out of that delicate situation.

Yay, me. Now all I had to do was catch a killer.

* * *

Later that day, with Phoebe's craving for a greasy fry-up temporarily (and deliciously) assuaged, I slipped out to a nearby Italian-style café to meet with Jeremy's assistant. I wanted to return her things, of course—the box of knickknacks, the London Eye mug, the laptop computer, and the cell phone, which I'd used to ask one of Nicola's friends to have her contact me to make meeting arrangements—but more than that, I wanted to speak with her. I hoped Nicola Mitchell could shed some light on Jeremy. The man. The myth.

“The arsehole!” Nicola blurted, having navigated down the narrow stairs to the café's lower level, where I'd waited with the box and everything else. I'd admired her ability to do so while carrying a tray full of mocha frappé latte, a slice of Limoncello mascarpone cake, a cookie, a cello pack of almond biscotti, and a diminutive shortbread fruit tart. All just for her. “I'm sorry, but he really was insufferable to work for.”

She shook her head and forked up an angry mouthful of cake. Tall, angular, and possessed of a headful of curly auburn hair, Nicola was twenty-five at most and not at all mousy. Not now.

“Jeremy Wright was a bully, plain and simple.” She glanced at the cafégoers enjoying Milanese hot chocolate and Loacker wafers nearby, then lowered her voice. Her gaze met mine, full of unequivocal certainty. “If Jeremy got his way, he was fine. If he didn't, you'd better run and hide. He was a complete egomaniac!” She rolled her eyes. “Don't even get me started.”

“All I said was, ‘have you worked for Jeremy long?' ”

“I know. I'm sorry. But grrrr!” Nicola stabbed up more cake. I felt sorry for that beleaguered slice. “When he picked me to work for him—just for
him,
I mean, not at the restaurant—”

Aha. She must be a former server. That's how she'd managed to carry that loaded tray with such agility. Most people couldn't do the same. Which didn't explain why nearly everything in a quick-service environment in the U.K. was presented that way. Tea, coffee, cake slices, scones—they all came served on a tray.

It was a uniquely English thing. Just like queuing, a lack of eye contact on the Tube, and enthusiasm for old-world outdoor Christmas markets stocked for the holidays with carnival rides, mulled wine, and music. I'd experienced the latter last year.

“I thought I'd made it. I truly did,” Nicola confided. “I was underemployed as it was, with my degree. I didn't want to deal with hungry, demanding customers for years to come.”

I nodded, understanding. I've held my share of ordinary jobs all over the world. Before embarking on chocolate whispering, for instance, I'd worked for a while at a café near the Leidseplein in Amsterdam. I understood Nicola's position.

Just as in America, the youth of Europe tend to be underemployed or even unemployed. Economies are tough all over.

“But the joke was on me.” Nicola slurped her frappé. “I wound up dealing with hungry, demanding Jeremy instead.”

I winced at the force of her irritation. First cranky Mr. Barclay, now irate Nicola Mitchell. Jeremy Wright had definitely rubbed a few people the wrong way. Not everyone would be lining up outside one of Jeremy's restaurants with tears and a candle.

“Well, all successful people tend to be demanding,” I said.

“Not like Jeremy.” Nicola scowled at her plated cookie, then bit into it. She chewed with relish. “Sure, he
seemed
nice. He played that ‘Essex boy makes good' business for all it was worth, too, believe me. He
loved
being England's ‘sexy chef.' He loved being asked for autographs whenever he stepped outside.”

I thought of the tabloid press assembled outside the Wrights' town house. Jeremy might have loved all the attention.

“What he didn't love was being contradicted. Or being reminded he'd forgotten something. Or being corrected.” Nicola shook her head. “That's what ultimately got me sacked. Can you believe it? I had the temerity to point out that Jeremy had made a mistake on the inscription he'd written for a donation to his charity. He completely flew into a rage. I thought he was going to smack me! He was screaming. Red-faced. I ran for my life! That's why I didn't have my phone with me. Or anything else.”

Her tone was dramatic. But maybe it was called for.

Nobody liked being fired (“sacked,” in U.K. vernacular), especially in such a dramatic way. Apparently, Jeremy had calmed down afterward—at least enough to collect all Nicola's things for her—but they'd obviously never had a chance to reconcile.

“Sounds scary,” I said. “Jeremy had a temper, then?”

“It was terrifying! And yes, he did,” Nicola divulged, clenching her fork. If Jeremy had suffered multiple tiny stab wounds, I would have thought Nicola could have been the killer. She was definitely carrying a grudge. “Jeremy wasn't as posh as he wanted to seem, despite being married to Phoebe and all. Underneath his swanky clothes and nice hair, he was a brute. You know he grew up on a council estate in East London, right?”

I did. I nodded. If you're not familiar, a “council estate” is what public housing is called in the U.K. It sounds much fancier than it typically is. The upshot was, Jeremy came from a wrong-side-of-the-tracks background . . . and maybe hadn't left all of his more combative instincts behind him. That didn't bother me as much as it might have, though. Danny was very similar.

“That's where Jeremy's charity is based,” Nicola informed me as she put down her stabbing fork and unwrapped her biscotti instead. She seemed resentful. Also, in need of a commiserating ear. Fortunately, I have a knack for listening. People tend to open up to me. “It's supposed to help show less fortunate kids that they can make it out of the old neighborhood, too, just the way Jeremy did.” She rolled her eyes. “Those dumb kids idolized him. Or maybe they just wanted a shot at one of his restaurant apprenticeships. Those were pretty lucrative.”