The Semi-Sweet Hereafter (9 page)

Except in one particular sense, that was. Trapped in my “I want to shape up” ruse, I bought time by watching Goldie. The dog sat happily at Liam's side, tongue lolling, eyes taking in a bulldog walking near some fading daffodils. I lifted my gaze to Liam's similarly openhearted expression and big, blue eyes.

I decided I could trust him. “I want to get in the best shape of my life,” I said firmly. “Starting right now.”

Well, what did you expect? That just because I felt I could trust him, I'd spill everything? Not me. Not the new Hayden Mundy Moore. This (part-time) amateur sleuth was wising up.

I suspected Liam of maybe murdering Jeremy, after all. I didn't intend to get close to him. I was keeping my eyes open.

My goals were finding Jeremy's killer and clearing my own name—preferably while remaining unblud-geoned myself. I still wasn't comfortable staying in the Wrights' guesthouse, despite Danny having vetted it. He
had
turned up some interesting information about the place, though. It seemed that Phoebe's property was located in a pretty old part of London. It was close by the Thames, where cargo would have been moved, so—

“I can definitely help you get into top shape,” Liam interrupted before I could finish the thought. His eyes sparkled at me, practically overflowing with eagerness at the notion of making me run wind sprints, do crunches, and plank myself silly.

He outlined a program. It sounded about as much fun as endlessly baking cookies and never getting to eat any of them.

“How long before all of this starts to work?” I asked.

I was doing this to tease info from Liam, but I wouldn't mind if I got some results, too. There had to be some benefits to simultaneously consulting at Primrose, tutoring Phoebe, chasing a killer,
and
embarking on a strenuous workout regimen.

It occurred to me that I might have bitten off more than I could chew. Could I send in a body double to meet Liam? At the chocolaterie-pâtisserie, Poppy was almost a dead ringer for me.

You know, if I'd had zero chocolate knowledge and was six years younger, with an eyebrow piercing and a love of leggings.

Okay, so there was no way out of this. Whoops.

I had to make the most of my cover story. “Just kidding,” I amended with a grin and a “just joshing” poke to Liam's sturdy ribs. “I can't wait to get started, and I don't care how long it takes. Maybe I'll train for a marathon!”

Hey, in for a penny, in for a pound, right?

“In that case, you'll want to follow my clean nutrition program, too.” He looked thrilled at the prospect. “You wouldn't believe how sugar, gluten, and alcohol affect your performance.”

He meant adversely, of course, something that was anathema to me. Somewhere, Danny was laughing his head off at the predicament I'd gotten myself into. As far as I was concerned, bread (with chocolate, natch) really was the staff of life.

If you haven't had a grilled chocolate sandwich, made with some quality brioche, good dark chocolate, and a sprinkle of fleur de sel, you haven't really lived, as far as I'm concerned.

Liam was busy outlining the plan that Phoebe and Nicola had alluded to. It sounded positively Spartan. Poor Jeremy. “But surely there are exceptions, right? For birthdays? Christmas?”

“No.” Liam's expression hardened. “Either you're all in or you're all out. I know you'll have some unique challenges while you're spending time with Phoebe at the bakery, but you can do it. I don't tolerate doing things halfway. Jeremy could have told you that much.”

Yikes.
At that moment, Liam looked fully capable of whacking to death someone who didn't adhere to the “program.” I shivered, wondering exactly how well Jeremy had obeyed Liam's regimen.

Could noncompliance have cost Jeremy his life?

“A glass of wine now and then is okay, though, right?” What can I say? I'm a born rebel. “My favorite restaurant in town serves a very nice Montepulciano D'Abruzzo. It's so good.”

I named the specific vintner and vintage—one served only at Jeremy's restaurants. Liam tightened his mouth. And his fist.

Uh-oh. At his side, Goldie whimpered. I had a bad feeling.

Towering above me, Liam narrowed his eyes. He appeared to be considering walloping the memory of Abruzzo's tasty central Italian red wine right out of me. I might have overplayed my hand, I realized, by bringing up Jeremy one too many times.

But then Liam suddenly grinned. “That's
my
favorite restaurant, too! Jeremy's place at Covent Garden, right?”

His expression glowed at our newfound similarities. He was happy we liked the same place. I practically passed out with pent-up anxiety. Or maybe with the exertion of our speedy walk.

It was hard to tell. I'm relatively new at being sneaky myself. I found it stressful. Also, I could have sworn I glimpsed Danny moving closer to me. We should have devised an “all clear” signal. Given Liam's size, strength, and agitated demeanor—and my own tense posture—my security expert probably thought I was in imminent danger. He might rush in to save the day at any moment. I had to let Danny know I was all right.

“I know it's not everyone's idea of fancy,” Liam was saying in a remarkably easygoing tone, “but it's a special occasion place for me. I grew up on a council estate in East London, see. Same as Jeremy. Things were rough. I'm successful now, but—”

“But a part of you will always remember that. I get it.”

Behind my back, I tried surreptitiously shooing Danny away.

“Yeah.” Liam's face eased even further. I began to wonder if I'd imagined his menacing demeanor earlier. “I'm pretty lucky. Mostly thanks to Jeremy. After he got out, he took me with him. But you probably don't even know what a council estate is, do you?” His quizzical look probed me. “Since you're not—”

English,
I figured he was about to say. But I was already ahead of him. An idea had occurred to me. I was running with it.

“I do, but only because Jeremy invited me to invest in his charity,” I fibbed. I figured he would have done so, if he'd lived long enough. “Are you familiar with its work?”

I wanted to keep Liam talking about Jeremy in particular, not British public housing in general. I needed to keep control of the conversation, but I wasn't sure how to do that without seeming as though I was interrogating him. That would surely spook him. I'd never find out what information Liam could share.

This all would have been much easier if I were DC Mishra. She had the authority to grill people, no questions asked.

But Liam didn't seem to suspect a thing. “Sure, you could say I'm familiar with it—since I'm on the board of directors.”

“Really? Then you're probably not an impartial source.”

I was joking, but Liam creased his brow. “I don't have to be uninvolved to see the good work they're doing at Jeremy's Jump Start Foundation.” He crossed his arms, the self-appointed defender of Jeremy's charity. “Are you planning to invest? Now that Jeremy's gone, we'll need more support than ever.”

“I haven't decided yet.” I'm stubborn that way. You don't want to back me into a corner. “I need to find out more first.”

That was the first excuse that came to mind. Not that I don't like to support good causes. I absolutely do. All the time. But I didn't like feeling strong-armed into doing things.

Besides, I had an undercover agenda here. Liam bit on it.

“Why don't I take you for a visit?” he offered. “I'm going out there soon anyway. The kids need an explanation for Jeremy's death. They need to hear from someone besides the media.”

His dislike of the press seemed to mirror mine. I wondered why. Had the paparazzi followed Jeremy on his workouts, too?

“I'd love to go with you.” Doing so would give me an inside glimpse into another part of Jeremy's life—and any people within it who might have wanted him dead. My suspects were piling up quickly. “Just tell me how and when, and we'll go together.”

Skeptically, Liam angled his head. “You're not afraid?”

“Of a bad neighborhood?” I shook my head. Even if I'd been terrified, I knew I'd have Danny nearby for protection. “I know how to handle myself. Besides, who'll bother us with you there?”

At my overt flattery, Liam grinned. “I'm a pussycat.”

“I'll bet those kids love you. Sometimes when people make it out of the neighborhood, they don't want to ever go back.”

“Not me. Or Jeremy. He wasn't like that.”

“I wonder how Phoebe felt about that. Did she visit, too?”

Liam chortled. “Phoebe? At the council estate? No way. She thought she'd get stabbed if she stepped east of Knightsbridge.”

“She didn't support Jeremy's foundation?”

“Sure, she did. By getting her fancy friends to donate.” Liam paused. “Speaking of which, how involved are you at Primrose?”

How involved? That was a tricky question. I didn't want to give away the real troubleshooting work I was doing on Phoebe's behalf. As far as her staff knew, I was nothing more than a knowledgeable new hire, brought in to help Primrose benefit from my experience.
Why
I'm at a particular business is always undisclosed; the
fact
that I'm there can't be. I have to be on site to do a consultation.

I wished more of my consultees would be open about needing my help. It would make things much easier for me. I'm skilled at evaluating ganache and gianduia, not at hiding my raison d'être.

“Pretty involved.” I crouched to pet Goldie, hoping to hide my impending smokescreen. “I'm aces at chocolate.” All good cover-ups contain some truth. That's what Danny had told me. “I spend a lot of time at Primrose. But taste-testing three-layer German chocolate cakes isn't exactly a cardiovascular workout, is it?” Trying to hone my poker face, I rose. “Why do you ask?”

“Because if you're one of Phoebe's rich friends, I have to be extra nice to you.” Liam smiled. “To convince you to donate.”

His motivation was so obvious, I almost laughed. “I don't think you're supposed to tell me that's what you're doing.”

He gave an offhand shrug. “I guess I'm bad at being devious.”

I hoped so. “I won't tell anyone if you won't.”

A broader smile. “It's a deal.”

Playfully, we shook on it. Newfound solidarity rose between us. I really wanted Liam to be innocent—and not just because he had dog-rescue skills and the physique of a Greek god, either.

I liked him. I know, you're thinking I'm being gullible. So would Danny. Maybe Travis, too. But I can't help being me.

I don't want to believe the worst of everyone I meet.

As though validating my optimistic impulses, Liam made plans for us to visit Jeremy's Jump Start Foundation together in a few days. He'd been planning to go anyway, he confided.

A guy who'd just bludgeoned his friend to death wouldn't spend a day working with disadvantaged youth in a bad neighborhood, would he?

“So.” With that accomplished, I looked around, ready to get on with my day. “Now I've got my program.” Liam had given me his personal-trainer marching orders—regular cardio, “conditioning” sessions with him a few times a week, and the aforementioned anti-carb, anti-sugar, anti-booze, anti-fun regimen. That was the real sticking point for me. I didn't really have to stick with the program, since I was only there to get information. In fact, I couldn't “eat clean” and do my chocolate-whispering job.

But when I was with Liam, I'd have to pretend to have done exactly that. And hope he never, ever found out. “What happens if I blow it?”

“You won't blow it,” Liam assured me. His face took on a scary seriousness. “None of my clients ever let me down.”

At his dire tone, I gulped. “Come on. A few must. Right?”

“Nope.” Liam shook his head. “All I have is my reputation. That depends on compliance. So I make well sure I get it.”

Ooookay.
Maybe he
wasn't
a pussycat, after all. “I'm on it, then! Thanks for your time. See you later.” Then I skedaddled.

You know . . . before Liam could make an example of me, the way he might have done with Jeremy on the night he'd died.

Seven

“He was playing you.”

Danny made that announcement in his usual cocksure tone, settling back against the banquette at Jeremy's Covent Garden restaurant as though he owned the place. He eyed me silently.

I knew he was waiting for my inevitable defense. I don't like being wrong. Who does? But I paid Danny for a reason. I respected his expertise far beyond that paycheck, too. So I had to put aside any knee-jerk rationalizations and be smart.

“What makes you think that?” I asked. It was hard to ponder deception (much less murder) after having just enjoyed the most mouthwatering truffled mushroom risotto ever, but I tried.

Mostly for the sake of keeping Danny at the restaurant until our pudding arrived (to those of you who are stateside, that's “dessert”
—any
kind, not just pudding). Flourless chocolate cake for me, and a deep-fried, batter-dipped Mars bar for Danny. He was trying to eat chocolate, which I found heartening, but I was skeptical about its probable tastiness. I'm all for a retro dessert now and then, but fried sugar? No. None for me, thanks.

And yes, I know that donuts are fried. But here's the thing—I don't like them, either. If anyone ever claims I've consulted for your favorite donut shop, they're pulling your leg. Because I just don't have the stomach for a job like that.

“Liam Taylor is hiding something,” Danny insisted. “Halfway through your conversation with him, his whole demeanor changed.”

“He's upset about Jeremy's death. They've known each other for years. People behave erratically when they're grieving.”

“They're predictable as hell when they're
not
grieving. What makes you think Hulk Jr. is really sorry about Jeremy?”

I quirked my lips at his nickname for Liam. “He's sorry.”

“Unless he's the one who crushed Jeremy's skull.”

“I still think Hugh might have done it,” I maintained, not wanting to revisit my mental picture of that night. I hated to say so, but... “Hugh has the size, the impulsivity, and the bad attitude to attack Jeremy. Maybe it was an accident,” I mused, toying with my wineglass. “Maybe he didn't mean to do it.”

“Right.” Danny compressed his mouth. “Pick on the kid from the wrong side of the tracks. Nice going, Hayden. I'm sure Harvard will agree with you. You'll wrap this up by teatime.”

“Come on. You know I'm not biased that way.”

My friendship with Danny—and my understanding of his sketchy background—was proof of it. Reluctantly, he nodded.

Smartly, he didn't bring up any of his friends from his old 'hood—buddies who could always count on Danny for a helping hand, a sofa to crash on, a hot meal, or a ride someplace.

Above all, Danny was loyal. But his ongoing relationships with people I thought were bad influences on him was a touchy subject between us. I admired his dependability. I also feared his “buddies” and the slip-slide into trouble they embodied.

“Either way, I don't feel any closer to identifying who might have killed Jeremy than I did yesterday.” I sighed, then perked up as I noticed the server approaching with our desserts.

For the next few minutes, we were absorbed with pudding. I considered it my professional obligation to focus completely on the soft, dark, über-chocolaty slice of cake in front of me. My motto is, if it doesn't deserve my complete attention, it's probably not worth eating at all. So I savor every mouthful.

“Hey, what was with you waving me off when you were with Liam this morning?” Danny put down his fork and gave me a quizzical look. This question must have slipped his mind while we'd canvassed K&C (the Kensington and Chelsea neighborhoods) earlier, picking up the requisite free tabloid papers after my meeting with Liam. “I can't protect you if you won't let me.”

Before I could answer, my phone buzzed. Ordinarily, I wouldn't interrupt an in-person conversation for a phone call, but this was different. “It's Travis. I've got to pick up.”

“Of course you do. Can't keep Captain Calculator waiting.”

I couldn't tell if Danny was being sarcastic or not. With him, cynicism is like breathing. That's one reason he's a good security expert. He's as ready to suspect the worst of people as I am to think the best. He's really persistent. Tough, too.

But I was already being transported across the Atlantic, a few thousand miles and several hours into Travis's downtown Seattle office. I hustled toward the restaurant's exit, leaving Danny to hold down our table until I returned. All around me, Jeremy's loyal customers and fans kept up a steady background hum, competing for attention with the place's lively music.

Danny and I had waited almost an hour for a table—at lunch, no less. It seemed that Jeremy's untimely death had only made his already thriving dynasty of restaurants even more popular. The servers were hopping. Unless the back-of-house staff were unusually skilled, they were probably deep in the weeds by now.

But back to Travis. Putting my restaurant persona on hold, I stepped out into Covent Garden's neoclassical market hall. Its immense green-painted steel beams arched gracefully above me to support the former fruit-and-vegetable market's glasswork ceiling. Below me was another level of the Italianate arcade. It dominated the piazza, each level and passageway featuring charming brickwork along with shops where the former sellers' stalls had been. It was bustling, but understandably so. Covent Garden packed a variety of retail and dining outlets into its spacious, open-air complex. Its visitors were entertained by street performers and lured by all kinds of food and flowers.

I
was lured by the promise of another chat with Travis. I wished it didn't have to happen amid such distracting hubbub.

“Travis! This is a surprise.” Cheekily, I lowered my voice. “You're calling to tell me what you're wearing, aren't you?”

“Only if an expression of indignation counts.”

His usually deep-timbred voice had dropped even further. I'll admit, that sound gave me chills. The good kind, of course.

“Don't be that way. You know you love talking to me.” I broke off to consult my phone's clock. Uh-oh. The time zone shift was brutal. “Even if it is before dawn there. Sorry.”

Travis, being Travis, didn't quibble about unalterable factors like time zones. He accepted what couldn't be changed and worked diligently (and intelligently) on what could.

“Why didn't you tell me you were a murder suspect?”

I froze. Foreboding washed over me. “DC Mishra?”

“Called me with a few ‘off the record' questions just now.”

I tried to laugh. “At least
I
apologized for the time change. Detective Constable Mishra and the London Metropolitan Police Service aren't quite as thoughtful as I am, I guess.”

My attempt at misdirection failed. “What's going on, Hayden?”

Travis sounded beleaguered. But sexy. He just couldn't help it. He's so
. . . capable.
Of all kinds of things, I imagined.

“I should have known something was up when Danny flew over there to join you,” Travis groused, interrupting my reverie. “I thought you were bored with your consultation at Primrose.”

“Bored? With
you
to talk to? Never. You know that.”

“I made it as safe as possible. The location, the job at Primrose, the people involved . . . they were all factors pointing to an assignment that would not put you in danger again, damn it.”

“Danger of incarceration isn't danger per se,” I reasoned. I'd never heard Travis swear before. I was freaked out. “There's no need for you to blame yourself. You
tried
to bore me. Okay?”

As reassurances went, it was admittedly lame. But maybe steady-to-a-fault Travis would
like
being aces at boredom?

“I mean it.” His newly flinty tone stopped me cold. “Jeremy Wright. What happened? I want to know every detail, right now.”

“Right now?” Still trying to laugh off his concern, I mimed looking at my (nonexistent) watch. “I'm pretty busy right now.”

“Tell. Me. Everything.”

Whoa. When he talked that way, I was afraid not to. Sparing only the grisliest bits, I brought Travis up to speed with everything that had been going on since I'd found Jeremy Wright dead on my guesthouse floor. “. . . which explains all I know so far.”

Silence took up all the space on the line. I gripped my phone and paced among the Covent Garden visitors, glancing back at Jeremy's restaurant now and then to make sure Danny hadn't sneaked away from “pudding” to grab a quick junk-food sausage roll, Cornish pasty, or Turkey Twizzler when I wasn't looking.

Hey . . . was that Nicola Mitchell ducking out of a jewelry store? She vanished into the crowd before I could be certain.

“And it never occurred to you that
I
could help you?”

A hard edge had slipped into Travis's seductive, sonorous tones. Too late, I realized that he wasn't just worried about me. I've experienced that before. This time, Travis was hurt.

And he was mad. Mad that I hadn't turned to him sooner.

Maybe even mad that I'd called on Danny, but not him.

“Well . . .” I groped for an explanation, feeling awful to have upset him. I churned my arm, still seeking. “It's not as though I needed to have my taxes done ten months early, Travis.”

I waited for his usual chuckle—the one that would let me off the hook. But my financial planner wasn't humoring me.

“Or are we on a quarterly plan now?” I quipped, getting desperate. I no longer cared about my abandoned chocolate cake or Danny's junk-food jones. “Help me out, here. You know I'm—”

I suddenly became aware of dead air on the line. Had Travis actually hung up on me? I pulled my cell phone away from my ear and goggled at it. Yep. Naturally, I dialed straight back.

My call connected. My heart pounded an extra beat. I could fix this. “If I wind up needing bail, you're first on my list.”

Click.
Oh no.

I dialed again. Connection. “I'm sorry. I'm
really—
”

Click.
What the heck? I
had
to make this right.

Another call. Another eternal, expectant pause. I hauled in a deep breath. “If Jeremy had needed fiscal advice, I would—”

Click.
I was starting to get frustrated. I thought Travis and Danny both understood their roles. Most of the time, Travis was the brains—and the brakes, when necessary. Danny was the brawn—and the backup, when called upon. Wasn't that good enough?

I dialed. Travis picked up. He didn't speak. That was just spiteful of him. He knew how much I looked forward to hearing his voice. “It's not as though you would have hopped a plane.”

There was a long, almost interminable pause. Have I mentioned that I sometimes put my foot in my mouth?

Then Travis spoke. I've never felt more grateful for an audible intake of breath followed by eight raspy words in my whole life as I was in the next few seconds. I waited.

“You didn't give me a chance, did you?” he said.

Galvanized and repentant, I gripped my phone. I didn't dare speak. I didn't want to interrupt Travis if he wanted to talk.

Besides, I'd already said a few things I regretted. It was better to quit while I was ahead. Plus, I needed time to think.

Had Travis really just suggested he might have battled his chronic air-travel phobia . . . for me? To help
me
?

While I grappled with that possibility, my trusty financial adviser reverted to his usual detail-oriented form. “Jeremy Wright's financials come up clean. As far as I can tell, he was thriving. He'd just signed a lucrative contract with a company called Hambleton & Hart. They make cakes, cookies, dessert toppings . . . the kinds of things you'd find in a convenience store.”

Aha. Interesting. Travis had obviously been busy since his call from Satya Mishra. “Can you get me a meeting with them?”

He remained silent. Whoops. I'd really upset him.

“I mean,” I amended, “will you
please
get me a meeting?”

I heard him typing. “I'm on it.”

Wearily, Travis exhaled. I imagined him squinting at his computer screen, dressed in a suit and tie even in the murky predawn hours, and felt repentant for the trouble I'd put him to. I wasn't the one who'd made DC Mishra call. But I should have been more up front with Travis. I truly valued him.

He must have hated being caught without all the facts.

“Other than that, Jeremy's financial and legal activities look legit,” Travis told me. “He was working on a new cooking show and an accompanying cookbook. His charity was thriving. His biggest expenses were a new house in Kent for his retired parents and an underground addition to his own town house in Chelsea. Both appear to have been completely routine.”

I paused, confused. While it was nice that Jeremy had generously bought his parents a house, these weren't the kinds of details Travis and I typically covered during our usual pre-consultation phone briefing. “Underground? What do you mean?”

“Technically, it's what's known as a basement extension. Those historic town houses are protected. They can't be knocked down, expanded upward, or outward. There's only one way to go.”

Down.
That made sense. But I'd seen no signs of construction. I guessed it would never happen now. I steered us away from real estate and renovations toward Jeremy's Jump Start Foundation and my scheduled visit there with Liam Taylor.