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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Chocolate Covered Murder
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Zoe, an eighth grader, nodded soberly. “We know about the recession, you know.”
“Let's not kid ourselves, Lucy,” said Bill. “They've got a point. A little extra money wouldn't hurt.”
“They're going to New York and I really want to go,” said Sara, carrying the plates into the kitchen. She returned with steaming cups of hot coffee for her parents.
“The whole class is going,” said Zoe, rising to help her sister finish clearing the table.
“I guess a job is okay, as long as your grades don't suffer,” said Lucy.
“Thanks, Mom. You won't be sorry. I promise I'll study extra hard.”
“I wish I could get a job, too,” said Zoe. “I'm fourteen now. I'm old enough.”
“A job's a big responsibility,” said Bill. “And Dora might be a tough boss.”
“It's going to be hard for her, losing Max,” said Lucy. “I know they're divorced, but they loved each other once.”
“She seemed real nice at the interview,” said Sara.
“She can be sarcastic, she makes everything into a joke. She was behind that float last summer, the one with the diapers and toilet paper strewn on the beach,” said Bill. “You might have to develop a thick skin if you're going to work for her.”
For a second, Lucy thought of Max and the silver lure hooked through his lip.
“We could have Mexican sundaes for dessert,” said Sara. “Dora gave me a jar of fudge sauce and we've got ice cream and peanuts.”
“I guess Dora's not so bad after all,” said Bill, grinning. “Do you want me to scoop?”
“It sounds like this job may be dangerous,” said Lucy, sipping her coffee. “Dangerously fattening.”
Chapter Three
N
ext morning, Lucy woke up knowing she was facing a busy morning. Deadline was at noon on Wednesday, and Ted's favorite maxim was, “It's a deadline, not a guideline.” Much of the paper's content had already been written and edited and was ready to be sent electronically to the printer, but this week there were some last-minute news stories. Max Fraser's death was one; there were sure to be some late-breaking developments related to the drowning. And Lucy had an appointment with Trey Meacham at nine-thirty—it was the only time the chocolatier was free—which meant she had to write the story under pressure while the big old clock on the wall above Ted's roll-top desk ticked away the minutes to noon.
She had to get a move on, she decided, indulging in one final glorious stretch before getting out of bed. Bill's side of the bed was empty; he was already up. Lucy headed for the bathroom, passing through the upstairs hall. She could hear the girls' voices rising up the back stairs from the kitchen, telling each other to hurry, and then the slam of the door as they dashed for the school bus.
It was already past seven according to the watch she'd left on the bathroom vanity, so Lucy popped her vitamin, splashed some water on her face, smoothed on a dab of moisturizer, and ran a comb through her hair. Mindful of the interview, she took a few minutes to add a quick dab of mascara and a smear of lipstick.
Back in the bedroom, she pulled her favorite pair of jeans out of the closet. They were freshly washed, which was fortunate because she liked to look nice when she went out on interviews. And from what Corney said, it was worth looking nice for Trey Meacham—not that she wasn't happily married. She was. But there was something about meeting a reportedly good-looking man that seemed to require a bit of effort, an attempt to at least try to look good. As good as she could, considering she was in a hurry. So it was a very good thing that her favorite and best Calvins were clean.
Still in her nightgown, Lucy pulled on a pair of briefs and then stuck one foot into her jeans. She hopped a bit on that foot, sticking her other foot in the empty leg, and pulled them up over her bottom. Drawing the two sides together to fasten the waistband, she encountered a problem. What was the matter? She yanked her nightgown over her head and stood in front of the full-length mirror.
Goodness, when had that happened? She stood in shock, surveying the damage. A bulge of flesh, a roll, a muffin top, was spilling over the blue denim waistband, which was prevented from closing by a bulging, cotton-covered triangle of tummy. Guiltily, she remembered the seconds on chili, the three glasses of wine, the two pieces of buttery corn bread and, worst of all, the Mexican sundae.
It was clear she could not continue to eat like that, not if she ever wanted to wear these jeans again. It was time for action, so she threw herself flat on the bed and through sheer determination managed to button the jeans and zip them up. They'd stretch, she knew they would. If only she could get back up, onto her feet, despite her constricted middle.
Rolling onto her stomach, she used her arms to push herself off the bed, then marched stiffly over to her dresser, where she found a bra and a long, tummy-concealing sweater. The next challenge, she realized, was getting down the stairs.
“Are you all right?” asked Bill, as she shuffled into the kitchen.
“My jeans shrank in the wash,” said Lucy, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
“Yeah, right,” he said, laughing. “That's a good one.”
“Are you saying I'm fat?” asked Lucy, turning to face him.
“No, no,” said Bill, quickly backtracking. “You look great.”
“I'm going on a diet,” said Lucy glumly, seating herself with difficulty opposite him at the round golden oak kitchen table.
“I think we've all gained weight this winter,” said Bill.
“You
do
think I'm fat!” exclaimed Lucy.
“Uh, is that the time?” Bill was on his feet, draining his coffee cup. “I've got to, uh, see somebody.” He bent and kissed her on the top of her head. “Have a good day.”
“I'm not counting on it,” she said, sipping her coffee and watching him put on his outdoor clothes. Then he was gone, and she reluctantly went back upstairs to change into yesterday's comfortable, already stretched jeans.
 
Chanticleer Chocolate was just too cute, thought Lucy, steeling herself against temptation. The shop had a scalloped yellow awning and a handsome blue-and-yellow rooster on the sign that swung from a bracket over the door, and the mullioned windows were curtained with lace. Business must be good, thought Lucy, noticing a discreet
HELP WANTED
sign taped to the door.
Inside, a scattering of bistro tables were stacked with blue-and-yellow boxes containing three, six, nine, and twelve pieces of chocolate. An old-fashioned glass case containing trays of candies stood in front of the rear wall, beneath a large painting of the same rooster that was on the sign outside. Through a doorway behind the antique bronze cash register, Lucy caught a glimpse of a work area with a long, marble counter where, she assumed, the chocolates were made. The aroma of chocolate filled the air in the shop and Lucy reminded herself that smelling involved no calories and was almost as good as tasting, which did.
“Can I help you?” The speaker was a tall, slender woman with a remarkably large bust. Lucy didn't usually notice that particular feature, but there was really no avoiding it considering the woman's very low-cut black sweater dress. It was short and clingy, stopping some inches above the over-the-knee black stiletto boots that she was wearing.
“I'm Lucy Stone. I'm here to interview Trey Meacham.”
“Right. I'm Tamzin Graves. I manage the shop,” she said, with a toss of her long, wavy, bleached-blond hair. “Trey called, he's running a bit late, so maybe I can help you out and answer some questions.”
She grinned apologetically and Lucy noticed some telltale crinkles on either side of her fire-engine-red lips, as well as a certain thinning of the skin beneath her heavily made-up eyes. Tamzin, she guessed, was well into her forties. Although, from a distance, you'd never know it.
“That would be great; I'm working on deadline,” said Lucy, pulling her notebook out of her oversize handbag. “So I guess this is quite an honor, winning Best Candy on the Coast in the readers' poll.”
Tamzin's bosom heaved with emotion and her hands fluttered, displaying impossibly long, painted nails. “It's fabulous! We had no idea! I mean, we consider these chocolates extraordinary, made with all natural ingredients and everything absolutely the finest, but still, you don't expect an honor like this, not in the first year, anyway.”
“Right.” Lucy was getting it all down. “And the chocolates are made right here, in the shop?”
“Oh, no. It's a quality control issue. Trey is a fanatic about quality. No, all the chocolates are made in an old sardine factory in Rockland. It's all been cleaned, with steam and everything, there's no trace of the sardines anymore.” Tamzin giggled. “In fact, Trey got an award for creative repurposing of an existing industrial space—I think that's right—from Keep Maine Green.”
“But it smells so chocolatey in here,” said Lucy.
Tamzin's shoulders popped up. “It's phoney. Well, I mean, the chocolates themselves do have a scent, but we amplify it with a gizmo; it's in the corner. Every few seconds it squirts out a little puff of chocolate scent.” She paused, obviously having second thoughts. “I think that's off the record, a trade secret.”
“Are you giving away secrets?” Lucy jumped a bit at the booming male voice, and turned to meet the fortyish man entering the shop.
“Not at all, Trey.” Tamzin was all aflutter and Lucy briefly wondered if she was having some sort of respiratory problem from the way her amazing chest was rising and falling.
The guy was handsome; Lucy had to admit Corney was right. He had streaky sandy hair that fell over his brow, liquid brown eyes a girl could drown in, a square jaw, and a firm handshake.
“Trey Meacham,” he said, grabbing her hand. “You must be Lucy Stone.”
“Right,” said Lucy, somewhat dazed herself. “Tamzin was just telling me about your commitment to quality. Congratulations on the award.”
“We're deeply honored,” said Trey. His voice was deep and his tone serious. “It's kind of like hitting a home run the first time you come up to bat. I never expected to be so successful so soon, especially considering the economy. But chocolate, you know, is an affordable luxury. I think that's the secret. And people are weight conscious, too. That's why we package them this way—you can buy three in a box for fifteen dollars.”
Lucy's jaw dropped. “Fifteen dollars for three?”
“A terrific little gift, an indulgence.” He paused, registering her shock. “Think about it, what other luxury can you enjoy for fifteen bucks? Or as little as five, actually, because we sell them singly, too.”
Lucy was thinking that a Snickers bar, her favorite, cost eighty-nine cents, but she didn't mention it.
“I can see you're not convinced,” said Trey, throwing in a charming chuckle. “You'll have to try a couple.”
He nodded at Tamzin and she withdrew a tray of chocolates from the case and set it on the counter, fluttering over it like a Tiffany salesman displaying an assortment of jewelry. The counter, Lucy realized, was lower than usual and gave Tamzin an ample opportunity to display her remarkable endowment.
“No, no,” said Lucy. “I'm on a diet.”
Trey's brows rose in astonishment. “You? But you don't need to lose an ounce!”
Lucy knew this was pure flattery, because she was dressed in a puffy quilted parka that entirely concealed her figure. “Swimsuit season's coming,” she said.
“Swimsuits ... that's a good one,” said Trey, with a nod out the window at the snow that had begun to fall.
Following his gaze, Lucy noticed his car, parked out front. It was an enormous green Range Rover, the current favorite gas-guzzling status symbol among the region's strivers and doers. She thought of Eddie, who'd risked life and limb in a war that was supposed to be about terrorism but just happened to be in a part of the world that contained enormous oil reserves.
“Really, you have to try them to appreciate the quality,” said Trey, recapturing her attention.
“And the unique flavors,” added Tamzin.
“That's right,” agreed Trey. “And I'd like to mention especially that we're trying to overcome the male bias against chocolate.”
“Chocolate's not just for the ladies,” said Tamzin.
“Right. That's why we've got Mucho Macho. It's a manly blend with hints of beef jerky and German fingerling potato.”
“In chocolate?” Lucy thought the mixture sounded repulsive.
Trey nodded. “Chocolate isn't just for sweets, you know. Think of chicken mole. In fact, we've got a chicken mole truffle.”
“And lavender,” said Tamzin. “So creamy and delicate. We call it Lovely Lavender.”
Lucy was pretty sure she liked her lavender in a bar of soap. “Interesting,” she said, suddenly remembering that time was fleeting and she had to meet a deadline. “Listen, I've got to wrap this up. Do you have a press release or something with the basic facts about the company?”
“Absolutely,” said Trey, opening a slim leather portfolio and handing her a professionally produced PR packet.
“And I need a photo, too,” she said, producing her camera.
Trey hopped around the counter and stood next to Tamzin, beneath the rooster. “Be sure to get Chanticleer,” he said, grinning broadly. “Say chocolate!”
Lucy felt like groaning, but she snapped a couple of pictures instead.
“Well, thanks for everything... .”
“You can't leave without some chocolates,” Trey said, grabbing one of the big boxes and forcing it into her hands. “Remember, a day without chocolate... .”
“Is a really crummy day,” offered Tamzin.
“Well, yes,” agreed Trey. “But I was going to say that a day without chocolate is like a day without sunshine.”
“Oh, that's nice,” Tamzin said, patting Trey's shoulder and straightening his collar. She turned slowly and regarded Lucy, obviously making some sort of connection. “Did you say your last name is Stone?”
“That's right,” replied Lucy.
“Are you related to Bill Stone? The carpenter?”
It was an instinctive reaction, a tightening of the gut and an increased awareness, as if a predator was heard snapping a twig. “Sure, he's my husband,” said Lucy.
“Well, he's a really nice guy,” said Tamzin.
Lucy's jaw tightened. “I know,” she said. “Thanks for the chocolate.”

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