Criminal Confections (11 page)

So far among my informal suspects, I had to count Mrs. Green-Eyed Monster, Isabel, and Mr. All-Business, Christian. As I bounded across Maison Lemaître's grassy grounds sometime later with a spa menu in hand, I was forced to add a third suspect. Because while passing by the fountain, I glimpsed the same reporter Rex Rader had been feeling up at the welcome session last night. She was perched on the fountain's Italianate stone, beside her former paramour, holding a cell phone in his face.

In case this was something kinky, I didn't want to linger.

“What do you say to those people who claim there was bad blood between you and Adrienne Dowling?” the reporter was asking. Firmly. “After all, you
did
reportedly threaten her.”

Intrigued, I slowed down. Casually, I looked back.

Rex appeared trapped. I guessed the phone was recording.

“Aw, baby, be reasonable.” He wiped sweat from his handsome temple, then attempted a smile. “You said you'd write a profile of me for your magazine—not come at me with a hatchet job.”

Aha.
An advantageous profile would explain Rex's interest in her—and hers in him. She looked young enough to be a junior reporter or even an ambitious intern out to make a name for herself at a publication like
Chocolat Monthly.
Which only made Rex seem twice as shady, in my book, for pursuing someone so young. He'd probably thought he could take advantage of her naïveté.

It looked as though she had the upper hand now.

“I
am
profiling you for my magazine.” The reporter held her phone closer. “To prepare for that profile, I did some research. That's how I found out about your ongoing issues with Adrienne.”

“I had hurt feelings, that's all,” Rex explained. “Adrienne had just turned down a job with Melt. A
good
job. I saw Adrienne at an industry function and went off on her. I shouldn't have done it. But she should have taken that job!” At a grumble, he added, “At least nobody
dies
while working at Melt.”

A job? With Melt?
I hadn't known about that. Curious, I ducked behind the wisteria-covered arbor I'd passed through earlier. From my vantage point, I could hear everything.

“She did more than turn you down for a job, though, didn't she?” the reporter asked. “Wasn't there more to it than that?”

Even more curious now, I wondered what more there could be. I envisioned Adrienne putting axle grease in Rex's hair gel, kneeing him in the groin, or swapping his daily truffles for “chocolaty” laxatives—understandable impulses, all of them.

“At the same function,” Rex conceded, “Adrienne took a few jabs at Melt. A few
very public
jabs, saying our new Criollo-bean chocolates were really made of mostly Forastero beans.”

“Were they?” the reporter asked. “Maybe you made a mix with hybrid Trinitario beans?” she suggested, obviously leading him.

Most likely, she knew the same thing I did—that extra-pricey Criollo beans (grown mainly in the Caribbean and Central America) make up less than two percent of the world's cocoa. It was unlikely Rex could afford to use them exclusively at Melt.

“Beans are beside the point,” Rex evaded. “Some important people were listening when Adrienne mouthed off that night. We took a hit on orders at Melt. But so what? We're still here.”

They were, I knew . . . but maybe not for long. Rex had seemed downright desperate when hitting me up for help yesterday.

Undoubtedly, hiring a skilled chocolatier like Adrienne would have improved Melt's business prospects and growth. But if instead she'd done all she could to torpedo Rex's chances . . . Well, I have to say, he could have wanted her dead.

“I heard Melt was
still
struggling,” the reporter pushed.

Rex wiggled his fingers through his dark, curly hair. He gave a grin. “Have you looked at our portfolio? We're booming!”

His gregarious tone didn't fool the reporter into dropping her line of questioning. She continued in a more intimate tone that was probably supposed to invite him to confide in her.

I was busy being reminded of the portfolio Rex had pushed on me yesterday in the hallway. I hadn't examined it yet. I'd been planning to overnight it to Travis for further analysis.

“Look, I know I said I wanted us to help one another,” Rex was saying when I tuned in again, “but that's enough for now, okay? You weren't this interested in
talking
to me last night.”

His lascivious tone made his insinuation plain.
Yuck.

“Last night, I couldn't find you to talk,” the reporter said crisply. “I ducked into the ladies' room, remember?” She must have come in there right after me, I realized. “When I came out, you were no place to be found. You ditched me. I bet you're sorry for that now, though, aren't you?”

That was interesting,
I couldn't help thinking. Not that the reporter had apparently decided to exact her revenge for Rex ditching her by penning a negatively slanted article, but that Rex
also
had been unaccounted for during last night's tragedy.

Suddenly, I realized they'd both quit talking.
Uh-oh.

I peeked out from behind the wisteria. Rex and the reporter were both staring at me. Pointedly. I waved and headed onward.

The spa awaited—and so did about a million more questions.

 

 

Faced with what amounted to a steaming hot tub full of chocolate pudding, most people would have grabbed a spoon. I grabbed my plush spa-issued robe instead. Then I dropped my robe onto a waiting hook and (dressed in a spa-issued tankini swimsuit for modesty), I got right in. Instantly, the warmth of Maison Lemaître's signature hot-cocoa mud bath enveloped me.

Ah.
My tense muscles turned to fondue on the spot. My nose filled with the familiar scent of chocolate—albeit chocolate infused with subtle mineral undertones due to its springwater base. The mud bath felt . . . weirdly good. Weirdly, because mud (even chocolate-laced mud) was a lot thicker than the water you'd find in a typical hot tub. Weirdly, because I wasn't alone.

That made the groan of pleasure I let out as I sank deeper doubly embarrassing. But I decided to roll with it, anyway.

“Ah!”
I said, really committing this time. Never let it be said that Hayden Mundy Moore did anything halfway. “Amazing!”

“All our guests really enjoy the hot-cocoa mud bath.” The attendant set down a fresh pile of fluffy, mocha-colored towels on a bench near the adjacent pristine-tiled shower stalls. She smiled at me. “Remember not to stay in for too long, though.”

The spa goer beside me—a woman with a wrapped-towel turban on her head—gave a languid wave. She didn't open her eyes.

I recognized her, though. Isabel Lemaître. Topless. Of course. It was as if Bernard's wife was allergic to clothes. Not that she wasn't mostly (and artfully) covered with creamy, chocolaty hot-cocoa mud bath goo; she was. I was grateful for that, too. I'm no prude, but after so many years traveling, I can be pretty chameleonlike when it comes to fitting in. I didn't think it would help grow my consulting business if I gallivanted around topless. Or maybe it would, I mused.
Hmm . . .

“
Don't crush our groove, Britney,” Isabel said in a world-weary, accented voice. “What's the worst that could happen?”

“Well, technically, staying too long in a hot environment can cause fainting due to heat exhaustion,” Britney recited. “It can overstress the heart or induce very severe dehydration.”

“Aren't you charmingly earnest?” Isabel opened her eyes. She raised the champagne flute she'd left on the edge of the sunken tub. “That's why we have these. Another choco-mosa?”

“Right away, Mrs. Lemaître.” Britney rushed to collect her empty glass. She paused near me. “Would you like one, as well?”

I shook my head. I was there to de-stress, not to become one with the hot-cocoa mud bath. One death by chocolate was more than enough for a single resort stay. If I tried that revamped house mimosa—a mix of champagne, orange juice, and a splash of chocolate liqueur—I'd be done for. “Not right now, thanks.”

“Hayden! Is that you?” Stirring herself enough to recognize me at last, Isabel gave me a warm smile. “How are you?”

“Hot. Muddy.” Lazily, I raised my arms. “Limp.”

“Sounds like my husband. Thank God for ED drugs.”

I really didn't want to think of Bernard in that way. I focused
very
hard on the spa's serene New Age background music.

“He's gotten
so
much more fun since retiring, though,” Isabel went on as Britney left the tub area. “Soon we'll be enjoying the life I
thought
we'd have when I married him.”

“What life is that?” I asked, wondering if I should invent an excuse to bail out on my hot-cocoa bath. I liked it, but it might not be smart to go hot-tubbing with a prospective killer.

“Traveling. Shopping.
Enjoying
one another!” Isabel said with an enthusiasm that was infectious. She didn't
seem
capable of murdering Adrienne in a jealous rage. “Pampering Poopsie.”

I blinked. “Poopsie?”

“Our adorable baby girl.” Beaming, Isabel nodded to the other side of the tub's edge. “She's having a nap right now.”

Expecting to see a
very
unfortunately named infant, I glimpsed a Yorkie instead. It was snoring atop a tasseled silk pillow.
Poopsie.
I melted. I couldn't help it. I
love
dogs.

I've always wanted one. With my globe-trotting lifestyle, though, canine companionship just isn't practical. Not for me.

“Aw!” I squealed—and this time, my girlishness was genuine. What can I say? I'm not
all
coolness and procrastination. “She's adorable.” I wanted to squeeze Poopsie with glee. “So cute!”

“She goes everywhere with us,” Isabel confided, casting the snoozing Yorkie a fond look. “Bernie got her for me.”

How nice. “That was thoughtful of him.”

“Yes, it was. Mostly. I needed company back when Bernie was running Lemaître.” Isabel looked troubled. Her face sort of...
hardened,
similar to the way Bernard's had done on the ridge yesterday, after Isabel had cooed about him always “being so good” to her. He'd looked, I remembered, oddly guilty.

Just then, so did Isabel. I didn't know why.

But it probably wasn't remorse over committing a murder, I assured myself, feeling hot-cocoa mud squelch between my toes. I just couldn't bring myself to believe a dog person would do that. I know that sounds crazy. But I trust my instincts.

“He surprised me with Poopsie right after his affair,” Isabel went on lightly. “But you know. Things happen. I'm over it now. I'm French! I'd be bored if Bernie was true to me.”

His affair.
Just like that, Isabel confirmed that her husband had cheated on her—just not with whom. I was dying to know, although she sounded pretty blasé about it. I can't say Isabel's attitude surprised me, given her overall demeanor—and her comfort level with nudity. Clearly, she wasn't hung up on American societal norms. Those didn't sound like the rantings of a possessive wife to me, either. On the other hand, that didn't mean that Bernard didn't genuinely have a guilty conscience.

Maybe he'd decided not to eulogize Adrienne because he'd been afraid he'd say something insensitive. He wouldn't have been the first man in history to overcompensate for infidelity.

The idea still boggled my mind, though. Bernard . . . and Adrienne? Why hadn't she told me? How many secrets had she had, anyway?

Already, I knew about her chocolate development notebook. Her (maybe) affair with Bernard. Her (likely) feud with Rex.

I couldn't honestly fault Adrienne for disliking Rex, though. For my money, he was the front-runner in the who-might-be-murderous sweepstakes currently playing out in my head. He was desperate. And motivated. That meant he could have hurt Adrienne. Isabel, in contrast, seemed way too frivolous to plot anything more devious than snaring another choco-mosa. She'd been knocking back Bloody Marys at the memorial service, too. Not to mention chocolate martinis at the reception last night.

Maybe, it occurred to me, Isabel wasn't all
that
carefree. Most people didn't drink to excess for the sheer fun of it.

“You are surprised by my blunt talk?” she asked, watching me. For a second, she seemed completely sober. Also, beautiful. Not even rampant tipsiness could mar her modelesque good looks.

She and Rex Rader would have made stunning, vacuous babies together. They should have been a couple, not her and Bernard.

“Well,” I hedged with a grin, “I wasn't expecting to get a hot-cocoa mud bath
and
juicy gossip. You caught me off guard.”

“I have that effect on people,” Isabel said. “I don't mind Bernie stepping out on me, because now
I'm
not obligated to be 100 percent faithful to him, either. Fair's fair.” She gave me a mischievous wink. “I'm having a workout after this—my third in two days. Bernie thinks I'm training for a modeling comeback, but that's not it.” She paused to drag one hand free from the mud. “Have you
seen
the personal trainer here?” She fanned herself, slopping mud all over the tile. And me. “He's
hot.”

“Really?” I shook my head to dislodge a stubborn cocoa clump. “I'll have to make an effort to shape up while I'm here.”