Criminal Confections (13 page)

That crostini was
delicious,
though.

“Hayden!” The chocolate patriarch surprised me as I slid into a comfy, high-sided leather banquette, chewing while balancing my plate. “You're just the person I wanted to see.”

I couldn't imagine why that would be. We hadn't exactly left things on the most gracious footing that morning. That was my fault, though. I'd overstepped. Wishing I didn't have chipmunk cheeks stuffed with crostini, I nodded at Bernard.

For lack of a verbal greeting, I patted the banquette, inviting him to join me in my secluded, dimly lit corner of the crowded lobby bar. I'm no fool. Being on friendly terms with the man who'd made artisanal chocolate a household essential (breaking Hershey's nearly century-long stranglehold on the hearts and palates of Americans) could only be good for me.

Besides, I liked Bernard. Even knowing he was an adulterer and possible conspirator with Rex, I did. Because I
didn't
like Christian. Anything that upset his apple cart was okay with me.

Besides, I had to acknowledge, being married to a high-maintenance type like Isabel probably wasn't a walk in the park. If Bernard had gotten intimate with Adrienne, it would be understandable. My chocolatier buddy had been warm, intelligent, and overwhelmingly giving. Those weren't Isabel's high points.

Not that I'm excusing infidelity. I'm not. Let's just say I was relaxing my ordinarily high standards (see my three ex-fiancés for more details) when it came to Bernard and Adrienne.

With a heavy exhalation, Bernard joined me. In fact, he all but cornered me between him and the wall. With the high tufted back of the banquette on the other side, we were
very
cozy.

The hubbub of the bar washed comfortingly over me as I chewed madly, finishing the last of my crostini. I liked being in the midst of things, yet apart. I guess I'm an observer at heart—one who was currently being squished by Bernard's butt.

Subtly, I wiggled to make room for myself. No dice.

Well, he probably wouldn't linger. Not if doing so would mean incurring the wrath of Isabel. From all indications, the grapevine was alive and well at the retreat. She'd find out.

“So, how are things coming along with the police?” Bernard asked me, eyeing my overstuffed plate of tapas. “Did they locate Adrienne's next of kin yet? Do they have leads on her death?”

Befuddled, I stared at him. He stared back, his kindly expression firmly intact. His eyes looked a little hazy, though.

Was Bernard . . .
senile
? He seemed to have confused me and Nina. She was the one who'd been dealing with the police, with all the details, with collecting Adrienne's personal effects. Not me.

I didn't want to embarrass Bernard. So I shook my head.

“Not yet.” I was going to hell for misleading him. “Sorry.”

I swilled a mouthful of my port, then bit into a sizzling bite of
patatas bravas
—served in this instance with a fiery chocolate mole sauce—while surreptitiously examining Bernard.

If he
was
suffering from some mild form of dementia, it occurred to me, his being forced out of Lemaître made a lot more sense. So did Isabel's joke about Bernard needing erectile dysfunction medication. Maybe I'd been too harsh on Christian.

Nah. That was impossible. Christian was a tool.

“It was a lovely memorial this morning,” Bernard went on. Tears glimmered in his eyes. With an unsteady hand, he brushed them away. He sighed. “Poor Adrienne. I'm going to miss her.”

“I am, too.” I felt awful for him. I touched his hand.

It felt papery with wrinkles. But strong. He clutched me.

He clutched me a little too hard, in fact. Confused, I tried to pull away. But Bernard held fast. What the hell?

“Don't let your feelings get the better of you, though, Hayden,” he said in a clear, rumbling voice. His hand squeezed painfully on mine. “Nothing good can come of that.
Nothing.”

Was Bernard
warning
me? Disturbed, I pulled away.

“I'm
not
going to just forget Adrienne,” I told him.

Maybe it was the port I'd swigged. Or maybe I was just being stupid. But I didn't want to back down. Not about this.

My friend deserved better than that.

“Everybody has to forget sometime!” Bernard announced cheerfully. Then, ominously, “The sooner, the better, in your case.” He nodded at my plate. “Try the
alfajor de chocolate
next,” he advised. “Adding bittersweet chocolate to Argentinian
dulce de leche
”—Bernard kissed his fingers—
“exquisito!”

Then he chuckled and slid out of my banquette. He was gone before I could be sure I hadn't imagined him. My still-aching fingers were a reminder that Bernard's threat had been real, though. If he
had
been warning me to quit asking around about Adrienne's death . . . well, it would fit right in with the way he'd gone all frosty on me this morning when I'd asked if he'd had a few final moments with his former mistress. On the other hand . . .

Bernard had seemed convinced, for a moment there, that I'd been
Nina.
So maybe his grasp on current events wasn't quite as razor sharp as it should have been. Plus, I'd glugged at least half a glass of fortified port while filling my tapas plate.

I wasn't the most reliable judge of lucidity just then.
Me,
plus
a peculiar day,
plus
high-proof port on an empty stomach . . .

Deciding that being safe was better than being sorry, I finished my port, spooned up my thimble-size portion of rye-infused chocolate
pots de crème,
then reached for my cookie.

It was the
alfajor de chocolate
—the chocolate-covered double-decker treat sandwiched with burnt caramel—that Bernard had recommended. While an upscale Oreo probably wouldn't kill me, in light of recent events, I opted to skip it.

If I was imagining the threatening look in Bernard's eyes, I was going to regret passing up that
alfajor,
I knew. I'd done some consulting with Maison Lemaître's head pastry chef as part of my assignment; I knew she was incredibly skilled. But thirty minutes later—after chatting with a few more retreat attendees as I left the lobby bar—I was back in my hotel room and too busy getting ready for the cocktail party to get too caught up in missed opportunities. . . even one-of-a-kind chocolate-themed ones.

 

 

I was flipping through Adrienne's handwritten notebook, rubbing my fingers over chocolate splatters and trying not to think too hard about missing the woman who'd made them, when someone knocked on my door. With a twitch, I looked that way.

My blood pressure skyrocketed. I told myself the jumpiness I was feeling was only excitement, then marched to the door.

When I opened it, Danny scowled at me. “At least look through the peephole next time, dummy. Do you
want
to get strangled? Knifed? Beaten? Shot? Pushed out the window?”

“Your imagination is terrifying.” I stepped aside as my broad-shouldered friend strode in. His warning jolted me, though. Ordinarily, as a woman traveling solo, I was a
lot
more cautious than this. I shut the door, taking absurd comfort in its solid autolocking
clunk.
“I knew it was you, Paranoid Pete.”

“It's not paranoia when people are dropping dead.”

“One person.” As distressing as that was. “Not me.”

“That's because
I'm
watching over you.” Danny prowled the corners of my deluxe room. He nudged aside cast-off clothing choices (basically my whole fits-in-a-suitcase wardrobe, which I'd been mixing and matching), peeked under the bed, looked out the window, and checked the armoire. I thought he might nose into Adrienne's notebook, which I'd left conspicuously open on the pillow-piled bed, but he didn't. “You're a slob, Hayden.”

That was it. No concerned “Are you okay?” or “Did Bernard Lemaître just go cuckoo and possibly threaten you?” Just “You're a slob, Hayden.” As if I didn't know that already. As far as I'm concerned, a certain amount of clutter makes impersonal spaces (like hotel rooms, train compartments, and yurts) feel personal.

“Nice to see you, too.” There was no time like the present for a little tit for tat. “Did you have a nice workout?”

Danny's gung ho
Booya!
attitude ground to a halt. I could have sworn a flush climbed his cheeks. His nonstop beard stubble made it hard to tell. As far as I knew, he never got flustered.

Just then, I was on a mission to change that. Dressed up in my flat strappy sandals, bare legs, my ex's silk button-up shirt partnered with a chunky belt (which officially made it double as a breezy minidress, in my book) plus a tangle of silvery chains sparkling at my décolletage, I kept at him. “I knew your fast getaway at brunch seemed suspicious this morning.” I could barely keep up my (admittedly nonexistent) poker face as I added mildly, “Who knew you were aching to feel the burn?”

My reference to Danny's physical exertion made him groan. He paced, never content (like me) to stay in one place too long.

“I ‘got away' at brunch so you could network,” he said.

“Nice try. But I can network with
you
present.”

“I figured Nina would open up to you more alone.”

“That's very generous of you. Pump any iron lately?”

I had no intention of letting this slide. Not after the hard time Danny had given Travis about his “health freak” ways.

Privately, I enjoyed thinking about Travis getting his workout on. I might have never met my financial advisor in person, but that hadn't stopped me from imagining the way he'd look, all slick and muscular from the pool. With a calculator.

What can I say? My imagination has its quirks.

“I knew you'd do this,” Danny complained. “
That's
why I didn't tell you.” With a grin, he gestured at his rugged build. “You didn't think all
this
happened by accident, did you?”

“I thought it happened courtesy of beer and hot wings,” I deadpanned. “Apparently not. That was just your cover story.”

“Okay, you've had your fun. Just let up, okay?”

As if
that
was going to happen. I had him on the ropes now.

“Maybe it's something in the water around here,” I mused, pretending to consider it. “I saw Rex running earlier, too.”

“Not on the ridge, I hope.” Danny surprised me by speaking seriously. “I doubt he's got the stamina and agility to navigate that rocky path. One wrong step, and it's a long way down.”

“Right. Just because he's not
you,
he's a crash test dummy waiting to happen? He's not that much of a buffoon.”

Except he was.
What was I doing? Defending Rex?
This had gone too far. I outfitted a clutch with necessities from my trusty crossbody bag, intent on finishing my prep for the party.

“I mean it,” Danny insisted. “Maison Lemaître ought to fence off those bluffs. Or at least post warning signs.”

“Spoken like a true security expert.” I primped. “I didn't think resort liability issues were your area of expertise.”

“There are things,” Danny said, “you don't know about me.”

I wanted to keep needling him about “feeling the burn.” But that was too good an opening to pass up. “Such as why you were late getting here? Why was that, anyway? Care to share?”

“Nope.”

“Let's give it a go, anyway.”

“Fine.” Danny eyed me with reluctance. He turned his back to me, looking out at the enviable view. “One of my buddies was just paroled. I'm letting him crash at my place. He got held up, so I caught a later plane. Now I'm here. End of story.”

“Danny!” I protested, having visions of him coming home to an empty apartment—one devoid of pawnworthy TVs and accessible cash. “You told me you were going to quit hanging around those people!”

“‘Those people' are my friends.” His face looked stormy as he turned again. “Just like you are. I like problem cases.”

His knowing grin as he added that last bit put me on edge.
I
wasn't a problem case. Not when it came to him, at least.

“But now that you know about that,” he added before I could set him straight, “I might as well tell you about Rex Rader.”

I was duly baited and switched. “What about Rex Rader?”

“Well, you know how I found his wallet yesterday?”

I bit my tongue so hard, I could have added a DIY dumbbell piercing and called it a day. Not that I don't have a piercing or two. I do. But I'm certainly not telling you where they are.

“I asked one of ‘those people' to run financials on Rex.”

I knew what he was saying. Danny had used his underground connections to find out more about Rex Rader. He'd leveraged the contents of Rex's stolen wallet to investigate the Melt CEO.

“You shouldn't have done that,” I told him.

“Why? Because you were going to ask Travis to do it?” Danny shook his head, typically cocksure. “My way is faster.”

I shouldn't have endorsed his tactics. Not even obliquely.

But I just couldn't help it. “What did you find out?”

“That Melt is going down fast. That Rex is up to his manscaped eyebrows in personal debt. That he
needs
a fix.”