Criminal Confections (15 page)

He shot me a triumphant glance. The crowd applauded. A few people even started gathering their things for the next session.

I held back, though, even as Nina turned expectantly.

“Hayden, if Christian is right, you're eliminated. You don't have enough sponsors to tie the round. But if you—”

“I'm right!” her boss crowed. “This one's easy.”

“—
do
have the correct answer,” Nina rushed to say, “and Christian doesn't, you'll win the round and the tasting, bringing your sponsors and their donations with you. Well?”

I drew in a deep breath, considering. If Christian was a secret murderer, I probably didn't want to antagonize him.

On the other hand, competitiveness isn't easily squashed. There was no way I was taking a dive. It just wasn't in me.

“Criollo beans,” I disagreed, “with a medium roast.” I don't know
how
I can detect these specifics. I just know that I can. “Likely sourced from Madagascar. The vodka fragrance and woody notes—the hint of spice and cedar—give it away.”

I didn't dare look at Christian. He was probably seething.

At least he was . . . if I was right. I knew I was.

“But the filling—that's the tricky part,” I went on. I pointed at it. “Modern palates identify that texture as cacao nibs, but I've got to say . . .” I paused to take another nibble.

“She's cheating!” Christian fumed. “That's cheating!”

“. . .
that
tastes like good old-fashioned praline to me.” I smiled. “In a world full of habanero-guava chocolate bars and wood-smoke-infused salted ganache, that's . . . perfectly delicious.”

Bernard stood amid the crowd. “You're damn right it is!” he yelled, pointing at my truffle. “That's
tradition,
right there!”

Taken aback, I glanced again at the truffle I'd neatly sliced in two. Yep. If you paired those halves and then studied the squiggly swirl on top, it formed a distinctive letter
L.

Christian had failed to identify a Lemaître Chocolate—one that Bernard had apparently entered in the tasting on the sly.

The crowd realized what had happened at the same time I did. A rumble swept through the attendees. Isabel gave Bernard a forcible yank back into his chair, then gave me an apologetic shrug. She seemed at a loss to explain her husband's outburst. If Bernard had planned this, he hadn't included his wife.

Bernard himself seemed as pleased as punch. He sat there beside Isabel, looking giddy, not talking to anyone. I have to say, his behavior only made it appear more likely that he was suffering from some form of cognitive deterioration. Either that or he really wanted to stick it to his nephew. Publicly.

If getting revenge on Christian was Bernard's goal, though, this stunt was small potatoes. Retaking his own company was going to be the most effective tactic. Maybe, I mused, with Rex's underhanded assistance, Bernard meant to do both?

Glancing at Rex's unreadable face, I simply couldn't tell—not even when Rex got to his feet and left the ballroom. He might have wanted to celebrate Bernard's coup in private. Or he might have been annoyed that Bernard had embarrassed Christian.

For all I knew, Isabel was wrong, and Rex was scheming with Christian, instead of Bernard. I would have believed either.

For that matter, Adrienne could have been partnering with Bernard to sabotage Christian . . . and somehow Christian had found out—hence his (brief) tirade to me about Adrienne yesterday.

Danny believed that Adrienne had probably been selling secrets to Melt. But he hadn't known Adrienne as well as I had. I couldn't see her conspiring with Rex.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Lemaître,” Nina told Christian in a newly subdued voice. “Hayden is right. I'm afraid you're eliminated.”

As far as I was concerned, we both should have been able to identify that chocolate—even to distinguish it from its purer-bred Venezuelan Porcelana strain, which delivered heady (but very different) aromas of butter, strawberries, and cream.

Trying to put aside the tasting now that it was finished, I got up to shake Christian's hand. “Nice job,” I said. “I'm sure you garnered more sponsorship votes, anyway, so everyone wins.”

At least they would, if he did the right thing and channeled all the donations into Bernard's culinary charity.

Christian didn't see things quite so prosaically. He pointedly ignored my outstretched hand. He humphed, then ripped off his clipped-on mic. “Nobody likes a show-off.
Nobody.”

Was Christian kidding me? After all the showboating he'd done, now he had the nerve to lecture
me
about hamming it up?

I considered apologizing—just for my business's sake—but Christian stormed off before I could. Left stranded on the panel with a befuddled teenage culinary student and Nina, I smiled.

It would take more than Christian Lemaître's temper tantrum to take down Hayden Mundy Moore. Especially for charity's sake.

“Let's hear it for our host, Christian Lemaître!” I said into my mic, leading the applause myself. “A fine chocolatier, a supporter of charity,
and
a brilliant and accomplished man!”

I was freestyling, sure, but that last bit came a little
too
easily to mind. Too late, I realized I'd parroted this week's favorite description of Christian—just as Nina and Bernard had. All the same, everyone dutifully clapped. A few quizzical looks did come my way, though. Bernard frowned. Danny squinted at me, obviously lost in thought. Isabel comically rolled her eyes. (I could count on her to lighten the mood.)

Nina rushed to my side to take over the emceeing again.

“We'll be ready for our next session in just a few minutes, everyone,” she announced with a vivid smile. Her poise made me yearn, just for a second, to be half as composed. But then . . .

Nina ripped off her mic and turned to me, looking agitated. “Are you crazy? Are you
trying
to get yourself blackballed?”

I laughed. “Christian can't do anything to me.” Okay, he could refuse to pay me, but that was actionable. I'd already checked with Travis on that point. “He probably didn't even hear me. Besides, I didn't say anything that wasn't complimentary.”

“When Christian's in a mood like that, there's
nothing
that's complimentary enough, believe me,” Nina fretted. “It'll take me hours to calm him down. I have so much to do already!”

Full of remorse and hoping to soothe her, I touched her arm. She felt breakable, like a titian-haired china figurine.

“I'm sorry, Nina. I was caught off guard. I don't want to make anything
more
difficult for you.” Wanting to make amends, I shook my head. “I'll make it up to you, I promise.” I gazed into her harassed but flawlessly made-up face, even as retreat attendees gathered nearby to converse and make plans. “How about if I retroactively sponsor Christian in the tasting? You can make an announcement later that
he
raised the most funds.”

At that, Nina seemed minutely cheered. “Really?”

“Of course!” I could afford it, thanks to dear old wacky Uncle Ross. Just as long as I didn't linger. “In fact, I'll match all the sponsorship donations. Let me know how much we raised, and I'll have my financial advisor set up an EFT.”

Now she seemed aghast. “You can't afford that!”

“That's up to me and my financial advisor to decide,” I assured her. “I've told you about Travis, haven't I?”

I could have waxed rhapsodic about him all day.

Given our busy schedules, five minutes had to suffice.

When I'd finished, Nina said, “He sounds wonderful.”

“He is!” I half expected Danny to materialize and argue with me about that, just to be difficult. “You know numbers guys, though,” I added with a dose of bonhomie. “They're tough to cuddle up to. How did you get your guy to open up, anyway?”

I was dying to know how to make Travis spill some personal information. All I knew about him were the bare essentials.

Nina gave me a blank stare. “My guy?”

“Your husband? He's a CPA, right? I heard that someplace.”

Asking around, I'd learned that Nina's husband had done some impromptu financial advising for the Lemaître Chocolates staff. I was pretty sure Adrienne had mentioned getting advice from him once or twice. He sounded like a stand-up guy—just like Travis.

“Right.” Nina tittered, waving her hand to excuse her absentmindedness. “I'm so frantic, I forgot about Calvin. I think I'm already mentally halfway to the kitchen, making sure the preparations are on schedule for tonight's banquet service.”

I couldn't imagine being so scattered. My work left me feeling more centered, not less. That's why I liked it. “You need one of Maison Lemaître's spa services. Why don't you sneak away and join me for a mani-pedi later?” I invited. “I hear the cacao nib and espresso bean pedicure scrub is ultrarelaxing.”

Inadvertently, my gaze dropped to Nina's fingernails. I was shocked to see that they were gnawed, with chipped polish. On such an otherwise perfectly put-together woman, that was . . .

. . .
endearing.
It was to
me,
at least. As a nonstop traveler, I use shampoo to wash my delicates. I let sunscreen double as moisturizer. I don't wear much makeup. I'd once gone a month without shaving my legs while exploring Mount Esja, near Reykjavik, and I have a serious weakness for hats to hide a bad hair day.

What I'm saying is, I liked that Nina had
one
flaw.

“I can't,” she protested, looking flustered. “I have so much to do! The banquet, the rest of today's schedule, more sessions, a trip to the media area, a meeting with Christian—”

Yikes.
“Maybe a quick cocoa oil massage, then?”

“Doesn't a ‘quick' massage defeat the purpose?”

“Something's better than nothing.” I nudged Nina. “Come on. Do it! I'm headed to the spa soon, anyway. I can ask Britney to set up a massage for you.” Inspiration struck. “Or, even better, a
couple's
massage! That would be even
more
relaxing, right?”

A frown. “You want us to have a couple's massage together?”

I laughed. “Not
us.
You and your husband, of course.”

Nina looked alarmed. “Calvin isn't much of a spa guy.”

Maybe she was worried he'd feel out of place. “I can probably get Danny to come, too,” I persuaded. If one macho dude agreed to be slathered in what amounted to sweet, slippery, liquefied candy components, another one might, too. “We can relax, the guys can relax . . .
then
you can get back to work.”

Nina bit her lip. “You're a bad influence, Hayden.”

I grinned. “So I've been told. So? Will you?”

“No.” She straightened, then held her clipboards more tightly. “But I
do
appreciate the effort. I really do.”

I wasn't ready to call it quits. Maybe I could come at this from another angle. “Is it Calvin's job? Do they disapprove of their CPAs sneaking away in the middle of the day for massages? If so, maybe I can arrange something. My friend Danny's a pretty good forger.” He'd let it slip once. “He could probably fake a doctor's excuse with a very high degree of believability.”

I was joking, but Nina reacted as if I'd suggested we set fire to Calvin's workplace, rather than smuggle him out of it.

“No one's breaking the law on my account!”

“I know.” Immediately, I relented. “I didn't mean—”

“I've really got to run.” Nina's terse look cut me off. “I'll let you know how much your generous charitable donation should be.” She nodded. “Have a nice time at your next session.”

Then she scurried away, leaving me gawking.

Had I really just volunteered Danny's
forgery
services?

Oh, boy. It was a good thing he hadn't overheard
that.

I hadn't netted any insights about how to loosen up Travis, either. I was batting zero for two. But there was always next time, I told myself as I headed toward the
Chocolat Monthly
reporter to get better acquainted. Whatever her intentions were toward Danny, I wanted to know about them. That was my duty.

Oh, and I wanted to know what she knew about Rex Rader, too. Because if there was anyone better than me at sussing out top secret information, it had to be someone who did it for a living.

Chapter 9

After “Name That Chocolate!” broke up, the ballroom emptied quickly. Retreat attendees scattered to attend workshops, listen to chocolate-industry speakers, and enjoy the spa's chocolate-themed services. Me, I was more drawn to the chocolate-caramel frappes being served out in the sunshine, on Maison Lemaître's grassy manicured grounds, with a fresh bay breeze on the side.

Ah.
After stepping outdoors, I stuffed my dorky lanyarded name badge into my bag, then exhaled and tipped my face to the sun. Being stuck inside so much was making me itchy. I guess after so many years spent globe-trotting, I have a hard time settling down unless there's chocolate in front of me. Given my habitual restlessness, it's a wonder I get anything done.

I
had
gotten to know Rex's
Chocolat Monthly
reporter a bit, though. Her name was Eden. She was twenty-three. She was convinced that her story about Rex Rader was going to “blow the doors off” the magazine's staid readership. The trouble was, Eden had confided, her editor had nixed the front-page slot she wanted. She was considering taking her scoop elsewhere.

“There
are
competing media companies here,” Eden had informed me, ambitious and confident. “They'll pay for this.”

On a whim,
I'd
offered to pay for it. It was a day made for throwing money around, after all. If I was going to make Travis dig into my coffers for Danny's salary, Bernard's charity, and Nina's forced-relaxation couple's massage (I hadn't yet given up on the idea of treating her and Calvin), I might as well go for broke. What was one more expense on top of everything else?

But Eden had shut me down. “I saw you and Rex together,” she said. “For all I know, you want to buy my story to bury it.”

“I promise you, that's
not
it,” I'd assured her.

But in the end, my offer was a no-go. Half an hour later, I was no closer to learning what Eden knew about Rex's feud with Adrienne than I had been going in—except that it seemed unlikely she would actively conspire with her (supposedly) sworn enemy.

During my efforts, I'd lost track of Bernard. I'd meant to talk to him—in a very
public
place, this time—to discern how lucid he was (or wasn't) . . . and to find out, if I could, if Bernard really
had
had an affair with Adrienne. Verifiably. After all, at this point, I didn't know who to believe. Isabel might have misled me, accidentally or on purpose. I had to know more.

Getting fortified for that effort, I sipped my sweet, frosty frappe while I tromped upstairs to my room. The drinks were courtesy of Lemaître. They were winners, made with quality ganache-based chocolate sauce, house-made caramel, and a variety of milk or coffee bases. The result was somehow indulgent and refreshing at the same time. I couldn't stop drinking it.

Trying to suck up the last delicious dredges, I stopped in the hallway outside the service stairs, then shamelessly slurped.
Yum.
Mission accomplished. Not a drop was left.

Satisfied, I gripped my cup, shrugged my crossbody bag in place, then skirted a parked housekeeping cart. That frappe would have to suffice as lunch, if I was going to have any time in the spa before my next obligations. I wasn't attending the retreat just to schmooze. I intended to enjoy myself, too.

Arriving at my room with visions of warm chocolate-fondue body wraps in mind, I reached inside my bag's outer pocket for my keycard. Then I noticed that my door was already ajar.

Housekeeping,
I reasoned, glancing back at the parked cart. No doubt the staff was wildly overworked with the retreat. I knew from experience that it was next to impossible to remove chocolate stains from clothing . . . say, your favorite faux leather moto jacket. Just for instance.

Or, the door could be open . . . because of
Danny.
He still had his copy of my keycard. He probably intended to deliver another personal-safety tutorial—this time, something more hands-on than the recitation of the dangers he'd given me last night after I'd opened the door without looking through the peephole. That would explain why he'd made himself scarce after the chocolate-tasting panel. He hadn't given me that dour look just for kicks. I was willing to bet Danny really
did
think I was recklessly endangering myself.

Well, he hadn't seen anything yet. Buzzing on burnt sugar and caffeine, I slipped inside the slender opening between the door and the jamb, making sure I didn't make any noise. I'm proud to say I succeeded. My plan was to catch Danny off guard.

It wouldn't be easy. But last April in Bangkok, during Songkran (a multiday New Year's festival during which
everyone
gleefully soaks
everyone
with water from buckets, Super Soakers, and anything else at hand), I
did
manage to completely drench Danny. So there was a precedent. Otherwise, I wouldn't have expected to get the jump on him today.

Hearing shuffling farther in my room, I crept closer. One of my shirts came flying past. It landed on the floor. Weird.

A shoe came next, followed by my (empty) duffel bag.

What the hell?
If this was housekeeping service, it was seriously flawed. I didn't mind a little untidiness, but—

More sounds of scrabbling came from within my room. Ahead and to the right. Just around the corner. My heart rate sped up.

Maybe I had the wrong room? Baffled, I crept back to check.

No dice. The engraved placard read 332. My room. “Huh.”

I didn't mean to say it out loud. It was automatic.

The next thing I knew, someone in my room swore. I didn't recognize the voice. I didn't have a chance to. Because the next thing I knew, there was a rush of air behind me . . . then darkness.

 

 

I don't know if you've ever woken up on the floor of a hotel hallway—or the hallway of a posh resort, for that matter—but it's a seriously disorienting experience. Opening my eyes, I became aware of several things at once.
Too many
things.

First up, what was I doing on the floor? Next, why did the walls seem to be slanting sideways? Also, who was that beside me? Woozily, I shut my eyes, wanting to block out all of it.

“Hayden.” Danny's voice intruded on my bewilderment.

I winced at the sound. “Danny? What's going on?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

There was a smile in his voice. Also, concern. Bravely, I opened my eyes. I instantly regretted it. Afraid to move, I looked around. Yep. I was sprawled on the floor at Maison Lemaître, half in and half out of my room. Fortunately, there wasn't anybody around. I glimpsed my empty frappe cup nearby, then my crossbody bag, still twisted around me. I clutched it.

“Nothing's missing,” Danny said. “Not in there, at least.”

“You
searched
my bag?”

“No.” He was being unusually patient. “You landed on it.”

Fuzzily, I understood. “I prevented a mugging with my knocked-out body as a shield? Nifty. I've been traveling so long, I've perfected the art of unconscious self-defense.”

His smile comforted me. “Way to look on the bright side.”

“But I'm not lying on top of it anymore.” That seemed like a very important point. In addition, I couldn't stop thinking that there was something
significant
I should have remembered. Some . . .
word
? Something I'd heard? I remembered hearing swearing....

Had that been me? Swearing at an intruder?

“I rolled you over to make sure you were breathing.”

“Nice.” I groaned, envisioning the ghastly scene when he'd found me. “Don't sugarcoat the situation or anything.”

“Someone had to do it.” Capably, Danny held out his arms. He was good in a crisis. His steady presence calmed me down. “Can you get up?” he asked. “Do you remember what happened?”

“
Should
I get up? What if I'm paralyzed?” Panic gripped me. I'm not ashamed to admit it, given the circumstances. “Ohmigod!”

“You just waved your arms in fright,” Danny pointed out.

“I guess I'm not paralyzed then.” I risked standing up. With Danny's help, I shakily got to my feet. “My head hurts.”

“It looks as though somebody walloped you pretty good.” Danny toed something on the floor. A Maison Lemaître lamp. “My money's on this, since table lamps don't belong in the hall. I'm guessing you hit your head on the floor when you fell, too. Double whammy.” He made a face. “I'm taking you to a doctor.”

“Someone was in my room!” Hazily, I remembered that much.

“Let's get
you
in your room,” Danny urged.

I was glad he was there. “You go check it first.”

He gave me a doubtful look. I was adamant.

“If I can't use my personal security guy to pave the way into danger for me, what can I use him for?” I insisted.

“Wait here.” Leaving me propped securely in the entryway, Danny went in. I craned my neck to watch, noticing more of my stuff scattered around. I felt creeped out. Violated. Afraid.

I had to take action. I weaved my way in. “Do you see . . .”

Anything?
I meant to say, but the sight of everything in my room shut me up immediately. I'm not kidding when I say it was a righteous mess. You know how you see ransacked rooms on TV? Torn-apart drug kingpins' mansions in the movies? That's how my room looked, minus the soundtrack, actors, and moody lighting.

Goose bumps broke out on my arms and legs. “It wasn't you.”

Danny, of course, didn't understand about my plans to reenact my watery Songkran triumph. “Of course it wasn't me.” He turned to face me, his expression alive with protectiveness. “But I'm going to find out who it was, that's for damn sure.”

“No, I mean . . . I thought it was you in here.” On wobbly legs, I came closer. Numbly, I picked up some clothes and tossed them on the bed. At least that felt decent. It gave me the willies to know that someone else had touched everything. “That's why I—”

“
You came in here?”
Danny thundered, uncannily guessing what I'd been about to say. “After
everything
I told you?”

Feeling like crying, I nodded. “It could have been housekeeping. The maids leave the door open. It wasn't stupid.”

“It was
very
stupid,” Danny disagreed. He surveyed the damage with his hands on his hips. “Did you see who it was?”

“I heard them. But . . .” I focused. Nada. “I can't remember.”

That's being bashed on the head for you. Apparently, it screws with your memory sometimes. I'm not saying I morphed into that dude from
Memento
or anything, but I had a pretty sketchy sense of the past ten . . . fifteen . . . five . . . however many minutes ago.

“Try harder,” Danny bit out.

But I couldn't. “Maybe it'll come to me. Later.”

Thoroughly freaked, I looked around. I shivered. Then . . . “Adrienne's notebook!” I rushed to my hiding place.

Of course.
It wasn't there. I smacked my forehead.

Pain ricocheted through my skull. Whoops. First my bum knee and bruised elbow, now my banged-up head. If I made it out of San Francisco in one piece, it would be a miracle. I sobbed.

Adrienne had given me that notebook to keep safe. Now I'd failed . . . at the very last thing my friend had ever asked of me.

It had felt
so
important to protect it. For Adrienne.

“Hey, hey.” Danny came closer. He put his arms around me. He patted me extra gently. “Easy, there. You're pounding on one of my favorite people, and she's hurt right now. Settle down.”

“I can't!” I sniffled. “I lost it!” I gestured to my most reliable hiding place. “I left it where
no one
else could find it, in my
best
hiding place of all, the one that
never
fails—”

“Inside the torn bottom lining of your wheelie bag?”

I gawked at him. I nodded. “The frame hides lumps.”

That niche had seen me through Vietnam, Mexico, Belgium, and countless other international locales. It was rock solid.

“Yeah.” Danny looked away. “It's not that secure.”

“Well, I can see that
now
!” I wriggled out of his grasp, then paced away. “At least the nutraceutical truffles are safe,” I reflected. “I sent them to Travis for analysis, to try to find out if any of them contained enough caffeine to—”
Kill Adrienne.

Danny didn't let me say it. He crossed his arms. “Travis?”

“He's got guys, too. Just like you. Guys who know things.”

“Yeah. Line-item deductions and interest rates.”

“I trust Travis. He's the one who hooked me up with an expert on anhydrous caffeine in the first place.”

The merger of pharmaceuticals and chocolate had been new to me. I hadn't wanted to wade in without assistance on hand. Plus, I'd gotten a long, sexy chat with Travis out of the deal.

Mindlessly, I went on tidying. Doing something—anything—felt better to me than standing around, dizzy and scared.

“You should have trusted
me.”
Danny's voice followed me. There was a pause. “Adrienne's notebook is safe. I have it.”

“
You
have it? Are you sure?” I didn't know whether to be relieved or annoyed. I settled for argumentative. “What for?”