The Semi-Sweet Hereafter (19 page)

“Have you ever been to the Tower of London?” I asked Danny. “Tower Bridge? Piccadilly Circus? Greenwich? We've got all day. We might as well act like tourists while we're here, right?”

To my surprise, my (usually) taciturn security expert agreed. “Hand me a Union Jack T-shirt, a basket of fish and chips, and a map of the Underground, and let's go.”

Thirteen

Despite the rollicking time that Danny and I had while seeing the Big Smoke as tourists—ending our spontaneous tour of London in the same friendly pub that had been Jeremy's local—my security expert wasn't up for more of the same the next day.

“I have . . . things to do,” Danny told me cryptically. He gave me a hawk-eyed look. “You'll be okay without me today?”

I nodded. “I'm just going into Primrose for awhile, then I have a tutoring session with Phoebe. She insisted on it.”

It was back to the grind for me, now that Jeremy's funeral was over with. Today's tabloids had had a particularly vicious take on the memorial service and the people who'd attended it—including Liam, Andrew Davies, Claire Evans, and several prominent Londoners—probably owing to the difficulty the media had had while covering the event. Numerous members of the London Metropolitan Police Service had been there for crowd control, as it turned out, so Danny and I had chosen an opportune day for our search of the Wrights' town house. Since it hadn't turned up anything noteworthy, I was happy we hadn't risked much.

Danny examined me. “That's all that's on your agenda?”

“Well, that and a workout with Liam at The Green Park,” I amended. Sometimes I thought Danny and Travis kept better track of my schedule than I did. Or maybe I just wasn't looking forward to another round of wind sprints, burpees, and push-ups.

Yeah, that was probably it. One had been enough for me.

Danny's expression sobered. “I'll catch up to you by then.”

“You don't seriously think Liam would hurt me, do you?”

“He's too big and dangerous to overlook.”

“You're just saying that because
you're
too big and dangerous to overlook. Besides, you don't fool me,” I told Danny with a grin as I slung on my crossbody bag and gathered my chocolatier gear in preparation for my travels. “You just don't want me to know that you'll be shadowing me, probably all day.”

“That's not it.”

“Would you tell me if it were?”

Danny had no answer for that. That's how I knew I had him.

“Cheerio!” I told him. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

“That's easy when
you're
not around.” He beat me to the guesthouse's door and held it open for me. He was being gallant—just as he'd been when he'd forgone his turn in the four-poster bed (again) so I could be comfy.
“You
stay out of trouble.”

“I would if I could,” I told him truthfully.

Then we both sailed out into another (this time, drizzly) English summertime morning, ready to take on chocolate whispering (for me) and . . . something mysterious (for him).

* * *

I hadn't been at Primrose ten minutes before Hugh had another outburst. They were starting to become problematic.

I didn't understand it. Most of the time, the tattooed and lanky baker was a hard worker, jocular—if coarse—and dedicated. But some of the time, when things didn't go exactly right . . .

“Bloody hell!” Hugh shouted. “This is bollocks!”

A loud clatter shot through the chocolaterie-pâtisserie's kitchen. Pans hit the floor. Chocolate splattered everywhere.

Poppy squealed. “Hugh! Watch it, will you?”

Everyone else stepped back. Hugh stalked through the kitchen, then gave another shove to a stack of sheet pans.

“Hey! I just prepped those!” Myra objected, hands on hips.

The rest of the bakers watched, openmouthed, as Hugh paced back and forth. Thick dark chocolate slowly dripped from his prep table. It pooled beneath a wide stainless steel bowl and an overturned pot. Once-simmering water sloshed beneath it all.

Hugh had upturned a bain-marie, I saw. He'd been melting chocolate for mendiants. Evidently, something had gone wrong.

“So?” Hugh snarled, daring anyone to object. He glanced at his upended bain-marie setup, then frowned more fiercely. “What kind of wanker melts chocolate for a living, anyway?”

“The kind of wanker who does nothing but whinge the moment things go wrong, apparently!” Myra said heatedly, striding over to her dropped sheet pans. “Pick those up, right now.”

Hugh glared at her. “Piss off. I ain't your servant.”

“What's got into you lately?” Myra gave him a questioning look. “You knocked them down. Now you should pick them up.”

Hugh dug in his heels.
“You
should shut up,” he said with narrowed eyes, “before you get yourself in trouble.”

“Ooh, look who's so tough.” Poppy stepped up to stand beside Myra. “Picking on a pair of girls. Nice, Hugh.”

But despite their bravado, both of them jumped back a pace as Hugh suddenly approached them, his hands balled into fists.

“You aren't any better than me, Poppy,” he said in a low voice. “We both started at the same time, back when Phoebe cleared house. So don't go getting all high and mighty, you—”

That was where I stepped in, before names could be called.

I knew that Hugh wasn't the only apprentice at the bakery. Just before I'd arrived in London, Phoebe had replaced all of her previous chocolatiers and bakers. She'd claimed that she'd wanted to give the participants of Jeremy's foundation a fresh start. And, you know, maybe net some positive publicity for Primrose, while she was at it—which she'd done. It hadn't been enough, but I'm used to that. By the time my clients call me, they've usually tried any number of things to salvage their floundering chocolate businesses, usually without success.

Hers had been an understandable impulse—and Phoebe had helped find good jobs for the workers she'd replaced—but she hadn't thought it through. Like so many things in her life, it was supposed to have simply succeeded, one way or another. If I'd led a similarly charmed existence, like Phoebe, I might have done the same thing. But since I haven't, I got down to work.

I faced Hugh squarely. “What's the matter?”

“My chocolate seized.” He may or may not have heaped in several expletives to make his point. Okay, he definitely did.

Hugh was nothing if not outspoken. Occasionally, abrasive. Most often, though, he was perfectly charming and likable. Being an apprentice can be challenging. Everyone is very aware that they're theoretically on probation. They might fail at any time.

“Seizing is no big deal.” I looked around at the mess. “It happens sometimes, but it certainly doesn't warrant this. Clean up, redo Myra's sheet pans for her, then see me,” I told him in a pacifying tone. “I'll walk you through it, step by step.”

He shook his head and crossed his arms. “I'm not a baby.”

This time, he added an even rawer expletive.

I straightened to my full five-foot-six or so, then met him toe-to-toe. I might not be big, but I'm strong, stubborn, and unafraid to tangle with belligerent bakery staff. Bullies and troublemakers populate restaurant kitchens worldwide. You can't show fear. If the average line cook thinks he's intimidated you, you're toast. Besides, I've faced down honest-to-God murderers and lived to tell (you) about it. Hugh didn't worry me.

“Then stop acting like a baby and get to work,” I told him. “Be an adult. Take responsibility for what you did.”

My serious tone finally broke through. Hugh's lower lip actually wobbled. I could have sworn he almost cried.

Maybe I didn't need to work out later. I'd already (figuratively) bench-pressed a surly, tantrum-prone baker.

But since it wouldn't do any good to push Hugh further, I turned to everyone else next. It was a deliberate act, designed to show Hugh and the rest of the Primrose staff that I trusted Hugh to do the right thing. Just as I trusted them to work hard.

“Let's have a progress report from the rest of you.” I headed for another baker's station, inhaling chocolate as I did so. “How are the triple chocolate biscotti coming along?”

Even as I said it, I felt Hugh's scowling attention follow me. But as I examined the biscotti in question, then showed the baker how to diagonally slice her cookie logs into batons for their second baking—the one that makes them crunchy enough to dip—I heard the clatter of pans. Then the swish of a mop.

Hugh was cleaning up, I saw from the corner of my eye.

We'd finally turned a corner at Primrose, I realized. Sometimes things got worse before they got better. But you have to persevere. You never know when you're on the verge of a breakthrough—when the very next thing you try is the thing that succeeds . . . the thing that would have never happened if you'd quit.

I'd needed Hugh's full cooperation, and I'd gotten it. I needed to find out who'd killed Jeremy Wright—and remove myself from suspicion, in the process—and I was doing that, too.

I couldn't stop. For Jeremy's sake, I had to keep going. No matter how little evidence or how many suspects I had just then.

Reminded of all the proof I still didn't have, I headed back to see Hugh. His eyes still looked suspiciously red-rimmed—he was, after all, a young man trying to learn a difficult new job—but he'd calmed down by the time I reached him. He'd already set up a new bain-marie by balancing another wide stainless steel bowl atop a pan full of barely simmering water. He was adding chopped chocolate to the bowl, preparing to temper it.

If he didn't, I'd explained to the Primrose staff, the chocolate would never set. Any confections made from it might bloom. They'd definitely look dull. They'd melt much too easily.

You know that gloss and depth that well-made chocolate has? That faint
snap
when you break off a piece? That's the result of skilled tempering—bringing chocolate to the correct temperatures to align its various crystalline structures. I know that doesn't sound delicious, but it's important. Without tempering, no one would ever have eaten a delicious Mexican
choco-latina
flavored with cinnamon, almonds, and vanilla, or a Belgian
chocolade
with its signature praliné center made of caramelized ground nuts.

Hugh didn't acknowledge me. Not right away. For the first few moments, we worked side by side, me chopping the rest of his allotted chocolate block into the tiny shards that would make up his “seeding” chocolate for a later stage of the tempering process, and him studiously watching his instant thermometer.

At last, Hugh nodded at the temperature. “That's it.”

Surreptitiously, I sneaked a peek, then gave a slight nod. One of the things that's fiddly about tempering chocolate is that different varieties of chocolate melt at different rates. Harder Malaysian cacao takes longer; softer Brazilian takes less time. Unless you know your chocolate's origins, it's tricky.

Wordlessly, I stepped back to let Hugh add some of the waiting seeding chocolate. That unmelted chocolate would cool the mixture just enough. After that, Hugh would increase the temperature again, until most of the beta crystals reached a uniformly small size. That homogeneity was what would give the resulting tempered chocolate its unique capability to be dipped, molded in bars, or used to coat Primrose's chocolate biscotti.

With all the seed chocolate added, we both held our breath. Then, beneath his bandanna, Hugh's face brightened. “Whew!” He peered into the bowl, then gave me a relieved look. “That's not what happened last time. This looks loads better already.”

“Last time, did it go all grainy? Dull? Hard to stir?”

He nodded. “It seized up like a mother—”

I stopped him before he could finish that obscenity. I'm not squeamish about profanity, but some of the bakers were.

We were, after all, working in a family business.

“That happens,” I told Hugh, fighting an urge to clean some of the splattered chocolate from his chef's whites. In some ways, he seemed like a little boy—a gigantic, broad-shouldered, profane little boy. Hugh was easily angered, but just as easily soothed. He could have been my younger brother. You know, if I had one. “Most likely some water found its way into your first batch of chocolate and bollixed up the works,” I explained. “If that happens, the chocolate isn't ruined—”

Hugh's sheepish expression told me he'd thought otherwise.

“—but it's no good for couverture.” For coating or molding. “If it's seized, you can sometimes bring it back, though.”

“I tried to fix it by pouring in boiling water,” Hugh told me. “I thought it made sense. Something hot plus something hot.”

I understood the impulse. “When tempering, water is your mortal enemy, no matter how hot it is. You can sometimes smooth things out by adding a tiny bit of oil or melting in some more chocolate. It won't behave the same way, but it's still fine for baking or making chocolate sauce. Next time, just ask, okay?”

Hugh crossed his arms. “You would've chewed my arse off.”

“Not likely. Teaching is what I'm here for.”

He shook his head.
“Everybody
has other things they want.”

“I want to create superstar chocolates. That's it.”
And find out who bludgeoned Jeremy.
“How about you? What do you want?” I watched him gauge his chocolate's temperature again. “Why did you come to work at Primrose? You must've had choices.”

His derisive chuckle disagreed. “I've never had those.”

“You will if you stick with this.” I wanted to encourage him. Who knew the hardships Hugh had overcome to be there? “A baker can find work anywhere. A chocolatier can too, especially in Europe. There, the chocolate-making tradition goes way back.”