The Semi-Sweet Hereafter (2 page)

“See that you keep your promise this time. I vetted that app myself.” Travis was still doggedly dealing with the issue of my procrastinatory tendencies. The idea of him needing to “vet” a productivity app was laughable. He
was
a productivity app—a living, breathing, authoritative machine. “It will help.”

“I'll add it to my to-do list,” I promised, reaching past the trusty Moleskine notebook that held that very same list as I dug around in my favorite crossbody bag for my Oyster card. I'd entered the Underground station. From here, it was push or be pushed as everyone surged toward the barriers that divided the ticket hall from the escalators and stairs leading down to the various platform levels. The hubbub almost drowned out Travis.

I was pretty sure he was laughing, though. The nerve.

Was he really convinced I wouldn't to-do-list that app? He, more than anyone, should have known how much I value my running to-do lists. They keep me on track even more than Travis does.

“I'll do it,” I insisted. “I have a system.”

Despite open skepticism, I always get things done.

Travis didn't reply. He was laughing too hard.

I decided to take the high road. “Gotta go, Travis.” I touched in with my card and headed for the escalator, juggling my phone and groceries. “Try to stay out of trouble, okay?”

“You do the same, Hayden. I mean it.” My financial adviser overrode my flippancy with stern sobriety. It was his go-to approach to everything. “You be careful out there.”

Aw. See what I mean? Travis is a championship-caliber worrier. He worries like a boss. He'd probably get on well with Phoebe, in fact. They'd make adorable fussbudget kids together.

If
Phoebe weren't already married to the U.K.'s most famous celebrity “sexy chef,” Jeremy Wright, of course. Details.

All the same, the fondness in Travis's voice warmed me.

We both knew there were reasons I needed to watch out. We weren't talking about the dangers inherent in my unconventional line of work, either—although chocolate whispering does come with certain complications. That's just life.

Sometimes I meet unsavory types during my consulting gigs, for instance. Sometimes I'm offered a bribe to wreck a competitor's product line. Or I stir up hurt feelings by helping one company and not another. Or I outright refuse to work with someone. I have standards. I don't perform chocolate magic for just anyone who comes to me with substandard sweets and the ability to pay my (modest) consulting fee.

Rex Rader had been proof of that much in San Francisco.

But Travis wasn't talking about the chocolate biz. He was talking about murder . . . and the unpredictable ways I'd become involved in it lately. It had been a while since my latest foray into the rougher side of beating buttercream and making fudge. Everything was fine now. I figured it would stay that way.

“I will.” I rode the escalator downward, glancing at ads for Lloyds Bank, the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew, and “fatigue reducing” Floradix iron-and-vitamin supplements. “But I don't have to. I mean, what are the odds of something happening here?”

“About twelve per million.”

“Come again, Mr. Wizard?”

“Given a population of around eight and a half million people and an average of two homicides per week, that's—”

I groaned. Leave it to my wunderkind financial adviser to compute the chances of my getting killed while in London.

“Your predecessor, old Mr. Whatshisname, would never have settled for ‘about' twelve per million,” I interrupted drily. Until Travis had taken over for his firm's older associate, my required check-ins had been . . .
enervating.
“He would have known—”

Travis interrupted with a to-the-decimal-point calculation.

“That seems really low,” I countered, feeling encouraged.

“It is. There's a reason your current assignment is there.”

There . . . in Safetown,
aka London, where being murdered was statistically less likely than meeting Her Majesty, the Queen.

I strode through the tunnel, shaking my head as I realized Travis was trying to protect me—was hinting he
had
protected me.

“Did you nudge the Primrose bid to the top of the pile?”

He didn't admit as much. But Travis handled all my requests for consultations. He was the one who decided where I went, aside from me. It was a broadening of his role, but he hadn't minded. It wasn't as though Danny could take on the job. He was so eager for me to “succeed”—that is, grow my business—he would have let me consult for anyone with a pulse and a bank account.

With him there to back me up, for sure. But still.

Danny was terrific. But tough times changed people. They changed their priorities and their willingness to follow the rules.

“Aw. I love you, too, Travis.” Saying so with over-the-top sentimentality, I pulled a goofy face. “I'm definitely coming to the Pacific Northwest after this job so we can meet in person.”

As if that would ever happen, I groused silently. Travis is as elusive personally as he is proficient professionally. I knew more about his dog than I did about him. Which wasn't saying much. I'd only found out about the dog recently. From Danny. My security expert had a talent for sussing out details. And for punching people. But in this case, he'd only snooped. On Travis.

He'd gotten woefully little information, though. Darn it. “Speaking of which, I've been wondering,” I pressed, seizing the moment, “what kind of dog do you have, Travis?”

A moment passed. Nada. I should have expected that, I guessed. Then I realized the phone had gone dead in my hand.

There was no service on the platform. Foiled again. Even the London Underground was stymying my efforts to find out more about Travis. I sighed and queued up along the yellow line with everyone else, headed to Primrose to set Phoebe's mind at ease.

* * *

By the time I made it to Chelsea, the tony neighborhood not far from the Thames where Primrose drew crowds every morning, I regretted my earlier shopping expedition. Sure, I'm strong. I can hoist burlap bags of cacao beans and handle heavy stainless steel sauciers in a restaurant's back-of-house with the best of them. But even in a typically cramped bakery kitchen, it's possible to turn around. That wasn't true of an Underground train during rush hour. I'd gotten a
lot
more intimate with my fellow travelers than I wanted to be. Stepping aboveground afterward, I exhaled with relief and headed for the chocolaterie-pâtisserie.

I'd been consulting at Primrose for a couple of weeks now. Phoebe had entrusted me with a set of keys and access to the shop's secret recipe journal—a notebook full of various bakers' formulas, its pages splattered with cream and dusted with cocoa powder. Most establishments treated their “books” with utmost secrecy, but Phoebe had practically thrown Primrose's at me.

She'd been desperate to sort out Primrose's quality problems. Lately, the shop's sweets hadn't been sweet enough, their cakes hadn't been tender enough, their chocolate treats hadn't been creative enough. Those issues, combined with competition from newer artisanal chocolateries, threatened to squash Primrose's longtime supremacy in the neighborhood.

Like many of my clients, Phoebe had come to me via referral. I had a feeling my previous consultee might have been a little
too
effusive in his praise, though, because Phoebe seemed convinced I could work miracles at her shop.

I was convinced I could, too, of course. I'm generally pretty confident. Honestly, all Primrose needed were some new suppliers and a few technical improvements—tweaks I could easily teach the staff, given time. But usually it's best to manage clients' expectations. I didn't want Phoebe thinking I could turn her ramshackle team of bakers into geniuses overnight.

I'd come pretty far in tutoring them—in getting a feel for what was working well at Primrose (brownies, fudge) and what wasn't (cookies, single-origin bars, cakes). But the staff were green. I'd need more time to achieve a full turnaround.

As expected, Primrose was locked up tight. The shop's brick walls and Georgian façade stood sturdily against the encroaching sunset, an event that streaked the sky orange and lent a faint rosy glow to the neighborhood. On the corner, locals gathered for a pint, most of them standing outside the pub chatting. In the distance, I heard cars and Routemaster buses roaring down Chelsea Embankment. Here, though, everything was peaceful.

I hadn't really expected anything else. The problems at the chocolaterie-pâtisserie didn't include rampant carelessness, despite the mistakes Phoebe had alluded to with Hugh Menadue, one of the apprentice bakers. Overall, Primrose was a cozy and inviting shop. Its café-style tables and chairs were immaculate, its floor spotless, its windowpanes streak-free. Through those windows, in front of me, passersby could be lured inside with views of cocoa-marbled “slices” (Britspeak for pieces of cake), malted chocolate cream pies, semi-sweet cream buns, and more.

Now, though, after hours, Primrose's display platters and vintage cake stands had been removed. The windows stood empty.

I beelined down the tight alleyway behind Primrose and double-checked the back door, too. It was similarly secure.

I called Phoebe and left her a message saying so, trying not to feel irked at having been sent on a wild-goose chase. She didn't pick up, probably because her upper-crust soirée had taken a turn for the raucous. Don't let anyone tell you that the English aristocracy don't know how to party. The dark circles under my eyes proved otherwise. I hadn't gotten a truly solid night's sleep since coming to London to consult at Primrose.

See, I'm not just chocolate whispering for Phoebe. I'm staying at her place, too—at the guesthouse adjacent to her fancy-pants Georgian town house a few streets over, in fact.

The accommodations came with the job. While I can hold my own in the financial department, I can't just conjure up an eighteenth-century crash pad full of antiques and luxuries for myself. So when Phoebe offered, I accepted. She hinted there'd be cocktails and tea parties, an introduction to her sought-after celebrity chef hubby and an opportunity to network with her well-connected friends. But I'd been sold at the words “four-poster in the bedroom” and “claw-footed tub in the bath.”

I might be a sneaker-wearing, chocolate-whispering bohemian most of the time, but I'm secretly a Jane Austen heroine at heart. Aren't all women, given the opportunity? So I said yes.

Now, with visions of that old-timey bathtub swimming in my head, I rearranged my grocery bags, left the alleyway, and headed east. The Wright residence stood only a few streets from the chocolaterie-pâtisserie, on a quiet avenue chockablock with similarly grand terraced town houses equipped with white Doric-columned stone façades, dentiled cornices, wrought-iron railings, and enormously imposing six-paneled front doors.

Not that I was going in by the front door, of course. I ducked into another passageway, maneuvered past a fading lilac bush, and pushed open the Wrights' back gate. Their walled garden (“yard” to a Yank like me) was green and welcoming, bordered by primroses (get it?) and cushiony with grass. I trod past that grass on the graveled path, my footsteps crunching in the lengthening shadows. The guesthouse wasn't far, but reaching it always felt like invading a private space meant for family.

Me, I'm at home in hotels, in hostels, in yurts, and in bed-and-breakfasts. Growing up with a pair of globe-trotting parents and no siblings, I'd stayed in accommodations ranging from five-star resorts to remote Swiss cabins, from hammocks on a Balinese beach to cramped sleeper cars on European trains. But I hadn't stayed in anyone's home for years now. Including my own.

That's because I don't have one. Not really. Not anymore.

Not that I regretted my wayfaring lifestyle, I reminded myself as I stepped into the guesthouse's foyer, switched on the lights, and strode to the kitchen to put away my grocery-store finds. I was privileged. I was independent. I was secure.

I was staring at a dead man on the floor.

Again.
Oh, God.
No no no no.

I blinked, but he was still there. Unmoving. Unbreathing. Unlikely to be simply napping in that awkward slumped position on my guesthouse's blood-streaked tiles. On the verge of freaking out, I hauled in a deep breath and tried to evaluate the situation calmly. That's what I'd promised myself I'd do in the (very) unlikely event that anything like this ever came up again.

I failed. Mostly because of the blood. It was just . . .

Too much.
I dropped everything and grabbed my phone.

I needed help, and I needed it now. Because if I wasn't mistaken, Travis's homicidal-incidence-per-population odds had just been illustrated in the worst possible way. On my floor.

It looked as though I, Hayden Mundy Moore, had stumbled upon a murder. All over again.

Two

“And what time was it again when you arrived?”

At the sound of the detective constable's voice, I started. I'd been drawn away from our interview, pulled inexorably toward the sight of the London Metropolitan Police officers who were currently dealing with the evidence. With the body.

With
him.
Jeremy Sebastian Wright. Dead at thirty-seven.

Phoebe will be devastated,
I thought to myself. Jeremy was
—had been—
her husband. I had to call her. Right away. What if no one else had? What if she was partying away, oblivious to this?

Numbly, I reached for my crossbody bag. For my phone.

The constable closed her hand on mine. “Ms. Mundy Moore, I need you to concentrate right now. Just for a little longer.”

Her calm demeanor was soothing. I nodded, then let my hand fall away. It trembled. My mouth felt dry, my mind full of shock. How could this be happening? Why here? Why now? Why him?

“I'm sorry.” I shifted my gaze to the DC's white starched collar. Like the rest of her, it was pristine. “Where were we?”

“With you, just as you arrived here this evening.”

Duly reminded, I nodded again. Detective Constable Satya Mishra watched me intently, her dark eyes inscrutable and her features composed. I couldn't begin to guess what she was thinking. Her overall air of command was impressive.

I
felt
impressed. Also, dazed, disbelieving, and shaky.

I told Detective Constable Mishra what I knew. It wasn't much. I hadn't seen anyone fleeing the scene—hadn't seen anyone inside the place, either. Trying to help, I described my arrival at the Wrights' guesthouse, my approach from outside through the garden, my turning on the lights, and my practically tripping over Jeremy Wright's inert body as he lay in the kitchen.

Recalling the scene, I shuddered. I'd never forget that grisly sight. Part of Jeremy's skull had been . . . well,
crushed
was the best way I could find to describe it. Gruesomely, the rest of him had looked just as handsome as ever. His light brown hair had crowned his face as appealingly as it had when he'd been alive, accenting his blue eyes and his square, stubbled jawline.

Those famous eyes of his had looked blank, though. Horribly blank, devoid of the liveliness they'd possessed the one and only time I'd met him on the day I'd arrived in London. Now he'd be unshaven forever, too. His mother would be so disappointed.

At that moment, as DC Mishra continued questioning me, I wished
my
mother were there. She and my father lived in London—in Mayfair, to be precise— but they were working in France. We were divided by the English Channel and hundreds of miles.

Much closer to me, officers dressed in the Metropolitan Police force's black uniforms with white shirts, black ties, and vivid yellow “high-vis” vests performed their duties. Two loaded Jeremy's body onto a stretcher, guided by a medical examiner. Others took photographs and (I presumed) gathered forensic evidence. I couldn't be sure. I couldn't even be sure how much time had passed. I've witnessed dead bodies before. Sadly. But I'll never become inured to the awful unreality of it all.

An officer wearing a bowler hat with a distinctive band of Sillitoe tartan wrapped around it—you've probably glimpsed that black-and-white checked pattern somewhere—cataloged my fallen groceries as though they too were evidence. My Dark Chocolate Hobnob wannabes merited a tag. My blackcurrant jam got another.

The jar had smashed on impact. I eyed the purple goop my preserves had become, feeling disconnected from it all. I didn't even remember having dropped my grocery bag. I was lucky I'd had the wits to dial 1-0-1, the English nonemergency services code.

I told Constable Mishra as much. She nodded graciously.

I didn't know why she was spending so much time questioning me. I was a bystander. That's all. Yes, I was staying in the guesthouse temporarily, I confirmed when she asked me. But no, I hadn't really known Jeremy Wright. I'd been working for Phoebe.

“Did your work involve all this?” DC Mishra's wave indicated the kitchen and the equipment currently cluttering it.

I recognized most of it. I've consulted on film sets and commercials, helping to make the chocolate “hero” (the subject of the filming) look its best. Professional lighting rigs stood ready to illuminate the work area with the help of filters and reflectors. A boom pole with a muff-covered shotgun mic affixed to it leaned against the refrigerator. A portable audio recorder waited on the countertop next to a stack of boxed cake mixes.

I squinted to read the labels.
Hambleton & Hart Molten Chocolate-flavored Dessert Delight,
one read. I glimpsed
Strawberry Surprise
something-or-other on another box. Hm.

Want a professional tip? When a food product uses lots of ambiguous terms like “delight” and “surprise,” watch out. That generally means it's more manufactured than baked. Not yummy.

“No, this wasn't mine,” I told DC Mishra, returning my full attention to her. “Phoebe had told me that Jeremy might be in and out during my stay, though. He sometimes filmed in here.”

What I didn't want to disclose was that the reason Jeremy Wright filmed in the guesthouse's kitchen—which masqueraded as his home kitchen on television—was that his
real
kitchen was much too fancy to be relatable to his everyday viewers. Jeremy was a real “bloke”—a guy's guy—who'd come from nothing to build his foodie empire. He couldn't risk alienating any of his fans.

Satya had noticed those Hambleton & Hart boxes, too. But her expression as she studied them was markedly different from mine. She smiled. “I used to
love
those things as a kid.”

Her open nostalgia surprised me. But it only lasted a moment. I might have imagined it. Her expression hardened again.

“Process those,” she instructed her partner with a nod to the mix-and-bake treats. “Find out who's in charge at Hambleton & Hart and get them to come to the station to give a statement.”

“Right away,” came the response, followed by scurrying.

I wasn't the only one who respected Satya Mishra.

My gaze wandered again to the scene behind her. One of the officers had bagged something as evidence. Something gray, blood-stained, and shaped like a smallish American baseball bat. He held it up in his gloved hands, peering perplexedly at it.

“What do you reckon?” he asked his colleague, frowning.

The lull that followed was too much for me. I wanted to
do
something. At the best of times, I'm an ants-in-the-pants kind of gal. I've got a rampant monkey mind and a need to keep moving. The officers on hand obviously needed my assistance.

“It's a metlapil.”

Several interested gazes swerved toward me. I couldn't help feeling on safer ground. This I knew. This I understood.

Murder? Not so much. But kitchen equipment? Sure. So I kept talking.

“It's a heavy stone tool used for grinding, usually in conjunction with a metate.
”
More baffled gazes focused on me. “You know, like a mortar and pestle?” I mimed a grinding gesture, cupping my palm for a metate and curling my fingers around an imaginary metlapil
.
“They're typically made of volcanic rock. They're virtually indestructible. Before the industrial age, they were used to pulverize grain, seeds—”

“Heads?” Two of the officers—unbelievably—chuckled.

A harsh look from Satya Mishra put a stop to that.

Then she returned her attention to me, eyebrows raised.

I recognized her unspoken question. “Yes, maybe.” I didn't want to think about that. I raised my palms in a defensive
hold on
gesture. “I've only ever seen met-lapils used to make bean-to-bar artisanal chocolate. It's pretty complicated, though. First you have to remove the cacao beans from their fruit, then you have to ferment them, then comes roasting, cracking, winnowing—”

I stopped short, realizing that DC Mishra was staring at my hands. Why would she stare at my hands, especially so fixedly?

Realizing one possible explanation, I froze.
“I've
only used a metlapil once, on a plantation in Venezuela,” I clarified hastily. Have I mentioned that I tend to get chatty when nervous? “I've never even noticed that gigantic one before.”

I pointed at it and immediately wished I hadn't. Doing so seemed to draw an unmistakable connection between it and me.

That was the murder weapon. What was I, crazy?

I clammed up, but it was too late.

“Yet you live here, isn't that correct?” she asked me.

I swallowed hard. Reluctantly, I nodded. I couldn't help noticing that the rest of the officers had also become very interested in what I had to say. Uh-oh. I wished Danny were there. I wished Travis were there. I wished I'd stayed in a nearby hotel and not been lured by promises of beds and baths.

“You've stayed here for . . . ?” Constable Mishra consulted her notes. Her calm demeanor no longer felt comforting. It felt entrapping. “Almost two weeks now. Isn't that correct?” Her laser attention fixed on me. “But you claim you've never seen that particular metlapil? I find that hard to believe.”

Frankly, I did, too. Had that (unusually large) metlapil been here all along? Or had someone brought it? The film crew?

The killer?

“You can't think
I
did this!” I blurted. “I'm innocent!”

Her tightly pursed lips suggested she remained unconvinced.

“I didn't have any reason to want Jeremy Wright dead.”

Blithely, DC Mishra asked, “You were a fan?”

“Of course! Who wasn't?” Anxiously, I barked out a laugh. Hey, it's not easy being interrogated.
You
try holding up under that much pressure—that much intense scrutiny. Satya Mishra might have the beauty and poise of a Bollywood actress, but she also had the severity and formidable authority of a police officer. They're trained to be daunting. “Weren't we all?”

If they didn't want to acknowledge the truth, I would. Jeremy Wright had been the U.K.'s most famous celebrity chef for almost a decade. He'd eclipsed all his rivals with his rough-hewn charm, Essex-bred accent, and culinary charisma. He'd done several popular TV cooking shows. He'd done sold-out tours in England and abroad. He'd authored multiple best-selling cookery books. He'd married the daughter of a peer! He'd made it.

His fans would probably bawl in the streets when they heard the news. They'd queue (politely, of course) to lay tributes to Jeremy at his jam-packed city restaurants, as fans had done in Camden Square when Amy Winehouse had died. They'd be devastated.

The police offers appeared less distraught. “Nothing he cooked could beat a nice takeaway chicken vindaloo,” one said.

“Or a doner kebab,” confirmed another with a nod.

You might think that Londoners nosh on fish and chips and pints of ale exclusively. But the city has a robust food scene. Jeremy Wright had been at the forefront of it. Cheap takeaways notwithstanding, he'd done his share of proper English grub.

“I don't cook,” Constable Mishra told me. “My freezer is stocked with ready meals from Waitrose, like a normal person.”

Ugh. “Well, you're busy. You have an important job.”

I hoped that job wouldn't include arresting me.

“I could give you a few cooking lessons sometime.” I'd already told Satya Mishra what I did for a living. “Free of charge.”

“Bribing an officer is a crime, Ms. Mundy Moore.”

“Or you could pay me.” I was floundering. We both knew it.

To my relief, DC Mishra did not choose that moment to incarcerate me. Instead, she wrote something in her notebook, gave me another evaluative look, then stood in the guesthouse's kitchen. She frowned at me. “Don't leave town, Ms. Mundy Moore.”

I gulped and tried to look guilt free.

Don't leave town.
Wasn't that what the police said to their prime suspects? Was I a prime suspect? All I'd done was stay in a place where I had plenty of opportunity, report finding a dead body, identify the until-then-unknown murder weapon, and loudly proclaim my innocence. Maybe more than once. I wasn't sure.

Hmm. If that last bit didn't implicate me, nothing would.

“We may need to speak to you again, after we've finished processing the crime scene.” DC Mishra eyed her colleagues in what seemed to be her typical no-nonsense way. Then, me. “You should find somewhere else to stay tonight. Possibly for the next forty-eight hours. It all depends on what we find here.”

“I hope you find a murderer!” I said urgently. I was under suspicion of murder. Officially under suspicion. Oh no.

“We'll find who did this.” The detective constable pierced me with a deadeye look. “You can be assured of that.” Then she conferred with her fellow officers, nodded, and left the scene. If I was supposed to feel comforted, I didn't. While it was somewhat reassuring to know that the police were on the job, they were pointed squarely in the wrong direction.

They were pointed at me. I wanted to escape, but I wasn't sure where to go. I wanted to forget about this, but that was impossible. I wanted to break down the situation with someone who wasn't mentally fitting me for handcuffs and prison stripes.

Muzzy-headed, I stepped outside into the encroaching darkness. In the garden, I could still make out the faraway sounds of laughing pubgoers and summertime traffic on the embankment.