The Semi-Sweet Hereafter (24 page)

“
Danny?
” I gawked at my pal-slash-bodyguard. I glimpsed him smack in the middle of the set. “What are you doing here?”

It wasn't immediately obvious. Especially given the fact that he was shirtless—dressed in jeans, a pair of work boots, a yellow high-vis safety vest . . . and nothing else. From the kitchen counter, Danny gave me an unreadable look. He opened his mouth.

I expected to hear “I picked up some freelance security work with Gemma Rose.” Or “I'm keeping an eye on things, like you said.”

Instead, I heard, “He's working! I should think that would be obvious to all involved.” Andrew Davies rolled his eyes at me after interrupting with that derisive put-down. Then he turned back to Danny and Gemma. “Keep going, you two! Just as you were before! Let's finish this so we can go on to the last setup.”

I reeled at the scathing tone that Hambleton & Hart's CEO had used with me. In direct contrast to his unassuming manner at Jeremy's Jump Start Foundation, Andrew Davies was an entirely different man when he was in his element (in charge) at work.

No wonder he and Jeremy had argued about their commercial.

Despite Andrew's clear directions, though, Gemma hesitated. She was dressed in costume, too, but her outfit featured even less clothing than Danny's did. Still bodacious at forty-plus, Gemma wore a skimpy minidress, pearls, and high-heeled pumps.

From her feet to her wild bed-head hair, she looked . . . well, ready to do a lot more than cook, despite the big wooden spoon in her hand and the pot simmering on the stove behind her.

The whole tableau was discernable at a glance. Gemma was a (sexy) housewife, caught in the act of making dinner. Danny was a (sexy) builder—one who seemed to have come in to share “a cuppa” with Gemma and then gotten seductively carried away.

The teacup and saucer beside his low-riding jeans gave that away. So did the fact that we three—Phoebe, Amelja, and I—had caught them in a clinch so hot it should have been smoking.

No wonder Andrew had been excited. I would have been, too.

I mean by capturing such a scene on film, of course. It was evident that's what they were up to: an advert, just like the one Jeremy had been filming when he died. The stove and countertop were littered with boxes of Hambleton & Hart snack foods, cake mixes, “vitality waters,” and ready-to-eat treats.

There were workers, lights, and music, too—a soundtrack for the ad. No wonder no one had come to pick up the A/V equipment, I realized, as DC Mishra had assured me they would do. I'd noticed, but I hadn't wanted to inquire and risk annoying her.

“Gemma! Don't go ditzy on me now!” Andrew instructed. “Look at Danny. He's sexy, right?
Yes.
He's feeding you some
delicious
Dreamy Delight. You
love
its chocolaty flavor. Go on, then!”

Despite the whole absurd scenario, I couldn't help grinning at Andrew's use of the word “chocolaty.” That's
not
the same as “chocolate.” I doubted their desserts contained any of that.

Picking up where she'd left off before the distraction of our interruption had intervened, Gemma did as she was told. She shook out her long, blond hair, then resumed her cheesecake pose on the countertop. Danny stepped between her lithe, bare legs, then gave her a smile and fed her a spoonful of Dreamy Delight.

I'd have bet a thousand pounds it was ninety percent air, suspended in a mixture of cheap sweeteners, waxy vegetable fat, and artificial flavoring. But Gemma's carnal moan of pleasure made a lie of everything I knew. I almost wanted a taste.

“Yes!
Yes!
” Andrew shouted, completely ignoring us now. He had the same air of privilege Phoebe did. “Danny, take off your hi-vis, mate. Go on.” He gave a roar of delight. “Brilliant!”

To my amazement, Danny did as he was told to. He shucked his faux safety gear in a single, muscle-rippling gesture, then went back to his next task: body-painting Gemma with pink frosting swiped from a package of Hambleton & Hart's Strawberry-Crème Flavored Heavenly Slices. It looked like . . . fun.

Next to me, Amelja agreed. She gave me a wink, then went back to watching with her duster propped on her hip, forgotten.

I couldn't believe how at ease Danny seemed on camera. He was every bit a match for Gemma, who was plainly an experienced professional. She turned this way and that, always keeping her “good side” to the light as she writhed in pretend bliss.

Across the room, Claire supervised the proceedings with her phone in hand. She seemed delighted by this turn of events.

Why shouldn't she be? I wondered. Making this deal happen must have been why Claire had lured Gemma to afternoon tea via the Nearby app. Claire had probably already made contact with Andrew Davies and had wanted to keep Gemma sufficiently humbled so the necessary negotiations would be short but sweet.

Claire, it occurred to me, was being paid twice for the same job. Plus netting a big profit on Nicola's book deal. For her, Jeremy's death had definitely worked out advantageously.

“That's right!” Andrew encouraged. “That's the way! Yes!” He turned to the rest of the crew, making it plain that he was more than a guest on the set. He was in command. “Now,
you.
Go!”

He pointed to a woman holding a script near a mic.

“Have
everything
you desire,” she breathed into the mic, clearly performing a professional voice-over. “Hambleton & Hart. Why not try the full range? It's
so
easy . . . and
so satisfying.
”

Her final moan reverberated through the microphone. A beat later, the music resumed.
Wow.
If this had been an old movie, I couldn't help thinking, everyone watching would have lit up a postcoital cigarette. Her tone was
that
overtly suggestive. I could see why Jeremy's sexy image had fit the company's new advertising theme. And why Andrew Davies had loved Claire's lewd idea involving the metlapil and Jeremy's . . . manipulation of it.

“That's it!” Andrew yelled as someone else fussed with the sound system. “That's a wrap on this setup! We've got it!”

The crew erupted in applause. Weirdly, no one whooped.

I expected Phoebe to barrel forward with guns blazing. She'd been on the warpath all day, to the point where she'd out-grumped old Mr. Barclay next door. But amazingly, she didn't.

“Andrew!” she sailed toward him with her arms outstretched, a gracious smile on her face. “I'm terribly sorry I wasn't here to greet you earlier. Everything looks splendid, doesn't it?”

If Phoebe was bothered by being in the same place where her husband had recently been bludgeoned to death, it didn't show.

They traded air-kisses
and
an almost embrace. Cheeky.

“Thank you so much for allowing us to finish filming.” Andrew beamed at her. Then he perked up as Gemma came forward. “Ah, Gemma. You know Phoebe, don't you? If not, please allow me to present the Honourable Phoebe Wright.” Unbelievably, he bowed.

In unison, Amelja and I moved closer. All we needed was a bucket of popcorn to complete the fireworks show we expected.

Blue-collar Gemma versus blue-blooded Phoebe? Those two women could not have been more different. It was catfight time.

But we were disappointed. “I'm so sorry for your loss.” Solemnly, Gemma grasped Phoebe's hands. “Poor, poor Phoebe.”

Aha. I understood why Phoebe tolerated her so cordially. I was pretty sure I'd heard her scornfully refer to Gemma Rose as “that tart” not too many days earlier. But Phoebe was nothing if not willing to be fêted, adored, or properly sympathized with.

“Can it really have been so long?” Phoebe marveled in her turn. “Gemma, you look younger and better than ever, don't you?”

Her refined exclamation sounded . . . believable. Warm, even. I was surprised. Even more so when I heard next, “You'll have to tell me
all
your secrets, won't you? Please, please do!”

The two women giggled together, then veered off toward a corner of the busy guesthouse kitchen to trade compliments.

As they did, Danny approached, carrying a prop safety helmet. He'd pulled on a token Hambleton & Hart “gimme” T-shirt over his bare chest, but all I could see were acres of abs.

He'd looked good with his shirt off is what I'm saying.

I smiled. “So, you've found a new career, huh?”

My bodyguard gave me a sheepish look. “It was Gemma's idea. She called me after we ran into each other at the hotel where you and Claire had tea and pitched it to me. I said I thought it sounded like fun, so she and Claire pitched it to Andrew. He agreed, everyone else came on board, and here we are.”

“You look”—I squinted, deliberating trying not to openly ogle my bodyguard—“as though you're having a good time. I guess this is your idea of ‘keeping an eye on things'?”

Danny nodded. “You're wrong to suspect Gemma.”

“I suppose her bodaciousness has nothing to do with that opinion?”

He grinned. “It has
everything
to do with it. Are you kidding me?” He watched her with Phoebe. “I've had a major crush on Gemma Rose for . . . hell, I don't know how long. She's sweet.”

“Sure, she is. She's covered in pink strawberry icing.”

“She's fallen on some hard times,” Danny reminded me. “I wanted to help. Now, partly thanks to me, Hambleton & Hart is going to sponsor her new cooking show and her next cookbook.”

“Along with doing the ads? Wow, that must be lucrative.”

My buddy nodded, then gave Gemma a fond look. “They're a weird pair, Gemma and Phoebe.” He shrugged. “They go way back, but you probably already know that. Travis must have told you.”

He hadn't. I tilted my head quizzically. “Told me what?”

“That Gemma was a principal investor in Primrose. Back then, she had money to burn.” Danny gave me a cocky look. “Who else would invest in
chocolate?
Ugh.” He gave a teasing grimace.

But this was no time for Danny's incomprehensible dislike of sweets. “Why didn't you tell me about this?” I asked him. “A connection between Gemma and Phoebe could be significant.”

“For your ‘investigation'?” Danny said that with a lowered voice—and skeptically raised brows. “Come on. We've been over this. The chances of you finding out who iced Jeremy are—”

“Getting worse every moment
you
keep something from me,” I interrupted. “I don't care how sweet she is, Danny. Don't you see? Now that Jeremy is gone, Gemma Rose has
everything
she ever wanted. Everything
he
took from her when he succeeded.”

Danny's doubtful expression deepened. “She deserves it.”

I followed his gaze to the spot where Gemma was—or where she had been a second ago. Now she was walking away, wiping off frosting as she went. She handed her towel to her companion.

Liam Taylor.
I shot a questioning glance at Danny.

“He trains her. You don't get to be that hot without work.”

I almost smacked him. “Danny! Why didn't you tell me?”

Stubbornly, he compressed his mouth. That's when I knew.

“You didn't think I could do it, did you?” I accused. “Not again. You thought I didn't need to know about Phoebe and Liam's connections to Gemma because my ‘investigation' didn't matter.”

Danny's apologetic gaze told me all I needed to know. “The police are on it this time,” he said. “Let them handle it.”

“Right, by arresting
me.
Did you forget that part?”

I frowned at him, willing him to back me up. As usual.

Danny only shook his head. “If they were going to arrest you, they would have done it by now. The police don't screw around.”

I frowned at him, unable to come up with a suitable rejoinder. I wasn't the one who'd been in jail. That was
him.

A long time ago, but still. Danny knew about that stuff.

Annoyed and hurt, I deepened my frown. What else could I do? I was stuck. But my salvation, conversation-wise, was at hand.

When I say that I realized—in the next two minutes—who murdered Britain's sexiest chef and why, you won't believe me.

But I swear, that's exactly what happened.

It hit me just after Gemma wriggled into a slinky cocktail gown, the advert crew got ready for the next setup, and someone turned on the music again. This time, it was a song overlaid with party sounds: laughter, conversation, clinking glasses . . . the works. Danny got into a suit, then joined Gemma in the kitchen.

That's
when I finally made the connection I'd needed.

At long last, I knew who'd killed Jeremy Wright.

I knew how they'd (almost) gotten away with it, too.

Seventeen

The first thing I did was tell Travis.

I slipped away from the Hambleton & Hart taping at the guesthouse, walked down the block while pulling out my brand-new cell phone, then called my financial adviser with my theory.

Why not Danny? Partly because he was on the set, and I couldn't wait. Partly because—when it comes to logic—Travis is the king. Partly because I'm impatient. I may have told you that, in my head, the wheels never quit spinning, whether it's a new way of making chocolate mousse (with water instead of cream—believe me, it works!) or staging a trial run of what sounded like a pretty kooky theory to explain a murder and subsequent alibi.

To his credit, Travis listened all the way through without interrupting. He's
excellent
at that. Only afterward did I hear him typing in the background—probably searching for plane tickets with an immediate departure from London.

“You're going to have to leave.” My sexy-voiced keeper had a way of making fleeing sound like an unbeatable idea. “Now.”

“Not yet.” I shook my head, even though Travis couldn't see me. I was fortunate that Phoebe and I had been working on her baking tutorial for quite a while today—and that we'd watched the Hambleton & Hart advert filming for three-quarters of an hour after that—so that it wasn't the middle of the night for Travis. “If I leave now, it will be too obvious. If I flee,
someone else
might flee,” I suggested, “if you catch my drift.”

Generously, my financial adviser didn't remind me that he, as a proven mastermind,
always
caught my drift. Instead, Travis quit typing. “If someone there suddenly turns up with travel plans to Caracas or Guanacaste, get out
immediately.
”

“Are those hot new destinations or something?” I smiled. “Travis, have you been looking into beating your travel phobia?”

He squashed that idea. “Neither Venezuela nor Costa Rica has an extradition agreement with the United Kingdom. There are other countries with the same status, of course, but looking at available flight paths, those two appear most pertinent.”

Aha. That meant that my suspect could board a plane—at Gatwick, Heathrow, Stansted, London City, Luton, or another smaller, private airport—and get away with murder. Literally.

I shook my head. “As far as I know, no one has any travel plans. Everything's been building toward me finishing my chocolate consultation at Primrose, Phoebe filming her TV appearance, Nicola launching her book, Gemma turning Danny into the next ‘Old Spice man'-style advertising sensation, and Claire profiting wherever possible.” I threw in mentions of Andrew Davies, Liam Taylor, and Amelja, too. “Anyway, I want to be here to see justice done,” I told Travis. “I've worked hard for it.”

“It
will
be unique to see the police sweep in to save the day this time,” my financial adviser mused. “I'm glad you're not going rogue, Hayden. I would have advised against it. Again.”

Again.
In my own defense, the last couple of times I'd been involved in something criminal, the authorities had been two steps behind the culprit
—too
far behind for my own safety. We both knew that. But this time, I had to agree with Travis.

I envisioned him in his high-rise office building in Seattle, looking out over Puget Sound. Cradling the phone with one hand and loosening his tie with the other. Getting ready, at long last, to tell me
exactly
what he was wearing right now.

“Just keep your distance,” Travis said instead, his tone gravelly with concern. “I don't want you to get hurt.”

“Aw, Travis. I didn't know you cared,” I joked.

There was a meaningful silence as I waited for him to laugh. Except he didn't. I paced worriedly, frowning at the iconic British telephone box I'd chosen as my stopping point for this conversation as though I was unhappy with that crimson Art Moderne–style kiosk, its tidy panes of glass, and its gold bas-relief crown motif. Some tourists slowed, wanting a photo of it.

I stepped aside to let them. Travis cleared his throat.

“If you don't know I care by now,” he said in a carefully casual tone, “then I've done a terrible job of communicating.”

Whoops. “I was only joking.” Unable to stop, I added, “I'm the one who keeps professing my undying love for you, Travis.”

More silence. Then he remembered. “That's right. The other day, after your Tube train incident,” he recalled. “You know as well as I do things that happen during emergencies don't count.”

It was, to a word, exactly what I'd thought when Danny and I had shared that moment down on the Underground platform, when we'd both looked at each other and felt
. . .
something significant.

“I do know that,” I said contritely. Crisply. I watched a few Londoners striding toward home, carrying newspapers and laptop bags and cell phones. “I'm a little on edge right now.”

It was too little, too late. I think we both knew it.

“Hey, it's not every day you turn in a murderer,” he said.

“I hope it's the
last
day I turn in a murderer.” I paced, smiling at the outlandishness of that statement. However bizarre my circumstances were, I had to deal with them. “I'll let you know what happens. You know, unless I get killed or something.”

This time, there was no delay. “Not funny. Be careful.”

“I'll be careful.”

“Be more than careful.”

“Yes, sir.” I didn't think Travis had caught up to my new reality yet. But I had. Or at least I was making strides in that direction. What I'd been through was unprecedented. None of us had been ready for it, including Travis. But we were adjusting.

“You're headed to the police station next?” Travis asked.

“I think that's for the best.” Still pacing, I wandered to the phone box again. As a piece of history, it was unmatched. As a useful public utility? Not so much. Not many people used phone booths anymore. But I hoped that bit of English heritage would stick around awhile. “I can offer proof. The police should take me seriously—even if DC Mishra has her doubts about my motives.”

“I'll vouch for you,” my keeper said reliably.

I appreciated his loyalty, but... “I doubt even you could sway the detective constable from her opinion. She's pretty tough.” I had to admire a woman who was making her way in what had to be a male-dominated field. All the same, maybe I'd seek out George to give my statement to. “She's . . . tenacious.”

“Hmm.” Travis's sexy murmur rumbled over the line. “Sounds a lot like someone else I know. She works with chocolate. She's pretty incredible at a lot of things, actually. You know her?”

His playful tone made me quit pacing. Suddenly, I
really
wished I was anywhere but London, embroiled in another murder.

“I've got to run.” I cut short our banter. More than anything, I wanted to cling to the phone and forget about everything while listening to Travis and his sensual rumble. I would have settled for my financial adviser's take on the ABCs, if it came down to it. But time was wasting. “It's obvious no one is planning to confess to Jeremy's murder anytime soon, so . . .”

Travis caught my hint. “Good luck, Hayden. I mean it.”

I swallowed hard. “I'll give the police your number if I need someone to vouch for my good character, okay?”

“Already done.” I could practically hear him smile across the phone lines. “Why do you think you're not already arrested?”

I laughed. “You're smart, Trav, but you're not omniscient.”

He laughed too. “That's what you think. Talk to you soon.”

His sign-off was as good as a vote of confidence. If my financial adviser had doubted my ability to get this done, he would have kept me on the line, trying to talk me into another course of action. Going to the police was the (only) smart move.

I shot Danny a text message, then headed over there.

It wasn't until I was safely on the Tube train, recalling my conversation with my keeper, that I remembered what I'd said.

Trav.
I'd called him
Trav.
More significantly, he'd let me.

Next time, I promised myself, I was asking about his dog.

* * *

I'll spare you the details of my appointment with George.

He, as predicted, was a
lot
more amenable to hearing my theory than DC Mishra would have been, though. Which wasn't to say that Satya Mishra
didn't
wander by and shoot me one of her typically hostile looks (she did), but she seemed about as eager to engage with me as I'd expected (meaning, not at all eager).

I'm pretty outgoing. Ordinarily, I make friends easily, which is helpful in my line of work. I don't usually run into people to whom I can't relate (at all), but the detective constable was one of the few and the proud. She did
not
like me.

Since I half suspected DC Mishra was still hoping to find a reason to arrest me, I have to say the feeling was mutual.

I skedaddled out of the station as soon as possible, then spent the evening in a state of anticipation. Everything would be ending
very
soon now. I had the assurance of the London Metropolitan Police Service on that. Still, I felt trapped.

I couldn't leave, for the reasons I'd told Travis: I didn't want to spook Jeremy's murderer. I couldn't just behave as though everything was A-OK, either, though. I do
not
have much of a poker face, just FYI. In the end, I sequestered myself in the guesthouse and baked chocolate chip cookies.

That's right. When the pressure is on, your gridskipping chocolate whisperer gets out the flour, butter, sugar, and chocolate (natch) and goes to town. By the time midnight rolled around, I was pulling another batch of my personal king of cookies from the deluxe (but not
too
deluxe) oven. The scents of melted chocolate and caramelized sugar filled the kitchen.

I waved my oven mitt, fanning those aromas toward Danny.

“Cut it out!” he grumbled, casting me a look that reminded me how much he'd rather have had fish and chips. “Have you lost your mind? I know you're worried, but this isn't the answer.”

“Chocolate chip cookies are
always
the answer.”

He eyed the cooling racks full of dozens of cookies. I
may
have done test runs of several variations—chocolate chip with walnuts, with pecans and whiskey-soaked golden raisins, with hazelnuts and dried cherries, with white chocolate chunks, with oats, with peanut butter . . . It had been a very long evening.

“How will you know when it's all over with?” Danny asked.

That was the tricky bit. “The arrest isn't happening until tomorrow,” I confessed. “Did I forget to tell you that part?”

His glower confirmed that I
had
“forgotten.” I'll spare you the swearword he followed up with. Danny was even worse at waiting around than I was. We both like being on the move.

“It's a strategy,” I explained, having been over this while at the police department. “There are multiple forces at work here. There are legal issues involved, warrants to be obtained . . .”

I trailed off, not one hundred percent clear on the legal details. Frankly, I'd been trading evil eyes with DC Mishra during the legalese-filled part of my visit. I'd only snapped to later.

“You can't just barrel in there and start shooting,” I reminded Danny, admiring my nicely golden-brown cookies. I inhaled deeply, savoring their calming, delicious smell. “This isn't the movies. This is real life. This is the way it is.”

Full of waiting around.
I wasn't wild about it, either.

Nervously, I puttered around, moving cookies from sheet pan to cooling rack, then from cooling rack to serving tray. I'd found one of those three-tiered stands in one of the cupboards. Each of its three levels was chockablock with cookies now.

I put my hands on my hips and surveyed the results of my evening's labor. “Maybe a batch with olive oil and sea salt?”

There are innumerable variations on the king of cookies. That's why they're the king of cookies. But for that latest variation, I would need mild olive oil and flaky fleur de sel.

I opened the nearest cupboard door and started searching.

“Are you going to eat any of those?” Danny wanted to know.

I shrugged. “I doubt it. I feel pretty wound up at the moment.” I nudged a pan nearer to him. “You go ahead, though.”

With knowing eyes, my security expert watched me. “It's not too late to take things into our own hands, you know. We might be able to extract a confession. That would move things along.”

“So would my murder, if things went wrong.” I shuddered as I envisioned that grisly scenario. “Let's just wait this out.”

Danny frowned. So did I. Our gazes met. They held.

We both knew of one thing that would distract us for sure.

Fortunately, that's when my cell phone rang.

“Maybe they moved early.” I grabbed it and answered.

Danny started pacing at the same moment I heard Constable George's jocular voice on the other end. “We're on,” he said in an excited, confidential tone. “It's definitely happening tomorrow. So I would suggest you avoid Primrose at all costs.”

I caught his meaning instantly. “You're doing it at the TV taping? But there'll be so many people there,” I reminded him.