The Semi-Sweet Hereafter (8 page)

He licked the tip of a pencil, did some calculations, then squinted up at me. The figure he announced was mind-boggling.

Let's just say it's a good thing I'm financially secure.

Knowing I'd have to explain this expense to my keeper (aka Travis) later, I handed over my credit card. While the barman processed it, I had another brainstorm. “Who was set to pick up the next order?” I asked while performing the usual ritual with a handheld POS terminal. “I'm going to need to cancel that.”

The barman took back the device. “You're different from the other girl,” he observed, chipper now that he'd gotten a big payment. “She was a mousy little thing. Wouldn't say boo.”

Hmm. This wasn't the first time I'd been mistaken for Jeremy's personal assistant. It wasn't the first insinuation I'd heard that Nicola Mitchell was timid, either. That opinion was definitely the prevailing one. Yet she'd been plenty forthright with me at the café. That must have been a ruse. Right?

Or maybe it had been a sugar surplus, overloading Nicola's (normally reserved) circuits and making her talk brashly.

I couldn't help wondering . . . which Nicola had Jeremy known?

Before I could defend my own assertiveness, the publican consulted his notepad. “Hugh Menadue,” he said. “He usually picked up orders for Jeremy. Good Cornwall lad. He'll be gutted that Jeremy's gone—not just for the extra work, either.”

Hugh.
I guessed he'd done odd jobs for Jeremy after getting hired at Primrose. Maybe he'd needed the money.

“Is that so?” I leaned on the bar. “They were friendly?”

“Yeah.” A nod. “Hugh's a good kid. He's had some hard times. Got done for having sticky fingers at a shop. Asda, I think. Nothing bad. I knew his dad. Used to run a pub himself.”

Hmm. He meant Hugh had been in trouble for shoplifting.

We chatted about the business for a few minutes. I learned that the elder Menadue had come to East London from Cornwall to look for work after losing his job. He'd had to go on the dole.

“Proud bunch, though,” the barman told me. “Tough, too.”

I nodded, having learned more than I expected.

“Jeremy was the same, God rest him. He was a good man.” Soberly, the barman picked up something from behind the bar. A heavy glass tankard. He offered it to me, leaving empty the space it had formerly occupied on the bar's shelf—a space marked with a discreet engraved brass nameplate. “You might as well have this, too, I reckon. Maybe take it home to his missus?”

I figured Phoebe would rather jump off Tower Bridge than allow an old-fashioned dimpled pub glass to become part of her décor. But the barman seemed pretty emotional, all of a sudden. So I accepted it anyway, nodding solemnly at his thoughtfulness.

“Thank you,” I told him. “I'll take good care of this.”

I hadn't known Jeremy well. But as I accepted that personal pub mug of his, I felt something shift inside me. When he'd last used it, he'd probably never dreamed it would be the final time.

I hoped the fact that it had had its own place on the pub's shelf meant that Jeremy had lived his life to the fullest. You never knew how long you had with your family and friends . . . and your regular pubgoers, some of whom kept their own mug on site.

That's how I'd suspected Jeremy had probably kept an open tab. I'd caught sight of that row of mugs, different from the typical conical, tulip-shaped, or nonic glasses Danny and I had gotten, and had wondered if Jeremy Wright had had a designated one.

My intuition had played out. That's because, in the U.K., a corner pub isn't really the same thing as a bar in the U.S. Likening the two does a grave disservice. To its regulars, a pub is more. It's part living room, part sanctuary; part camaraderie and part relaxation. You can do more than drink. You can talk with your friends, play snooker, throw darts—even triumph as part of a weekly quiz team. A pub is a true home away from home.

I had a feeling this place had felt more like home to Jeremy than his fine terraced town house ever could have done.

“Come back anytime,” the publican told me. He included Danny in his invitation with a tilt of his chin. We both nodded.

“Nice of you to pay off a dead man's tab.” Danny studied me as we stepped outside into the sunshine. “How did you know?”

I explained about the shelf of glasses that were kept behind the bar for regulars. After the dim snugness of the pub, the city streets felt twice as bright and three times as impersonal. I dodged an oncoming pedestrian commuter who was headed for the closest Tube station, then grabbed Danny.

“Come on,” I told him. “I've got another errand to run.”

* * *

My clever distraction technique almost worked.

I nearly diverted Danny before he started grumbling at length about my big payout on Jeremy's pub tab that afternoon. But by the time we'd returned to the guesthouse, my luck had run out.

“Must be nice to dish out that much money without even blinking,” Danny remarked in a too-casual tone. “Are you going to get Harvard to expense it? You could get away with it. Investigating murders is practically your part-time job now.”

I shuddered at the thought. I didn't want another “job.” Especially not one that didn't concern
Schokolade.

“No, I'm not going to expense it.” Paying off Jeremy's bill had been expedient. Now I knew that he
had
thrown wild parties—parties that included regular-Joe beer drinkers, not hoity-toity cocktail or wine sippers—and that Hugh Menadue had been involved in those parties, however tangentially. That was more than I could say for any of the other apprentices or crew at Primrose. “I'm going to move up Hugh on my suspect list, though.”

I'd shared with Danny my scheme to be extra suspicious of all my suspects. His hoot of laughter hadn't been encouraging.

“That's a lot of cash to drop for a few hints.”

I didn't want to get into it. We both knew I'd lucked into my inheritance, just because Uncle Ross and I had been close. I'd loved my uncle's spirt; he'd loved my energy. I missed him. But it never did any good to dissect the issue with Danny.

“I can afford it,” I said, just in case Danny was sincerely worried about my cash flow. We'd arrived at the guesthouse a few minutes ago and were settling in. “Now, about what's next—”

“I don't want to. I'm not going to do it. Not again.”

“You always say that.” I gave him a sassy grin. “Right before you cave in. Let's just skip the preliminaries, okay?”

My muscle-bound buddy furrowed his brow. “No means no.”

“You'll like it once we get started,” I cajoled.

He glanced at me. That meant he was weakening. “Hayden.”

I tossed my shoulder-length dark hair. “We both know where this is going. Telling me ‘no' doesn't get us anywhere.” I grabbed his hand and then pulled it to where I wanted it. “Go ahead,” I coaxed. “Don't deny yourself any longer. Let's go.”

Danny bit his lip. “I'm serious. This is a bad idea.”

“It's a great idea.”

“I can't believe you're asking me to do this again.”

“I ask you to do this every time. Please. For me?”

He sighed, and I won. “Where do you want me to start?”

I swept my gaze over the . . . accoutrements . . . I'd brought back to the guesthouse with us. They lent an indulgent spark to the place's straitlaced, chintz-and-corgis atmosphere. Some loosening up was needed, especially in the bedroom, where we'd been deciding who got the gigantic four-poster bed (me).

I'd tried to get Danny to take turns. He'd opted out.

Finally, he made his choice. Dubiously, he eyed me.

Feeling breathless with victory, I nodded. “Go on.”

He screwed shut his eyes. He took a bite of flapjack.

On a surprised moan, he opened his eyes. “This is good!”

“See?” Triumphantly, I selected my own treat—a “millionaire” shortbread bar layered with chocolate and caramel. It was, I suspected, far better than the granola-bar-style sweet that described a U.K. flapjack (hint: not a pancake). “Yum.”

At the same time, we both stopped chewing. We'd gotten these takeaway treats from an assortment of local shops. While they weren't quite artisanal-bakery quality, they were good.

That meant my work at Primrose was cut out for me. Uh-oh.

As though simultaneously sensing as much, Danny put down his nut-and-dried-fruit-studded flapjack. He gave me a sarcastic look. “How about it? Want to talk about Jeremy's bar tab now?”

I didn't. It would only make Danny mad. He resented the gulf that Uncle Ross's money had opened between us, no matter how much I tried to gloss over it. He resented the strings that were attached to my fortune—the strings that kept me on the move for at least several months per year—no matter how much I laughed them off. He didn't understand the same things I did.

Things like . . . Uncle Ross had believed that growth was paramount. That stretching boundaries was crucial. That not getting stuck meant more than not being comfortable. He'd given me a chance, in his will, to live life to the largest. I hadn't had to take it—especially with all the stipulations attached—but I had. I'd done it with my eyes open, too. I was a big girl.

I could handle my finances. Danny, my friend, was trickier.

In simple terms, my eccentric Uncle Ross had made a fortune but had never found a wife or children to share it with. He'd regretted making his work his life. He'd wanted me to live big.

To make sure I would, he'd required in his will that I travel, widely and often. He'd enlisted Travis's firm to make sure I did. In return, I got more money than I'd ever told Danny about. Enough to keep us both pretty comfy while investigating.

Or while tasting chocolate. Which was what we were doing, in the guesthouse's elegant bedroom, as a means of furthering my chocolate-whispering job. I got back on track. “Cupcake?”

Danny frowned at the delicacy I offered as though it might explode. “Maybe later. You know this is the worst part for me.”

That's right. He said it. Tasting cupcakes was torture.

“I don't even like chocolate,” he added in an unbelievably long-suffering tone. “You know that. I. Don't. Like. Chocolate.”

And that's why Danny and I aren't soul mates. Because I'm a person who lives for a perfectly made mousse or a delicately spun chiffon cake, and he . . . well, he would rather eat pork rinds.

Danny's affinity for the salty/spicy/savory end of the snack spectrum baffled me. Why would anyone eat Sriracha hot wings when chocolate pecan pie existed? Why nosh on nachos when you could go for devil's food layer cake? Why eat jalapeño poppers when you could fire up some melty, marshmallowy, scrumptious s'mores, and really treat yourself?

I've tried to woo over Danny to the dark side for years. Dark chocolate bars, cookie bites, cheesecake, hot-fudge sauce . . . they've all failed. Every time, I die a little bit on the inside.

Okay, just kidding on that last part. But still. I wished Danny could enjoy the same things I enjoy. Isn't that part of friendship? Savoring experiences together?

Thanks to Danny's flawed taste buds (there was no other reasonable explanation), we had to get our friendship groove on in other ways. I wished, just then, that one of those ways was visiting a club I'd heard about near Borough Market. I could have used a night out. But we weren't in London to enjoy ourselves. We were there to solve problems.

Jeremy's murder first among them now.

Phoebe's chocolaty Primrose treats second.

But since I'd done all the chocolate whispering I could for the day, that left only one topic to deal with: Jeremy.

“Okay, fine.” I sat up straighter, leaving our assembled “research” treats unfinished. “Let's get down to it, then. Tell me what you found when you ‘secured' this place earlier today.”

Danny perked up. He likes talking about perimeters, windows, and dead bolts the way I like talking about triple-fudge ice cream and chocolate ganache. “I thought you'd never ask.”

Six

The thing I love about London isn't just that it's a bustling, cosmopolitan city full of skyscrapers, historical buildings, and a tremendous variety of people. It's also that it's full of green spaces. It's counterintuitive in a city of almost nine million people, but London is a city with lungs.

It's all thanks to the presence of the city's commons—a combination of squares, royal parks, grassy canal-side spaces, riverfront greens along the Thames, and a variety of gardens.

I paced through one of them early the next morning, after having gotten a late-night phone call from Liam Taylor, Jeremy's personal trainer. I'd been surprised to hear from him, given that I hadn't left him a message, but he'd cheerfully explained that.

“Lots of my clients are ‘hang-ups' the first time they contact me.” Liam had sounded hearty and alert, even given the late hour he'd called. Maybe that's what kicking sugar did for a person.
I'd
never know. “They get nervous and hang up before asking for help. They usually appreciate it when I call them back, though, so I thought you might, too.”

I'd been on the verge of asking how he'd gotten my number when it hit me: caller ID on his cellphone. Of course.

“I'm used to it,” he'd gone on, sounding burly even over the phone. His voice had been deep. Jocular. Confident. “It's all part of dealing with people who need help. Sometimes I have to goose them along. But there's nothing to be afraid of.”

“I hear you. I'm in the ‘helping' business myself.”

“Well, I'd love to hear more about it, Hayden,” Liam had assured me, after I'd divulged a brief cover story about working at Primrose with Phoebe—and hence having been referred to her husband's personal trainer. “And about you and your fitness goals, too. Let's say, six
AM
? Victoria Esplanade Gardens?”

I'd agreed, which explained how I'd come to be striding past early-morning joggers and people feeding pigeons while the sun had barely peeped over the top of the “Cheesegrater,” the tower otherwise known as the Leadenhall Building in The City.

I'm used to keeping unusual hours, though. Professional baking is a predawn activity. It has to be. Nobody wants to think about
how
their favorite morning muffins turn up at breakfast, fresh
(
not merely thawed) and ready to go, before they head off to work. But if those muffins are any good, there were some dedicated bakers behind the scenes making it happen.

That didn't mean I hadn't grabbed some fortifying coffee first. I'm not crazy. Somewhere behind me, too, was Danny. He'd insisted on tailing me to my meeting with Liam. Again, you might think he was being possessive, given that I was about to get up close and personal with some professional man candy, but that wasn't it. Danny also had been caught flat-footed by the whole
Murder, She Wrote
routine I'd inadvertently fallen into. He'd been a step or two behind, once or twice, during our time at Lemaître Chocolates and at the Cartorama food cart pod. I think my freelance bodyguard wanted to make up for those lapses.

Not that I could tell for sure, of course. The minute we left the Wrights' guesthouse and trundled through the streets of Chelsea toward the Thames Embankment, I lost sight of Danny.

I felt reassured knowing he was there, though. Especially once I caught sight of the gigantic man headed toward me along the winding path. He stood out like a colossus amid the genteel flower beds and green-leafed trees, moving with purpose and a clear sense of vitality—and a frightening frown on his face, too. I almost balked. His expression looked that forbidding.

Then he caught sight of me and grinned. He waved.

The greyhound leashed beside him sensed his mood and picked up the pace, paws clicking along gracefully on the sidewalk.

I melted. I love dogs. Cats, too, although you won't see them obediently being walked through a public garden. I know a greyhound is probably nobody's idea of a particularly endearing pet, but this one looked especially sweet, with big brown eyes and a lolling tongue. Helplessly, I cooed. “Aren't
you
sweet?”

I stopped to let her greet me, tail wagging. At her side, Liam Taylor watched us both with evident pleasure. “Hayden?”

Already in a crouch to make friends with the dog, I nodded. I rose and extended my hand, keeping my cup of takeaway coffee safe in the other. “That's me. You're Liam, right?”

He nodded too. His right hand engulfed mine to perform the usual handshake ritual. His hand wasn't “usual,” though. It was enormous.

Was it wrong that I instantly envisioned it wielding a metlapil? A man the size of Liam could have easily overpowered Jeremy, who, while not exactly small, couldn't begin to compare.

Liam Taylor was, I saw, the size you'd image a bona fide superhero to be. Tall, broad-shouldered, and so tautly muscular that his workout clothes—a pair of track pants and a tank top, with a jacket and sneakers—looked comically skintight in places. Like his bulging biceps. His gigantic thighs. His barrel chest.

Wow. I could scarcely imagine the effort it must have taken him to build a physique like his. I mean, Danny is well built; you already know that. But Liam Taylor was in a class by himself. Literally. Another weight class altogether. He was a walking advertisement for his training methods. I was impressed.

Maybe I should have been alarmed, too. But except for that brief flicker of hostility I'd glimpsed before Liam had noticed me, Jeremy's personal trainer seemed to have a real Mary Poppins disposition, coupled with a scientist's knack for observation.

Was he observing
me
just then? Looking for physical flaws? Areas to improve? I hadn't signed up for that. Not yet. I squared my shoulders and got the preliminary chitchat over with.

“That is the sweetest dog,” I couldn't help saying, noticing her placidly sitting on her leash at Liam's feet. Not even the numerous squirrels could rattle her. “What's her name?”

“Goldie.” Liam scratched her head. She almost purred. “It's short for Goldie Goes for Gold. She's a rescue from the track. You know, greyhound racing? When the race dogs get old—”

“They retire?” I chimed in, not wanting the harsh reality. I'd had enough of that lately. Jeremy's death haunted me. “They go to live on a beautiful farm somewhere in the Cotswolds?”

Liam laughed. “Sure, why not? Let's go with that.”

I parsed his earlier comment about “the track” full of racing greyhounds, wondering if he was a betting man and therefore might have gambling debts to settle, while Liam gave me another evaluative look. I tried to stand straighter. Hours spent hunched over chocolates doesn't exactly do wonders for a person's posture. My faux ramrod-straight military stance probably didn't fool anyone, but I had to do something.

Speaking of which . . . “Why don't we walk and talk?”

I needed to move. Despite my crack about my chocolatier's hump, I tend to think best on my feet. Aside from which, Liam had been giving my innocent Americano the stink eye since we'd met. I wanted to show him I was more than an over-caffeinated potential dog napper with a crossbody bag full of chocolate samples and ideas for future decadent treats I intended to make.

I didn't need to make a good impression on Liam Taylor. Strictly speaking, he was a suspect in Jeremy's murder, just like (almost) everyone else I'd met in London. But he was a suspect who'd rescued a lovable dog from certain death. That earned him some brownie points, right?

As far as I was concerned, it did. Because I'm an unequivocal dog person. Just as Danny's incomprehensible dislike of chocolate puts him squarely in the non-soul-mate category, Travis's (new?) dog put him firmly in the maybe-soul-mate zone.

On the other hand, Travis does have that pesky air-travel phobia of his to deal with. That throws a monkey wrench into our make-believe long-term happiness. Because I'm always on the move. And I'm not going to limit myself to cars to get there.

Amid my Travis-centric daydream, I caught myself staring at Liam's streaky blond hair, blue eyes, undeniably handsome face, and crazy-hot bod. I shook myself and got back down to business.

I was there for a concrete purpose. Sadly, that purpose wasn't coaxing away Goldie to come and live with me. I'm afraid my chocolate-whispering lifestyle doesn't mesh with pets. But I definitely want a place to hang up my wheelie bag for good someday. You know, eventually. Way far into the future.

“I really appreciate your meeting me like this,” I told Liam as we walked side by side. His idea of a walk-and-talk was considerably brisker than mine. I huffed. “Especially on such short notice. After what happened with Jeremy, you must be devastated. Phoebe said you'd worked together a long time?”

He'd been smiling, having caught me admiring his muscles. But now a shadow passed over his face. “Jeremy and I went way back.” His voice sounded gruff, but he kept moving. I examined his profile but couldn't detect any obvious subterfuge. Or any noticeable culpability. “He wasn't the perfect client, but he kept me busy. Now that he's gone, I'm looking to rebuild.”

“I'm so sorry for your loss. It's such a shock.”

He cleared his throat. “I just want to move on, yeah?”

Liam walked faster, coaxing Goldie to pick up the pace. Because he was trying to outrun his guilty feelings? I had to stay on the alert for deception, no matter how nice he seemed.

“That's why I called you back,” Liam went on, scanning the nearby trees instead of meeting my eyes. “I need to stay busy.”

I understood that. If he was innocent. That was—had to be—a big
if,
if I were to find out who'd killed Jeremy. I hated suspecting everyone I met, when all I wanted was information.

Honestly, there could only be one killer. That meant I would unavoidably suspect several people who were innocent.

Liam inhaled, then glanced at me. “What about you, Hayden? I get the impression Phoebe told you all about me, but I don't know anything about you. Jeremy never mentioned you.” His scrutiny deepened as he said it. “You're not English, are you?”

“No. I've lived all over the place. My parents always traveled for work, so when I was a kid, I did too.” I named some of the places I've lived while traveling with my adventure-loving mom and dad. “I guess all the gridskipping grew on me.”

Liam nodded, pausing to let Goldie sniff delicately at a leafy London plane tree. “I like traveling too. A quick holiday to Ibiza, a stag weekend in Majorca . . . whatever, whenever.”

I liked his attitude. Willingness to travel? Check. Dog companionship? Check. Physical attractiveness? Check, check.

It was too bad I wasn't in London to have fun.

It was too bad Liam was a suspect,
I reminded myself. All the same . . . “What do you do with Goldie while you're gone?”

“She stays with friends. So . . . you're not a journalist?”

“A what?” I couldn't help laughing. “No, definitely not. Poking into people's private lives? Chasing stories? Not me.”

I was surprised he'd mentioned the press. Especially given my own doubts about them. When Danny and I had returned to the guesthouse last night, the crowd of paparazzi had diminished—at least at the back door. The front door had been another story.

Interestingly (or not), Ashley hadn't been among them.

Liam looked embarrassed. He was definitely English. “It's just that a few people from the media have contacted me. About Jeremy.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “I guess they thought I might have something to say about his death.”

Now
I
felt uncomfortable. But I pressed on. For Jeremy.

“Did you?” I pushed. “Have something to say, I mean?”

“Only that he's gone too soon.” Liam hastily rubbed his eyes, ignoring Goldie's pull at the leash. “I'll miss him.”

He seemed genuinely bereft. I felt sorry for him. Commiserating, I touched his forearm. It felt like one of the marble statues lining the exhibit rooms at the British Museum. “I wish I'd known him better. Were the two of you close?”

Liam cracked an appealing grin. “You get pretty close, watching someone sweat.” He inhaled deeply, then looked around. The Embankment had become busier now. Bankers and businesspeople strode to work in a perpetual Londoner's hurry. “How about you? What are your goals? Improve cardiovascular stamina, of course?”

He said it leadingly, encouraging me to own up to the theoretical physical shortcomings that had brought me to him. I felt new sympathy for my chocolate-whisperer clientele. I'd always found it frustrating when they wouldn't tell me what was wrong. Or, like Phoebe, when they'd omitted information that I'd inevitably discover later. But now, standing there with my empty coffee cup and my belly full of chocolate-chip crumb cake (you might have guessed that I hadn't only stopped for coffee), I knew what it was like to feel evaluated. Needy. And lacking.

Of course, what
I
lacked were solid leads about Jeremy's murder, not six-pack abs and the ability to bench-press fifty-kilo bags of cacao beans from a Venezuelan plantation.

“Don't be offended,” Liam rushed to add, undoubtedly seeing my expression. “I set a pretty fast pace back there. It's on purpose, to get an idea of your current condition, that's all.”

My “condition” was breathless, vaguely sweaty, and hungry for another slice of crumb cake. In short, I'm someone who perfects chocolates for a living, and it shows. It was going to catch up to me someday. But today wasn't my day of reckoning.