Dark Chocolate Murder

by Anisa Claire West

  *****

  Pierre and Belinda lay sated in the big hotel bed, cuddling as she had become so accustomed to. She nestled her head against his hairy chest, in an intimate nook just above his heart. Their peaceful moment was shattered momentarily with the ringing of a cell phone. Reluctantly, Pierre reached for the phone on the nightstand. He frowned and said, “It’s Nathalie. I have to take her call.”

  “Allô?” Pierre spoke into the receiver. As soon as Nathalie began talking, Pierre’s body tensed and he sat up in bed. Belinda rolled away from him, watching his face with rising concern. “Oh no! Mon Dieu! This is terrible. Nathalie, don’t worry. Yes, of course I’ll come. I’ll be there this evening.”

  Belinda flinched as he spoke those last words before hanging up. She looked at him expectantly, knowing she was not going to like what she was about to hear. With a dry mouth, she asked, “What’s wrong? Is Marc okay?”

  “No,” Pierre answered grimly. “She says that Marc has come down with chicken pox. And he has a fever over 100 degrees. Nathalie has even quarantined him from Xavier and Mathieu because they’ve never had chicken pox before. He’s been all alone in their guest bedroom for the past day. He can’t even play,” Pierre informed glumly, lines of worry creasing his forehead.

  “Oh, that’s awful! Poor Marc!” Belinda exclaimed.

  “I know. Belinda, I have to go to him. I can’t let my son be sick and not have his father there. Already we’ve been gone longer than I anticipated. Please don’t be upset,” he urged, scanning her face for emotion.

  Stoically, she said, “Of course you have to go to him, and I wouldn’t try to stop you. But I have to stay here. There’s no way I can cross the border right now. You should be fine, though, as long as they still haven’t reported your name or license plate on the news.”

  “No, I don’t think that they have, fortunately. But Belinda, I can’t just leave you alone in Italy without a car, without anyone!” Pierre battled with his loyalties, feeling obligated to return to his son but compelled to stay with his lover.

  “I’ll be fine! I mean, you’ll be coming back, right?”

  “Yes! As soon as Marc gets better, I will come back and be with you again. Maybe Jean-Jacques and Crystal can stay with you while I’m gone?” He suggested.

  “I don’t need them to babysit me! Believe me, I’ll be fine. Just get in that car and go see your little boy. Because your big girl can handle herself!” Belinda forced a laugh, although she felt desolate at the thought of Pierre being away for even a few days. She had gotten so used to the man. So comfortable living as a couple and waking up next to his handsome, unshaven face and heated embrace. The bed would feel frigid without his warmth, but she could not be selfish and ask him to stay.

  “Thank you for being so understanding. You do have a mother’s heart, Belinda,” Pierre said quietly, squeezing her hand.

  Belinda squeezed back, moved beyond words by the sentiment he had just expressed. “I love you,” she whispered.

  “Et je t’aime aussi!” Pierre expressed his love intensely in his native tongue.

  Interlacing their fingers, Pierre swooped down for an intoxicating kiss that lingered on Belinda’s lips even after he had driven away and the sky breathed from sunset into twilight.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next morning, Belinda awoke reaching across the bed for Pierre. Reflexively pulling back her empty hand, she remembered sadly that Pierre had driven back to France. Tempted to bury herself under the covers and give in to self-pity, Belinda fought this impulse and bolted out of bed. There was no sense spending the day in bed alone.

  Filled with hope, she checked her cell phone, but Pierre had not gotten in touch. She tried not to let her old insecurities get the best of her, telling herself, he’s with his son. He’ll be coming back to me soon. This is temporary!

  She jumped up, startled, when the phone rang. Her excitement turned to dismay as she saw it was just Crystal calling. “Hello?” Belinda said miserably.

  “Is everything okay? Belinda, you sound terrible!” Crystal said, instantly panicked.

  “Oh, I’m just feeling sorry for myself today. Pierre’s son caught chicken pox, and he had to go back to France to take care of him.”

  “And where are you?!”

  “Still in Italy. Where else would I be?” Belinda replied, smacking a pillow. If life on the run had ever seemed glamorous to her through the filter of an action movie, it certainly didn’t now. There was nothing exciting about watching one’s every footstep or weighing one’s every word. She was becoming more paranoid by the millisecond. Even as she had just told Crystal she was in Italy, Belinda cringed at the damaging possibility that a third party had picked up that information.

  “You can’t be in Italy all alone! Jean-Jacques and I are going to have to drive there,” Crystal said resolutely.

  “No! Just stay where you are. Pierre was worried about me too, but he knows I’ll be fine. And believe me, I’m not good company right now.”

  “That’s not the point, Belinda! The point is that I want to be there for you!” Crystal sounded exasperated.

  “I don’t think that’s a wise idea. We’ve already been lucky enough that you and Jean-Jacques haven’t been questioned. I don’t want to press our luck. If we were here together, we’d be much more vulnerable to getting caught.”

  A few beats of silence followed Belinda’s heated explanation. “I know, you’re right. I’m sorry. Maybe I’m being selfish right now.”

  “What are you talking about? How is it selfish for you to want to come be here with me?” Belinda asked, befuddled.

  “Because I want to get away from here! Jean-Jacques has been driving me crazy. I really miss working in your chocolate shop. That was the best thing to happen to me in years!”

  “Believe me, I miss working there too,” Belinda sighed. “But Jean-Jacques would still be with you if you came to Italy!”

  “Yes, yes, I know. But at least I would have a change of scenery! I swear sometimes I feel like that prisoner wife in The Yellow Wallpaper!” Crystal cried, referencing the story by Charlotte Perkins Gilman that depicts a wife’s harrowing ordeal trying to escape the clutches of an abusive husband.

  “I think you’re being a little dramatic!” Belinda scolded. “Look, let’s hang up now. We’ve already said more than we should over the phone. I’m getting really worried that someone could be listening.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. Just call me if you need anything! And let me know when Pierre is with you again so I can get some sleep at night!”

  “I will,” Belinda promised. “I love you. Bye.”

  As Belinda hung up the phone, the feeling of void swept over her again. For a moment, she wanted to call Crystal back and tell her to drive there. But she decided against it. Pierre hadn’t even been gone for twenty four hours. She would have to learn how to cope without him. Why did she feel so lonely? After all, she had been single for many years before her marriage and single again for quite some time after her divorce. But that was before she met Pierre…

  A week in Italy with Pierre and she had grown more attached to him than she had felt with Daniel in their entire five years as a couple. Marriage was certainly no guarantee for intimacy, just as casually dating someone did not eliminate the possibility of falling deeply in love. Affixing her wig to her head and going through the ritual of applying the vampire red lipstick, Belinda prepared to go solo again. Alone she would explore another undiscovered crevice of Ventimiglia and the environs. But as the hotel room door softly clicked behind her, she hoped with all her heart that Pierre would be back soon to share these explorations.

  *****

  The next day, Belinda still had not heard a word from Pierre and was becoming panicked. She didn’t even know if he had safely reentered Monaco and proceeded on to France. What if he had been apprehended at the border? Glimpses at the television news revealed that she was still the sole suspect, and Pierre’s name hadn’t even been mentio
ned. But what if Buchet’s vindictive net somehow expanded to entrap Pierre too?

  Swallowing her pride, she grabbed her cell phone and dialed Pierre’s number. She was not surprised when his voicemail kicked in. Inhaling a trembling breath, Belinda left a brief message, “Pierre, it’s me. I just wanted to make sure you made it back safely to France. And I wanted to see how Marc is doing. Call me as soon as you get this message. Je t’aime.”

  Her voice sounded off-kilter even to her own ears, and she immediately regretted leaving the message while feeling so emotional. In an effort to distract herself from thoughts of Pierre, she buried her face in a mystery novel and read for the remainder of the morning. By the time noon rolled around, she didn’t have the faintest appetite for lunch. Instead, she switched on her laptop and composed an email to Lenore.

  Hi Honey, how’s everything with you? I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch for a while. Some crazy things have been happening to me. And I don’t mean crazy good. Pierre told me he loves me, which was amazing. But now we’re separated. I don’t want to explain through email. It’s too complicated. Let’s just say a family emergency has taken him far away from me. I’m starting to doubt everything again. I need one of your poems to dig me out of this hole. Come on, Dr. Poet, your verses are medicine for me! And I need a heavy dose. Love you, girl!

  It was a little after 6:00 AM in Boston, and Belinda estimated that Lenore would just be waking up. Lenore usually checked her email before heading over to the office, and Belinda hoped today would be no exception. Mechanically, Belinda refreshed the web page every ten minutes until a message finally appeared from Lenore.

  Hi Belinda, well, love, you didn’t give me too much to work with. I wish I knew more of what was going on with you so I could help you better. But I do have a poem hand-picked for you. I hope the words help, and I hope things get better real soon. PS, I love my new title of Dr. Poet! Here’s your prescription…

  With tear-streaked cheeks, Belinda read Lenore’s latest poem. The verses uncannily tapped into every raw emotion and old insecurity she was feeling while Pierre was in another country.

  Shuddering Rose Petals

  Glassy like teardrops

  Are the pearls of sweat

  Trickling like dew from scarlet rose petals;

  Leaves shuffling in the midnight wind

  Kisses in dreams and forming on lips

  Your mouth like an offering of pure water;

  Desert morphed into a rainforest

  Clouds opening and releasing rosewater

  Cool and soft on my face, scorching and tumultuous in my core;

  Petals expand at the expectation of you,

  Droop if you evaporate like morning dew,

  The storm has already erupted and I am soaking;

  Absorb me in your pores

  Assimilate me into your breath;

  Fantasies fly with doves and land at your doorstep

  Roses thrive by my window in the sun-dipped kitchen

  Where I invite you in to feast with me;

  As the storm intensifies and shakes my foundation,

  Absorb me---be pure water, not morning dew.

  She slammed the computer shut, agonizing over the possibility that Pierre was just ‘morning dew’ and had already evaporated from her life. Suddenly, it didn’t matter that he had professed his love for her. It didn’t matter that his son also adored her. All that mattered was that Belinda was solitary in the hotel room, feeling more trapped than she had even on the gloomiest day in her office cubicle. A taste of freedom and a splash of love had nourished her starving heart. And now, without those precious commodities, she felt weak and desperate to reclaim what had been lost. Willing Pierre to return her call, she glowered at her belligerently silent cell phone, tempted to throw it out the window. Instead, she decided to do something far riskier than anything she had attempted thus far: she resolved to reenter Monaco and somehow get into France to be with Pierre.

  *****

  Whistling a tune, Philippe Debauche strutted like a proud peacock into the office building. Tucked securely under his arm was a file folder containing the last will and testament of his uncle François. Amidst the police activity and crime scene commotion, Philippe had managed to squeeze into the house and find the crucial documents. Once he had opened them, he had been mollified to learn that François had named him sole heir and executor. Serving as sole heir and executor gave Philippe not only the privilege of inheriting the old man’s vast fortune, but also the power to expedite the transaction.

  Inside the office, his uncle’s attorney was waiting anxiously for him. “Come in, Philippe, come in.”

  On the phone the lawyer had literally salivated when Philippe had told him that he was ready to come in and collect his inheritance. Apparently old François had been sitting on a fortune of more than ten million euros. Slicking a hand over his bald head, the lawyer calculated how big of a chunk he could snatch up for himself.

  “Sit down, Philippe. Now, before we begin, I must tell you that you’re taking a risk by liquidating this money now. Even though Belinda Rockland has been named the only suspect in the murders, it still remains an open case.” The lawyer held his breath, having given Philippe that information strictly out of obligation; inwardly, he prayed that his client would take the risk and cash in the whole fortune.

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Philippe said impatiently. “I don’t care about the investigation. Belinda Rockland will rot in prison when she is finally found. I’m not going to miss out on all this money because some stupid woman is on the run. The case will be closed soon enough.”

  “Excellent,” the attorney exhaled in relief. “May I also advise you that I provide accounting services in addition to legal ones. If you decide to invest any of this money, I would be happy to…”

  “Save your breath, André. I’m not investing anything. I’m going to take this cash cow and go buy myself an island! You’ll never see Philippe Debauche anywhere near Europe ever again,” the young man spoke arrogantly, throwing the file folder across André’s desk.

  André winced but was unwilling to give up on the prospect of receiving a hefty cut of the cash. “That’s a foolish way to handle this money. You already have a reputation around here as a reckless gambler. You lost all your money once. Do you want to do that again?”

  Philippe’s answer was flippant. “I lost all my money, André, but ‘all my money’ was nowhere near ten million euros! I’m set for life now. If you ask me, it’s investing that’s risky in this volatile stock market.”

  “But perhaps a small investment, just half a million euros…”

  “Can it! If you try to sell me any more of your investments, I’m going to find another lawyer. Then you won’t even get your measly fee.”

  Effectively silenced, the lawyer tore open the envelope, eager to get the cocky jackass out of his office. He examined the documents and requested tersely, “Identification, please.”

  “Are you kidding me? You know who I am.”

  “It’s a standard request,” André said coldly.

  Whipping out his driver’s license, Philippe shoved it in the lawyer’s face.

  André recorded the numbers on a notepad and addressed Philippe impersonally. “Here are the bank account numbers. Your uncle didn’t keep his money all in one place. He had accounts in Switzerland as well. He also owned several bars of gold. That’s in addition to the ten million euros. He had a safe in his house. You can get the combination from his safety deposit box.”

  Philippe nearly drooled all over the lawyer’s desk. Bars of gold! And this was not even counting the millions in cash. Starry-eyed, Philippe dreamed of a luxurious life of utter leisure. He wouldn’t need to gamble. He wouldn’t need to do anything. Old Oncle François, with his padded pockets, had made him a filthy rich man.