Dark Chocolate Murder

by Anisa Claire West

  She slowly opened her eyes, forcing herself to accept the cruel reality that she was in jail. And this was just the beginning. Soon, a trial would commence, and she would surely be convicted! All the evidence, fabricated as it may be, pointed an accusatory finger directly at her. The prospect of spending the rest of her life in prison was too overwhelming for her to contemplate. Hyperventilation again threatened to turn her into a heaving mess on the rancid floor of the jail. Fighting to drag air into her lungs, Belinda closed her eyes again, unable to look at the cell walls and breathe normally.

  “Vous avez de la chance,” a husky-voiced female guard said to Belinda.

  “What?! Did you just say I’m lucky? What kind of a torture chamber is this?!”

  *****

  The white-bearded pediatrician spoke frankly to the worried parents. “Marc’s fever still hasn’t broken. This is definitely not normal. We need to run some more tests and see if he could have something other than chicken pox. I would like to order some blood tests and a CAT scan if that’s okay with you.”

  “Of course! Do whatever you have to do!” Pierre permitted, running a hand anxiously through his hair.

  “We’ll run the tests within the hour. I would advise the two of you to stay nearby,” the doctor said calmly, though his eyes betrayed mounting concern.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Pierre said firmly.

  “Neither am I,” Juliette echoed, latching onto Pierre’s arm and leaning her head against his.

  *****

  “Yes, I did say you are lucky, Mademoiselle Rockland, because you are going to be set free!” The guard clarified as Belinda’s eyes lit up with hope.

  “Free? But how is that possible?” She asked temperately, afraid of having her hopes dashed.

  “Detective Buchet has implicated Philippe Debauche in the crime. Not only that, but the lab found Philippe’s fingerprints on the box of chocolates. It’s a long story that I’m sure you will read about in the newspaper.”

  “I knew it! I knew all along that Philippe was the murderer! But no one would listen to me!” Belinda raved, tears flooding her eyes.

  “Yes, but unfortunately, Philippe is at large. The police are searching for him all over Europe. Buchet, however, is in custody.”

  “Buchet? Why is he in custody?” Belinda asked, remembering what Pierre had theorized about the detective’s campaign against American women.

  “Evidently, he promised Philippe that he would frame you in exchange for one million euros. But Philippe never came through with the money. So Buchet ratted him out. Unfortunately for Buchet, the police were already onto his scheme. So Buchet is in jail, and Philippe will be too as soon as he gets caught.” The prison guard reached into her pocket and produced an enormous keychain.

  Belinda watched in grateful awe as the guard turned the key in the lock of her jail cell and swung the door wide open. Bolting out of the cell, Belinda ran towards the front door of the police station, still processing what she had just heard. When she would have fled, an officer impeded her.

  “We need you to sign some discharge paperwork before you go, Mademoiselle Rockland.”

  Belinda whipped her head around and hurriedly scribbled her name on a stack of documents whose French was too technical for her to understand. In a daze, she ran out of the jail, unsure of what time it was. The chill in the air and the blackness of the sky told her that it was the middle of the night. How long had she spent in that jail cell? Four hours? Six hours? Belinda shivered to think how hazy the concept of time could become to a prisoner. As she walked on into the night, she had not even a vague conception of where she was going. A quick check of her cell phone revealed that the battery had died sometime during her time in jail. No direction and no communication. In the dead of night. In a foreign country. Belinda should have been frightened, but after the hellish experience as a prisoner, she felt strangely carefree as she ran until the jail was a shrinking speck in the distance.

  After fifteen minutes of vigorous running, Belinda slowed her speed to a comfortable stroll. She had no reason to run now. She was not an international fugitive anymore. Her name had been officially cleared, and she would not be charged with any wrongdoing. Belinda realized that this new reality hadn’t sunk in yet, and she had been running from an invisible prison. Expelling a sigh of relief, Belinda searched for a taxi to hail. She would go directly back to the hospital and be with Pierre. Belinda didn’t care if she had to push past that sour-faced Juliette Fontaine to get to Pierre.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the shrill sound of a police siren and a stampede of men on foot. Instinctively, Belinda ducked, shielding her face as she feared the police sirens were for her. Then, reminding herself yet again that she was free, Belinda let down her guard and stood as a curious spectator to the unfolding scene. A lanky man pounded the concrete as two police officers tailed him in hot pursuit. Even in the shadows of night, the man’s face was recognizable as that of Philippe Debauche. Alarmed, Belinda took off in the other direction, not wanting to get in the middle of this volatile confrontation. But she was too late; Philippe had spotted her and accelerated his speed until he was just a few feet behind her. Horrified, Belinda kept running, but with his long-legged physique, Philippe had the advantage. He caught her by the waist, knocking the wind out of her as he pressed her roughly back against his chest and clamped a hand over her mouth.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Don’t even try to scream. I have a knife in my pocket,” he warned.

  Belinda wriggled painfully in his grasp but did not attempt to scream. Gulping back fear, she squirmed more violently as she felt Philippe reach into his pocket. A cold slice of metal pressed against her neck. She gasped into his hand, unable to scream even if she wanted to, as her voice was as paralyzed with fear as the rest of her body. Philippe held the blade unsteadily on her throat, and she stopped moving. One misstep and he could sever her carotid artery, causing her to bleed to death.

  The police officers surrounded Philippe, but he wouldn’t budge. “Come any closer to me, and I’ll kill her,” he informed unblinkingly.

  “Debauche, you’re already being charged with double homicide and conspiracy! You don’t want to add hostage taker and resisting arrest to that list of crimes! There will be no hope for you in court!” A man whom Belinda recognized as Detective Montagne tried to persuade the diabolical Debauche.

  “There’s already no hope for me! I should have been in the South Pacific by now, sipping cocktails. I was supposed to fly into French Polynesia tonight! But you bastards caught me! And now here I have in my hands Belinda Rockland, the one who you should be going after!”

  “Save your breath, Debauche. David Buchet already told us the whole story. And we have forensic evidence that links you to the homicides too. Let the woman go. She’s been through enough because of your malice and greed!” Detective Montagne implored, watching through distressed eyes as Debauche pricked Belinda’s neck with the blade.

  A dot of blood appeared on her delicate throat. “That’s just a prelude. I’ll finish the job if you don’t get off my back!” Philippe spat, tightening his grip on Belinda’s mouth as she breathed through her mouth in trembling spurts. Recklessly, Philippe dug the blade into Belinda’s neck again, and this time the blood flowed liberally. Lightheaded, Belinda felt the hot blood trickle down her neck and pool on her chest. “Do you bastards take me seriously now?” Philippe asked maniacally.

  Although Belinda couldn’t see his eyes, she could hear the malice in Philippe’s tone and feel the pungency of his alcohol-tinged breath. Tears rolled down her cheeks, mixing with the blood that flowed from her neck. The police officers appeared immobilized as they calculated their next move.

  When Philippe removed the blade from her neck, Belinda dared to exhale. But her relief was short-lived as he made a vicious stabbing motion in the air, apparently acting out what he planned to do to her next.

  “Calm down, Debauche. Don’t do anything you’ll regret
later,” an officer warned weakly, knowing he was speaking to the hollow ears of a madman.

  Philippe said nothing but returned the knife to Belinda’s throat and pulsed it against her skin. Each time he dabbed her flesh with the blade, she braced herself for a more violent blow. But he just kept pulsing the sharp edge against her skin, not pressing heavily enough to draw more blood. The psychological pain of wondering when he would initiate a fatal blow was worse than the sting of blood gushing from her open wound.

  In a whirlwind, Belinda heard a commotion from behind. One second Philippe was tormenting her with the knife, and the next second he was face down on the ground. She flew into the arms of Detective Montagne as the officer who had clobbered Debauche from behind struggled to extract the knife from the madman’s hands. Even down on the ground, Philippe Debauche put up a formidable fight, growling and spitting like an animal as the brave officer battled to get a grip on the handle of the knife. The officer shouted as Philippe jerked his arm up and stabbed him in the palm of the hand. Releasing Belinda, Detective Montagne intervened, pinning down both of Debauche’s arms as the other officer was finally able to recover the knife.

  “You are a stupid son of a bitch, aren’t you Debauche? Enjoy the fresh air because these are the last few minutes of freedom you’ll ever taste. You’re going to the slammer, and I’d be honored to take you there. I’ll even try to get you a cell next to your buddy, Buchet,” Detective Montagne raged sardonically, fastening the handcuffs on Debauche’s wrists with an ominous clank. “Officers, get this woman to a hospital. Now! I’ll take care of this character.” He roughly pulled Philippe to his feet and pushed him into the back of a squad car.

  Belinda marginally controlled herself from fainting in the arms of the police officers as the reality of what had almost transpired hit her. Submissively, she allowed the officers to clot the oozing blood with a jacket. She looked away, suddenly nauseous from the sight and smell of her own blood.

  As Detective Montagne walked around to the driver’s seat of the police car, he called out, “I’m sorry you had to go through all of this, Mademoiselle Rockland. I had my doubts that you were guilty since the day I walked into your chocolate shop. But the nightmare’s over now.”

  Belinda forced a weak smile in his direction as another officer carried her to a waiting ambulance. The ride to the hospital was fuzzy, and she felt herself slipping in and out of consciousness. An image of Marc’s innocent face appeared like a halo in her mind, and she thought how ironic it was that she was probably going to be treated in the same hospital where he was. Paramedics attended to her solicitously, taking her vital signs and firmly pressing into her wound to clot the blood.

  At the hospital, she refused a wheelchair and instead hobbled into the emergency ward. Seeing her bloody state, a physician immediately tended to her, cleaning the wound thoroughly and wrapping it in a gauze bandage. A paramedic explained to the doctor what had transpired as Belinda lay on the gurney.

  The physician spoke directly to her. “Fortunately, this looks like a superficial wound. No veins or arteries were touched. But you have experienced a significant amount of blood loss. I’m going to admit you to the hospital for an overnight stay.”

  Belinda simply nodded, too frail to respond. An elderly nurse walked into the room and held Belinda’s hand as the doctor examined her for any further damage. Satisfied that she was in stable condition, the physician left the room as Belinda looked appreciatively at the nurse. A few moments later, she fell into a profound sleep.

  *****

  Upstairs, Pierre paced his son’s hospital room for the thousandth time that night. Unable to lower Marc’s fever, the pediatrician had tried an experimental drug on the boy. But as the four year old slumbered on, Pierre feared that the treatment was not working. The only consolation to the worried father was the fact that his son was no longer mumbling in delirium. Earlier in the evening, Marc had exhibited delirious behavior in his sleep, but since receiving the drug, had settled into a tranquil stasis. Juliette stood huddled in the corner, sipping black coffee from a styrofoam cup and staring blankly past her son’s sick bed.

  Pierre avoided making eye contact with his ex-wife, still seething about her disrespectful treatment of Belinda. Cringing with a palpable pain in his gut, Pierre thought of his beloved trapped in jail. He had done his best to protect her and thought she would be safe on her own in Italy. But she had decided to come back to Monaco and then been daring enough to traverse yet another border into France. Even though he knew it wasn’t his fault that she had been arrested, Pierre couldn’t help but blame himself. Looking miserably at his son hooked up to tubes, Pierre Cédaire had never felt more helpless or less like a man.

  Stiffly, he walked over to the nightstand where a remote control perched. He mechanically switched on the television, flipping through the channels as Juliette shot him a rebuke. “Turn that off! How can you even think about watching TV right now?!”

  “Be quiet, Juliette!” Pierre ordered, turning up the volume as a run-down of the day’s news flashed on the screen.

  A mug shot of Philippe Debauche appeared above a caption that read: Double Chocolate Murderer Finally Caught. “Well it’s about damn time! They finally figured out who they really need to put behind bars! But where is my Belinda now?” Pierre hissed. Urgently, he cranked up the volume, holding his breath as the reporter told the story of how Philippe had briefly held Belinda hostage on the street and stabbed her in the neck before finally being surmounted by police.

  “Oh my God! Did you hear that? That thug stabbed Belinda! I have to get to her!” Pierre raced to the door and grabbed Juliette by the shoulders as she tried to prevent him from leaving.

  “You’re not leaving me alone with our son in this condition! Don’t you know how to be a good parent?!” She screamed irrationally.

  Pierre shot her a deadly glare, astonished by her audacity. “You’re criticizing my parenting skills? You? The drama queen who couldn’t exit center stage even for the first few years of her baby’s life? I have been both father and mother to Marc. He barely knows who you are. When he wakes up, I don’t even know if he’ll recognize you.” He finished his statement with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders like she didn’t matter at all.

  Juliette bit her lip angrily, bitter tears streaking down her mascara-stained face. “You have no right to talk to me like that! Just because you’re the one with custody of our son doesn’t mean you’re the only one who matters!”

  A soft knock at the door and a conspicuous clearing of the throat interrupted the former couple’s spat. Pierre and Juliette turned in unison to greet a somber-faced nurse with a thermometer in her hand. “I’ve come to check on your boy, Monsieur et Madame. I see he’s still sleeping.”

  “Yes,” Pierre and Juliette replied at the same time before exchanging a mutual glower. Pierre boldly spoke up, “Yes, nurse, Marc is still asleep. But he seems more peaceful now. Before he was delirious and tossing and turning.”

  “And mumbling?” The nurse surmised.

  “Mumbling incoherent things in his sleep,” Pierre detailed.

  “That’s what the fever does. If he’s peaceful now, that could be a very good sign. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but all his tests so far have come back negative. We can’t find anything wrong with him other than the chicken pox and the high fever.” The nurse hovered over Marc’s bed, raising the boy’s limp arm and inserting the thermometer in the crevice. A few seconds later, she retrieved the thermometer and smiled. “99.4 degrees. That’s a low grade fever! He’s out of the danger zone!”

  Pierre felt his knees buckle as his heart pondered the joyful news. Releasing a torrent of tears that had been building up since Marc had entered the hospital, Pierre put a grateful arm around the nurse. “Merci beaucoup. Ah, mon Dieu! Thank you so much! My boy is going to be okay! He’s going to be okay!” Pierre shouted jubilantly, tempted to jump up and down right there on the hospital floor. Juliette, meanwhile, stood a distance
from her son’s bed, staring off into space again.

  The smiling nurse sobered as she cautioned, “Yes, I do believe this is a very encouraging sign that Marc will be okay. But you must let him continue to rest. I’m sure the doctor will want to keep him at least one, maybe two, more nights after the ordeal the child has been through.”