Chocolate Covered Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “More or less,” agreed Roger.

  “Any children?” asked Lucy.

  Helen shook her head sadly. “It just never happened, it’s my one regret.”

  Roger was looking over the remaining cakes, deciding between a lemon curd tart and a mocha mini-cupcake. “I know you feel that way,” admitted Roger. “But I think—no, I know—we were spared a lot of heartache. Think of the Westons.”

  Helen turned to Lucy, her blue eyes brimming over. “Their daughter was killed in a car crash.”

  “And even when there aren’t any tragedies, children do tend to test a marriage,” said Roger, choosing the mini-cupcake.

  Helen dabbed at her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “We’ve had good times, haven’t we, Roger?”

  “You betcha,” said Roger, reaching across the table and covering her small pink hand with his larger speckled one. “It’s like that old song: ‘I Got You, Babe.’ ”

  “You certainly do,” said Helen, leaning toward him and smiling.

  The two remained gazing into each other’s eyes until Caitlin returned. “How’s everything?” she asked.

  “Just lovely,” said Helen.

  “Good, I’ll be back with the check,” said Caitlin.

  Lucy reached for her bag. “This is on my expense account,” said Lucy. “I can’t thank you enough... .”

  “Nonsense.” Roger’s voice was firm. “Call me old-fashioned but I couldn’t let a lady pay for me. Besides, I’m the one who ate all the food!”

  When Caitlin returned, Roger snatched the little plastic folder from her. “I’ll just sign,” he said. “We’re guests here.”

  Caitlin pressed her lips together and leaned forward, whispering in Roger’s ear. Suddenly Roger’s face flushed beet red. “That’s absurd. I never heard of anything like that. What sort of establishment is this?”

  “I’m just following orders,” she said, looking extremely uncomfortable.

  “I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding,” said Roger, scribbling on the bill and snapping the folder shut. “Here you go. I’ll take it up with the management later.”

  Caitlin shook her head, refusing to take the folder. “Cash only, those were my instructions.”

  “Can’t you see I have guests,” protested Roger. “I’ll take it up with the manager later.” He practically tossed the folder at her. “Now off you go, like a good girl.”

  Caught off balance, Caitlin snatched the folder out of the air and walked off, scowling.

  “I’m so sorry about that,” said Roger, turning to Lucy. “I don’t know where they get their help these days.”

  “From right here in town,” said Lucy, who sympathized with Caitlin’s predicament and hoped she wouldn’t get in trouble. “She’s in my daughter’s class at school.”

  “Well, I’m afraid she’s going to learn a hard lesson. There’s no tip for that girl.”

  “It wasn’t her fault, Roger,” said Helen. “It’s just a misunderstanding. I’m sure you can straighten it out with the manager.” She paused, beaming at him. “You always do.”

  Roger turned to Lucy. “You know what they say: Behind every successful man there’s a good woman. I don’t know what I’d do without my Helen. I don’t deserve her.”

  “Of course you do, Roger. It’s I who don’t deserve you.”

  “No, dear, you are the glue that holds us together.”

  “No, Roger. You are. It’s your strength. I’d be lost without you.”

  “And I without you.”

  Time for me to get lost, thought Lucy, feeling as if she’d eaten too many sweets. Which was funny, when you came to think of it, because all she’d had was tea. Plain tea with no sugar.

  Back home, Lucy checked the mailbox that stood out by the road and found a couple of bills, a flyer from the hardware store, and a thick envelope like a wedding invitation. Intrigued, she opened it and found an engraved card from the Chamber of Commerce inviting her to the Hearts on Fire Ball scheduled for Valentine’s weekend at the VFW hall. The part about the VFW hall was a bit discouraging, but the event was black-tie optional, which made her heart beat a little faster, imagining how handsome Bill would look in a tux. And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a reason to wear anything dressier than a pair of slacks and a nice sweater.

  Hurrying into the house, she debated how best to approach the subject with Bill, who declared himself allergic to neckties. A rented tux was a lot dressier than the all-purpose blue blazer he wore, most often with an open-necked shirt, when a jacket was absolutely necessary.

  Lucy paused in the kitchen to slip off her boots and hang up her jacket, taking a moment to neaten up the coat rack. Why couldn’t Bill and the girls manage to use the little loops for hanging that were sewn into their jackets? Instead, they tossed them on the row of hooks any old way, piling them one on top of the other until the whole mess slid off onto the floor. Catching herself in a negative train of thought, she resolved to try to think more positively, like Helen Faircloth. There was nothing she could do about winter, the weather was out of her control. She could control her thoughts, however, by concentrating on the positive aspects of the season. Like the ball.

  The TV was on in the family room; Lucy could hear bursts of sound that indicated a sporting event of some kind. Maybe Bill would like a snack, she thought, popping into the powder room and applying a fresh coat of lipstick and a squirt of cologne. Thus armed, she advanced into the family room where she found her husband in his usual chair, a big old recliner, slapping his knee.

  “A three-pointer,” he declared. “You shoulda seen it. Right across the court. Wait, hold on, they’re replaying it.”

  Trapped, Lucy perched on the sectional and watched as an abnormally tall man with many tattoos seemed to launch a basketball with an effortless flick of his wrist that sent it sailing from one end of the court to the other and right through the hoop.

  “Amazing,” she said.

  “And they said he wasn’t worth sixty million dollars,” scoffed Bill.

  “Fools,” said Lucy, thinking to herself that nobody on God’s green earth deserved sixty million dollars, not when other people were hungry and homeless.

  “That’s the quarter,” said Bill, as a buzzer sounded.

  Remembering her mission, Lucy jumped up. “Can I get you something? A beer? Would you like me to throw some popcorn in the microwave? There’s a mini-pizza in the freezer I could heat up for you.”

  Bill looked at her suspiciously. “Did you smash up the car?”

  “No. What makes you think that?”

  “Dunno. You’re not usually this nice. Are the girls okay?” He paused. “Don’t tell me Sara’s in trouble. Or Zoe?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Lucy. “The girls are fine. And so is the car.”

  “Well, you obviously want something. What is it?” Lucy plopped herself in his lap, giving him the full benefit of her cologne. “Don’t I smell good?”

  “You always smell good,” he said, nuzzling her neck.

  Lucy stroked his beard, noticing the gray. “You know what holiday is coming up?”

  “Mother’s Day?” he teased.

  “No.” She nibbled his ear. “Valentine’s Day.”

  “Funny you should mention it. I noticed a bunch of red hearts in the windows at Fern’s Famous.”

  For a moment, Lucy wondered if he’d also noticed something at Chanticleer Chocolate, or rather, someone, but pushed the thought from her mind. “No chocolate for me,” said Lucy. “I’m on a diet.”

  You had to hand it to Bill, he could be amazingly prescient. “So what do you have in mind, sweetheart?”

  Lucy handed him the invitation.

  “A ball?”

  “Wouldn’t it be fun to get dressed up and dance? We could dance the night away.”

  Bill shrugged. “The VFW does a pretty decent prime rib.”

  “I could wear something with a low neck,” she murmured in his ear. “And I haven’t se
en you in a tux since our wedding.”

  A shudder seemed to run through Bill’s body. “A tux?” Lucy knew the value of a strategic retreat. “It’s optional.” She sighed. “Of course, I’d look pretty silly all dolled up in lace and black satin if you’re not dressed up, too.”

  “We’ll see,” he said.

  “You mean we can go?”

  “Yeah,” said Bill, as she bounced in his lap and gave him a big hug.

  “You can pick up the tickets at the Seamen’s Bank,” said Lucy, hopping off his lap. “Do you want popcorn or pizza?”

  “Just a beer,” he said, turning the volume up with the remote. “Whaddya mean, I can buy the tickets?”

  “Well, it’s ten dollars cheaper for men.”

  “Isn’t that discrimination?” he asked, grinning. “I’m surprised your feminist ire isn’t aroused.”

  “Sometimes even a feminist has to be practical,” said Lucy, heading for the kitchen. “I think they want to encourage men to attend.”

  When she returned, Bill was frowning. “The Celts are behind,” he muttered, taking the bottle of Sam Adams. “It’s barely a minute into the second quarter and they’re trailing by five points.”

  “Sixty million dollars isn’t what it used to be,” she said.

  “You’re telling me. The guy’s a bum.”

  Lucy wanted to wrap things up before she started cooking dinner. “So you’ll get the tickets?”

  “I’ll go, I’ll think about the tux, but I’m not buying the tickets.”

  Lucy plunked herself down on the sectional and grabbed a magazine off the coffee table. “You’re being ridiculous, you know,” she said, flipping through the ads for beauty products and designer handbags.

  “I hate writing checks,” he said, groaning as a ball bounced off the rim.

  “They take cash, even credit cards,” said Lucy.

  “Banks have weird hours.” Bill leaned forward in his chair. “Damn.”

  Lucy knew it was counterproductive but she couldn’t stop herself from arguing. “So it’s okay for me to rearrange my schedule, but not for you?”

  “I work hard,” he snapped. “The least you can do is be supportive.”

  Lucy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Like I don’t work hard, too?”

  “Yeah!” he exclaimed, as a ball made it through the hoop. “You have a part-time job, Luce. It’s not the same thing as being the breadwinner.”

  Lucy threw down the magazine. “Men are so self-centered!” she declared, grabbing another.

  “Hey, I’m a good guy,” he protested. “I said I’d take you to that ball, didn’t I?”

  Lucy stared at the black-and-white photo of a nearly naked man and woman entwined in a steamy embrace on a beach; they appeared to be coated in baby oil.

  “A funny thing happened when I was doing an interview at Chanticleer Chocolate. The woman who works there, Tamzin, asked about you.”

  “Did she?” Bill was staring at the TV, where two commentators in blue blazers were recapping a play. “I helped Max put in the shelves in the storeroom.”

  “You never mentioned it,” said Lucy.

  A commercial for an erectile dysfunction drug was playing on the TV; a man and woman were sitting in separate bathtubs, outdoors. “Who does that?” asked Bill, incredulous.

  “Dora said Max was nothing but trouble... .”

  Bill was flipping channels, pausing at a golf match. “You can say that again,” said Bill. “He never paid me for that job.” He was staring at the parched Arizona landscape that filled the screen. “Look at that, must be eighty degrees at least.”

  “How much did he owe you?” asked Lucy.

  “We agreed on five hundred dollars, but I haven’t seen a cent—and I’m not the only one he stiffed.”

  “Who else?” asked Lucy.

  “Just about everybody,” said Bill, watching as Phil Mickelson made a putt. “Nice.”

  “If he owed a lot of people money, a lot of people had a motive to kill him, didn’t they?”

  Bill looked at her. “I don’t follow you. What would killing him accomplish? You still wouldn’t get your money back.”

  “You’d get revenge,” said Lucy.

  “Pretty cold comfort, if you ask me,” said Bill, draining the bottle of beer and switching off the TV. “What do you say to a ‘matinee,’ before the girls come home?”

  Lucy was caught by surprise; she was wondering who else Max might have stiffed. “Now?”

  He grinned wickedly. “Yeah, now. Like in that commercial. We can be spontaneous, right? And I don’t need any pills, either.”

  Spontaneity didn’t appeal to Lucy, who was newly self-conscious about her body, thinking of the tummy bulge she’d noticed the other day. “I feel fat,” she said.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Bill, taking her hand and drawing her into an embrace. “I love you just the way you are. You’re perfect.”

  Lucy felt her resistance crumbling as he wrapped his arms around her.

  “A little bit of extra flesh is sexy,” he murmured, whispering into her ear.

  Lucy felt as if she’d been slapped and pulled away. “I’ve got to start supper,” she snapped, marching into the kitchen.

  “What? What did I say?” demanded Bill.

  Lucy grabbed a couple of onions and began chopping, furiously smacking the knife against the cutting board. How on earth did the Faircloths do it, she wondered, as her eyes filled with tears. It was the onions, she told herself. Onions always made her cry.

  Chapter Six

  Sunday morning, when the breakfast dishes were all cleared away and the dishwasher was humming, Lucy sat down at the round golden-oak table with the newspapers. Bill was outside splitting wood, and the girls had gone over to Prudence Path to babysit little Patrick while Toby and Molly went to a christening.

  Lucy always read the Boston Sunday Globe first, starting with the colorful magazine. She was turning the pages slowly, savoring this bit of quiet time, pausing to admire a mouth-watering photo of a red velvet layer cake. Perfect, she thought. Just the thing to make for the dessert contest.

  Flipping the page over, she eagerly read the recipe but didn’t find it all that appealing. It called for too much sugar—two cups—and two whole sticks of butter, as well as an awful lot of red food coloring. It also called for the addition of vinegar, which made the whole thing sound more like a science experiment than a cake.

  No, red velvet wasn’t the way to go. Maybe cupcakes, she thought. They were all the rage. Maybe she could work up a cupcake with a gooey chocolate surprise filling and a ganache topping. That sounded yummy, but she’d never had much luck getting ganache to set and she couldn’t enter cupcakes with runny icing. And she had no idea how to get that chocolate filling inside the cupcake. Did you bake it in? Was there some sort of magic process involved like the Denver Chocolate Pudding in her Fanny Farmer cookbook that she sometimes made as a special treat?

  Another specialty was the clafouti she often made in summer, when cherries and blueberries were in season. She’d found the recipe in her Julia Child cookbook and it was surprisingly simple. It was the only recipe in that book that she actually made. She was wondering if she could figure out a way to make a chocolate clafouti, perhaps with frozen raspberries. That would be really good, and original. She suspected all she’d have to do would be to add some cocoa powder to the recipe, but how much? Chances of getting it right the first time seemed slim—and would it also need a chocolate sauce? She rather thought it might, which made the project seem awfully ambitious.

  She was leafing through her Paula Deen cookbook when she heard someone tapping at the kitchen door. Libby, never a very good guard dog, was giving mixed messages, simultaneously growling and wagging her tail, when Lucy opened the door. Discovering it was Frankie, the dog erupted into a joyful dance of greeting.

  “Down,” said Lucy firmly, pointing to the dog’s bed.

  The Lab settled down with a big sigh and Lucy t
ook Frankie’s coat. “Want some coffee? It’s nice and hot.”

  “Sure,” said Frankie, slipping into a chair. “I can’t stay long, I’ve got another appointment with the Faircloths. I’ve been showing them everything from here to Portland and back.”

  “I meant to thank you for telling me about them,” said Lucy, pouring two mugs and bringing them over to the table. “They are every bit as cute as you said and I got a great interview.”

  Frankie sipped at her coffee. “I’m getting a bit sick of them, to tell the truth. Talk about picky!” She shrugged philosophically. “Of course, when you’re spending the kind of money they are, I guess you can be picky. They have a lot of art and antiques and they want a house that will showcase their collections.”

  Lucy was puzzled. “I thought they lost everything in a house fire.”

  “You’re right,” said Frankie, knitting her brows. “I guess some of their stuff was saved—they must have it in storage.” She wrapped her hands around the mug. “Actually, I was wondering about the couple at Chanticleer Chocolate. Do you think they’re looking for a house?”

  “You mean Trey and Tamzin? I don’t think they’re a couple,” said Lucy. “Where did you get that idea?”

  Frankie took a sip of coffee. “I saw them outside the store. They were arguing; I guess that’s why I thought they were a couple.” She giggled. “Maybe it’s just their names. Trey and Tamzin. They sound like a couple, no?”

  Lucy smiled. “I don’t know much about Trey, but I do know that Tamzin is very flirtatious. She flaunts her assets, if you know what I mean.”

  Frankie’s eyebrows went up. “Really?”

  “Tight dresses, very low necklines, thigh-high boots. Stilettos.”

  “Not chic,” said Frankie, who favored tailored pantsuits enlivened with colorful scarves.

  “That’s one way of putting it,” said Lucy. “She’s certainly not subtle. She’s got ’em and she flaunts ’em.”

  “It’s better to leave some things to the imagination,” said Frankie, with a sly smile. “But as far as you know, Trey doesn’t have a family?”

  There was something in her expression that made Lucy wonder if Frankie was interested in Trey for herself. If so, she thought, she wasn’t the only one. “I don’t think so, but I don’t really know,” said Lucy. “I know Corney said she finds him very attractive.”