DEATH BY CHOCOLATE
Christian’s over-the-top laughter struck me again. So did Adrienne’s downright panicked expression when she heard it.
Was she supposed to be working right now? She must be. That was the only explanation for the way Adrienne went still, like a frightened rabbit, gazing unblinkingly as her boss approached.
Christian didn’t seem pleased to find Adrienne standing there. “Ms. Dowling!” he barked. “Shouldn’t you be in your magical workshop, coming up with some tasty treats for later?”
“Um,” Adrienne began. Her gaze darted to me. “Uh—”
Christian’s abrupt clap made her jump. “Yes! Get on it!”
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I’ll leave right now.”
As Christian turned to his retreat guests—presumably making sure they’d witnessed his masterful employer-employee relations—Adrienne caught my arm again. Her intent expression riveted me.
“Take this.” She whispered the words harshly, shoving a thick rectangular item at my midsection. “Please, Hayden. Take it! I can’t let Christian have it. Just . . . keep it safe for me, okay?” Her fearful gaze zipped to her boss. “I’ll get it later.”
Criminal Confections
COLETTE LONDON
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
DEATH BY CHOCOLATE
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
YOU-WON’T-BELIEVE-IT CHOCOLATE MOUSSE
Copyright Page
To John Plumley, with all my love.
Chapter 1
You probably already know not to eat French fries with your fingers in Chile, not to shake hands across a threshold in Russia, and to sit in the backseat of a taxi (never up front with the driver) if you’re a woman traveling solo in Costa Rica. But you might not know that ordinary chocolate contains over five hundred unique flavor components—more than twice that of vanilla or strawberry. You might not know that you should let your next bite of chocolate melt on your tongue (don’t chew it!) for the ultimate flavor experience. And you might not know that the most chocolaty chocolate mousse is made with high-quality chocolate and water (not cream). Not many people do—not even the restaurateurs, TV chefs, and chocolate-company executives who hire me to troubleshoot their Theobroma cacao cookies, cakes, and confections.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. You didn’t ask for a compendium of travel- and chocolate-based tips, and the fact that my on-the-job adventures have included bushwhacking through the jungles of Africa, rubbing elbows with Academy Awards-catering chefs, and being blindfolded (not to do something kinky, I promise!) for a chocolate tasting doesn’t mean I never come up stumped. I do. Sometimes. But I never quit, and I never tell clients I’m mystified by their gloopy ganache or freaky frappés, either. I always keep trying until I find a solution.
In my book, perseverance counts.
My clients appreciate the effort, and I appreciate their loyalty. I’m a freelancer. That means I can’t goof around (much). My work demands expertise, attention to detail, and a thick skin when it comes to criticism . . . but it doesn’t usually demand hobnobbing with chocolate-industry bigwigs and members of the media at a fancy-schmancy San Francisco resort spa with a five-star rating and a “room service” option featuring Frette linens, sterling silver, Bernardaud china, and a personal butler. That’s what I was facing at the moment, though.
The prospect had me shaking in my single pair of “dressy” flats, which spent most of their time being ignored while crammed into a corner of my (always packed) suitcase. I don’t usually need to wear anything swankier than a pair of Converse or some kitchen clogs. But today I was making a grand entrance into the world of the San Francisco chocolate-industry elite. I was doing it on the spur of the moment. And I wasn’t entirely comfortable with it.
See, most of my work is done (necessarily) undercover. The companies that hire me don’t want it known that they need me, Hayden Mundy Moore, to improve their prized confections. I’ve gotten pretty good at troubleshooting on the QT, building my high-profile client list through discreet referrals. I work one hush-hush job at a time and let the next assignment take care of itself. My globe-trotting background means I’m fairly adept at blending in when necessary, too. But knowing how to navigate a Milanese street without a map or negotiate a good price at a Lebanese market doesn’t necessarily equip a girl to face the elite of her industry with perfect composure.
Not even if that “girl” just turned thirty, like me.
Look, I can backpack with the best. I can make instant friends with the back-of-house staff at a restaurant or the line workers at a chocolate factory. I can tell a wicked Dutch dirty joke that will make a sailor blush, and I can confront a squat toilet in Bangalore with equanimity and (enviable) balance. But put me in a ballroom with canapés, champagne flutes, and polite chitchat, and I suddenly come off like a monkey on NoDoz. It’s not pretty. But it’s me. That’s just the way it is.
Truth be told, as I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge from the city toward the Marin Headlands, arrived at Maison Lemaître, and saw the cadre of well-dressed, wineglass-holding, chitchatting executives, suppliers, and restaurateurs gathered on the resort spa’s manicured grassy grounds among a bunch of gauzy tents—smaller versions of the ones caterers like to use at chichi outdoor weddings—I seriously considered telling my taxi driver to turn around. Then I went ahead and did it.
“Turn around, Jimmy. I changed my mind.”
He looked at me in the rearview mirror. He shrugged. “It’s your thirty-eight bucks, Hayden. Where to, instead?”
Aha. That was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it?
“Noe Valley?” I suggested with a grin, naming one of my favorite San Francisco neighborhoods. “I know a fantastic little bakery there. The strawberry-rhubarb macaroons are on me.”
They were so delicious, they almost made me want to settle down in the City by the Bay. Which was saying a lot. For me.
“Sounds good. I like macaroons.” Jimmy glanced at me in the rearview again. “I didn’t peg you for the chickening-out type.”
He was right. I wasn’t the chickening-out type. Never had been. “This is what I get for bonding with you on the drive from Russian Hill to here.” I sighed. “Rain check on the macaroons? I already said I’d put in an appearance at this industry retreat.”
Jimmy nodded and kept driving toward the hotel. I bit my lip and stared out the window, knowing I didn’t have any place else to go at the moment. I couldn’t spend all day at a bakery, no matter how tasty their lattes and pastries were. And I wasn’t technically finished with my last consulting job, so I couldn’t leave town altogether. I still owed a comprehensive report to Christian Lemaître, who’d hired me for my last job and whose family owned both Lemaître Chocolates and Maison Lemaître.
Christian was the one who’d invited me here to his annual high-powered industry get-together. (I had the impression he saw me as kind of a trophy to be bragged about: “Step right up and see the real, live chocolate whisperer!”) He’d agreed to let me slide on our agreed-upon due date for my report, if I’d attend. Put that way, the decision had been a no-brainer. I was goin
g.
Any inveterate procrastinator would have done the same.
Plus, I’d already invited my friend Danny Jamieson to fly in from L.A. and be my plus-one for the retreat. He was supposed to meet me here, at the chocolate-themed resort where I now sat parked, deliberating over whether I wanted to go through with this, in full view of the quizzical valets. One of them ambled out from behind his stand and headed for the taxi’s door, ready to give me the full white-glove treatment.
Decision made. I opened the door first and stepped into the breezy coolness of a northern California springtime afternoon, lugging my duffel bag and single wheeled suitcase with me.
“Welcome to Maison Lemaître! May I take your bags?”
“No, thanks!” Breezily, I maneuvered them both. Hoisting fifty-pound sacks of cacao beans and equally heavy bags of sugar on a regular basis is great for the biceps. I’m only average size for a woman—about five-foot-six, barefoot—but I’m strong. And stubborn. “I can handle them. I do it all the time.”
The valet tried to insist. I held my ground. It may be quirky, but I don’t like handing over my stuff. Not even under such innocuous circumstances. Pretty much, my two bags contain everything I own in the world. Just call me the urban nomad.
The valet seemed confused by the way I was body-hugging my duffel. I smiled to let him know my protectiveness with my stuff wasn’t his fault and then looked around the place, checking out the hotel division of the venerable Lemaître Chocolates corporation. What I saw was par for the course for a modern luxury-resort spa—a sprawling hotel complex with a sparkling whitewashed finish, a hushed atmosphere of indulgence, and a nod to “locality” in the form of co-sponsorship of tonight’s welcome reception with a local winery. Several ultra-attentive uniformed staff members milled around. Surrounding the hotel and its long, curved drive, the aforementioned grounds, low outbuildings, and precise landscaping lent the whole place an air of serenity.
Maison Lemaître smelled like . . . money.
And chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate.
Mmm. I guess I should have been jaded (or immune) to the way cocoa butter permeated the breeze at Maison Lemaître, since chocolate is my job. But I love chocolate. I love the way it smells, the way it tastes, and even the way it snaps—faintly but distinctly—when it’s expertly made. I love the way it melts just below body temperature, creating the decadent sensation that it’s melding with my tongue. Hands down, eating chocolate has got to be one of the most sensual experiences on earth.
Being eyeballed by a befuddled valet is not.
“Thanks, but I’ve got this. Seriously.” I tipped the valet, then shooed him away. With that accomplished, I peeled off a few more bills. I leaned into the taxi’s open passenger-side window to hand over my fare plus a tip. “Thanks for the ride, Jimmy. Good luck with that screenplay you’re writing. Have fun at your niece’s birthday party tomorrow at the Exploratorium, too!”
Jimmy saluted me with a grin, then drove off. I waved, feeling sorry he was abandoning me so soon. You might have guessed by now that I have a flair for making friends easily—just maybe not with grabby valets or bigwigs. My friend-making knack goes hand in hand with my always-packed luggage and my well-traveled upbringing—and the assortment of chocolate bars, truffles, and cocoa mixes I typically keep on hand to give out to people I meet. Usually, they’re postconsultancy samples from grateful chocolate companies. I can’t possibly eat them all.
I know, tough life, right? Too much chocolate is a real first-world problem. But it’s what I deal with every day.
Unfortunately, considering what passed for my usual daily travails only reminded me of the unusual event awaiting me today: the Lemaître industry retreat. Just glancing toward the suit-and-tie business types on the lawn made a wave of pure monkey jumpiness wash over me. The effect was like knocking back four espressos and then trying to name all the U.S. state capitals—doomed from the start due to lack of focusing ability.
I glanced at the hovering valets. “Big event today?”
“Huge!” one confirmed, nodding toward the lawn. “All the TV networks are here covering it. They’ve got satellite vans.”
I looked. I saw the vans, the local media . . . the potential disaster that awaited if I tried to “network” with my peers, freestyle, on an empty stomach. Those rhubarb-strawberry macaroons at the bakery in Noe Valley had never sounded better.
Maybe I’d better check in to my room first. I could stow my stuff, freshen up, and have a snack. Maybe I could track down Danny, too. His flight from southern California should have already arrived at SFO. We could lighten the mood with a little harmless teasing, solidify our plans to check out the resort’s famous all-chocolate brunch buffet, and catch up on old times.
Then I’d network.
It was an excellent plan. Feeling less monkeylike already, I seized my luggage and headed for the Maison Lemaître lobby.
In my third-floor room, silence enveloped me. Ah.
I like the buzz of cities—and I’d adored being immersed in the energy, grit, and fickle weather surrounding my downtown San Francisco hotel—but there was a lot to be said for luxury, too. Just as long as I wouldn’t be expected to perform cogently while immersed in it, that is. What I needed was an adjustment period.
Maison Lemaître was ready to give it to me. The resort was chic, comfy, and welcoming. The décor struck the perfect balance between starkly minimal (but modern) and lavishly cushy (but outmoded). My room featured a pillow-piled king-size bed, a sitting area with windows overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge, and an enormous spalike bathroom stocked with Maison Lemaître’s house brand of cocoa-themed personal-care products. I uncapped the shampoo and sniffed. Notes of cacao and vanilla struck me first, followed by something with a lingering floral note.
Orange blossom water, I discerned. Interesting choice. Its citrus notes blended well with the chocolate essence, but it seemed a little too sweet to me. More like candy than shampoo. Little girls would love it, but I wasn’t sure if grown women and men would get on board with the idea of lathering up with Orange Crush and Tootsie Rolls. The blend could use some refinement.
Making a note to pitch Christian Lemaître about tweaking the company’s nonfood products next (because there was nothing wrong with diversifying, right?), I padded around the room, automatically going through my post-check-in ritual.
I didn’t fully unpack, of course. That was a waste of time. But my trusty pashmina went on the foot of the bed, where I could grab it if I got cold. My favorite fig-scented candle went on the bureau, where I could light it to feel at home. My framed photos went on the nightstand, where I could see the smiling faces of my family and friends . . . and wonder where the heck Danny was, anyway? The front desk had said he hadn’t checked in yet.
Yes, I was a chronic procrastinator. But Danny was a chronic late arriver. From where I stood, he was worse.
Feeling more at home with my things around me, I flipped open my Moleskine notebook and consulted my running to-do lists. Nothing serious leaped out at me—just my reminders about working on my Lemaître report. I usually made those reminders (with all good intentions) around midnight . . . only to abandon them at dawn for a plan of action that featured working on my report later, when I would undoubtedly feel übermotivated and energetic.
Yeah. Right. If you believe that one . . .
Hastily, I snapped shut my trusty notebook and shoved it back into my crossbody bag for safekeeping. Over the years, friends had nagged me to transfer my myriad to-do lists to my smartphone. But if you traveled to the kind of remote places I did, Wi-Fi coverage was about as reliable as brand-new stilettos were comfortable. It was a crapshoot, is what I’m saying.
It was better, I’d learned through experience, to go low-fi for the important things. It was better to be safe than sorry.
Heading to the room’s windows, I looked out at the proceedings below. Maison Lemaître was built on a promontory that jutted slightly into the bay, which meant th
e hotel boasted fresh breezes, slightly cooler weather, and a craggy-topped nature trail surrounding it on three sides. From my vantage point, I could see hotel guests tramping along that rocky sliver of pathway, laughing and shading their eyes. Probably the views were spectacular—if you didn’t mind roughing it a little.
More retreat attendees had joined the early arrivals I’d noticed earlier. Now they formed an even larger group of fancy-pants CEOs, pastry chefs, PR reps, and other corporate types whose goodwill could only boost my consulting business, if I got to know them. It was probably time to get down there. I’d checked in, gotten settled, and boosted my blood sugar with a complimentary gianduia truffle. I’d made myself presentable with a simple springtime knee-length dress (to go with my flats) and a ponytail to corral my shoulder-length brown hair. I’d reviewed my notes and lists, and I’d even swiped on some lip gloss.
Okay. Showtime! But first . . .
I pulled out my cell phone and considered texting Danny, then changed my mind. I wasn’t the nagging type. Besides, although our adjoining rooms were being generously comped by Christian Lemaître, I’d covered the airfare for Danny’s end of this impromptu trip myself. It hadn’t been a big deal. I could afford airfare from L.A. to San Francisco—even at the exorbitant last-minute rates airlines charged. But I didn’t want Danny to think I expected anything in return—at least not anything beyond his looking fantastic in a suit. That was de rigueur.
For Danny—a private “security expert”—it was easy, too.
What wasn’t easy was managing the guilt and complicated feelings that came along with flying your best friend upstate on a whim. It was extravagant. He knew it. I knew it. Those feelings hit me hard sometimes. Not that I intended to kvetch to Danny about it. I’d inherited a lot of money when my (admittedly eccentric) uncle had died, and although I had to jump through some hoops to get it, I knew I was lucky.
Reminded of that luck, I looked at my phone again. There was one person I could call guilt free. And I’d enjoy it. A lot.
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