Criminal Confections

by Colette London

  Aha. An advantageous profile would explain Rex’s interest in her—and hers in him. She looked young enough to be a junior reporter or even an ambitious intern out to make a name for herself at a publication like Chocolat Monthly. Which only made Rex seem twice as shady, in my book, for pursuing someone so young. He’d probably thought he could take advantage of her naïveté.

  It looked as though she had the upper hand now.

  “I am profiling you for my magazine.” The reporter held her phone closer. “To prepare for that profile, I did some research. That’s how I found out about your ongoing issues with Adrienne.”

  “I had hurt feelings, that’s all,” Rex explained. “Adrienne had just turned down a job with Melt. A good job. I saw Adrienne at an industry function and went off on her. I shouldn’t have done it. But she should have taken that job!” At a grumble, he added, “At least nobody dies while working at Melt.”

  A job? With Melt? I hadn’t known about that. Curious, I ducked behind the wisteria-covered arbor I’d passed through earlier. From my vantage point, I could hear everything.

  “She did more than turn you down for a job, though, didn’t she?” the reporter asked. “Wasn’t there more to it than that?”

  Even more curious now, I wondered what more there could be. I envisioned Adrienne putting axle grease in Rex’s hair gel, kneeing him in the groin, or swapping his daily truffles for “chocolaty” laxatives—understandable impulses, all of them.

  “At the same function,” Rex conceded, “Adrienne took a few jabs at Melt. A few very public jabs, saying our new Criollo-bean chocolates were really made of mostly Forastero beans.”

  “Were they?” the reporter asked. “Maybe you made a mix with hybrid Trinitario beans?” she suggested, obviously leading him.

  Most likely, she knew the same thing I did—that extra-pricey Criollo beans (grown mainly in the Caribbean and Central America) make up less than two percent of the world’s cocoa. It was unlikely Rex could afford to use them exclusively at Melt.

  “Beans are beside the point,” Rex evaded. “Some important people were listening when Adrienne mouthed off that night. We took a hit on orders at Melt. But so what? We’re still here.”

  They were, I knew . . . but maybe not for long. Rex had seemed downright desperate when hitting me up for help yesterday.

  Undoubtedly, hiring a skilled chocolatier like Adrienne would have improved Melt’s business prospects and growth. But if instead she’d done all she could to torpedo Rex’s chances . . . Well, I have to say, he could have wanted her dead.

  “I heard Melt was still struggling,” the reporter pushed.

  Rex wiggled his fingers through his dark, curly hair. He gave a grin. “Have you looked at our portfolio? We’re booming!”

  His gregarious tone didn’t fool the reporter into dropping her line of questioning. She continued in a more intimate tone that was probably supposed to invite him to confide in her.

  I was busy being reminded of the portfolio Rex had pushed on me yesterday in the hallway. I hadn’t examined it yet. I’d been planning to overnight it to Travis for further analysis.

  “Look, I know I said I wanted us to help one another,” Rex was saying when I tuned in again, “but that’s enough for now, okay? You weren’t this interested in talking to me last night.”

  His lascivious tone made his insinuation plain. Yuck.

  “Last night, I couldn’t find you to talk,” the reporter said crisply. “I ducked into the ladies’ room, remember?” She must have come in there right after me, I realized. “When I came out, you were no place to be found. You ditched me. I bet you’re sorry for that now, though, aren’t you?”

  That was interesting, I couldn’t help thinking. Not that the reporter had apparently decided to exact her revenge for Rex ditching her by penning a negatively slanted article, but that Rex also had been unaccounted for during last night’s tragedy.

  Suddenly, I realized they’d both quit talking. Uh-oh.

  I peeked out from behind the wisteria. Rex and the reporter were both staring at me. Pointedly. I waved and headed onward.

  The spa awaited—and so did about a million more questions.

  Faced with what amounted to a steaming hot tub full of chocolate pudding, most people would have grabbed a spoon. I grabbed my plush spa-issued robe instead. Then I dropped my robe onto a waiting hook and (dressed in a spa-issued tankini swimsuit for modesty), I got right in. Instantly, the warmth of Maison Lemaître’s signature hot-cocoa mud bath enveloped me.

  Ah. My tense muscles turned to fondue on the spot. My nose filled with the familiar scent of chocolate—albeit chocolate infused with subtle mineral undertones due to its springwater base. The mud bath felt . . . weirdly good. Weirdly, because mud (even chocolate-laced mud) was a lot thicker than the water you’d find in a typical hot tub. Weirdly, because I wasn’t alone.

  That made the groan of pleasure I let out as I sank deeper doubly embarrassing. But I decided to roll with it, anyway.

  “Ah!” I said, really committing this time. Never let it be said that Hayden Mundy Moore did anything halfway. “Amazing!”

  “All our guests really enjoy the hot-cocoa mud bath.” The attendant set down a fresh pile of fluffy, mocha-colored towels on a bench near the adjacent pristine-tiled shower stalls. She smiled at me. “Remember not to stay in for too long, though.”

  The spa goer beside me—a woman with a wrapped-towel turban on her head—gave a languid wave. She didn’t open her eyes.

  I recognized her, though. Isabel Lemaître. Topless. Of course. It was as if Bernard’s wife was allergic to clothes. Not that she wasn’t mostly (and artfully) covered with creamy, chocolaty hot-cocoa mud bath goo; she was. I was grateful for that, too. I’m no prude, but after so many years traveling, I can be pretty chameleonlike when it comes to fitting in. I didn’t think it would help grow my consulting business if I gallivanted around topless. Or maybe it would, I mused. Hmm . . .

  “Don’t crush our groove, Britney,” Isabel said in a world-weary, accented voice. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “Well, technically, staying too long in a hot environment can cause fainting due to heat exhaustion,” Britney recited. “It can overstress the heart or induce very severe dehydration.”

  “Aren’t you charmingly earnest?” Isabel opened her eyes. She raised the champagne flute she’d left on the edge of the sunken tub. “That’s why we have these. Another choco-mosa?”

  “Right away, Mrs. Lemaître.” Britney rushed to collect her empty glass. She paused near me. “Would you like one, as well?”

  I shook my head. I was there to de-stress, not to become one with the hot-cocoa mud bath. One death by chocolate was more than enough for a single resort stay. If I tried that revamped house mimosa—a mix of champagne, orange juice, and a splash of chocolate liqueur—I’d be done for. “Not right now, thanks.”

  “Hayden! Is that you?” Stirring herself enough to recognize me at last, Isabel gave me a warm smile. “How are you?”

  “Hot. Muddy.” Lazily, I raised my arms. “Limp.”

  “Sounds like my husband. Thank God for ED drugs.”

  I really didn’t want to think of Bernard in that way. I focused very hard on the spa’s serene New Age background music.

  “He’s gotten so much more fun since retiring, though,” Isabel went on as Britney left the tub area. “Soon we’ll be enjoying the life I thought we’d have when I married him.”

  “What life is that?” I asked, wondering if I should invent an excuse to bail out on my hot-cocoa bath. I liked it, but it might not be smart to go hot-tubbing with a prospective killer.

  “Traveling. Shopping. Enjoying one another!” Isabel said with an enthusiasm that was infectious. She didn’t seem capable of murdering Adrienne in a jealous rage. “Pampering Poopsie.”

  I blinked. “Poopsie?”

  “Our adorable baby girl.” Beaming, Isabel nodded to the other side of the tub’s edge. “She’s ha
ving a nap right now.”

  Expecting to see a very unfortunately named infant, I glimpsed a Yorkie instead. It was snoring atop a tasseled silk pillow. Poopsie. I melted. I couldn’t help it. I love dogs.

  I’ve always wanted one. With my globe-trotting lifestyle, though, canine companionship just isn’t practical. Not for me.

  “Aw!” I squealed—and this time, my girlishness was genuine. What can I say? I’m not all coolness and procrastination. “She’s adorable.” I wanted to squeeze Poopsie with glee. “So cute!”

  “She goes everywhere with us,” Isabel confided, casting the snoozing Yorkie a fond look. “Bernie got her for me.”

  How nice. “That was thoughtful of him.”

  “Yes, it was. Mostly. I needed company back when Bernie was running Lemaître.” Isabel looked troubled. Her face sort of... hardened, similar to the way Bernard’s had done on the ridge yesterday, after Isabel had cooed about him always “being so good” to her. He’d looked, I remembered, oddly guilty.

  Just then, so did Isabel. I didn’t know why.

  But it probably wasn’t remorse over committing a murder, I assured myself, feeling hot-cocoa mud squelch between my toes. I just couldn’t bring myself to believe a dog person would do that. I know that sounds crazy. But I trust my instincts.

  “He surprised me with Poopsie right after his affair,” Isabel went on lightly. “But you know. Things happen. I’m over it now. I’m French! I’d be bored if Bernie was true to me.”

  His affair. Just like that, Isabel confirmed that her husband had cheated on her—just not with whom. I was dying to know, although she sounded pretty blasé about it. I can’t say Isabel’s attitude surprised me, given her overall demeanor—and her comfort level with nudity. Clearly, she wasn’t hung up on American societal norms. Those didn’t sound like the rantings of a possessive wife to me, either. On the other hand, that didn’t mean that Bernard didn’t genuinely have a guilty conscience.

  Maybe he’d decided not to eulogize Adrienne because he’d been afraid he’d say something insensitive. He wouldn’t have been the first man in history to overcompensate for infidelity.

  The idea still boggled my mind, though. Bernard . . . and Adrienne? Why hadn’t she told me? How many secrets had she had, anyway?

  Already, I knew about her chocolate development notebook. Her (maybe) affair with Bernard. Her (likely) feud with Rex.

  I couldn’t honestly fault Adrienne for disliking Rex, though. For my money, he was the front-runner in the who-might-be-murderous sweepstakes currently playing out in my head. He was desperate. And motivated. That meant he could have hurt Adrienne. Isabel, in contrast, seemed way too frivolous to plot anything more devious than snaring another choco-mosa. She’d been knocking back Bloody Marys at the memorial service, too. Not to mention chocolate martinis at the reception last night.

  Maybe, it occurred to me, Isabel wasn’t all that carefree. Most people didn’t drink to excess for the sheer fun of it.

  “You are surprised by my blunt talk?” she asked, watching me. For a second, she seemed completely sober. Also, beautiful. Not even rampant tipsiness could mar her modelesque good looks.

  She and Rex Rader would have made stunning, vacuous babies together. They should have been a couple, not her and Bernard.

  “Well,” I hedged with a grin, “I wasn’t expecting to get a hot-cocoa mud bath and juicy gossip. You caught me off guard.”

  “I have that effect on people,” Isabel said. “I don’t mind Bernie stepping out on me, because now I’m not obligated to be 100 percent faithful to him, either. Fair’s fair.” She gave me a mischievous wink. “I’m having a workout after this—my third in two days. Bernie thinks I’m training for a modeling comeback, but that’s not it.” She paused to drag one hand free from the mud. “Have you seen the personal trainer here?” She fanned herself, slopping mud all over the tile. And me. “He’s hot.”

  “Really?” I shook my head to dislodge a stubborn cocoa clump. “I’ll have to make an effort to shape up while I’m here.”

  “Right? Who doesn’t like having a sexy man’s hands all over them?” Isabel grinned. “It’s important to have correct form.”

  “That’s true.” I glanced over at napping Poopsie, feeling my heart expand at the sight of that little dog. If I ditched my sole suitcase and carried only my duffel, I could bring a small pet carrier on my travels. “If my millionaire husband had an affair,” I cracked, setting aside that idea for now, “I’d want a lot more than a dog in compensation, though. Even a cute one.”

  This time, Isabel looked surprised. Then she grinned.

  “I just might get more,” Isabel confided. “From Hank.”

  The resort’s personal trainer, I surmised. Hubba-hubba.

  “Now that I don’t have any more boring ‘getting to know you’ games to do, that is,” Isabel specified, rolling her eyes. “Ugh. That scavenger hunt yesterday was a real yawn!”

  “I don’t know,” I joked. “You seemed to liven it up okay.”

  She laughed. “I’m trying to persuade Bernie that there’s life outside Lemaître. I’ve almost cracked him.”

  I inhaled chocolate. “I thought Bernard was retired.”

  “He is,” Isabel confirmed, “but the business still has first place in his heart. Just look at the way Bernie came running when Christian invited him to make an appearance at the retreat!” She accepted a fresh choco-mosa from Britney. “Bernie just can’t quit. He has to have a hand in Lemaître Chocolates.”

  “That would make traveling tough,” I agreed.

  “Try impossible! I tried to persuade him to come with me on holiday to our palazzo on the Amalfi Coast last month, and he turned me down flat. I’m almost at the end of my rope.”

  I could understand that. “I love Italy,” I told her.

  That launched us, effortlessly, into a conversation about traveling. We bonded instantly over our shared love of being on the move. Neither of us understood homebodies; both of us were multilingual—Isabel much more so than me, of course. I’ve picked up a few bits and pieces over a nomadic lifetime. She’d attended the best schools in France, Switzerland, and “memorably” Greece, then spent almost a decade modeling in international locales.

  If I wanted to continue nosing into part B of my resolution, I realized, I’d never have a better time than this.

  “I feel bad talking about all these fun things, though, after what happened to Adrienne,” I confessed truthfully. I looked away. “Do you really think she overdosed on something?”

  “Maybe that green slop of hers was deadly,” Isabel joked.

  She seemed completely unbothered by the subject of her husband’s (rumored) mistress. A little crass, too, to be honest. But that was almost refreshing. I looked at her more closely. I have to admit, I wanted Isabel to be innocent. I liked her.

  “Maybe someone made sure her green juice was deadly.”

  “Yes!” She blinked at me, seemingly enthralled by the idea. “My money’s on Rex Rader.” Emphatically, Isabel nodded. “With Adrienne out of the way, he’d have a straight shot at Bernie.”

  That was unexpected. But if Rex wanted Bernard, didn’t that mean he’d have to get Isabel out of the way? I was baffled.

  That had been happening to me a lot lately. It wasn’t fun.

  “But Bernard’s not gay,” I protested. “Is he?”

  Neither was Rex, as far as I knew. He certainly gave a convincing impression of being relentlessly into women only.

  Isabel laughed. “Not that way!” Her amused gaze met mine. “I mean, now Bernie and Rex can rekindle their relationship. Not that I want them to. Not now, when I’m just making progress. If the two of them hook up again, I’ll never get Bernie to retire!”

  I paused. Maybe we were having a language-barrier issue. “I’m afraid that all sounds like one big euphemism to me.”

  It sounded, more accurately, as if Bernie and Rex were going to go hot and heavy the first second they had a chance.

/>   “Oh, I forgot.” Isabel sipped her choco-mosa. “You’re new around here. You don’t know all the history.” She stretched her leg out of the hot-cocoa mud bath, then rotated her slender foot. I’d swear she admired it, too. For a good few minutes.

  “The history?” I prodded. Well, wouldn’t you?

  “Bernie used to mentor Rex, back in the day,” Isabel confided. “The two of them were as thick as thieves. Then Rex decided to strike out on his own, Christian came along and booted Bernie out, and everything fell apart.” She pouted. “I’m sure Bernie met with Rex on the sly last night. I think he wants to bring him into Lemaître to replace Adrienne. They will need a new head chocolatier immediately, and Rex does know all the ins and outs of Lemaître. But I want Bernie to retire! If he doesn’t, I swear I’m going to have to do something drastic!”

  Her overly dramatic tone rang alarm bells in my head. But frankly, my head was so full of new information just then that the warning barely registered. Bernard’s former mentorship of Rex meant, I realized, that Rex would have had a good reason to get Adrienne out of the picture. If she was gone, he must have known he’d have a chance to return to Lemaître. With Melt on the skids, he might have wanted to, too. There was just one hiccup....

  “But Christian runs Lemaître now,” I said.

  “Bernie thinks he can win over his nephew by fixing this new ‘problem’ for him.” Isabel rolled her eyes. “Even dead, Adrienne is messing things up for me! I can’t catch a break.”

  I guessed that meant Adrienne had been involved with Bernard. Isabel’s lament was as good as an admission.

  “Yes,” I said. “Her death must be very difficult for you.”

  I was being sarcastic. But Isabel didn’t get it.

  “It is!” she wailed. “I just want my Bernie back!”

  But I’d already moved on. Because if Bernard saw Adrienne’s death as a way to get on Christian’s good side, that meant that I had to add another player to my roster of potential suspects: Bernard Lemaître. He was strong, motivated . . . and maybe ruthless?