The treatment room door opened. Cool air rushed in, almost making me pass out with partial relief. Nothing had ever felt that good—except the sight of a baffled, momentarily motionless Portia. She stared at me, obviously wondering if I’d drunk both my share of the complimentary choco-mosas and Isabel Lemaître’s.
“It’s malfunctioning!” I gasped, flailing at the control panel with my foil-wrapped hip. I felt like an overcooked baked potato. I probably looked like one, too. “I can’t turn it off.”
Wearing a look of enlightenment, Portia strode to the control panel. She peered at it. “Yeah. I think it’s broken.”
“Unplug it!” Feebly, I tried to wave at the outlet.
“Oh. Right.” Portia giggled. “That would work, huh?”
I gritted my teeth as she used her handy nonwrapped hand to yank out the electronic wrap’s plug. My temperature plummeted.
I sagged with relief. Portia studied me blankly.
“Are you ready for your soothing après-chocolat soak?”
I shook my head. The only thing I was ready for was finding out who kept targeting me. This incident couldn’t have been an accident. “Does this wrap equipment malfunction often?” I asked.
As far as I knew, no one had been in the treatment room with me. But someone could have tampered with it beforehand.
Portia’s eyes widened. “You’d have to speak with my boss about that. We’re not supposed to discuss the equipment.”
I just bet they weren’t. Disgruntled and scared, I wiggled my shoulders. “Fine. Can you just get me out of here, please?”
Fifteen minutes later, I was done with my first (and last) chocolate body wrap, and on my way to track down a killer.
The first person I intended to talk to was Christian. After all, he was (nominally) in charge at Maison Lemaître. He needed to know that his renowned chocolate-themed spa services were this close to involuntarily brûlée-ing his retreat attendees.
Fed up, I got dressed in my shorts and Marais-district sweatshirt, then wound up my hair in a slapdash ponytail. In the spa’s gilded mirror, my face looked back at me, screamingly pink. It was truly disturbing. I looked sunburnt. All over.
Hoping the effects of my “inadvertent” chocolate bake were temporary, I pocketed my room keycard and stormed out of the changing area. The chime-filled New Age music didn’t comfort me. Neither did the fragrances of chocolate and ginger or the sight of multiple retreat attendees not being heatstroked to death.
I didn’t know if a heated body wrap could really kill someone, but it seemed likely. After all, restaurant foods cooked sous-vide style don’t get very hot (only around 135 degrees), but given twelve hours or so, even the gnarliest cuts of beef are transformed into succulently cooked morsels. Home slow cookers only heat their contents to a slightly higher temperature, but they manage to morph tough pork into saucy, tender barbecue with no trouble at all. I didn’t know if the spa employees needed more supervision or if I’d made a mistake in not forcing Danny to get burrito-wrapped with me. Either way, I was shaking with indignation when I reached the spa’s central area. Its subdued colors and slate-and-bamboo wall of trickling water were all very Zen. At that moment, I certainly wasn’t.
I stormed over to the main desk. “Would you please page Mr. Lemaître for me? I have something urgent to discuss with him.”
I didn’t plan to wander all over the resort’s extensive grounds trying to locate him myself. All that effort would only dissolve my current ire-filled momentum. Given my sometimes short attention span, I needed to act on things immediately.
The attendant blinked up at me. “There’s a courtesy phone in the café,” she said in a pleasant tone, “if you’d like to—”
“I’d like,” I said firmly, “for you to page him. Please.”
At my tone, she looked alarmed. “All right.” With vague snippiness, she reached for her phone. Then she hesitated. “You know, I don’t think Mr. Lemaître is available right now.”
“I think Christian will speak to me,” I said. He’d better.
“Oh! I’m sorry. I thought you meant Bernard.” The attendant gave an uneasy laugh. “He’s on all of our minds today, because of what happened with Mrs. Lemaître.” She traded a glance with her coworker. “We all feel really bad for him. He’s so nice.”
The other attendant nodded emphatically. “He brings us boxes of chocolate—the old-fashioned kind they sell at the Lemaître Chocolates shop down near Pier 39. It’s so good!”
I would have given them ten pounds of milk chocolate creams and dark-chocolate mints if they’d simply quit dithering.
“Yes, it’s unfortunate what happened at the banquet,” I agreed, thinking that word had spread about Bernard’s emotional breakdown while accepting his award, “but I really do need—”
“Oh, we don’t mean the banquet!” They exchanged quizzical glances. “We mean Mrs. Lemaître turning up missing today.”
Isabel was missing? That was . . . damning information. That explained why Isabel had been a no-show with me. I couldn’t help concluding that she’d fled after killing Rex Rader last night.
Poor Bernard. Still, that didn’t explain that malfunctioning equipment. “Could you please page Christian?”
Already, I could feel my ire starting to cool . . . unlike my seared skin. My arms looked like well-moisturized lobsters.
With a shrug, the second attendant announced the page.
Nothing happened at first. Disgruntledly, I imagined Christian hearing that page, deliberately blowing me off, and laughing about it. There. That got my outrage fired up again.
Moments later, I finally heard... “Hayden? Is that you?”
I turned, surprised to hear a feminine voice. “Nina?”
She marched toward me, business suited and all clipboarded up, wearing a pleasant but befuddled smile. She was such a professional that she didn’t even blink at my flamingo-colored complexion. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was.
No, it was worse, I assured myself, trying to stay mad.
“I was in one of the spa’s ‘unify’ theme rooms, making sure everything would keep until tomorrow for the canceled workshop session, when I heard the page for Christian.” Nina kept her gaze (conspicuously) locked on my eyes instead of my beet-red torso. “I thought I’d come see if I could help. Can I?”
“Thanks, but no. I don’t think so.” I tossed a thank-you glance to the spa attendants, then moved away from the desk to talk with Nina. “I’ve got a bone to pick with Christian.”
Nina laughed. “Join the club! He was the one who was so keen on the workshop I canceled. A week ago, Christian couldn’t wait to explore new ways to employ chocolate essences in spa-based fragrance utilization, but now he can’t even be bothered to deal with all the fallout from canceling today’s sessions.”
“Well . . .” Uncomfortably, I looked away. “That was because of Rex’s accident,” I pointed out. “It’s only decent to cancel.”
“Oh, I know that.” Nina gave an embarrassed-looking wave. “I agree. Of course, I do! Poor Rex.” She lapsed into a moment of respectful silence. Then, “It’s just . . . well, you know what I mean, right? Christian is so mercurial. Sometimes it’s hard to deal with him. But tragedy or not, work must go on, I’m afraid.”
My work hadn’t been “going on” at all. I’d tried to change that, though. Last night, for instance, I’d had every intention of working on my Lemaître consulting report. Truly, I had. But then I’d spotted Rex’s Melt portfolio and gotten drawn in.
“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you?” Nina pressed, seeming concerned. She touched my arm. “It would be a welcome relief from thinking about chocolate! Almost everyone here is a whiz at it, but I’m afraid it’s all Greek to me. I know how to make it sound good, but that’s as far as I go.”
“No, thanks. I appreciate it, though.” I dropped my gaze to Nina’s hand as she withdrew it. Today, her fingernails were expertly shaped, I noticed, and polished a perfect
Ballet Pink.
Double-checking on a workshop, huh? More likely, I realized, Nina had skipped over to the spa for a spur-of-the-moment manicure. I’d probably been too obvious about gawking at her chipped, chewed-up nails earlier. I hadn’t meant to make her feel self-conscious. Since I felt bad (and didn’t want to make the same gaffe twice), I decided to temporarily postpone going on the warpath with Christian and bolster Nina’s excuse instead.
“You said the workshop is about using chocolate fragrances?” I asked, trying to show an interest. “You should encourage Christian to sit in on that one when it resumes. The Maison Lemaître toiletries need some fundamental refining.”
Nina laughed and wrinkled her nose. “Chocolate and orange? Yuck! That’s not my favorite, either. But Christian likes it.”
I thought I could change his mind about that. After I read him the riot act for allowing unsafe equipment in his spa, of course. I’d already noted several fragrance alternatives that might be used (and yes, I might have been postponing working on my consulting report at the time).
“Well, to each his own, I guess.” There. I’d duly upheld Nina’s flimsy “workshop” excuse to cover her pampering. Maybe she’d thought I’d be offended because she’d found time for a manicure but not for a couples’ massage with Calvin. With effort, I swerved away my gaze from Nina’s manicure. “I’d better run. My tirade for Christian is at risk of burning out.”
Burning out. Nope, no it wasn’t. That did it.
“Don’t be too hard on Christian when you find him.” Nina gave me an admiring gaze. “You can be pretty intimidating.”
That was the second time someone had said something similar to me today. Not that I believed it. I knew I was a marshmallow on the inside. Except when chasing down chocolate issues.
“Although . . .” For a second, Nina looked troubled. She glanced around the spa’s main area, then pulled me into an alcove near the trickling wall of water. I felt its mist fall faintly over us, smelling of minerals. “You’re not invulnerable, Hayden.”
I laughed. “If you’re worried about Christian—”
“No, I’m worried about—” Nina broke off. She clutched her clipboard harder, then frowned at me. “Your friend Danny.”
“Danny? Why? I thought you two”—wanted to get cozy and extramarital sometime soon—“hit it off the other day.”
“We did. That’s why I Googled him. You know, to get some background on him. And maybe find a . . . picture or two?”
At that admission, Nina went almost as pink as I was.
Now it was my turn to frown. “You researched Danny?”
“Did you know he’s a criminal?” Nina asked urgently. Her gaze searched mine. “He’s been involved in some shady stuff.”
I wished I could have denied it. I couldn’t.
“I really don’t think that’s any of your business.”
My icy tone didn’t deter her. “I understand the whole ‘bad boy’ thing is appealing,” Nina admitted. “I do! But have you really thought about this?” She paused to examine me, probably trying to gauge if she was getting through. “I know you were hurt yesterday. I get reports from the staff physician so I can identify any trouble areas that might need . . . finessing. You know, in a PR sense. Or anything else. I know about your concussion.”
Oh. “You don’t have to worry about me, Nina.”
Especially if she was insinuating that Danny was responsible for my head injury. I couldn’t believe two people had now warned me against him. Who did they think they were?
Nobody else knew Danny Jamieson the way I knew him.
“Fine. I hear you.” Nina held up her palm in a peacekeeping gesture. “You’re not ready to talk about it. But just know”—her gaze softened with compassion—“I’m here whenever you are.”
Exasperated, I folded my arms. “I won’t need that. Thanks.”
“I mean it, Hayden. Sometimes it’s hard to ask for help.”
At Nina’s still-grave tone, it occurred to me that maybe she was trying to tell me something. Maybe she had personal experience with being battered or beaten. Maybe by Calvin.
That would explain her deferring a cozy couples’ massage.
Nina didn’t seem vulnerable. But even strong, smart women got caught up in abuse. If Nina was cautioning me because she had an insider’s perspective . . . well, she deserved my sympathy and help, not my defensive attitude. Nina had spent a lot of time with Adrienne, who was notoriously softhearted. For all I knew, my late chocolatier friend had once given Nina this same advice.
I was touched to think she might be passing it on to me.
“I really appreciate that, Nina,” I told her in a kinder tone. “If I’m ever alarmed by anything, I’ll call for help.”
Proving it, the very next thing I did after saying good-bye to the PR rep was make a mental note to myself as I headed off to continue my search for Christian Lemaître. I didn’t have my phone with me—since I’d thought I was going jogging that morning and hadn’t been back to my room since—but as soon as I did, it was time for me to tap Travis’s network again . . . and find out if Calvin Wheeler had “shady stuff” of his own to worry about.
Chapter 12
By now, you might not be surprised to learn that my fiery ire didn’t even last the whole length of the walk back to Maison Lemaître’s main building, where I expected to find Christian. On the way there, amid the flowers and fountains and bay views and acres of green grass, I spied one of those billowy white tents—the kind they’d used for the chocolate-themed scavenger hunt on the first day of the retreat—and slowed my steps in curiosity.
Judging by the crowd gathered around that tent, something major was going on. Judging by the sugary, caramelized scent of freshly baked waffle cones and hot fudge drifting on the breeze, it did not involve murder (for once). All of my expert senses suggested there was chocolate over there—chocolate ice cream.
Reasoning that a nice, frosty treat might cool the lingering scorched-skin sensation I’d been left with after my chocolate-fondue body wrap mishap, I beelined in that direction. Like I said before, my monkey mind sometimes takes over. Today, it was urging me to have ice cream. Since I hadn’t even eaten breakfast yet, I figured a couple of scoops of frozen freckled-chocolate ganache or mocha sorbet would tide me over as capably as brioche toast with Nutella and an espresso would have.
Ten minutes later, I held a plastic tulip-shaped bowl full of both of those flavors, plus some chocolate chunk mint-infusion gelato for a chaser. I’d opted to have the waffle cone broken into a makeshift topping (the better to preserve its crunch), and to forego the optional caramel and/or hot-fudge sauce (which would have turned the whole delectable concoction into soup within forty-five seconds) and whipped cream (no need to dilute all the chocolaty goodness with superfluous dairy). I am, after all, a professional at making these sorts of decisions.
My first bite made me moan. My second bite made my eyes roll back in my head. How had they made this ice cream so good? I didn’t know if my rage attack had worked up a monster appetite or what, but I did know that I wasn’t devouring that ice cream quickly. It deserved to be savored. Cradling it, I retreated to a bench not far from a riotously pink-flowering bauhinia tree, then curled up to indulge my outer chocoholic. Yum, yum.
“Hayden!” It was Eden, the reporter. “Mind if I join you?”
I looked up from my blissful cacao haze to see the Chocolat Monthly headline chaser pointing her cell phone at me. I winced.
“Sure.” Warily, I eyed her phone. “Off the record.”
She hesitated, then shrugged and closed whatever app she’d (probably) been using to record everyone surreptitiously.
Satisfied, I pointed my spoon. “Have a seat.”
Eden joined me on the bench. She glanced at my icecream extravaganza with undisguised disdain. “Is it good?” she asked.
“It’s nirvana.” I scooped up another bite. With relish.
“I don’t like ice cream. Especiall
y chocolate.”
Okay. That was it. I officially didn’t trust her. I decided to get to the point. “You want to ask me about Rex, right?”
“Well, his death is a big story.” Eden’s eyes gleamed. “What can you tell me about Rex Rader’s final hours?”
They were spent getting frisky with another man’s wife.
Nope, I wasn’t throwing anyone under the bus like that. Not even Rex. Now that he was gone, I felt sorry for him. “Nothing,” I told her. “What can you tell me about Isabel Lemaître?”
“Isabel?” Eden blinked as though she’d never heard the name before. “Isabel Lemaître? Bernard Lemaître’s wife?”
“I assume you’ve been covering her disappearance, too?”
Eden gave me a suspicious look. I blithely licked my ice cream, waiting her out. She needed me more than I needed her.
More quickly than I expected, she caved. “All I know is that Bernard reported Isabel missing this morning around six. Her clothes and things were gone. No one’s seen her since last night.” Eden glanced toward the parking lot. “Her Mercedes is gone, but the valet didn’t remember retrieving it for her.”
Every sign pointed to Isabel hotfooting it out of Maison Lemaître, that was for sure. I’d be willing to bet Isabel paid that valet to “forget” her. “Are the police investigating?”
“Investigating a runaway wife? Doubtful. Isabel seems to have packed all her things and left.” A pause. “So. About Rex—”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m late for an appointment.” With Christian. I still intended to give him a piece of my mind about the spa equipment—although now that I wasn’t currently being roasted in chocolate, my mission did feel less critical.
I was up and headed away from the bench when Eden said, “Is it true that you’ve been consulting with Christian Lemaître?”
I skidded to a stop. “Who told you that?”
If word had gotten out about my consulting gig with Lemaître Chocolates . . . that would explain why Christian had come to my room yesterday. He probably thought I’d bragged about it.
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