My gaze wandered again to the scene behind her. One of the officers had bagged something as evidence. Something gray, blood-stained, and shaped like a smallish American baseball bat. He held it up in his gloved hands, peering perplexedly at it.
“What do you reckon?” he asked his colleague, frowning.
The lull that followed was too much for me. I wanted to do something. At the best of times, I’m an ants-in-the-pants kind of gal. I’ve got a rampant monkey mind and a need to keep moving. The officers on hand obviously needed my assistance.
“It’s a metlapil.”
Several interested gazes swerved toward me. I couldn’t help feeling on safer ground. This I knew. This I understood.
Murder? Not so much. But kitchen equipment? Sure. So I kept talking.
“It’s a heavy stone tool used for grinding, usually in conjunction with a metate.” More baffled gazes focused on me. “You know, like a mortar and pestle?” I mimed a grinding gesture, cupping my palm for a metate and curling my fingers around an imaginary metlapil. “They’re typically made of volcanic rock. They’re virtually indestructible. Before the industrial age, they were used to pulverize grain, seeds—”
“Heads?” Two of the officers—unbelievably—chuckled.
A harsh look from Satya Mishra put a stop to that.
Then she returned her attention to me, eyebrows raised.
I recognized her unspoken question. “Yes, maybe.” I didn’t want to think about that. I raised my palms in a defensive hold on gesture. “I’ve only ever seen met-lapils used to make bean-to-bar artisanal chocolate. It’s pretty complicated, though. First you have to remove the cacao beans from their fruit, then you have to ferment them, then comes roasting, cracking, winnowing—”
I stopped short, realizing that DC Mishra was staring at my hands. Why would she stare at my hands, especially so fixedly?
Realizing one possible explanation, I froze. “I’ve only used a metlapil once, on a plantation in Venezuela,” I clarified hastily. Have I mentioned that I tend to get chatty when nervous? “I’ve never even noticed that gigantic one before.”
I pointed at it and immediately wished I hadn’t. Doing so seemed to draw an unmistakable connection between it and me.
That was the murder weapon. What was I, crazy?
I clammed up, but it was too late.
“Yet you live here, isn’t that correct?” she asked me.
I swallowed hard. Reluctantly, I nodded. I couldn’t help noticing that the rest of the officers had also become very interested in what I had to say. Uh-oh. I wished Danny were there. I wished Travis were there. I wished I’d stayed in a nearby hotel and not been lured by promises of beds and baths.
“You’ve stayed here for . . . ?” Constable Mishra consulted her notes. Her calm demeanor no longer felt comforting. It felt entrapping. “Almost two weeks now. Isn’t that correct?” Her laser attention fixed on me. “But you claim you’ve never seen that particular metlapil? I find that hard to believe.”
Frankly, I did, too. Had that (unusually large) metlapil been here all along? Or had someone brought it? The film crew?
The killer?
“You can’t think I did this!” I blurted. “I’m innocent!”
Her tightly pursed lips suggested she remained unconvinced.
“I didn’t have any reason to want Jeremy Wright dead.”
Blithely, DC Mishra asked, “You were a fan?”
“Of course! Who wasn’t?” Anxiously, I barked out a laugh. Hey, it’s not easy being interrogated. You try holding up under that much pressure—that much intense scrutiny. Satya Mishra might have the beauty and poise of a Bollywood actress, but she also had the severity and formidable authority of a police officer. They’re trained to be daunting. “Weren’t we all?”
If they didn’t want to acknowledge the truth, I would. Jeremy Wright had been the U.K.’s most famous celebrity chef for almost a decade. He’d eclipsed all his rivals with his rough-hewn charm, Essex-bred accent, and culinary charisma. He’d done several popular TV cooking shows. He’d done sold-out tours in England and abroad. He’d authored multiple best-selling cookery books. He’d married the daughter of a peer! He’d made it.
His fans would probably bawl in the streets when they heard the news. They’d queue (politely, of course) to lay tributes to Jeremy at his jam-packed city restaurants, as fans had done in Camden Square when Amy Winehouse had died. They’d be devastated.
The police offers appeared less distraught. “Nothing he cooked could beat a nice takeaway chicken vindaloo,” one said.
“Or a doner kebab,” confirmed another with a nod.
You might think that Londoners nosh on fish and chips and pints of ale exclusively. But the city has a robust food scene. Jeremy Wright had been at the forefront of it. Cheap takeaways notwithstanding, he’d done his share of proper English grub.
“I don’t cook,” Constable Mishra told me. “My freezer is stocked with ready meals from Waitrose, like a normal person.”
Ugh. “Well, you’re busy. You have an important job.”
I hoped that job wouldn’t include arresting me.
“I could give you a few cooking lessons sometime.” I’d already told Satya Mishra what I did for a living. “Free of charge.”
“Bribing an officer is a crime, Ms. Mundy Moore.”
“Or you could pay me.” I was floundering. We both knew it.
To my relief, DC Mishra did not choose that moment to incarcerate me. Instead, she wrote something in her notebook, gave me another evaluative look, then stood in the guesthouse’s kitchen. She frowned at me. “Don’t leave town, Ms. Mundy Moore.”
I gulped and tried to look guilt free.
Don’t leave town. Wasn’t that what the police said to their prime suspects? Was I a prime suspect? All I’d done was stay in a place where I had plenty of opportunity, report finding a dead body, identify the until-then-unknown murder weapon, and loudly proclaim my innocence. Maybe more than once. I wasn’t sure.
Hmm. If that last bit didn’t implicate me, nothing would.
“We may need to speak to you again, after we’ve finished processing the crime scene.” DC Mishra eyed her colleagues in what seemed to be her typical no-nonsense way. Then, me. “You should find somewhere else to stay tonight. Possibly for the next forty-eight hours. It all depends on what we find here.”
“I hope you find a murderer!” I said urgently. I was under suspicion of murder. Officially under suspicion. Oh no.
“We’ll find who did this.” The detective constable pierced me with a deadeye look. “You can be assured of that.” Then she conferred with her fellow officers, nodded, and left the scene. If I was supposed to feel comforted, I didn’t. While it was somewhat reassuring to know that the police were on the job, they were pointed squarely in the wrong direction.
They were pointed at me. I wanted to escape, but I wasn’t sure where to go. I wanted to forget about this, but that was impossible. I wanted to break down the situation with someone who wasn’t mentally fitting me for handcuffs and prison stripes.
Muzzy-headed, I stepped outside into the encroaching darkness. In the garden, I could still make out the faraway sounds of laughing pubgoers and summertime traffic on the embankment.
I pulled out my phone and dialed. It would be afternoon in L.A., where Danny lived and worked. I pictured sunshine and smog, traffic and tacos. He picked up on the first ring.
“The margaritas here are horrible,” I told him in my best upbeat voice. “Can you FedEx me some tequila right away?”
Danny wasn’t fooled by my fake bonhomie. He’s known me too long for that. His voice took on a hard edge. “What’s wrong?”
My throat burned. I gulped some air and blinked hard. I was afraid I might start crying. I like to think I’m pretty tough—pretty live-and-let-live about things— but at the familiar, cherished sound of Danny’s voice, everything rushed at me.
“It happened again,” I croaked, unable to say mor
e.
A moment of silence stretched along the line. I imagined Danny at work, wearing a tuxedo and a skeleton-style, two-way radio earpiece on a red carpet somewhere in La-La Land. He made (most of) his living as a private security expert, ushering Hollywood types to movie premieres and fancy charity events.
“I’m on the next red-eye,” he told me. “Sit tight.”
That’s when I started weeping, of course. All the stress of the past few hours blubbered out of me in fits and starts. I stared at London’s skyline, hoping to regain my composure. I could glimpse the very tippy top of the Shard, lighted for the nighttime, but that celebrated view didn’t help. I was a wreck.
“The police think I did it,” I confided, calmer now.
Danny never left my (telephonic) side, not even while handing off whatever protection job he’d taken on. Knowing him, he would arrange air travel, grab his go bag, and intimidate L.A.’s infamously gridlocked traffic out of his path while driving. When engaged in a mission, Danny was a fearsome sight.
He was my fearsome sight. I needed him.
“You’ll just have to prove you didn’t do it, then,” he said now. “You’re not a murderer. You like everybody. They like you.”
Just like that, everything became clearer. Count on Danny to get down to brass tacks. He didn’t usually add in mushy stuff about my personal likability, of course, but this was a crisis.
He might be built like a muscleman, but he wasn’t made of stone. When it came to me, Danny was surprisingly schmaltzy.
I mean, not that we were dating, or anything. God forbid. We’d tried that once and lived to regret it. Now we knew better.
“I’m not paying you overtime for an overnight flight,” I joked, still searching for my equilibrium. I started walking.
“I’m not flying coach. Those seats will squash me like a sardine,” Danny shot back. “Business class. Deal with it.”
Despite everything, I smiled. I sniffled. I smiled again, knowing he was doing his best to divert me from all the drama.
I didn’t know how. Or when. But I knew everything would be okay. Eventually. Because I intended to make sure it was.
One way or another. But first, now that I felt calmer and readier to deal with everything, I needed to call Phoebe.
* * *
After news broke of Jeremy’s death, chaos descended.
I wanted to leave London altogether, but I couldn’t. For one thing, I was a suspect in Jeremy’s murder. For another, I was under contract to work at Primrose until Phoebe pronounced the shop’s problems solved. That was our agreement. I typically keep my consultations open-ended, taking on one at a time and working it from analysis to enhancement to report, step by step.
I’m methodical like that. I’m also a stickler for details and an unrepentant procrastinator. You’d think those qualities wouldn’t go together. You’d be wrong. However kooky, my methods work. My clients are always satisfied. But this was different.
Phoebe would be different. Maybe she’d want to cancel.
Most likely, just then, she wouldn’t care about Primrose, its pastries, or its soon-to-be-decadent chocolate treats. She’d be absorbed in mourning the man she loved. In gathering with Jeremy’s family and friends and remembering him. In crying and questioning and making funeral arrangements for her husband.
I kept on as best I could, taking refuge in what needed to be done. I needed to get up early (hideously early) to arrive at Primrose. I needed to oversee the morning bakers’ work. I needed to taste-test chocolate chunk cookies and chocolate cherry scones. I needed to keep my mouth shut and listen when the curious and surprised Primrose staff gossiped about Jeremy.
They had a lot to say, actually. Which brought me to . . .
You’ll just have to prove you didn’t do it, then.
Danny had been right when he’d said that. He’d said it again when he’d come in from Heathrow to join me, too.
You’ll just have to prove you didn’t do it.
I did. So, as much as I wanted to take refuge in chocolate whispering, I had to keep my eyes and ears open for clues. I couldn’t wait for DC Mishra to catch the killer. I had to do a little sleuthing myself. Just on the off chance I could succeed.
The idea wasn’t as crazy as it sounded. I’ve been mixed up in dangerous situations before and emerged unscathed. A little bruised, battered, or scared, maybe, but mostly okay. I’d survived, and I’d brought justice to some people who needed it.
I knew I could do it again. With Danny to help me and Travis on call, I figured I could clear my name and troubleshoot Primrose’s problems . . . and comfort Phoebe, too. I hadn’t seen her in person yet. But when I did, I meant to offer my sincerest condolences.
I hadn’t known Jeremy well, but I’d respected his accomplishments. He’d seemed nice. He hadn’t deserved to die.
Not that anyone did. You know what I mean.
In the immediate aftermath of Jeremy’s death, I crashed overnight on a friend’s sofa in Shoreditch. Even that was a tight squeeze, though. She had other guests to accommodate—including Danny, who roughed it on the floor beside me without complaint for a night after he hit town. After that, neither love nor money could secure us another place to stay—not one that hadn’t recently hosted a murder, at least. I was stuck.
I had to return to the Wrights’ guesthouse. Today.
In a black cab hurtling across London, I made another go at it anyway. Despite needing to be near the scene of the crime to do a little snooping, I wasn’t wild about the idea of sleeping a measly few feet from where someone had bashed Jeremy’s head in.
That had been the official cause of death, by the way. Jeremy had been bludgeoned to death. Likely with that oversize stone metlapil. Likely by someone tall, strong, and left-handed.
“It all comes down to the evidence, doesn’t it?” said DC Mishra’s colleague, George, when I inquired. “That’s what the fellas in forensics tell us, anyway.” He’d dropped his gaze to my hand, then scratched his head musingly. “Yep. Left-handed.”
I’d clutched my crossbody bag harder in my right hand and then skedaddled, finished with the “few questions” DC Mishra had summoned me back to the police station to answer. Now I returned my attention to the cab driver. I smiled at him.
“You wouldn’t happen to know of a hotel with rooms available, would you? You black cab drivers have the Knowledge of London. If anybody can tell me where to go, it’s you.”
“Nope. Wimbledon’s in town, innit?” Cheerfully, the driver eyed me in his rearview mirror, nodding to recognize my familiarity with the Knowledge—the grueling, comprehensive test that all licensed cab drivers were required to pass. It was rumored to detail more than 25,000 roads and 20,000 attendant landmarks and businesses. That’s why the drivers of black cabs are so skilled. “Everyplace is blocked up solid this time of year. My missus makes extra money renting out our son’s room. He’s away at university. We split the take with him.”
“That’s enterprising of you,” I said, disappointed. I’d forgone public transport today on purpose, hoping to pick the brain of a black cab driver like him. If you ever find yourself in a strange city, needing a tip about where to go, what to see, or where to eat, ask a cab driver where he or she likes to go. You’ll get the real skinny on what’s good (and cheap) anywhere.
“Every little bit helps,” he said with a shrug and another grin. “I’ve got a vacation villa in Spain to pay for, don’t I?”
“It’s smart of you not to leave money on the table, then.”
“Can’t afford it. London’s an expensive city.”
It was getting more expensive all the time, I knew. Every year, more and more people were squeezed out of living in the capital. Even the royal household was subject to scrutiny. Its treasury had been criticized for spending beyond the yearly Sovereign Grant allotted to pay for the royal family’s expenses.
The driver rounded a turn and stopped at a busy crosswalk, his cab idling in the sunshine. We watched the peo
ple flooding across the designated zebra crossing. Its helpful instructions—painted on the pavement in white—instructed pedestrians to LOOK RIGHT or LOOK LEFT, as was appropriate for those who weren’t used to traffic coming from the “wrong” direction.
I couldn’t help imagining all those people returning to snug hotel rooms—rooms they’d providentially booked before tennis, murder, and flower shows had descended on the capital.
I wouldn’t have believed the crowds if I hadn’t seen them for myself—and had the situation confirmed by a concierge I trusted. Evidently, the championship tennis tournament—held in a borough southwest of London—was even more popular than I’d realized. Combined with the usual tourist crush and the throngs of people in town for festivals and events like the RHS Hampton Court Palace Flower Show, London Town was busy, busy, busy.
I’d tried appealing to Travis for help. My financial adviser’s hands had been tied. Even with his myriad connections, he hadn’t been able to secure a room for Danny and me. Not on a last-minute basis. Not even for gobs of Uncle Ross’s money.
I’d called my parents, too. While they’d been upset on my behalf, they’d already sublet their Mayfair flat for the next few months while they worked in France. Both experimental archaeologists, they were busy on a castle-rebuilding project.
I wished I could have seen them while I was in London.
More than ever, I was aware that life was short. You never knew when it would be the last time you saw someone you loved.
For Jeremy’s relatives, the very last time they’d see him would likely be a few days from now. I’d learned from the police—after a few pointed (possibly foolhardy) questions—that a postmortem exam was required. That was customary in cases of unexpected death. That would take a few days, I’d been told.
All in all, I didn’t want to return to the guesthouse. I was sensitive enough to be bothered by sleeping where Jeremy had drawn his last breath and sensible enough to worry about the killer coming back. But I didn’t have a choice. I did hope to see Phoebe, though. I was starting to get concerned about her.
She hadn’t been to work, of course. That was understandable. Primrose could function without her for a while. But according to news reports, she hadn’t even left the town house. She and Jeremy hadn’t had any children. Phoebe might be alone in her grief, I knew, solitarily wandering her huge house.
The Semi-Sweet Hereafter Page 3