My longtime buddy caught on. We excused ourselves.
On the way out, I had an idea. I motioned for Danny to wait, then caught the barman’s attention. I watched him lumber over with chary eyes and a bar towel thrown over his shoulder.
“I already told your friend everything I’m going to.”
I smiled. “I know. Thanks.” It was time to play my hunch. “I want to settle up for Jeremy Wright. Somebody has to pay his bar tab, right? All the beer for his parties wasn’t cheap.”
For a long moment, the barman only glowered at me. I held my ground. If what Mr. Barclay had said before was correct, Jeremy had thrown a lot of wild parties at his town house. His drinks had to have come from someplace. The local (Jeremy’s “favorite neighborhood pub” to you and me) seemed a good bet.
Eventually, the barman’s head for business won out. He gave me a nod, then went in the back. While a puzzled Danny looked on, I waited. Then I watched the barman return with a notepad.
He licked the tip of a pencil, did some calculations, then squinted up at me. The figure he announced was mind-boggling.
Let’s just say it’s a good thing I’m financially secure.
Knowing I’d have to explain this expense to my keeper (aka Travis) later, I handed over my credit card. While the barman processed it, I had another brainstorm. “Who was set to pick up the next order?” I asked while performing the usual ritual with a handheld POS terminal. “I’m going to need to cancel that.”
The barman took back the device. “You’re different from the other girl,” he observed, chipper now that he’d gotten a big payment. “She was a mousy little thing. Wouldn’t say boo.”
Hmm. This wasn’t the first time I’d been mistaken for Jeremy’s personal assistant. It wasn’t the first insinuation I’d heard that Nicola Mitchell was timid, either. That opinion was definitely the prevailing one. Yet she’d been plenty forthright with me at the café. That must have been a ruse. Right?
Or maybe it had been a sugar surplus, overloading Nicola’s (normally reserved) circuits and making her talk brashly.
I couldn’t help wondering . . . which Nicola had Jeremy known?
Before I could defend my own assertiveness, the publican consulted his notepad. “Hugh Menadue,” he said. “He usually picked up orders for Jeremy. Good Cornwall lad. He’ll be gutted that Jeremy’s gone—not just for the extra work, either.”
Hugh. I guessed he’d done odd jobs for Jeremy after getting hired at Primrose. Maybe he’d needed the money.
“Is that so?” I leaned on the bar. “They were friendly?”
“Yeah.” A nod. “Hugh’s a good kid. He’s had some hard times. Got done for having sticky fingers at a shop. Asda, I think. Nothing bad. I knew his dad. Used to run a pub himself.”
Hmm. He meant Hugh had been in trouble for shoplifting.
We chatted about the business for a few minutes. I learned that the elder Menadue had come to East London from Cornwall to look for work after losing his job. He’d had to go on the dole.
“Proud bunch, though,” the barman told me. “Tough, too.”
I nodded, having learned more than I expected.
“Jeremy was the same, God rest him. He was a good man.” Soberly, the barman picked up something from behind the bar. A heavy glass tankard. He offered it to me, leaving empty the space it had formerly occupied on the bar’s shelf—a space marked with a discreet engraved brass nameplate. “You might as well have this, too, I reckon. Maybe take it home to his missus?”
I figured Phoebe would rather jump off Tower Bridge than allow an old-fashioned dimpled pub glass to become part of her décor. But the barman seemed pretty emotional, all of a sudden. So I accepted it anyway, nodding solemnly at his thoughtfulness.
“Thank you,” I told him. “I’ll take good care of this.”
I hadn’t known Jeremy well. But as I accepted that personal pub mug of his, I felt something shift inside me. When he’d last used it, he’d probably never dreamed it would be the final time.
I hoped the fact that it had had its own place on the pub’s shelf meant that Jeremy had lived his life to the fullest. You never knew how long you had with your family and friends . . . and your regular pubgoers, some of whom kept their own mug on site.
That’s how I’d suspected Jeremy had probably kept an open tab. I’d caught sight of that row of mugs, different from the typical conical, tulip-shaped, or nonic glasses Danny and I had gotten, and had wondered if Jeremy Wright had had a designated one.
My intuition had played out. That’s because, in the U.K., a corner pub isn’t really the same thing as a bar in the U.S. Likening the two does a grave disservice. To its regulars, a pub is more. It’s part living room, part sanctuary; part camaraderie and part relaxation. You can do more than drink. You can talk with your friends, play snooker, throw darts—even triumph as part of a weekly quiz team. A pub is a true home away from home.
I had a feeling this place had felt more like home to Jeremy than his fine terraced town house ever could have done.
“Come back anytime,” the publican told me. He included Danny in his invitation with a tilt of his chin. We both nodded.
“Nice of you to pay off a dead man’s tab.” Danny studied me as we stepped outside into the sunshine. “How did you know?”
I explained about the shelf of glasses that were kept behind the bar for regulars. After the dim snugness of the pub, the city streets felt twice as bright and three times as impersonal. I dodged an oncoming pedestrian commuter who was headed for the closest Tube station, then grabbed Danny.
“Come on,” I told him. “I’ve got another errand to run.”
* * *
My clever distraction technique almost worked.
I nearly diverted Danny before he started grumbling at length about my big payout on Jeremy’s pub tab that afternoon. But by the time we’d returned to the guesthouse, my luck had run out.
“Must be nice to dish out that much money without even blinking,” Danny remarked in a too-casual tone. “Are you going to get Harvard to expense it? You could get away with it. Investigating murders is practically your part-time job now.”
I shuddered at the thought. I didn’t want another “job.” Especially not one that didn’t concern Schokolade.
“No, I’m not going to expense it.” Paying off Jeremy’s bill had been expedient. Now I knew that he had thrown wild parties—parties that included regular-Joe beer drinkers, not hoity-toity cocktail or wine sippers—and that Hugh Menadue had been involved in those parties, however tangentially. That was more than I could say for any of the other apprentices or crew at Primrose. “I’m going to move up Hugh on my suspect list, though.”
I’d shared with Danny my scheme to be extra suspicious of all my suspects. His hoot of laughter hadn’t been encouraging.
“That’s a lot of cash to drop for a few hints.”
I didn’t want to get into it. We both knew I’d lucked into my inheritance, just because Uncle Ross and I had been close. I’d loved my uncle’s spirt; he’d loved my energy. I missed him. But it never did any good to dissect the issue with Danny.
“I can afford it,” I said, just in case Danny was sincerely worried about my cash flow. We’d arrived at the guesthouse a few minutes ago and were settling in. “Now, about what’s next—”
“I don’t want to. I’m not going to do it. Not again.”
“You always say that.” I gave him a sassy grin. “Right before you cave in. Let’s just skip the preliminaries, okay?”
My muscle-bound buddy furrowed his brow. “No means no.”
“You’ll like it once we get started,” I cajoled.
He glanced at me. That meant he was weakening. “Hayden.”
I tossed my shoulder-length dark hair. “We both know where this is going. Telling me ‘no’ doesn’t get us anywhere.” I grabbed his hand and then pulled it to where I wanted it. “Go ahead,” I coaxed. “Don’t deny yourself any longer. Let’s go.”
“It’s a great idea.”
“I can’t believe you’re asking me to do this again.”
“I ask you to do this every time. Please. For me?”
He sighed, and I won. “Where do you want me to start?”
I swept my gaze over the . . . accoutrements . . . I’d brought back to the guesthouse with us. They lent an indulgent spark to the place’s straitlaced, chintz-and-corgis atmosphere. Some loosening up was needed, especially in the bedroom, where we’d been deciding who got the gigantic four-poster bed (me).
I’d tried to get Danny to take turns. He’d opted out.
Finally, he made his choice. Dubiously, he eyed me.
Feeling breathless with victory, I nodded. “Go on.”
He screwed shut his eyes. He took a bite of flapjack.
On a surprised moan, he opened his eyes. “This is good!”
“See?” Triumphantly, I selected my own treat—a “millionaire” shortbread bar layered with chocolate and caramel. It was, I suspected, far better than the granola-bar-style sweet that described a U.K. flapjack (hint: not a pancake). “Yum.”
At the same time, we both stopped chewing. We’d gotten these takeaway treats from an assortment of local shops. While they weren’t quite artisanal-bakery quality, they were good.
That meant my work at Primrose was cut out for me. Uh-oh.
As though simultaneously sensing as much, Danny put down his nut-and-dried-fruit-studded flapjack. He gave me a sarcastic look. “How about it? Want to talk about Jeremy’s bar tab now?”
I didn’t. It would only make Danny mad. He resented the gulf that Uncle Ross’s money had opened between us, no matter how much I tried to gloss over it. He resented the strings that were attached to my fortune—the strings that kept me on the move for at least several months per year—no matter how much I laughed them off. He didn’t understand the same things I did.
Things like . . . Uncle Ross had believed that growth was paramount. That stretching boundaries was crucial. That not getting stuck meant more than not being comfortable. He’d given me a chance, in his will, to live life to the largest. I hadn’t had to take it—especially with all the stipulations attached—but I had. I’d done it with my eyes open, too. I was a big girl.
I could handle my finances. Danny, my friend, was trickier.
In simple terms, my eccentric Uncle Ross had made a fortune but had never found a wife or children to share it with. He’d regretted making his work his life. He’d wanted me to live big.
To make sure I would, he’d required in his will that I travel, widely and often. He’d enlisted Travis’s firm to make sure I did. In return, I got more money than I’d ever told Danny about. Enough to keep us both pretty comfy while investigating.
Or while tasting chocolate. Which was what we were doing, in the guesthouse’s elegant bedroom, as a means of furthering my chocolate-whispering job. I got back on track. “Cupcake?”
Danny frowned at the delicacy I offered as though it might explode. “Maybe later. You know this is the worst part for me.”
That’s right. He said it. Tasting cupcakes was torture.
“I don’t even like chocolate,” he added in an unbelievably long-suffering tone. “You know that. I. Don’t. Like. Chocolate.”
And that’s why Danny and I aren’t soul mates. Because I’m a person who lives for a perfectly made mousse or a delicately spun chiffon cake, and he . . . well, he would rather eat pork rinds.
Danny’s affinity for the salty/spicy/savory end of the snack spectrum baffled me. Why would anyone eat Sriracha hot wings when chocolate pecan pie existed? Why nosh on nachos when you could go for devil’s food layer cake? Why eat jalapeño poppers when you could fire up some melty, marshmallowy, scrumptious s’mores, and really treat yourself?
I’ve tried to woo over Danny to the dark side for years. Dark chocolate bars, cookie bites, cheesecake, hot-fudge sauce . . . they’ve all failed. Every time, I die a little bit on the inside.
Okay, just kidding on that last part. But still. I wished Danny could enjoy the same things I enjoy. Isn’t that part of friendship? Savoring experiences together?
Thanks to Danny’s flawed taste buds (there was no other reasonable explanation), we had to get our friendship groove on in other ways. I wished, just then, that one of those ways was visiting a club I’d heard about near Borough Market. I could have used a night out. But we weren’t in London to enjoy ourselves. We were there to solve problems.
Jeremy’s murder first among them now.
Phoebe’s chocolaty Primrose treats second.
But since I’d done all the chocolate whispering I could for the day, that left only one topic to deal with: Jeremy.
“Okay, fine.” I sat up straighter, leaving our assembled “research” treats unfinished. “Let’s get down to it, then. Tell me what you found when you ‘secured’ this place earlier today.”
Danny perked up. He likes talking about perimeters, windows, and dead bolts the way I like talking about triple-fudge ice cream and chocolate ganache. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Six
The thing I love about London isn’t just that it’s a bustling, cosmopolitan city full of skyscrapers, historical buildings, and a tremendous variety of people. It’s also that it’s full of green spaces. It’s counterintuitive in a city of almost nine million people, but London is a city with lungs.
It’s all thanks to the presence of the city’s commons—a combination of squares, royal parks, grassy canal-side spaces, riverfront greens along the Thames, and a variety of gardens.
I paced through one of them early the next morning, after having gotten a late-night phone call from Liam Taylor, Jeremy’s personal trainer. I’d been surprised to hear from him, given that I hadn’t left him a message, but he’d cheerfully explained that.
“Lots of my clients are ‘hang-ups’ the first time they contact me.” Liam had sounded hearty and alert, even given the late hour he’d called. Maybe that’s what kicking sugar did for a person. I’d never know. “They get nervous and hang up before asking for help. They usually appreciate it when I call them back, though, so I thought you might, too.”
I’d been on the verge of asking how he’d gotten my number when it hit me: caller ID on his cellphone. Of course.
“I’m used to it,” he’d gone on, sounding burly even over the phone. His voice had been deep. Jocular. Confident. “It’s all part of dealing with people who need help. Sometimes I have to goose them along. But there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“I hear you. I’m in the ‘helping’ business myself.”
“Well, I’d love to hear more about it, Hayden,” Liam had assured me, after I’d divulged a brief cover story about working at Primrose with Phoebe—and hence having been referred to her husband’s personal trainer. “And about you and your fitness goals, too. Let’s say, six AM? Victoria Esplanade Gardens?”
I’d agreed, which explained how I’d come to be striding past early-morning joggers and people feeding pigeons while the sun had barely peeped over the top of the “Cheesegrater,” the tower otherwise known as the Leadenhall Building in The City.
I’m used to keeping unusual hours, though. Professional baking is a predawn activity. It has to be. Nobody wants to think about how their favorite morning muffins turn up at breakfast, fresh (not merely thawed) and ready to go, before they head off to work. But if those muffins are any good, there were some dedicated bakers behind the scenes making it happen.
That didn’t mean I hadn’t grabbed some fortifying coffee first. I’m not crazy. Somewhere behind me, too, was Danny. He’d insisted on tailing me to my meeting with Liam. Again, you might think he was being possessive, given that I was about to get up close and personal with some professional man candy, but that wasn’t it. Danny also had been caught flat-footed by the whole Murder, She Wrote routine I’d inadvertently fallen into. He’d been a step or tw
o behind, once or twice, during our time at Lemaître Chocolates and at the Cartorama food cart pod. I think my freelance bodyguard wanted to make up for those lapses.
Not that I could tell for sure, of course. The minute we left the Wrights’ guesthouse and trundled through the streets of Chelsea toward the Thames Embankment, I lost sight of Danny.
I felt reassured knowing he was there, though. Especially once I caught sight of the gigantic man headed toward me along the winding path. He stood out like a colossus amid the genteel flower beds and green-leafed trees, moving with purpose and a clear sense of vitality—and a frightening frown on his face, too. I almost balked. His expression looked that forbidding.
Then he caught sight of me and grinned. He waved.
The greyhound leashed beside him sensed his mood and picked up the pace, paws clicking along gracefully on the sidewalk.
I melted. I love dogs. Cats, too, although you won’t see them obediently being walked through a public garden. I know a greyhound is probably nobody’s idea of a particularly endearing pet, but this one looked especially sweet, with big brown eyes and a lolling tongue. Helplessly, I cooed. “Aren’t you sweet?”
I stopped to let her greet me, tail wagging. At her side, Liam Taylor watched us both with evident pleasure. “Hayden?”
Already in a crouch to make friends with the dog, I nodded. I rose and extended my hand, keeping my cup of takeaway coffee safe in the other. “That’s me. You’re Liam, right?”
He nodded too. His right hand engulfed mine to perform the usual handshake ritual. His hand wasn’t “usual,” though. It was enormous.
Was it wrong that I instantly envisioned it wielding a metlapil? A man the size of Liam could have easily overpowered Jeremy, who, while not exactly small, couldn’t begin to compare.
Liam Taylor was, I saw, the size you’d image a bona fide superhero to be. Tall, broad-shouldered, and so tautly muscular that his workout clothes—a pair of track pants and a tank top, with a jacket and sneakers—looked comically skintight in places. Like his bulging biceps. His gigantic thighs. His barrel chest.
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