The Semi-Sweet Hereafter

by Colette London

  “Because if you’re one of Phoebe’s rich friends, I have to be extra nice to you.” Liam smiled. “To convince you to donate.”

  His motivation was so obvious, I almost laughed. “I don’t think you’re supposed to tell me that’s what you’re doing.”

  He gave an offhand shrug. “I guess I’m bad at being devious.”

  I hoped so. “I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”

  A broader smile. “It’s a deal.”

  Playfully, we shook on it. Newfound solidarity rose between us. I really wanted Liam to be innocent—and not just because he had dog-rescue skills and the physique of a Greek god, either.

  I liked him. I know, you’re thinking I’m being gullible. So would Danny. Maybe Travis, too. But I can’t help being me.

  I don’t want to believe the worst of everyone I meet.

  As though validating my optimistic impulses, Liam made plans for us to visit Jeremy’s Jump Start Foundation together in a few days. He’d been planning to go anyway, he confided.

  A guy who’d just bludgeoned his friend to death wouldn’t spend a day working with disadvantaged youth in a bad neighborhood, would he?

  “So.” With that accomplished, I looked around, ready to get on with my day. “Now I’ve got my program.” Liam had given me his personal-trainer marching orders—regular cardio, “conditioning” sessions with him a few times a week, and the aforementioned anti-carb, anti-sugar, anti-booze, anti-fun regimen. That was the real sticking point for me. I didn’t really have to stick with the program, since I was only there to get information. In fact, I couldn’t “eat clean” and do my chocolate-whispering job.

  But when I was with Liam, I’d have to pretend to have done exactly that. And hope he never, ever found out. “What happens if I blow it?”

  “You won’t blow it,” Liam assured me. His face took on a scary seriousness. “None of my clients ever let me down.”

  At his dire tone, I gulped. “Come on. A few must. Right?”

  “Nope.” Liam shook his head. “All I have is my reputation. That depends on compliance. So I make well sure I get it.”

  Ooookay. Maybe he wasn’t a pussycat, after all. “I’m on it, then! Thanks for your time. See you later.” Then I skedaddled.

  You know . . . before Liam could make an example of me, the way he might have done with Jeremy on the night he’d died.

  Seven

  “He was playing you.”

  Danny made that announcement in his usual cocksure tone, settling back against the banquette at Jeremy’s Covent Garden restaurant as though he owned the place. He eyed me silently.

  I knew he was waiting for my inevitable defense. I don’t like being wrong. Who does? But I paid Danny for a reason. I respected his expertise far beyond that paycheck, too. So I had to put aside any knee-jerk rationalizations and be smart.

  “What makes you think that?” I asked. It was hard to ponder deception (much less murder) after having just enjoyed the most mouthwatering truffled mushroom risotto ever, but I tried.

  Mostly for the sake of keeping Danny at the restaurant until our pudding arrived (to those of you who are stateside, that’s “dessert”—any kind, not just pudding). Flourless chocolate cake for me, and a deep-fried, batter-dipped Mars bar for Danny. He was trying to eat chocolate, which I found heartening, but I was skeptical about its probable tastiness. I’m all for a retro dessert now and then, but fried sugar? No. None for me, thanks.

  And yes, I know that donuts are fried. But here’s the thing—I don’t like them, either. If anyone ever claims I’ve consulted for your favorite donut shop, they’re pulling your leg. Because I just don’t have the stomach for a job like that.

  “Liam Taylor is hiding something,” Danny insisted. “Halfway through your conversation with him, his whole demeanor changed.”

  “He’s upset about Jeremy’s death. They’ve known each other for years. People behave erratically when they’re grieving.”

  “They’re predictable as hell when they’re not grieving. What makes you think Hulk Jr. is really sorry about Jeremy?”

  I quirked my lips at his nickname for Liam. “He’s sorry.”

  “Unless he’s the one who crushed Jeremy’s skull.”

  “I still think Hugh might have done it,” I maintained, not wanting to revisit my mental picture of that night. I hated to say so, but... “Hugh has the size, the impulsivity, and the bad attitude to attack Jeremy. Maybe it was an accident,” I mused, toying with my wineglass. “Maybe he didn’t mean to do it.”

  “Right.” Danny compressed his mouth. “Pick on the kid from the wrong side of the tracks. Nice going, Hayden. I’m sure Harvard will agree with you. You’ll wrap this up by teatime.”

  “Come on. You know I’m not biased that way.”

  My friendship with Danny—and my understanding of his sketchy background—was proof of it. Reluctantly, he nodded.

  Smartly, he didn’t bring up any of his friends from his old ’hood—buddies who could always count on Danny for a helping hand, a sofa to crash on, a hot meal, or a ride someplace.

  Above all, Danny was loyal. But his ongoing relationships with people I thought were bad influences on him was a touchy subject between us. I admired his dependability. I also feared his “buddies” and the slip-slide into trouble they embodied.

  “Either way, I don’t feel any closer to identifying who might have killed Jeremy than I did yesterday.” I sighed, then perked up as I noticed the server approaching with our desserts.

  For the next few minutes, we were absorbed with pudding. I considered it my professional obligation to focus completely on the soft, dark, über-chocolaty slice of cake in front of me. My motto is, if it doesn’t deserve my complete attention, it’s probably not worth eating at all. So I savor every mouthful.

  “Hey, what was with you waving me off when you were with Liam this morning?” Danny put down his fork and gave me a quizzical look. This question must have slipped his mind while we’d canvassed K&C (the Kensington and Chelsea neighborhoods) earlier, picking up the requisite free tabloid papers after my meeting with Liam. “I can’t protect you if you won’t let me.”

  Before I could answer, my phone buzzed. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t interrupt an in-person conversation for a phone call, but this was different. “It’s Travis. I’ve got to pick up.”

  “Of course you do. Can’t keep Captain Calculator waiting.”

  I couldn’t tell if Danny was being sarcastic or not. With him, cynicism is like breathing. That’s one reason he’s a good security expert. He’s as ready to suspect the worst of people as I am to think the best. He’s really persistent. Tough, too.

  But I was already being transported across the Atlantic, a few thousand miles and several hours into Travis’s downtown Seattle office. I hustled toward the restaurant’s exit, leaving Danny to hold down our table until I returned. All around me, Jeremy’s loyal customers and fans kept up a steady background hum, competing for attention with the place’s lively music.

  Danny and I had waited almost an hour for a table—at lunch, no less. It seemed that Jeremy’s untimely death had only made his already thriving dynasty of restaurants even more popular. The servers were hopping. Unless the back-of-house staff were unusually skilled, they were probably deep in the weeds by now.

  But back to Travis. Putting my restaurant persona on hold, I stepped out into Covent Garden’s neoclassical market hall. Its immense green-painted steel beams arched gracefully above me to support the former fruit-and-vegetable market’s glasswork ceiling. Below me was another level of the Italianate arcade. It dominated the piazza, each level and passageway featuring charming brickwork along with shops where the former sellers’ stalls had been. It was bustling, but understandably so. Covent Garden packed a variety of retail and dining outlets into its spacious, open-air complex. Its visitors were entertained by street performers and lured by all kinds of food and flowers.

  I was lured by the promise of another chat with Trav
is. I wished it didn’t have to happen amid such distracting hubbub.

  “Travis! This is a surprise.” Cheekily, I lowered my voice. “You’re calling to tell me what you’re wearing, aren’t you?”

  “Only if an expression of indignation counts.”

  His usually deep-timbred voice had dropped even further. I’ll admit, that sound gave me chills. The good kind, of course.

  “Don’t be that way. You know you love talking to me.” I broke off to consult my phone’s clock. Uh-oh. The time zone shift was brutal. “Even if it is before dawn there. Sorry.”

  Travis, being Travis, didn’t quibble about unalterable factors like time zones. He accepted what couldn’t be changed and worked diligently (and intelligently) on what could.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were a murder suspect?”

  I froze. Foreboding washed over me. “DC Mishra?”

  “Called me with a few ‘off the record’ questions just now.”

  I tried to laugh. “At least I apologized for the time change. Detective Constable Mishra and the London Metropolitan Police Service aren’t quite as thoughtful as I am, I guess.”

  My attempt at misdirection failed. “What’s going on, Hayden?”

  Travis sounded beleaguered. But sexy. He just couldn’t help it. He’s so . . . capable. Of all kinds of things, I imagined.

  “I should have known something was up when Danny flew over there to join you,” Travis groused, interrupting my reverie. “I thought you were bored with your consultation at Primrose.”

  “Bored? With you to talk to? Never. You know that.”

  “I made it as safe as possible. The location, the job at Primrose, the people involved . . . they were all factors pointing to an assignment that would not put you in danger again, damn it.”

  “Danger of incarceration isn’t danger per se,” I reasoned. I’d never heard Travis swear before. I was freaked out. “There’s no need for you to blame yourself. You tried to bore me. Okay?”

  As reassurances went, it was admittedly lame. But maybe steady-to-a-fault Travis would like being aces at boredom?

  “I mean it.” His newly flinty tone stopped me cold. “Jeremy Wright. What happened? I want to know every detail, right now.”

  “Right now?” Still trying to laugh off his concern, I mimed looking at my (nonexistent) watch. “I’m pretty busy right now.”

  “Tell. Me. Everything.”

  Whoa. When he talked that way, I was afraid not to. Sparing only the grisliest bits, I brought Travis up to speed with everything that had been going on since I’d found Jeremy Wright dead on my guesthouse floor. “. . . which explains all I know so far.”

  Silence took up all the space on the line. I gripped my phone and paced among the Covent Garden visitors, glancing back at Jeremy’s restaurant now and then to make sure Danny hadn’t sneaked away from “pudding” to grab a quick junk-food sausage roll, Cornish pasty, or Turkey Twizzler when I wasn’t looking.

  Hey . . . was that Nicola Mitchell ducking out of a jewelry store? She vanished into the crowd before I could be certain.

  “And it never occurred to you that I could help you?”

  A hard edge had slipped into Travis’s seductive, sonorous tones. Too late, I realized that he wasn’t just worried about me. I’ve experienced that before. This time, Travis was hurt.

  And he was mad. Mad that I hadn’t turned to him sooner.

  Maybe even mad that I’d called on Danny, but not him.

  “Well . . .” I groped for an explanation, feeling awful to have upset him. I churned my arm, still seeking. “It’s not as though I needed to have my taxes done ten months early, Travis.”

  I waited for his usual chuckle—the one that would let me off the hook. But my financial planner wasn’t humoring me.

  “Or are we on a quarterly plan now?” I quipped, getting desperate. I no longer cared about my abandoned chocolate cake or Danny’s junk-food jones. “Help me out, here. You know I’m—”

  I suddenly became aware of dead air on the line. Had Travis actually hung up on me? I pulled my cell phone away from my ear and goggled at it. Yep. Naturally, I dialed straight back.

  My call connected. My heart pounded an extra beat. I could fix this. “If I wind up needing bail, you’re first on my list.”

  Click. Oh no.

  I dialed again. Connection. “I’m sorry. I’m really—”

  Click. What the heck? I had to make this right.

  Another call. Another eternal, expectant pause. I hauled in a deep breath. “If Jeremy had needed fiscal advice, I would—”

  Click. I was starting to get frustrated. I thought Travis and Danny both understood their roles. Most of the time, Travis was the brains—and the brakes, when necessary. Danny was the brawn—and the backup, when called upon. Wasn’t that good enough?

  I dialed. Travis picked up. He didn’t speak. That was just spiteful of him. He knew how much I looked forward to hearing his voice. “It’s not as though you would have hopped a plane.”

  There was a long, almost interminable pause. Have I mentioned that I sometimes put my foot in my mouth?

  Then Travis spoke. I’ve never felt more grateful for an audible intake of breath followed by eight raspy words in my whole life as I was in the next few seconds. I waited.

  “You didn’t give me a chance, did you?” he said.

  Galvanized and repentant, I gripped my phone. I didn’t dare speak. I didn’t want to interrupt Travis if he wanted to talk.

  Besides, I’d already said a few things I regretted. It was better to quit while I was ahead. Plus, I needed time to think.

  Had Travis really just suggested he might have battled his chronic air-travel phobia . . . for me? To help me?

  While I grappled with that possibility, my trusty financial adviser reverted to his usual detail-oriented form. “Jeremy Wright’s financials come up clean. As far as I can tell, he was thriving. He’d just signed a lucrative contract with a company called Hambleton & Hart. They make cakes, cookies, dessert toppings . . . the kinds of things you’d find in a convenience store.”

  Aha. Interesting. Travis had obviously been busy since his call from Satya Mishra. “Can you get me a meeting with them?”

  He remained silent. Whoops. I’d really upset him.

  “I mean,” I amended, “will you please get me a meeting?”

  I heard him typing. “I’m on it.”

  Wearily, Travis exhaled. I imagined him squinting at his computer screen, dressed in a suit and tie even in the murky predawn hours, and felt repentant for the trouble I’d put him to. I wasn’t the one who’d made DC Mishra call. But I should have been more up front with Travis. I truly valued him.

  He must have hated being caught without all the facts.

  “Other than that, Jeremy’s financial and legal activities look legit,” Travis told me. “He was working on a new cooking show and an accompanying cookbook. His charity was thriving. His biggest expenses were a new house in Kent for his retired parents and an underground addition to his own town house in Chelsea. Both appear to have been completely routine.”

  I paused, confused. While it was nice that Jeremy had generously bought his parents a house, these weren’t the kinds of details Travis and I typically covered during our usual pre-consultation phone briefing. “Underground? What do you mean?”

  “Technically, it’s what’s known as a basement extension. Those historic town houses are protected. They can’t be knocked down, expanded upward, or outward. There’s only one way to go.”

  Down. That made sense. But I’d seen no signs of construction. I guessed it would never happen now. I steered us away from real estate and renovations toward Jeremy’s Jump Start Foundation and my scheduled visit there with Liam Taylor.

  “Don’t let Jeremy’s physical trainer get you alone,” Travis warned in a gravely, slightly warmer voice. “Just in case.”

  “You sound like Danny. He doesn’t trust anybody.”

  “Neither sho
uld you.”

  I ducked into a bricked alcove. “I trust you.”

  The sound of typing stopped. I imagined Travis lit by the golden glow of an old-fashioned desk lamp, his face . . .

  Humph. That was where I drew a blank. I’ve never met Travis, remember? I’ve never so much as seen a photograph of my notoriously private financial adviser. I knew he was blond. He’d told me so once. I knew he was brilliant and fond of suits.

  “Next time,” Travis told me, “trust me sooner.”

  Then he informed me of a few more financial and legal details about Phoebe, Primrose chocolaterie-pâtisserie, and my consultation, asked me who I wanted him to check next (Nicola, Hugh, and Liam topped the list), and told me good-bye.

  I didn’t want to hang up. “It’s not even teatime here.”

  Finally, I heard a smile sneak into his voice. Hurrah. “Have a cup of tea for me later. Earl Grey. Hot. No sugar.”

  I smiled too. “Are you a Star Trek fan, Travis?”

  I wasn’t a particular aficionada. But almost everyone has seen those clips of Captain Picard ordering his favorite drink.

  Travis didn’t indulge me. “You’re trying to keep me on the phone. You know better than that. We both have work to do.”

  “You always have work to do. Humor me. I want to talk.”

  More than that, I wanted to make sure things were okay between us. I wished I hadn’t accidentally upset Travis.

  “You know you’re just going to go reconcile some accounts or something,” I pushed. “What’s a few more minutes?”

  He paused. “Who says I’m not doing something fun?”

  “You never worry about fun. Just numbers. And facts.”

  Travis laughed. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Hayden. I’m hanging up now. Keep me in the loop from now on.”

  I promised I would. But I suspected the tail end of my declaration wound up vanishing somewhere over the Atlantic.