Contritely, I stepped forward to give her a hug.
I caught Amelja’s suddenly alarmed expression and stopped.
Phoebe’s housekeeper was right. What was I doing, offering an unsolicited hug to someone like Phoebe? I patted her arm.
“Everything will be fine,” I said. “You’ll be wonderful. By this time tomorrow, you’ll be the talk of London. I promise!”
The TV segment was being taped remotely at Primrose, to give the chocolaterie-pâtisserie an added boost of publicity. Even though I wouldn’t be on camera, I’d already helped the staff bake chocolate goodies for the TV show’s cast and crew.
Phoebe sniffed. “Do you truly think so? Honestly?” She gave me an attentive look. “Don’t muck about with me, Hayden. I simply do not have the time for any shenanigans right now.”
“Of course.” She (obviously) had enough on her mind already, so I decided to take charge. I wanted to end things with Phoebe on a positive note. “You’ll make that chocolate Bakewell tart. You did a wonderful job with that, remember?”
Another sniffle. A nod. “Yes. Yes, I did, didn’t I?”
“Yes.” It had been delicious. Rather than using the typical shortcrust pastry for that multilayered tart, we’d made a crumb crust out of chocolate digestive biscuits. Then we’d prebaked it, spooned in layers of blackcurrant jam and traditional almond frangipane—the latter augmented with melted chocolate—and baked it some more. We’d split on adding a top layer of confectioner’s sugar icing. I’d thought it was too sweet. “Everyone loved it.”
We’d paraded her Bakewell tart to Primrose, at Phoebe’s instigation, to show it off to the staff. They’d ooed and aahed.
You know . . . all except Hugh, of course. I wondered how he was.
“And you really, truly think I’ll be good?” Phoebe pushed.
I was starting to feel frustrated. If the Honourable Phoebe Wright had self-confidence issues, it wasn’t my job to solve them. “You’ll be wonderful,” I assured her. “So let’s make the show version of the Bakewell tart”—the one to be revealed at the end of the segment—“and get that much squared away. The more prepared you are for tomorrow, the better you’ll feel.”
To my relief, Phoebe agreed. We rustled up all the supplies and ingredients to accommodate our change of plans, then got busy making the Bakewell tart. We crushed biscuits, spooned jam, made frangipane . . . before too much time had elapsed, we’d made a delightful dessert. The whole kitchen was redolent of sugar, butter, almonds, and chocolate. I could have dived right in.
I glanced up to see if Phoebe was as pleased as I was. I couldn’t tell, because she was staring outside, looking annoyed.
My long day (so far) was stretching out even longer.
I fought an urge to snap my fingers in her face. I’m not proud of it, but it’s true. Even chocolate experts have limits.
“Who is that?” She narrowed her eyes. “And why are they going into my guesthouse?” Phoebe snatched off her recently delivered (couture) apron and hurled it onto the counter. “Honestly, Hayden, if you’ve invited more guests to stay—”
Rather than complete that ominous-sounding warning, Phoebe marched out onto the terrace and straight toward the guesthouse.
Amelja followed with her duster. So (sans duster) did I.
By the time I caught up to them, hurrying in the wake of Phoebe’s indignation, there was nothing to do but goggle.
In all honesty, you would have done the same thing.
* * *
“That’s beautiful!” Andrew Davies shouted, his voice carrying. “Yes! Keep going, just like that. Don’t stop!”
The focus of his ecstasy became clear as I skidded to a halt just inside the guesthouse’s doorway. Peering past Phoebe and Amelja—who stood there staring—I spotted several members of a film crew, one person who looked like an accountant (I’ve spent enough time envisioning Travis to know what they look like), and Claire Evans. Plus Gemma Rose, the U.K.’s favorite (former) culinary temptress. Alongside her, being filmed, was . . .
“Danny?” I gawked at my pal-slash-bodyguard. I glimpsed him smack in the middle of the set. “What are you doing here?”
It wasn’t immediately obvious. Especially given the fact that he was shirtless—dressed in jeans, a pair of work boots, a yellow high-vis safety vest . . . and nothing else. From the kitchen counter, Danny gave me an unreadable look. He opened his mouth.
I expected to hear “I picked up some freelance security work with Gemma Rose.” Or “I’m keeping an eye on things, like you said.”
Instead, I heard, “He’s working! I should think that would be obvious to all involved.” Andrew Davies rolled his eyes at me after interrupting with that derisive put-down. Then he turned back to Danny and Gemma. “Keep going, you two! Just as you were before! Let’s finish this so we can go on to the last setup.”
I reeled at the scathing tone that Hambleton & Hart’s CEO had used with me. In direct contrast to his unassuming manner at Jeremy’s Jump Start Foundation, Andrew Davies was an entirely different man when he was in his element (in charge) at work.
No wonder he and Jeremy had argued about their commercial.
Despite Andrew’s clear directions, though, Gemma hesitated. She was dressed in costume, too, but her outfit featured even less clothing than Danny’s did. Still bodacious at forty-plus, Gemma wore a skimpy minidress, pearls, and high-heeled pumps.
From her feet to her wild bed-head hair, she looked . . . well, ready to do a lot more than cook, despite the big wooden spoon in her hand and the pot simmering on the stove behind her.
The whole tableau was discernable at a glance. Gemma was a (sexy) housewife, caught in the act of making dinner. Danny was a (sexy) builder—one who seemed to have come in to share “a cuppa” with Gemma and then gotten seductively carried away.
The teacup and saucer beside his low-riding jeans gave that away. So did the fact that we three—Phoebe, Amelja, and I—had caught them in a clinch so hot it should have been smoking.
No wonder Andrew had been excited. I would have been, too.
I mean by capturing such a scene on film, of course. It was evident that’s what they were up to: an advert, just like the one Jeremy had been filming when he died. The stove and countertop were littered with boxes of Hambleton & Hart snack foods, cake mixes, “vitality waters,” and ready-to-eat treats.
There were workers, lights, and music, too—a soundtrack for the ad. No wonder no one had come to pick up the A/V equipment, I realized, as DC Mishra had assured me they would do. I’d noticed, but I hadn’t wanted to inquire and risk annoying her.
“Gemma! Don’t go ditzy on me now!” Andrew instructed. “Look at Danny. He’s sexy, right? Yes. He’s feeding you some delicious Dreamy Delight. You love its chocolaty flavor. Go on, then!”
Despite the whole absurd scenario, I couldn’t help grinning at Andrew’s use of the word “chocolaty.” That’s not the same as “chocolate.” I doubted their desserts contained any of that.
Picking up where she’d left off before the distraction of our interruption had intervened, Gemma did as she was told. She shook out her long, blond hair, then resumed her cheesecake pose on the countertop. Danny stepped between her lithe, bare legs, then gave her a smile and fed her a spoonful of Dreamy Delight.
I’d have bet a thousand pounds it was ninety percent air, suspended in a mixture of cheap sweeteners, waxy vegetable fat, and artificial flavoring. But Gemma’s carnal moan of pleasure made a lie of everything I knew. I almost wanted a taste.
“Yes! Yes!” Andrew shouted, completely ignoring us now. He had the same air of privilege Phoebe did. “Danny, take off your hi-vis, mate. Go on.” He gave a roar of delight. “Brilliant!”
To my amazement, Danny did as he was told to. He shucked his faux safety gear in a single, muscle-rippling gesture, then went back to his next task: body-painting Gemma with pink frosting swiped from a package of Hambleton & Hart’s Strawberry-Crème Flavored Heavenly Slices. It look
ed like . . . fun.
Next to me, Amelja agreed. She gave me a wink, then went back to watching with her duster propped on her hip, forgotten.
I couldn’t believe how at ease Danny seemed on camera. He was every bit a match for Gemma, who was plainly an experienced professional. She turned this way and that, always keeping her “good side” to the light as she writhed in pretend bliss.
Across the room, Claire supervised the proceedings with her phone in hand. She seemed delighted by this turn of events.
Why shouldn’t she be? I wondered. Making this deal happen must have been why Claire had lured Gemma to afternoon tea via the Nearby app. Claire had probably already made contact with Andrew Davies and had wanted to keep Gemma sufficiently humbled so the necessary negotiations would be short but sweet.
Claire, it occurred to me, was being paid twice for the same job. Plus netting a big profit on Nicola’s book deal. For her, Jeremy’s death had definitely worked out advantageously.
“That’s right!” Andrew encouraged. “That’s the way! Yes!” He turned to the rest of the crew, making it plain that he was more than a guest on the set. He was in command. “Now, you. Go!”
He pointed to a woman holding a script near a mic.
“Have everything you desire,” she breathed into the mic, clearly performing a professional voice-over. “Hambleton & Hart. Why not try the full range? It’s so easy . . . and so satisfying.”
Her final moan reverberated through the microphone. A beat later, the music resumed. Wow. If this had been an old movie, I couldn’t help thinking, everyone watching would have lit up a postcoital cigarette. Her tone was that overtly suggestive. I could see why Jeremy’s sexy image had fit the company’s new advertising theme. And why Andrew Davies had loved Claire’s lewd idea involving the metlapil and Jeremy’s . . . manipulation of it.
“That’s it!” Andrew yelled as someone else fussed with the sound system. “That’s a wrap on this setup! We’ve got it!”
The crew erupted in applause. Weirdly, no one whooped.
I expected Phoebe to barrel forward with guns blazing. She’d been on the warpath all day, to the point where she’d out-grumped old Mr. Barclay next door. But amazingly, she didn’t.
“Andrew!” she sailed toward him with her arms outstretched, a gracious smile on her face. “I’m terribly sorry I wasn’t here to greet you earlier. Everything looks splendid, doesn’t it?”
If Phoebe was bothered by being in the same place where her husband had recently been bludgeoned to death, it didn’t show.
They traded air-kisses and an almost embrace. Cheeky.
“Thank you so much for allowing us to finish filming.” Andrew beamed at her. Then he perked up as Gemma came forward. “Ah, Gemma. You know Phoebe, don’t you? If not, please allow me to present the Honourable Phoebe Wright.” Unbelievably, he bowed.
In unison, Amelja and I moved closer. All we needed was a bucket of popcorn to complete the fireworks show we expected.
Blue-collar Gemma versus blue-blooded Phoebe? Those two women could not have been more different. It was catfight time.
But we were disappointed. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Solemnly, Gemma grasped Phoebe’s hands. “Poor, poor Phoebe.”
Aha. I understood why Phoebe tolerated her so cordially. I was pretty sure I’d heard her scornfully refer to Gemma Rose as “that tart” not too many days earlier. But Phoebe was nothing if not willing to be fêted, adored, or properly sympathized with.
“Can it really have been so long?” Phoebe marveled in her turn. “Gemma, you look younger and better than ever, don’t you?”
Her refined exclamation sounded . . . believable. Warm, even. I was surprised. Even more so when I heard next, “You’ll have to tell me all your secrets, won’t you? Please, please do!”
The two women giggled together, then veered off toward a corner of the busy guesthouse kitchen to trade compliments.
As they did, Danny approached, carrying a prop safety helmet. He’d pulled on a token Hambleton & Hart “gimme” T-shirt over his bare chest, but all I could see were acres of abs.
He’d looked good with his shirt off is what I’m saying.
I smiled. “So, you’ve found a new career, huh?”
My bodyguard gave me a sheepish look. “It was Gemma’s idea. She called me after we ran into each other at the hotel where you and Claire had tea and pitched it to me. I said I thought it sounded like fun, so she and Claire pitched it to Andrew. He agreed, everyone else came on board, and here we are.”
“You look”—I squinted, deliberating trying not to openly ogle my bodyguard—“as though you’re having a good time. I guess this is your idea of ‘keeping an eye on things’?”
Danny nodded. “You’re wrong to suspect Gemma.”
“I suppose her bodaciousness has nothing to do with that opinion?”
He grinned. “It has everything to do with it. Are you kidding me?” He watched her with Phoebe. “I’ve had a major crush on Gemma Rose for . . . hell, I don’t know how long. She’s sweet.”
“Sure, she is. She’s covered in pink strawberry icing.”
“She’s fallen on some hard times,” Danny reminded me. “I wanted to help. Now, partly thanks to me, Hambleton & Hart is going to sponsor her new cooking show and her next cookbook.”
“Along with doing the ads? Wow, that must be lucrative.”
My buddy nodded, then gave Gemma a fond look. “They’re a weird pair, Gemma and Phoebe.” He shrugged. “They go way back, but you probably already know that. Travis must have told you.”
He hadn’t. I tilted my head quizzically. “Told me what?”
“That Gemma was a principal investor in Primrose. Back then, she had money to burn.” Danny gave me a cocky look. “Who else would invest in chocolate? Ugh.” He gave a teasing grimace.
But this was no time for Danny’s incomprehensible dislike of sweets. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” I asked him. “A connection between Gemma and Phoebe could be significant.”
“For your ‘investigation’?” Danny said that with a lowered voice—and skeptically raised brows. “Come on. We’ve been over this. The chances of you finding out who iced Jeremy are—”
“Getting worse every moment you keep something from me,” I interrupted. “I don’t care how sweet she is, Danny. Don’t you see? Now that Jeremy is gone, Gemma Rose has everything she ever wanted. Everything he took from her when he succeeded.”
Danny’s doubtful expression deepened. “She deserves it.”
I followed his gaze to the spot where Gemma was—or where she had been a second ago. Now she was walking away, wiping off frosting as she went. She handed her towel to her companion.
Liam Taylor. I shot a questioning glance at Danny.
“He trains her. You don’t get to be that hot without work.”
I almost smacked him. “Danny! Why didn’t you tell me?”
Stubbornly, he compressed his mouth. That’s when I knew.
“You didn’t think I could do it, did you?” I accused. “Not again. You thought I didn’t need to know about Phoebe and Liam’s connections to Gemma because my ‘investigation’ didn’t matter.”
Danny’s apologetic gaze told me all I needed to know. “The police are on it this time,” he said. “Let them handle it.”
“Right, by arresting me. Did you forget that part?”
I frowned at him, willing him to back me up. As usual.
Danny only shook his head. “If they were going to arrest you, they would have done it by now. The police don’t screw around.”
I frowned at him, unable to come up with a suitable rejoinder. I wasn’t the one who’d been in jail. That was him.
A long time ago, but still. Danny knew about that stuff.
Annoyed and hurt, I deepened my frown. What else could I do? I was stuck. But my salvation, conversation-wise, was at hand.
When I say that I realized—in the next two minutes—who murdered Britain’s sexie
st chef and why, you won’t believe me.
But I swear, that’s exactly what happened.
It hit me just after Gemma wriggled into a slinky cocktail gown, the advert crew got ready for the next setup, and someone turned on the music again. This time, it was a song overlaid with party sounds: laughter, conversation, clinking glasses . . . the works. Danny got into a suit, then joined Gemma in the kitchen.
That’s when I finally made the connection I’d needed.
At long last, I knew who’d killed Jeremy Wright.
I knew how they’d (almost) gotten away with it, too.
Seventeen
The first thing I did was tell Travis.
I slipped away from the Hambleton & Hart taping at the guesthouse, walked down the block while pulling out my brand-new cell phone, then called my financial adviser with my theory.
Why not Danny? Partly because he was on the set, and I couldn’t wait. Partly because—when it comes to logic—Travis is the king. Partly because I’m impatient. I may have told you that, in my head, the wheels never quit spinning, whether it’s a new way of making chocolate mousse (with water instead of cream—believe me, it works!) or staging a trial run of what sounded like a pretty kooky theory to explain a murder and subsequent alibi.
To his credit, Travis listened all the way through without interrupting. He’s excellent at that. Only afterward did I hear him typing in the background—probably searching for plane tickets with an immediate departure from London.
“You’re going to have to leave.” My sexy-voiced keeper had a way of making fleeing sound like an unbeatable idea. “Now.”
“Not yet.” I shook my head, even though Travis couldn’t see me. I was fortunate that Phoebe and I had been working on her baking tutorial for quite a while today—and that we’d watched the Hambleton & Hart advert filming for three-quarters of an hour after that—so that it wasn’t the middle of the night for Travis. “If I leave now, it will be too obvious. If I flee, someone else might flee,” I suggested, “if you catch my drift.”
Generously, my financial adviser didn’t remind me that he, as a proven mastermind, always caught my drift. Instead, Travis quit typing. “If someone there suddenly turns up with travel plans to Caracas or Guanacaste, get out immediately.”
The Semi-Sweet Hereafter Page 24