Dead and Ganache

by Colette London

  “Hey.” Danny’s voice softened. “Hayden. Are you okay?”

  Leave it to my oldest friend to somehow sense the truth.

  I felt suddenly reluctant to say anything—to make Philippe’s death even more real. I blinked back tears and settled on, “Why do you sound so far away?”

  His voice had a tinny quality. A bad connection, maybe?

  “I’m on speakerphone,” Danny told me, his tone sharper now. There were reasons he could intimidate and subdue troublemakers on the red carpets of gala parties and premieres—his usual stomping grounds as a sought-after security expert. “There’s no one listening. Tell me what’s going on. It must be pretty late over there. Without my bad influence, you’re in bed by eleven.”

  I cracked the ghost of a smile. He wasn’t entirely wrong. In my work, I’m often up with the roosters. A pâtisserie starts baking treats ridiculously early, hours before dawn arrives.

  I inhaled. “Tell me I can’t investigate another murder.” My eyes stung. I blinked fiercely. “It would be dumb, right?”

  There was a long pause. Then, Danny said, “You can’t investigate another murder. It would be criminally stupid.”

  “I said ‘dumb.’ It would be dumb.”

  “It’s worse than that.” Danny exhaled. Worriedly, I knew.

  We’d temporarily parted ways after London. He’d planned to continue dating someone he’d met there. I’d planned to visit my mom and dad. We weren’t joined at the hip, Danny and me.

  His last words still lingered, though. He’d warned me, I recalled belatedly, not to nose into any more murder investigations. We both knew it wasn’t safe. Even though I’d put Danny on semipermanent retainer (against Travis’s better judgment) as an on-call bodyguard, he couldn’t be with me 24/7. I didn’t want him to be. We didn’t have that kind of relationship.

  I knew what he’d say next. He’d say he was on his way.

  It was what Danny always said. What I relied on. No matter what happened or where it took place, Danny Jamieson always had my back. He would have protected me with his life. I believed it.

  Just then, with a murderer somewhere in Saint-Malo, I was counting on it, too. L’agent Mélanie Flamant had duly questioned and then arrested Angry Bloody Hands Man. But her skepticism when I’d pinpointed him as Philippe’s killer still bothered me. A lot.

  “Hayden . . .” Danny sounded pained. “Don’t get mixed up in anything. Whatever’s going on, leave it to the professionals. You’ve been lucky so far, but sooner or later, that’s gonna end.”

  Whoa. That was an unwanted change of pace.

  “Hold on. Whatever happened to, ‘I’m on my way’?”

  “I can’t come. Not this time.”

  Anger whooshed over me. Or was it fear? I couldn’t tell.

  “You mean, you won’t. This is no time to teach me a lesson about snooping, Danny. Philippe Vetault is dead. My mentor!”

  “I mean, I can’t.” Danny sounded terrifyingly resolute. “A bad guy popped me in the face on my last bodyguard job. I took him down—of course—but my eye is pretty messed up right now.”

  “So you’re a little bruised! Big deal. You’re tough, right?” He was the strongest, bravest, most capable person I knew. I couldn’t accept that he was legitimately laid low. “Shake it off, okay? I’ll ask Travis to arrange a flight. You can be here—”

  “I had surgery for a detached retina yesterday. It’ll heal up fine, but right now I’m immobilized. As in, facedown. Doctor’s orders. That’s why I’ve got you on speaker.” Danny paused to inject a little lightness into his voice. “Do you know how hard it is to mainline tacos and beer while facedown? I’m reduced to smoothies and those disgusting green juice things. Ugh.”

  Despite everything, I laughed. “Knowing you, you have a gorgeous and dedicated on-call nurse to bring them to you.”

  His answering laughter spoke volumes. Danny had learned to make the best of things. Given his rough upbringing, he’d had to.

  I pictured him recuperating, all six-feet-plus of his muscle-bound frame lounging on what my mind’s eye insisted on imagining as a massage table. It didn’t seem all that comfy.

  I was worried. “Are you really okay? Does it hurt?”

  “No more than your pity does.” Danny swore. “There’s a reason I didn’t send out a PSA about this,” he grumbled. “It’s bad for my tough-guy image. I was hoping no one would find out.”

  With me, I doubted he was truly worried about his reputation. It seemed likelier something else was at work here.

  “I won’t tell Travis, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  My buddy humphed. “Harvard probably has your phone bugged,” he pointed out in an aggrieved voice. “Thought of that?”

  “It would explain how Travis always knows where I am,” I reflected. But I knew my financial advisor wouldn’t stoop to listening in on my phone calls. From Travis’s perspective, tracking my finances was more telling and less invasive. As a private man himself, Travis wouldn’t have wanted to pry.

  But he was a sore subject with Danny. When it came to the two of them, there was no reasoning with either one.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were injured,” I protested, getting back to the important stuff. “Surgery? Danny! Next time, you’re going to have to come clean from the get-go.”

  “That’ll be the day.”

  “Do it for me,” I urged. “Promise me. Okay?”

  “Are you kidding? Everyone except my nurse thinks I’m taking a road trip to Tijuana this week. You already know too much.”

  Reality thudded back. “That’s the name of my game lately.”

  Danny understood the reason for my altered tone immediately. “Tell me what happened,” he urged. “I can help from here.”

  “No, you can’t.” I was alone on this one. “Thanks, but—”

  “My brain isn’t on doctor-ordered bed rest,” my buddy-turned-bodyguard interrupted testily. “Spill it, Hayden. Now.”

  “Thanks, Danny. But you’re right. I should just sit this one out. There’s already a suspect in police custody anyway.” So what was I worried about? “I’ll stay until Monsieur’s memorial service and then I’ll come home.” Wherever that was. These days, who knew? “Travis has a job for me in Las Vegas. That might be fun, right? Showgirls for you, chocolate for me, winning all around.”

  Danny hadn’t been my friend for years for nothing. He knew me. He proved it then, too. “I bet you already have suspects.”

  “Well, there is Angry Bloody Hands Man,” I admitted. “He’s obvious. Also, Hélène Vetault, Philippe’s wife.” In the past, investigating detectives had warned me that spouses always had to be considered suspects. “Aside from them, I’m not sure. Philippe was so kind. I can’t imagine Monsieur having any real enemies.”

  Whoops. Danny had roped me into revealing too much. My need to know who, how, when, and why. It was the same need that drove me to perfect chocolate, even when solving problems with it became challenging. Through force of habit, I’d confided in him.

  I stopped talking, irked and distraught at the same time.

  What was I going to do without Danny? All on my own? If Angry Bloody Hands Man hadn’t killed Philippe, then I’d need to start looking. But circumstances were putting a major crimp in my still-forming plans to (maybe) find out who, when, how, why.

  Without Danny, investigating on my own would be foolhardy. Any reasonable person would have bowed out. By now, though, I’d moved beyond the reasonable stage. I’d changed too much.

  “I’ve got this, Hayden,” Danny assured me. “Long distance is better than nothing. For you, I’m always a phone call away.”

  His reassurance grounded me. To his credit, Danny didn’t even crow about being right. But rather than convince me to forge ahead with more (inadvisable) amateur sleuthing, Danny’s offer of long-distance help made me snap out of my daze of grief.

  “Thanks, but I mean it. I’m not investigating this time.” />
  He scoffed. “If you think I’m buying that—”

  “You’re going to have to.” Especially since you’re too hurt to help me. I knew that bothered him. I didn’t want him to think he was letting me down. Hoping I sounded convincing, I added, “Listen, it’s late here, and I need to get some sleep.”

  I could tell he didn’t believe me about not looking into Philippe’s death. I wasn’t sure whether I believed me, either. Especially since my motivation at the moment was sparing Danny’s feelings. He’d always hated being less than 100 percent.

  “Call Travis,” Danny urged. “He’ll be your backup.”

  That brought me up short. He’d referred to his arch-nemesis as Travis. Not Harvard. Not the Human Calculator. Travis. Uh-oh.

  This was serious. Even more serious, maybe, than the time the two of them had teamed up to “protect me” in Portland.

  “I can’t call Travis.” We both knew the reason. My “keeper” was afraid to fly. He was phobic about it. We weren’t sure why. “It will only make him feel bad about being unable to help.”

  Danny swore, belatedly reminded of Travis’s condition. Then, “Fine. But be careful. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “That doesn’t rule out much.”

  “Don’t do anything I would do.”

  “Don’t you want me to have any fun?”

  His growl of frustration made me smile. Danny didn’t know it, but his protectiveness made me feel a little better. I had lost Philippe. But I was going to make it through. I’d be okay.

  “I want you to have exactly as much fun as is safe.”

  “Travis?” I joked. “Is that you? You did bug my phone!”

  “Har, har. We both want you to get out of France alive.”

  “That makes three of us.” I hugged my jacket close again, then glanced at the waiting four-poster bed. Suddenly, it looked pretty darn inviting. It had been a very long day. “I’ll check in later. Oh, and don’t tell Travis, okay? He’ll only worry.”

  “He’s going to find out,” Danny warned. “He has his ways.”

  “I’ll tell him tomorrow.” When I feel less like crying. Travis’s sympathetic demeanor—unlike Danny’s take-charge stance—tended to bring out the waterworks with me. “Count on it.”

  “However you want to handle Harvard is up to you. It’s none of my business.” I knew Danny didn’t understand my sight-unseen voice crush on my financial advisor. “Try to get some sleep.”

  I nodded, then realized I hadn’t spoken. “I will.” I’ll try.

  And that’s exactly what I did. Try to sleep. All the rest of the night . . . with very little success to show for it.

  * * *

  Morning came early in the French countryside—la campagne. Although château Vetault was only a few kilometers from Saint-Malo, the house and grounds felt relatively isolated on that scenic clifftop. Traffic was sporadic, winding along the narrow country roads at an escargot’s pace. Neighboring houses were held at a distance due to the château’s lush, extensive grounds.

  It was a rooster that finally got me. I must have fallen fitfully asleep—dreaming of Breton music and blood—when that noisy bird started crowing. I wasn’t sorry to see the night end.

  I wasn’t sure what the day had in store for me, but I had a few plans of my own. I wanted to offer my condolences to Hélène and to Nathalie, who I assumed would be coming home from Paris that day. I understood she’d been delayed by work and would have missed her father’s retirement party altogether . . . if it had ever taken place. Then I wanted to drop by La Maison des Petits Bonheurs. It was possible I could help out. Philippe had always kept a small, trusted staff on hand in his chocolaterie. They would likely be overwhelmed today—if they were open at all.

  They might be. The Fest-Noz had a daytime component, as well: the Fest-Deiz. No one would want to disappoint the remaining tourists or the locals who’d placed chocolate orders.

  I crawled out of bed, caught sight of my brown, shoulder-length, bedhead hair and hollow eyes, and wished I hadn’t looked. I was still mourning Philippe. I had the tear-stained cheeks to show for it. But there was no rushing grief. Staying in bed all day wouldn’t force out my sadness any faster. It wouldn’t help anyone. Philippe wouldn’t have wanted that. Neither did I.

  I showered carefully in the tub—there wasn’t a shower—using the ornate French-style handheld shower head. Doing so required a little dexterity, but I managed. Once you’ve navigated a squat toilet in Bangalore, learned to use a bidet in Bern, and had your personal bits delicately blown-dry by a robo-potty in Tokyo, you tended to take differences in bathroom amenities in stride.

  Once dressed in my typical jeans and sneakers with a light gray sweater and jacket, I felt very much at loose ends. This was the part where Danny usually met me—where we reviewed the trouble I’d run into and made a plan to tackle it together.

  I didn’t intend to actively start sleuthing, of course. I’d promised myself as much late last night, especially given that the police already had a suspect in custody. But if the opportunity presented itself, if some new evidence turned up, I might . . .

  Give it to the gendarmes, I reminded myself sternly. I was only hanging around to honor my mentor’s memory at his funeral services and (maybe) lend a hand at his chocolaterie.

  I certainly wouldn’t need Danny’s security-expert services for any of that. Especially since, at the château, all was . . . well, noisy, actually. What was all the ruckus outside?

  I locked my room behind me, then stopped at one of the second-floor hallway windows to look. The source of all the hubbub was the same French guests who’d interrupted my check-in yesterday. As a group, they stood around the fountain at the formal garden’s center, staring up into the morning sky.

  Puzzled, I craned my neck to see better. All I glimpsed were puffy clouds in a serene canvas of blue—nothing to merit the shouting and pointing the chic blonde and her friends were doing.

  I shrugged and kept going downstairs. If there was a petit-dejeuner (breakfast) to be had, I planned to partake. I wasn’t particularly hungry, given the circumstances, but I’d be no help to anyone if I keeled over later. Plus, the B&B portion of the château was obviously still functioning. If the rowdy group was anything to go by, none of the guests were being asked to leave.

  I’d almost expected a knock late last night, telling me to vacate my room and find elsewhere to toss and turn. Château Vetault was a family home, first and foremost; it would have been understandable if Hélène had wanted privacy to mourn Philippe.

  But no knock had come, and as I reached the stairs, I caught a whiff of fresh coffee—maybe, I thought, vi-ennoiseries, too. A basket of pain au chocolat, croissants aux amandes, and baguette slices with good Breton beurre (butter) and confiture (jam) would put some pep in my step—especially if those items were accompanied by the juice, sliced local fruit, and yogurt that typified a European-style start to the day. I don’t tend to wake up ravenous, as a rule, but that morning my stomach growled.

  Hélène was the first person I saw. “Bonjour!” she trilled.

  Her smiling, jubilant demeanor startled me. In contrast to her appearance the evening before, today Madame Vetault appeared tidy and chipper. Her auburn hair was wound into a topknot. Her pencil skirt and sleek sweater were matching in black on black.

  The bespectacled widow Vetault was . . . downright dishy.

  “Bonjour, Madame Vetault.” I’d always enjoyed the French tradition of politeness. It insisted on personal greetings, whether you encountered a colleague at work, a waiter in a café, or a clerk in a shop. Today, that custom held new resonance.

  Bonjour! Literally, “good day.” That seemed unlikely.

  “I’m so sorry about Monsieur Vetault,” I said, stepping close enough that no one would overhear us. I didn’t want to embarrass Hélène. “It’s truly a tragedy. He’ll be so missed.”

  “Indeed!” Madame Vetault’s gaze met mine, held for one crazy overlong inst
ant, then skittered away. She lifted the basket of pastries she’d been delivering to the dining room. “Well, life must go on, must it not? We cannot fight what fate has decreed.”

  I stood gobsmacked. I knew people sometimes spoke about a certain French tendency toward fatalism, but . . . this? On the day after losing her husband? I couldn’t quite grasp it.

  Hélène had to be in shock.

  “Here. Let me take these for you.” Gently, I eased the basket of flaky, buttery treats from her grasp. “I’ll take them to the dining room myself. Is there anything else I can do?”

  For a moment, Hélène looked lost. Everyone reacts differently to grief, I knew. Sadness strikes intermittently and ruthlessly. Maybe Hélène was relying on busyness to push it away?

  If so, I was sorry I’d deprived her of her coping mechanism.

  Before I could devise another approach, a whoop from outside jolted us both. Hélène and I started, then stared through the French doors. Beyond them, the blonde and her cohorts appeared to be taking selfies near some statuary. They posed with huge grins.

  “Parisians,” Hélène told me in an apologetic tone—as if that explained everything. “Here to film a series of music videos.”

  Nothing had ever seemed less necessary to me. “Is there anyone to intervene? Do you want me to ask them to leave?” I straightened. “If they’re disturbing you, I’d be happy to do it.”

  I’m protective that way—always willing to champion the underdog. Particularly under circumstances like these.

  “Non. No, of course not! They are paying a great deal for the privilege of shooting here. They are friends of my daughter.”

  Madame Vetault broke off, probably thinking of when Nathalie would arrive. At her woeful expression, I wanted to comfort her.

  I was supposed to be considering Hélène Vetault an official suspect in Philippe’s murder. Or would have been, if the police hadn’t already had a suspect and I’d actually been snooping around to find out more. But I wasn’t. So I didn’t have to tamp down my natural instincts. I liked her. I felt sorry for her.

  “Nathalie and I have met,” I chatted into the forlorn gap that had fallen between us. “The summer Monsieur trained me.”