“Let me guess: it wasn’t the first time.”
“No.” Travis already knew about the whiskey fumes I’d detected on Hubert earlier that morning; I’d told him the whole story. “Everyone knows Monsieur Bernard. They’re convinced he wasn’t the one who killed Philippe Vetault. Mélanie believes Hubert merely found your mentor a few minutes before you did.”
I felt outraged. “Sure, found him and killed him!”
Travis raised his hands. “Calm down.” He gave me a warning look, then glanced around the mostly empty terrace. “We have to be smart about this. I don’t want to be overheard. If anyone realizes we’re investigating, it will limit our options.”
“Fine.” Leave it to him to take the sensible approach. I’d already caved to Travis’s insistence that we didn’t need to hide our acquaintance. “What about the police force’s ineptitude?”
“They’re not inept,” Travis disagreed, shaking his head. “They’re under no obligation to tell you or me or anyone else what they’re doing to investigate your mentor’s death. In fact, it’s better for the gendarmes’ case if they say nothing. Let’s not jump to conclusions before we have all the facts.”
“But that’s the best time to jump to conclusions,” I pointed out, signing the lunch check with a flourish. “If you wait until all the facts are in, it’s too late.” I stood. “Let’s go. We have a lot left to do. We’re burning daylight. Oh, and do you think you can get a picture of the murder weapon for me? Maybe I can ID it.” It had happened before, in London.
Given the esoteric nature of the weapon, recognizing it had made me a suspect then, but, you know . . . details. I was willing to risk it, if it would help bring Monsieur’s killer to justice.
“You’re moving on? Just like that?” Travis looked surprised. “You’re not upset about Hubert being set free?”
“Of course, I’m upset,” I told Travis, my tone softening. “But the good news is, if he’s really in the clear, then that leaves all the rest of Saint-Malo open to suspicion.” I rubbed together my palms. “There’s a lot of sleuthing still to do.”
But first, I had an idea about approaching Mathieu Camara again, so I could find out more from him about Philippe’s daily life and any additional skirmishes he’d had with his neighbors.
All of them had to be considered suspects, too, right?
I’d already asked Travis to look into the Poyet-Vetault merger—its current status, details, and legalities. But there was more to the situation than logistics and lawfulness. There were feelings, too, Mathieu’s and those of the townspeople. I needed an in. Travis had Mélanie. I’d have to work with Mathieu.
Figuring out the truth about my mentor’s life in Saint-Malo was going to require one thing, I’d decided. Chocolate.
Lots and lots of chocolate.
Seven
By the next morning, I’d enacted my nascent plan. I was already in Monsieur’s barn-atelier as the sun came up, wide awake and caffeinated when Travis finally knocked on the door.
I opened it with a smile. “Good! You got my note!”
I’d crept down the hallways with it like a kid breaking curfew last night and slipped it under his door. I’d had to, because he’d been out with Mélanie while I’d been brainstorming.
I hadn’t realized until too late that I didn’t have Travis’s personal phone number, only his office number in Seattle. I intended to remedy that oversight soon.
“I had to run the château’s gauntlet of scary-looking Vetault ancestors staring at me from their oil paintings to give you that note,” I informed him. “You should know that.” His floor had different décor than mine. Different marble busts, different rugs, different art. “It was like something out of ‘Scooby-Doo.’ I half expected all the painted eyeballs to move.”
“Ugh, you’re so loud.” My financial advisor groaned. “Why?”
His pained expression made me laugh. “Let me guess: You’re still jet-lagged, but you didn’t realize it because you never travel abroad. Also, French women enjoy a little wine with dinner?”
Being a few time zones ahead of (or behind) your stomach and brain doesn’t tend to make overindulging go over very well. Take it from me. I’ve learned that the hard way. Now I (mostly) limit my excesses to chocolate—just as I was doing that day.
My financial advisor pocketed the note I’d left—the one saying he should meet me here bright and early this morning.
“There may have been some wine,” he acknowledged.
“How much wine, Travis?” This was fun. “Tell me.”
Another groan. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Enjoying you being less than perfect? You bet.”
He stepped gingerly inside, wincing as though any sudden movements might jolt him out of his suit and open-collar shirt.
He seemed to have an infinite supply of dapper clothes. He wore them effectively, too, with no stuffy attitude. Given château Vetault’s exemplary amenities, though, it was possible Jeannette or her minions provided overnight wash-and-press.
“I’m not perfect. Nobody is.” Travis swept his gaze over what had become my chocolatier work area. “Does Madame Vetault know you’re in here? You seem to have taken over the place.”
“It’s been poignant, too. Believe me.” I touched my head. “See this Breton fisherman’s cap? It’s Monsieur’s.” It brought back so many good memories. “He wore it almost all the time.”
“It looks good on you. That color brings out your eyes.”
Was Travis flirting with me? “I’m mostly wearing it to keep my hair out of the chocolate.” I’d fashioned a speedy ponytail before donning the requisite work gloves. I was a professional, after all. Self-consciously, I shook out my hair.
Travis noticed. “I’m not flirting with you, Hayden.”
Then why did I feel so flustered? I laughed. “I know that! Sure! It’s just that we never talk about personal things.”
“Oh yeah?” Travis arched one blond eyebrow. “‘Tell me, Travis,’” he mimicked, “‘what are you wearing right now?’”
I’ll admit it—his purposely sultry tone worked on me.
“Good thing you’ve memorized that, because you’ve already heard it from me for the last time, remember?” I indicated his suit-and-nice-shoes getup. “Your mystique is spoiled now.”
He shrugged. “Fantasy has its place.” Travis demonstrated as much with his rumbly, sexy voice. “But when it comes down to brass tacks, I prefer reality. I like knowing the facts.”
Right now, the facts were that I was getting distracted. I could have listened to my keeper discuss his personal philosophy of living all morning. As it was, though, I had things to do.
“All I know is, my mentor could make magic while wearing this hat. It’s possible it has superpowers.” I turned back to my worktable. “It makes me feel connected to Monsieur, as if I could channel his genius into this chocolate I’m working on.”
Travis studied it. “It definitely smells amazing in here.”
I preened. “Thanks. It turns out that Philippe had a couple of chocolate-tempering machines on hand. I’ve got a batch of dark chocolate and a batch of milk chocolate staying in temper.”
He didn’t ask what that meant. Instead, “Again, does Hélène know you’re in here? Or did Danny teach you how to pick locks?”
“I’d rather not answer that.” I sorted through some clear polycarbonate chocolate molds, choosing a few. I turned back to Travis and caught him looking at me—at my ankle, specifically.
“How’s your ankle? You twisted it in the garden yesterday.”
“No lasting harm done.” I peered at it. It still hurt, but it was nothing that would hold me back. “I’m pretty tough.”
He seemed dubious. “Do you want me to look at it?”
“Are you a doctor?”
He shook his head. A halo of sunshine had splashed through the barn window, crowning him in gold. Blonds had all the luck.
Just like the Parisian blonde with the f
ilm crew. I would have liked to get to know her better. Aside from her whooping and selfie habits, she seemed endlessly cool. Perfectly chic.
Maybe a little of that would rub off on me, I figured.
“Then no, I don’t want you to look at it. Thanks.”
I bustled to the other end of the worktable, newly conscious of Travis attentively scrutinizing my movements.
“You often get hurt while investigating,” he pointed out. “Frankly, I’ve always chalked that up to Danny’s negligence.”
“Danny isn’t negligent!”
“He is if he’s your bodyguard and you get hurt.” Travis glanced up to the barn-atelier’s former hayloft. He rubbed his jaw, where his archenemy would have sported day-old beard stubble. My financial advisor, predictably, was as clean shaven as a model in a razorblade ad. “He’s probably busy ‘checking the alibis’ of all your attractive female suspects.”
I almost burst out laughing. “Did you just make air quotes around ‘checking the alibis’? Is this you being snarky?”
Travis didn’t address that. “If the enforcer hopes to earn the generous retainer you’re paying him, he should be thorough.”
“Like you are?” I wasn’t wild about my longtime friend being unfairly criticized. “Like you are with Mélanie Flamant?”
“When I was questioning the policière, you and I were still pretending not to know one another, as you suggested,” Travis reminded me. “I couldn’t very well shadow you like a stalker, just to prove I’m a more proficient security expert than Danny.”
Aha. That’s what this was about. My two rivalrous men.
At least Travis had a fresh take on it. He hadn’t suggested Danny was by my side simply to earn an enormous paycheck.
“Well, you couldn’t do both simultaneously, that’s true. You’re good, but you can’t be everywhere at once.” More’s the pity. I liked Travis’s company. “As far as my use of Monsieur’s atelier is concerned, yes, Hélène knows I’m working in here. I asked her this morning if I could use it and she agreed.”
She’d even assured me that Monsieur would have wanted me to be there. It had been touching—right up to the moment when Hélène had spied Hubert in the château’s garden and skedaddled.
I thought I’d smelled whiskey on her breath, too.
“That was generous of her.” Travis glanced around at my equipment: blocks of various chocolates, sugar and cream, butter, flavorings, nuts of all kinds, liqueurs, and more—plus hardware like bowls, a thermometer, molds, a bench scraper, and brushes. “This looks . . . ambitious.” He pursed his lips in thought, looking more like his usual self. “The only thing missing is—”
“Voilà.” I interrupted to brandish a French press coffeepot. I waved it near Travis’s nose, letting him breathe in the wonderful fragrance of freshly brewed java. “For you. I knew you might be a little worse for wear after last night.”
I poured him a cup. He cradled it gratefully, then sipped.
“Ah.” His groan of pleasure made my toes curl. “That’s good.” Another moan. “Thanks. The only thing missing now is—”
“Voici.” Here you go. I’d anticipated this, too. “Your favorite almond croissant. I liberated it from the breakfast table this morning, just for you.” I placed it, on a plate, on the worktable in front of him. “Never let it be said that I don’t have your back, because I do. I risked serious social censure to smuggle that out of the château for you.”
His eyes lit up. “I approve of your rebellious side.”
“I’m too much of a rebel to care about your approval.”
I was clowning around, though, and Travis knew it. We traded an affectionate glance. After all those phone calls, it felt as though we’d been (long-distance) friends for ages.
It was nice. I didn’t want to break the spell, but I had to. “So,” I began, “how did you overcome your fear of flying?”
That’s right. Danny had gotten to me. So had a niggling detail that had occurred to me late last night—that Travis and I had both passed through Paris and had both taken the same train to Saint-Malo. Yet he’d encountered a strike and I hadn’t. That meant that, despite my assumptions, my keeper hadn’t left the States ASAP. He’d been delayed by something. But what?
Despite my newfound closeness with Travis, I wanted proof he hadn’t fibbed to me. About anything, including aviophobia.
There was no time like the present to get that proof, while my financial advisor was (a little) hungover and (slightly) gullible. “So let’s have it,” I urged. “What’s the real story?”
* * *
It turned out that the truth was unsensational, as it often is. After complaining that I’d first softened him up with coffee and pastry before hitting him up with that question (guilty, but caffeine and sugar provided confessional clarity), Travis explained that he’d spent an entire day—ten hours or so—taking an air-travel antianxiety class offered by one of the airlines.
Then, bolstered by the techniques he’d learned, he’d boarded an international flight, crossed his fingers, and left.
I laughed. “I doubt you crossed your fingers. You’re much too practical to succumb to superstition. I bet you sat there reciting air-travel safety statistics to yourself or something.”
Danny didn’t call Travis Captain Calculator for nothing.
“Of course. Per annum. That seemed the best approach when I initially tried to kick my airplane phobia. But sometimes knowledge isn’t enough.” For a moment, Travis looked haunted. Then, he brightened. “Experience, however, is power. The class was immersive but effective, and I was motivated. I’m fine now. It helped that all the flight attendants were very kind.”
I’ll just bet they were. “I’m impressed. Really, good for you.” I gave his shoulder a squeeze. I meant it as an “atta boy!” gesture, but it went on for a few seconds too long.
Wowsers, Travis had muscular shoulders. As far as I knew, he was a meticulous, bespectacled desk jockey. How in the world did he stay so fit? He could have given muscular, six-pack-sporting Danny a run for his money. Not that I ought to be thinking about my bodyguard’s physique, either, I remembered.
We were all professionals. More important, friends.
Still, I wondered if Travis had been “motivated” to kick his aviophobia by a desire to see me. Who knew? Maybe he had.
I would have done the same for him if I’d had to.
“Finish your breakfast.” I nodded at his almond croissant and coffee, momentarily nostalgic for the Nutella-filled crêpe I’d treated myself to earlier. “You’re going to help me.”
“Help you make chocolate?” Widening his eyes, Travis shook his head. He backed up. “I have two left thumbs in the kitchen.”
“That’s okay. I’ll be right here. But as an alternative, you could start right away on phase two of this plan.”
“Which is?” Looking relieved (and confident about the alternative), he wolfed down a bite of sugar-dusted croissant.
“You’re going to pose as a businessman who’s come to Saint-Malo to start a new venture. That way, you can get close to the business ‘club’ leader Mathieu told me about. You can pump them for info about who vetoed the Fest-Noz sponsorship plan, who the banner-hating redhead is, and who wanted Monsieur dead.”
“Is that all?” Coolly, Travis sipped more coffee. “That’s a good idea,” he mused, half to himself, “except for the part where I’d have to pretend to be someone I’m not. No way. Next?”
I’d foreseen this. “Come on, Travis! You can do it.”
His eyes gleamed with that earlier self-assurance—plus a slight hint of obstinacy. “Naturally, I can do it. But I won’t.”
“Give me one good reason.”
“Women are businesspeople, too. You can do it.”
I couldn’t fault his nod toward equality, but... “I can’t. I’ll be busy at La Maison des Petits Bonheurs, winning Mathieu’s trust and finding out all the dirt on Monsieur’s neighbors.”
“Then ask Mat
hieu who manages the business club.”
“I already tried. He won’t tell me, and it will seem weird if I pester him about it.” I pulled out an apron, identical to the one I was wearing, and handed it to Travis. “If you think it’s a no-go, I guess we’ll have to come up with something else.” Resolutely, I nodded. “Here you go. Put that on.”
With his breakfast gone, Travis hesitated. “Either I help you make chocolates or I impersonate an out-of-town investor?”
“That’s about the size of it. Do you have a better idea?”
Another pause. Maybe he did algebra in his head for fun.
“Look, it’s no big deal,” I told my keeper, leaving him with the apron in hand. “I only thought that, since you’re here, we could try a different, smarter method of investigating. Something more businesslike and proven.” On the verge of going too far, I stepped away. Breezily, I delivered my ace in the hole. “You know, something Danny wouldn’t be able to pull off.”
Travis narrowed his eyes. I could tell I had him.
Either that, or he’d moved on to mental trigonometry.
“It would be reasonable for me to scout Saint-Malo on behalf of my company,” my financial advisor mused. “We have a number of international clients to serve. It makes sense.”
I wanted to grin from ear to ear. I settled for, “Mm-hmm.”
“I’ll look into it,” Travis announced. “That means you keep the apron and the chocolate making to yourself. Good luck!”
He strode toward the door, his businessman’s shoes quiet against the floorboards. Outside, birds chirped. The crew of Parisians started playing Lucas Lefebvre’s upcoming single over a loudspeaker. Apparently, that’s how they timed their shots.
Nearly gone, Travis stopped. “Who eats all the chocolate?”
“Hmm?” Caught in the midst of spooning up some delicious-smelling melted chocolate and letting it drip back into its reservoir while checking its silky texture, I looked up. “What’s that?”
“All the chocolate you make. Who’s going to eat it?”
“Well, most of it is going to La Maison des Petits Bonheurs, so I can prove to Mathieu I know what I’m doing.” I put my hands on my hips, deliberating. “But there are always extras. Pieces that aren’t quite shiny enough or snappy enough.”
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