Dead and Ganache

by Colette London

  Travis nearly drooled. “What happens to those?”

  To his credit, he sounded pretty nonchalant about it all.

  I didn’t believe him, though. I knew my keeper had a sweet tooth the size of Texas. There was no way he was indifferent to the idea of “extra” chocolate to eat, any more than I would be.

  You have to love your job to do it correctly, right?

  I shrugged. “I suppose I could make the rounds of the château’s guests. Maybe offer a few pieces to the staff.”

  Except Hubert. He wasn’t having a single tasty morsel.

  “I’ll do both,” Travis decided. “We have plenty of time.”

  I’d won. I smiled. “Let’s get down to it, then.”

  * * *

  Almost an hour later, my financial advisor and I had made a lot of progress. The barn-atelier was suffused with the sweet, irresistible aromas of two kinds of chocolate, vanilla crème filling, hazelnut ganache, and assorted cocoa butter paints.

  That’s right—paints. If you melt pure, creamy cocoa butter to exactly the right temperature and then tint it, you wind up with a tasty liquid “paint.” I’d fashioned mine into several colors—pink, bronze, blue, black, and a dramatic green—and was currently showing Travis how to decorate clear molds with it.

  You won’t be surprised to learn he was a natural. Was there anything my financial advisor wasn’t good at? I doubted it.

  “That’s right,” I told him. “Just stipple the colors into the mold. If you need to see what it looks like, you can always lift it and take a peek through the polycarbonate underneath.”

  “Nah. That’s what imagination is for, right?” Carefully holding his brush, Travis pushed up his glasses. His expression made me imagine him as a six-year-old in art class—you know, before all the math and statistics had gotten the best of him.

  “You have to work relatively quickly,” I advised, “or the cocoa butter starts to harden. It goes crumbly very easily.”

  I realized I was holding my breath and laughed at myself. I guess I really wanted Travis to enjoy his first chocolates.

  “No problem,” he rumbled. “I’ve always been decisive.”

  Attentive nonetheless, I visually gauged his paint’s temperature. It would be all right. Minutes later, it was.

  Travis set down his brush. Technically, it was a makeup brush. I find they keep their bristles intact better than art brushes, and they offer very fine control. Surprised? I never said I couldn’t use a makeup brush—only that I didn’t bother.

  “Here goes. Now we add the chocolate. Grab that ladle.”

  While Travis portioned melted dark chocolate into the painted depressions, I tilted the entire mold, making sure that chocolate filled every inch. It did. Still in shiny temper, it flowed across the mold and then overflowed, just as I intended.

  It was possible to do this part by machine. That simply wasn’t the way chocolates were molded in Brittany, however.

  I tapped the mold to help dispel any errant air bubbles, then asked, “Would you hand me that bench scraper, please?”

  Travis did. I used it to scrape the cacao-infused overflow back into its reservoir, where it churned gently. That done, I handed the mold to Travis. He balanced it in his gloved hands.

  “Now what?” He eyed the filled mold tentatively. “I was following along while you made your chocolate Easter eggs, but that was at least half an hour ago. It’s all a blur now.”

  I’d already nearly finished some intricately decorated chocolates before Travis had arrived. In France, it’s not Valentine’s Day that gets all the chocolate love—it’s Easter. That’s why I’d chosen Easter chocolates as my means to impress Mathieu. They were the most difficult and the most popular.

  During Pâques, French families exchanged all kinds of chocolate, I knew. Molded dark, milk, and white chocolates shaped as bunnies, chickens, lambs, eggs, and especially bells are all common. That’s because, for French children, Easter eggs aren’t brought by the Easter bunny, but by les cloches de Pâques: the winged bells of Easter. Sound weird? It’s actually charming and results in the same Easter egg hunts that kids enjoy elsewhere.

  Then, too, some Easter chocolates sold for one hundred euros or more apiece. They were big business. If Mathieu Camara and I could bond over mine, we would be forging solidarity for sure.

  “Next, just step a little closer to the tempering machine and tip over the mold,” I instructed Travis. “Straight over.”

  He looked at me askance but did it anyway. He trusted me. “This makes no sense. Most of the chocolate is pouring out.”

  “It’s supposed to do that. We’ve just made the outer shells of our chocolates,” I explained as I watched the chocolate drip down. “We want to remove the excess chocolate so we can fill these with ganache or vanilla crème. After that, we’ll cap the whole assortment with more chocolate, let it cool, and then—”

  “Eat it.” Travis nodded, still concentrating on his job. I liked the dedication he applied to the task at hand. He grinned. “Maybe I should ‘accidentally’ poke a hole in one of these.”

  “Sabotage? I didn’t think you had it in you,” I teased.

  “That depends on the stakes.” My financial advisor squinted at the upside-down mold. “I think that’s all that’s coming out.”

  “Okay. Let’s set aside that one in the fridge for a few minutes”—Monsieur had a mini refrigerator expressly for this purpose—“while we work on the next set of chocolates.”

  We did. Or I should say, Travis did. I watched his deft movements. He caught on quickly. “You’re a good student.”

  “You’re a good teacher.” He gave me a dazzling smile.

  “Wait till you see what’s next.” I showed him how to pipe filling into each of the small chocolate hollows we’d created, watchful not to smudge any on the sides. If my cream-enriched ganache mixed with the tempered chocolate, it would ruin it. I handed the mold to Travis. “Now we pour over more chocolate.”

  He did, sending its rich aroma into the air between us.

  I inhaled, then watched as my keeper scraped away the excess chocolate from the mold, just as I’d done. “Perfect.”

  “That’s it? That didn’t seem like such a show-stopper.”

  “That wasn’t it. This is.” I grabbed a big metal sheet pan and flipped it over on the worktable. I picked up a blowtorch and switched it on with a grin. “Don’t try this at home, kids.”

  Carefully, I torched the pan to heat it. Then I motioned for Travis to hand me the first half of the giant chocolate Easter egg I’d made. I placed it on the hot sheet pan, counted to three, then lifted it. I filled its cavity with a few mini chicks, rabbits, and bells. “Now the other half of the egg.”

  Travis handed it to me, watching attentively.

  I melted its edges on my heated sheet pan, then pressed together the two halves. “Voilà! Instant chocolate ‘glue.’”

  My financial advisor looked amazed. “I wondered how you were going to join those after filling them with the smaller chocolates. I can see why you’re in such demand.”

  “It’s all thanks to Monsieur.” I’d learned this technique from him. Now I missed him more than ever. “He was very clever.”

  “I wish I’d met him,” Travis told me. “Between listening to you talk about Philippe and staying at his château, I get the impression he was an interesting man. Diverse, certainly. His collection of antiques and artwork is actually pretty good.” He paused. Then, “It doesn’t quite jibe with that hat, though.”

  “Hey! Are you saying my mentor’s favorite hat is tacky?”

  My financial advisor’s gaze roved over me again. I couldn’t help reliving his earlier comment. It looks good on you. That color brings out your eyes. But all he said was, “Let’s say Monsieur Vetault’s decorating sense was better than his fashion sense.”

  Humph. “Hélène probably did all the decorating.”

  “Or several of his ancestors did it. The château has been in the family f
or generations, right? Hundreds of years.”

  “Just like La Maison des Petits Bonheurs,” I reminded Travis, getting back to business. “Not the hundreds of years part, but generations, for sure.” I set my huge Easter egg in the fridge to solidify completely. “Time to get back to it. As soon as my chocolate sets, I’m off to see Mathieu Camara.”

  If my keeper was jealous of my spending time with Mathieu, it didn’t show. I know, because I checked. It was silly, but I did it. I didn’t guess you could spend much time around Travis and not entertain a fantasy or two—he was just that appealing.

  “And I’m off to infiltrate the local business club.”

  With a cheeky salute, Travis headed off. So did I.

  Just the way we always would—going our separate ways.

  Eight

  I was nearly chased off the grounds of château Vetault. Not because Hubert Bernard—Angry Bloody Hands Man himself—came after me again. Not because the château’s resident “watchdog,” Bouchon the good-natured wolfhound, did anything more threatening than sniff my (chocolate scented) clothes and wag his tail. But because I finally discovered the source of the buzzing sound I’d been noticing since my arrival: it was a professional drone cam.

  I didn’t realize that at first, of course. Who’s on the lookout for flying video cameras on a daily basis? But when something swooped over my head, buzzing like a huge robotic dragonfly, I almost hit the deck. Heart pounding, I ducked.

  Fortunately, I managed to keep my head—and protect all the elaborately decorated Pâques chocolates I’d made, while I was at it. Feeling a whoosh, then still air, I carefully straightened.

  “Excusez-nous! Désolée!” the Parisian blonde called.

  She jogged across the garden to make sure I was all right, wearing a smile and the chicest casual outfit I’d ever seen. It was only a T-shirt, vintage jeans, and a deep green leather jacket—plus some stylish booties and an assortment of fine gold jewelry—but on her, the whole ensemble seemed ridiculously cool.

  “Vous allez bien?” she asked, just as Hubert had.

  Coming from her, the question seemed genuine. Possibly because she wasn’t wielding a pair of lethal gardening shears.

  “Ouah, ça va,” I replied. Yeah, I’m fine.“Vous filmez ici? De Paris? Je connais Lucas Lefebvre. Il est très doué, non?”

  I thought I was doing pretty well, stringing together enough French sentences to mention that her crew was filming there and I was familiar with Lucas Lefebvre, who was very talented. But just like everyone else, the blonde was onto me.

  “Ah! You are American? British? Australian, perhaps?”

  I blamed my vagabond travel habits for her confusion. “American.” I offered her a handshake. “Hayden Mundy Moore, chocolate maker and expert drone cam dodger. Enchanté.”

  “Enchanté. Also, miam-miam!” Basically: yum, yum! Her gaze dropped to my Pâques chocolates. She seemed confused to see Easter confections in autumn, but continued on blithely. “Sorry again about the camera. My crew is feeling annoyed today. They are behaving less carefully than usual.” She leaned confidingly close to me. “Just between us, Lucas can be very demanding.” A shrug. “But that is talent, n’est-ce pas?” She gave me a smile. “I am the person in charge of all this pagaille, Capucine Roux.”

  It did seem like a mess—a pagaille, if my near-miss drone-cam incident was any indication. I nodded and somehow managed not to search over her shoulder for a glimpse of the hunky man in question, Lucas Lefebvre. Instead, I smiled back at Capucine.

  “Hanging out with Lucas all day while listening to music at a French château? I’d say you have my dream job, Capucine.”

  I couldn’t help staring at her. I don’t tend toward much artifice, but she somehow pulled off bedhead and minimal makeup flawlessly, and (sadly) to much better effect than I did. What was it with French women, anyway? They really were born chic.

  She gave a dismissive sound. “Mostly it is making my crew go back to work after taking too many breaks,” she demurred, “while combing the château for set decorations. Madame Vetault has generously given me the run of the place. Poor Madame Vetault. We would not have intruded here at this difficult time, except Lucas’s record label has given us a very strict deadline. We have several videos to complete. Still, I am very sorry about the tragedy involving Monsieur Vetault. It is shocking, non?”

  We traded our regrets about Philippe’s untimely death. The Parisian video crew signaled Capucine to come back, but she waved them off to continue talking to me. I felt pretty special.

  It was like getting to sit at the cool girls’ table at lunch, all over again. I can’t tell you how many new schools I’ve been to in how many different cities and towns in my life. It’s unusual to feel that you fit in somewhere right away.

  “Anyway,” Capucine was saying, her big blue eyes utterly lacking in guile, “whatever I cannot find inside, I can find in Saint-Malo, at the shops there, so it is perfect for us.”

  “You shop for a living, too? Your job just gets better.”

  I was a little relieved to leave behind the subject of Philippe. Evidently, so was Capucine, because she laughed.

  “I would say that you are the one with the dream job,” she said. “Working with chocolate all day? That would be delicious!”

  “If I do my job right, it is.” I liked Capucine. I couldn’t help it. She had a knack for making me feel included.

  “I do not keep every piece of set decoration for myself, of course.” Her gaze tracked Lucas Lefebvre as he lolled near a row of hedges, looking at his phone. “Everything is only on loan. It makes, for me, all the fun of shopping with none of the regret.”

  She glanced back and saw me watching Lucas. An insightful gleam came into her eyes. “Ah, you would like to meet Lucas?”

  You would like to meet the gorgeous pop star? That ranked right up there with, you would like the double chocolate malted milk shake to go with your burger? Of course, I would!

  I did my best to balk. I didn’t want to seem overeager.

  Capucine only laughed and took my elbow. “Mais, oui! You do! Do not worry. He does not bite much.” She hauled me to him.

  A few steps across the garden path and one introduction later, I’d officially met my first (famous) French pop star.

  I have to say, the whole encounter felt surprisingly low key. Capucine shoved me in front of her, Lucas glanced up from his phone, then I said something about liking one of his songs.

  “Merci. That is very kind.” Up close, Lucas was smaller than Danny or Travis, with dark hair and eyes to match. To say he was good-looking doesn’t do justice to the effect he had on people, though. (Okay, on me.) He did have charisma. “You should come out with us sometime,” he invited me with a warm look. “We know all the best places in Saint-Malo. You drink, oui? Dance?”

  Lucas performed a hip swivel to demonstrate, as though he intended to hurdle the language barrier by miming a mamba.

  I didn’t mind. Especially not when he flashed me a flirty smile. Lucas seemed nice. He was sexy, and he was talented. It’s not as though I have a rule that all my men be unattainable for one reason or another. It’s just worked out that way (so far).

  “That would be fun,” I told him. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  Lucas gave a knowing laugh. “Hard to get. Je comprends.”

  “That’s not it,” I insisted. “I have work to do.”

  Catching a killer. The thought snapped me back to reality.

  “Now that I have met you, I will not stop asking,” Lucas warned me with another flirtatious look. “Frenchmen are persistent, chérie. Say yes. Come out with me tonight.”

  I’ll admit it: his oh-so-French chérie almost got me.

  “Maybe another night,” I hedged. “In the meantime. . .”

  I left Capucine, Lucas, and their video crew with a few handy chocolate samples, then headed toward town. Next stop: the police station. Meeting Capucine had given me another idea.

  * * *
/>   The Saint-Malo police station was familiar turf to me by now. Fortunately, I didn’t recognize the desk clerk on duty. He was not the same person who’d insisted that it would “not be possible” for me to see Madame l’agent Mélanie Flamant yesterday.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” he said. “Je peux vouz aider?”

  His bored but solicitous tone was just what I needed.

  “Je suis désolée de vous déranger, mais j’ai besoin de—”

  I’m sorry to bother you, but I need. That’s as far as I got. Inevitably, the desk clerk discerned my subpar French.

  “Vous êtes américaine? Vous parlez anglais?” Are you American? Do you speak English? “Okay. How can I help you?”

  His very bluntly stated “okay” almost made me giggle. You might be surprised how often people around the world use that all-American-sounding word. Okay! Also, it occurred to me, no wonder my French was still so shaky. No one would let me finish a sentence, much less carry on a conversation en français.

  “It’s a very small thing, I promise.” I lifted my basket full of Easter chocolates. “First, is it all right if I set this down right here?” I indicated the counter in front of his very bureaucratic-looking computer terminal. “It’s very heavy.”

  “Oh la,” he clucked. “That is a great deal of chocolate!”

  “Mais oui, c’est ça.” I explained about my job, then tilted the basket so he could have a better look. “Would you like to try some? Juste un petit goûter? I would value your opinion.”

  I wasn’t sure if it was my “just a little taste” nudge or my flattery about wanting his opinion, but he finally bit.

  He glanced around. The police station seemed quiet. As I might have expected, I groused to myself, for a place that was so unenthusiastically investigating Monsieur’s murder.

  “Merci.” He chose one of the chocolates Travis and I had made that morning. He chewed slowly. His eyes lit. “Pas mal!”