Dead and Ganache

by Colette London

  It was, instead, Fabrice Poyet who’d come to La Maison des Petits Bonheurs. Like me, he was there to see Mathieu Camara—not because he suspected the chocolatier of murder (although if Fabrice had counted supersleuth among his talents, I would have easily believed it), but because he was closing the shop.

  “Temporarily, of course,” Nathalie’s fiancé told me in his upper-crust French accent when I asked him about it. “You understand, it is best for now.” He gave me a vaguely censorious look. “It upset my Nathalie to come here this morning and see the chocolaterie open for business as usual. This makes a mockery of Monsieur Vetault’s death, does not it? For now, we close.”

  Nathalie had seemed distressed when we’d lingered in front of the shop earlier. At the time, I’d chalked up her reaction to Mathieu’s angry glares, not distress over losing her father. But of course Nathalie was distraught about Philippe! I felt awful for not having been more sensitive. My efforts to avoid walking past the chocolaterie hadn’t amounted to much. I said so.

  “Still, it was very kind of you to try.” Fabrice gave me a forgiving smile. I could see why Nathalie found his presence comforting. The younger Poyet seemed to expect the best from everyone—even surly Mathieu, who tromped out of the shop.

  Seeing me, the chocolatier’s scowl deepened. He carried what appeared to be his personal confectionary equipment, along with a couple of long aprons, a dirty head kerchief, and a box of La Maison des Petits Bonheurs molded and wrapped chocolates.

  Mathieu said something to me in guttural street French—basically, the verbal equivalent of that coarse graffiti that had been sprayed on the shop’s shutters. He made a rude gesture, letting me know (in case his lapse into français left any doubt) that he was finished being nice to me. Warily, I stepped back.

  Fabrice stepped between us, his arms protectively outstretched to shield me. He said something brusque to Mathieu.

  I’m afraid my ability to translate was on the fritz, because I couldn’t quite make out what it was. Something like Mathieu should have expected that La Maison des Petits Bonheurs would close for a few days’ mourning. It was the only possible outcome, to show the proper respect for Monsieur Vetault.

  That seemed reasonable to me, but not to Mathieu. I recalled the bedroom upstairs I’d awaked in after my tartine and tea with Madame Renouf and remembered (too late) that Mathieu didn’t just work at the chocolaterie. He lived there, too.

  “Attendez, Monsieur Poyet,” I interrupted. “S’il vous plaît.” Wait. Please. I stepped from behind Fabrice’s protective arms, then pleaded with him to allow Mathieu to stay in his home.

  They both looked at me as if I were folle. Insane.

  “Non.” Fabrice shook his head. “That would be confusing for our customers, would it not? To see Monsieur Camara coming and going?”

  “Surely they would understand?” I risked a sidelong glance at broad-shouldered Mathieu, who stood sullenly nearby. “It isn’t fair to make Monsieur Camara leave home. He misses Monsieur.”

  Abruptly, I remembered that I’d come there to find out if Mathieu used a chocolate chipper—if he’d killed our mentor with one of those deadly pronged implements just a few nights ago.

  Sometimes, my natural softheartedness gets in the way of common sense. I had to steel my resolve—and myself—against Mathieu. If he’d murdered my mentor, he’d find a nice home in prison soon. I intended to do my best to make sure of it.

  But Mathieu didn’t need me to leap to his defense. In fact, my attempts to help made him more resolved to leave. He yelled (in French, of course) that Fabrice could keep the chocolaterie. Then he followed up with a rude suggestion as to just what Monsieur Poyet could do with La Maison des Petits Bonheurs. I’ll spare you the details. Suffice it to say, Mathieu was now unemployed.

  Fabrice seemed in agreement with that—albeit in a sorrowful, well-bred way that suggested he was sorry the situation had come to this—but I couldn’t be.

  I still needed more information.

  Mathieu turned, preparing to stomp down the street. Then he stopped and took a final glance at the chocolaterie where he’d learned his craft at Monsieur’s side. I could have sworn his eyes filled with tears, just as they had when we’d met.

  I’ll admit it. I felt sorry for him. But not sorry enough not to try for the information I needed. I hurried over to him.

  Once there, Mathieu’s fearsome scowl made me quaver.

  What was I doing? He might be a cold-blooded murderer!

  “Oui?” he said icily. “Vous êtes heureuse, maintenant?”

  That essentially amounted to, “I hope you’re happy now?” delivered in the most sarcastic and meanspirited way possible.

  I wished I could shove Danny between us for backup. But I had only myself, so I did what I could.

  “I’m sorry.” I pointed to the aprons, tools, and supplies in Mathieu’s arms. “But I think I left something behind at La Maison des Petits Bonheurs.”

  My practical knowledge of French had fled. Even my grasp of English wasn’t at its finest just then, given that I seriously thought my heart might beat straight out of my chest with fear.

  But Mathieu hadn’t stormed off yet, so I continued with what had become a blatant fishing expedition, using our mutual memories of our mentor for bait. “It was something M. Vetault gave me, years ago,” I improvised. “A metal chocolate chipper?”

  At my hopeful eyebrow raise, Mathieu sneered. “Bof! No true chocolatier uses a ‘chocolate chipper.’” His tone couldn’t have been any more derisive. “I should have known you would have one.” He beat his chest with his fist. “Moi, I use a chef’s knife, like the professional I am. Bah!” He spit at the dirt.

  Wow. He wasn’t exactly holding back his disdain. I guess I had my answer, then. Mathieu Camara didn’t use the tool that had been used to murder Monsieur. Or so he claimed. I wasn’t sure.

  “Then you don’t have it?” I asked brightly. “For sure?”

  “For sure,” Mathieu said mockingly. He transferred his gaze to Fabrice Poyet, who stood watchfully waiting nearby. In French, he informed Fabrice that he had no right to close La Maison des Petits Bonheurs. Then he included me in his fiery glance. “I should have known it was you. Both of you!” His stilted English was for me. “You will be sorry for it!”

  With that warning, Mathieu really did stomp down the street. I had the errant thought that he and Clotilde Renouf had a talent for storming off in common. She’d done the same thing.

  Left alone with me, Fabrice gave an elegant gesture of regret. “It is much too bad. I am sorry, Madame Mundy Moore.”

  I insisted he call me Hayden. We were tutoyering each other in no time. Have I mentioned I have a gift for making friends?

  “I have heard of your work from Monsieur Vetault,” Fabrice told me as we conversed outside the chocolaterie. He nodded toward it. “This place will soon become a Poyet boutique. Would you consider working at the new Poyet Maison des Petits Bonheurs?”

  The name change made me blanch. At least it preserved some of the original Vetault family flavor, though, if not all of it.

  “I’m sure Nathalie would consider it a great favor,” Fabrice coaxed. “She, too, has told me of your expertise.”

  For a heartbeat, the notion of taking on Monsieur’s legacy for myself held a lot of appeal. I was legitimately tempted.

  Then, as Travis would have predicted, reason returned.

  “I’m sorry.” I shook my head. “I have . . . constraints. . . that prevent me from taking on long-term jobs,” I explained. That was one way to describe Uncle Ross’s will and its provisions. “But it’s very kind of you to think of me.” I decided to seize the moment. “What are Poyet’s plans for the chocolaterie, anyway?”

  Fabrice blew out his cheeks in a characteristically French gesture of resignation. “At one time, that was very clear. Now, though, everything is in turmoil. It is uncertain, oui? Without Monsieur Vetault, it will be difficult to proceed as we had planned.”


  I understood. Undoubtedly, the death of a principal partner in the merger would complicate things. Without Philippe and his expertise, La Maison des Petits Bonheurs was a less appealing target. His death might eventually scupper the deal altogether.

  “It’s heartening that you came so close,” I told Fabrice as he pulled out keys and locked the chocolaterie’s doors. “Without you and Nathalie, I doubt a merger would have been thought of.”

  “Because of the bad blood between our families?” At my nod, Fabrice laughed. “You are not française, non? Then you will not know that the ‘rivalry’ between Vetault and Poyet was a myth. Our medias made much of it, but it was never a concern—at least not to Poyet. This is what you call a ‘David versus Goliath’ situation, n’est-ce pas? Only in life, Goliath usually wins.”

  He had a point. I knew Travis would have agreed. Danny, too. All I knew, just then, was that I hated seeing the chocolaterie close. I nodded at it. “David will rise again?”

  “Yes.” Fabrice’s voice was kind. So was his face, beneath his mop of blond hair. “I truly do wish to honor Monsieur Vetault. Also, it seems more and more signs point to Monsieur Camara being . . .”

  He gave a vague gesture in conclusion, but I thought I knew what he meant. Dangerous leaped to mind. So did murderous.

  We were both far too polite to say either word aloud.

  The only trouble was, now Mathieu Camara was on the loose, unmoored from his work at La Maison des Petits Bonheurs and his small, old-fashioned apartment above the chocolaterie alike. He might go anywhere now. More important, he might get away.

  I had to do something. Follow him?

  “I’m sorry, but I must be going,” I told Fabrice as I pulled out my phone to call Travis. “À bientôt!” See you later!

  We traded bonjours. Moments later, I was officially trailing Mathieu. It wasn’t exactly rocket science. As I turned around to look, I spotted him lingering near a local crêperie, glaring malevolently at me. I’d have sworn there was homicide in his eyes. I wondered if he’d heard Fabrice offer me a job.

  Women cannot manage business. I guessed the joke was on Mathieu. I had half a mind to accept, just to prove him wrong.

  The look in his eyes was too chilling for that, though. Instead, I pulled down my chic new white hat to shield me from the chocolatier’s scowl and then dialed Travis to let him in on my emerging plan. Trailing Mathieu Camara might take all day.

  “So I might need you to spell me later,” I told my financial advisor. I’d ordered an espresso at a café close to Mathieu. In France, it was possible to nurse a six-ounce coffee for hours. So far, that’s what the angry chocolatier and I were both doing. “Bring policière Mélanie. She can arrest him.”

  I’d already explained about the chocolate chipper and Mathieu’s response to my asking him for one. I still thought he’d overreacted. Impugning my chocolate-making integrity went a step too far, as far as I was concerned. He could have simply said he didn’t have one. But if I could prove he had had one....

  I explained as much to Travis. He wasn’t as receptive as I might have hoped. “It would be incriminating for Monsieur Camara to have had the murder weapon in his possession before Philippe’s death,” my financial advisor agreed in his steady, rumbling voice. “However, even his possessing a chocolate chipper at La Maison des Petits Bonheurs isn’t enough. It’s a normal tool to have in a chocolaterie. He would have had to have had the weapon with him on the night Philippe was killed and have a motive.”

  “Right.” I suspected he had both. Plus, meanness. “And?”

  “And Mélanie questioned him. She came up with nothing.”

  I humphed. “What about fingerprints?”

  “You’ll have to ask your ‘secret source’ about that.”

  He meant Danny, of course. Even though I hadn’t disclosed where I’d gotten that photograph, there was only one logical explanation. I frowned, keeping one eye fixed on Mathieu Camara.

  “Mélanie hasn’t told you if there were fingerprints?”

  “We don’t talk about Philippe’s case much.”

  “Travis! That’s what you’re there for!” I lowered my voice to its most serious timbre. “Get some info, will you? We have to catch Philippe’s killer”—aka Mathieu—“before it’s too late.”

  Travis gave me one of his patented silences. This one said loud and clear (ironically) that he was being patient with me. Then, “The police are on the job. Maybe you should back off.”

  Why did someone say that to me, without fail, at least once during every murder investigation? “I would like to,” I told him in an über-patient voice of my own. It was tricky while gritting my teeth in frustration. “But I can’t. I owe it to my mentor.”

  “Philippe wouldn’t want you to endanger yourself.”

  I pulled away my phone from my ear and gawked at it. “Are you being serious right now? Does Mélanie have you at gunpoint?”

  “This is all me,” my keeper said. “I want you to be safe.”

  Weirdly enough, it sounded as though he was right there.

  I looked up. Duh. He was right there, giving me a somber look, wearing another suit and tie that made him look just as capable, serious, and brilliant as he really was. I hung up.

  “Nice one, superspy. You were around the corner, right?”

  Travis nodded. His expression looked grave as he searched for Mathieu, then pinpointed him. My financial advisor sat.

  “If you’re going down swinging, I am, too,” he told me.

  Aw. I melted. “That’s sweet, Trav. I officially take back all the mean names I was calling you in my head a minute ago.”

  He laughed, then glanced at my head. “Nice hat. I think I saw one just like that someplace. Looks better on you, though.”

  “Let me guess: Beyoncé? Vogue? A super chic Insta-grammer?”

  “Nope.” Travis crossed his arms, then ordered himself an espresso to match mine. He narrowed his eyes at Mathieu, then shifted his gaze to me. He nodded. “Tell me everything.”

  I guessed I wasn’t finding out the source of Travis’s fashion acumen. Resigned (for now) I told him what I knew.

  * * *

  I was up and at it bright and early the next morning, despite having spent a (rather) late night cuddled up with Lucas Lefebvre’s YouTube channel. I’d taken to browsing the pop star’s videos as a way of unwinding—which wasn’t to say that Lucas’s music was boring, because it wasn’t. Quite the opposite.

  I could see why Capucine needed to source so many things for her music videos. They were elaborate, full of multiple scene changes and full of inventive camera angles. I appreciated her artistry—or at least that’s the story I stuck to when Travis caught me watching swivel-hipped Lucas cavorting nearly naked.

  “I’m just practicing my French, that’s all,” I told him. “Listening to Lucas’s lyrics is très utile.” Very helpful.

  If I told you he believed me . . . well, you probably wouldn’t.

  All of which was a long-winded way of saying that I wasn’t at my best as I prepared to drive into Saint-Malo’s centre-ville to speak to Charlotte Moreau’s small-business group that day.

  “I guess you haven’t kicked your procrastination habit to the curb yet,” Travis observed over café and pain au chocolat.

  “I’ve come a long way,” I protested, guiltily reminded of how long it had been since I’d cracked open the antiprocrastination app he’d recommended.

  “But not such a long way that you don’t still create excuses for not executing.” My financial advisor gave me an astute look. “After all, if you’re tired from watching Lucas’s videos all night, you can’t be expected to perform well while speaking at the small-business meeting this morning, right?”

  I resented his perceptiveness. “I didn’t have much time to prepare. I had roughly twenty-four hours’ notice, remember?”

  “Ample time to prepare, if you manage your priorities.”

  I’d have liked to “manage” him into anoth
er time zone. “I suppose you always prioritize the right things, all the time?”

  My keeper’s eyes glimmered. “We’re talking about you.”

  Was that the hint of a grin I detected? “Travis! Are you suggesting that you have faults? I don’t believe it.” I leaned forward, inhaling chocolate and pastry. “Tell me everything.”

  Sadly, he didn’t choose that moment to bare his soul. “If you don’t hurry up, you’ll need another app to cure your chronic lateness.” He pulled out his phone. “I think I know one.”

  “All right, all right.” I chomped my petit-déjeuner, then grabbed my jacket from the back of my chair. “I’m going.”

  Just to prove my (latent) efficiency, I made it to town with time to spare. I arrived at Antiquités Moreau half an hour before the small-business club meeting was supposed to begin.

  Even though Travis wasn’t there to witness my triumph, I was proud of myself. He’s not wrong about my procrastination tendencies (hey, I’m only human), but they don’t generally cause problems with my work. I always deliver excellent results.

  It’s simply that sometimes reporting on those results is a little delayed. Does anybody really like doing paperwork?

  Given the morning’s meeting, Charlotte Moreau’s antiques shop wasn’t open for business yet. Instead, Antiquités Moreau’s dishy proprietress had hung a sign on the front door stating that le magasin would be ouvert (open) after eleven o’clock. That meant that I had an full hour to wow Saint-Malo and then network my way into finding out who’d graffitied Monsieur’s chocolaterie. Piece of (chocolate) cake, right? I hoped so.

  Struck by a thought, I scrutinized Madame Moreau’s handwritten sign. I wanted to discern if its style was similar to the graffiti. Traître. Unfortunately, writing with a thick marker and scrawling slurs with paint were different. The results were inconclusive. It could have been her . . . or not.

  Dressed in my only “lady boss” clothes—a pencil skirt and lightweight cashmere sweater, worn with my “fancy” flats—I raised my hand to knock, then realized the door was ajar. Hmm.