by Julie Thomas
‘I don’t actually know anything, and I don’t want you to think that I gossip … but I have been told that there was a physical fight and someone died in one of those big vats we saw, a vat of must!’
‘Must?’
‘Fermenting grape juice and skins. There’s carbon dioxide on the surface and breathing is very difficult. If you fall in, you need to be rescued quickly to have any chance. You suffocate and then you drown.’
‘Goodness me!’
Melissa sat back and digested the news, her expression impassive, her heart screaming. What a horrible way to die.
‘What were they like, Dominic and Ava?’ she asked.
‘Lovely people. Dom was funny and outgoing, and he sang and was passionate about wine. Ava was quieter and a wee bit reserved at times. But she had a wicked sense of humour. She made chocolates and sold them at the market. Her chocolates earned her a reputation. They were exotic flavours and just so moreish!’
Melissa took a sip of her wine. ‘Do you think they’ve bought another vineyard? Be lovely to find out where and try their new wine.’
Louisa shook her head. ‘If they were still making wine we’d know. It’s a relatively small community, and everyone knows where the good owners and winemakers are. No, they’ve moved on.’
‘Maybe they’ve moved to chocolate?’ Melissa suggested.
Louisa beamed at her. ‘I thought of that, too. It would be the obvious path if they wanted to try something new.’
‘Well, let’s hope the chocolate is as good as the wine, and then I might be able to find some of it.’
Melissa sat in her hotel room and surfed the internet on her laptop. There were chocolatiers from the northernmost towns to the southernmost towns, some had retail shops and some had an online presence only. She researched all the likely contenders, family businesses and small operations, and ones that looked new, and compiled a list of phone numbers.
‘Hello, Death by Chocolate. Maria speaking.’
‘Oh, hello. Can you tell me how long you’ve been in business?’
‘Five years in these premises and four in our old building.’
‘And you haven’t recently changed hands?’
‘No, ma’am, we’re still owned by the original owners. My dad is the chocolatier.’
‘Thank you. Sorry to have bothered you.’
‘No problem.’
Eventually, Melissa decided she might have more luck talking to chocolate retailers. Her second stop was the Chocolate Box, a chocolate boutique in the upmarket suburb of Parnell. The shop was a treasure trove, with bars and boxes on every shelf and a counter display-case filled with trays of individual chocolates and truffles. A middle-aged woman was unpacking a box of bars.
‘Good morning. Can I help you?’
Melissa took a moment to survey the wares. ‘What a wonderful display!’
‘Why, thank you. Looking for anything special?’
‘I suspect you get this all the time, but I’m looking for some chocolate I’ve tasted and I can’t remember who made it.’
The woman smiled. ‘Can you remember what the flavour was?’
‘Exotic, different, an unusual combination.’
‘Well, that’s knocks out a few –’
‘And it was quite new, hasn’t been around long.’
‘That helps. Here, try these.’ The woman leaned down and brought out a tasting tray.
Melissa looked at the chocolates and truffles. They were exquisitely made.
‘Do you like raspberries?’ the woman asked.
Melissa nodded.
‘Then try this. It’s filled with dried berries.’
Melissa accepted the half-chocolate and nibbled at it. It was delicious. ‘Who makes these?’ she asked.
‘Chocalicious. They’re in Dunedin, bottom of the South Island. They’ve only been going a couple of years. They make a beer truffle, too, with local ale.’
‘No, I don’t think that’s it. Anything from a newer maker, maybe with wine in it?’
The woman pointed to the tray. ‘That one is a mulled-wine truffle, and that one is my favourite – tequila, lime and salt.’
Melissa tried the half-truffle. ‘That’s lovely! Who makes that?’
‘Aunt Muriel. They’re marketed as Aunt Muriel’s Magnificent Masterpieces.’
‘Where?’
‘From Whakamaria Bay – remote and beautiful. They import fantastic ingredients and the chocolatier is superb. We haven’t stocked them very long, but they’ve proved really popular. Unusual combinations, but they work.’
‘Do they have a shop anywhere?’
The woman shook her head. ‘No, no. They only make about half a dozen different chocolates at the moment. They supply retail shops and restaurants, but the demand is growing. The salesman is English, Michael Wilson. He’s lovely, really charming. I believe his aunt is the chocolatier.’
Melissa smiled at her. ‘Thank you so much. Can I have five of whatever you have of Aunt Muriel’s, please?’
The woman took a box and filled it, using small tongs to pick the chocolates off the tray. Then she laid a piece of paper over the top.
‘I’ve put a guide to the flavours in there for you. Do you think it’s the brand you were looking for?’ she asked.
‘Very possibly. Does it have contact details on it?’
The woman shook her head. ‘No, they don’t sell from their factory. You have to purchase through shops like ours. But I will tell Michael how much you liked them when next he calls in.’
It was almost a dilemma. Melissa’s job was done. She had looked up Whakamaria Bay, and knew where it was and how to get there. She was certain that the Whitney-Ross family had relocated there and set up Aunt Muriel’s Chocolates. It was time for her to go home and report to Tom. Except she was not a machine, she was a human being. Vinnie Whitney-Ross had identified her son and sent him to jail, and ultimately to a fiery death in the back of a prison van. And he’d drowned her husband in a vat of fermenting must.
Every fibre of her being ached with the desire to buy a gun and hire a car, then drive to this bloody remote little township. She could be judge, jury and executioner, execute all three of them, bullet in the back of the head, then drive straight to the airport and fly home. The knowledge that stopped her was not that she might get caught and never see home again – what did she have to go home to? It was that the wrath of Tom McGregor would descend upon her like the fires of hell. She wasn’t frightened of the police but she was terrified of Tom. The man was a psychopath, and he was all that stood between the Lane gang and oblivion. He had promised her that he had a plan, and whatever vengeance he had for these people, it was his to execute and his alone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
MITCHELL DAWSON
December 2014
It was early summer and the ocean sparkled beneath a sky the colour of lapis lazuli. Anna walked barefoot through the sand, Merlot running ahead of her and careening in and out of the waves. She felt a deep sense of contentment, and it made her smile. This would have been unthinkable months earlier. Vinnie’s actions had turned her life upside down. She loved him, she always would, but their path had taken so many twists and turns that sometimes it was hard to remember why they were still together.
At one end of the beach was a large bleached tree trunk, driftwood that had floated in on a high tide and become marooned above the water mark. It was weathered by windblown salt and sand, and she loved to sit on one of its branches and rest her head against the smooth wood. The sea breeze kept her cool, and the rhythmical sound of the waves made her sleepy.
‘Mind if I join you, ma’am?’
The accent was American. She opened one eye and couldn’t see much at all. He was standing with the sun behind him.
She sat up. ‘Be my guest.’
He was wearing a cotton shirt and long shorts. As he sat down beside her, she tried to register what she could see without obviously staring. Short blond hair, blue eyes, strong ch
in, blond eyebrows and eyelashes. He had a muscular body, filled out, in proportion but barrel-chested, and with obvious muscles in his arms and long legs. His age was hard to ascertain – anything from early forties to a very well-maintained late forties.
‘I’m new to the bay, only been here a few days.’
‘We’re relatively new ourselves.’
He extended his hand. ‘I’m so sorry, I should have introduced myself. My name is Mitchell Dawson.’
She smiled and shook the extended hand. ‘Charlotte Wilson.’
‘An immigrant too, I hear. What part of England are you from?’
‘London. Most of my life. What part of the States are you from?’
‘I was born in Texas, but I’ve lived in New York, Boston, LA, London, Paris and Capetown. I like to think of myself as a citizen of the world.’
She nodded. ‘For work?’ she asked.
‘I was a food critic, restaurant reviews, newspaper columns, book reviews. Now I’m a writer. I’ve taken a house here so I can write a book.’
‘How interesting! What’s your book about?’
He flashed what looked like a slightly embarrassed smile, and shook his head. ‘Well, that’s the thing. I knew I wanted to research the history of some of our most ancient foods. Things we take for granted and so don’t think about where they came from or the part they’ve played in history. I thought I’d cover everything from cheese to ’erbs and spices. But I’ve found myself totally obsessed with a small number of fascinating tales.’
He looked at her with his bright blue eyes and she could see his passion for what he did. She felt a touch guilty about how attractive she found him. Merlot came running up to her, a wet stick in his mouth, and shook his coat. Seawater sprayed everywhere.
‘Oh, Merlot, you idiot!’
She picked up the stick and threw it down the beach. The dog raced off after it.
‘Sorry about that.’
He waved his hand to dismiss her apology. ‘No need. Real beautiful dog.’
‘Big heart, no brains. I’d love to know what the foods are. I think I could guess some of them.’
‘Now that’s a challenge I can’t resist. Go ahead.’
She thought for a moment.
‘Chocolate.’
‘Correct.’
‘Salt.’
‘Correct again.’
He waited while she sat frowning at the ocean.
Suddenly she turned towards him. ‘Rice!’
‘Oh, you’re real good. I bet you’re a phenomenal cook.’
She smiled and made no attempt to conceal her delight. ‘Actually, I’m a chocolatier.’
His expression went from surprise to obvious pleasure. ‘For real? In a place like this?’
‘It’s a wonderful place for being creative. It’s as peaceful a little town as you’ll find anywhere, and the stillness and the beauty are inspiring.’
‘Well, it certainly is quiet. I haven’t really met a single soul yet, apart from the lady in the general store and the realtor who rented me my house.’
‘Are you on the beach?’ she asked.
‘Yes, ma’am. About two hundred yards that way.’ He pointed up the beach.
She stood up. ‘We’re the last house before the cliffs at the far end. Number sixteen. Would you like to come to dinner tonight? My husband is away on business, but his aunt is here.’
‘I’d just love to, thank you. That’s very kind.’
‘Let’s say I know what it’s like to be the newcomer. See you at seven, Mr Mitchell Dawson.’
Mary was astonished that her daughter-in-law had invited a complete stranger to dinner, especially given that Vinnie was away and they were meant to be keeping a low profile.
‘What do you know about him?’
‘He’s American and he’s a foodie. He’s here to write a book, and part of it is about chocolate, which might be useful. And he’s nice. What more do I need to know?’
‘What are you going to cook?’
‘Chicken in a Mexican mole sauce with wild rice, followed by cinnamon churros with a chocolate and Kahlua dipping sauce.’
Mary smiled at her and shook her head. ‘He must be very nice.’
Mitchell sat back and sighed. ‘Lovely combination of different chillies and that hint of bitter chocolate. That sauce was just extraordinary, and you are far too kind, Mrs Charlotte Wilson.’
Anna felt a slight blush rising, and busied herself picking up the dishes on the table. ‘Just basic home cooking.’
‘Well, I’m looking forward to meeting Mr Wilson, because he is one lucky man if that is your basic home cooking.’
Mary sipped her sherry. ‘He’s in Wellington, visiting shops,’ she said. ‘He’ll be back on Friday.’
Mitchell thumped the table.
‘Well, I’d like to have you all over to my house on Saturday. Return the hospitality. What do you say, Charlotte and Aunt Muriel?’
Anna stood in the doorway, a coffee pot in her hand.
‘I’ll check with Michael when I speak to him next, but for now, that would be lovely, thank you.’
Vinnie enjoyed his time on the road. He sang along with his CDs and composed songs in his head. On long trips, he enjoyed audio books. The chocolates were kept at a constant temperature by a battery-operated cooler that he could charge through the car’s cigarette-lighter or off a mains plug at night. He planned his route in a circular direction to the furthest point and back to the bay. The shop assistants and chefs were always pleased to see him, and took great pleasure in telling him how well the stock had sold and how much they needed the new supplies. Mostly they received the chocolates by truck, but he made sure he visited every shop or restaurant every few weeks.
The journey home was scenic and coastal, and he sang his heart out as the miles flew by. At long last the shadows of the past had been laid to rest. He knew the truth about his father, and the chains that had bound them to the Lanes for so many years had been broken. There were compromises – he missed winemaking more than he would admit – but they lived in a glorious spot, and Anna was truly happy. She could indulge in her passion all day long, and they were well rewarded for her skill. His mother was reunited with her family and loved her role as the face of the business. Things could be so much worse.
‘I met him on the beach.’
‘He approached you?’ Vinnie asked.
She could see the concern, the suspicion, in his eyes. He looked tired, and she wanted to hug him and tell him that everything was finally okay.
‘Yes, but he was just being friendly. He’s new and doesn’t know anyone. He came to dinner and he invited us back, tomorrow.’
Vinnie nodded. ‘Have you checked him out? On the net?’ he asked.
‘No! Vinnie, relax. You know as well as I do that Marcus is dead. The time to be frightened of new people is over. I think Mitchell will make a good friend. I think you’ll like him.’
Vinnie smiled at her. ‘I’m sure I will. Shall we take one of the last bottles of Gravitas?’
‘Yes, let’s. He’s a food critic. See what he thinks of the wine and don’t tell him about our connection.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A TESTING TIME
Every summer evening the air was heavy with the scent of barbecues. It seemed the only way the inhabitants of Whakamaria Bay cooked at that time of the year. On his second evening there, Mitchell had gone for a stroll along the beach and breathed in the smell of meat cooking over an open flame. As soon as he could, he had purchased a barbecue at the general store and charmed the lady behind the counter into showing him how to use it.
His bottle of wine was decanting, his salad was tossed and the steak was ready to put on the hotplate. He stood on his deck and looked out to sea. This was a truly glorious place to live, the absolute antithesis of his previous abodes. Shame he wouldn’t be able to stay …
The sight of three people clambering over the sand towards his house alerted him to impending visitors
, and he turned and walked inside. He felt strangely calm, considering how important tonight was. Maybe the role of jovial, easy-going Yank had become second nature, or maybe it was because he was in control at last. He was pouring wine into glasses when they knocked on the open sliding doors.
‘Charlotte, Aunt Muriel, how lovely to see you!’
He walked towards them, his hand extended. They shook it in turn.
Anna turned to the man standing behind her. ‘And this is my husband, Michael.’
Mitchell smiled broadly and extended his hand. ‘Welcome to my house, Michael. Mitchell Dawson. May I say, your wife is one fine cook.’
Vinnie took his hand and their eyes met.
Not a flicker, not that he had expected one.
Vinnie handed over a bottle of wine. ‘Nice to meet you, Mitchell. We brought some wine.’
Mitchell took it and looked at the label. ‘Rocky Bay. Where’s that?’ he asked.
‘On Waiheke Island, off Auckland. It’s a wine called Gravitas.’
Mitchell nodded. ‘Well, that’s the next bottle off the rank. Take a glass and come sit on the deck with me.’
After dinner they went back onto the deck and sat watching the sun set.
Anna started the conversation. ‘Have you settled on the foods for your book, Mitchell?’
He nodded slowly. ‘Almost. Chocolate, salt, rice, chilli and bread, and then I’ll see whether I add anything more.’
‘Why not add wine?’ Vinnie asked.
Mitchell smiled. ‘It’s a thought, I’ll grant you.’
‘People have been making wine for centuries, and not just for drinking. In biblical and medieval times it was a disinfectant, it was mixed with myrrh and used as a pain reliever, and it purified almost undrinkable water,’ Vinnie said.
‘That’s mighty impressive. You seem to know a lot about wine, Michael.’
Vinnie hesitated. ‘It was a large part of my life, but now we concentrate on chocolate. A much sweeter option.’
Mitchell turned to Anna. ‘Tell me, Charlotte, do you use chilli in your chocolate?’