Bride by Chocolate (Death by Chocolate)

by Alexis Lusonne Montgomery

  “Leave a message, I’ll get back to you.”

  “Bebe, where are you? What happened? Call me. Please. Now?”

  He headed back down the hall, detouring into the kitchen for a second cup of coffee. Hopefully she hadn’t dumped that down the sink along with the much-lamented omelet.

  “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial the number again. If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial the number again. If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial the number again. If you’d like—”

  Sam stared at the phone, listening to the message repeat again, and then reached out to adjust the receiver into the cradle on the kitchen wall. The fist twisting in his gut threatened to crawl up his throat and choke the life out of him.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. He closed his eyes and considered the magnitude of his sins.

  How much of his conversation with Felix had she overheard? He hadn’t heard anyone pick up when he’d been talking, but it was the only thing that made sense. Had she picked up at the same time? If so, she’d heard everything, especially the part where he’d told Felix not to give her the info on the phone number—but she’d heard the number.

  Bebe had heard the number and hadn’t stuck around to chew his ass into bite-size bits.

  Why not?

  Avoiding an issue wasn’t her style.

  His pixie princess should have been spoiling for a showdown. She’d been adamant about being equal partners in this hunt for the hacker, and he’d tried to keep her out of the loop.

  What did she know that made her bolt?

  Bebe knew the number.

  Son of a bitch to hell and back.

  He pulled out his cell and hit Felix’s number.

  “Yes, Sam.”

  “Did you get the information on that number?”

  “Not yet. My source hasn’t gotten in.”

  “I have to have it now. Bebe must have overheard us and she’s gone. She wouldn’t have split unless she knew something about that phone number.”

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “If you say I told you so, you’re fired.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Now, how in the hell are we going to find out where that number originates?”

  “You really think Bebe knows the number?”

  “It’s the only thing that works. She wouldn’t have charged out of here if she didn’t know where she was going.”

  “Well, I’m still hooked into the computer at Waterston’s. I could check their client lists to see if the number comes up. And I could scan their database—maybe this guy’s a supplier.”

  “Do it.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “And Felix?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re right—I’m roadkill.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  Sam slid the phone into his pocket and went to finish dressing. It was going to take a lot more than chocolates to fix this. He wondered what his dad did when he’d bypassed the chocolate-would-fix-this size blunder and realized he’d transgressed in a major way.

  …

  The cable car rattled, bumped, and clanked down the steep incline. Bebe hung on and clutched her satchel on her lap.

  She should have taken her car to Sam’s, but how was she to know he’d betray her? She’d trusted him. What an idiot.

  Had any man ever believed in her?

  They all seemed to be glad to take care of her, but none had ever treated her as an equal. As though physical size somehow equated to brain size! Even her very own papa had had to have Maman browbeat him into letting Bebe take over when he semiretired to teach and travel.

  She’d proven to him she could handle the day-to-day running of the store and factory, even make improvements with online orders. She’d had such great plans. Until the shipments had started to run amok.

  But now she knew who was to blame.

  The weasel.

  Freddy Finnerman.

  She shouldn’t be surprised. She knew he resented Waterston’s being considered number one in San Francisco’s small hand-dipped chocolate industry, and he’d resented Bebe since infancy. She couldn’t help it if she’d been a beautiful baby and he’d looked more like the offspring of the Pillsbury Doughboy. She couldn’t be blamed for the genetics involved, but he’d held it against her anyway. He’d teased her endlessly about her height, or lack of it, never missing an opportunity to belittle her—no pun intended—to anyone who would listen.

  Well, payback was a bitch. And she was just the bitch to deliver it.

  The Powell/Hyde line cable car slowed.

  “Green Street. Exit to the rear, folks,” the cable-car driver announced.

  Bebe hustled to the trolley’s back exit. The older gentleman who stepped to the pavement in front of her turned and offered his hand.

  “Careful, missy. That’s a mighty big step.”

  Did this man even know how close he was to being maimed and thrown across the tracks for the next passing car to dismember?

  “Thank you,” she said, “but I’m sure I can manage.” And then she felt guilty at the chagrined expression on his face.

  “Have a wonderful day.” She turned and rushed across the street. Her mother would be scandalized at her rudeness.

  Well, Maman was five foot six inches. She could afford to be gracious. Bebe was barely five two and didn’t feel like humoring the big people anymore.

  She knew where to place the blame. Papa.

  Barely taller than Maman, it was clearly his genetic contribution that had led to her size challenge. She’d be sure to mention it to him when they returned. In the meantime, she would deal with Fatso Freddy.

  She’d never called him that before. Never joined in the teasing with the other kids. She’d even tried to stop some of the others who’d really been mean to him…but no more.

  Freddy Finnerman had no idea of the rain about to flash flood his parade.

  Arriving at her godparents’ house so quickly came as a surprise. She’d speed-walked herself into a serious sweat imagining in glorious Technicolor all the ways she intended to get even with Freddy. Retribution was at hand.

  She stomped up the front steps of the Finnermans’ Italianate three-story mansion that sat almost flush to the sidewalk and banged the handle on the lion’s head door knocker.

  She rapped again. It felt good to hit metal to metal and make a big noise.

  She’d been about to hit the knocker again when the door swung open. She snatched her hand back.

  “Miss Bebe, what is the matter?” Olga, the Finnermans’ housekeeper, held the door open. “Has something happened? Has there been an accident? Is Mr. Frederick injured?” At this point Olga, a sturdy German frau of commendable height, was wringing her hands and wadding her apron into a knot.

  “No, Mr. Frederick is not injured. Yet. Is he here?”

  “Would you like to come in? Something to drink? You look flummoxed. Please, come in?”

  “No, thank you. I just need to find Freddy.”

  “He left for the shop this morning. If he’s not there, then he may be at the factory.”

  “When do you expect him home? In case I miss him.”

  Olga’s expression changed. To resignation.

  “What has he done now? Should I call his parents?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to worry them. I’ll handle this.” She stepped forward and patted the housekeeper’s forearm. “Don’t you worry either, okay?”

  The woman nodded but did not look convinced.

  “Would you call me if he comes home and I haven’t caught him—talked to him?”

  “Yah, I will call.”

  Bebe reached in her bag and pulled out a business card.

  “This has my cell number.” Handing the card to Olga, she turned to go down the steps.

  “You take care. Mr. Frederick has a temper, and sometimes he’s not good with that, yah?”

  “I know. I will.”

  …
>
  Sam had just slammed the condo door when his phone signaled Felix was on the line. He pulled it out hoping super-tech had gotten lucky.

  “Got it, Boss.”

  “What is it?”

  “Address is on Green near Polk in Russian Hill. I’ll text you the info. Name listed is Herschel Finnerman.”

  “Any relation to Freddy?”

  “Father.”

  “Freddy is CEO of Finnerman’s Finest Chocolates—”

  “In the silver box?”

  “Have you been talking to Glenna, Felix?”

  “She happened to mention—”

  “Never mind. Get me everything you can on Finnerman’s. Text it to the Jag.”

  “On it.”

  Sam tucked the phone in his jacket breast pocket and hit the elevator button.

  He had to find Bebe before she found Freddy.

  …

  Bebe ran back the way she’d come, from Larkin back to the trolley stop at Hyde.

  She should just take a cab.

  The trolley clanged, rumbling toward her on its steel-to-steel rail wheels. Nothing like a cable car ride to lift your spirits, but she was still going to mangle Freddy. And then she’d think of a suitable payback for Sam-the-double-crosser-Sugarman.

  The Powell/Hyde line was a straight shot from Sam’s down to Beach Street and across to where the tracks ended in the maritime park. She got off at Beach. So close to the bay, the smell of the salt water and the call of the seabirds added a soothing layer to the morning air, but Bebe refused to be soothed or distracted.

  She headed toward Ghirardelli Square. Freddy’s shop was across the street from the square, a small storefront done in lots of chrome and garish silver lettering. He’d redone the exterior the minute his parents’ plane had landed in Phoenix. She refused to imagine what he’d done to the classic interior his mother had left behind.

  Bebe swept through the front door, willing to let the door bang open, but catching it at the last moment. Proper manners could be a real downer to a well-thrown hissy fit.

  The inside made the outside look sedate. Freddy was dead meat when his mother saw this. Silver-embossed wallpaper created a floor-to-ceiling glare. It looked as though he’d cornered the market on aluminum foil with shelves and gift boxes stacked high in silver wrappers. The casements lined in silver were the final insult. Black-and-silver checkerboard floor tile came as a dizzying relief to the unrelenting tinfoil effect. Her godmother was going to kill Freddy, but not if she got hold of him first.

  The shop girl stationed behind the counter, one Bebe recognized from the chocolate ball, looked up startled, and then smiled.

  “Hello, Miss Waterston. What can I do for you today?” She tugged at the silver shorts she wore. “You can’t be here for the chocolates. My boyfriend gave me a box of Waterston’s to celebrate our sixth date. They were amazing—he scored big-time.”

  “Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed them, Sandy.” Thank God for name tags.

  “Yeah, but don’t tell Mr. Finnerman.” Sandy glanced up at a monitor in the ceiling’s far corner. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He gets real annoyed when anyone even mentions Waterston’s.”

  “Is Freddy here?”

  “He was, but I don’t know if he’s still here. Let me check.” Sandy picked up the phone and punched a button. “Mr. Finnerman?” No answer. “Mr. Finnerman, are you there?” She waited a moment, then set the phone down. “That’s his office. I guess he left for the factory.”

  “Thanks. If he comes back, will you call me? I really need to see him today.” Bebe handed Sandy her card. “My cell phone is on the bottom.”

  “Do you want me to have Mr. Finnerman call you?”

  “No. I’d rather surprise him in person with my news. So if he comes back, just give me a call and I’ll be right along, okay? And there’s a box of Waterston’s with your name on it.”

  “You got it.”

  Bebe went out the door, careful not to slam it in her irritation. One chubby weasel could not be that hard to find.

  The Finnerman factory was a couple of blocks over with an alley entrance, an easy walk, and one she’d made often as a child. The street side of the building on Van Ness housed other small shops. The factory took up two stories but only half the space had a second floor, which overlooked the kitchens and packaging areas below. The second floor with its plate-glass windows provided office space and a blind for Freddy to spy on his hapless employees.

  Bebe pushed the buzzer.

  A face appeared in the small sliding window.

  The door opened.

  “Can I help you, lady?” said a heavyset man in a white uniform.

  “You can tell Mr. Finnerman that Bebe Waterston wishes to see him.”

  “You got an appointment?”

  “No. Is he here?”

  “I’ll have to check. You want to wait in here?” he said, pulling the heavy door open a crack.

  Bebe squeezed past the big man into the shipping area.

  “I’ll just go on up to his office. I know the way.”

  “Uhh, miss, you gotta wait till I call.”

  “No, I don’t. You call. I’ll see for myself.” She gave him a hard glare and turned on her heel, heading for the second-floor stairway.

  The factory was in full operation. She could smell the chocolate simmering. There were people dressed in sterile white uniforms at every station filling and packing silver boxes into bigger shipping containers.

  The kitchens were protected by half-glass walls. As she moved across the main floor Bebe watched the confectioners through the windows rolling balls of ganache with a fork, pouring chocolate into molds, and spoon dipping.

  She hiked up the steep steps and pushed open the office door, which stood slightly ajar.

  “You should have stopped her, you idiot,” Freddy snarled into the intercom. “That’s what I pay you for—no, I’ll handle this.”

  Freddy slammed down the phone and looked up at her from his seat behind the enormous metal desk.

  “Ah, Bebe,” he said. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit? Are your parents well?”

  “My parents are very well. And yours are well, too. I spoke to them this morning.” A small but necessary lie. “And you, Freddy? Are you well?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “A mishap with a door can be quite painful. Have you had that looked at?” Bebe wiggled the fingers on her left hand at him and stepped closer.

  Freddy kept his left hand under the desk, his right resting on the desk blotter. He flexed his right hand.

  “Perfectly fine.”

  “The other one.”

  Freddy pulled his left hand out. “An accident in the kitchen.” The bandage was thickly wrapped around his palm and fingers to the first knuckle.

  “Whose kitchen?”

  “What are you implying? What do you want here, anyway? I’m busy. I don’t have time to play games with you.”

  “And I don’t have time for any more of your stupid pranks, either. So the hacking stops now. I have proof that you’re the one who’s been diverting my shipments, and if it happens one more time, I’m having you arrested. Do you understand me?”

  “Bullshit. You can’t prove a thing.”

  “So you aren’t denying it?”

  “Why should I? You can’t prove it.”

  “Oh, but I can. And I will show the proof to your parents first. What do you think they’ll do? Did you think you could get away with this? You nearly got Gracie killed, you cretin.”

  “Don’t you call me names, you tattletale. You told, you always tell, and then I get in trouble.” Freddy stood up behind his desk and leaned forward. He glowered down at Bebe. “You’re not going to tell anybody anything.”

  It suddenly occurred to her that she could be in trouble here. Freddy didn’t look his usual doughboy self. There was something sincerely sinister in his eyes—slightly mad, actually.

  Bebe backed one slow step
at a time toward the door. Freddy came around the desk at a similar pace.

  “What’s the matter? Not quite so tough now? If I dropped you out that window,” he said, nodding to the open slider next to the door, “who could prove it wasn’t an accident?”

  “The bruises on my body would be telling.”

  “Hmm—you were distraught over your failure to save Waterston’s from bankruptcy. I tried to keep you from jumping, but you overpowered me and leaped to the stone floor beneath. Works for me. How about you?”

  “Can’t say it has much appeal. Your going to jail is more to my liking. Your explaining to my Papa and yours what you’ve done is even sweeter. What do you think?”

  “I think the window looks like a better solution.”

  She reached behind her for the door handle. “I don’t think so, Fatso Freddy.”

  Freddy’s eyes bugged and he lunged for her.

  Bebe turned to scramble through the door and smacked into a solid warm wall who wrapped his arms around her and hugged her to a hard-muscled chest.

  “Hello, Freddy,” Sam said in a deadly calm voice. “I believe we have business to discuss.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sam crushed Bebe in his arms. Her heart pounded in counterpoint to his own jacked-up heartbeat.

  If Freddy had any sense of self-preservation, Sam thought, trying to rein in his temper and failing miserably, he’d leap out his office window and incur a lot fewer injuries than Sam intended to inflict.

  Freddy lowered his arms and eased back, away from where Sam held Bebe, snatching tissues from the box on his desk as he went.

  “I have nothing to discuss with you,” he said between snorts into his Kleenex. “You need to get out of my office and take that little squealer with you.”

  “And I believe,” said Sam with the same life-threatening calm, “there are several issues we have to clarify. To begin, let’s talk about the hacking of Waterston shipping schedules—”

  “You can’t prove I had anything to do with that—”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. We’ve traced the sabotage to your home line—you or your father, or perhaps the housekeeper, Olga, is responsible. There’s no escaping, shithead. Someone will have to pay the damages.”