“I’ll do my best.”
…
“Huegenot is negotiating a deal with Chocolatty.”
Sam laid his remaining sandwich back on the plate and swallowed the bite in his mouth.
“For what?” he asked his father, who’d come into his office to share lunch and strategy.
“Recipes and endorsements.”
“Any details?”
“That’s all Jackson was willing to confide about the deal, but he asked me if Huegenot was on the level and I told him to dig deeper. He’ll let me know if it’s not legit.”
“I need to warn Bebe. And Glenna.” Sam stared at his father. “But what if it’s not him? They’ll both kill me for accusing him.”
“What happens if you don’t tell them and it is him?” John asked, raising his eyebrow in that familiar balls-in-your-court expression.
“Either way, you’re saying I’m screwed?”
“Basically, yes.”
“Well, hell.”
“You’d better do it sooner rather than later. If they think you held out on them, screwed will not be in your future, if you take my meaning.”
“The old damned if you do, et cetera?”
“Looks that way.”
“I just wish I had absolute proof that Jean-Paul is the mastermind.”
“You’ll find it. Meantime, cover your ass. Tell Bebe what you have so far. Don’t blow this. Your mother adores that woman, and she’s already looking for wedding venues and calculating the number of grandchildren you two could conceivably provide.”
Sam leaned back in his ergonomically correct leather executive recliner and glared at his father.
“And you’d better hurry it up.” His father grinned. “Your mother has suggested leaving you out of the will if she doesn’t get some grandkids soon.”
“Tell her I’m working on it…but what about Glenna? How does she manage to skate on this issue? Why isn’t anyone on her case to provide?”
“Not the same. The name’s on you, Sam.”
“Well, hell.”
“Buck up, boy-o. My money’s on Bebe.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Parking in Bebe’s neighborhood was never easy. The old Painted Ladies didn’t normally have driveways or garages, so parking was cutthroat. Today Sam got lucky with a space two houses down. He parallel parked and got out.
He hadn’t called ahead. He realized there was no diplomatic way to explain Jean-Paul’s involvement in the Waterston fiasco. He’d just say it straight out and wait for the fireworks.
Fine. He could do this.
He’d give her the information and get the whole thing over with. She couldn’t accuse him of keeping secrets, even though she wouldn’t like the information he’d uncovered. Perhaps Jean-Paul had a reasonable explanation and this could all be cleared up.
With any luck.
Glenna’s Lexus was parked right in front of the Very Berry.
Definitely not lucky.
“Well, hell.” He seemed to be saying that a lot today. Sam pocketed his keys.
No way around it. They were going to kill him.
…
The shrill whistle of the kettle brought Bebe and Glenna from the bedroom back to the kitchen. Bebe flipped off the gas flame, and the whistle fizzled to silence.
Pouring water over the tea in the Belleek porcelain teapot, replacing the lid, and then covering it with the tea cozy Greta had made for her gave Bebe time to think.
What was going on with Sam? Why was Glenna so interested in pushing her in his direction? Had he said anything to his sister about his feelings for her? She felt like a high-school teen with a crush on the football captain. It had been horrible then—and it was worse now. Merde.
“There,” she said, pasting on a social smile. “A few to brew and we’ll have a nice cuppa—as my maman would say.”
“Cups?” Glenna asked, and Bebe pointed to an overhead cabinet. Picking three large mugs, Glenna set them on the counter and turned to face her.
“Are you serious about my brother?”
“Are you serious about my uncle?”
“Almost uncle.”
“Right. Almost uncle. Well?”
“I asked first. Besides, Jean-Paul isn’t serious—this is just une petite liaison.”
“What does that mean, for heaven’s sake?”
Glenna shrugged. “I have no idea. But for the time being he’s charming and entertaining and knows the very best places to eat. I’m giving him ten pounds, and then I’m dumping him,” she said, pulling out a chair, and with the grace of a sleek cat, sat and gazed at Bebe with intent. “Now answer my question. Are you serious about Sam?”
“Why are you asking me?” She threw up her hands in Gallic frustration. “You should be asking your brother. He’s the one who never dates anyone more than once, or at least he never sends candy to the same woman more than once. He’s the serial dater—not me.”
“You’re talking about the Sugarman-wife-hunting method?”
“There’s a method?”
“It’s ridiculous, of course, but somehow it’s become a tradition among the scions of the Sugarman clan to search for a wife in a particular way to ensure good luck and success. And, believe it or not, my grandfather and father swear it worked for them and their fathers and grandfathers before them. Go figure.”
She tried to digest this new piece of the puzzle while she poured the tea into the three mugs.
“What way?” Bebe finally could not resist asking.
“Well, supposedly the date requires sending chocolates—that part you know—and then an intimate candlelit dinner for two, an evening at the opera, and afterward, late-night drinks. They swear that after one date, done exactly that way, they’d each found the woman of their dreams and lived happily ever after. Sugarman men don’t stray and they never divorce.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“As a heart attack.” Glenna raised one hand and crossed her heart with the other.
“Well then—there’s your answer. I have not been to the opera with your brother.”
“But, Bebe—”
“Beat it, buddy,” Tweety screamed from the living room, octaves higher than normal and loud enough to be heard on the street. The screech was every bit as intense as it was the night of the burglary. “Tweety’s a Big Bird. Beat it, buddy.”
“What in the world?” Bebe and Glenna exclaimed in unison.
Bebe hit the kitchen door at a run, Glenna right behind.
…
Sam heard Tweety screeching from the second floor of the Very Berry. That little budgie had some powerful lungs—but he hadn’t heard him squawk like that since the night of the burglary.
He leaped up the steps and across the porch, praying the front door was unlocked so he wouldn’t be forced to take out the oak antique with the stained glass insets—but he would if he had to. Thank God the door was ajar.
He was inside and on his way up the stairs when he heard the gun go off.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Had someone broken in?
Bebe raced out of the kitchen and down the hall.
Tweety’s screeching could pierce eardrums, peel wallpaper, or substitute for an air-raid siren.
Bebe knew she hadn’t locked the dead bolt or put the chain on, but surely it wouldn’t have been easy to subdue Jean-Paul. And he hadn’t made a sound. Was he unconscious?
She tore past the bedroom and into the dining area, skidding to a stop.
Bebe slammed into the dining table; Glenna crashed into her, grabbing Bebe’s shoulders to absorb the shock.
But if Glenna had body-slammed her into the hardwood floor and stomped her senseless, Bebe could not have been more stunned than she was by the sight of her almost-uncle Jean-Paul armed with a screwdriver trying to pry the bottom off Tweety’s antique birdcage.
“Beat it, buddy. Beat it, buddy,” Tweety continued to shriek.
“Shut up, you little shit,” Jean-
Paul whispered fiercely. “You would not even make a decent hors d’oeuvre.”
Jean-Paul clutched the cage bars and pried at the thick bottom panel. Tweety flapped from side to side, screaming and pecking Jean-Paul’s fingers with every pass.
“Stop that. Ouch! Be quiet. That book is in here, I know it,” Jean-Paul hissed.
Bebe stood frozen, refusing to believe what she was witnessing. Glenna swung around her and stormed toward Jean-Paul.
“Leave him alone,” she ordered, smacking Jean-Paul on the back of the head with a resounding whack. “You’re scaring him. Have you lost your mind?”
Jean-Paul swung around and grabbed Glenna’s forearm, twisting it behind her before she could hit him again.
“Stay out of this,” he said, pulling a small gun out of his inside breast pocket. “This has nothing to do with you. You were merely a diversion.” He rested the gun barrel on Glenna’s neck. “Delightful, but still a diversion. Ferme ta bouche.”
Like she’d been hit with a live electrical jolt, Bebe lurched forward.
“It’s you?” she said, moving as if in slow motion through the dining room, still trying to understand what it all meant. “It’s been you from the beginning?”
“Give me the book and no one will get hurt,” Jean-Paul demanded.
“Why would you do this to us? You’ve been Papa’s friend forever. You’re family.”
“I need that book of recipes. Your papa refused to take the deal. So righteous,” Jean-Paul sneered. “No one can make candy like Waterston. Bah!” He shook Glenna, twisting her arm higher. Glenna cried out, twisting away, but she couldn’t loosen Jean-Paul’s grip.
“Stop it!” Bebe screamed. “You can have the book. Don’t hurt her.”
“Get it and hurry. I have a flight to catch,” he said, moving away from the birdcage toward the front door, dragging Glenna with him. “And tell that stupid bird to shut up, before I shoot him.”
Bebe moved quickly to stand in front of Tweety’s cage.
“Hush. Be a good bird.”
“Tweety’s a good bird,” the loyal budgie muttered and settled on the perch as close to Bebe as possible.
“Yes, sweetie, a very good, very brave bird,” she said in soothing tones. “Now please be very quiet.”
“Where’s the book?” Jean-Paul demanded. “Quickly, ma petite. You don’t want to be the one to tell Sam you got his sister killed, c’est vrai?”
“I have to get the key to the drawer. It’s in my bag.”
“Hurry!”
Jean-Paul was within reach of the door. Bebe didn’t want him to take Glenna as a hostage. She needed to draw him back into the apartment, but how? She’d left her purse next to Glenna’s on the window-seat sofa cushions. She reached around the antique cage making sure to keep him covered and grabbed for both bags, spilling the contents of each onto the floor.
“Mon Dieu, you are trying my patience. Don’t make me shoot you, too. Your maman would never forgive me,” he said, twisting Glenna’s arm higher until she cried out.
“Stop it! I’ve got the key,” she said. She snatched up her keys and turned, holding them out.
A sudden banging in the hall and scrabbling at the lock turned everyone’s attention to the door just as it swung open and crashed into Jean-Paul.
As Jean-Paul shoved Glenna away to turn on the intruder, the gun he gripped went off and he stumbled to his knees.
Bebe grabbed Glenna to keep her from falling and they both hit the floor.
Gracie careered around the door balanced on one crutch and whacked Jean-Paul with the other crutch.
“It’s him. It’s him. The man in the cards.”
Gracie’s shrill voice, in concert with Tweety’s demand for Jean-Paul to beat it, threatened to make them all deaf.
Jean-Paul tried to rise to his feet, the gun still clutched in his hand.
“Watch out, Gracie, he’s got a gun,” Bebe yelled.
Bebe grabbed the Greweling Chocolates and Confections encyclopedia off the coffee table and swung it, hitting Jean-Paul on the side of his head before he could re-aim. He hit the hardwood on both knees, and the gun banged on the floor, but didn’t go off. Jean-Paul gripped it securely.
“Get out, Glenna,” Bebe screamed. “Go. Now. I’ll help Gracie. Get out and call for help.”
Glenna threw another heavy coffee-table book at Jean-Paul and raced out the door, only to bounce right back in again.
“Sam!” Glenna cried.
“Watch out!” Bebe cried.
“Get him, Sam,” Gracie ordered.
“What the hell is going on here?” he roared, striding into the room with a scowl, focusing on the gun clutched in Jean-Paul’s fist.
“Ah, mon Dieu. At last, a civilized man.” Jean-Paul climbed to his feet, swaying but standing.
“Not quite, you bastard.” Sam took one step forward and landed a powerhouse punch to Jean-Paul’s right jaw that sent him flat to the floor. Jean-Paul didn’t move. He didn’t even groan.
“Oh. My. God. Is he dead?” Glenna whispered.
“I doubt it.”
“Are you sure?” Bebe had flung herself into Sam’s arms, and turned her head to look at the still-fallen Jean-Paul.
“Pretty sure, baby.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Gracie snorted. “I’m callin’ the cops. They can haul the body away.” She poked Jean-Paul with her free crutch. “Dead or alive.”
“Thanks, Gracie,” Sam said.
…
Sam slid his phone into his inside breast pocket.
It had been two hours since they’d hauled Jean-Paul away and questioned everyone involved. Sugarman lawyers were queuing up to press every conceivable charge.
“His jaw is broken, and he has a mild concussion from the blows to the back of his head,” Sam reported. “But he’ll recover. He’s in the hospital under police protection—I mean guard. What did you hit him with?” Sam turned to face the three seated around Bebe’s living room.
“The chocolate encyclopedia.” Bebe pointed to the two-inch thick tome sitting on the coffee table.
“My crutch,” Gracie smiled. “He was going to shoot Glenna. I had to do something.”
“You should have hit him again, Gracie,” Glenna snapped. She sat perched on the window sofa seat next to Tweety’s cage. “He was going to shoot poor Tweety, too. What a creep. I can’t believe I fell for that Frenchified rat.”
“Don’t play the wronged woman, Glenna,” Sam said, sitting down next to Bebe on the love seat. “You were only after his chocolates.” He wrapped an arm around Bebe, pulling her into his side, uttering a desperate prayer he’d never have to let her out of his sight again.
The true miracle here was that he hadn’t had a heart attack, seeing Jean-Paul with a gun pointed at Bebe, the crutch-wielding Gracie, and his own sister. That alone should have turned his hair white.
The thought of what could have happened if he’d been minutes later sent shudders up his spine in tsunami-sized waves. And the realization that with these three, anything could have happened didn’t bear contemplating. He closed his eyes and drew a fortifying breath.
Sudden banging on the apartment door startled the chatter to silence.
He couldn’t suppress a groan. What now?
He caught Bebe before she could jump to her feet.
“I’ll get it, sweetheart. It may be the cops,” he said, rising and crossing to the door. “Or terrorists, or PETA, or—” he opened the door “—my parents, my secretary, and Sugarman Financial’s very own computer IT expert.”
Sam swung the door wide and the crowd rushed in.
Chapter Thirty
“I’m so glad you all weren’t maimed or killed by that madman.” Sam’s mother wrapped her arm around Glenna’s shoulder and scooted closer on the sofa. “What could he possibly hope to gain from a book of recipes, for heaven’s sake?”
“Money. And lots of it,” Sam’s father answered. “The deal with Chocolatty stood to generat
e millions in the high-end chocolate market, giving Lindt and Godiva some serious competition, if they could have procured Waterston’s tempering processes—at least that was what Huegenot was selling and Chocolatty was ripe to buy.”
“But how did you know Jean-Paul had anything to do with this? You never said you suspected him.” Bebe had that narrow-eyed look and gazed directly at Sam.
“I had just made the connection,” Felix volunteered, looking nervously between Bebe and Sam. “We’d been tracking Freddy’s expenditures, and Finnerman’s had posted huge payouts to Huegenot with no realistic justification. Sam had told us to follow the money.”
“Ha,” Glenna snorted. “What else would he say? Bebe and I could have used a little heads-up, brother dearest.” She pointed a sharp-nailed finger at Sam.
He’d known this was coming. He looked down at Bebe from where he sat on the arm of the sofa next to her. She gazed up at him.
“Glenna’s right,” Bebe said in a subdued voice. “We agreed no more secrets.” Her hard-eyed look had turned sad and teary.
His stomach clinched, and he gritted his teeth in anticipation of her next words. Would she believe he’d been on his way to tell her what he’d just discovered? Would she believe he’d had no intention of keeping secrets? Would she hold the Freddy fiasco against him?
“Now wait just a minute, you two,” John waded in. “Sam was on his way to warn you about Huegenot. Both of you.”
“That’s right,” Felix insisted. “I’d just given my report, and Mrs. T. and I followed up on the Chocolatty deal.”
“When he left the office he said he was on his way to see you, Bebe,” Mrs. Trumble said. “And not to expect him back that afternoon.”
“Sam?” She looked up at him with hope shimmering in her eyes. “Is that true? You didn’t know before that?”
He would never lie to her. “Not for sure.”
“But?”
“But I suspected it had to be someone close to the family. I’d already told you Freddy couldn’t have done this on his own. But, no, I didn’t know for sure even then—not until I came through the door and saw him pointing that gun at you.”
Bride by Chocolate (Death by Chocolate) Page 24