I left a gift box of chocolates with my Las Vegas hotel’s concierge, several more with each member of the desk staff, and another with my cabdriver, then headed for snowy New England.
* * *
When I awakened that night, I didn’t know where I was.
That’s not unusual for me, though. Given all the traveling I do, I’m statistically more likely than the average person to forget where I’d fallen asleep and stub my toe on the bed frame while getting up in the middle of the night. Knowing that didn’t offer much comfort when grappling for a toe in the dark, though.
Ouch. Frowning, I sat on the bed and clutched my big toe, hoping to massage away the pain. I remembered arriving past midnight, thanks to a delayed plane. I’d fallen onto my room’s cheery double bed (made up with red flannel Christmas-print bedding) and promptly passed out. I hadn’t changed into sleep clothes. I hadn’t unpacked. I’d simply brushed my teeth—my one nonnegotiable—and gone in pursuit of the requisite forty winks.
I was still planning to meet Travis first thing in the morning. My keeper might be famously methodical, but I’m famously determined. I make it a point of pride to keep my word.
We’d agreed to meet at 7:00 a.m. for breakfast. I meant to do that. However, my circadian rhythm had other ideas. My body and brain were still stuck between Nevada, Brittany (where I’d been before meeting my Las Vegas client), and Melbourne (where I’d been working before that). Frankly, I was all over the place.
Feeling hopelessly jet lagged, I studied my room at the B and B. I’d loved it on (bleary) sight—possibly because it looked as though a holiday-themed boutique had exploded inside it.
The walls featured framed Christmas artwork. The antique bureau, nightstands, and bedstead were all decked out in swags of holly, complete with tiny red berries. The rugs and bathroom linens were jolly red and white, bordered with green. There were red velvet bows, colonial-style garlands of crimson wooden beads, and plenty of (currently unlighted) wreathed holiday candles.
I inhaled their pine-and-cinnamon fragrance and couldn’t help smiling. I was in Sproutes, Massachusetts, I remembered. So far, the place felt like Christmastown, USA. I was in love.
I was also hideously awake. I recognized the feeling. It meant there’d be no more sleep for me, not even in that super-cushy bed in that peaceful bed-and-breakfast. I wasn’t kidding, either. You could have heard a pin drop. It felt . . . hushed.
Not wanting to disturb anyone, I got out of bed quietly. My host, Zach Johnson, had been asleep when I’d arrived. He’d left arrangements for me to check in and get my room key from a lockbox tucked behind a pillar at the B and B’s impressive entryway.
It was a trusting, generous gesture. I liked Sproutes already. If this was the way people behaved in small-town New England, then Travis and I were in for a memorable stay.
Wanting to express my gratitude, I tiptoed downstairs. The treads were in perfect repair; they didn’t so much as creak. On the landing, I took in the view, savoring the decorations that Zach had put in place for the holiday. The banisters were adorned with more garlands, these made of fresh evergreens.
Their fragrance led me toward the foyer. From that cheery enclave, another corridor branched toward the parlor on the left and the dining room and kitchen on the right. I veered right.
It was easy to find my way. Even carrying my bulky bag of chocolate-making gear, I could make out my surroundings. I hadn’t explored earlier, but now there was enough moonlight to view the B and B’s immaculate historical furnishings and Christmas decorations. I glimpsed a towering, ornament-bedecked fir tree in the parlor and almost veered toward it. I stopped myself just in time. I planned to make a handmade batch of truffles to surprise Zach and the other guests. I needed to get started.
I’d make chocolate-peppermint truffles, I mused as I reached what I judged must be the kitchen. That was the flavor of my most successful Christmas treat—the secret one that Travis had mentioned earlier. Why not? My corporate client would never know that I’d done a riff on those popular flavors. I was sworn to secrecy about the goodies I developed for consultees, but that didn’t mean I could never enjoy their original formulas.
Happily envisioning Zach and the B and B’s guests smiling as they tasted my chocolaty creations, I groped for the kitchen’s light switch. No dice. I set down my bag and tried again.
The lights flared to life. Reflexively, I blinked against their brightness. I crouched to retrieve my chocolatiering bag.
But I wasn’t in the kitchen, I realized as I straightened. Instead, I was in the dining room. And this wasn’t going to be a memorable stay in Sproutes for any of the reasons I’d imagined.
This was going to be a memorable stay for another, more horrible reason. Because judging by the inert, awkward pose of the woman I saw sprawled atop the jolly red loomed rug, beside the enormous dining table, splattered by what appeared to be Christmas wassail punch, I’d just stumbled upon another murder.
Two
My initial hope was that I was wrong.
I didn’t want the woman to be dead. I didn’t want any of this to be happening. I wished I were dreaming, but I knew I was awake. Gripped by an ominous sense of incongruity all the same, I crept closer. My voice quavered as I called out.
“Hello? Are you all right?”
Obviously, it was a nonsensical question. The woman wasn’t all right. She was motionless. Pale. It looked as though she’d fallen atop a punch bowl. I noticed one on the floor near her head. It was made of beautiful sterling silver, embossed and decorated with colonial-style flourishes—and with a few tresses of her long dark hair, gruesomely strewn across it.
Those wet strands were glued to the punch bowl with the same liquid that appeared to have splashed all over her. I smelled red wine. Fruit. A little spice. It was wassail, for sure. Orange slices and cinnamon sticks littered the floor. They were traditional additions to one of the holiday’s tastiest drinks.
Wassail was alcoholic, I told myself. Maybe she was simply drunk? Passed out after too much caroling and tree trimming?
I moved nearer, mentally cataloguing details as I went. She was wearing party clothes—a pair of slouchy gold trousers and a matte black halter top, plus a few expensive-looking pieces of jewelry. I guessed her age to be mid- to late twenties. It was difficult to tell, with her face so ghostly, covered partly by her hair. Her limp position haunted me. My hands trembled.
I’d like to say I felt cool and capable. I did not.
I’ve seen dead bodies before. Yet the awful reality of it never diminishes. This was someone who cared—someone people cared about. Now she was gone. Unless she was breathing?
I crouched and watched for breath, however shallow. She appeared to be beyond CPR. I felt horribly mindful of the fact that this might now be a crime scene. Should I touch anything?
If I could save her, I had to. Probably only a few seconds had passed since I’d switched on the light, but they felt like hours. My heart pounded; my mouth felt dry with fear. I glanced around the dining room and the darkened kitchen beyond it.
Could someone be lurking there?
No. I was being silly. Murder wasn’t following me around the world. That was impossible. I gave myself a mental shake and reached for the woman’s wrist. If I could detect a pulse . . .
The moment I grasped her delicate, lifeless wrist, I recognized her. This was Albany Sullivan, celebrated memoirist. Travis’s friend. I hadn’t met her yet, but I’d seen enough media coverage of Albany to identify her pretty face, flowing hair, and slender body, clad in her signature “antifashion” style.
Albany was—had been—an original. She’d been made for the media blitz accompanying her memoir’s release, appearing on every publicity outlet and, by all accountings, acing them all.
I sensed no pulse, only terrifying stillness as she lay amid the disarray of the fallen punch bowl and all the spilled wassail. That sticky liquid had already begun to dry on her neck and shoulder, on her expertly mad
e-up face, on her eyelashes—
Suddenly queasy, I looked away. I reached numbly for my phone, then remembered in a haze that I’d tucked it into my bag of chocolate-making supplies. I inhaled deeply, hoping to dredge up some necessary strength as I retrieved it. I dialed 911.
I’d be lying if I said I spoke calmly to the authorities. I probably didn’t. My hands still shook. So did my voice. I did my best to force the necessary words through my tight throat, anyway, taking comfort in the fact that help would arrive soon.
My call was still ongoing, but I needed to phone Travis next. It was important that he heard about this from someone who cared. This tragedy would shake him, maybe more than anything else we’d been through together—and we’d been through a lot lately. I wanted to be there for my advisor. My friend.
On the other end of the line, the emergency worker kept talking. We’d keep the connection open while waiting for the authorities to arrive. Police, I imagined. Maybe EMTs, too. Not that there was any help for Albany Sullivan now.
I steeled myself and peeked at her. Maybe she’d fallen and hit her head? Maybe someone had bashed her in the skull with that heavy, ornate punch bowl? Maybe she’d been shot? Or stabbed?
But I spied no bullet wounds. No wounds of any kind. I wasn’t expert enough to determine what had happened to her.
Frankly, I didn’t want to be. I’m a chocolate professional. End of story. It didn’t matter, just then, that I’d helped capture a killer a time or two. That didn’t make me an expert.
I longed to call Travis. Or Danny. But I settled for the 911 operator, offering all the details I saw. Doing so helped me remember them more vividly, just as though I’d jotted them down in the Moleskine notebook where I keep my formulas and my schedule. Traveling as much as I do—and to the kinds of off-the-grid places I go—you learn to keep certain things nondigital.
When the operator informed me that the authorities were close, I shakily got to my feet and went outside to flag them down. The wintery weather bit into my skin and stole my breath. I was wearing my usual jeans and (in deference to the cold) a sweater, but my sneakers were not up to the job at hand.
I slipped on the icy walkway leading back to the B and B. One of the arriving police officers steadied me. “Careful, ma’am.”
“Thanks.” I swallowed hard. Jolted by a fresh burst of adrenaline, I kept going. “She’s in here. Follow me.”
“I’m right behind you,” the officer said. “Don’t worry.”
Her voice, kind but crisp, brought a certain dreadful normality to the situation. This officer was accustomed to handling terrible events with equanimity and professionalism.
I guided the way, even as lights began coming on upstairs. I heard murmurings. Footsteps. The police sirens had awakened the B and B’s guests. I hadn’t been able to warn Zach Johnson.
In my concern about Travis, I’d entirely forgotten my host.
Uniformed officers strode inside. Two of them passed by me. They seemed familiar with the bed-and-breakfast’s layout.
But then, Sproutes was a small town. It occurred to me that some or several of these officers might know Albany Sullivan personally. I had to warn them. I knew Albany had siblings. They were (now notoriously) mentioned in her book. Pseudonymously, of course, with certain identifying details changed. But it didn’t take a genius to recognize who the real-life inspirations for those characters were. What if one was a police officer?
I moved quickly. “You should know, it’s Albany Sullivan,” I blurted in an urgent tone. “She’s the one I found in there.”
All the emergency workers stopped moving. Either my warning fell far short of comforting, given its hasty delivery, or . . .
I realized that everyone’s gazes were trained behind me.
I turned. Travis stood there, wearing a hastily thrown-on B&B robe. He appeared to be clad in pajama pants, too, but nothing more. I stared at his bare feet in shock, full of sorrow.
Gruffly, my advisor cleared his throat. Nothing could have prepared either of us for this. “What’s happened to Albany?”
I made myself look up. His frown, behind his professorial horn-rimmed glasses, told me he wasn’t ready to hear this.
I reached for his hand. Dumbly, he let me grasp it. But his attention was all for the police officers . . . and the scene that lay beyond them. From his viewpoint, I knew the dining room was largely hidden—or at least, the tragedy waiting inside it was.
“Travis, I’m sorry.” I squeezed his hand, my voice choked with concern. “Albany has had . . . an accident. There’s nothing to—”
“Be done,” I meant to say, but my advisor shook his head.
He pushed past me, along with a few of the B and B’s guests. One of them might have been my host. Despite the lights that now floodlit the multistory house, I couldn’t tell. I didn’t know what Zach Johnson looked like. I couldn’t have picked him out of a police lineup—not that I hoped it would come to that.
One of the police officers belatedly stepped up. He threw his arms wide, then held out his palm. “Stop. Nobody comes in.”
But Travis had already reached the dining room’s threshold. He was tall, blond, and more muscular than he had a right to be, given his spreadsheets-and-suits lifestyle. He craned to see.
His mouth tightened. When he turned to me again, gazing over the heads of worried guests and imposing police officers, Travis’s expression looked troubled, but not grief-stricken.
A moment later, I learned why.
“That’s not Albany,” he said. “It’s definitely not.”
Was he in shock? It seemed likely. Gently, I went to him.
“Travis, I’m so sorry. But it looked like Albany to me.”
His distant gaze sought out the woman on the floor. Despite every effort, she remained unresponsive. She had to be dead.
“I was awake,” I explained. “I came downstairs to make chocolates—you know, as a thank-you to Zach and the B and B’s guests for accommodating me at the last minute. But then I—”
“That’s not Albany.” Travis met my gaze squarely.
I had to admit, he didn’t seem like someone in the throes of shock and heartache. Still, I wanted to comfort him.
My relationship with Travis has happened largely over the phone, so I wasn’t familiar with how he dealt with tragedy. Maybe with denial? This certainly felt like denial. “I realize this is devastating, given how close you and Albany were—”
“Are. We are close. We’ve been friends since seventh grade.”
I regrouped. “Maybe we should get some fresh air.”
Before we could, a wail came from the dining room. In sync, Travis and I maneuvered for a better position. I guessed we both wanted to know the source of that raw, inconsolable sound.
Inside, someone had reached the woman. A man had fallen to his knees beside her. Another of the police officers was crouched nearby, probably disturbed in the midst of examining the scene by the keening man’s arrival. Was it Albany’s father?
It could have been. He was heavyset and graying, with weathered but handsome features and a rumpled, expensive-looking suit. His feet were covered with a pair of stylish sneakers, but no socks. It was clear he’d gotten dressed in a rush, having been awakened by the sounds of the night’s events.
By the look of him, he undoubtedly wished he hadn’t been.
I peered between the onlookers and watched as he shoved away the police officer. Next, he fell onto the woman’s body, giving another hoarse cry. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him.
Heartsick, I shifted my gaze to Travis. I wanted to see how he was holding up. It turned out, he was managing quite well.
There was a woman in his arms. A pretty, dark-haired woman with a slender build and a defiantly “antifashion” ensemble.
I gawked at her. She looked exactly like Albany Sullivan.
But then who . . . ? Why . . . ? I shook my head and reflexively glanced back at the dead woman I’d found, utterly perplexed.
>
Travis wouldn’t comfort just anyone so warmly. My keeper was far too reserved for that. Was that Albany in his arms? If so, who was the woman who’d face-planted into the punch bowl?
The two of them were—if you’ll excuse the term—dead ringers for one another. They could have been twin sisters. Were they?
Half convinced I’d fallen asleep on the plane and dreamed everything, I blinked. The police officers were still there. So was a third lanky brunette—another Albany doppelgänger. She stood on tiptoe at the edge of the crowd, phone in hand, dressed in just flattering enough men’s trousers, worn with a silk shirt and eyeglasses. The whole effect was avant-garde geek chic.
That was Albany’s style, my memory protested. But although Albany was pretty, this woman was in a league of her own. She was stunning. That’s probably the reason I shouldn’t have been surprised to glimpse my security-expert pal right beside her.
“Danny?” I mouthed in disbelief.
My bodyguard buddy was already headed my way, sporting his usual wariness, tattoos, and bulging muscles. He had grabbed the striking brunette’s hand and was guiding her along in his wake.
She appeared more than happy to follow him. Danny Jamieson was like catnip to women, I knew. They were drawn to him, stayed long enough to feel intoxicated, and then moved on. But there was something different about this one. She seemed . . . on edge.
Well, we were at the scene of a potential murder. That seemed like a reasonable reaction to me. I nodded hello to them.
I couldn’t help glancing back at the dead woman. Then at the woman in Travis’s arms. Then at Danny’s companion. Three women who appeared identical to Albany Sullivan. How? Why?
Danny handled the introductions with typical brevity.
“Hayden, this is Tansy. Tansy, Hayden.”
Struck by a niggling sense of familiarity—one that didn’t owe itself to my having just seen three semi-identical brunettes—I stared at Tansy while shaking her hand. Her grasp felt cool and confident; her manner was charismatic. Not quite effusive, but I sensed that, under different circumstances, that would have been her approach. Unlike everyone else, Tansy didn’t appear to have been unhappily awakened at 3:00 a.m. In fact, she seemed positively fresh faced. Her hair looked perfect; her clothes the same.
The Peppermint Mocha Murder Page 2