The Peppermint Mocha Murder

by Colette London

  I told Danny about Travis’s “honor-roll nerd” comment.

  “Yeah, I can see that,” he said. Activity onstage was ramping up now. The cast and crew of Christmas in Crazytown seemed to have become resigned to rehearsing. “You know Harvard was born with a slide rule in one hand and a grammar book in the other. His parents probably had tiny suits made for him.”

  “Danny!” His wicked look made me laugh, but I was too loyal to Travis to keep it up for long. “Don’t be mean about Travis.”

  “I’m not being mean. I’m saying he’s lucky. Privileged.”

  I hypothesized that Travis probably had grown up on the posh side of Sproutes, wherever that was. I pictured a small, studious financial advisor in training and smiled fondly.

  “But we don’t know the whole story,” I warned. I shared a bit about the difficulties Albany had hinted about over muffins that morning. “It’s possible Travis struggled, growing up here.”

  “Yeah,” Danny deadpanned. “Perfect neighborhoods, friendly New England neighbors, and great schools are the worst.”

  “Because of his family, I mean. I’m worried. You didn’t hear him. Travis cut off talk of his past right at the knees.”

  “So?” My bodyguard buddy didn’t see the problem.

  “He’s hiding something. I’m sure of it—”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Danny interrupted. His rugged face took on a warning cast. “I recognize that look. Don’t start prying.”

  “It’s not prying. It’s concern. I want to help.”

  “He won’t see it that way, trust me. Just back off.”

  That was impossible. “What if Travis needs help? Especially being here, where it all happened, at the holidays. Times like these have a way of bringing up old memories. It’s—”

  “It’s none of your business. Let’s talk about murder.”

  Hmm. Usually, Danny wasn’t wild about digging into a potential investigation. I had a theory. “Did you already look into Travis’s past?” I asked him. “Are you hiding something?”

  He frowned. “Yes. And no. Now, let’s move on. Suspects?”

  I clung to our Travis talk instead. “What did you find?”

  Danny’s gaze hardened. “If he wanted you to know, he’d tell you. So don’t ask me. Ask him. Until then, I’m not going to—”

  “Was he abused? Abandoned? Neglected?” I conjectured, feeling sorrier for Travis by the minute. “Were his mom or dad workaholics? Is that why you were talking about Albany’s dad? Was it a hint about Travis’s secret past? Out with it, Danny.”

  He sighed. “If I tell you, can we get on with the job at hand? You can’t tell me you’re not planning on sleuthing again.”

  I couldn’t. “Just tell me what you know, all right?”

  “Fine.” Dispassionately, Danny gave me the rundown. Travis had been born in the Pacific Northwest, in a town north of Seattle called Lynnwood. He’d moved to Massachusetts at the age of eleven, following his parents’ divorce. He’d been raised by his newly single mother (“in an apparently happy home,” Danny made sure to specify), excelled in school, earned a selection of scholarships, and gone on to Harvard. “After that, the records get muddier,” my friend told me. “He’s untraceable for a while. Then he shows up at Snooty, Snobby, Snotty & Sons, Ltd.”

  That was his nickname for my trust-fund management company.

  “And turns into a big-shot financial whiz practically overnight,” Danny said, “which brings us up to date. Happy?”

  “I imagined a more personal take on the situation.”

  “This is me talking, not you, softy.”

  “I still think Travis is bothered about something.”

  “So ask him. In the meantime, what about Melissa B.?”

  I could always trust Danny to get down to brass tacks. Last night, we’d arrived at the same conclusion regarding the four Albany Sullivan look-alikes. This morning, I wanted to know more.

  “How do you think Melissa died?” I asked. “I didn’t see a weapon of any kind, unless you count that silver punch bowl.”

  “There weren’t any obvious injuries, either,” my friend recalled. It seemed unlikely that Melissa had been bludgeoned to death, given the position of the punch bowl and the absence of wounds. “But calling it an accident feels like a stretch.”

  Danny described the tree-trimming party that had taken place earlier that night, an event sponsored by Zach and his B&B to celebrate Christmas in Crazytown. The people who’d been there read like a who’s who of my soon-to-be suspects list.

  I wondered why Zach hadn’t cleaned up that leftover punch bowl after the party. Or why his catering staff hadn’t. Either way, it seemed odd that it had been left out overnight.

  In every other sense, I’d observed, the B&B was pristine.

  “Any leads from the police last night?” Danny asked me.

  I shook my head. “They took my statement, then cleared out. Honestly, all the officers seemed pretty keen to wrap up.”

  I described what I’d seen going on between Roger Balthasar and the police officer who’d seemed to be in charge. Danny found the timing of his “accidental death” announcement suspect, too.

  “I don’t see how we can prove it,” I mused. “Without knowing the cause of death, we can’t say it wasn’t accidental.”

  I’d run into trouble too many times to take things at face value these days, however. There had to be more going on here.

  “I have a contact who might be able to help,” Danny volunteered. “If you’re game, I’ll set up a meeting.”

  “That would be fantastic.” I gave him a cautious look. “Don’t let on that I’m investigating. I want to be low key.”

  He pulled a face. “What do I look like? An idiot?”

  “Right now? You look like my oldest, closest friend—”

  I would have said more, but Danny cut me off. “Enough with the sappy stuff. And be careful while you’re here. This place might look like a Hallmark Channel Christmas special gone wild, but there’s a killer running around somewhere. Watch your back.”

  “Same to you.” Glancing idly at the stage, I was reminded of something else. “Hey, were you here when Albany came in?”

  “No.” He looked puzzled. “She hasn’t been here today.”

  He had to be mistaken. “Travis and I had breakfast with her. She said she was coming down to talk to the cast and crew.”

  “Nope. Tansy and I were first in. We would have seen her.”

  I puzzled over that. “But she’d be in charge, right?”

  “Not typically.” Danny had been on enough sets to have a sense of the hierarchy. “Roger Balthasar is second producer. He and Melissa worked together to manage the production. He could do it without her. The question is whether he’d want to.”

  “Albany thinks he would. She says he’s ‘a machine.’”

  Danny shook his head. “Years ago, maybe that was true,” he acknowledged. “Roger built his rep on getting there first, hitting harder, and making anyone who crossed him pay.”

  More and more, Roger Balthasar looked like my top suspect.

  “But lately, the real killer in that couple has been Melissa,” Danny went on. “Without her, Albany wouldn’t have published a memoir—and she definitely wouldn’t have a show based on it. Melissa championed the whole thing, from start to finish.”

  “I would have expected Albany to be more broken up about losing her champion, then, if she owed Melissa that much.”

  “As far as I can tell, Albany doesn’t think she owes anyone anything. Besides, don’t go getting all goo-goo eyed. Melissa B. was nobody’s heroine. Everything she did, she did for her own bottom line. Believe me, Melissa was a real shark. No holds barred.” He cocked his head. “In fact, I think Melissa’s your victim, cut and dried. No mistaken identity. She had enemies.”

  I wanted to know who they were. But just at that moment . . .

  “Everyone, can I have your attention, please?” Albany had arrived. She stood cent
er stage, hands clasped piously. The cast and crew turned to face her. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  She prefaced the rest of her remarks by saying that she was speaking at Roger Balthasar’s request. Then she made an official announcement about Melissa’s death. “Please don’t worry,” she added afterward. “The police are working tirelessly to find out what happened. At the moment, it looks as though Melissa was the victim of a tragic accident. But you’ll be glad to know that the chief of police has taken a personal interest in the case.”

  Reassured murmurs rose from the crowd. Yet I felt far from comforted. I’d seen that officer dismiss the case last night.

  “In the meantime, out of respect for Melissa—and to allow us all time to grieve—we won’t be rehearsing for a few days.” Albany’s voice wobbled with emotion. “I’m afraid, for now, that Christmas in Crazytown is in a holding pattern. If Roger decides to go forward with the show, then we should be able to premiere without further rehearsals. If not . . . well, I’ll let you know. Thank you all.” Albany swallowed hard. “Thank you all so much!”

  She hurried offstage, into the wings . . . and straight into Travis’s arms. Before I could do more than glimpse Albany’s pale, teary face, my keeper whisked her away, out of my sight.

  Was Albany upset because of losing Melissa? Had she been playing it tough for me, a newcomer, earlier? Or was she in tears because of (maybe) losing her show? It was impossible to know for sure. Aside from that, I wondered, Had Albany been the killer’s original target? Or had it been someone else?

  Danny seemed reasonably sure that Melissa had been the intended victim all along, given her abrasive personality and famously ruthless business ethos. I still had my doubts. I couldn’t miss the semi-disgruntled looks that the cast and crew threw each other in the wake of Albany’s speech.

  Maybe it was time, I decided, to meet my final “Albany.”

  Six

  For me, there are few doors that chocolate doesn’t open.

  Doormen guarding deluxe high-rises are happy to step aside when I come along bearing chocolate. Security personnel at corporate headquarters get friendly when they catch sight of my usual take-along box of samples, giveaways, and demo products from appreciative chocolate-whispering clients. Potential consultees gain confidence in my chocolatiering skills when I offer them chocolate-praline truffles or mini mousse pots.

  That day, it was a square of custom chocolate-peppermint bark that worked magic for me, wrapped in cellophane and tied with a bow, as I approached Albany’s younger sister, Ophelia.

  “Hi! Ophelia, right?” I gave her my sunniest smile. “It’s Hayden—Hayden Mundy Moore. I’m Travis Turner’s friend. I’m pretty sure we met at the tree-trimming party the other night?”

  We hadn’t, obviously. But it couldn’t hurt to find out how much attention had been paid to the B and B’s guest list that night.

  “Oh, hey.” Ophelia nodded a casual hello. “How are you?”

  Okay, not very much attention had been paid to the guest list, I realized. Check. “Good, thanks. I’m just wondering. . .” I dug into my crossbody bag and pulled out my sample. “Do you know who I should give this to? I’m consulting for this new brand . . .”

  At the sight of the chocolate-peppermint bark, Ophelia’s eyes widened. She even ignored her phone for a minute. Making that happen was no easy feat when it came to anyone, especially a woman who appeared to be in her very early twenties, at most.

  It was possible that Ophelia Sullivan’s wide, gullible eyes, gangly frame, and trendy clothing made her look younger than her years. In fact, I frowned slightly as I looked at her, feeling increasingly worried for her wellbeing. She seemed so defenseless—and so oblivious to that defenselessness, too.

  I wanted to protect her. I promised myself, there and then, that I would. If Ophelia had been the killer’s true target, then I didn’t want him to get a second chance at hurting her.

  “I’ll take it!” She wiggled her fingers in a classic “Gimme” gesture. Albany wasn’t the only Sullivan sibling who wasn’t lacking confidence. Ophelia seized the peppermint bark, then examined it from all angles. “I’ve never heard of this brand.”

  “Like I said, it’s new.” I’d created it myself, out of bits and pieces in my crossbody bag, amalgamating wrappers and labels and chocolate, then adding that bow. I explained about my job, glossing over the details. Often, my work for clients is top secret. Companies don’t want it known that they need my help to improve their offerings or to develop new specialties. “I’m trying to get the word out about the company’s seasonal products.” That much could have been true. “They don’t have a huge promotional budget.” I lowered my tone conspiratorially. “I was hoping I could get Albany to put in a good word for it.”

  Ophelia rolled her eyes. “Albany’s swamped right now. Ever since her book came out, it’s been a total media juggernaut.” She set down the peppermint bark, positioned it, then used her phone to take a photo of it. “I might be able to help you.”

  I made a regretful face. “I was really hoping for Albany.”

  For an instant, Ophelia’s face clouded. “Sure, you and everyone else. I mean, she’s got a list of sponsorship requests a mile long. By the time she sees this thing, it’ll be July.”

  “Hmm. That won’t work. This is a limited holiday item.” I pretended to be flummoxed, then shrugged. “Oh, well. I just thought it was worth a shot, since I’m here in Sproutes, anyway.”

  With a disappointed mien, I reached for the peppermint bark. Inches from it, Ophelia’s hand closed atop mine. “Wait.”

  I blinked at her. “Oh! Do you want it for a gift? Go ahead. I have a whole case of these. They’re pretty, though, right?” I decided to take advantage of our varying perspectives. To a woman Ophelia’s age, I knew, I was practically an old crone at thirty. “I wasn’t involved in the packaging, but the product team assured me that it’s . . . What’s the word? Instagrammable?”

  Ophelia’s eyes lit up. She seemed like a sweet, pretty young woman. I felt bad for purposely misleading her. Given the circumstances, I needed an in with her. I needed it quickly.

  Thanks to a briefing with Danny, I’d found my approach.

  “I’m an Instagram star!” She leaned forward with a certain urgency, stopping me from taking away the peppermint bark. “I can definitely help you.” Her previously naïve gaze took on a shrewd glimmer. “I mean, I’m sure we can come to an arrangement about brand sponsorship with at least one Sullivan sister.”

  “I don’t know,” I hedged. “The client really wants Albany.”

  Another storm cloud darkened Ophelia’s expression. I wondered if there was rivalry between the sisters. I wondered, too, how Ophelia was portrayed in Albany’s memoir. Was her “lightly fictionalized” coverage of her sister favorable? Loving? Or was it mocking? Teasing? Somewhere in between?

  I seriously needed to make time to read that book.

  “Let me show you what I can do,” Ophelia offered. She snatched the peppermint bark, then gazed around the theater’s backstage, where I’d spotted her and enacted my plan. She bit her lip. “If we can just stage this properly . . .”

  With a decisive, leggy gait that strikingly resembled her sister’s, Ophelia strode across the cluttered area until she arrived at one of the waiting sets. It looked like a living room straight out of the sixties, with a silvery space-age aluminum Christmas tree and teardrop-shaped ornaments. Arranged beside it were a vintage turntable and several vinyl holiday records.

  With a few deft movements, Ophelia created a tableau out of those materials. She placed the peppermint bark in its center, adjusted its candy-striped red-and-white bow, then buffed the package’s cellophane to a high gloss. She snapped a photo.

  On her phone, she looked at it. “Nope. We can do better.”

  As I followed, Ophelia energetically led the way through the backstage confusion. There were props and drop cloths, sets and ladders, lights and signs and equipment cables. Ophel
ia explained that the sets for Christmas in Crazytown entailed references to “like, old-timey Christmases,” regardless of their relevance to the time periods covered in Albany’s memoir.

  “It’s, literally, more arty that way,” Ophelia informed me.

  I nodded in understanding, watching as she arranged the items in yet another area into a suitable photographic backdrop. This time, we’d arrived at a Victorian Christmas scene, with a skinny tree alight with LED “candles” and ornaments. There was a mantel with knit stockings hung from it, plus milk and cookies for Santa. Ophelia replaced the cookies with the peppermint bark.

  She snapped a photo, viewed her work, then grimaced.

  “Yuck. Talk about Grandma’s attic,” she said. “No way.”

  It was time to goose things along. “It’s okay if you’re not feeling super creative today,” I assured her sympathetically. “You know, given the circumstances. I totally understand.”

  Ophelia arched one fashionably full, perfectly filled-in dark brow. “You mean because of Melissa? Don’t worry,” she said blithely. “We weren’t that close. I mean, it’s tragic and everything.” Here, she adopted a somber face. Then she breezily snapped out of it. “And I’m majorly grateful to Melissa for letting me be Tansy’s understudy. It’s been great having access to all this.” Her open-armed gesture indicated the backstage area, the stage beyond, and the whole theater. “But, I mean, life goes on, right?” She examined her setup. “Maybe one more.”

  At a near gallop, Ophelia took off for another set. This one was done up in flashy eighties style, with glimmering gold and white satin ornaments, fluffy metallic garland, and pure white mini-lights. She nodded her approval, then got to work.

  “You’re Tansy’s understudy?” I repeated. “That’s cool.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. I look the part. It’s not like I’ll ever be onstage, though. They’d close the show before opening without Tansy here.” Ophelia moved her props a millimeter closer. She took some photos, then toyed with the filters on her phone. Her fingers moved rapidly over the screen. “This is my real calling, anyway. It’s, like, fulfilling? Plus, I’m very good at it.”