Well, she had an utter lack of humility in common with her sister, that was for sure.
Playing along, I nodded. “You are.”
My approval made Ophelia smile. The quick, genuine grin she sent me was winning. I experienced another urge to protect her.
Stopping the killer would do that, I reminded myself.
“Of course, you’ll have to get a real job someday,” I said.
She snorted. “What? Go to college and start a career?” Ophelia rolled her eyes. “That’s not how things work. For my generation, there are no guarantees—just the opportunities you create for yourself.” She showed me a photo. “How about this?”
I barely recognized my humble package of chocolate-peppermint bark. It had been professionally styled to look twice as appealing as it did in real life. I could almost taste it.
Despite my subterfuge, I was impressed. Danny had told me that Ophelia was an aspiring “social-media influencer,” someone who earned so many followers that companies paid him or her to flog their products. Ophelia Sullivan wasn’t at that level yet. She hadn’t quite reached Albany’s celebrity status, for instance.
These days, though, you didn’t need to be a superstar to garner fans. All you needed were a responsive target group and enough time and skill to connect with them, usually visually.
Satisfied, Ophelia uploaded the photo. She thumbed out an endorsement and a few seasonal hashtags, then regarded me seriously. “Hundreds of mentions within the hour,” she promised. “Thousand more, if some of the better-known influencers I’ve partnered with pick up on the post. It’s better than traditional marketing.” Ophelia tapped her posted photo. “It’s authentic.”
“But you haven’t even tasted the chocolate,” I pointed out.
A shrug. “This time of year, half the people who follow me are just looking for holiday decoration or gift ideas. This fits both.” She eyed the peppermint bark. “I don’t need to taste it.”
I felt a shiver run down my spine. If future customers didn’t even want to taste the products I’d put so much work into, what good were chocolate-making skills and creativity? I appreciated beautiful packaging and word of mouth as much as the next person, but the bottom line for me was flavor. Forever.
Ophelia didn’t agree. “So, do we have a deal?” she pushed.
I shook myself out of my musings. Right now, my job wasn’t crafting amazing chocolate goodies. It was stopping a killer.
“I don’t know,” I hedged purposely. “You say you have some partners who are better known? Maybe I should contact them.”
Ophelia’s expression darkened once again. Despite her endearing enthusiasm, she seemed to be both impetuous and unpredictable. She also seemed to resent not being the center of attention at all times. Could she have resented Albany enough to want to kill her? It had been dark last night in the B and B. Maybe Ophelia had mistaken Melissa for Albany. Maybe she’d . . . done what?
I still didn’t know how Melissa had died. I was stumped.
Then again, it would be very easy for the killer to mistake Ophelia for Albany. The two sisters had similar heights and hairstyles. They also moved with those spookily matching gaits.
“You can’t ditch me,” Ophelia said. “I won’t tell you who they are. That’s privileged information.” Her disillusioned, accusing gaze met mine. “You seemed a lot nicer at the party.”
As a burn, it was lacking, since I hadn’t been at that party. I was interested to know that Ophelia thought I had been.
Suddenly, I wondered, Had she actually been there? I needed a guest list and some confirmation about who’d attended.
Maybe my B and B’s host, Zach, could hook me up with that?
“Yeah, sorry about that.” I gave her a conciliatory smile. “I’m under pressure to make this happen, like, yesterday. This client is pretty demanding.” I didn’t enjoy fibbing about my imaginary client (aka me), but desperate times called for desperate measures. “Tell you what. I’ll think this over—”
“I’m actually considering other sponsorship offers.”
“And I’ll get back to you later. All right?”
Ophelia hesitated. Uncertainly, she rubbed her fingers over her phone screen. The gesture looked like a habitual tick to me.
“It’s just that, with the show maybe shutting down, it’s possible that endorsements here won’t be especially valuable,” I explained. “I have to take into consideration what’s timely.”
“I’m timely!” Ophelia almost screeched. She clutched her phone with whitened knuckles, then squeezed shut her eyes like a child having a tantrum. “Just pick me! I can do it, I swear!”
At her outburst, I took an involuntary, startled step back.
She saw. “I’m sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry.” She grasped my wrist, giving me a beseeching look. “It’s just that if I don’t make my influencer account work, my parents are going to make me enroll in school.” Ophelia looked utterly trapped. “A whole semester will ruin me. Social media is now. I can’t take a break. I just can’t!” Her eyes filled with tears. “Okay?”
Her desperation caught me off guard. Was it sincere?
Chocolatiering meant that much to me, I reasoned. Maybe social media meant a lot to Ophelia, too. It was possible that I occasionally seemed obsessed with my work. So I relented.
“Sure.” Encouragingly, I nodded. “Okay. Let’s make this peppermint bark a success. Together. Let’s do this thing!”
Instantly, Ophelia’s expression cleared. “Seriously?”
Despite a few niggling doubts, I nodded again. “Yes.”
She drew in a gulp of air, then grinned and waved her clenched fists with excitement. “You won’t regret this, Hayden!”
I might. “The coverage needs to be tasteful,” I reminded her. “No sexy selfies with the peppermint bark. Hear me?”
Another eye roll. “It’s not that kind of account.”
“Maybe you should give me the info, so I can make sure.”
Ophelia gave me the details. I planned to log on later.
“In the meantime,” I said, “you seem to know everything going on backstage. How about a tour? Is that allowed?”
“You haven’t seen it yet? It’s crazy elaborate!” She pocketed the peppermint bark I’d given her, careful not to crease the packaging or smash the bow. “Most people have already gone home, of course, so it won’t be nearly as packed as usual.”
“That’s okay. I’m mostly interested in the sets, anyway.”
“Yeah.” She scrutinized me. “I guess you probably met everyone already at the tree-trimming party, right?”
I gave a noncommittal sound. Ophelia didn’t seem to notice. She was already guiding me toward the next waiting holiday set.
Half an hour later, my head was spinning. Together, Ophelia and I had (essentially) time traveled through Christmas throughout the ages, starting with a feast-centered medieval holiday and ending with a futuristic, hi-tech Christmas. It seemed that no expense had been spared to stage the musical based on Albany’s memoir-ish book. I’d seen mistletoe and holly, android angels and 3-D-printed snow globes, popcorn strung with dark red cranberries, and paper snowflakes the size of my torso. There were evergreens, wreaths, and fake wrapped gifts, too.
Ophelia snapped a photo of the two of us inside a faux gingerbread house. Amazingly, it was big enough to stand in.
I spread my arms and touched its realistic-looking walls. Somehow, someone had infused it with the Christmassy scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. “Mmm. I wish I could take this home with me.” Actually, I wished I had a home at all. “Yum.”
“Don’t move.” Ophelia took another photo, this time of me alone. Then she handed me a prop—a gigantic cardboard Santa head. It was flat and glossy, printed with Old Saint Nick’s face. “Okay, now one more. Just hold up Santa and say cheese.”
Finding its size and heft awkward, I fiddled with it. I’d seen things like this at pro sports games. Usually, they were printed with the larger-
than-life images of star players.
Exasperated, Ophelia lowered her phone. “You suck.” She gave a joking eye roll. “We had these at the party, remember?”
Whoops. I found a way to improvise. “No, I may have had too much wassail.” I successfully wrangled my prop. “Cheese!”
I was relieved to hear Ophelia laugh. “You and everyone else,” she quipped. “That stuff was potent. I think we went through four bowls of it. It’s a good thing for all of you that I have principles, otherwise I’d post all the damaging photos.”
When I set aside my head prop, she looked somber.
“Maybe I should post some of them, anyway,” Ophelia mused. “I could make them a tribute to Melissa, to honor her memory.”
I was touched. So far, almost everyone else I’d encountered had seemed relatively indifferent to Melissa Balthasar’s death. It was heartening to hear someone who’d known her express grief.
“My followers would go crazy for that,” Ophelia enthused, squashing my newly refreshed faith in humankind. “I’d crush it with likes and new follows. Plus, Melissa is totally trending everywhere right now. It would be too easy to follow the wave.”
I tried not to look appalled by her casual opportunism. I managed a nod. “Well, everyone wants to be remembered, right?”
“Exactly.” Ophelia beamed. “Trust me, Melissa would have loved to know she was trending. The more places, the better.”
Given what Danny had told me about Melissa, maybe Ophelia was right. Still, her plans to personally benefit from the producer’s death—to funnel the public’s prurient interest into traffic for her own “influencer” site—left me dispirited.
Maybe, I decided, Ophelia wasn’t as innocent as she seemed.
There was only one way to find out.
“I can’t wait to check out everything we did today,” I told her, laying the groundwork. “Thanks, Ophelia. I’ll bring some more of my client’s products in tomorrow. Should we meet here?”
Ophelia looked at me as if I were crazy.
“Here? Again? Did you just land from another planet or something?” She snickered. “My account is fresh! We’ll need a new location.” She thought about it. “Maybe one of the covered bridges outside of town. Or a snowy brick storefront downtown?”
“I’ll leave all that up to you.” We swapped phone numbers so we could make plans. “After all, you’re the expert here.”
Ophelia’s innocent face shone. It was evident that she didn’t garner very many compliments—not off-line, at least.
I wondered why her “influencer” work was so important to her. Was she competing with attention-getting Albany? Did she hope to avoid going to college? Did she simply yearn to make her mark online and be “liked” a lot? I couldn’t tell. I expected, with a little more time, that I’d gain some insight about her. Meanwhile, my phone buzzed.
It was Danny. He’d already set up a meeting (which he jokingly called a “rendezvous”) with the contact he’d mentioned.
I checked the date and time. Tomorrow evening couldn’t come fast enough for me. Not because I needed a “rendezvous,” either.
I was out for answers. I wouldn’t stop until I got them.
Seven
Ordinarily, I would not have agreed to meet with a random stranger, especially not at his house. Thanks to Danny’s longtime tutelage, I typically keep my meetings (business and otherwise) to safely neutral public sites where I can make a quick getaway if things feel dangerous or otherwise unusual.
But this time, Danny had vetted my contact himself. So as I parked my rental car the following evening and got out into the frigid weather to have a look at the site of my “rendezvous,” I wasn’t worried a bit.
Yes, there was a murderer in Sproutes.
No, Danny Jamieson hadn’t set me up on a date with him.
I shivered and clambered up the shoveled-clear sidewalk, carrying my chocolate-whisperer bag of tricks with me. Inside were baker’s bars of semisweet and dark chocolates, assorted decorative and flavored sugars, one extra-fine bar of milky white chocolate that I’d picked up in San Francisco, and a whole range of cookie cutters, thermometers, measuring spoons, and vanilla extracts. Also, I’d brought some seasonal items and a culinary scale, just to have all my bases covered.
Once out in the cold December night, my breath puffed visibly in front of me, leading the way toward the fancifully decorated bungalow that was my destination. It turned out, Danny had promised to swap his source’s information for an evening of personalized baking lessons with me. And a deal was a deal.
Technically, that meant that my friend had volunteered me for some extracurricular work, but I didn’t mind. My supplies go wherever I do. Plus, creating delicious treats is something (the only thing) that clears my mind and calms my antsy soul. When engrossed in melting, whisking, stirring, and tasting, I’m not doing anything else. Quality cacao deserves full attention.
Speaking of which . . . this particular Sproutes homestead had earned its own share of the limelight. The place was impossible to miss. The small, snowy yard was full of glittering displays. Some of them moved. A glowing white snowman waved at me. A trio of lighted reindeer wearing red bows grazed in the snow. More of their kind gamboled along the icy rooftop, pulling Santa’s sleigh. On the icicle-bordered eaves, multicolored chaser lights made the yard flash red, yellow, blue, and green. More lights covered the bungalow’s white siding, delineating neat rows across its face. Those same lights spilled onto the snow-piled yard, blinking and flashing with over-the-top Christmas cheer.
I wouldn’t have wanted my baking student’s electricity bill, that was for sure. But as I neared the front door, with its pillared porch posts and showy beribboned holiday wreath, I did covet his snug household. Seasonal decorating is one of those things you don’t realize you miss until you don’t have it anymore. Even while globe-trotting with my parents, we’d all managed to add some Christmas cheer to our surroundings—and to enjoy whatever holiday celebrations were happening around us.
But once Uncle Ross had sadly passed on, my whole life had changed. I still missed him. I missed his eccentricities and his warmth. Most of all, I missed his wild, irrepressible smile.
As I stamped off my boots on the poinsettia doormat, the door itself whooshed open. A friendly-looking, thirtyish man stood on the threshold, holding out his arms to me in welcome.
“Hayden, right? Thanks for coming! Come in, come in!”
He stepped aside to let me enter his home. Its interior wasn’t quite as extravagant as the exterior, but there was a tall lighted Christmas tree in the corner. As I stood in the foyer to unwind my knit scarf and take off my hat, I noticed other seasonal touches, too—a row of painted wooden nutcracker figurines and a bowl full of antique glass-blown ornaments.
“The outside is a little much,” he acknowledged with a rueful grin, “but I promise I’m not some kind of Christmas weirdo. I’m out to win the neighborhood decorating contest.”
“Aha. Good luck, then. Josh, right?” I hauled in a breath, then smiled. “It’s nice to meet you. Thanks for inviting me.”
His genial face cleared. “I’m the one who should be thanking you! Especially for coming on such short notice.” Josh indicated that I could leave my things on the foyer’s coat hooks and the console table. I kept my crossbody bag and baking supplies with me, then followed him into his living room.
Bing Crosby was playing from a sound system somewhere. I felt myself relax another micrometer. Maybe this would be fun.
“Have a seat!” Josh’s wave indicated a cushy-looking sofa with a snowman-printed flannel throw arranged on it. “I’ll get us some eggnog. With a kick or without? I’m having it with.”
His wink suggested I should do the same. Unfortunately. . .
“No, thanks. I’m driving, so I’ll take it straight.”
“Your loss!” he teased, touching his curly hair. With his khaki pants and button-down shirt worn with a crewneck sweater, he was the image of a class
ic New England preppy. “Maybe next time. Just make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back!”
Normally, I would have followed him to the kitchen and gotten down to work. But normally, I’m not swapping my culinary expertise for some off-the-books murder information. I felt acutely aware of my bizarre role—not quite a friend, not really a business associate, but something more. We were like spies, getting together to exchange top-secret information . . . except I was a good spy, working for the safety of all the Sproutesians.
I hoped that Josh was, too. Josh Levitt, I recalled.
Taking advantage of that unobserved moment, I shot a pair of quick texts to Danny and Travis, to let them know I’d arrived. I saw that I’d missed SMSs from Ophelia and Zach.
Ophelia’s was a follow-up to the peppermint-bark photo shoot we’d done earlier, with Albany’s little sister posing next to a horse-drawn sleigh. Zach’s was a reminder about the chocolate houses I’d agreed to make for the town’s auction.
Since neither was urgent, I left them for later.
“Here we go!” Josh returned, beaming, with a pair of eggnog cups in hand. Their china patterns didn’t match. “Bottoms up!”
We toasted. I sipped. Mmm. Nutmeg and cream. Delicious.
“I swear, Danny saved my life.” Josh Levitt’s face was open and alert. That made it easy to trust him. “I wasn’t getting anywhere with covering Christmas in Crazytown. Regional theater is my beat, but as soon as the Balthasars took over, they shut out the Sentinel. Usually, Donna gives me full access—”
“Donna?”
“Donna Brown. The theater’s director.”
I nodded, making a note to find out more about her. While briefing me, Danny had mentioned Josh and his work covering the Sproutes art scene for the local newspaper. The subject of Donna Brown hadn’t come up, but I reasoned I might need to know more.
“Apparently, the Balthasars didn’t think that a ‘Podunk paper’ like ours was worth dealing with.” Josh rolled his eyes. “I was making zero progress. My editor is usually pretty mild mannered, but she was freaking out. There was so much interest in the show. We didn’t want to be scooped by the national media. It was our big chance to serve our readers in a memorable way.”
The Peppermint Mocha Murder Page 8