In Cold Chocolate

by Dorothy St. James

  All she said was that she’d listened through the door, which she’d claimed had been shut. She’d listened as Fletcher threatened Cassidy’s life.

  There was my first inconsistency in Luella Marie’s story. Cassidy’s sliding doors hadn’t been closed.

  My fingers felt a nervous need to create something. I crossed the room to the refrigerator and found the bag of kiwis. I pulled one out and set it on the cutting board. The small round fruit had turned bad. Its bright green flesh had turned mushy and black. And it was extremely stinky.

  Just as stinky as the story Luella Marie had expected us to believe?

  I dropped the bag of rotted fruit into the trash and gave up on making the bonbons. I needed to have a frank discussion with Fletcher. I needed to hear his version of that night. I needed to know what he was doing at Cassidy’s house? Had he argued with Cassidy? Did he kill him?

  I texted Fletcher, telling him I needed him back at the shop ASAP. I then texted Detective Gibbons, telling him the same thing—that I needed to talk with him ASAP. I was hitting send on that second message when the bell in the front of the shop rang twice.

  “Customers!” Johnny Pane shouted so loudly I was sure he’d startled whoever came in the door.

  I wiped my hands on a towel and hurried to the front. “So sorry to keep you waiting,” I started to say when my gaze hit landed on them.

  The last three people on Earth I wanted to see in my shop.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Edward stood in front of his two sisters. He was dressed in a gray three-piece suit that had been tailored to perfectly fit his rounded contours. His bright red bow tie added a bit of whimsy to the monochrome suit. That whimsy didn’t extend to his face. The scowl he’d donned made it look as if he’d taken a bite from one of the rotten kiwis I’d put into the trash.

  Florence flounced around the shop as if she already owned the place. Her teal-colored high heeled shoes with the pointy toes clapped against the antique heart pine floor as she walked over to the display case and peered at the shiny chocolates inside. Her lips, painted a bright red that matched her brother’s tie, were curled into a self-satisfied grin.

  Mabel’s youngest daughter, Peach, stayed near the door. She wore an aqua blue strappy athletic dress that was sensible in the August heat. She’d paired it with leather flip-flops. Her blonde hair was styled into an elegant twisting updo. Although her clothing choices were much more casual than her older sister’s, the way she carried herself with her back straight and her chin slightly raised made her look as if she was walking the red carpet for a movie premier.

  “What can I do to help you?” I asked, pretending they were simply customers and not my ne’er do well aunts and uncle. “We have a new item you might want to try. It’s my own recipe. Salted sea turtles. As I already told Florence earlier today, they’re so good people are stealing them. They’re twenty dollars for a dozen.”

  Edward acted as if he hadn’t heard me. His gaze traveled over the nearly repainted ceiling and down the newly plastered wall. His head jerked when he saw the bullet holes. His lips tightened.

  “We’re not here to eat your chocolates,” Florence bit off the words. She was so thin I doubted she ever ate sweets of any kind.

  Peach glided across the room to stand next to her sister at the display case. Her gaze lingered on the salted sea turtles. She didn’t say anything. But I think I saw pleasure in her carefully guarded expression. She nodded ever so slightly before looking up from the gooey turtle-shaped treats.

  “I can get you one to try,” I offered. Although none of Mabel’s children had ever been friendly to me, Peach had never been hostile. Once, she’d even apologized for how her siblings had behaved. So even though her name was on the lawsuit, I didn’t feel like I needed to be rude.

  She tilted her head to one side as she looked to Edward for guidance. He shook his head. “Thank you, but no.” Her voice was soft with a gentle but refined accent. “They do all look delicious. There are quite a few new flavors here. Many of these aren’t Mother’s recipes, are they?”

  “They’re not. I’ve been trying to come up with recipes of my own,” I said. “The bonbon fires have been especially popular lately. Bertie’s sea salt caramels are still best sellers, though.”

  “What are you doing? We’re not here to praise her,” Florence said at the same time. “She played us all for a fool. We’re here to get what’s rightfully ours.”

  “Rightfully yours?” I demanded. “Is that why you’ve been telling everyone in town that I’ve been lying to them?”

  She didn’t seem at all embarrassed to be called out on her bad behavior. She straightened and glared down her pointy nose at me. (A nose just as pointy as mine?) “I’ve only been telling people the truth. You should have never gotten your hands on Mother’s shop. And now that you have, you’re digging your claws even deeper into this building by doing all this construction. Did you think that if you fixed it up no judge would take it away from you?”

  “No. I was thinking that I had better repair the building since someone drove a car through the front window. And why should you care? I’m not spending your money on the shop,” I explained, even though I was sure they already knew that.

  “Where are you getting the money to pay for all of this work?” Edward demanded. “Are you selling Mother’s assets?”

  “I haven’t sold anything that belonged to your mother. The furniture she left you in her will is waiting for you in the upstairs apartment. You’re welcome to take it at any time.” Actually, I was disappointed that her children had turned their noses up at the family heirlooms Mabel had treasured.

  “Edward means assets that actually have value,” Florence said.

  Peach, to her credit, winced.

  “Many of the residents have donated materials and services,” I said while fondly remembering how the residents of the Pink Pelican Inn had rallied around the store when it’d been damaged to the point where it could no longer stay open. “I’ve also taken out a business loan to pay for upgrades to the building’s heating and cooling, electrical systems, and to repair and repaint the plaster.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it look so good,” Peach said in that quiet voice of hers.

  “What did you use as collateral for this business loan?” Edward asked at the same time. “The building?”

  “Yes, the building. The building your mother entrusted with me to keep and care for. I couldn’t very well use any of the funds she’d set aside for its upkeep since your legal wrangling has kept them locked up in probate.”

  “That’s why we are here today. We’re here to protect our interests. You need to stop taking out loans where you use the building as collateral. You need to stop putting money into fixing up the building. While it’s in probate, none of this is yours.”

  “But it will be,” I said. “Mabel listed me as her heir. She wanted me to keep the shop going. She wanted me to take care of the building.”

  “Not for long,” Florence said.

  Edward cleared his throat. “We have reason to believe that the DNA test you claim proves your relationship with our family was faked,” he said. “A fake DNA test will give us legal footing to overturn Mabel’s will. We filed the paperwork this morning. We’ve reinstated our suit against you and we’re asking the court to overturn our mother’s will. We’re also insisting on a new DNA test.”

  “Yes, I am well aware of that.” I’d been so excited about taking that new DNA test, so eager to get that dispute behind me once and for all. And now, after what Althea had told me, my heart ached. I put my hand on my chest. It really ached. Was I having a heart attack?

  “I’m not your mother,” Florence said, needlessly. “Carolina isn’t your mother. Clearly, Peach isn’t old enough to be your mother. You’re not a Maybank. You have no claim on any of this.” She gestured to the interior of the shop.

  I stood there in the face of their assault, denying it all. This shop was mine. This was
where I belonged. No one could take that away. It wasn’t until Peach’s softly spoken, “I’m sorry,” that something inside me shattered.

  I’m not Mabel’s granddaughter.

  My gaze shifted from Edward to Florence to Peach. I drew a slow, steady breath. “I see,” I said, an unusually subdued reaction for me.

  “You came to town and persuaded our mother that you were Carolina’s daughter.” Edward’s cold voice sounded like an executioner reading the charges against the condemned. “You preyed on her sentimentality. You preyed on her desire to see this shop survive beyond her death. You did it so you could get your hands on something that you didn’t rightly deserve.”

  I shook my head. I didn’t. I didn’t do anything of the sort. But my tongue felt paralyzed. I wasn’t Mabel’s granddaughter.

  “Why?” my voice cracked as I asked them.

  “Why did you conspire to steal the shop away our mother’s legal heirs? How should we know? We’re the victims here. Not you.” Edward tucked his hand into his vest as if he was a reincarnated Napoleon.

  I turned toward Florence. She glared back at me. “Why?” I whispered. “Why did you tell me that you were my mother?”

  “Why? Did you not listen to me earlier?” Florence lifted a corner of her thin mouth. “I was afraid you were actually Carolina’s daughter.”

  “It was something she shouldn’t have done,” Edward snapped. “She should have come to me before telling such a wild-haired tale to you, the defendant. Florence’s ‘so-called’ confession has nearly destroyed our chances to overturn what you, Penn, have done to our family.”

  “What I did?” I suddenly found my voice. Apparently, it now sounded like a harpy screech. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t try and trick anyone. It was Mabel who had tricked me.”

  “Come now.” Edward’s voice had turned chilly again. “Don’t try to make us feel sorry for you. You brought all of this on yourself by faking who you are. I spoke with your father and with your grandmother this morning. I heard all about how your mother was an older itinerant con-woman. Clearly, conning innocent people is part of your DNA. As much as you might wish it to be true, as much as you might want others to believe it, your DNA does not come from the illustrious Maybank family DNA. Not even close.”

  “You’re calling me a con-artist, a swindler, a fraud?” I’d spent a lifetime making sure I was nothing like the mother who’d birthed me and abandoned me. I’d turned myself into a human version of a prickly pear cactus so I’d never let anyone like that ever hurt me again. “Are you serious?” I laughed like a mad woman.

  “Stop screeching and, for Heaven’s sake, take responsibility for your actions,” Edward barked.

  “How about your sister?” I shouted back. I whirled toward Florence. The older woman smiled serenely as if she was enjoying every moment of my breakdown. That smile—that I-hope-you-suffer-terribly grin of hers made me feel even more out of control. I flapped my hands at her. “Why did you lie to me? Why didn’t you want me to think I was Carolina’s daughter? It was such a lovely thought. Why would you do something like that to a girl desperate to find her mother? What kind of heartless monster are you?”

  Her smile didn’t waver. She glanced down at her perfectly manicured nails. They were painted an ultra pale pink. “Dare-to-bare Pink” the polish was called. I knew that because it was one of my favorites. In that angry moment, I swore I’d toss out the bottle and never wear that shade or anything similar again.

  “Aren’t you paying attention? I already told you,” she said, not at all rattled by my crazy-woman ranting and raving. She didn’t seem at all fazed by what damage those lies of hers had done to my already battered sanity. “I was worried you were Carolina’s daughter.”

  “I know! I heard you say that. What I want to know is why would that have mattered?” I shouted.

  “Florence,” Edward warned.

  Her smile grew as she shook her head. “Eddie, it doesn’t matter anymore. She’s not Carolina’s daughter. She’s not anyone’s daughter. I told you that little lie, because of our mother’s crazy will. I’m sure you remember it well, Charity, since you helped write parts of it. Had you planned all along to masquerade as Carolina’s long-lost daughter? Were you that money-hungry that you wanted not only what Mother had but also the considerable fortune that had been set aside in the off chance that Carolina or one of her heirs returned to Camellia Beach?”

  “I would never—!”

  “Tut-tut. Are those tears in your eyes? Have I struck a nerve? Well, I’m not sorry for it. You know how I feel right now? I feel vindicated. Now that we know Carolina is no longer alive and that she didn’t leave any heirs, that money can finally come to Edward, Peach, and me. We’re the ones who stayed and listened to Mother complain about her ungrateful children … save for her beloved lost Carolina. We earned that money.”

  “You can have it!” Though I really, really wanted to get control over my emotions, I couldn’t seem to stop shouting every word that came out of my mouth. “Just let me keep this shop. You don’t want it. I do. I want the shop. Your mother wanted me to have the shop. She wanted someone who loved the chocolate and who loved the shop to run it. That’s me.” I beat my hand against my chest. “I’m the one she picked.”

  “That’s not the point.” Edward said as he turned and headed toward the door. “You tricked our mother into writing that will. You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve anything.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  No, you don’t deserve anything, you ungrateful wretches. Of course those words didn’t come to me until after the Maybank children had waltzed out of the shop like a parade of over-fluffed peacocks.

  When I looked up I saw Detective Gibbons standing just a step inside the door. His arms were crossed over his wide chest. How much of that humiliating exchange had he heard? “I got your text,” he said.

  His brows were creased as he watched me carefully. It was the same way someone would watch a toddler wobble around a room filled with fine china.

  “They think I faked the DNA report,” I said as I lifted the apron off from over my head. I took extra care in folding it and laying it across the display case. “They think I lied to their mother in order to steal this shop away from them.”

  He nodded while still watching me with concern. “Is that what you urgently needed to talk to me about?”

  “No.” I dug my purse out from under the counter and hitched its strap over my shoulder. “It’s about Cassidy’s murder.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He glanced up at Johnny Pane, who had stopped painting. He stood on the ladder with his brush hanging loosely from his hand as he watched me. His lips pursed in a severe frown.

  “I’m going to close up for the day,” I told Johnny. “And lock the front door.”

  “But it’s not even four o’clock yet,” Johnny said, shaking his head. “Shutting down early, that’s not good for business.”

  Instead of explaining to him that I had to leave, that staying in the shop I was accused of stealing made my hands tremble, I said, “The back door is locked. You can go out that way when you’re done here. Just make sure the door is pulled all the way closed behind you. It’ll stay locked.”

  Johnny muttered something under his breath. I took it to mean he would do as I asked, so I left. I left without packing the detective a chocolate box to take back to the sheriff’s department to share with his fellow officers. I left without emptying the chocolates from the display case for the day. I simply walked out the front door and locked it behind me.

  A piece of me felt as if I might never return.

  Detective Gibbons walked beside me like a silent sentry. His fitted suit still looked fresh and neatly pressed even though I knew he’d been working hard all day. I planned to ask him one day how he managed it. I’d only stepped out into the heat for a short time, and already my face felt slick from sweat and the back of my loose-fitting sundress was damp from the stifling August heat and humidi
ty.

  I headed toward the ancient oak tree that shaded the store and pressed my hand to its trunk. The silvery brown bark felt rough. Touching it was like shaking hands with a hardworking laborer, which made me think of Johnny Pane’s hands.

  “You know I’d thought I’d found a paradise here in Camellia Beach,” I said even though I really didn’t want to talk about my family or how Althea had lied to me. “I’m starting to think it’s all been an illusion. The quaint cottages, the welcoming islanders with their quirky way of thinking, and the soothing rhythm of the ocean waves drumming against the shore”—I sighed—“it’s all been a pretty trap.”

  Gibbons remained silent.

  “This wasn’t why I texted you,” I said, even though I’d already told him that.

  “No, it’s not,” his low voice rumbled. “But if you need to talk about it, I’ll listen. Just know ahead of time I’m not a priest. If you broke any laws and you tell me about it, I’ve sworn an oath. I cannot look the other way.”

  “I’ve not broken the law. I’ve not even lied about anything. I hate lies.” Lies were what had gotten me into this mess, a mess I really didn’t want to think about since thinking about it meant I had to think about Althea and the lies she’d been telling me. Althea’s lies hurt even worse than finding out I wasn’t actually related to those greedy Maybanks. I could live with not being a Maybank. But could I live with knowing my best friend in the world hadn’t thought there was anything wrong with lying to me? Lies were like a cancer, eating away at everything that was good and beautiful in life.

  “It wasn’t lies, though, that got Cassidy killed. It was the truth,” I said.

  “He lied to Jody about staying true to her,” Gibbons pointed out. “Lies about an intimate relationship—those are some of the deadliest lies we see in law enforcement.”

  I pressed my hand against the tree until the rough bark actually bit into my skin. “Jody didn’t kill Cassidy.”