Death of a Chocolate Cheater: A Food Festival Mystery

by Penny Pike

  Dillon glanced at his notes. “Uh, let’s see. He opened up his own chocolate shop in Fisherman’s Wharf called The Chock’lit Shop, but it crashed and burned six months later. After that he started a gig writing an online blog he called Wicked Chocolate. Covered all the local chocolate news—reviewed chocolate shops, offered chocolate recipes, mentioned events, stuff like that.”

  “This is all very interesting,” I said, “but do you have any idea what happened to him? Reina said it was some kind of accident.”

  “Dude, chill. I’m getting to that. So anyway, George wrote a blog about being a judge for the chocolate competition and said he was looking forward to tasting all the chocolates, blah, blah, blah. But get this. He published that blog yesterday. And last night he was killed.”

  “I thought it was an accident,” Aunt Abby said.

  “It was,” Dillon said. “He was killed by a hit-and-run driver.”

  “Oh my God.” Aunt Abby’s face went as white as her still-clean apron. She held the counter to steady herself. “I thought it was just an accident, like a fall or something. That poor man! What a horrible way to die. Did they find the person who did it?”

  Dillon shook his head. “I checked the police records. It happened at night, and the only witness said the car was a late-model SUV, probably black.”

  Aunt Abby sighed and shook her head. “I’m beginning to feel like Jessica Fletcher,” she mumbled. “Lately it seems like everywhere I go, someone gets killed.”

  I knew exactly what she was referring to—the murders that had recently plagued the food truck businesses. She’d even been a suspect for one of the deaths.

  “Who’s Jessica Fletcher?” Dillon asked.

  “You’ve never heard of Jessica Fletcher?” I asked. “Murder, She Wrote? I think the show is still on a cable channel.”

  “Before my time,” Dillon answered. “Was she a cop or something?”

  I laughed. “No. She was a meddling mystery writer who kept stumbling over bodies in Cabot Cove, Maine—a quaint New England town that happens to have the highest murder rate in America. It almost became a joke that if Jessica Fletcher was in the area, there would be bodies—and most of the suspects were her relatives.”

  “Sounds lame,” Dillon said.

  “I loved that show!” Aunt Abby said. “She was one smart lady, and smarter than the police. I always guessed the killer right along with her, just by studying the physical evidence instead of being distracted by what the suspects said. You can’t argue with the evidence.”

  “We’re getting off the subject, guys,” I said. The clock was ticking. I could hear murmurs of a line outside the shuttered bus. “If George Brown was killed by a hit-and-run driver, it was probably an unfortunate accident. I don’t think Jessica Fletcher is needed for this. It’s sad, but right now we need to hustle.”

  Aunt Abby frowned and gazed into the distance. “On the other hand . . . it could have been deliberate.”

  “Seriously?” I stared at her.

  She shrugged, smoothed her apron, and returned to stirring the pot of chili. “It’s possible, although I don’t know why anyone would want to kill sweet old George.”

  Was it possible? Nah. With all this Murder, She Wrote talk, we were being overly suspicious. George Brown’s death was a tragedy, but there was no reason to suspect it was anything other than a terrible accident. Still, I wondered what he’d written in that last blog.

  Aunt Abby glanced up at the clock. “Oh, goodness. It’s time to open up.”

  I moved to the window, rolled up the shutter, and saw the long line of customers.

  “Wait a minute!” Dillon said. “I haven’t told you the best part. Don’t you want to know who’s replacing George Brown in the competition?”

  “They already have a replacement?” I asked, glancing at Aunt Abby. “That was quick.”

  “Tell me about it,” Dillon said, tapping his notepad with his fingertip.

  “How did you find out?”

  “I have my ways,” he said, raising a thick, squirrely eyebrow.

  “Oh my God, you hacked into the festival’s computer too, didn’t you!” I said, raising both my eyebrows.

  Dillon glanced around. “Shh! You never know who might be listening.”

  Aunt Abby held up a just-a-minute finger to the first customer in her line. “So tell us. Who’s the new judge taking George’s place?”

  He looked at his notepad. “This chick named Polly Montgomery. Ever heard of her?”

  Aunt Abby shook her head.

  “Uh-oh,” I said under my breath.

  Aunt Abby and Dillon looked at me.

  “I know her,” I said. “I mean, I know of her. She’s the food editor at the Times. But we’ve never actually met. In person.”

  The truth was, Polly and I had had a couple of snippy exchanges via e-mail, when she disagreed with one of my restaurant reviews. She’d had the nerve to accuse me of making stuff up, which of course wasn’t true. I had given the restaurant an honest review. The food was tasteless, the service was lax, and the prices were high. I later learned one of Polly’s several ex-husbands owned the place.

  I had a sudden thought. “Aunt Abby, did you put my name on any of the entry forms?”

  “No. Just mine. Why?” Aunt Abby asked.

  “No reason,” I said. No sense in worrying my aunt that Polly Montgomery might be prejudicial if she knew I was part of Aunt Abby’s team. Nor did I want to get myself kicked off the team and lose a chance at that prize money. I didn’t know if Polly had that kind of power, but it wasn’t worth taking the risk.

  “What’s this Polly person like?” Aunt Abby asked me.

  I glanced out the window at the restless customers and said, “I’ll tell you later—”

  Dillon interrupted me and held up his notes. “She’s quite the party girl. Her name came up in all kinds of social-type articles. It’s rumored she’s hooked up with the ex-mayor, the owner of Chez Paris, and one of the news anchors on Channel 4, at least. And get this. They say she also hooked up with the former editor of Chocolatta magazine—your George Brown.”

  Aunt Abby’s face lost its pink color, but instead of tearing up again, she lifted her head, put on a smile, and she shoved open the school-bus service window. “What’ll you have?”

  Talk about bouncing back. What was going on behind those Kewpie-doll eyes of hers? Had her relationship with George years ago really been more than just friendship? Did she still have feelings for him? If her reaction to the news that the new judge, Polly Montgomery, had hooked up with her old flame, George Brown, was a barometer of her feelings, she was making a serious effort not to let them show.

  And if the restaurant world was as interconnected as it appeared to be, the chocolate community was even more so. Just like Cabot Cove.

  Chapter 3

  The theme song from Murder, She Wrote played in my head the rest of the day. I wondered if George’s death had anything to do with my earworm. Had he really died accidentally, as reported? Or was it something else, as Aunt Abby seemed to suspect?

  My thoughts jumped around like popping popcorn. George’s tragic death. His sudden replacement. The uncompromised competition. And now that my nemesis, Polly Montgomery, was to be the new festival judge, was I jeopardizing my aunt’s chances of winning if Polly found out I was part of Aunt Abby’s team? The woman clearly didn’t like me or the pen I wrote with.

  Maybe I should take a clue from one of Dillon’s amateur spy tricks and wear a disguise to the Chocolate Festival. Dillon had a penchant for dressing up like Inspector Clouseau, if not Inspector Gadget, anytime he felt especially paranoid. But I had a feeling I’d just look silly wearing a deerstalker cap and a London Fog trench coat to the event. What would Jessica Fletcher do?

  Exhausted by the time we had served our last customer and closed the counter window a
round four, I was really looking forward to relaxing with Jake. I’d missed him the past few weeks and hoped we could pick up where we left off. Besides, I craved another one of those new cream puffs he was entering in the contest. Hmm. Maybe if I ate up all of his supply he wouldn’t have any left to submit for competition.

  Bad Darcy.

  “Quitting time!” Aunt Abby sang out, removing her chili-encrusted apron and dropping it into the portable mesh laundry basket. “I’m making a caprese pizza tonight. Hope you didn’t nibble all day.”

  I took off my apron and tossed it on top of Aunt Abby’s. “Actually, I have plans after work.”

  “With Jake?” she asked with a bright grin.

  Nothing gets past my aunt.

  “We’re just having a drink. Maybe go to dinner afterward. I’m not sure yet.” I felt my face flush. “No big deal.”

  “Well, it sounds lovely. I was beginning to wonder if you two were still an item.”

  “An item?” I repeated with a laugh. “You sound like a gossip columnist from the fifties. I told you, we’re just friends.”

  “With benefits?” she asked, her grin widening.

  “Aunt Abby! First you talk like a retro news gal; then you switch to teenage slang.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” she said, eyeing me.

  I shook my head.

  “Just so you know, I have a sense about these things,” she said.

  “Yeah, as I recall, you had the same sense about Dillon and that hippy girl he was seeing in college. What did she call herself? Stormy Mountain? Steamy Magpie?”

  “Starry Meadow.”

  “Yeah, how did that work out?” Before she could answer, I added, “And by the way, where is your wayward son? He left right after the lunch rush to get a coffee and never came back.”

  “I told him he could take the rest of the afternoon off. Mondays are slow here, and I figured we could handle it. Besides, he’s doing some more digging for me.”

  Hacking was more likely, I thought, but bit my tongue. “What’s he looking for now?”

  She shrugged. “Just stuff—”

  Something caught Aunt Abby’s eye, and she leaned over to have a better look through the school-bus window. After a moment she pulled back, then glanced at me, her mascaraed lashes fluttering madly. Something was up.

  I leaned over to see what had shut her up and caused her eyelashes to flap like startled butterflies.

  It wasn’t hard to miss.

  Jake stood outside his truck talking to a woman. She was drop-dead gorgeous, with long blond hair, expert makeup, and a stylish suit made to fit her perfect curves. It took me a moment before I realized she looked familiar. I recognized Lyla Vassar, one of the feature reporters on Channel 2. She was talking animatedly to Jake.

  Uh-oh.

  Was she planning to do a special feature on Jake’s Dream Puff truck for the upcoming Chocolate Festival?

  Not fair.

  Aunt Abby and I continued to spy on the two of them. I wondered what Lyla was saying to Jake but couldn’t hear anything, thanks to the rumble of the food truck motors. Before I could sneak out and listen in, Lyla took a step closer to Jake. I froze as she laid a perfectly manicured hand on his chest. Then she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek!

  I felt my stomach drop, along with my jaw.

  Since when did TV interviewers kiss their prospective interviewees?

  I glanced over at Aunt Abby, who was standing behind me, watching the scene unfold.

  She gave me a pitying look and placed her hand on my back. “Darcy, I’m sure it’s not what it looks like.”

  I stepped away from the window, unable to watch any more.

  Aunt Abby continued to peer out. “She’s leaving,” she whispered, as if the couple might overhear her. Before I could see for myself, my cell phone rang.

  The caller ID read JAKE MILLER.

  I hesitated before answering, not sure I wanted to talk to him at the moment. I glanced out to see if Lyla was still there, but she was gone. Finally I took the call.

  “Hello?” I said, unable to muster up any cheerfulness in my voice.

  “Darcy?” came Jake’s low, sexy voice.

  “Oh, hi, Jake,” I said, trying to sound casual, if not completely disinterested. He’d just have to work harder if he still wanted that after-work drink and possible dinner we had planned. It was his punishment for flirting with Drop-Dead Gorgeous.

  “Hi, listen, uh, something’s come up. Sorry, but I have to cancel tonight. Rain check?”

  My hands turned cold. My stomach dropped. I pressed my lips together. He was actually canceling our plans.

  “Oh, sure. I understand,” I lied. “Another time.”

  “Soon, I promise,” he said. That was probably a lie too.

  “No problem. See you later.” I ended the call and stared at the phone as if it were a Ouija board about to give me an answer to my question.

  What was up with Dream Puff Jake Miller and Drop-Dead-Gorgeous Lyla Vassar?

  “You okay?” Aunt Abby asked.

  “Of course,” I said, trying to hide my feelings after seeing Jake’s flirtation with Lyla and his cancellation of our date. He and I didn’t have any kind of understanding, much less a commitment. We’d been on a few dates, kissed a few times. I’d wanted to take it slowly after my breakup with Trevor the Tool. Had I blown it?

  “I guess I’ll take you up on that dinner offer, after all,” I said glumly to my aunt. “I’ll see you at home.”

  She patted my back but said nothing. I glanced out the window to make sure the coast was clear—I wasn’t in the mood to run into Jake after his phone call. And I sure didn’t want to see his hot blonde. Awk-ward.

  I made a dash for my car in the adjacent parking lot, feeling wiped out physically, mentally, and emotionally. It had been a long day in the close confines of the school bus, feeding hungry patrons. I felt let down by Jake’s cancellation. And I was worried that my old feud with Polly Montgomery might affect Aunt Abby’s chances in the competition. I hoped a big glass of red wine, half a gourmet pizza, and a few whoopie pies would soothe my aching body and soul. Make that a half bottle of wine.

  When I reached my VW Bug, I found a small white box on my windshield. I checked the area for lurkers, but no one was around. Hesitantly, I opened the box and found a lemon meringue cream puff and a folded note inside. I took out the note and read it:

  Darcy, sorry again about having to cancel. I was looking forward to seeing you. I’ve missed you. I can’t explain now, but I’ve been dealing with something that’s taking up a lot of my free time. Hope to see you soon.

  —Jake.

  I smiled at the bittersweet note. Jake sounded sincere, and I wanted to believe him. But I couldn’t shake the image of that woman touching him, kissing him, and even a dozen cream puffs wouldn’t stop me from wondering what was going on. I assumed it had something to do with Lyla Vassar. Maybe she was doing a feature on him, but that kiss didn’t look like a thank-you peck.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the woman who had been flirting with Jake. She was texting on her phone, just outside her late-model BMW, so I got in my car and watched her from a distance. She frowned as she typed in her message, her demeanor completely different from the one she presented to Jake. I wondered what she was typing—and to whom—and imagined it had something to do with her encounter with Jake.

  Finally, she put the phone in her purse and got into her car. With a quick look around, she backed out of the parking spot, then started driving forward.

  She was headed right for me.

  I ducked down like an idiot as she approached, but it was too late. She’d caught me staring at her. I was certain she would stop her car and confront me, but instead I heard her rev her motor and drive off.

  Well played, D
arcy, I scolded myself. She’ll probably text Jake and ask him why that woman from the school-bus truck was spying on her in the parking lot just before she tried to duck down out of sight. I felt a wave of embarrassment pass through me.

  Enough! I told myself. I started the car, backed out of the spot, and headed for the safety of my Airstream home so I could take a long, hot shower and get started on that bottle of wine. Maybe that would help me wash down the bittersweet cream puff from Jake.

  * * *

  Dillon was sitting at the table with his laptop when I entered Abby’s home through the back sliding-glass door. I rarely saw him without an electronic device, except when he was helping Aunt Abby in the school bus. Even then he brought his laptop and cell phone with him and checked them every chance he got.

  “Darcy!” Aunt Abby exclaimed from the kitchen, as if she hadn’t seen me in years.

  She came over and gave me a big hug, followed at her feet by Basil, her Doxie, who barked a greeting. She cleared her throat to get Dillon’s attention. He grunted “Hey,” while keeping his eyes on the laptop screen. I sat down across from him, setting the small box with the untouched cream puff on the table. Aunt Abby immediately brought me a glass of Tournesol merlot—her favorite Napa Valley wine. I was tempted to chug it but didn’t want my aunt and cousin to think I had a drinking problem.

  “Thanks, Aunt Abby. Smells good in here.”

  “The pizza is just about ready. Enjoy your wine. Dillon has something to share with you—don’t you, Dillon?” She rested a hand on his shoulder. Basil barked again.

  Dillon blinked as if he were coming out of a trance and looked up at me. “Oh, uh, well. I’ve been doing some more research about the contest.”

  “You’re calling it research now?”

  “Dude,” Dillon said, “if you knew how easy it is to breach someone’s password, you’d be surprised.”

  “Okay, okay, you’re a genius. So did you find out anything else on the judges that can help us with the competition?” I took a sip of wine and felt my legs and arms begin to melt.

  “Not about the judges,” he said. “But I did find out a few things about the other contestants.”