Death of a Chocolate Cheater: A Food Festival Mystery

by Penny Pike

  I sat up straighter. “Really? You know who they are? I didn’t think they were going to announce them until the night before the competition, at the preview party.”

  Dillon smiled. He could be so smug.

  “All right, so what did you find out?” I asked, intrigued.

  “It’ll cost you that cream puff over there.” He pointed to the box on the table that Jake had left for me at my car.

  “How do you know it’s a cream puff?” I asked.

  He pointed to the printing on the box that read DREAM PUFFS. “Duh.”

  “Fine,” I said. I hadn’t had the stomach to eat it, nor the heart to throw it away. Now I wouldn’t have to think about it anymore. I pushed it over to him.

  “Okay,” Dillon said, happy with his payment. “Like, there are five other contestants besides Mom and Jake. Ever heard of Frankie Nudo from Choco-Cheese Delights?”

  I shook my head at both the name and the thought of chocolate and cheese combined. Maybe I didn’t know what I was missing.

  “Frankie’s quite a character,” Aunt Abby said. “He’s divorced—something about his wife caught him cheating.”

  “You know him?” I asked, surprised at the number of people Aunt Abby had met after starting her food truck business.

  “Like I said, it’s a small community. Especially among the chocolate people. Frankie was one of the first to combine chocolate with cheese, and it’s become quite popular. Isn’t it amazing how many foods taste better with a chocolate coating?”

  I nodded. “Do you think he has a chance of winning?” I asked.

  Aunt Abby shrugged. “Probably not. While some people like the combination of chocolate and cheese, most are like you and won’t even try it. I think you have to have a sophisticated palate to enjoy chocolate-covered Brie, you know?”

  “Yuck,” Dillon said simply. “Sounds disgusting. I wouldn’t eat American cheese dipped in chocolate, let alone something like moldy old Brie.”

  “That’s good mold, Dillon,” Aunt Abby said. “It’s called Penicillium candidum. The bacteria seep into the cheese and turn it into a wonderful, soft, tasty delicacy.”

  “A good mold?” he protested. “Right.”

  “It’s true,” Aunt Abby confirmed. “There are good molds, like the ones covering soft cheese, and bad molds, like on bread, which create toxins that will make you sick. When in doubt, throw it out, I always say. But not Brie.”

  “I’m still not going to eat it,” Dillon said. “Let’s move on. Next, there’s Harrison Tofflemire from Chocolate Falls. His company makes those chocolate waterfall thingies.”

  “Chocolate Falls? I love those gizmos!” Aunt Abby interrupted. “That’s the fastest and easiest way to cover foods with chocolate—strawberries, caramels, marshmallows, bacon.”

  Dillon winced at the bacon reference. “Anyway, he’s gotten rich off them. Claims he invented them and he sues anyone who’s tried to copy him. From his Chocolate Falls website, he sounds like a jerk. Whenever he gets a complaint in the comments section, he makes the person sound like an idiot, like whatever is wrong with the thing is the user’s fault.”

  “Really?” Aunt Abby said.

  “Yeah, like, one lady wrote in and said the chocolate doesn’t flow evenly down the tiers. Harrison told the lady she didn’t set up her machine right and should get someone who knows how to put things together to do it.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Sounds like he’s a little short on customer-service skills.”

  “Another lady said the chocolate is either too thick like pudding or too watery, never just right.”

  “What did he say to that?” Aunt Abby asked.

  “He wrote back, ‘Follow the directions better and use better chocolate, not the cheap stuff.’”

  “Jeez. It’s a wonder he’s still in business with that attitude,” I said.

  “My favorite one was from someone who complained that the fountain was lopsided. He told her to put it on a level surface, as if she wouldn’t already have done that.”

  Aunt Abby frowned. “Well, I’m not looking forward to meeting Harrison Tofflemire—that’s for sure. You’re right; he is a jerk.”

  “There’s a bunch more like those,” Dillon said. “Complaints about the temperature, the design, the weight of the thing, how flimsy it is. Plus how hard it is to get it fixed or get a refund.”

  “We’ll have to see what his chocolate tastes like,” Aunt Abby said. “If his Chocolate Falls machine is so shoddy, I’d imagine his chocolate will be too. It may be game over for Mr. Tofflemire.”

  “Maybe not,” Dillon said, raising an eyebrow. “He may have an advantage at the festival—at least with the guys. Get a load of this.” Dillon turned his iPhone toward them, revealing two beautiful, buxom girls dressed in skimpy cheerleading outfits.

  “Who are they?” I asked.

  “‘Jezebel’ and ‘Delilah,’ his college-age twin daughters. At least, that’s what I call them. Apparently, they help out at his shop—and they wear those cheerleading outfits. According to Harrison, business is booming, with guys coming in off the streets to buy chocolate-covered whatevers.”

  Aunt Abby shook her head. “Well, he may pull in the most money, using those kinds of visual lures, but when it comes to the contest, taste will tell.”

  Dillon shrugged. “Next there’s some chick named Mon-it Richards.”

  “Monet,” Aunt Abby corrected, pronouncing the name with a French accent: Mon-nay. “Like the painter, dear.”

  “You know her too?” I asked.

  “I’ve heard of her. She owns a truck that makes ice-cream-cake cones in all kinds of flavors and colors. As a matter of fact, she’s been trying to snag a spot for her I Scream Cupcakes truck at Fort Mason for months.”

  “Okay, so Moh-NAY,” Dillon said, mocking the French pronunciation. “I suppose it’s Ree-SHARDS, not Richards?”

  Aunt Abby shrugged him off. “What did you find out about her?”

  “She’s hot,” Dillon said, staring at his iPhone screen. After a few seconds, he turned the screen around so we could see.

  She was hot.

  She had shoulder-length dark hair that tumbled over one eye and a beauty mark under the other, heavily made-up eye. Her pouty lips were painted bright red, matching her red fingernails. She appeared to be posing in front of her truck in a tight black leotard-looking outfit, as if presenting her business—or herself—like Vanna White might do showcasing a winning prize. With that too-tiny waist, those larger-than-life breasts, and that self-confident smirk on her face, I hated her immediately. This competition was on.

  “Better keep her away from Jake,” Dillon added.

  I glared at him.

  “Who else?” Aunt Abby said, distracting us from a possible food fight.

  Dillon checked his notes on his iPhone. “Some dude named Griffin Makeba. Calls himself the ‘Pie Man’ and owns the ‘Piehole’ truck.” Dillon used air quotes at each pie reference.

  “I’ve seen it around,” Aunt Abby said. “He parks illegally at a bunch of different places until they run him off. Pies? How much competition can he be? Besides, he’s just a kid.” Anyone under forty was “just a kid” to my sixtysomething aunt.

  “His pies are getting good write-ups on Yelp, Off the Grid, and Food Mafia. He says he uses his grandmother’s secret pie recipe, the one she used to make as a cook for a plantation owner. He says the secret has African roots, but he won’t give out the recipe or talk about the ingredients.”

  “Hmm. Secretive, eh?” I said, as if I were about to take on the role of Sherlock Holmes. “Interesting.”

  “I’ve never been a fan of chocolate pie,” Aunt Abby said. “Too sweet, too gushy, too intense. My mother used to make chocolate silk pies for my dad for his birthday, but I only ate the ice cream that came with it.”

  “So t
hat’s why you’ve never made a chocolate pie?” Dillon asked. “Because you don’t like them? Did you ever think I might want to try one?”

  “Guilt trip,” I whispered to Aunt Abby. “Just ignore him.”

  “Is that it?” Aunt Abby asked.

  Dillon looked at his phone. “There’s one more. Some old lady named Wendy Spellman. She supposedly has a little shop at Pier 39 called Candyland.”

  “Wendy Spellman?” Aunt Abby exclaimed. “Oh my goodness! Wendy’s an old friend! I didn’t know she was competing.”

  “Was she from culinary school too?” I asked, remembering her friendship with George Brown, now deceased.

  “No. We met in high school. We used to be in the Cooking Club together at Balboa High. I lost track of her when I went to culinary school and she went to community college. After all these years, we reconnected again on Facebook.”

  Dillon rolled his eyes. Facebook was so yesterday for the younger generation, but the older folks had embraced it. I had closed all of my social networking accounts after I found out about Trevor cheating on me because I’d found out about it on his Facebook page.

  “Have you talked to her in person? Do you know anything more about her?” I asked.

  Aunt Abby shook her head. “All I know is from her Facebook postings. She posts about her candy shop a lot—the pictures of her candy creations are incredible—but she never mentioned she was entering the contest. I keep meaning to get over there and say hi, but I’ve been so busy.”

  “Didn’t she stop by when Dad died last year?” Dillon asked.

  “As a matter of fact, you’re right,” Aunt Abby said, looking off into the distance. “I forgot about that. She brought that lovely wreath made out of candy. How could I have forgotten?” She looked at Dillon. “And how did you happen to remember her with all those people who came to the memorial?”

  Dillon made a face. “She seemed kinda crazy.”

  Aunt Abby huffed. “No crazier than I am. Besides, sane people are boring.”

  “What did she do that makes you say that, Dillon?” I asked, curious about Aunt Abby’s old friend and now competitor.

  “Well, first, she wore that bright-colored dress and big hat full of flowers, as if she were going to the Easter parade or something.”

  Aunt Abby nodded. “She always did have a flair for fashion.”

  I kept my snort to myself.

  “Then she went around tasting all the food without taking any on a plate, like she couldn’t commit to any one thing and had to have it all. It was weird.”

  “She’s a culinary artist, like me,” Aunt Abby said. “We taste things. It’s the way we roll.”

  I had to stuff another snort at her choice of hipster lingo. My aunt, the gangsta/thug wannabe.

  “That’s not all,” Dillon said, raising an eyebrow. “She was, like, flirting with everyone there.” He suddenly turned bright red.

  “Oh my God!” I said, grinning. “You think Wendy Spellman came on to you!”

  Aunt Abby blinked. “Are you sure, Dillon? I mean, she’s my age. I hardly think she’d be interested in a college boy.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, when she hugged me, she put her hand on my butt.”

  I didn’t think Aunt Abby would have a comeback for that bombshell, but she surprised me and said, “Well, you’re a very handsome young man, Dillon.”

  I could no longer hold back my laughter.

  Dillon glared at me and slammed the laptop closed. “That’s it. You want my help? Forget it.”

  “Oh, don’t be that way, dear,” Aunt Abby said. “We’re very grateful for all that you do. I don’t suppose you found out what the other contestants are making for the competition.”

  Dillon’s frown softened. “Not yet. It’s apparently top secret. But I will.” The gleam was back in his eye.

  At least I knew what Jake was making—those killer mocha cream puffs. But I hadn’t had the chance to tell him that Aunt Abby was in the competition too. I wondered what he’d think of that.

  Not that I cared.

  Aunt Abby brought the caprese pizza to the table, along with a fresh green salad filled with cherry tomatoes, Kalamata olives, and mozzarella cheese. Everything looked and smelled delicious. No one could beat Aunt Abby’s cooking, even if she’d honed her skills at the local school cafeteria. I took another long sip of wine in preparation for my first bite.

  “Well, the competition doesn’t sound too stiff,” I said to Aunt Abby. “I’m sure you’ll cook them under the table, so to speak.” I helped myself to salad and a slice of pizza, putting everything on my plate. “Although Jake may have a slight edge,” I added quietly.

  “What?” Aunt Abby said, frowning.

  I looked up at her. Uh-oh. Did I just say that out loud?

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, trying to spear some lettuce leaves with my fork.

  “Darcy . . . ,” Aunt Abby said.

  “Really, it’s nothing. That woman we saw him talking to? I didn’t tell you, but that was Lyla Vassar. She’s a feature reporter for Channel 2.”

  Aunt Abby’s eyes widened. “Uh-oh. Don’t tell me she’s going to do a story on him for TV.”

  I shrugged and looked down at my food, not wanting to see the disappointment in Aunt Abby’s face. “Even if she is, I wouldn’t worry. It won’t help him,” I finally said, trying to reassure her. “Granted his cream puffs are great, but your whoopie pies are out of this world.”

  I glanced at Dillon for reinforcement, but he was busy on his laptop again. It must have been important enough to keep him from eating. Ordinarily, nothing came between food and Dillon’s mouth.

  “Dillon?” I asked. “Did you find something else?”

  Dillon frowned, keyed in a few more strokes at rapid-fire speed, then eventually looked up at me. “Uh . . . I don’t think Jake’s getting a special feature on TV from that news chick.”

  “Why not?” I asked. “You didn’t see them this afternoon. They were having quite the conversation. She was flirting her ass off with him.”

  Dillon closed his laptop. “I think they call it nepotism or something.”

  I frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”

  Dillon sighed. “That reporter—Lyla Vassar?”

  “Yeah. What about her? Did you find something?”

  Dillon hesitated.

  “What? Tell me!”

  Still frowning, he looked up at me with his big brown eyes. “Lyla Vassar is Jake’s ex-fiancée.”

  Oh my God. Jake had never told me her name, and I had never asked.

  What the hell was his drop-dead-gorgeous ex doing sniffing around Jake again?

  And touching him.

  And kissing him.

  There could be only one reason.

  She wanted to be friends . . . with benefits.

  Or more. She wanted to get back together.

  Chapter 4

  The San Francisco Chocolate Festival couldn’t come fast enough. I needed something to distract me from thinking about Jake. I hadn’t seen him much in the last two weeks, mainly because I’d been avoiding him after spotting him with his ex. Plus, Lyla had been by several more times to see him, disappearing into his cream puff truck for who knows what.

  I made the mistake of checking her out on the Internet. As a feature reporter for Channel 2, she was all over the place. Black-tie charity event for Children’s Hospital? She was there, dressed in a black-and-white suit and interviewing the mayor. Bay to Breakers run? She was there, making her souvenir T-shirt look like an exclusive designer top as she chatted with the station’s sports reporter. Gay Pride Parade? She was there, draped in a rainbow of colors and talking with Gavin Newsom, a leader in San Francisco’s gay rights causes. Polar Bear Plunge? She was there, wearing barely anything more than a
bikini and goose bumps as she plunged into the freezing water at Aquatic Park.

  And hardly a long blond-highlighted hair out of place.

  So this was Jake’s ex? Beauty-queen looks, workout body, and popular TV personality? With her back in his life, no wonder he hadn’t been available lately.

  I did a little more research, suddenly obsessed with Lyla Vassar, and found so many links, it would have taken days to read every detail. I decided to focus on her Facebook page and had easy access to her “Lyla Vassar, Channel 2” page. Her personal page offered little information to people who weren’t friends, so I put in a request, hoping she’d think I was a fan and maybe give me clearance. In the meantime, I scoured her professional page and learned five useful tidbits:

  1. She’d been at Channel 2 since leaving college six years ago, after winning the titles of “Miss California Animal Rights,” “Miss Keep California Green,” and “Miss Gilroy Garlic Festival.”

  Great. She really was a beauty queen.

  2. Her relationship status was “single.”

  Uh-oh. I thought Jake had said she’d taken up with the DA who prosecuted him.

  3. She was “super grateful” for the award she received for her exposé on the city’s homeless pigeon population.

  Seriously?

  4. She thought San Francisco was the “Best City in California!”

  and

  5. She was “totally psyched” about her upcoming feature on the San Francisco Chocolate Festival.

  I was doomed. Now that I knew she was “single” and “psyched” about the Chocolate Festival, I was certain something was going on between her and Jake. When Jake did call, I let it go to voice mail, and when he stopped by, I told him I was too busy to take a break. There was no way I could compete with Drop Dead, and after my breakup with Trevor the Tool, I wasn’t about to get my heart broken again so soon. By the end of the week, he seemed to have gotten the message. The calls and drop-by visits had stopped and I hardly missed him.

  Crap. Who was I kidding?

  Luckily, I had lots to keep me busy. With the Chocolate Festival a day away, Aunt Abby had Dillon and me making whoopie pies until I was sick of the sight of them. She hoped to collect a bunch of tickets from attendees for her contest entry, win that ample prize money, and hopefully gain fame from being featured on the Food Network show. Success came down to a bite-sized melt-in-your-mouth dark-chocolate-and-raspberry-mocha- cream sandwich.