Death of a Chocolate Cheater: A Food Festival Mystery

by Penny Pike

  Currently the stage area was occupied by a giant plastic vat the size of my VW. It was filled three-quarters full with a dark, thick liquid. One sniff and I knew immediately it was melted chocolate. Two large rollers, half-submerged in the liquid, churned the contents inside the vat, creating a roiling mini ocean of fragrant dark brown waves. I had to admit, it was impressive.

  Reina stood next to the vat, holding her microphone. As soon as everyone was assembled in the room, she began addressing the crowd again.

  “Welcome to one of the largest vats of chocolate in the nation!” she said proudly, as if she’d constructed it herself. The audience applauded, probably because it seemed the right thing to do.

  “The chocolate will be on view to Chocolate Festival participants during the two-day celebration, but you’re getting a preview of this magnificent beauty.” She smiled at the camera.

  The crowd didn’t seem as excited as Reina. Her smile fell, and she segued into the next part of her speech, reading from index cards she held in her hand.

  “As most of you chocolate connoisseurs probably know, chocolate was made from the Theobroma cacao trees in Mexico and South America for more than three millennia. We can thank the Maya and Aztecs, who created the very first chocolate drink. Unfortunately, it was a very bitter drink, and it wasn’t until the Europeans added sugar and fat that it became the delicious and popular chocolate we know today.”

  Several people in the audience yawned. I wondered where all this Wikipedia stuff was going. I glanced over to see if J.C. was still recording. Indeed, he was capturing every moment.

  Aunt Abby nudged me. “You know, those same chemicals can kill dogs and cats. I never give Basil any chocolate, no matter how much he begs.”

  I smiled at Aunt Abby’s comment, then turned my attention back to Reina.

  “Now, most of our cocoa comes from the Ivory Coast, thanks to Frankie Nudo and his successful family business.”

  Reina gestured toward Frankie, dressed tonight in an ill-fitting suit, his dark hair slicked back. The crowd turned to him. He humbly bowed his head, and they dutifully applauded.

  When the applause died down, a voice called from the back of the room, “I wonder if his business would be so successful if he didn’t use child labor!”

  The crowd gasped and looked for the heckler. J.C. turned the lens of his camera on the young black man wearing jeans and a T-shirt that read “Fill Your Piehole.” Griffin Makeba, the Pie Guy. I glanced over at Frankie, who stood a few feet away. He’d turned beet red.

  Reina snapped back, “I’m sure I don’t know about that, but I doubt it’s true. Child labor is illegal.”

  “Not in Africa!” Griffin called out.

  “Hey, buddy!” Frankie Nudo stepped up through the crowd. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! My people aren’t involved in that kind of thing, so shut your piehole!”

  Griffin mumbled something under his breath, then downed the rest of his wine, turned on his heel, and left the room.

  “All right, everyone,” Reina said, forcing a smile, “as I was about to say, we’re here to celebrate chocolate, not complain about it.” She laughed self-consciously into the camera. “Did you know that cocoa beans were so valuable in the past, they were used as currency?”

  Aunt Abby nudged me and whispered, “Will work for chocolate.”

  I nudged her back.

  “These days there are two types of chocolate entrepreneurs,” Reina continued. “Chocolate makers, like Frankie, who harvest the beans and process the chocolate.” She waved her arm in his direction. “And chocolatiers, like many of the rest of you, who use the finished product to make your treats.” Reina pointed them out as she mentioned their names.

  As she continued, the crowd began side conversations, and I had the sense she was losing their attention. She seemed to realize this, and after a brief pause, she gestured for J.C. to shine his camera light on the vat next to her.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said into the microphone. “Next to me is a vat of liquid chocolate that’s being mixed by a process called conching. Inside the container are metal beads and giant roller blades that grind, refine, and blend the chocolate, keeping it in a liquid state of one hundred thirteen degrees. The more conching, the better the chocolate. This batch will be conched for about seventy-two hours, to produce the highest quality.”

  Unfortunately for Reina, the natives were growing restless. Even the vat of chocolate wasn’t enough to hold the crowd’s attention during her lecture.

  “And finally,” Reina said, winding up her speech.

  Thank God, I thought.

  “The health benefits of chocolate are impressive.” Reina continued to list all of them. That got some appreciative oohs and aahs from the audience.

  “Now,” Reina said, “to thank you all for your hard work to help make this a successful Chocolate Festival, the servers will be bringing out samples of tomorrow’s contest entries for a sneak preview. Enjoy!”

  The partygoers gave it up for the hostess, then sipped their drinks and waited for the tasty finale. Servers in black uniforms appeared carrying silver trays, each one laden with chocolate treats. I saw Aunt Abby’s whoopie pies and Jake’s cream puffs go whooshing by faster than I could grab them. I was able to snatch only a knife-shaped chocolate from a platter filled with edible silverware—one of many novelty chocolates Aunt Abby’s friend Wendy Spellman had made—before the rest were devoured by other guests. Unfortunately, I missed out on the remaining entries, which were gone seconds after they arrived.

  “Well, that was disappointing,” I said to Jake and Aunt Abby. My aunt looked a little bewildered at the speed in which the treats had disappeared. Moments later Dillon appeared holding a napkin filled with an array of chocolate goodies.

  “How did you get all those?” I demanded, noticing a smear of chocolate on his right cheek. “I barely managed to nab a chocolate knife, and your mother didn’t get a bite of anything.”

  “Stealth,” he said with a mouthful of something brown and gooey. “And it helps to look like a waiter. You get your own tray.”

  Yeah, Dillon was about as stealthy as a sugar-crazed kid in a candy shop. I tried to snag one of the delicacies off his napkin, but he pulled it away just in time.

  “Greedy,” I said.

  “Jealous,” he returned.

  “You just said chocolate causes health problems,” I reminded him.

  “Better than all that coffee you drink,” he countered.

  “Children! Hush!” Aunt Abby said sternly, then checked her Mickey Mouse watch. “It’s late, and I need to get home and make sure I’m ready for the festival tomorrow.”

  “Good luck, Abby,” Jake said. “I’m sure those whoopie pies are to die for.”

  “You too, Jake.” Aunt Abby gave him a hug. “May the best chocolatier win.”

  Jake reached out and touched my arm. “See you tomorrow?”

  I nodded and bit the tip off the chocolate knife I was still wielding.

  Suddenly, someone screamed.

  The crowd froze and hushed.

  Not again, I thought. Was Polly back for an encore?

  I turned to Reina, still standing on the stage. She was staring at the vat of chocolate next to her, her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.

  Through the crowd, I strained to see what had happened.

  I wished I hadn’t.

  I could just make out a human hand, pressed against the inside of the clear plastic vat.

  Chapter 6

  While most of the crowd turned away from the horrifying sight, I couldn’t take my eyes off the vat of chocolate. Maybe because I couldn’t really believe my eyes. Was there really a body in there? The hand, bobbing slowly with each turn of the mixer, convinced me it was. In spite of the fact that I’d helped to solve a double murder recently, I’d
never actually seen a dead person. I always wondered how I’d react. Now I knew. It was surreal.

  “Turn it off!” Reina screamed, shaking me out of my hypnotic stupor. “Turn it off!” she screamed again over the incessant humming of the vat’s churning rollers.

  At first I thought she meant the digital camera, which was still capturing every moment of the unfolding drama. But Reina was pointing to a power cord that led from the vat, off the stage, and across the floor to an outlet. Jake rushed over and yanked the cord from the socket.

  The motor went deadly quiet.

  “Everyone out! Now!” Reina shouted.

  The hushed crowd stared at her.

  “I said get out!” She waved her hands wildly as if that would shoo everyone away.

  After another shocked moment of silence, the crowd began whispering and mumbling and pulling out cell phones. Two staff members started guiding the guests out of the ballroom and herding them downstairs. As soon as one of the staff announced the bar was still open, the displaced crowd made a mass exodus to collect their medicinal antidotes to the disturbing incident.

  Only Jake, Aunt Abby, Dillon, J.C., and I remained with a visibly distraught Reina. I spotted Jake on his cell phone, no doubt calling the police again. Thank goodness there was at least one level head in the chaotic scene. Aunt Abby rushed to Reina’s side to help console the trembling hostess, while Dillon craned his neck to stare at the vat, as if trying to see the rest of the victim through the chocolate sludge.

  “Oh my God!” Reina kept repeating as Aunt Abby helped her down from the stage. “This can’t be happening! The Chocolate Festival will be ruined! Oh dear God!”

  The festival? Was that uppermost in her mind? What about the poor chocolate-covered victim who had seemingly fallen into the vat and drowned in hot liquid? I had to cut Reina some slack. She was probably in shock.

  Abby eased Reina into a nearby chair, then looked at me for help and shrugged. I shrugged back, also feeling helpless. Jake hung up the phone, said something to a staff member who was milling around, then headed over to me.

  “You called the police?” I asked.

  He nodded. “They’ll be here any minute. I told the waiter to make sure no one leaves the building. The police will want statements.”

  “I think most of them are in the bar downstairs.”

  Jake touched my arm as if to reassure me before heading out of the ballroom to double-check on the crowd. I looked for Aunt Abby, avoiding eye contact with the vat, and saw her sitting with Reina at a small table, her face buried in her hands. Dillon was talking to J.C., the camera guy, no doubt asking him inappropriate questions about his camera. I wondered how much J.C. had captured on his camera. I headed over to tell them the police were on their way, still averting my eyes from the body in the chocolate, and caught Dillon in midsentence.

  “. . . must be a woman,” he said, nodding toward the vat.

  Before I could stop myself, I turned to look at the Plexiglas tub, wondering what had made him say it was a woman. How could he possibly tell? The only thing I could see was that hand, pressed against the side of the plastic container.

  And then I saw what he’d seen—what I had missed the first time I’d looked at the vat. There was a ring on the hand. Even though it was covered in chocolate, it was unmistakable—a diamond the size of an M&M.

  Oh my God.

  Polly Montgomery?

  * * *

  Before I could say anything, a deep voice bellowed from the doorway of the ballroom.

  “Where’s the victim?”

  I turned to see three uniformed officers—two men and a woman—accompanied by a large black man in a black suit. It was none other than Detective Wellesley Shelton, my nemesis and my aunt’s crush.

  Detective Shelton had handled the homicide investigation I’d been involved in a while back and had even brought my aunt in for questioning, since she’d had a public altercation with one of the victims only hours before the murder. I think my aunt mistook the detective’s initial attention for personal interest and she’d flirted with him shamelessly. But ever since he’d visited her in the hospital, he’d warmed to her. Now I suspected he had a genuine affection for her. They’d been dating for several weeks, and Aunt Abby seemed happier than ever.

  Aunt Abby lit up at the sight of the detective and waved. I saw a crinkle at the side of his mouth when their gazes crossed. The beginning of a smile? Before I could be sure, the expression disappeared.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked her bluntly. He spotted me, then Dillon, and shook his head. “Not again.”

  Before Aunt Abby could reply, Dillon waved from across the room. “Over here, Detective,” he said, pointing toward the plastic tub.

  Detective Shelton frowned. “Stay here,” he ordered before heading over.

  “What’s his problem?” Aunt Abby whispered to me.

  I shrugged. “He’s working, Aunt Abby. I’m sure it’s nothing personal.”

  Dillon took a few steps closer to the vat and pointed at the hand.

  The detective stepped up on the small stage, leaned over the edge of the vat, and rubbed his curly, graying black hair. “How in the hell . . . ?”

  Good question, I thought. How could anyone end up like that without help? The top of the vat was as tall as the detective’s waist. You have to lean over pretty far to fall in.

  The detective turned back to the six of us and verbalized my thoughts. “Do any of you know how this happened?”

  We all shook our heads.

  “Any idea who it is?”

  When no one said anything, I ventured, “I think I know.”

  Detective Shelton focused his dark gaze on me. “That figures . . . ,” I thought I heard him mumble. “Well?” he said louder, prompting me to continue.

  “I think it’s one of the judges for the Chocolate Festival competition. If I’m right, her name is Polly Montgomery.”

  The others looked at me, mouths agape at my announcement.

  “And how would you happen to know that, Ms. Burnett?” the detective said, eyeing me.

  “The ring,” I replied simply, as if that would be enough for a smart detective to figure out.

  Detective Shelton turned back to the vat and studied the chocolate-covered hand pressed against the clear wall of the container.

  “That’s quite a ring,” he said, looking back at me for confirmation.

  “She was wearing it this evening,” I offered.

  “Yes!” Reina suddenly spoke up. “That’s Polly’s ring! It’s called a chocolate diamond. She was showing it off to everyone.”

  “A chocolate diamond?” the detective said. “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s basically a brown diamond, but retailers don’t think that sounds very attractive so they call them chocolate diamonds,” Reina said. “I’d love one, but I can’t afford it. The hundred-carat ones are pretty rare and very expensive. I think hers was cinnamon. You can get them in cinnamon, champagne, honey, cognac, or clove.”

  Wow, this lady knew a lot about diamonds.

  “I’m sure that’s Polly’s diamond,” Reina said, tearing up. “Oh my God . . . poor Polly. . . .”

  I was afraid Reina was about to turn into a blubbering mess, but she controlled herself and accepted the tissue Aunt Abby offered from her purse.

  “Did you know her well?” the detective asked Reina. He pulled out his notebook, ready to write down any details he deemed important.

  “Not really,” Reina said. “But everyone knows something about everyone in the food business—at least a little bit. It’s a small community.”

  The detective nodded and wrote something in his notebook. “Any idea how she might have ended up . . . in there?” He gestured toward the vat with his pen.

  “I have no idea,” Reina said, tearing up again. “She was
a little intoxicated—”

  “She was a lot intoxicated,” Dillon tossed out.

  Reina shot him a sharp look before continuing. “She may have had a little too much to drink, but—”

  “I’m telling you, she was crunk,” Dillon said, unable to keep from interrupting.

  “Crunk?” I repeated.

  “Crazy drunk. Wasted. Hammered. Smashed. Trashed. Faded . . .”

  The detective held up a hand to Dillon. “I got it.” He turned his attention back to Reina. “All right, so she was intoxicated. How does that explain how she ended up in there?”

  “Fell in, maybe,” Dillon offered.

  I shook my head at him. The guy didn’t know when to keep quiet.

  “Fell in?” The detective repeated the words, his eyebrows raised skeptically.

  Dillon shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been her first fall.”

  “What do you mean?” Detective Shelton asked, frowning.

  Jake stepped up to explain. “I think what Dillon means is, at the party this evening, Ms. Montgomery tried to climb up on one of the tables to make some kind of announcement. She slipped and fell facedown on top of the table.”

  “A bunch of us thought she’d dropped dead,” Aunt Abby said, her eyes wide. “Then she rolled over, laughed, and asked Jake to help her off the table.”

  “After that, Reina sent her back to her hotel,” J.C. said. He held the camera up as he spoke, obviously recording the detective’s visit. Anything for ratings, I thought, even on a food show.

  “Turn off the camera,” Detective Shelton ordered. “What’s on the tape?”

  J.C. shrugged. “It’s digital, not tape. Nothing about Polly falling into the vat of chocolate, if that’s what you’re asking. Just some party footage for the Food Network.”

  “I’m going to need that tape or whatever it is,” the detective said. He nodded to one of his officers to retrieve it.

  J.C. lowered the camera. “I told you, it’s digital. I’ll have to send it to your computer. But there’s no way you’re getting my camera. There’s never been a death on a cooking show before. The audience will eat it up.”