Death of a Chocolate Cheater: A Food Festival Mystery

by Penny Pike

  I locked the RV door behind me, glanced up at the smiling cat, and noted the late hour. Tomorrow I’d need a good dose of the Coffee Witch’s Voodoo Vente—a latte with a double shot of espresso and a melted Mars bar—to function in the morning, after all that wine at the party.

  I changed into the Tinker Bell nightshirt Aunt Abby had given me, climbed into my cozy bed, and was half-asleep when something at the back of my mind nudged me awake.

  Two chocolate contest judges were now dead.

  A coincidence?

  What were the odds?

  I got out my laptop to do a search for Delbert Morris, the judge Reina had mentioned as the replacement for Polly Montgomery. I’d asked Aunt Abby on the ride back if she’d heard of him. She hadn’t. I typed in the name. Dozens of hits appeared. As odd as it seemed, there were more Delbert Morrises than I’d expected. I tried “Delbert Morris San Francisco,” “Delbert Morris chocolatier,” “Delbert Morris judge,” and a few other combinations, but nothing turned up. The only thing I could find was a website for Toujour Truffles, and all it had was a list of their specialty chocolates, an address, and an e-mail.

  Delbert Morris was turning out to be a needle in a haystack—and I couldn’t even find the haystack. I made a mental note to ask Reina more about the guy when I saw her tomorrow at the festival. What were his credentials? Where was he from? Had he done any judging before? Not that it mattered, but it would be nice to know who we were dealing with when it came time for the contest.

  My mind was still whirling, so I played a couple of games of Spider Solitaire before shutting down the computer. I switched off the lights and pulled up the Disney Princess comforter, snuggling in. While I didn’t exactly feel like a princess at the moment, it was kind of nice being surrounded by the Happiest Characters on Earth.

  If only Polly had had some pixie dust, maybe she wouldn’t have fallen into that vat of chocolate. But not even Walt Disney’s Imagineers could help her now.

  * * *

  I thought I was dreaming when I heard the sound of a cell phone. I was trapped on a small boat in a dark tunnel where millions of robotic children were singing “It’s a Small World.” Talk about a nightmare.

  I sat up in the darkness and felt for my cell phone on the small built-in end table next to the bed. Before I could answer, I heard someone pounding on the door of the RV. I grabbed a sweatshirt and pulled it on over my nightshirt, grabbed the first weapon I could find—my hair straightener—and called out, “Who’s there?”

  “Me!” Aunt Abby called back. “Who else could it be?”

  I yanked open the door. Aunt Abby stood there wrapped in a Minnie Mouse–emblazoned red robe, her face makeup-free, her hair in old-fashioned curlers. If I hadn’t known it was her, it would have scared the crap out of me.

  I frowned. “Are you all right?” I glanced at the Cheshire Cat. Eleven thirty. Really? It felt much later.

  “Oh yes, sweetie, I’m fine,” Aunt Abby said, climbing the two steps and entering the RV. I could hear excitement in her voice. “Sorry if I woke you. You weren’t in bed already, were you?”

  Apparently I had hit that pillow hard. “Uh, I was just about to go to bed,” I lied, stifling a yawn. “What’s up?”

  She slid into a booth seat. “Dillon hacked into the SFPD’s database.”

  “What?”

  Aunt Abby made a shushing gesture, as if someone might overhear us in the dead of night in the RV. “He read the medical examiner’s preliminary report.”

  Oh my God. That kid of hers was sure to end up in prison one day.

  I slid into the booth opposite her. “Obviously he found out something or you wouldn’t be here.”

  She nodded. “According to the report, the ME noted something suspicious on the body.”

  “He’s already done with the autopsy?” I asked, surprised. Like Wendy Spellman, almost all I knew about forensics I’d learned from watching cop shows on TV, and while they tended to speed up the time s, this seemed too fast for real life.

  “No. It’s the preliminary exam. And the ME’s a she. Guess what she found?” Aunt Abby’s eyes twinkled, even without makeup. I had a feeling she was enjoying her new role as Jessica Fletcher.

  “What?”

  “A contusion.”

  “A what?” I hated it when my aunt used cop talk.

  “A gash. On the top of her head.”

  I shrugged. “That’s probably where the blade hit her and caused her to fall in.”

  “She noted that the contusion didn’t seem to be consistent with the description of the blade. The blade would have hit her along the side of the head, but the gash was right on top of her head. And it was jagged, not smooth.”

  I let her words sink in for a moment. “You mean she thinks . . .”

  “. . . Polly was struck on the top of her head first.”

  “And then . . . ?”

  “And then dumped into the vat.”

  “Which means . . . ?”

  “Polly Montgomery was murdered!”

  Chapter 8

  “Oh my God!” I said. “Are you sure Dillon got the information right?”

  Aunt Abby looked as if she’d just solved the case. “That’s what he said. It’s all in the ME’s report.”

  She rose, retrieved the Beauty and the Beast teakettle she’d given me, and filled it with water. Aunt Abby offered full hookups for her RV, including a cord for electricity and a hose for water. Mrs. Potts’s smiling face and bright eyes promised a happy cup of tea, and apparently Aunt Abby was going to deliver it. I wasn’t about to get back to bed anytime soon.

  “So, the ME thinks she was murdered?”

  My aunt retrieved two matching Chip teacups from the small overhead cupboard and set them on the microcounter, then rummaged through the pocket of her robe and pulled out two bags of tea. “Peppermint chocolate or chocolate raspberry?” she asked.

  Chocolate? I’d had my fill only a short time ago. Funny how that craving reappeared so quickly. I’m not much of a tea lover, but I’ll drink anything chocolate. “Where did you get those?”

  “Stole ’em from the party tonight.”

  I pointed to the chocolate raspberry tea bag in her left hand, and she dropped it into one of the cutesy cups, then placed the minty one in the other cup. She sat down to wait for the water to boil.

  “Have you talked to Detective Shelton?” I asked. “Does he have any idea who did it?”

  Aunt Abby shook her head. One of her curlers came loose, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I haven’t heard a word from him. He said something about it being a conflict of interest when I spoke with him earlier. But I’m sure he’s got a long list of suspects, since it could have been anyone at the party.”

  Including us, I thought. Here we go again.

  Aunt Abby sighed. “Polly wasn’t very well liked, you know.”

  “Really?” I said, surprised. “She seemed quite the social butterfly at the party. Why do you say that?”

  The teakettle whistled. Steam shot out of Mrs. Potts’s trunklike nose. Aunt Abby got up and poured the boiling water into the waiting cups. The scent of pepperminty and fruity chocolate filled the small living space.

  “I hope that’s decaf,” I said as I took the cup from Aunt Abby’s hands.

  “The tea is,” she answered as she sat back down with her cup, “but the chocolate isn’t.” She took a sip and groaned. “Heaven.”

  I sipped mine and tasted the hint of raspberry mixed with chocolate. I’d had no idea tea could taste this good. Usually tea tastes like ground-up weeds in hot water to me. Not my cuppa.

  “So, what makes you think Polly wasn’t well liked?” I asked again.

  “Well, she was kind of . . . two-faced, I guess is the word,” Aunt Abby said, setting down her cup. “I heard she was sweet as sugar to your face, but you could
n’t trust her behind your back. God forbid you ever told her something that you wanted to keep secret. She’d blab it faster than a tweet. Someone once told her I thought George Brown was kind of cute, and I found out later she told him! Embarrassed the heck out of me. They say she loved being the center of attention. Maybe she used personal information like that to get it.”

  Wow, I thought, as Aunt Abby paused to sip her tea. Did everyone think that way about Polly? Or did my aunt have some kind of special vendetta?

  “Plus, she was a slut,” Aunt Abby added.

  I nearly choked on my drink. “Wha . . . at?”

  Aunt Abby peered at me over the teacup rim, one eyebrow raised. “I’m just telling it like it is. Er, was.”

  I shook my head. “How do you know all this?”

  “The food-service world is very small in terms of gossip. Word spreads faster than melted butter.”

  While I didn’t think Aunt Abby would deliberately slander Polly or lie about the woman’s proclivities, I didn’t fully trust her characterization either. Apparently, Polly had crossed Aunt Abby in the past, like she’d crossed me, and when someone messed with Aunt Abby, she wasn’t likely to forget. Maybe she was exaggerating about the dead woman. I’d have to ask around to see if I could corroborate any of her claims.

  Aunt Abby downed the rest of her tea, then patted the table. “Well, I’ll let you get some sleep. Big day tomorrow. Keep your fingers crossed that our whoopie pies win the competition on Sunday. I’m dying to do that TV show on the Food Network. I have it all planned. Kind of a down-home approach, serving my specialty—America’s favorite comfort foods. Enough of those gourmet shows serving rabbit food and calling it art. People are sick of that stuff. They wanna eat!”

  She rose, put her teacup in the stainless-steel sink, and started for the door.

  “Aunt Abby?” I called to her.

  She turned around. “Yes, dear?”

  “How, exactly, did Dillon find out all of that information from the ME’s office? I’d think the police department computers would be pretty secure.”

  She smiled and flashed her Kewpie-doll eyes. “Oh, sweetie. Dillon may have his faults—he’s a little quirky, and distractible, and preoccupied, and I do wish he’d shower more and clean up his room—but he’s a genius, just like Bill Gates and Steve Jobs and Albert Einstein.”

  Aunt Abby had not only listed several signs of Asperger’s syndrome, but she’d also named some of the most famous people suspected of having Asperger’s. There was no doubt in my mind that Dillon shared the same traits, but Aunt Abby had refused to have him tested. He “is what he is,” she’d said, and she hadn’t seen the point in getting any kind of diagnosis.

  “You know, Aunt Abby, Detective Shelton may have us on his suspect list.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said, grinning. “Wes is my boyfriend, and I’m sure he’ll want my help with the case, just like I helped before when there was a murder in the food truck business.”

  Boyfriend?

  “Aunt Abby, he considered you a primary suspect the last time, remember? And, like he said, your involvement may be a conflict of interest for him.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that was just a little misunderstanding. Wes didn’t really suspect me. He was just doing his job. He may look big and scary to most people, but to me he’s just a sweet teddy bear.”

  I held up my hand, not wanting to know anything more about the man who until recently seemed determined to lock up my aunt for murdering a competitor. Maybe Aunt Abby thought she had the detective wrapped around her manicured pinkie, but he was no dummy. I’d have to keep an eye on her so she didn’t wind up getting hurt, like she had with the last four “boyfriends.” Aunt Abby had a tendency to fall in love quickly, ruled by her heart, not her head. But then, what woman didn’t do the same thing? I thought about Jake. I knew better than to get involved with someone so soon after Trevor the Tool, but he was so darn attractive, and sweet, and smart, and . . .

  Enough.

  If Aunt Abby and Detective Shelton enjoyed each other’s company, so be it. They were adults, albeit different as night and day. But then, they say opposites attract. Was that the case with Jake and me?

  And would I have a chance to find out?

  * * *

  After a night of restless sleep, I awoke at the crack of dawn and dragged myself into the tiny shower. I dressed in my Big Yellow School Bus T-shirt and black jeans and headed over to the house for coffee and maybe a whoopie pie for breakfast. I was sure Aunt Abby would be running around frantically and could use my last-minute help preparing for the day’s festivities. She was a constant whirlwind of energy, and even when she sat down, her legs swung beneath the table and her fingernails tapped on top.

  I entered through the sliding-glass back door, but instead of finding her in the middle of a food-prep frenzy, she was sitting stiffly at the kitchen table, her face pale except for the rosy circles of blush she’d added to her cheeks. Her cell phone rested on the table next to her, covered by her hand. Basil was nestled in her lap.

  Uh-oh. Not another upsetting phone call.

  “Aunt Abby?” I asked tentatively. I sat down kitty-corner to her. “What’s wrong?”

  Aunt Abby slowly looked up at me and blinked, as if coming out of a trance.

  I nodded toward the phone. “Did you get a call?”

  She released her white-knuckled grip on the phone and rested her hand on the tabletop, absently petting Basil with the other. “That was Wes. . . .”

  Oh God. Not another murder. Who was it this time? Another one of the judges? A contestant in the chocolate competition?

  Or had they tracked Dillon’s hacking and were coming to get him?

  “What happened? What did he say?”

  Tears formed in Aunt Abby’s eyes. “He . . . he broke up with me,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Wes broke up with me.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I called him this morning to see if there were any new developments in the case, you know, but he said he couldn’t talk about it.”

  I placed a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. “It’s true, Aunt Abby. He can’t discuss an ongoing case with you, but that doesn’t mean he’s breaking up with you.”

  Aunt Abby set Basil down, pulled a tissue from her pocket, and blew her nose. “Then he said we can’t see each other for a while, not until this situation—that’s what he called it, a situation—is resolved.”

  “Did he say why not?”

  She blinked. A tear rolled down her apple cheek. “He said I’m a person of interest!”

  I jerked back. “What? That makes no sense at all! You had nothing to do with Polly’s death. I’m sure he knows that.” I was trying to reassure her, but I wasn’t surprised the detective had put her—and the rest of us—on his list.

  She got up and grabbed another tissue from a box on the countertop and wiped her eyes, smearing her mascara. “He said he has to investigate all possibilities, which means everyone who was at the party last night is a person of interest—including you, Dillon, Jake, and me.”

  “Well, I’m sure that’s standard procedure. He can’t really suspect you. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—once again.”

  “But why did he have to break up with me? We were getting along so well.”

  “I don’t think he actually broke up with you, Aunt Abby. It’s probably just temporary.”

  Aunt Abby dabbed her eyes.

  “I didn’t realize you cared that much about him.”

  She raised her head, sniffed, wadded up the tissues and threw them in the trash. “You know what, Darcy? I don’t. Not anymore. Detective Wellesley Shelton is dead to me now. I have a competition to win, and I need to focus on my whoopie pies.”

  In a dizzying about-face, Aunt Abby returned to her trusted domain—the kitchen�
�washed her hands—symbolically, as well?—and began pulling whoopie-pie components from the refrigerator and freezer. Basil thumped his tail at her feet, no doubt hoping to catch a dropped morsel. I couldn’t blame him. Just watching Aunt Abby do her magic made me drool. After pulling out a batch of steaming-hot chocolate cakes from the oven and setting them aside to cool, she filled a large mixing bowl with flour, then added the rest of the ingredients to make more of the little cakes that held the whoopie pies together. Next she whipped up more raspberry filling, using butter, raspberry puree, milk, and powdered sugar. Using a pastry bag, she squirted the filling onto a cooled cake, then topped it with another cake and gently pressed the two cakes together until the raspberry peeked out from the edges. Minutes later she was done with an entire batch and on to the next. It was like watching an engineer, artist, and architect all at once.

  When she wasn’t looking, I stuck my finger in the bowl of raspberry filling and scooped up nearly a tablespoonful. The smooth and creamy filling was sweet and tart, and melted in my mouth. Dillon stumbled into the kitchen wearing a threadbare Minecraft T-shirt and Star Wars pajama bottoms and helped himself to a box of Lucky Charms, bypassing the standard bowl, milk, and spoon. He spilled a few Charms on the floor that didn’t quite make it into his mouth, but they were quickly lapped up by Basil. Finally, he noticed that Aunt Abby and I were staring at him.

  “What?” he said, clueless as usual.

  “You’re not ready!” Aunt Abby said.

  “You need a shower,” I said, “and a shave and some hair product—”

  “And I need help,” Aunt Abby said, interrupting.

  “Well, I need breakfast, so chill. Can’t a guy have some cereal in peace . . . ?” Dillon looked at his mother, then suddenly put down the box of cereal and moved closer to her, frowning. “Mom? Have you been crying?”

  Aunt Abby shook her head. “No, no. I just had a little news this morning that temporarily interrupted my food preparations, and now we’re running behind. I need you to hurry and get ready so you can help me load up these pies.”