Death of a Chocolate Cheater: A Food Festival Mystery

by Penny Pike

  “What did you find out?” the detective asked.

  I filled him in about Griffin’s connection to Simon’s company and Harrison’s lawsuit. “Did you find out anything about all this chocolate hurling?” I asked him.

  He shook his head. “The techs from last night didn’t find any prints on your car. Whoever did it must have worn gloves.”

  “So there’s nothing you can do?” I asked, frustrated.

  “We’re doing all we can, and we’re taking these threats seriously. You should too. I hear you’ve been asking questions.”

  “I’m being careful,” I said. “So doesn’t this mean Wendy Spellman is innocent? She couldn’t have left that message on my car and the RV since she was in jail.”

  “I’m not sure the two incidents are related,” the detective said.

  “They have to be!”

  The detective took a deep breath. “Listen, think of it this way: While we have her in custody, she’s safe. But we can’t rule out the possibility that she may have an accomplice. Maybe she and someone else committed the murder together, and we haven’t caught the other guy yet. For now, that’s supposition. I won’t know anything for sure until I have all the facts.”

  More silence and coffee sipping as we pondered the detective’s latest theory. An accomplice? Who? Why? The questions popped up faster than chocolate-covered kettle corn.

  Finally Detective Shelton pushed back his chair and rose. “Well, thanks for the coffee and pastry. I’ll let you know what else the techs learn after I get the next report. Jake. Darcy. Abby.” He nodded to each of us, his eyes lingering on Aunt Abby; then he stepped out of the Airstream, leaving a mild earthquake and the scent of a spicy cologne in his wake.

  “Well,” Aunt Abby said, rising from her seat. “I’d better go finish up my whoopie pies. If today is anything like yesterday, I’ll barely have enough. Thanks for the cream puff, Jake. Now I know why Darcy spends so much time at your truck.” She shot me a knowing smile.

  “I’ll come help you in a few minutes,” I said. “I have a few things to share with Jake.”

  Her smile widened. “You two take your time.” Somehow that simple sentence sounded terribly suggestive. I felt my cheeks go up in flames. As Aunt Abby headed out of the RV, she left me to face Jake with my bright red tell.

  “You were up all night chatting with Dillon?” Jake said, thankfully changing the subject.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” I said.

  “It sounds like Polly was blackmailing everyone in the contest except your aunt and me,” Jake said. “Even Wendy had something to hide, which unfortunately still makes her a suspect.”

  “Maybe they all did it, like those people in Murder on the Orient Express,” I suggested, although I didn’t mean it. While Agatha Christie could get away with something like that, it just didn’t happen in real life. Did it?

  “What do you want to do now?” Jake asked, finishing his coffee. He cleared his place, rinsed his coffee mug, and tossed the leftover pastry papers into the trash can.

  “Go back to bed,” I said.

  Jake grinned. “Works for me.”

  I smiled. “Actually, I think I’ll talk to Griffin and Harrison. See if I can get them to say something about Polly, why she was blackmailing them, and whether they have a tell that says ‘I’m the murderer. Look no further.’”

  “That’s the spirit, Sherlock. Grill ’em, get a confession, and slap on the cuffs.”

  “Not funny. What are you doing to help Wendy while I’m putting my life at risk?”

  “That’s not funny, either,” Jake said, turning serious. “This time I’m coming with you. And if anyone tries to throw chocolate on you, I’ll kick their ass.”

  I burst into laughter. Jake pulled me close and kissed me. He tasted like a chocolate cream puff. And I could never have too much of that.

  A loud banging on the door startled me. I looked at Jake. He moved me back behind him, then opened the door. Two police techs stood at the bottom of the steps, dressed in white CRIME SCENE uniforms.

  “I heard there was another message,” the female tech said. I peered around Jake and recognized her from yesterday.

  “Yep,” I said.

  “I’ll show you.” Jake stepped down from the RV and led the techs to the front of the Airstream. As I walked by, I told Jake I’d be in the house helping Aunt Abby prepare for the day while the techs did their work. We agreed to meet at Aunt Abby’s bus an hour before the festival opened and to go together to interview Griffin and Harrison.

  When I entered the kitchen, Aunt Abby and Dillon were elbow-deep mixing, stirring, and filling whoopie pies. Basil wagged his tail at Aunt Abby’s feet, no doubt hoping for a dropped morsel.

  “What can I do?” I asked as I donned an apron.

  “Sure you’re not too tired from making whoopie?” Dillon said, an evil grin on his face.

  I grabbed a sponge from the counter and threw it at him. Hit him right in the butt.

  Basil barked.

  Food fight!

  It was on!

  Chapter 20

  Aunt Abby nipped the food fight before it got too crazy, but only after Dillon had managed to smear chocolate on my fresh Big Yellow School Bus T-shirt. And that was after I got some in his hair.

  “You two will be the death of me,” she said after we settled down. “Dillon, go wash your hair. And, Darcy, go soak that shirt before the stain sets and get a fresh one.”

  I hung my head like a disciplined pet and returned to the RV to soak my shirt and get a fresh one, then went back to whipping up whoopie pies. After Aunt Abby prepared the mini cake/cookies and made the mocha buttercream filling, Dillon put the cake/cookies together. My job was to finish them off with chocolate frosting and jimmies. Yep, there’s a special name for chocolate sprinkles—jimmies. Who knew?

  The work was repetitive, assembly-line style, requiring no mental effort, so I thought about my suspect list, who were all victims of Polly’s blackmail scheme.

  Simon Van Houten didn’t want his father to know he’d ratted out the family company’s use of child labor. Did he kill Polly to keep her quiet—and prevent that article she was saving from being published?

  Isabel Lau didn’t want anyone to know she’d served time for killing her abusive husband and changed her name to make sure no one would discover her past. Did she kill Polly in order to keep her identity—and past—a secret?

  Frankie Nudo was sleeping with Polly, maybe hoping to win her vote. But then, did he kill her when he found out she was sleeping around?

  Monet Richards faked her cooking credentials, claiming she’d attended Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, but apparently she’d been lying about this for years. Did she kill Polly to keep her from exposing the truth?

  Then there was Griffin Makeba, who had been buying chocolate from Simon’s company at a deep discount to keep him from airing the company’s dirty laundry. That couldn’t have helped the company’s profit margin. Did he kill Polly because she found out he was blackmailing the Van Houtens?

  And finally, Harrison Tofflemire, who had stolen the plans for his famous Chocolate Falls machine from a Canadian company and was being sued. Did he kill Polly because she found out about the lawsuits and threatened to put a black mark on his reputation?

  They all had their reasons. But were those motives strong enough to actually commit murder? Apparently, for one of them, it was.

  After finishing up the last batch of whoopie pies, we packed them up and loaded them into Aunt Abby’s Prius, filling it to the brim.

  “You really need to get an SUV or a van,” I said to her when the last of the treats were in place. “This car is too small for your business.”

  “It gets great mileage,” Aunt Abby said. “Those big old SUVs drink gas like it’s water. No, thank you. I’ll keep my green car.”

  “
You only drive a few miles to the Marina and back! I hardly think you’ll go broke with a bigger car.”

  “If I get a new car, it will be all electric,” she said.

  I gave up. “All right. I’ll see you at the festival. Jake and I are going to talk to Griffin and Harrison before the event begins, so I’ll be a little late to work.”

  “Be careful, Darcy,” Aunt Abby said. “I appreciate you trying to help my friend, but those warnings you got on your car and the Airstream make me very nervous. Like they said, they know where you live. I don’t want you to get hurt. I couldn’t live with myself if you did.”

  I went over and gave my aunt a hug. “I’ll be fine, Aunt Abby. Jake’s going to meet me, so I won’t be alone. And I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  “You mean the world to me, you know,” Aunt Abby said. Were those tears in her eyes? “I love having you here. And not just because you’re a big help.”

  “I love being here too. And I appreciate the job, even though I sometimes don’t act like it. Working in your food truck is growing on me.”

  “I knew it would,” Aunt Abby said. “And you’re getting better at it every day. You might turn into a good cook after all.”

  Before I took this job—out of desperation—I barely knew how to microwave a frozen dinner. But I did have good taste, so to speak, and I read gourmet cookbooks like they were romance novels. Now, thanks to my aunt, I could make a great mac-and-cheese meal—for hundreds of people.

  I took off my apron and went into the RV to check on the shirt I’d been soaking. The techs were gone, and so was Jake. However, the stain was still there. I’d have to look into some stain-removal products. I grabbed my purse, stepped out of the RV, and locked it behind me.

  I met Dillon and Aunt Abby in the driveway. Dillon pulled on his helmet, hopped on his dirt bike, and sped away. Aunt Abby got in her car and drove off with a cheery wave. I headed for my VW, parked on the street, and noticed the ragtop still had patches of discolor where the chocolate had been. Must really be tough removing chocolate stains if three car washes couldn’t do it. I slid into the driver’s seat and inhaled the smell of chocolate that lingered inside. It made me hungry for a Snickers bar.

  I arrived at the festival gate at ten, drove through after showing the guard my pass, and parked in the staff lot near Aunt Abby’s car, where she and Dillon were unloading boxes of whoopie pies. I glanced across the way at Jake’s Dream Puff truck, but apparently he hadn’t arrived yet, so I grabbed a few boxes and helped carry in Aunt Abby’s supplies for the day.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I said to Aunt Abby after we’d hauled in all the boxes. I headed over to Jake’s Dream Puff truck to see if he was inside. The sign in the window read CLOSED and the truck showed no signs of life inside. I wondered what had caused him to be late meeting me.

  Drop-Dead Gorgeous?

  I headed over to the Coffee Witch for one of Willow’s magical concoctions, bought two Voodoo Ventes—one for me and one for Jake—then returned to his truck to see if he’d arrived.

  Still no sign of him.

  I checked my watch. The festival would be opening in forty-five minutes. Time was running out.

  I set Jake’s coffee on the shelf outside his truck window, wrote MEET ME AT THE PIEHOLE on the outside of the paper cup, then headed over, my own coffee in hand. This time I would step things up in terms of my questioning. The longer Wendy remained in jail and the real killer went free, the worse it would be for her—and maybe the rest of us—in the long run.

  I could see through the service window that Griffin was preparing pies for the day’s onslaught. Wishing Jake was with me, I knocked on his open door. In spite of the fact that Griffin might be a murderer, I didn’t feel that nervous, since there were all kinds of food trucks nearby who would hear me if I screamed.

  “Come in!” Griffin called out.

  I stepped inside. “Hi, Griffin.”

  He looked up from the bowl of liquid chocolate, and I immediately thought of the chocolate that had been poured over my car and RV windows. “Oh, hey. You’re Darcy, Abby’s assistant, right?”

  “Yes. I hope I’m not bothering you.”

  “Not at all. What can I do for you?” he said as he stirred the chocolate.

  “Uh . . . I wondered if you might be interested in contributing a recipe to the food truck cookbook I’m writing. I’d love to include one of your chocolate pies. I can’t pay anything, but it would be free publicity, and you’d get a copy of the book.”

  “Sounds cool.” He began pointing to the various mini pies he’d lined up along the counter for display. “Which one do you want? I have Death by Chocolate Pie, which is fudgy. Chocolate Addiction, which is chocolate bourbon pecan. My personal favorite—Chocolate Orgasm—that’s chocolate banana cream. Or you can have a recipe for Chocolate Crack, aka chocolate peanut butter, or Satan’s Chocolate—French Silk, or Chocolate Decadence, which is a chocolate marshmallow mousse pie.”

  “Wow. That’s a lot of chocolate pies. They all sound wonderful. You pick.”

  “Okay. When do you need it by? I’m kind of busy right now, but I could get it to you next week.”

  “That would be great,” I said. I took a sip of the coffee I was carrying. “That looks yummy,” I said, indicating the bowl of chocolate. “Smells good too. What kind of chocolate do you use?”

  “Only the best,” he said proudly.

  “From the Ivory Coast?” I asked, getting to the point.

  Griffin stopped stirring and looked up at me. “No!” he said a little too sharply. “Why would you say that?”

  “No reason. I thought that particular chocolate was supposed to be the best.”

  “You’ve been listening to the wrong people. Did you know that African chocolate is made by children—enslaved children who work themselves to death? I would never be a part of that. My chocolate comes from South America, where it’s fair trade. I pay more, but at least I don’t feel guilty.”

  Wow. If what Dillon had learned about Griffin was true, he was a real hypocrite, not to mention a good liar. Not only was he blackmailing the Van Houtens to get his chocolate cheaper, but he couldn’t care less about those kids. Despicable.

  “Did Polly know where you got your chocolate?” I pushed on, checking to make sure my escape route was clear if I needed to run out quickly.

  Griffin frowned. “What do you mean? Why would Polly want to know anything about my chocolate?”

  “I heard a rumor that you were getting your chocolate at a discount, while other people had to pay full price. I wondered how you managed that.”

  Griffin’s eyes narrowed. He took a step toward me, a large chocolate-covered metal spoon in his hand.

  “I thought you came here to ask me for a recipe. What’s with all the questions? It sounds like you’re accusing me of something.”

  Where was Jake when I needed him?

  I was ready to flee, but I wasn’t leaving until I had some answers. “I just wondered if Polly found out about your special deal and you got angry and . . .”

  “You think I killed Polly?” He forced a laugh. “That’s just stupid! I had no reason to kill her. Where did you come up with such an idiotic idea?” He took another step closer to me. I took a step back.

  “I must be wrong, then,” I said, trying to defuse the growing anger I saw in his dark eyes. “Sorry. You know rumors. . . .”

  “Spreading rumors like that can get you in a lot of trouble, lady,” Griffin said. He stared at me as if trying to figure out what I knew—or what he was going to do next. “What happened to Polly could happen to you if you’re not careful.”

  Now, that was a threat.

  In the corner of my eye, I saw one of his fists clench.

  “You’re right, Griffin. I’ll have to be more careful. I’d better let you get back—”

  He slammed
his fist on the counter, scaring the bejesus out of me. I dropped the cup of coffee, spilling liquid all over the floor.

  “You’re not leaving until you tell me where you heard this ugly rumor,” Griffin snarled. He waved the large spoon menacingly in his raised hand.

  It was time to go. I spun around and darted for the door.

  Griffin grabbed my arm. “I said, I want to know who told you I was buying chocolate at a discount!”

  I dug in my purse, which was hanging off my shoulder, and pulled out my cell phone. Griffin slapped it out of my hand. The phone went flying down the steps.

  He tightened his grip on my arm. “Tell me!”

  I shrugged my purse off my shoulder and swung it at him. He ducked and released my arm.

  In that split second, I practically leaped from the top of the steps to the ground, barely landing on my feet.

  Griffin stood above me, glaring, his brown eyes wild with murderous intent.

  Chapter 21

  I snatched my cell phone from the ground and backed away, glancing around frantically for help—or at least witnesses—in case he decided to follow through with his threat immediately. I spotted Harrison Tofflemire standing outside his truck, looking in my direction. His two daughters were also outside, but they were too busy flirting with Frankie Nudo to notice me.

  I ran to Harrison, hyperventilating from my fight-or-flight reaction to Griffin’s anger. “Harr . . . Harrison . . .” I wheezed, and bent over to catch my breath.

  “Are you all right?” Harrison said, glancing across at Griffin’s truck, then back at me. “What’s all the ruckus?”

  “Griffin . . .” I puffed. “. . . I . . . he . . .” I looked back. There was no sign of him.

  “Here, let me get you some water. I’ll be right back.”

  To be safe, I followed him up the steps of his truck, not wanting to remain outside alone. Not after Griffin’s threats and that look in his eye.