Dangerously Dark (16 page)

Although it did remind me that Tomasz's windows at the bar overlooked Cartorama. Maybe he'd seen something suspicious?

I made a mental note to ask him, then moved on.

“You know what this means, don't you?” Travis asked.

“That it's going to be difficult to catch the killer?”

“That there probably
wasn't
a killer. You said the police ruled this an accidental death—”

“They said the same thing about Adrienne Dowling.”

“—so while it's technically correct that unregulated liquid nitrogen could cause enough oxygen displacement in a small, enclosed space to asphyxiate someone, that doesn't mean—”

There's a murderer on the loose.
I didn't want to hear it.

“Why am I not surprised you already knew all the science-y details?” I broke in. Although I'd only just briefly described what I'd remembered Austin telling me about liquid nitrogen, Travis seemed to be well-versed in the subject. I was impressed, but perplexed. How did people get to know this kind of stuff, anyway? The only topic that had ever
really
interested me long enough to get into it was cacao, its flavor, and all its myriad permutations. “You need to get out more. Have some fun.”

“I am having fun.”
Talking to you.
Sure, I added that particular spin on his statement myself, but I didn't think I was wrong. Travis's husky tone confirmed it—and upped the pleasurability quotient for me, too. “But I don't believe Declan was murdered,” he said. “The proof just isn't there.”

“It could be. I've barely started looking.” I pulled over my cashmere pashmina for warmth, just as someone came striding up my provisional front porch. I glimpsed Danny through the window. “I'll find something. Just wait and see.”

“I'd focus on Carissa if I were you,” Travis advised.

I suppressed a grumble of frustration. I was getting tired of everyone pointing the finger at my old college friend. Now I needed proof of Carissa's innocence for Danny
and
for Travis.

“You're too nice, Hayden,” my financial advisor went on, sounding uncannily similar to my protection expert. “You hate to think the worst of people. That tends to cause blind spots.”

“Blind spots? You mean I've been missing something all this time? Do you have a deep, dark secret, Travis?” I teased, completely willing to entertain
that
idea. “Does it involve body art? Illegitimate children? Overdue library books?”

I liked the idea of Travis being less than perfect.

He scoffed. Then . . . “I did accidentally kill a guppy once.”

“Travis!” I tsk-tsked, feigning outrage.

“I was seven at the time. I overfed it. A lot.”

He still sounded broken up about it. That was adorable.

I couldn't help picturing a tiny (bizarrely Barry White–voiced) Travis at seven years old, eagerly sprinkling fish food.

“That's why, after I got my next fish, I started using a microbalance to weigh out precise amounts of fish meal, shrimp meal, plankton, and freeze-dried daphnia for them to eat.”

“Wait a minute.” My delightful picture of teeny Travis (and his inexplicable access to lab equipment) faded. Probably, he'd asked Santa for pipettes, a microbalance, and dental floss instead of toy trucks, Legos, and a football for Christmas. “Did you just say ‘fish meal'? You made your guppies
cannibals
?”

As Danny came inside our (now) shared foursquare, he shot me an understandably bemused look. He sprawled in an easy chair.

“No, guppies naturally eat fish,” Travis told me. Casually.

What?
This
horror
was what I got for wanting to glimpse my financial advisor's less-buttoned-up side. I was appalled.

“Well, at least ‘daphnia' sounds nice,” I tried. “Is that some kind of sea flower or something? You know, like dessert?”

“Leave it to you to want to treat the guppies to something sweet.” Was Travis joking? “Daphnia are freshwater fleas.”

Revolted, I gripped the phone, unwilling to admit defeat and hang up. If my idealized notions of aquatic life had to go down, they were going down swinging. “But
Finding Nemo,
” I objected. “Nemo and his dad—they wouldn't—they couldn't—”

Eat other fish
. I just couldn't say it out loud.

“Clownfish eat algae,” Travis informed me reliably.

I sank back onto the sofa cushions, full of relief.

“Also, plankton, mollusks, and crustaceans, like shrimp.”

That meant meat.
Ugh. “No!” I howled, joking. Mostly.

“Hey, eat lunch or be lunch.” Travis sounded terrifyingly matter-of-fact. “For someone who's determined to investigate a murder, you're pretty squeamish. Sure you won't reconsider?”

Aha.
“This has all been a ruse?” I gawked. “You—”

His laughter cut off the rude epithet I had in mind.

I never would have expected Travis to be tougher on me than Danny had been. Evidently, my keeper had untapped depths
and
a willingness to plumb them. I'd have to keep that in mind for next time. If there was one. I really hoped there wasn't one.

Part of me just wanted to go back to perfecting brownies.

“Admit it, Hayden,” he said. “You're in over your head.”

“Never.” Carissa was counting on me. Plus, I couldn't simply leave the question of Declan's death unanswered. I like to know the hows and whys of things. That's why I'm so good at troubleshooting chocolate. I like to solve riddles. I have the ability to stick with that process when the going gets tough.

On the easy chair nearby, Danny caught my eye. He waggled an unfamiliar set of keys, fixed to a monogrammed leather fob.

“You're not a detective,” Travis said, more seriously now. “San Francisco was a fluke, that's all. You can't do this.”

Well, if he had wanted to make me double down and try, he'd just stumbled upon the best way to do it. I dug in my heels.

“I'm going to do this,” I informed him tersely, “and I'm going to start by clearing your prime suspect—Carissa.”

Danny quit jangling his keys. He frowned at me. But I knew what I had to do. If Carissa had sabotaged her own Churn PDX trailer, there would be signs. All I had to do was find them.

So that's exactly what I intended to do. Or not do. Because, you know, I actually wanted to come away with nothing.

“Gotta run, Travis. I have things to do. Bye!”

As I disconnected the call, Danny eyed me warily.

He was right to look at me that way. I jumped up and grabbed those keys.

“Are you coming or not?” I asked him.

He grinned, probably thinking he was putting one over on me. Just like Travis. “
Those
aren't your rental car keys.”

“I know.” Jauntily, I tossed them in the air. “These belong to the Chocolate After Dark tour van you just picked up.” That's why I'd been alone to chat with Travis. “I'd rather not argue about where we're going, though. That's why
I'm
driving.”

For this leg, I wouldn't be talking—regaling tourists and chocolate-loving Portlanders with infotainment about cacao. That left me free to execute my plan ASAP. I pulled on my jacket.

“No, you're not driving.
I'm
driving.” Lazily, Danny got to his feet. He always moved like molasses when
I
was in charge of things. That had to change. “That was the plan. We're supposed to be starting the first chocolate tour in an hour.”

“Yep. That's why this is the
perfect
time to go somewhere else first.” I grabbed my replacement purse, still missing my original crossbody bag. (RIP, little buddy.) “Nobody will expect to see us anywhere else.” I paused. “Well? Are you coming?”

He hesitated. I crossed my fingers. I needed him for this.

Finally, Danny relented. “I can't believe Travis got you all wound up this way, then left you for
me
to deal with.”

His complaining was par for the course. I didn't mind. It was how I knew he was already on board with my idea.

I headed out, trusting Danny to follow me onto the porch.

“By the way,” I said, “do you know anything about cracking passwords?” I pulled out Declan's iPad and handed it over. “Because I'm going to need to get into this thing in—”

“In about an hour?” my smart-alecky bodyguard guessed.

But I was too busy staring at the Chocolate After Dark tour van to answer right away. I blinked and refocused, then frowned.

Past my Airbnb's front porch, past its small grassy lawn, parked on the street, was our designated van. Declan's tour van. The entire thing—a van that could probably seat nine to twelve people, including the driver—was covered in one of those full-color vinyl vehicle wraps. All over. It looked like . . .

Well, the words “chocolate orgy” came to mind.

“I can see why someone wanted to kill Declan,” I said.

“Yeah,” Danny mused. “I wasn't going to argue with you too hard about who got to drive the Choco Mobile.” He gave me a mischievous, knowing grin. “This one's all yours, chief.”

“I'm not sure it's legal to drive this thing.” Cautiously, I approached it, keys still in hand. I shielded my eyes as the sunshine glinted off the van's custom photographic images.

I swear it was taunting me. Remember how I said I'm not especially keen on equating chocolate with sex? Well, evidently, Declan hadn't felt the same way. Either that, or he'd taken the “after dark” aspect of his Chocolate After Dark tour name a
lot
too literally. I'd hoped the van would improve up close, but it didn't. Near or far, Declan's tour van was emblazoned with lascivious images of busty, suggestive, larger-than-life women, all in various stages of tasting chocolate, wearing chocolate, or having chocolate (you guessed it) poured all over them.

On the plus side, if appearances could be believed, they'd all been dreaming of such a moment their entire (nude) lives.

It was as if Declan had never imagined that anyone except a horny frat boy would ever embark on his culinary tour. I'd seen classier come-ons in Vegas. It lacked subtlety, taste,
and
inclusiveness. There wasn't even a representative naked man.

Not that that would have helped much. But still. Equality matters. So did proper use of (non-hot-pink) fonts. Yuck.

“I think
I'd
like to kill Declan.” I shook my head, feeling dwarfed by the oversize cacao-covered breasts and butts on our van. “This is the vehicle a traveling porn circus would use.”

“It's the vehicle a chocolate fetishists convention would use to shuttle conventioneers to the airport.” Danny peered at it. “Why not just go for an X rating? Go big or go home.”

I didn't agree. I was glad the chocolate (barely) preserved the models' modesty. “I'm going to get arrested driving this.”

“You might never work as a chocolate whisperer again, that's for sure.” In the midst of taking out his phone for a commemorative snapshot, Danny hesitated. “Speaking of which, I think I recognize that ‘chocolate.'” He made (justifiable) air quotes with his fingers. “Remember that body-paint consult?”

He waggled his eyebrows with sham lecherousness, trying to remind me. I smacked his shoulder. “I've been trying to forget.”

Danny aimed his cell phone. Sighted the Choco Monster.

“If you Instagram that picture, I'll make you regret it.”

But my security expert only laughed and clicked away.

That was the moment I almost gave up. Being horrifically hungover (maybe poisoned—I still had my suspicions) had been bad enough. Attending Declan's tense funeral had been no walk in the park, either. But hearing Danny's photo app whirr as his phone took our van's picture—with
me
standing with the keys in front of it, naturally—and rocketed it to the cloud for sharing was
the worst.
I know I've told you before that my reputation is all I have. Now I was officially risking it for Carissa's sake.

I hoped I was right about her. Now more than ever.

All that remained was finding out for sure.

I hauled in a breath and took a leap of faith. Even if it hurt, I was going to help Carissa—and, by extension, Declan. “Get in the van, Instagram. I'm leaving with or without you.”

Then I unlocked the doors, got in the driver's seat of our van, and prepared to take off. If I could have, I would have closed my eyes. The inside of Declan's Chocolate After Dark van was just as atrocious as the outside. The entire interior was customized with brown and hot-pink upholstered seats, plenty of neon accents, a tricked-out A/V system, and a small wet bar.

It was as if
Playboy
magazine and Hershey's chocolate had somehow had a baby, and that baby was a Mercedes-Benz Sprinter.

I didn't doubt it was expensive. I didn't doubt the customizer had personalized it to Declan's exact specifications. But I
did
doubt that Declan had any business acumen. Austin had let slip that Declan had had a “cushy” job at a Seattle real-estate company (or maybe a tech company). So how could he have ordered this tour van and approved it? Was this one of the “really boneheaded” things Carissa had said Declan had done?

An ugly, sexist van wasn't the worst thing in the world.

But it wasn't the best thing, either. Not by a long shot.