Dangerously Dark (5 page)

My gaze wandered back to Deep V-Neck. Held.

He'd somehow persuaded the local TV-news crew to leave earlier than they otherwise would have, I recalled. He'd started out enraged—as evidenced by his waving arms and forbidding expression—but by the end of his encounter with the reporters, everyone had been on friendly terms. Now I understood why.

As far as protectors went, Cartorama could have done worse. It was sweet that he'd come charging to the pod's rescue, hoping to spare Cartorama and its vendors further upset.

“. . . but for some people, the first sign of trouble is unconsciousness.” Austin broke into my reverie. “That's all. Death isn't necessarily painful or traumatic. It just
is.
”

This whole conversation was macabre. I couldn't help being interested, though. I wanted answers. Austin seemed to have them.

“Not ‘painful or traumatic'? Speak for yourself, dude,” someone blurted from nearby. “I'm plenty traumatized.”

It was the blond woman in the piglet T-shirt. She was back.

So was the sultry brunette in the tight vintage dress. While I'd been listening to Austin's explanation, they'd both appeared out of nowhere. I wondered where they'd gone. And why.

“As far as Declan knew, he just fell asleep.” Austin shrugged, seeming heartened by that fact. I wanted to be, too. But I wasn't. “In fact, death by critical hypoxia is sometimes recommended as a more humane means of capital punishment. When arterial oxygen saturation falls below sixty percent, it—”

“Dude!” The blond piglet–T-shirt girl looked aghast. “Shut up!”

“That's enough science for now.” Deep V-Neck put his hand on Austin's shoulder, steadying him—and silencing him, too. He gave a reassuring glance to the gathering vendors. By now, I saw, the area's residents had left, doubtless to get on with their days, leaving only the Cartorama sellers. Jokingly, he jostled Austin's shoulder before letting go. “And here we all thought you were only interested in finding obscure candy bars and becoming head goblin in that MMORPG you play, Austin.”

I knew what “obscure candy bars” were (delicious) and what “MMORPG” were (massively multiplayer online role-playing games—think Dungeons & Dragons played as a video game in an online virtual world: nirvana for nerds), but I didn't know why Deep V-Neck was (subtly) making fun of Austin for playing them.

Maybe it was just the handiest means of distraction—a way to help the T-shirt woman in the same way he'd protected Cartorama and its vendors. Because he
had
to want to dissect what had gone on this morning, just the way I did.

Searching for understanding was human nature. It was why we were all still there, talking about what had happened to Declan Murphy. Searching for meaning in what felt like catastrophe.

I faced him, momentarily distracted from his dreaminess by my own curiosity—and my (inexplicable) urge to defend Austin.

“Almost seven million people play World of Warcraft,” I pointed out with a private hat tip to my friend Eduardo in Sao Paulo. He'd used the voice-acted version of the
Mists of Pandaria
expansion to teach me Portuguese. Let's just say I had a pretty unusual grasp of the language at this point. (
Obrigado,
Eduardo!) “There's nothing wrong with MMORPGs.”

Beside me, Austin stood straighter. Good. All the same . . .

“Don't you want to find out what happened?” I asked.

“Yeah, don't you want to know?” Austin prodded, defensively squaring his shoulders in a way that reminded me how young he seemed, despite his grasp of science. “Plus, I'm a goblin engineer, Berk. I deal with explosives, not leadership.”

I didn't think the most important task here was reaching an understanding of Austin's MMORPG role, but Berk only smiled.

“You're right. Sorry, Austin.” He turned to me. “That reminds me that you haven't met any of the rest of us.”

He took it upon himself to perform the introductions. I couldn't help noticing how smoothly and likably he did so—starting with himself. He put his hand on his chest and bowed.

Yes, it was a little cheesy. But it worked. You had to be there to understand the effect that an Old World/ New World man—especially one with a searching smile—could have on a person.

“I'm Tomasz Berk.” He clasped my hand. “You're Hayden?”

“Hayden Mundy Moore.” I omitted my usual
chocolate whisperer
label. It wasn't relevant here. “Didn't I hear you say something about drinks?”

“You did.” His smile broadened, but his eyes stayed sad. “I guess you're one of us now, Hayden. Why don't you come on over to my place?”

I followed his head tilt toward a nearby building, right alongside everyone else. And that's how I became an honorary member of the Cartorama cart pod, melded into the family like a Venezuelan dark chocolate into a bitter soufflé of trauma, confusion, and the vagaries of a technology I didn't understand.

I did know one thing for sure, though. After today, it was going to be a very long time before I wanted another ice cream.

Three

If you've worked in the food service industry, then I don't need to tell you that the staff quickly tend to become a family. If you
haven't
slung hash or waited tables, picture the most mismatched, dysfunctional, fiercely loyal crowd of egomaniacs and malcontents you can imagine, then add fire and sharp knives.

Voilà! That's a restaurant kitchen, patisserie, or confectioner for you. Tempers flare. Egos run amok. Differences of opinion become bitter rivalries, stoked by day-to-day demands and the need to make money in a low-margin, high-risk business.

At Cartorama, I learned that afternoon while sampling chocolate porter at Muddle + Spade, things were much the same.

There were still temperamental head chefs, sulky servers, demanding line cooks, and grumbling cleanup crews at the cart pod—but they all tended to be the same person, filling each of those roles at once. Each food cart was a microcosm of a typical restaurant, usually with a stressed-out entrepreneur at its helm. There was Austin Martin and The Chocolate Bar. Carissa and Churn PDX. Tomasz Berk and his bar adjacent to Cartorama.

Muddle + Spade was the epitome of a Bridgetown watering hole. Decked out in modern-meets-steampunk style (with a dash of lumberjack thrown in), it occupied a renovated warehouse next door to Cartorama. There were antlers on the walls, antique penny farthings in the rafters, and ironwork on the bar. Scraped maple flooring lay underfoot. Mullioned windows were draped with white Christmas lights, but for now we enjoyed the afternoon sunshine. It was cozy, quirky, and edgy, all at the same time.

True to his word, Tomasz served us all drinks on the house. That's how I came to be savoring my creamy chocolate porter at lunchtime without a single qualm. (Hey, it had been a hard morning.)

As the handwritten A-stand outside had boasted, Tomasz's bar featured artisanal cocktails made with muddled herbs, homemade simple syrups, tangy vinegar-based shrubs, and cacao essences (along with food, of course). My needs were simple. I needed to steady my nerves. I needed to know if Carissa was okay (or at least as okay as she could be, given the circumstances). I needed to know who else was part of the Cartorama family.

They were all my suspects, I decided as I gripped my condensation-beaded bar glass, giving everyone a wary eye. I had to be on my guard. Now more than ever (after Maison Lemaître), I understood that sometimes appearances could be deceiving.

Take the dishy temptress in the body-hugging dress, for instance, I thought as I watched her chat with Austin. She
seemed
to be a burlesque performer transported from the fifties to present-day Muddle + Spade—one who'd stopped downtown for some tattoos on the way. But, in fact, she was
probably
a murderous, scheming . . .

. . . friend of Declan's, who was devastated to have lost him, I relented as I watched her blow her nose into a tissue. Her mascara ran. Her scarlet lipstick was smudged. She looked utterly lost and alone, and I just couldn't remain suspicious of her. The contrast between her almost costumey appearance and her genuine air of distress was too jarring. I felt sorry for her, instead.

Hearing her husky voice rise over the bar's murmur, I leaned closer, hoping to break into the conversation. Tomasz had introduced her to me as Lauren Greene—proprietress of Sweet Seductions, a food cart featuring treats with risqué names and an over-the-top, indulgent slant—but we hadn't spoken at length.

Looking at her now, I didn't doubt Lauren knew how to stir up a craving—for chocolate
or
herself. Her knee-length dress showcased plenty of cleavage but left the rest of her assets to the imagination. I would have been envious of her bodacious look, but the fact is, that kind of over-the-top femininity is so far outside my wheelhouse that I could only marvel at it.

Would I have
liked
to make men drool over me the way Austin currently was salivating over Lauren? Sure. Some of the time. But I have my own charms. Plus (usually) a cache of chocolate samples from grateful clients to sweeten my allure. I do okay.

Sniffling, Lauren wadded up her tissue. She nodded blankly. Beside her, Austin patted her hand in a comforting fashion.

At that, Lauren seemed to notice him for the first time. She stared at his hand on hers, then recoiled violently.

“No. I can't do this.” She slid off her bar stool and left.

I watched her make her way across the bar, wiggling past other vendors as they quaffed cocktails and craft beers. Her walk was a spectacle, equal parts promise and tease. Men stared, including Tomasz. So did the girl in the piglet T-shirt.

Janel White,
I reminded myself. That was her name.

She wasn't one of the Cartorama vendors. Unlike the other people at Muddle + Spade, Janel hadn't sold smoked salt pretzel bark or gianduia-stuffed beignets at one of the pod's carts. She was (as I understood it) strictly a customer—and an outsider?

I could relate, actually. Now that the immediate crisis was past (and the cocktails had begun flowing in earnest), everyone had assembled into what appeared to be their usual cliques. Chocolate candy people gathered near the bar's vintage coin-operated video games. Chocolate bakers held court near the pool tables. Chocolate “artisans” (who created fusion goods combining chocolate with bacon, chiles, herbs, or other ingredients) perched at tables near Muddle + Spade's kitchens, where they could glimpse what came from the ovens and critique it.

I didn't see how anyone could find fault with the spread Tomasz had provided. There were grilled brioche sandwiches filled with melted chocolate and sea salt (surgically quartered for easy noshing), delectable cocoa crumb tartlets with sweet mascarpone filling and marionberry jam (all locally sourced), and a plate offering cinnamon-spiked churros with chocolate and caramelized cajeta dipping sauce (house made, naturally).

The only thing there
wasn't
was any camaraderie being extended to Janel White. Maybe the foodies resented her T-shirt? Portland's culinary scene was a meat-centric one, but that didn't mean there wasn't plenty of room for veggie lovers who eschewed everything pork-filled, beef-stuffed, and/or garnished with a duck's, quail's, or chicken's egg. Why was she alone?

The newfound crime-solving side of me piped up to suggest that Janel was being shunned because she was a
murderer.
I told my suspicions to take a hike and went to talk with her, instead.

I started with my never-fail opener.

“Hi! Do you mind if I sit here?”

(I never said it was fancy. Just effective.)

Looking frazzled, Janel frowned more intensely at her laptop. Surrounding it were books and notebooks, scattered pens, and an open backpack. On the laptop itself was one of those peel-and-stick decorative “skins” depicting a burst of red and pink hearts and fireworks. Janel White was a romantic, then.

My mission to make her feel included ought to be easy.

“I don't really know anybody here,” I persisted with a winning smile. “It's getting kind of awkward, to be honest.”

She finally looked up. “Why don't you leave, then?”

So much for friendliness. “I want to pay my respects.”

“You didn't even know Declan.” Upon saying his name, Janel choked up. Her eyes swam with tears. She rapidly blinked them back, then cleared her throat. Her gaze wandered to the people clumped at the bar. “But then nobody here did. Not really.”

At the oddly smug half smile she gave, I was hooked. Janel White was a little weird, but that didn't mean she was wrong.

It was possible Janel knew something no one else did.

I took a swig of my second porter. (But who's counting on a day like today?) “What do you mean, ‘nobody here' knew Declan?”

Janel shook her head. “It doesn't matter anymore.”

“Sure, it does. Declan matters to everyone here.”

Her frown returned. Deepened. “Not to you.”

She had a point. Carissa's fiancé and I hadn't even met. But now that Janel was being so resistant, I was digging in my heels. I don't excel at my chocolate-consulting business for nothing. My work demands talent, intuition, and a thick skin for criticism. Plus persistence. Lots and lots of persistence.

I can be tenacious, is what I'm saying.

“Unless you're
another
one.” Janel groaned, then rolled her eyes. Distractedly, she looked past me. “Does Carissa know? I know she knew about Lauren, no matter what she said, but—”

Now I was really mystified. “Know what?”

“That you were hooking up with Declan too.” Candidly, Janel eyed me up and down. The endeavor seemed to cheer her up. “We should come up with a name, a logo, and a theme song.”

I didn't follow. “A theme song?”

“For our club.” Janel frowned. “Declan's Dates?” She made a face. “No, that sounds like fruit. Maybe Declan's Dozen?”

Was she saying there were a
dozen
women who'd slept with Carissa's dearly departed fiancé? “Declan was getting married.”

Janel shrugged. “Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn't.”

“Carissa's engagement party weekend says he was.”

“I'll admit, he seemed pretty close to going through with it,” Janel grudgingly allowed. She sipped her rhubarb shrub. “The thing is, Declan had a hard time saying no to people.”

“Unlike you.” I slid into the booth and sat opposite her without waiting for permission. Her reaction to my intrusion was a knowing glance at my chocolate porter as I took another drink. That's it. I was in. “How did
you
know him so well?”

She gave me a look that said
three guesses.
I only needed one. But I didn't believe it.
Janel had slept with Declan?

If the telltale glimmer in her eyes could be believed,
yes.

Janel wasn't unattractive, per se. I believe there's beauty in everyone. (Thank God, Danny wasn't there to hear me think that—he'd have died laughing over my supposed naïveté.) But it was true. Janel had wavy blond hair in a loose bob. Intelligent blue eyes. Even features and a slightly turned-up nose. All the requisite curves, packaged in a slightly stout, doughty form.

To the right man, Janel would have been perfectly appealing. But to Declan Murphy? Who supposedly loved picture-perfect Carissa to distraction? I somehow thought he'd be immune.

Not that I didn't get it. I was starting to like Janel myself. She was spunky. After being pals with Danny for so long, I have a soft spot for anyone who's outspoken. I have to.

Janel chuckled—probably at my incredulous expression.

“Declan was kind of a slut,” she told me. “It's better you find out now, believe me. I learned the hard way. At first, he was so sweet. So attentive. He liked all the same things I did. Anime, farmers markets, vegan ice cream, Wes Anderson movies—even cycling. We biked all the way up Mount Tabor once.”

No wonder she was distraught over losing him. They'd really bonded. I nodded, commiserating. “Then he met Carissa?”

“Then he realized I
couldn't
teach him anything about chocolate.” She glanced at her stack of notebooks. “That was my bad, though. Declan asked me what I was working on so hard all the time. I told him chocolate, because I knew he was into it.”

I shook my head. “You can't learn about chocolate from a book.” With cacao, it's all about being there. Experiencing the rich, chocolaty flavor. The lush, complex aromas. The soft, sensual mouthfeel as the chocolate melts in your mouth precisely at body temperature. There's nothing like it. Nothing better.

“You know that. I know that. Declan? Not so bright. He was always looking for a shortcut. I wasn't the only one he hit up for help. At one time or another, he cozied up to everybody.”

“For chocolate help?” That was forgivable. Technically, everyone was a beginner once. But most beginners didn't launch their own chocolate-themed culinary tours, the way Declan had apparently been about to do with Chocolate After Dark.

I hoped I hadn't signed on to help launch a substandard tour. Word travels fast in the culinary world—in the chocolate world. I didn't want to dent my reputation. I relied on it.

Janel nodded. “Yeah. Or for a fast Humpty Dumpty in one of the carts. Those things really shake if you get after it.”

I laughed. I couldn't help it. Then I reconsidered the fact that she was describing sex in a place where food prep happened.

“Ew.” I grimaced. “Tell me that never happened.”

“It's not even the grossest thing that ever happened.” Janel leaned nearer. I think she liked me, too. “Not long after Declan dumped me, I saw him chowing down on a double burger with porkstrami and dirty fries at Lardo, on the west side.” Her grimace matched mine. “Have you heard of it? They put ‘pork scraps' on those fries, dude. It's a major Meatpocalypse.”

I nodded at her piglet T-shirt. I assumed it meant Janel was vegan or vegetarian. “That must have been a deal breaker.”

She only looked away, shuddering at the memory. “I'll tell you one thing—Declan was way more into that porkfest than he ever was into me. That's not a euphemism, either.”

I laughed again. Janel was blunt, busty, and bawdy. Danny would have loved her. I almost wished he were there with me.

Almost,
but not quite. Danny would have said suspecting someone as straightforward as Janel was a waste of time. I didn't want to hear it. I needed a security blanket, especially after what I'd been through in San Francisco. Conducting a minor investigation—as I was doing by talking with Janel—was it.