Sweet as Pie Crimes (20 page)

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WILD AUTUMN

I hadn’t opened a spiral notebook since I was a rebellious twelfth grader with a severe case of senior-itis at Asbury Park High.  Retrieving a ball point pen from my tote bag, I glanced up at the empty lectern, wondering when the professor would arrive.  He was already ten minutes late.

“This class is gonna be a joke,” the chubby young man to my left hissed.  “I mean, come on.  What kind of bozo professor shows up late to a grad school seminar on the first day?”

“Maybe there was some kind of emergency,” I suggested diplomatically as I slid a few inches away from the intrusive nuisance.

No one was going to tarnish my first day as an archaeology student at the University of Maine.  At 28 years old, I had been toying with the idea of pursuing a Ph.D. for half a decade before finally taking the plunge and quitting my marketing position at Revlon.  Everyone, especially my sisters and mother, thought I was crazy to leave such a plum job. 

“What will we do without the free makeup samples and discounts?” They whined to my deaf ears. 

I really didn’t give a damn.  Hell, I don’t even wear much makeup.  Just a touch of nude lip gloss and a single wand wave of black mascara to plump up my skimpy lashes.

But the heckling continued.  “Archaeology?” My youngest sister, Tammi, had scoffed.  “When was the last time you went on Career Builder and saw a job posting for archaeologist?  You’re living in a dream world, Autumn!”

In typical Carissa Autumn Wilde fashion, I shrugged off her negative comments and plugged away at application essays for various universities, including a few Ivies.  Enter my next insane decision according to my dear family.  To everyone’s shock, Princeton accepted me into their illustrious program, but I wanted to get out of my home state of New Jersey.  So I daringly declined the offer and enrolled in the University of Maine’s doctoral program simply because I had always wanted to live in Portland.  Images of rugged beaches and fresh lobster filled my mind as I packed my life away and took the six hour drive up north.  But back to my auspicious first day of grad school…

Twirling the pen in my hand, I gasped as it flew across the room and hit one of my fellow students in the neck.  Flush with humiliation and concern, I stumbled across the lecture hall to examine the damage.  The sturdy, sandy haired young man grimaced and cursed under his breath as he touched a hand to his ink stained neck.

“Are you okay? I’m so sorry,” I mumbled sheepishly as he glanced up.

His expression immediately softened as he looked at me and took note of my wavy chestnut hair and toasted almond eyes.  “That’s no problem.  I think I’ll live,” he said with a crooked grin.

Something electrifying in his blue gaze unnerved me, and I turned on my heel to scurry back to my seat.  As I rushed back to my desk, I could feel his eyes boring into me.  Then I heard a low chuckle, and my face turned even redder, as I sensed that he was laughing at me.

“Don’t you want your pen back?” He asked with laughter in his voice.

Damn it.  I was back in school, but that’s no excuse for acting like a schoolgirl!  Tilting my chin up with dignity, I sauntered back over to him with an outstretched hand.

He grinned at me and held the pen out of my reach.  “I’ll only give this back to you if you promise to use it responsibly.  No more projectile stabbings of total strangers, okay?”

Well, now, he was acting as ridiculous as a schoolboy as well.  Instead of mocking me, he could have launched his flirtation in a more sophisticated manner.  But then again, I was probably one of the older students in the program.  Most students start grad school right after college at the tender age of 22.  So I was probably dealing with a wet-behind-the-ears novice.

“Cross my heart,” I said wryly, tracing the motion across my chest.

He placed the pen in my hand, and his fingers brushed mine for a beat longer than necessary.  “I’m Jase,” he supplied.  “Real name Jason, but I never could stand that name, so I shortened it to Jase.”

“Hi Jase, I’m Autumn,” I said, fully expecting the inevitable questions about my unusual name.

“Nice to meet you, Autumn.” He shook my hand warmly.

Whether or not he was going to ask me to tell the story of my name, I’ll never know.  At that moment, a frazzled, bespectacled man in a vintage three-piece suit clamored into the room.  September raindrops sprinkled his thinning blond hair as he snapped his umbrella shut.  The umbrella instantly popped back open as the students tittered and murmured about bad luck for seven years.

“No, good young people, it’s bad luck for seven years when you crack a mirror,” the harried professor corrected, still battling with the obstinate umbrella.  Making his way to the lectern, he ran a hand through his stringy hair and unburdened his shoulder of a black computer bag.

From my fifteenth row seat, I inspected him as closely as I could.  He was a middle aged man, clearly past the age of 40 but not quite 50 in my estimation.  On a good day, he might look like the British pop superstar, Sting.  But this was clearly not a good day for the man, and he looked more like a sewer rat who had just washed up in a drain than a music icon.

Clearing his throat decisively, the professor addressed the restless group.  “Good morning.  I’m Dr. Miles.  Please excuse my tardiness this morning.  This may be your first class at the University of Maine, and it is mine as well.  The campus is a bit of a labyrinth, especially with the heavy fog this morning, and I got lost.”

As he unzipped his computer bag and set up his laptop to connect with a projection screen, I wondered where he had come from.  Based on his age, he couldn’t be a brand new professor.  But I guess the 28 year old first year grad student shouldn’t make assumptions like that, should she?  His voice was clear and free of any discernable regional accent.  I wanted to raise my hand to ask where he had taught before, but Dr. Miles was hopelessly preoccupied as he fumbled with a tangle of wires and adapters.  Several students rolled their eyes and hooked up to their iPods as the bumbling professor tried in vain to set up his presentation.

Finally, an image of his computer’s desktop lit up on the screen, and he breathed an audible sigh of relief.  The first slide in his presentation was of an enormous blue diamond.  As he dimmed the lights, students removed their ear buds and paid closer attention.

“Treasure hunting.  That’s why you want to become archaeologists, right?  To dig up diamonds and other jewels in the dirt.  Am I right?” Dr. Miles posed the questions in a neutral tone without any hint of sarcasm or condescension.

A few students nodded, but most appeared blindsided by the questioning.  Affixing his pointer to the gleaming blue diamond, he asked, “Who can tell me what this is?”

Tentatively, I raised my hand, eager to answer the question but apprehensive about speaking in front of the crowd.  But no need to worry because Dr. Miles didn’t notice me high up in the academic bleachers as he called on a pert redhead in the second row.

“It’s the Hope Diamond,” she stated confidently as the professor nodded affirmatively.

“Indeed, it is the Hope Diamond, now housed in the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, DC.  It’s
an absolutely priceless jewel.”  He switched to the next slide, where a crown of rubies shimmered.  “These belong to Queen Elizabeth,” he explained, quickly flipping to the next slide.

Flashes of gold glinted briefly on the screen before Dr. Miles held his index finger down on the clicker.  A confusing prism of colors infiltrated the room as the slides blended together at lightning speed.  I looked down helplessly at my blank spiral notebook, wondering when I was going to need to take notes.  The professor seemed completely daffy.  Or was he brilliant and trying to make a memorable point with this bizarre presentation?  I decided on the former as he threw his head back and laughed at the whirring images on the screen.

“Treasure hunting,” he repeated as the screen went black.  “It’s not likely to find treasure as an archaeologist, but it’s certainly possible.  I daresay a few of you in this room will find treasure before the semester is over.  And I am going to help you do it…”

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CHAMPAGNE DECEPTION

Milan, Italy

A Black, Moonless Night in May

Inside the art gallery, Coretta put the finishing touches on a tray of Italian hors d’oeuvres set on a table lined with bottles of the finest champagne.  It was eight o’clock precisely, and the gallery was about to open its doors to introduce her paintings to the world.  Swallowing a breath of nervousness, Coretta smoothed the fabric of her scarlet cocktail dress while listlessly twirling her shoulder length mahogany hair.  It was time to open the doors to the public; she couldn’t wait another minute longer.

With trembling fingers, she unlocked the doors and opened them wide for the avid art lovers who stood queued up in the balmy spring air.  Immediately, they pushed through the doors, clamoring to reach the walls and place early bids on her best paintings.  Coretta smiled in stark disbelief; this kind of fame and popularity were completely new to her.  A few months ago, she couldn’t even get an art dealer to look at one of her paintings and now here she was with a gallery opening devoted to her work.  Discreetly, she pinched her forearm, giggling silently as she observed the customers fight over her paintings.

From the darkest corner of the gallery, Coretta continued to watch in awe as the elegant art lovers fussed over her labors of love.  Emerging from the shadows and strolling over to the buffet table for a glass of champagne, Coretta scanned the room for her lover.  They had quarreled earlier when he misplaced three paintings that she had planned to feature in the display, and now she wanted to make amends.

Coretta selected a flute of champagne and lifted the delicate glass to her lips, indulging in a sip.  The icy bubbles rolled smoothly across her tongue, and she closed her eyes, savoring the moment.  She pressed the rim to her lips for a second sip when a strident beeping assaulted the hushed atmosphere of the gallery and the lights simultaneously dimmed to black.  The recently opened gallery contained no back-up generator, and the entire space was immediately as dark as the moonless spring sky.  The glass of champagne slipped out of Coretta’s fingers and crashed onto the floor as she jumped in fright.

Groping in the blackness, Coretta bumped her knee against a metal table and squealed with pain as the group on the other side of the room became agitated.  The sounds of bodies bumping into each other and glasses crashing to the ground elicited a scream from one woman and grumblings in Italian from several of the other guests.

Coretta spoke up and addressed the crowd in her most authoritative voice: “I apologize for this inconvenience.  Apparently, there has been some sort of electrical failure that has caused a blackout.  I would advise you to take out your cell phones and use the lights from those devices until I can find some candles.  A candlelit art reception, not bad, right?” She spoke lightheartedly, trying to allay the concerns of her guests.

As a handful of people dug into their pockets for their cell phones, Coretta felt a body press against her backside.  “Excuse me,” she murmured to whomever had collided with her.  The moment she spoke, a gloved hand smacked against her face and covered her mouth while a menacing arm pressed into her belly and knocked the wind out of her.  Gasping for air, she wriggled in the death-grip of the gloved man, frantically biting on his covered hand to get him to release her.  As her teeth sank into the thick fabric, his grasp tightened even more around her waist until she thought her ribs would shatter.

Roughly, the man dragged her backwards towards the darker recesses of the gallery.  Lighting the way with a tiny flashlight clenched between his teeth, he pushed Coretta down the stairs into the cellar…

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DARK CHOCOLATE MURDER

Belinda’s Chocolate Boutique

Monte Carlo, Monaco

Belinda was in her shop inspecting a tray of freshly made Raspberry Cloud truffles.  Filled with raspberry jam and a dollop of vanilla cream, the truffles looked irresistible.

“I have to taste these,” Belinda reasoned, “I can’t sell any candy that I haven’t personally tasted myself.” She popped the truffle into her mouth and giggled as jelly dribbled down her chin and cream clung to her lips.

“Looks delicious.  How do I get some of those?” A deep male voice laced with a French accent inquired.

Belinda looked up and locked eyes with a swarthy, casually dressed powerhouse of a man.  With the body and apparel of a lumberjack, he was exquisitely masculine and extremely unnerving as he smirked at Belinda with raspberry goo trickling down her face.  Searching in vain for a napkin, Belinda hastily licked the cream off her lips and indelicately wiped her chin on her sleeve.  The stranger’s amusement deepened, and he cocked his head to one side while wearing a disarming grin.  Mortified, Belinda struggled to speak to the French-accented Adonis who stood before her making a mockery of her embarrassing predicament.  She was more astonished when the man walked forward and boldly lifted a chocolate off the tray.

“May I?” He asked a beat too late.

You already have
, she thought but remained mute, not trusting her own voice at the moment.  She watched in amazement as he slowly placed the truffle on his tongue and bit right into the center, deliberately making the jelly and cream leak onto his chin.

“Now I see why you want to wear these as well as eat them,” the man said flirtatiously.  “They’re delicious.”

“Thank you,” Belinda managed, blushing furiously, but grateful that he had lightened the moment.

“I’m Pierre Cédaire.  Yes, you heard my name right. 
Cédaire
sounds just like
Say
Dare
,” he chuckled and extended his hand.

When Belinda offered him her hand, he clasped it lingeringly in his and gently kissed the top.  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he smirked. “It appears I got more of the sweet on you.”

“That’s okay,” Belinda mumbled.  “I’m Belinda Rockland.”

“Yes.  I heard that an American woman was opening up shop here, and I wanted to check it out.  I’m in the culinary business myself, you see,” Pierre explained, his eyes glued to Belinda’s raspberry-red lips.

“Oh, did you see the ad I placed in the local paper?” Belinda asked, trying to remain composed under the man’s intense perusal.

“No, no. Word gets around.  The shopkeepers in the area are pleased that you’re opening this store.  They think it will complement their businesses, and I agree.  You do make a lovely addition to this community,” he drawled the last part in a low tone.

“You said you’re in the culinary industry?” Belinda asked, evading his flirtation.

“Yes, I recently opened a French restaurant in Monte Carlo.  We have a highly skilled pastry chef, but we could use some gourmet chocolates.  Perhaps you and I could form a partnership,” Pierre alluded.  “I could commission you to create some chocolate after-dinner mints exclusively for my restaurant.”

Eager for any business opportunity that would gain exposure and prestige for her shop, Belinda instantly brightened, forgetting about the jam that still coated her skin.  “I would love to discuss that possibility further.  You speak English very well, by the way.  Have you ever lived abroad?”

Pierre laughed loudly as though she had just told a hilarious joke.  “I lived in New York City for ten years.  That’s where I studied to be a chef.”

“Oh! Well, that explains it,” Belinda said, feeling self-conscious as the man regarded her with an odd combination of humor and desire.

“Are you in Monaco all alone?” Pierre ventured.

“My sister and her husband live here.  But I don’t have any other family in Monaco,” Belinda replied, immediately perceiving a rising interest in the handsome man.

“A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t be alone in a foreign country,” Pierre said intimately.

Belinda resisted the impulse to roll her eyes at the practiced line he had tossed her.  How many women had this man tried to seduce with a cliché like that?

Stubbornly, she replied, “Actually, I’ve been very busy focusing on opening this shop.”

“Well I can certainly understand that.  My restaurant was a nightmare to open, and it’s still having some growing pains.  But, what’s that American expression, ‘all work and no play?’  I don’t recommend it.  I recommend lots of play.”

I’m sure you do, playboy
, Belinda thought, shooting him an expression that told him she had no tolerance for playing games.

“Would you be my guest at dinner?” Pierre invited, sobering as the smirk faded from his lips.

Suspicious of Pierre’s suddenly gallant approach, Belinda pursed her lips thoughtfully.  In Boston, she had been accustomed to a casual first date of drinks or coffee---and an even more casual invitation through text.  Pierre’s suave yet direct way of requesting that she be his dinner guest was unnerving, and she wasn’t sure how to respond.  Ruefully, she thought,
this is romance right in front of my eyes, and I don’t even believe it
.

Staring her down impudently, Pierre twisted his lips into an expectant smile. “Well? What do you say, Belinda?”
…

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