Death of a Chocolate Cheater: A Food Festival Mystery (2 page)

“Do you have anything with no calories?” I asked, coming up behind him as he filled bowls with toppings for his dreamy delights.

He whirled around and gave me that adorable, toothy grin. “Darcy!”

“Morning, Jake,” I said, unable to stifle my own smile. It was good seeing him up close again.

“It’s been a while,” he said, looking me over. “You look . . . really nice.”

“Thanks,” I said, running my fingers self-consciously through my dark brown, bobbed hair. “I haven’t seen you much lately,” I said.

I’d told myself Jake had been too busy with his food truck to do much socializing, but in truth, I was beginning to wonder if his interest in me was starting to wane. Aunt Abby’s situation had given us a reason to spend time together. But once that was over, it seemed like things had changed.

“Yeah, sorry about that, Darcy,” he said as he arranged the condiments on the outside shelf. He looked incredible in his white Dream Puff T-shirt and faded jeans. “It’s been crazy around here the past few days.”

“Oh, I know how it is. Me too. You know . . . lots of stuff going on . . .”

Yeah, right.

“Actually, I’ve been dealing with something the past couple of weeks,” he said, brushing his sun-lightened brown hair off his forehead again, “but, hey, if you’re free later tonight, how about we get a drink and catch up?”

“Sounds great,” I said, grinning at the thought of spending some alone time with him. “I’ve got some news to share.”

“Really? What’s up?”

“I’ll tell you tonight,” I said mysteriously. I just hoped Aunt Abby hadn’t blabbed her news about entering the Chocolate Festival competition already. She had a habit of oversharing everything with anyone who would listen, including details of my personal life.

“Looking forward to it,” Jake said. He reached in through the open truck window and pulled out a two-bite cream puff nestled on a paper doily. The delicate puff was filled with a mocha-colored cream, drizzled with dark chocolate, and topped with a perfect chocolate curl. “Want to try my latest?”

“Love to! Is it today’s special?”

He nodded. “Let me know what you think.”

I took a bite. The creamy mixture spread over my tongue and melted away in seconds, leaving the crunchy shell to savor. I felt a bit of the cool cream on my upper lip.

Jake leaned in, and with his fingertip, wiped away the mocha mustache I apparently wore. Then he licked the tip of his finger.

Whoa. I suddenly felt dizzy. I didn’t know which had my heart racing so fast—Jake’s dreamy cream puff or the mustache removal I’d just experienced.

I held up the remainder of the cream puff. “This is incredible,” I managed to say.

“You like it?”

“You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Great, because I just signed up for the Chocolate Festival competition, and that’s what I’m entering.”

I felt my smile waver. Oh no! Jake was entering the competition? With that killer cream puff? Suddenly my
news about Aunt Abby’s whoopie-pie entry didn’t sound so exciting.

“Are you sure you like it?” Jake said, obviously noticing my reaction.

“Oh, yes . . . of course!” I said, mustering up some enthusiasm. “It’s . . . great! I’m sure you’ll do well in the competition.”

“Hope so. I don’t care about being on the TV show, but I can always use the money. The cream puff business isn’t quite as lucrative as the litigation business,” he said, referring to his former job.

“Well, it’s definitely a winner.” I pointed to Aunt Abby’s bus. “Uh, I . . . gotta go. I’m going to be late. You know what a tyrant my aunt can be. See you tonight?”

He smiled and nodded.

I turned and hustled over to my aunt’s school bus before I accidentally blurted out her news.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want Jake to win.

I just wanted us to win more.

How was I going to tell him we’d be competing against him?

As I reached the bus, something else Jake had said bothered me. It wasn’t the contest, or the fact that we hadn’t seen each other much lately. It was his comment about
dealing with something
lately.

Something important enough to keep him from spending time with me?

Or some
one
?

*   *   *

Before I started plotting his imaginary girlfriend’s demise, I stepped into the school bus, wondering how I
would break the news to Aunt Abby about Jake’s entry into the competition. Not only would she be competing against some of the best chocolate chefs in the area, but now she’d be going up against her friend Jake Miller.

But instead of busily preparing today’s menu selection, my aunt was sitting on a stool, holding her cell phone. The color had left her face and she looked dazed. She had her hand on her chest, as if she might be having a heart attack.

“Aunt Abby!” I rushed over to give her some support. “Are you all right? You look like you’re about to collapse.”

Aunt Abby sighed and lowered the cell phone to the counter. She stared blankly at it.

“What is it, Aunt Abby? Are you ill? Do you want me to call a doctor?”

She shook her head. “It’s not that. I’m okay, I guess.”

“Then what is it?”

Still staring at the phone, she answered, “That was Reina Patel. . . .”

I shrugged, not recognizing the name.

“She’s the Chocolate Festival coordinator. The one who decides who’s eligible for the competition, the one who handpicks the judges, the one who’s in charge of the whole event.”

“Did something happen? Are you disqualified from competing for some reason? Because if she says you can’t participate, well, I’ll just go down there and—”

“No, no,” Aunt Abby said, cutting me off. “I’m still in the competition—”

“Good,” I said, cutting her off this time. “Because I’ve got some news—”

She held up her hand to stop me. “Reina called to tell me they’ve had a little glitch in the competition. That’s what she called it—a little
glitch
.”

“What kind of glitch?”

Aunt Abby sighed again. Tears welled up in her eyes. Her shoulders sank. “Apparently, they’re looking for a new judge to replace George Brown.”

“Why? Did he quit?”

“No,” she said. “George Brown is dead.”

One of the judges is dead?
I blinked at the surprising news. “What happened?”

“Reina wasn’t sure,” Aunt Abby said, absently patting the phone. “Some kind of accident. She’s looking for a replacement judge so the competition can continue. . . .” She drifted off.

She was taking this news pretty hard.

“You said you knew George Brown? Were you close?”

My aunt sighed. “You could say that. I met George years ago, when we were at culinary school together in Napa. After graduation, he went on to become editor of
Chocolatta
, a print magazine that featured anything and everything to do with chocolate. But the rag folded, like so many do these days. And now he’s dead.” Tears welled again.

“I’m so sorry, Aunt Abby.” I rested a hand on her shoulder. I wondered if he had been more than a friend.

Aunt Abby seemed to read my mind. “George was a nice guy. Good-looking too. We dated a little while we were at the academy, but then Edward came along. We got married, and I forgot about George. I always
figured George would become a pastry chef, since he loved desserts so much, but I guess he preferred tasting and writing to cooking and baking. I hadn’t thought about him for years, until I heard he’d entered the competition last year—and won.” A tear ran down her cheek. She turned away and wiped it off with the back of her hand.

So there
was
some history there. “Maybe we can check the Internet and see if there’s a report on the accident,” I offered, giving her a hug. Perhaps that would help with closure.

Aunt Abby said nothing, seemingly lost in her memories.

“Why did Reina call
you
?” I asked, thinking it odd that the woman running the festival would take the time to tell the contestants this news.

Aunt Abby shrugged and looked at the clock.

“Goodness!” she said, rising from the stool. “It’s almost showtime!” She patted her face, brushed the wrinkles out of her apron, then took down a loaf of whole wheat bread from a shelf.

“Are you okay?” I asked, surprised at this turnabout.

“I’m fine,” she said, handing me the bread. “Here, you slice this for sandwiches. I’ll shred the cheese for the chili. Where’s Dillon? That boy will be the death of me.” In an instant, she was back to her old self.

Speaking of the devil, “the boy” bounded aboard the school bus, ducking his six-foot-plus to clear the doorway. The bus rocked on its wheels.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, grabbing an apron from the
nearby hook. At least he had changed out of his robe and underwear and now wore nearly suitable clothing. If you can call torn, saggy jeans and a threadbare Radiohead T-shirt clothes. Dillon refused to be caught dead in the Big Yellow School Bus T-shirt his mother had made for all of us.

“You’re late again,” I snapped, shooting him a daggered look. I attacked the bread with a serrated knife.

“Yeah, well, I’m here now,” he snapped back. “And besides, I have a good reason.”

I rolled my eyes. “What? Was the FBI chasing you? The CIA? The NSA?”

Ever since Dillon had left the university under the computer-hacking cloud, he was convinced the government was watching his every move. When he felt especially paranoid, he dressed up in disguises and slept in the school bus instead of at home.

“Or was it the PTA this time?”

“Ha. Ha,” Dillon said, not laughing.

“Now, you two”—Aunt Abby handed Dillon a chunk of cheese and a grater—“cut it out or I’ll make both of you wash the bus tonight. Speaking of which, wash your hands, Dillon.”

“Well, if you don’t want to hear the news . . .” Dillon pouted as he went to the sink and turned on the water.

“What news, dear?” Aunt Abby asked as she began stirring a pot of her popular chili. The woman had the patience of a school cafeteria lady.

Dillon turned off the water and wiped his hands on a paper towel. “One of the Chocolate Festival judges died last night,” he announced.

We looked at Dillon. “We know,” we said in unison.

Dillon frowned. “How did you know? I just found out.”

“Reina Patel called this morning and told me,” Aunt Abby explained. “It was George Brown, an old friend of mine. She said he had some kind of accident.”

Dillon’s eyes narrowed. “You knew him?”

“A long time ago. Before I met your father.”

“Hmm,” Dillon said. Then something clicked in his warp-speed brain. “Then you don’t know what
really
happened to him?”

Aunt Abby stopped stirring. I stopped slicing.

“You know?” Abby asked. “Tell me!”

Dillon pulled a small notepad from the back pocket of his saggy jeans. I had a feeling this was going to be a long story. If that was the case, we were never going to be ready to open for business on time.

“Okay, so, I did some digging to find out more about the judges—you know, their likes and dislikes, stuff like that—to help us win the competition. Anyway, I went to hiddenhacker.com and a bunch of other sites and looked up each of their names, then dug a little deeper—”

“You mean you hacked into their personal information,” I said, shaking my head.

“Hey. People are careless with their passwords,” Dillon said. “It’s not my fault they’re stupid.”

“Sooo?” I said, circling my knife, meaning, “Get on with it.”

He rolled his eyes at me this time, then checked his notes. “So there are three judges, right? Simon Van
Houten works for his family-owned corporation called Cote d’Ivoire Industries. At least, that’s what it says in his bio. But what it doesn’t say is that the company, owned by Van Houten Senior—Simon’s dad—owns a whole bunch of international import businesses under a bunch of fake names. Dad and son have practically cornered the market in—get this—chocolate. They have factories all over Africa, producing two-thirds of the world’s cocoa.”

“Huh,” I said. “I thought most chocolate came from Central and South America.”

“Me too,” Aunt Abby said.

Dillon shrugged. “Whatever. It sounds like they have a worldwide monopoly on wholesale chocolate production. But that’s not all. Junior and senior don’t get along all that well. Apparently, Dad is old-school conservative when it comes to business, while son is more eco-geek.”

“Interesting, but what does this have to do with the contest?”

“And what does it have to do with George?” Aunt Abby said before Dillon could answer me.

“I’m getting to him,” Dillon told his mother. “So, the second judge is Isabel Lau, right?”

Aunt Abby nodded.

“It wasn’t easy finding stuff on her,” Dillon said. He glanced at his notepad. “Seems she’s a regular judge on the dessert circuit, but I couldn’t find out much more about her. It’s like she came out of nowhere and suddenly became an expert on chocolate. No family history. No school credentials. Nothing. I did find an
interview she gave in
Chocolatta
magazine. She claims chocolate is an aphrodisiac, and she puts chocolate on everything she eats, even salad.”

“So, she likes chocolate,” I said. “What woman doesn’t? Did you find out anything about George Brown?” I checked my watch again. If Dillon didn’t wrap up his report soon, we weren’t going to hear the punch line until after we finished serving the last customer at the end of the day.

“Dude, get this,” Dillon said. “George Brown used to be the
editor
of that
Chocolatta
magazine.”

“We know that,” I said, glancing at Aunt Abby for confirmation. “It went under.”

“Not exactly,” Dillon said. “Turns out Van Houten’s company, Cote d’Ivoire, bought the magazine, changed the name to
The Magic of Chocolate
, fired everybody on staff, including George, and hired all new people.”

Harsh, I thought. But it happened a lot in the magazine business, especially today, as print mags competed with e-zines. The competition was one of the reasons I’d been downsized at the newspaper.

Abby frowned. “Do you know what happened to George after he left the magazine?”

Dillon glanced at his notes. “Uh, let’s see. He opened up his own chocolate shop in Fisherman’s Wharf called The Chock’lit Shop, but it crashed and burned six months later. After that he started a gig writing an online blog he called Wicked Chocolate. Covered all the local chocolate news—reviewed chocolate shops, offered chocolate recipes, mentioned events, stuff like that.”

“This is all very interesting,” I said, “but do you have any idea what
happened
to him? Reina said it was some kind of accident.”

“Dude, chill. I’m getting to that. So anyway, George wrote a blog about being a judge for the chocolate competition and said he was looking forward to tasting all the chocolates, blah, blah, blah. But get this. He published that blog yesterday. And last night he was killed.”

“I thought it was an accident,” Aunt Abby said.

“It was,” Dillon said. “He was killed by a hit-and-run driver.”

“Oh my God.” Aunt Abby’s face went as white as her still-clean apron. She held the counter to steady herself. “I thought it was just an accident, like a fall or something. That poor man! What a horrible way to die. Did they find the person who did it?”

Dillon shook his head. “I checked the police records. It happened at night, and the only witness said the car was a late-model SUV, probably black.”

Aunt Abby sighed and shook her head. “I’m beginning to feel like Jessica Fletcher,” she mumbled. “Lately it seems like everywhere I go, someone gets killed.”

I knew exactly what she was referring to—the murders that had recently plagued the food truck businesses. She’d even been a suspect for one of the deaths.

“Who’s Jessica Fletcher?” Dillon asked.

“You’ve never heard of Jessica Fletcher?” I asked. “
Murder, She Wrote
? I think the show is still on a cable channel.”

“Before my time,” Dillon answered. “Was she a cop or something?”

I laughed. “No. She was a meddling mystery writer who kept stumbling over bodies in Cabot Cove, Maine—a quaint New England town that happens to have the highest murder rate in America. It almost became a joke that if Jessica Fletcher was in the area, there would be bodies—and most of the suspects were her relatives.”

“Sounds lame,” Dillon said.

“I loved that show!” Aunt Abby said. “She was one smart lady, and smarter than the police. I always guessed the killer right along with her, just by studying the physical evidence instead of being distracted by what the suspects said. You can’t argue with the evidence.”

“We’re getting off the subject, guys,” I said. The clock was ticking. I could hear murmurs of a line outside the shuttered bus. “If George Brown was killed by a hit-and-run driver, it was probably an unfortunate accident. I don’t think Jessica Fletcher is needed for this. It’s sad, but right now we need to hustle.”

Aunt Abby frowned and gazed into the distance. “On the other hand . . . it
could
have been deliberate.”

“Seriously?” I stared at her.

She shrugged, smoothed her apron, and returned to stirring the pot of chili. “It’s possible, although I don’t know why anyone would want to kill sweet old George.”

Was it possible? Nah. With all this
Murder, She Wrote
talk, we were being overly suspicious. George Brown’s death was a tragedy, but there was no reason to suspect it was anything other than a terrible accident. Still, I wondered what he’d written in that last blog.

Aunt Abby glanced up at the clock. “Oh, goodness. It’s time to open up.”

I moved to the window, rolled up the shutter, and saw the long line of customers.

“Wait a minute!” Dillon said. “I haven’t told you the best part. Don’t you want to know who’s replacing George Brown in the competition?”

“They already have a replacement?” I asked, glancing at Aunt Abby. “That was quick.”

“Tell me about it,” Dillon said, tapping his notepad with his fingertip.

“How did you find out?”

“I have my ways,” he said, raising a thick, squirrely eyebrow.

“Oh my God, you hacked into the festival’s computer too, didn’t you!” I said, raising
both
my eyebrows.

Dillon glanced around. “Shh! You never know who might be listening.”

Aunt Abby held up a just-a-minute finger to the first customer in her line. “So tell us. Who’s the new judge taking George’s place?”

He looked at his notepad. “This chick named Polly Montgomery. Ever heard of her?”

Aunt Abby shook her head.

“Uh-oh,” I said under my breath.

Aunt Abby and Dillon looked at me.

“I know her,” I said. “I mean, I know
of
her. She’s the food editor at the
Times
. But we’ve never actually met. In person.”

The truth was, Polly and I had had a couple of snippy exchanges via e-mail, when she disagreed with
one of my restaurant reviews. She’d had the nerve to accuse me of making stuff up, which of course wasn’t true. I had given the restaurant an honest review. The food was tasteless, the service was lax, and the prices were high. I later learned one of Polly’s several ex-husbands owned the place.

I had a sudden thought. “Aunt Abby, did you put my name on any of the entry forms?”

“No. Just mine. Why?” Aunt Abby asked.

“No reason,” I said. No sense in worrying my aunt that Polly Montgomery might be prejudicial if she knew I was part of Aunt Abby’s team. Nor did I want to get myself kicked off the team and lose a chance at that prize money. I didn’t know if Polly had that kind of power, but it wasn’t worth taking the risk.

“What’s this Polly person like?” Aunt Abby asked me.

I glanced out the window at the restless customers and said, “I’ll tell you later—”

Dillon interrupted me and held up his notes. “She’s quite the party girl. Her name came up in all kinds of social-type articles. It’s rumored she’s hooked up with the ex-mayor, the owner of Chez Paris, and one of the news anchors on Channel 4, at least. And get this. They say she also hooked up with the former editor of
Chocolatta
magazine—your George Brown.”

Aunt Abby’s face lost its pink color, but instead of tearing up again, she lifted her head, put on a smile, and she shoved open the school-bus service window. “What’ll you have?”