Death of a Chocolate Cheater: A Food Festival Mystery (22 page)

I caught a glimpse of Frankie Nudo and headed over to see how his cheesy-thingies had turned out. Frankie had actually put on a suit for the event, and he looked as out of place in it as he must have felt. His curly dark hair was greased back, and he’d added a couple of gold rings to his pudgy fingers. As I neared the table, Frankie frowned.

“Your cheesy-thingies look . . . good,” I said brightly. Truthfully, it was all I could muster.

He grunted something and shrugged his shoulders, as if trying to make the suit jacket fit better. He was clearly uncomfortable, and I wondered if it was more from the suit or the competition. Or was it Monet and her proximity that was causing him discomfort?

“Good luck,” I finally said, when he didn’t say—or grunt—anything more.

He nodded, not meeting my eyes, then cracked his knuckles. Was this guy tense, or what?

I moved on to Monet’s table, next to Frankie’s,
wondering whose idea it was to put these two so close together.

“Chéri!”
she said, smiling when she saw me. “I heard about Reina! So glad they found out she was the real killer and took her to jail. I was beginning to think I might be next. Now I can relax, win the contest, and take the next step in my career.”

I heard Frankie grunt something but couldn’t make it out.

Monet either didn’t hear him or ignored him. “Where are those judges? My I Scream Cakes won’t last forever, even in this cooler full of dry ice.”

Monet’s table sported a festive tablecloth and a cupcake tier, ready to take on a dozen of her ice cream cupcakes. Next to it sat the cooler she’d referenced.

“How long will they last in there?” I asked, dying to take a peek inside and see what artistic frosting designs she’d come up with for her contest entries. The ones she’d sold at the festival ranged from patriotic red, white, and blue flag designs to bursting spring flowers to funny animal faces.

“I have no idea!” Monet exclaimed. “This is the first time I’ve had to use a cooler. I always keep my I Scream Cupcakes in a zero-degree freezer.” She looked at her watch. “Those judges had better hurry.”

“Can I peek?” I asked. Monet thought about it for a second, then lifted the lid.

“Oh my God!” I gasped as I stared down at the ice cream-cupcake concoctions.

Each cupcake was frosted in chocolate icing and
sprinkled with chocolate jimmies to suggest dirt. Inserted into each one was a gray-frosted Milano cookie, with the letters “RIP” spelled out in black icing across the front.

I looked up at her and tried to shut my open mouth. “Wow,” was all I could manage.

“Appropriate, don’t you think?” she said, grinning proudly. “I like my cakes to have a theme, and these individual gravestones seemed perfect!”

“Well, good luck.” With that I moved on to the next table.

The nameplate read H
ARRISON
T
OFFLEMI
RE—
C
HOCOLATE
F
ALLS.
But instead of Harrison manning the table, his two daughters were in his place, busily trying to assemble the smaller chocolate fountain. They didn’t appear to have a clue how to put it together.

“Angelica, it doesn’t go there!” one of them said to the other, who was holding up one of the tiers. I couldn’t tell them apart. They looked exactly alike, right down to the moles over their right eyes. And their identical skimpy outfits didn’t help either.

“Well, if you’re so smart, then where does it go, Anastasia?”

Angelica? Anastasia? Really?

“I’ll tell you where it goes . . . ,” Anastasia said, giving her an evil look.

“Give it to me, you airhead,” Angelica snapped.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, ditzwad!” Anastasia snapped back.

“Shut up and help me!” Angelica said. Or maybe it
was Anastasia. With all their bickering, I was beginning to lose track.

“I wish Dad was here,” one of them whined, trying again to fit in the tier.

“I know. We have to win this for him,” said the other.

One of them looked up at me, finally noticing I was there.

“Can we help you?” she asked snottily.

“No. I just came by to wish you good luck,” I said.

“Whatever,” she said, and returned to making fruitless efforts to fix the machine.

I silently stepped over to Griffin’s table. He stood behind his table, looking miffed, as usual, his pies haphazardly set on the table without a thought to presentation. The pies themselves looked a little off too. One was lopsided. Another had spilled over the top. Another had a broken crust rim, as if someone had taken a bite out of it.

“How’s it going?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.

“Sucks,” he said. “This whole festival has been a nightmare from the start, and none of my pies turned out right. I haven’t got a prayer. I don’t know why I’m still in this stupid contest.”

“I’m sure they’ll taste great,” I said, trying to give him a ray of hope.

“Yeah, right. Someone stole my good chocolate last night, and I had to use some kind of commercial crap.”

“Stole it?” I asked, surprised. Had someone tried to undermine Griffin at the last minute?

“No one stole it, pie pal,” Frankie shouted from across the room. “You’re too cheap to pay for the good stuff and you blame everyone else, like you always have.”

“Mind your own business, cheese ball,” Griffin shouted back. “That so-called chocolate you use is nothing but melted down carob chips. It’s mockolate.”

“Shut your piehole!” Frankie yelled. Before I could blink, Frankie came out from the back of his table and, in three swift steps, picked up one of the chocolate pies and smashed it into Griffin’s face.

With these clowns, the event was turning into a real circus.

It took Clifford the security guard, Jake, and two other guys to escort the two men out of the contest tent. Both were accessorized in chocolate pie filling. And Lyla and her cameraman had captured it all on tape for the late-night news.

A few minutes later, Jake returned. Lyla signaled her cameraman to focus on him. I watched as Jake held up a hand, shook his head, and kept walking toward his table. Lyla grabbed his hand and said something to him I couldn’t make out. Jake stopped, turned to her, and frowned, then shook his head again. A look came over Lyla’s face that I couldn’t quite identify. Incomprehension? Disbelief? Anger?

I stepped up a little closer and heard Jake say, “Look, Lyla, I’m sorry.”

Then he turned around, spotted me watching him, and headed directly over.

Uh-oh.

Before I could do anything, he reached me, took my hand, pulled me close, then kissed me right there in front of everyone.

In the background, I thought I heard a burst of applause.

He pulled back and looked at me.

I flushed with embarrassment, and it took me a few seconds to recover from the kiss. Finally, I whispered, “Where did that come from?”

“Come on,” he said, taking my hand. He walked me out of the tent and took me aside. Turning to me, he pressed his lips together, looked away, then met my eyes. “Darcy, you were right.”

Puzzled, I asked, “I was? About what?”

He rolled his eyes. “Lyla.”

My heart skipped several beats. “What was I right about?”

“She was . . . She wanted to get back together, like you said.”

I knew it!
I said to myself. I felt like jumping up and down. Instead I said calmly, “Oh.”

“I was so stupid! How did I not see that? I was sure she really needed my help, and I thought she was just doing the story on my cream puffs to thank me. But I was wrong. Dead wrong.”

I smiled gently and pressed his hand.

“How did you know what she was up to?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Who would want to let you go? You’re a dream puff.”

Jake broke into a big grin, pulled me close again, and gave me a kiss that was as delicious as one of his cream puffs.

*   *   *

“The judges are here!” Willow announced.

The antsy crowd simmered down, and the contestants stood at attention behind their tables—minus a few. Griffin and Frankie had vanished, and the Tofflemire girls had given up on reconstructing the Chocolate Falls machine and had left for the hospital to see their dad. That left Aunt Abby, Jake, Monet, and several others vying for the grand prize. The only real contender I could see who might beat out Aunt Abby was Jake.

One by one the contestants brought samples of their chocolate masterpieces to the judging table. The judges were stone-faced as they tasted each one, making notes on small pads. The suspense was killing me, and by the time they’d tried bites of every entry, my crossed fingers had cramps.

When the judges left the tent to confer in private, I ate three whoopie pies to try to calm my nerves. Instead, I had a stomachache by the time the judges returned. After settling into their seats, their faces as stoic as before, they handed Willow a piece of paper with the name of the first-, second-, and third-place winners.

“This is so exciting!” Willow said, unfolding the paper. She took a dramatic deep breath, leaned in to the microphone, and announced: “First-place winner . . . OMG! Abigail Warner!”

A cheer went up from the audience. I looked at Jake and gave him a sympathetic smile. He nodded and gave me a thumbs-up. I could tell he was genuinely happy for Aunt Abby.

Jake took second—five hundred dollars and a gift certificate for the local gourmet chocolate store, and
Monet won third place—a bottle of chocolate wine and a T-shirt that read: “Chocolate Comes from a Plant, Which Makes It a Salad.” Aunt Abby was beyond thrilled, especially about appearing on a future episode of
Chocolate Wars.
I was thrilled for her too, but the extra money she’d planned to share with Dillon and me would certainly come in handy.

I glanced around, suddenly noticing someone was missing. Lyla Vassar, along with her cameraman, were nowhere in sight. Had her supposed feature on Jake and his cream puffs all been a sham to get close to him? It sure looked that way.

The contestants handed out leftovers to the delighted audience, then packed up their displays and headed out. Aunt Abby invited Jake to join us for a celebration at her home, and he agreed to meet us there. But first I wanted to take a shower, put on fresh clothes, and take a Zantac.

When I entered Aunt Abby’s kitchen forty-five minutes later, I was surprised to see Detective Shelton and Wendy Spellman at the table, as well as Jake, who had also beaten me there.

I went over and gave Wendy a hug. “You’re out!”

She grinned and patted Aunt Abby’s hand. “Thanks to my best friend here,” she said.

Dillon moved over a chair so I could sit by Jake, and I joined the group at the table. Aunt Abby got up and brought me a cup of coffee to go with the platter of Jake’s leftover cream puffs. As soon as the Zantac kicked in, I planned to help myself.

“So what are you going to do with all that prize
money?” I asked Aunt Abby, after taking a sip of the warm drink.

Aunt Abby glanced at the detective and smiled. “Well, after you and Dillon get your share, I’m going to upgrade my school-bus kitchen to all stainless steel, put in a popcorn machine, and start serving chocolate-covered kettle corn. Wes loves kettle corn.”

Detective Shelton—I would never call him “Wes”—grinned. He smiled so rarely, his face looked odd. Nice, but odd.

“What about you, Jake?” Aunt Abby asked.

Although Jake was runner-up, he was number one in my book. I was just glad we were both still alive to enjoy another round of chocolate.

“Don’t know yet,” he said. “Pay some bills, probably. Take Darcy out for a nice dinner. Get her some gourmet chocolates.” He reached over and took my hand.

I blushed. I’d have to get used to these public displays of affection.

“What about you, Dillon?” Jake asked.

“New laptop, new tablet, new phone, Apple watch, Google glasses,” he said, his nose buried in his current cell phone.

“Darcy?” Jake asked.

“I’m saving mine.”

“Boring,” Dillon said.

Detective Shelton rose from the table. “Well, I’d better be going. Glad you’re all safe and we have the killer in custody.”

“By the way,” I said, “how’s J.C.?”

“The doctors are hopeful. He’s young and strong, but it’ll take a lot of rehab to get him up and around again.”

“And Harrison?”

“He’s fine. His head injury bled a lot, but it wasn’t deep. They’ll watch him for another day or so before they release him.”

“Before you go, Detective, I want to thank you,” Wendy said, “and everyone, especially Abby, for believing in me.” She looked tired from her stay in jail, but had stopped by on her way home to see her friend.

“It was mostly them,” the detective said, waving a hand at the rest of us. “Abby, Darcy, Dillon, Jake. If they hadn’t gotten involved, we might never have discovered that Reina murdered Polly—and tried to kill J.C.”

Not to mention George Brown,
I thought, although technically that was involuntary manslaughter. Or was it? We might never know.

“Yes, thank you, everyone,” Wendy said, “for everything. I’m lucky to have such good friends in Abigail and her family. Bless you all.”

In spite of my own close call, it gave me a warm feeling to think we helped in some way.

Detective Shelton looked at Aunt Abby. “See you tomorrow night?”

She gave him her Kewpie-doll smile, dimples and all. “Looking forward to it, Wes.”

I’d never get used to her calling him that.

“Well, I’m wiped out,” I said to the group, and rose. “I’m going to turn in.”

“I’ll walk you to your RV,” Jake said, and joined me.
“I have to make sure it’s chocolate-free. At least on the outside.”

“Hey, why did Reina pour chocolate on your car and RV?” Dillon asked.

“Just to scare me, I think,” I said. “The upside is, my Bug still smells like chocolate. The downside is, every time I get in the car, I want a Mounds bar.”

We said good night and headed out the back door.

“Want to come in for a drink?” I asked Jake, not ready to let him go—not after those kisses.

“I’m bushed, but a glass of wine sounds good before bed.” We climbed into the rig and I caught him eyeing the couch.

I smiled. “Are you sure you want to sleep on that couch again? It can’t be that comfortable.”

He pulled me close and tucked my hair behind my ear. “You’re right. I guess I should head on home and let you get some sleep.”

“I wasn’t planning to go to sleep. . . .” I smiled.

He grinned, leaned in, and kissed me.

It was—
mmm
—sweeter than chocolate.