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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Chocolate Covered Murder
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“Well, yes,” said Lucy. “Was she always so ... ?”
“Promiscuous?” Graves took a long drink of coffee. “She was.”
“Is that why you divorced?”
“Yeah.”
“But you stayed in touch?”
“Sure. It was a lot easier being her friend than being her husband.”
“So what was she really like?”
“She grew up in Troy, it's one of those towns in New York State that have fallen on hard times. She couldn't wait to get out and joined the army; that's where we met. She's the only person I ever heard say she loved boot camp, but she thrived on physical challenges, she just loved the workouts, the obstacle courses, the runs. And she really liked being with all those guys.”
“How come she left?”
He shrugged. “She was stuck in Texas and didn't like it much, so when she got twenty years—enough for a pension—she didn't reenlist. She always loved New England so she came up here to Maine. She loved this town, she said she'd never been happier.”
Lucy felt the pull of a great sense of guilt. “I'm so sorry... .”
“It's not your fault,” said Graves. “You didn't kill her, did you?”
“I could have been nicer to her.”
“It's okay. She never had a lot of girlfriends,” he said, signaling Norine for a refill. When she'd filled his cup and he'd gone through the rigmarole of tearing open the little paper pouches of sugar and poured in the cream, he made eye contact with Lucy. “So what do you know about this guy she was working for? This Trey Meacham?”
Lucy shifted in her seat, uncomfortably aware that the situation had changed and she was now the interviewee instead of the interviewer. “I don't know him very well,” she said, feeling that the incident with Corney was something she shouldn't talk about. Corney deserved to have her privacy protected.
“But you told me you know everybody in town,” he said, challenging her.
“I may have exaggerated,” she said, attempting a chuckle.
Major Lawrence Graves was not amused and Lucy had the feeling she was up against a skilled questioner, someone who was able to get information from toughened Taliban fighters. “How big is this chocolate operation of his?”
“Oh.” Lucy was relieved. This was something she could talk about. “There are four stores: Kittery, Camden, Bar Harbor, and here. The chocolates are made in Rockland, in a converted sardine factory, and there's a shop there, too. I haven't seen the corporate balance sheet, but Trey himself seems quite prosperous—he drives a Range Rover—and the chocolates have won prizes.”
“Is he a local guy?”
“You mean, did he grow up here?”
“Yeah.”
“No. He left a high-powered career in public relations, I think, and started Chanticleer Chocolate about a year ago.”
“Did he and Tamzin have a relationship?”
“That's open to debate,” said Lucy. “They certainly seemed friendly.”
“What about this woman they say killed her? Dora Fraser?”
“She's a local woman, her family owns a fudge shop so she was a competitor with Chanticleer. Also, Tamzin had a relationship with Dora's ex-husband and she may have been jealous.”
“I don't buy it,” said Graves. “I don't think a woman could take Tamzin. She was into martial arts, she taught hand-to-hand combat.”
Lucy brightened. “That's what I think, too. I don't see Dora as a double murderer.”
Graves's eyebrows shot up. “Double?”
“Dora's ex-husband was killed last month when he was ice fishing. Knocked on the head and tangled up in fishline and shoved through the ice. They're charging Dora with that, too. Or trying to. I'm not sure of the status of the investigation.”
“Wow, this is some nice town you've got here.”
Lucy decided not to respond. “Are there any funeral arrangements yet for Tamzin?” she asked.
He drained his cup and set it down. “Her family is still back in Troy. They'll have a service and she'll be buried there.”
“Thanks for your help,” said Lucy. “I guess you'll be heading off to Troy?”
Graves caught her in his gaze. “Oh, no. I'm staying right here until I find the bastard who killed her.”
The cool, calculated way he said it took her breath away. “Oh,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Good luck.”
“Luck will have nothing to do with it,” he said, reaching for his jacket and pulling his watch cap over his head. “I have a mission and I intend to complete it. Thanks for the coffee.”
Lucy watched as he left the coffee shop, feeling a bit like a bystander in a superhero movie. Graves, it seemed, was no ordinary mortal, he was battle ready and itching for a fight. She was convinced he had the skills and the mental preparedness to fight his enemies and even kill them.
Reaching for her purse, she picked up the check and went over to the cash register. “Who was that guy?” asked Norine. “He looks like one tough customer.”
“That was Tamzin's ex-husband,” said Lucy, handing her a five-dollar bill. “He's a soldier.”
“Well, I'm glad he's on our side,” said Norine, giving Lucy her change.
But as Lucy left the coffee shop and hurried to her car, she wondered if Graves was really the avenger he said he was. As a reporter she'd covered a number of murders and the sad fact was that most of the victims were women who'd been killed by their husbands or lovers. Graves said he wanted to find Tamzin's killer but was that nothing more than a smoke screen to hide his own guilt?
She climbed into the car and started it, thinking that the more she knew about Tamzin, the less she knew. Here she'd thought she was nothing but a trashy sexpot and now she had learned she was a soldier for twenty years and even taught hand-to-hand combat. It seemed crazy. Yet in spite of all that, somebody had overpowered her and killed her. Who could have done it? And why? This was one story she couldn't wait to write; it was going to upset a lot of people's preconceptions about Tamzin, that was for sure. And it was going to blow a very big hole in the case against Dora.
 
Lucy was already composing sentences as she headed for home, detouring along Shore Road to stop by Corney's place.
When Corney opened the door, Lucy saw that Corney had definitely had a tough night. Her eyes were puffy, her face was blotchy, and there were faint bruises on her neck and wrists. Her short blond hair hadn't been brushed and was sticking out all over her head. “Oh my goodness,” Lucy exclaimed, wrapping her friend in her arms and giving her a hug.
“I feel awful,” said Corney, “and I look worse.”
“You had a bad time,” said Lucy. “Trey's bad news.”
“You can say that again.” Corney sat on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “A lot of it's my own fault. I never should've drank all that brandy. I always try to sleep on my back, but when I woke up this morning my face was squished into the pillow.”
“Don't blame yourself,” said Lucy. “You're the victim here. Those are terrible bruises on your neck You're lucky to be alive.”
“No, Lucy, you've got it wrong. He's just a big guy. He doesn't know his own strength—and I bruise easily.” She got up and went over to a mirror that hung on the wall, examining her face and running her fingers beneath her eyes, smoothing out the bags. “Do you happen to have any Preparation H?”
This was the last thing Lucy expected to hear. “Not on me,” she said.
“It's the best thing for bags under your eyes.” Corney flipped up the collar of her blue fleece robe, holding it beneath her chin with two hands and hiding the bruises. “You know, I think he really likes me.”
Lucy had done a couple of stories on the rape crisis center in Gilead and knew that Corney's reaction wasn't unusual. The counselors there said one of the most difficult obstacles to getting rape convictions was the victims' tendency to blame themselves for causing the incident in the first place, believing it was something they did that made their partner become violent. She knew she had to use a gentle approach if she was going to convince Corney that she hadn't deserved to be assaulted.
“I'm sure he does like you,” said Lucy, seating herself on one of the rustic stools that were lined up at the island. She was recalling Larry Graves's interest in Trey and wondering if he suspected Trey had killed Tamzin. Now that she knew about his assault on Corney, it seemed possible, but what about Max? Was there some link between Trey and Max?
“Last night, you said something about how Trey's mood changed when you mentioned you were going to Mexico.”
“Yeah.” Corney took a big gulp of coffee. “I said I was going to this little town on the Baja coast. A lot of surfers go there and I know he likes to surf, at least he did when he was younger. He was always talking about surfing.”
Somewhere in Lucy's brain a connection formed and she felt a mounting excitement. “Max surfed, too. In Mexico. What's the name of the town?”
“Playa del Diablo.”
“Devil's Beach?”
“I didn't know you knew Spanish,” said Corney.
“I don't,” said Lucy, slipping off the stool. “Mind if I use your computer?”
“Not at all. It's down the hall, next to the guest bath.”
Lucy followed Corney's directions and found a small, very messy office. The desk was covered with stacks of papers, the bookcase was crammed with cookbooks and design books, and a bunch of Valentine's flags were propped in a corner. A box of promotional brochures was sitting on the desk chair, and Lucy couldn't find anyplace to put it except on the couch, where stacks of newspapers and magazines were already taking up most of the space. She sat down and booted up the computer; she was waiting for the Internet connection when Corney joined her, plunking herself down on the couch amid all the piles of print media.
“You've found my secret,” said Corney, crossing her legs and revealing a fuzzy blue slipper that matched her robe. “I can organize other people's stuff but I can't get a handle on my own.”
“Like the shoemaker's barefoot children,” said Lucy, typing
PLAYA DEL DIABLO
in the search box. A few moments later she was rewarded with colorful pictures of a pristine beach and muscular, tanned surfers with very white teeth. “Looks like you're going to have a fantastic time in Playa del Diablo.”
“Oh, that's just PR. I bet they're all eighty years old and toothless. And the beach is probably covered with globs of tar and oil.” Corney propped her feet on a storage box marked
TAX RETURNS
. “That's the trouble with being in public relations—you never believe anything.”
Lucy chuckled and began a search for Mexican newspapers. Playa del Diablo didn't have its own paper, but nearby Cabo San Lucas did and its archives were available for a small fee. “Corney, I need your help here.”
Corney groaned as she got up and shuffled over, kicking a pair of high-heeled shoes out of her way. She leaned over Lucy's shoulder to read the screen, then opened a desk drawer and pulled out a credit card. “It's my shopping card,” she said. “I keep it handy, in case I want to order something.”
Lucy vacated the chair and Corney plopped down and began typing in the numbers. It took a couple of tries but she finally got it right and was inside the archives. “It goes by year. What year do you want?”
Lucy told her and she entered the date. “What now?'
“Just keep scrolling through. I'm looking for anything about Max or Trey.”
“Talk about a needle in a haystack,” complained Corney. “How do you think we're going to find ... uh, whoa! Here we go!”
“What is it?” asked Lucy, spotting a photo of several surfers and recognizing youthful versions of both Max and Trey. “What does it say?”
“
American killed in surfing accident
,” translated Corney, reading the accompanying story. “
Wes Teasdale drowned yesterday when hit by a loose board
...
his companion Trey Meacham was tragically unable to save him.
” Corney leaned back in the chair. “Poor Trey. That must have been terrible. Imagine seeing your friend drown in a horrible accident.”
Lucy had a different take. “Maybe it wasn't an accident,” she said. “And maybe Max knew it.”
Chapter Twenty
E
xcited about finding a connection between Max and Trey, Lucy dialed the state police barracks and asked for Lieutenant Horowitz, half expecting her call to be transferred to voice mail. He was there, however, and took her call.
“You're working on a Sunday?” she said, in a surprised voice.
“And so, apparently, are you,” he replied.
“I guess I am,” said Lucy. “I'm actually with Corney Clarke. She was involved in a very unpleasant situation with Trey Meacham last night.”
“Umm,” said Horowitz, sounding bored.
“Well, I've found some evidence that casts doubt on Dora Fraser's guilt. It points instead to Trey Meacham.”
Horowitz sighed. “Go on.”
“It's a connection between Trey and Max that goes way back, about twenty years ago, when they were both in Mexico. A friend of theirs, Wes Teasdale, was killed in a surfing accident, but I don't think it was an accident at all. I think Trey actually murdered Wes. And when Trey showed up here in Tinker's Cove, I think Max may have attempted to blackmail him.”
“Whoa,” said Horowitz. “This was twenty years ago?”
“Yes. You see, I knew there was a connection between Tamzin and Trey, of course, but I couldn't figure out why he would kill Max. But Max told Dora he was going to come up with the money for Lily's college—and how else would he get twenty thousand dollars if he wasn't blackmailing Trey?”
There was a long pause before Horowitz spoke. “You've really done it now,” he said. “Off the deep end. Completely crazy. My advice is to take two aspirins and call a psychiatrist.”
Lucy was disappointed, she'd really expected a bit more enthusiasm. “I'm probably not explaining it well. I'm sure I'm on to something.”
“It's more like you're
on
something,” said Horowitz, ending the call.
“What did he say?” asked Corney, as Lucy pocketed her phone.
“He told me to seek professional help,” said Lucy, chagrined.
Corney laughed. “I think you may be making a mountain out of a molehill. According to the newspaper article, the Mexican authorities were convinced Teasdale's death was an accident.”
“I doubt they really conducted any sort of investigation,” said Lucy. “Bill's mom and dad have a time-share in Mexico and they say the police are notoriously corrupt. They make phony traffic stops and threaten to arrest you, but if you give them fifty bucks they let you go.” She chewed her thumbnail. “Don't you see? Max and Trey knew each other, there's a connection. They have a shared past in Mexico and I think they were involved in more than gathering chocolate recipes.”
“That doesn't necessarily mean that Trey killed Max,” said Corney, yawning. “I'm beat.”
“Oh, sorry,” said Lucy, hopping to her feet. “I'd better let you get some rest.”
“Thanks for everything, Lucy,” said Corney, giving her a hug.
“Make sure you lock the door after me,” advised Lucy, reaching for her coat. She had zipped up and was digging for the car keys in her purse when she found the card Larry Graves had given her.
Should she call him? she wondered, as she left the house and made her way to the car. He had seemed very interested in Trey Meacham, she remembered. Of course, Tamzin had probably mentioned Trey to her ex-husband. The two were friends, he said. They probably communicated regularly. It was natural to talk about your job and your boss. But Graves had particularly asked about Trey, as if he had a special interest in him. Jealousy? Maybe, but he seemed to have put that behind him. It was easier to be her friend than her husband, that's what he said, and Lucy took it to mean he wouldn't be hurt when she went with other men.
In the car, Lucy waited for the engine to warm up and fingered the card. Graves was a tough guy and she wasn't sure what his reaction would be to this new information. She didn't want him to go off half-cocked and do something he would regret. On the other hand, she didn't feel she had a right to withhold information he might find valuable. He had loved Tamzin, after all, and clearly felt a need to resolve her death. Lucy didn't think he was motivated by revenge as much as the desire to achieve justice. Somebody had killed Tamzin and desecrated her body and he wanted to make sure that person paid for the crime.
And, face it, she told herself, she didn't owe Trey a thing. His behavior to Corney was inexcusable—and suspicious. Trey might seem like a nice guy but his treatment of Corney had revealed another side to his personality. There was definitely something a bit off about Trey. Coming to a decision, she dialed his cell phone but Graves didn't answer; the call went straight to voice mail.
Disappointed, she shifted into drive and headed for home. Today was Valentine's Day and she couldn't help hoping there might be something special waiting for her; Bill usually had some little surprise for her. She had a card for him—one of the big, expensive ones—and was planning a special dinner, his favorite meat loaf, with butterscotch brownies and ice cream for dessert.
Pulling into the driveway, she stopped the car by the mailbox, irrationally hoping to find some red envelopes. She smiled, finding one, hand-delivered and signed with a crayon scrawl, from Patrick.
When she went inside the kitchen, she found a vase filled with a dozen perfect red roses in the middle of the kitchen table, with a note from Bill. It was one word: ALWAYS. She pressed the card to her chest and bent down to inhale the flowers' scent, savoring the moment. He loved her, he really, really did. He'd remembered. She felt as if she were floating on air as she took off her winter jacket and danced around the kitchen, humming a little tune. “Love, love, love,” she sang, gathering butter and brown sugar and walnuts to make the brownies. She was just about to grease the pan when her cell phone rang.
She half expected it to be Bill, checking to see if she'd found the flowers, but it was Larry Graves.
“I found a link between Trey Meacham and Max Fraser,” she said. “They were in Mexico about twenty years ago.”
“Tamzin called me, terrified, just before she was killed,” said Graves. “A big package from Mexico came to the shop and when she opened it she found cocaine. She was going to take it to the police, but she never made it.”
Of course, Lucy thought, drugs. The chocolate business was a perfect cover. Suddenly, an image popped into her mind. It was Trey, standing in the dry cleaner's shop. She'd said something about how he was selling a lot more than chocolate. She'd meant that the chocolates were something special, a luxury item that implied the discriminating consumer deserved only the very best. But his expression had implied something very different; he'd looked shocked and had hurried out of the shop. It was as if she'd hit a nerve, and she was pretty sure exactly what that nerve was. He was selling more than chocolate; he was selling drugs. And she was willing to bet he was making a lot more money from the illegal drug operation than he was from his overpriced chocolates.
“I called the police but they didn't believe me,” said Lucy.
“I don't want to go on record with this, it's just between you and me, but I'm on my way to Rockland, to the factory,” said Graves. “Could be quite a scoop for the town's best reporter.”
Lucy was suddenly energized; she felt like a racehorse waiting for the gate to open. “I'll bring my camera,” she said.
 
This was better than roses, thought Lucy, as she followed the road up hill and down dale to Rockland. She felt exhilarated, chasing down a story that wasn't some stupid puff piece assignment from Ted but one she developed herself, following her hunches and taking the initiative. And what a story it was! Everything was coming together. She was not only solving two murders, and clearing Dora in the process, but nailing Trey would cut off the supply of drugs that was pouring into the region. Not forever—she wasn't naïve enough to believe that—but long enough that a lot of users would have time to go to rehab and get themselves straightened out. She couldn't wait to see Ted's face when she presented him with the story of the year, complete with photos. And best of all, it was her story.
They'd know soon enough, of course. NECN and CNN and the Boston stations and newspapers would be all over it, but that would be later. She was breaking this story, a story that was going to be big, really big. Maybe they'd even interview her. She could just see herself chatting with Deborah Norville. “How did you break this story?” Deborah would ask. “Well, it was nothing more than good investigative reporting and a little bit of luck, Deborah,” she'd say. “I followed a hunch and learned the luxury chocolates were a front for illegal drugs from Mexico.”
But when she arrived at the old waterfront sardine factory, the parking lot was empty. She wasn't sure what she'd expected, Larry Graves had been pretty vague, but she'd definitely gotten the feeling that something was going to come down. A raid maybe? She drove around the building, looking for the major, but there was no sign of life at all and she was beginning to wonder if she'd misunderstood and jumped to the wrong conclusion.
The five-story building was handsome; she had to admit Meacham had done a terrific job restoring the classic nineteenth-century factory. The brick had been cleaned and pointed, and the windows, which were lined up in symmetrical rows, had been repaired. Even the tall bell tower that once called workers to their shifts had been restored. The plowed parking lot was freshly paved and lined, dotted here and there with hardy young trees, and a handsome carved wood sign with the trademark rooster identified the former cannery as the home of Chanticleer Chocolate.
Somewhat frustrated that Graves had turned out to be a no-show, Lucy decided that rather than waste her time, she might as well snap a few photos of the factory. She found the structure surprisingly photogenic in the slanting afternoon sunshine: the ranks of windows offered an interesting visual, the tall bell tower made a dramatic image shot from its base, and the original doors, now freshly painted, featured elaborate hand-forged hinges. She was just focusing her camera when the door opened and Trey stepped out.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. His tone wasn't exactly pleasant and Lucy felt uneasy.
“Just taking photos,” she said, with a big smile. “I can't believe what you've done with this old place. It used to be such an eyesore, all covered with grime, most of the windows cracked or broken. Ted wanted a photo for the paper, for an article on repurposing older buildings.”
“Oh,” he said, sounding mollified. “Why don't you come in? The machinery is pretty interesting, too, especially the big copper kettles.”
Considering her suspicions about Trey, Lucy didn't think that was a good idea. She made a show of glancing at her watch. “Actually,” she said, stepping backwards, “I'm running late. Maybe another time.”
“It will only take a few minutes,” he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and drawing her toward the door. “Believe me, it's worth the time. You're going to get some great photos.”
Every instinct told her to run, but Trey had maneuvered himself so that he was beside her and was exerting pressure on her back, pushing her through the door. She tried to pull away but his arm tightened around her shoulders when he felt her withdrawing. It was extremely awkward; Lucy wasn't sure if Trey really wanted to show her the machinery or if he was abducting her. Looking over her shoulder for some means of escape, she saw a number of police cars arriving with lights flashing and realized the raid had finally materialized. The timing couldn't have been worse; now she was in the middle of it. She made a desperate effort to escape, shoving Trey and pulling away, but he only tightened his grip on her.
“Don't move or I'll shoot,” he said.
Lucy felt cold metal pressed against her temple.
The police cruisers—there were four of them—came to a stop about thirty feet away, where a row of evergreen bushes provided some cover. A door on the first one opened and Lieutanant Horowitz stepped out.
“Stop!” yelled Meacham. “I've got a gun and I'll use it.”
Horowitz's arms went up. “We can work this out,” he said. “There's no need to shoot.”
“I've got a hostage. You make any moves and I'll shoot her.”
“Nobody's moving,” said Horowitz.
Caught in Trey's grip, Lucy's teeth were chattering. She noticed that he was shivering, too, and the hand holding the gun was shaking. The next thing she knew he had dragged her inside the building and the thick wooden door had closed behind them.
“Did you call the cops?” he demanded.
Lucy shook her head. “No! I only came to take pictures.”
He jabbed the gun into her back. “Move. We'll go in the office.”
Lucy obeyed, walking woodenly in the direction he indicated, toward a door with a frosted glass panel painted with the word OFFICE. Once they were inside the large room, which was filled with old-fashioned wooden desks and had big windows overlooking the parking lot, he pushed her into a chair and snapped a handcuff on one arm. Lucy wondered if they were the same pair he'd used on Corney.

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