Dangerously Dark (15 page)

The venom in his voice startled me. I wanted to believe Austin was a nice guy. But just then, he didn't sound very nice.

Neither did Lauren. “It could have worked out for both of us,” she jeered. “Just the way we wanted. But
you
had to go and get cold feet. Now Declan's dead and everything is horrible.”

She burst into tears. In response, Austin muttered something I couldn't hear clearly. I probably didn't want to, either.

I straightened anyway, giving up the pretense of fixing my shoe for the sake of getting a better look at what was going on. What can I say? Lauren's misery had sounded authentic. So had Austin's anger. I wanted to know what they'd been conspiring to do together. Whatever it was, it sounded as though its failure had been costly for both of them—and deadly for Declan.

If I could only
see
them clearly, I thought, maybe I—

—could be interrupted by Tomasz again.
Argh.
He'd followed me.

“The viewing is winding down. They're gathering everyone so the service can start.” Tomasz gazed at me from his much greater height, his eyes as blue as the sky. Against that backdrop, with his dark hair ruffled by the breeze and his black suit stark against the trees, he belonged on an album cover.
The Greatest Hits of Indie Men,
maybe. “I thought you'd want to know.”

“I do. Thanks.” It was the truth. I didn't want to let my inexpert info-gathering interfere with supporting Carissa.

Tomasz's gaze tracked Lauren and Austin. His brow furrowed.

Given how much he liked taking care of everyone at Cartorama, I figured he was troubled by any hint of discord.

“Emotions run high on a day like today,” I misled him, hoping to spare his feelings—and thwart any attempt to intervene, the way he seemed liable to do. “Austin and Lauren will be hugging it out in no time. Just wait and see.”

Tomasz quirked his mouth, looking doubtful. It was, I realized, the same expression Danny often gave me. He and Tomasz were a lot alike. Both were tall, dark, good with their hands....

“Fine!”
Lauren screeched. “Just get away from me!”

She gave an unintelligible grunt. Tomasz and I both looked back toward her, pulled by that sound. At the same instant, Austin veered into the street, half on and half off his bike.

Was he getting away? Or being pushed away?

I glimpsed a flash of metallic gray.
An oncoming car.

Frozen in shock and horror, I watched as Austin wobbled on his bike, bulky and graceless. He leaned sideways, off balance.

No, not off balance, I saw. He was trying to snatch away the beanie that had slipped down his shaggy hair. He was blind.

“Austin!” I found my voice and my feet at the same time. I pounded toward him, heart thudding with fear. “Look out!”

The thing I'd forgotten about Portland, though, was that
because
it's a bicyclist's nirvana, it's also home to a very healthy “share the road” campaign for safe bicycling. That's probably why, even as I reached the curb, the driver of the oncoming car spotted Austin, slowed way down, and crept past.

I expected a rolled-down window and a string of expletives for Austin's “carelessness.” Instead, I watched as the attentive driver peered through his passenger-side window at Austin, saw that he was unhurt, and then gave him—all of us—a cheery wave.

Limp with relief and spent adrenaline, I reached Austin. My legs felt rubbery, but my voice worked. “Are you okay?”

I searched his bearded face for signs of distress—and found them in abundance. Austin might have narrowly escaped being seriously injured, but that didn't mean he was overflowing with the joy of existence. He was distressed, all right. The proof of it was in the murderous glance he aimed at Lauren.

“Nice try,” he growled. “But
I'm
not as easy to kill as Declan.” Then Austin swung onto his bike and pedaled away, leaving all of us—or at least me—wondering what he'd meant.

Nine

After attending Declan's funeral, watching Austin almost get pancaked by a late-model Subaru, and firing up Declan's iPad for an eleventh-hour pretour cramming session (only to discover that parts of it really
were
password protected, just as Carissa had told me earlier), I was kind of a wreck. “That's what you get for waiting until the last minute, Procrastination Queen,” Danny would have told me . . . except he wasn't at my cozy foursquare Airbnb house with me just then.

He
was
staying there—but only because (I'm convinced) Travis had told him
not
to do that. Because when Danny had called up my financial advisor (presumably to tell “Harvard” their scheme to “protect” me had succeeded—and maybe to kvetch about my over-the-top accommodations), they'd immediately started bickering.

Paradoxically, their argument had reassured me. Because if Danny and Travis were sworn enemies again, that meant they both thought the danger to me was past. That was excellent news.

Less
excellent was the realization that, if I wanted to ace my first Chocolate After Dark tour, I'd have to rely on nothing more than my own expertise. While I'm totally comfortable with that (because if I'm not going to believe in me, who will?), I wasn't exactly at my best that afternoon. Already it had been an emotional, exhausting, confusing day—and it was only half over. If I was going to excel later, I'd need a boost.

But I couldn't go straight to the good stuff. That was no way to work my way through my to-do list. So first, I did all the things I usually do when setting up a temporary home base in a new city. Since arriving in Bridgetown, I'd neglected (for various reasons) my habitual post-check-in ritual, but now it gave me comfort to get everything all set up for maximum hominess.

I didn't bother unpacking my wheelie suitcase or my duffel bag. (Are you kidding?) There's no point, when I'll be moving on before long. But I
did
take out my favorite fig-scented candle and set it beside the bed, where I could light it to feel at home. I did arrange all my framed photos in strategic spots throughout the house, so I could see the smiling faces of my family and friends. And I did lay my trusty pashmina on a corner of my living-room sofa, where I could grab it if I got cold.

Padding around, still restless in the too-large space Travis had chosen for me, I cast a disgruntled glance at Declan's iPad. Thanks to its password protection, it was as good as useless. If it had run out of battery life or Internet connectivity as well, it would have been nothing more than a fancy slab of aluminosilicate glass, anodized aluminum, and assorted rare earths—essentially, a gigantic drinks coaster.

That's why I relied on paper for everything important. My Moleskine notebooks aren't fancy, but they
always
work. They don't demand that I track down Wi-Fi coverage in the middle of a remote village or find a plug, converter, and/or appropriate transformer just to access my upcoming chocolate consultations. My friends often nagged me to transfer my to-do lists to my smartphone, but I was comfortable with my routine as it was.

Speaking of which, it was time for my favorite part of that routine: calling Travis. Full of anticipation for the boost I'd been purposely delaying until now, I settled in on the sofa.

My call connected almost immediately. To my delight, Travis's smooth, sexy, ultradeep voice came over the line.

“I hope you're sober this time,” my advisor said.

You know . . .
sexily.
It was the only way Travis said anything. He couldn't help it. With his Barry White depth and raspy delivery, he could (and did) make things like spreadsheets and stock options sound appealing. As far as I was concerned, it was the secret of his success—along with his human-calculator brain.

Distracted for a second, I pictured all the admins and associates at his Seattle firm stopping whatever they were doing every time Travis spoke. I imagined them all swooning.

Just like me. What can I say? I like what I like.

Mostly, I like having Travis (literally) on call. I snuggled into my sofa cushions and cradled the phone, unable to resist smiling. “Hey, Travis. What are you wearing right now?”

His sigh traveled along the line. But I could swear I sensed him smiling, too. Just like me. “An expression of relief,” he said. “If you're calling me, you must need an exit strategy. I already have holds on airfare and accommodations.”

“
Hmmph.
Presumptuous, much? I'm not leaving, Travis.”

“Not because
Danny
asked you to, no,” he agreed with a knowing ken. “I didn't expect you would. He's just the muscle.”

“What, to make sure I get on the plane?” Hypothetically, that was—
if
I accepted the escape hatch Travis was dangling.

“If necessary,” Travis said amiably . . . almost seductively.

Who am I kidding?
Of course
he said it seductively. He couldn't help it. He was Travis. But he was also mistaken.

“You already spoke with Danny,” I reminded him. I'd been nearby, but I hadn't butted in. I'd wanted my own private time with Travis. “Didn't he tell you I was staying in Portland?”

“I understand he was unable to convince you to leave.”

At his unassuming tone, I almost laughed. That was one way to put it. “Nobody makes me do anything. You know that.”

“It's possible you can be persuaded.”

By you? “Maybe.”

But Travis knew I was toying with him. “Leave, Hayden. If that muscle head couldn't convince you, let me. Just leave.”

“Nope. Also, I've got to say, so far, your approach is identical to Danny's.” I paused. “I expected better from you.”

He must have shifted in his chair, pondering his next move, because the sound of pinstripes on leather traveled over the line—at least in my imagination, it did. I pictured Travis in his deluxe high-rise office near Puget Sound, holding a pen in his talented fingertips, leaning back in his desk chair . . . wearing a suit, an air of command, and a surplus of intelligence.

I knew he looked forward to our conversations as much as I did. How could he not? It couldn't be
all
responsible transfers of itineraries, client details, and fiscal data between us.

“You have other commitments this week.” Travis detailed them, running through my calendar with practiced ease. “Leave.”

Or maybe it could be
just the facts
between us. I was disappointed by his lack of imagination.

“No problem,” I said. “Those things can be rescheduled. I'm staying.” I glanced around my impermanent living room, feeling enlivened. It was good to banter with Travis. “Next?”

I expected him to counter with financial concerns. Or maybe a demand that I consider my business reputation. Portland was an emerging culinary destination, but it couldn't yet compare to conventional foodie hot spots like London, Paris, or New York.

Or Barcelona, Copenhagen, or Tokyo. Or even Melbourne.

Hmm, maybe I ought to leave soon.

“What happened to you at Maison Lemaître was traumatic,” Travis said calmly. “You need time to process it. It's natural that you might feel vulnerable. That you might imagine similar crimes happening in other places. I understand that. But—”

“Still sounding like Danny,” I broke in. “I'm telling you, Travis—things are suspicious around here. Declan Murphy was killed. On purpose. I'm not imagining that. I wish I were.”

His rumble of frustration gave me goose bumps. The good kind. Despite being (temporarily) at odds with my “keeper,” I felt better than ever. Travis's voice and calm demeanor worked on me like nothing else. Danny might have that bad-boy appeal going for him, but Travis has everything else—security, stability, the ability to nurture houseplants and home life.

With Danny, I could have adventure. With Travis, I could have the prototypical house, kids, and a basket of puppies.

Not that I'm on the hunt for a capital-R “Relationship.” I'm not. But if I had been, Travis would have been a contender—if not for his crippling air-travel phobia, at least. That was a deal breaker, for sure. Otherwise, he had everything I craved.

On the other hand, Danny and I had been together for ages. Much of that time we'd spent as (mostly) platonic pals, trying
not
to give in to the (perfectly natural) attraction between us. The rest of the time . . . Well, I was too busy talking with Travis to think about it just then. Reminding myself of that, I regrouped.

“You might as well give up, Travis. I'm assembling proof that Declan Murphy was murdered.” Where my talk with Danny had focused on motives, my talk with Travis needed to center on practical matters. Danny was the motive guy; Travis was the means man. I'd just decided it. “What happened to Declan should have been impossible,” I pointed out. “There were safety measures—”

“I'm not indulging you with this.”

“—time constraints, issues with access—”

“You're out of your depth.”

“—questions involving the timeline and liquid nitrogen—”

“I know as little about solving crimes as you do,” Travis protested, sounding exasperated. “This
cannot
be happening.”

“Please help me, Travis. Please, please, please, please.” I hauled in a breath. “If you don't, I'll have no choice but to brainstorm exclusively with Danny.” I purposely injected a note of uncertainty into my voice. “While that worked last time—”

“Hey!
I
helped last time. I was
instrumental.
”

Boom.
I had him. “I knew you had some ego in there.”

“You can't expect to malign a man's contributions and get away with it.” Travis exhaled. I pictured him loosening his tie. Rolling up his shirtsleeves. Getting ready to do exactly what I wanted to do, exactly the way I wanted to do it. “If I help you figure out what
might
have happened in Portland, will you agree never to chase a hypothetical murderer ever again?”

Unlikely as it was, I'd just encountered two suspicious deaths in two weeks. That wasn't a promise I could make.

“Do you know anything about liquid nitrogen?” I asked instead. “That's essentially the murder weapon.”

I went on to explain to Travis what I knew about the stuff Carissa had been using to fast-freeze her custom ice creams. I described its benefits, its dangers, and its unique qualities.

“Only someone with very specific knowledge would have known how to set up Carissa's trailer so that Declan would suffocate to death while filling the tanks,” I explained. “Unfortunately, that doesn't narrow down the suspects much. At least one of them helped design the custom software used to dispense the liquid nitrogen.”
Austin.
“Another had complete access to the trailer.”
Janel.
“Actually, maybe several people had access to it.”

Was it possible that Lauren and Declan had had rendezvous there? It would have been convenient, with her Sweet Seductions cart only steps away (but too dinky to canoodle in). If so, Declan might have given her a key. Carissa sure wouldn't have.

As I'd hoped, Travis didn't seem to notice that I
hadn't
promised not to try to track down any future murderers. While I hoped that wasn't an issue that would ever come up again, I valued my relationship with him. I didn't want to break a promise. Unlike (maybe) Austin had. Or Carissa.

You'll be sorry for this, Carissa
, Janel had vowed at the funeral.
Someday you'll regret everything you've done.

That certainly sounded as though Carissa had broken a promise. Or, you know, done something pretty reprehensible.

From Janel's viewpoint, I reminded myself, Carissa was the enemy. She was the one who'd taken away Declan—kept him away, too, by getting engaged to be married to him. Maybe Carissa's engagement party weekend had driven Janel over the edge.

“The person with the most access would be Carissa,” Travis said. His blunt statement jarred me out of my reverie.

“Carissa could have manipulated her trailer any way she wanted to,” he went on. “She could have tampered with the safety on the liquid nitrogen tanks. Or blocked the ventilation.”

That was true. Technically. “Why does everyone want to blame Carissa? She's essentially the grieving widow. She had no reason to want her fiancé dead.”
Unless she knew about his flings with Janel and Lauren,
I amended privately . . . uncomfortably. But I didn't want to discuss suspects with Travis. I'd already done that with Danny. “Carissa loved Declan. She nearly died trying to save him! She would have known better than to go inside the trailer if she was the one who'd sabotaged it.”

“From her viewpoint, going inside would have been a reasonable gamble—and an excellent way to deflect suspicion,” Travis argued. “The two of you were meeting that morning. She knew you would be there if and when she needed to be rescued.”

“I almost
wasn't
there, remember? Besides, that's hardly a foolproof plan. I couldn't even drag out Carissa all by myself,” I reminded him. “Austin helped me. I was lucky he was nearby.”

“Were you lucky? Or was Carissa right? Maybe she knew Austin would be there. She had to have known his schedule.”

I still refused to believe my friend could be a killer.

“Everyone knows everyone else's schedule at the cart pod,” I debated. “That doesn't narrow the field much.”