Dangerously Dark, page 16
Making bean-to-bar chocolate requires work and expertise—it’s not something a casual chocolate lover can DIY. Cacao beans have to be removed from their football-size fruits and fermented (aged, but for a much briefer time than wine or coffee). After that, they still needed to undergo roasting, cracking, and winnowing—separating the flavorful nibs from the inedible shell. After that comes grinding, flavoring, conching, and tempering.
The process is labor intensive, sure, but the resulting aroma is fantastic. That’s what went on in Muddle + Spade’s back room. Maybe it was even what Janel had scurried in here to tend to the other day, since she’d mentioned having an interest in chocolate—an interest that had led to Declan’s interest in her.
Maybe chocolate making was what Janel was studying in her ever-present books and on her laptop. When we’d hung out in the bar together, I hadn’t thought to take a good look at Janel’s belongings for clues. She could have been downloading bank statements, learning to code JavaScript, or writing a potboiler.
For all I knew, a few days earlier, she could have been studying the uses and abuses of liquid nitrogen, boning up on how to freeze and suffocate Declan to death as revenge for his not wanting to see her anymore.
Just as I had that bleak thought, I almost stepped on some fallen cacao beans (they look similar to gigantic coffee beans) and experienced a burst of nostalgia for my less-complicated ordinary life as a chocolate whisperer. I didn’t know how I kept getting mixed up in these dangerous situations, but I did.
The sound of footsteps interrupted my mental digression into my more carefree chocolate-filled days. I looked over my shoulder. Someone was coming. Out of time, I stashed Declan’s iPad between the massive stack of cacao bean bags and the former warehouse’s brickwork wall. I straightened just in time.
Tomasz walked in, a bar towel draped over his shoulder and a preoccupied expression on his face. He started with surprise.
“Hayden.” He smiled at me. “What are you doing back here?”
He seemed so pleased, I thought he might have gotten the idea I’d come there to seduce him—to create a real “happy hour” for us. He clearly had me confused with Lauren, in that case.
I had to think fast. “Janel told me about your roaster.” I gestured toward it. I hoped Tomasz couldn’t see my hand shaking with urgency and pent-up jumpiness. Danny was still waiting for me. “I wanted to see it for myself. It’s a nice specimen.”
It stood next to the more prosaic dal grinder that had been pressed into service for cracking the roasted beans and the nineteenth-century conching machine that used time, aeration, heat (and a set of heavy rollers set inside its predictably shell-shaped basin) to develop the chocolate’s flavors. The roaster was the only possible one of the three that could have doubled as an attraction—even for a chocolate nerd like me.
“Ah.” Tomasz nodded. “I almost forgot your background in chocolate. I’m afraid that, to me, you’re Carissa’s superhot friend first and an expert second.” His smile broadened.
I didn’t know whether to be flattered (he’d called me “superhot”) or insulted (he’d forgotten I had a brain). Tomasz’s vivid smile nudged me toward the flattered end of the spectrum.
“I’d be happy to show you how it works sometime,” he told me. “We all own it in common. The vendors take turns using it.”
“Hmm, maybe.” I looked around offhandedly, hoping I’d stashed Declan’s iPad with sufficient stealth. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’re making that offer to chocolate-whispering me or superhot me.” I nailed him with a look. “Which is it?”
Tomasz appeared trapped. With good reason. “Um, both?”
“Good answer.” I was tempted to flirt with him and enjoy myself a little, but I didn’t have time. I clutched my purse, acutely aware of its diminished weight now that Declan’s iPad was no longer inside it—and acutely aware of Danny waiting for me at Churn PDX. “Superhot me accepts your offer. Tonight after close?” I was a night owl, anyway. “What do you say?”
“I say it’s a date. Last call’s at two, though.”
If Tomasz expected to scare me off with the late hour, he was disappointed. His schedule and mine meshed perfectly.
I nodded. “No problem. I’ll be there.”
His smile promised I would celebrate that decision later. He withdrew something shiny from his pocket. A key on a ring. “Here. Let yourself in if I don’t hear you at the door.”
“I will.” I took the key. “That’s trusting of you.”
“You seem like a safe bet to me. Besides, now I’ve got you—I’m pretty sure your taking that key means we’re going steady.”
“Hm. How do you know I’m not afraid of commitment?”
A grin. “Because you’re holding my bar key.”
Did that sound like a double entendre to anyone but me?
“Well, you don’t know how much I like a good artisanal bean-to-bar operations tour,” I disagreed, just to keep him guessing. It was true. I did like a bean-to-bar operations tour. I also liked a chocolate tasting, a chocolate-recipe-development session, a chocolate product launch, an all-chocolate brunch....
Despite all the trauma at Maison Lemaître, I’d always have fond memories of the resort’s delectable all-chocolate brunch. Not to mention the spa’s cacao-nib-and-espresso-bean pedicure scrub. Enjoying that had been one of the highlights of my visit.
Just as I turned to leave Tomasz to whatever work had brought him to the bar’s back room, I remembered something else.
I might as well take advantage of our growing camaraderie, I figured. “Hey, you have a good view of Carissa’s cart.” I nodded toward the warehouse’s windows. At the moment, the twilight view outside looked . . . ghostly. “On the day Declan died, did you see anything suspicious? I know everyone’s sure his death was an accident, and I know it probably was, but”—I broke off for every woman’s secret weapon: a self-effacing smile—“well, I like to imagine myself sort of an international crime-solving chocolate whisperer, so I’m kind of investigating.”
“Investigating?” Tomasz raised his brows. “Really?” I couldn’t miss his patronizing tone. “Have you found anything?”
I’d be lying if I said his dismissiveness wasn’t deflating. Looking into a (maybe) murder wasn’t going to qualify me for a Nobel Prize anytime soon, but it didn’t deserve outright scorn.
“Not yet.” I raised my brows and crossed my arms. “Well?”
It took him a second to catch on—to remember that I’d asked him a question . . . one he’d left unanswered. Hmm. I didn’t think Tomasz was stupid. He seemed really smart. Although I do get the appeal of a dense-but-gorgeous “himbo” now and then, a man who’s short on intelligence and curiosity just doesn’t do it for me.
“No.” He seemed to be searching for patience. “I didn’t see anything. Which is what I told the police when we all gave our statements and they decided that Declan had died accidentally.”
“What time did Declan go into the trailer that night?” I pushed. “Did you see him? Did you see him the next morning?”
“No. No. And no. Look.” Exasperation—and something else—crossed Tomasz’s face. Even upset, he looked preposterously handsome. “If you only agreed to go out with me because you want to interrogate me, then do it now. Go ahead.” He spread his arms, giving me a pugnacious look. “I’m an open book.”
I was taken aback. “It’s not like that. I like you.”
What was I going to say? That he was a suspect? That would have played well (not). Plus, I needed to get out of there.
“Well, I like you, too!” Tomasz burst out. The hubbub grew louder in the bar’s front of house. Someone yelled for him. Despite that, he returned his attention to me. “I had a bad breakup a while ago. Asking you out was a big deal for me.”
Oh. The something else I’d glimpsed was interest. In me.
Maybe self-consciousness and vulnerability, too, if Tomasz was out of practice with dating. That explained his cheesy come-on, I figured. Showing me his antique roaster was the twenty-first-century equivalent of inviting me up to see his etchings.
“You’re kind of intimidating. You know that,” Tomasz added. “You keep everyone at a distance. I noticed that right away.”
I scoffed . . . then realized he was serious. Right then and there, I felt my flirtation with him heat up by a few degrees. It was irrational but true. I didn’t mind seeming aloof. Or intimidating. Those weren’t qualities most people saw in me.
I didn’t let on, though. I was too cool for that.
“Give me a chance. You might be surprised,” I told Tomasz breezily. “But right now, there’s someplace I have to be, so—”
“Right. I heard something about a chocolate tour?”
Oh yeah. I was going to be late for Chocolate After Dark. Never mind Declan’s porno-worthy tour van; if I didn’t turn up, I’d destroy my credibility. It wasn’t like me to get distracted.
Sure, I might procrastinate on writing a consulting report now and then. But I do deliver excellent work. Without fail.
“Yep. I’m late. So, see you tonight!” I turned to leave.
Tomasz’s tentative expression stopped me before I could.
“If you really want to know what time Declan was supposed to fill those tanks for Carissa, ask Austin. He’ll know.”
“Why’s that?” I assumed he meant because Austin was crazy about Carissa. Chances were good he knew her schedule by heart.
Tomasz looked over his shoulder. I remembered there were customers waiting for him. “He’s the one I saw lurking around that morning.” We both knew which morning he meant. For a moment, the barman looked troubled. Then, “Austin’s cart is nearby, though. And he was usually the one who filled the Dewars for Carissa, anyway, so it’s probably nothing. I’m just trying to get into Sherlock mode myself. Forget I said anything.”
As if I could. With a solid lead, a date, and a hiding place for Declan’s iPad, I was feeling pretty good about my (unwanted) future as an amateur sleuth. I nodded at Tomasz.
“I won’t say a word to Austin,” I promised.
But I sure as heck was going to tell Danny thirty seconds from now, I promised myself as I made my getaway. Travis too. Because if Declan really had been murdered (and I still thought he had), I had several good ideas who might have done it.
My designated four minutes had long expired by the time I rounded the corner and all but skidded to a stop at Carissa’s trailer. Danny was already there waiting for me. Arms crossed, he lounged in the open doorway, full of smugness and certainty.
If the Cartorama vendors hadn’t already turned on their industrial-chic festival lights overhead, I would have missed the open doorway and Danny’s expression. It was only around 7:00 P.M., but the cart pod was already shrouded in dusk.
Chocolate After Dark was aptly named, it turned out.
“You did it!” I squealed, happy my efforts to stage a fallback plan hadn’t been for nothing. Also, high on the knowledge that I’d gotten a new lead and a date and a compliment on my intimidating levels of personal awesomeness. “Yay!”
“Way to be cool.” My security expert glanced behind me as though looking for an excuse. “Here’s a switch—you’re late.”
I laughed. “I bet you’ve been waiting years to say that.”
“Years . . . and five minutes. Five minutes too long.”
“Funny.” I divined that now was not a good time to tell Danny about my date. I nodded at the open door. “Nice job.”
Despite his acerbity, I could have hugged him. I’d been worried about getting access to Carissa’s Airstream. On TV or in the movies, snooping around looks easy. In real life? Not so much.
For instance, right now, there were several vendors working at their open Cartorama carts. Plus a number of customers. Any one of them could have spotted me and sounded the alarm.
I felt ultraconspicuous. Danny could tell.
He motioned. “Get in here. We’ve got twelve minutes.”
But with the door standing wide open, twelve minutes felt like an eternity. I took a moment to marvel at our success.
“And you said you didn’t bring your lock-picking set.”
Danny wasn’t much for gloating. “I didn’t. I never lie.”
Well, that was true. At least . . . Danny never lied to me.
His dark gaze met mine. I sauntered to the trailer and met him at the open doorway. “I get it. It was already open, right?”
“No.” He looked offended. “Look, the advantages of picking a lock are exaggerated. Usually, it’s a lot easier to get inside another way. You break a window, you kick in the door—”
“But the windows aren’t broken and the door is intact.”
He looked around the cart pod. “There are other ways.”
“Such as?” I shouldered past him and stepped inside. Even after I switched on the lights to push back the twilight, the trailer’s interior felt gloomy and chilly, dangerous and dank.
I didn’t like being inside it. Being in the space where Declan had drawn his last breaths—where Carissa had almost died—affected me in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I felt sorry for Declan, sorry for his family and friends . . . scared for myself.
What if someone had rigged this place to be a death trap again? What if I suffocated like Declan? Or froze to death?
My nervous glance skittered to the twin liquid nitrogen tanks standing at one end of the trailer’s approximate sixteen-by-seven-foot interior. Even though I knew Austin had already fixed the safety mechanism, they gave me the willies. They might as well have been two gigantic bombs. While I knew there were no such things as ghosts (of course), I couldn’t deny feeling strange about stepping onto the spot where Declan had died.
“Such as getting a spare key from Lauren,” Danny admitted as he followed me in, squashing my self-inflicted scare-a-thon.
Aha. Now I knew the Sweet Seductions vendor had a key. That meant that Carissa, Janel, and Lauren all had access. Who else?
Danny shut the door behind us. “I told her you needed to get some things out of Carissa’s trailer for use on the tour.”
I turned to him. “Really? And Lauren folded, just like that? She handed over the key?”
Danny studied the trailer’s interior with a practiced eye, not drawn in by my incredulous tone. I wondered what he—a former thief—saw in the space around us that I didn’t. Or couldn’t.
“No wonder there was a murder here,” I nitpicked, aware I was being pointlessly indignant—aware, too, of the key Tomasz had just given me to Muddle + Spade. Maybe I didn’t want Danny and Lauren to be going steady, the way Tomasz had joked. “Cartorama’s security practices are abysmal. Lauren just gave away Carissa’s key, huh? What if you were a murderer?”
Danny’s knowing gaze flicked to me. “Lauren and I have talked. We know one another. She doesn’t think I’m a murderer.”
“Well, that would be the best cover, wouldn’t it?”
My security expert went silent. He roamed around the trailer, running his hands over its stainless-steel surfaces. The Airstream Classic had been customized for foodservice with built-in prep tables, lowboy chilling units—one fridge and one freezer—to make up the bases of those tables, and nearby shelves for storage of cooking implements, aluminum individual ice-cream containers, recyclable spoons, spare spiroid paddles, and more.
It was a tight fit. There was barely room for all those things plus me and Danny. The trailer was clean and tidy, though. It was actually pretty cool, in a retro way. The stainless-steel backsplash and countertops were quilted; the storage areas were edged in the style of a 1950s diner, with aluminum groove-face nosing. If Carissa hadn’t been in mourning for Declan—and I hadn’t been inside on less-than-aboveboard terms— I would have congratulated her on her well-thought-out ice-cream cart.
“We’re getting together later, so stop it with the murder talk,” Danny said. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
My search for proof of sabotage ground to a halt.
“We’re not getting together,” I disagreed, purposely misunderstanding so he’d tell me more. “I have homework to do for the chocolate tour. Once you crack Declan’s iPad password—”
“Lauren. And me. We hit it off.” Blithely, Danny pointed upward. “There’s the intake register for the ventilation. We should definitely check that. It’s the only one in here.”
I didn’t care. “You? And Lauren? Since when are you in the market for dates? What about that nice SFPD detective?”
“Somebody put the kibosh on that by uncovering a murder.”
He meant me. “You didn’t have to come here. I didn’t ask you to,” I reminded him, hands on hips. Danny and Lauren were going to be a couple. Well, it made sense. She was dishy. “Do you really think it’s wise to date a potential murderer?”
Lauren was officially on my suspect list, after all.
Danny shrugged and pulled over an unopened cardboard box full of Dantifold Lowfold dispenser napkins. “It’s one drink.”
I recognized his improvised step stool for what it was. I grabbed an offset spatula, then took the initiative and stepped up onto the cardboard box before he could. Even packed full, a case of paper goods wouldn’t begin to hold Danny’s weight. Above me was the intake register for the trailer’s ventilation system. “I get it. You’re investigating Lauren, right? That’s smart. I can use the help.”
“What you could use is a screwdriver to take off that intake register.” He steadied me with one hand on my thigh, making my leg tingle. “Unfortunately for you, I’m fresh out.”
He was dissembling, not confirming that he was only dating Lauren to help me investigate. I frowned, even as I brandished my thin stainless-steel spatula. It was only four inches long or so, but it worked like a dream to remove the register’s two screws. I handed Danny the spatula to hold, propped up the register with one hand, then dropped the screws into his palm.
