eighteen

“A fake cake!” Adele paced in front of my counter. “What does that even mean?”

My gaze darted to the computer screen. “Um, are you sure that’s what my mom said?” It was the end of that long day, and I’d settled in to do online research on Atticus and Orson. I’d just found a magazine profile about the two when Adele walked into the museum.

“A fake cake and then a sheet cake to serve the guests,” Adele said. “She said it would save the baker time.”

I set down my pen, resigned to doing no research until Adele got the cake business off her chest. “Why didn’t any of the bakers suggest that?”

“Maybe because they knew I’d say no? I can’t have a fake cake! It’s bad karma. What does that say about the marriage? That it’s a fake too?”

“Why would it say anything about your marriage?” I asked, trying for a reasonable tone.

She shooed GD off the haunted rocking chair and dropped onto the seat. “I don’t know.”

“And when did you care about karma? Isn’t that more Harper’s bag?”

“I’ve always cared about karma. I just didn’t call it that.”

GD leapt into Adele’s lap and coiled into a silky black ball.

Distractedly, she stroked his fur. “Maybe I’ll see that fortune-teller of yours tomorrow for advice.”

Now I knew something was seriously wrong. Adele thought anything to do with the paranormal was a waste of time. “Adele, this seems like it’s about more than a cake. What’s really bothering you?”

She stared at the ceiling. “Do you have any idea how many people have told me recently that opposites attract?”

“No-o.”

“They keep reminding me how different Dieter and I are. When we’re together … we always seem like a good thing. He’s so relaxed, and I’m …”

“Not.”

“Right.” She leaned forward. “But we agree on the most important things, like family and money and morals. I didn’t think these personality issues would bother me. But … this wedding! It feels like everything’s on my shoulders. I wish he’d get more involved. Dieter doesn’t even seem to care!”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Have you talked to him about it?”

“Of course I have. And he’s offered to do more work, but …”

“But what?”

She winced. “I’m not sure I trust him with the job.”

“Adele …”

“I know!” Her fists clenched in GD’s fur. “But a wedding is so important, and he’s just so casual about everything. All he wants is to get married. He doesn’t care how.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“It is when you’re trying to please two extended families full of demanding people.”

“Maybe Dieter has the right idea. If you can’t please everybody, why try?”

She glared at me. “Honestly, Maddie, you’re as bad as Dieter. And you’re in customer service!”

“Huh?”

Adele set GD on the linoleum floor and stalked to the bookcase. “I’ll figure this out somehow.” She slipped into the tea room and shut the bookcase behind her.

I half rose from my seat to go after her, but I sat back down. This was something Adele and Dieter needed to work out on their own. Besides, murder research was calling.

I read the profile.

“There’s something highly suspicious about someone who doesn’t like chocolate.” Atticus Reine, in his San Benedetto chocolate factory/store, grins beneath his impressive beard.

Five years ago, Atticus and his best friend, Orson Malke, began experimenting with chocolate in their San Francisco apartment. They crushed cocoa beans to make their chocolate from scratch, and added nothing but pure cane sugar. Their simple brown wrappers stood out in a sea of chic graphics. But it’s the chocolate—the alchemy of heat, cocoa beans, and sugar—that has taken the chocolate world by storm.

“I won’t say that we make the best chocolate in the world,” Orson says. “But if we don’t, then who does?”

Orson’s wife, Lola, insists on a tasting in their updated Victorian home. We sit in their elegant dining area, the French windows open to their organic garden. The tasting is complemented with local cheeses and central California wines. Lola talks about the chocolate as if it were a fine wine, complete with forward flavors, complexity, and balance.

Many purists prefer their plain chocolate bars, which are identified by country. But I confess I’m partial to the bars enhanced with local ingredients. Sea salt from the Pacific. Lavender. Dried, locally grown citrus and nuts.

“We keep it simple,” Orson says. “The ingredients should enhance the experience of the chocolate, rather than be the experience. Because in the end, it’s all about the chocolate.”

But evaluating chocolate—like wine—is subjective. Expert Donald Warner insists Reign chocolate is prized more for its clever marketing than the quality of the chocolate itself. “Not a single bar is perfect,” Warner complains. “There are always defects.”

“The bars are made by hand,” Orson insists. “And the imperfections are part of their beauty, and, frankly, of the organic process. What’s important is taste, and Reign chocolate is among the top in the world.”

I drummed my fingers on the glass counter. Orson was right. People expected glossy perfection when they bought things. We were used to standardized items made in factories. But that wasn’t reality in the world of handmade products.

GD leapt onto the counter, his tail lashing the screen.

Annoyed, I brushed it aside. Returning to the search page, I clicked on the next article, this one a profile of Lola and Orson and Reign:

While others sampled wine in quaint farmhouses, I sat with chocolate maker Orson Malke and his wife, molecular biologist Lola Emerson-Malke. We tasted chocolate …

I frowned. Atticus had barely been mentioned in the articles I’d turned up. There should have been a bit more about Atticus, shouldn’t there? Had Atticus been that modest? Or had he kept a low profile for a different reason?

I needed to learn more about him, and the Internet wasn’t cutting it. On impulse, I called the chocolate shop.

“Hello, this is Reign,” Lola said.

“Oh, hi,” I said, surprised to hear her answer the phone. “This is Maddie from the Paranormal Museum.”

“Hello, Maddie. What can I help you with?”

“You’re working at Reign now?”

She laughed shortly. “God, no. But whenever a phone rings, I can’t stop myself from answering. If you want to speak to Orson, I’m afraid he’s busy training the new assistant.”

“Oh. It’s about my chocolate display here at the museum. I wanted to put something up about Atticus, to honor him.” I winced. It was a lie, but honoring him wasn’t a bad idea. I should have thought of it sooner.

Something rattled in the Gallery. Brow furrowed, I leaned across the counter. That wasn’t … the molinillo? Or could someone be in there? The hair rose on my arms. I’d thought all my guests had left.

“You mean like a eulogy?” Lola asked.

I rose and walked around the counter for a better view of the Gallery. “Something like that, but I didn’t want to bother India. I was thinking a small placard, with something about his life and work with Reign. I’ve been searching online, but most of the articles are about you and Orson.” I edged to the open doorway and peered around the corner into the Gallery.

No one was there.

The molinillo sat at an innocent angle in its tall ceramic bowl.

“That was all Atticus’s idea. He thought the chocolate maker made for a more compelling story than the marketer.”

Then how did Lola end up in so many of the press pieces? “That makes sense,” I said. “I wish I could have talked to him about his marketing strategies, and how he put you and Orson front and center.”

“I wouldn’t say front and center, but you’ve seen our home … You know, I was just leaving for the day. Why don’t you stop by my place? I’m sure we have something at the house you can use.”

“At your house? Not the chocolate shop?”

“The office was the domain of Atticus and Tilde.” Lola paused. “Orson does most of his paperwork from home. He won’t be coming home until late tonight, so I’d love it if you could join me. As much as I enjoy our place, it can get lonely at night.”

My lips pursed. “May I bring a friend?” Because I was definitely not going to meet a murder suspect alone.

“The more the merrier,” Lola said. “Can you meet me there in an hour?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

We hung up.

I glanced at the bookcase that led to the tea room. Adele could use a break. But I had a feeling she’d view an impromptu invitation to Lola’s as an annoyance.

I called Harper, and she agreed to meet me at the Malkes’ home.

When I arrived, Harper’s BMW was parked in the long gravel driveway. Light glowed from the two-story Victorian, transforming it into a fairy-tale confection. Behind its floor-to-ceiling windows, Harper and Lola gestured animatedly inside the home’s extension.

Parking behind the BMW, I stepped from my pickup. Rows of barren grapevines cast long, twisted shadows in the front yard. They shifted in the moonlight, stretching their long fingers toward me.

I pulled my hooded jacket tighter. The night had grown cold, the stars above dimmed by the lights from nearby Sacramento.

Something rustled in the nearby hydrangeas.

I stilled. If Lola and Harper were in the house, then who—?

A striped gray-and-black tail whisked across the drive. My muscles relaxed. A raccoon.

Annoyed by my jumpiness, I crunched loudly down the driveway and up the steps to the peak-roofed extension. I noticed an old-fashioned bell pull beside the French doors and reached to tug the rope.

Lola met my gaze through the glass and moved toward me. My hand dropped to my side.

She opened one of the French doors. A gust of wind billowed her long blond hair, tangling strands across her cable-knit sweater. Her jeans were narrow, tapering into suede knee-high boots, and once again, I felt underdressed in my schlumpy Paranormal Museum tee.

“Maddie! Thanks for coming,” she said. “And thanks for inviting Harper.”

Harper raised a glass of red wine in my direction. Its rich color almost exactly matched her turtleneck. “Maddie’s thoughtful that way.” She winked. Harper knew exactly why I’d invited her.

A cheese platter sat on the rustic wooden table alongside a bottle of zinfandel and a bouquet of white flowers. A folded sheet of paper lay beside the sky-blue vase. Benches ran along the long sides of the table. On one wall stood a tall, white, glassed-in sideboard. Magazines lay artfully scattered atop it, open to pages with photos of Lola and Orson and their home. Opposite the sideboard hung a framed, oversized magazine cover featuring the Victorian.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Lola asked.

“Thanks,” I said.

She poured from a bottle of a local zinfandel and handed the goblet to me. “To Atticus.”

“And to Tilde.” An ache speared the back of my throat. If I hadn’t stopped to call Jason, or if we’d figured out that the door was open sooner, would she still be alive?

Lola blinked. “Of course. And to Tilde.” She took a sip. “I still can’t believe what happened.”

“What did happen?” Harper asked.

“I’m not sure,” Lola said. “I only know what I read in the papers.” She shivered. “I’m not sure I want to know more. How are things at that museum of yours, Maddie? I heard someone called in a bomb threat.”

“Ah. That.” I turned the wine goblet in my hands. So far the bomb threat hadn’t affected foot traffic in the museum. “I think something like a paranormal museum tends to attract pranksters.” I really hoped that was all it had been. But the timing was too coincidental, and a prickle of fear raced up my spine.

“That’s the problem with boring, small-town life,” Harper said. “The kids need to get creative to have fun.”

Lola smiled. “And we can’t have that.”

“In spite of our small-town atmosphere, I never had the chance to get to know Atticus,” I said. “What was he like?”

Lola sobered, staring into her wine goblet. “He was funny. Charming. Clever.”

“Honest,” Harper said.

Lola looked up from her wine.

“I knew him and India,” Harper explained.

Lola nodded. “My husband likes to think it was their chocolate that put Reign on the map. But Atticus was as important to the company’s success as Orson. Maybe more so. I don’t know what we’ll do without his marketing skills. I’ve been trying to fill in, as you know, but I’m an amateur.”

“Why is the company called Reign?” I asked.

“It was named after Atticus,” she explained. “Well, not after him, but the idea came from his last name, and then the crown imprint on the wrappers from that.”

“And the plain brown wrappers?” Harper asked.

“Atticus felt the contrast of something simple and the crown had an impact,” she said. “He was a genius.”

“How is India holding up?” Harper plucked a piece of cheese from the white ceramic tray on the wooden table.

“As well as can be expected, after losing her husband and then her cousin in such an awful way,” Lola said. “Maybe I should have invited her tonight, to get her mind off this double tragedy.” She rubbed the rim of the wine glass against her bottom lip. “It’s hard to know what to do when someone is grieving.”

“Were she and Tilde close?” I asked.

“Close enough for Tilde to follow her to California, I guess,” Lola said. “I assumed …” She adjusted the cheese platter on the table. “I guess I assumed a lot of things,” she said in a subdued voice.

“Do the police have any idea why someone would have killed both her and Atticus?” I asked.

Lola rubbed her arms, rumpling the sleeves of her thick sweater. “It must be some sort of grudge against Reign, don’t you think? I’ve asked Orson to come away with me, take a vacation. But he won’t. And now he’s insisting that he can do Tilde’s job and manage the accounts too. He’s going to give himself a heart attack.”

“Who might have a grudge against Reign?” I asked.

“Sam Reynolds.” Lola’s delicate face pinched. “I’ve noticed he hasn’t returned with his picket sign lately. He was harassing us all and our customers. I heard he bothered you one day,” she said to me.

I nodded. “He let me know he was upset with Reign’s management.”

Lola’s mouth compressed. “Tilde told me he was lurking at the back door when she left one night and followed her all the way to her car, cursing and making threats.”

“Why was he fired?” I asked, curious if the story would change.

“He …” Lola blew out her breath. “It just wasn’t a good fit. Atticus should have fired him long ago, for all our sakes, Sam’s included. Retail isn’t easy, and the work’s not for everyone.”

“Is Sam from around here?” I asked, dissatisfied.

“He’s a local,” Lola said.

That would make it easier for me—er, the police—to track him down. I cleared my throat. “Atticus’s death has affected so many people.” I hesitated. “There seemed to be some tension between you and Tilde at the chocolate shop.”

Harper shot me a warning look.

Lola flushed, her words coming more rapidly. “She thought because she was India’s cousin she could slack off. But Tilde was making mistakes. Or at least, that’s what Orson told me. Of course, it’s horrible that she’s dead. But that doesn’t negate her poor performance.”

“No,” I said. “I guess not.”

“But you said you wanted to talk about Atticus.” Lola’s gaze narrowed. “Not our accountant.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I suppose in my mind, the two will always be linked now that they’re both dead.”

The three of us stood silently for a long moment. Outside, a wind chime tinkled, faint and musical.

Harper shook herself. “I love what you’ve done with your home. This extension really updates this old Victorian.”

“Thanks,” Lola said. “We worked hard on it, and we used reclaimed materials wherever we could.”

Seemingly mollified, Lola regaled us with tales of the remodel and restoration—the horrors of outdated plumbing, wonky electrical wires, and tiny rooms.

I tried to look interested, nodding and mm-hmming at appropriate moments.

After we’d discussed Harper’s business, the weather, and my museum’s next exhibit—arty photographs of ghosts—I finally got to the supposed reason for my visit. “About that tribute to Atticus—”

“I found the eulogy that Orson’s been working on.” Lola lifted a folded sheet of paper off the table and handed it to me. “Maybe you can develop something for your museum from that.”

I folded the page into quarters and slid it into the back pocket of my faded jeans. “Thanks.”

After hashing over the weather some more, Harper and I said our goodbyes and escaped. We walked down the curved driveway, the gravel rattling beneath our shoes.

“Did you get what you wanted?” Harper asked.

“I’m not sure. I feel like …”

“Like what?”

“Like everyone’s lying, or keeping things back.” And Lola had said something that had left my nerves jangling.

Now all I needed to do was figure out what.