Bonbons and Betrayal: Book 3 in The Chocolate Cafe Series Read online

  Eisenhower, his thin body almost visibly brittle, stepped to the side as Louis walked in.

  “You were in the alleyway,” Randall said. He regarded Louis suspiciously, his eyes so much darker and much more hollow without the drunken sheen to them. “That night. The night Creed was killed.”

  “Good timing on someone’s part,” Louis said, taking his ID back and slipping it into his inner pocket. “At least whomever did it gave him a chance to enjoy his success before they did him in.”

  Another calculated statement. Expertly placed in front of the young man like bait on a hook. He scanned the apartment as he waited for Randall’s response.

  Once inside it was easy to see where the smell was coming from. Piles of takeaway containers towered in the corner like Grecian columns, flanking a litter box that hadn’t been cleaned in what looked like a very long time. The only furniture seemed to be a white plastic lawn chair in the center of the room. It faced a massive collection of computer monitors and hard drives that rose even higher than the piles of crusty curry containers and pizza boxes. The only light in the room came from windows that were papered over with yellowing newspapers and the bluish green glow from the monitors.

  It did nothing for Randall’s complexion. He looked sickly, and at the mention of Paul’s death, beads of sweat suddenly appeared on his upper lip.

  “That’s harsh,” he said. “A terrible thing to say. Even about a man like him. A terrible thing…it’s unkind. You’re unkind. Are you unkind?”

  Louis decided to change his tactics. The rapid-fire speech and obsessive stuttering Randall had shown in the alley that night was obviously not alcohol related.

  This kid was not well.

  He’d seen plenty of mental illness in his time and he could spot them in a line up. He had, in fact, spotted it in many in many line-ups over the years.

  “I can be unkind, I suppose,” he said. “But only when pressed. Can I ask you some questions?”

  A nervous little smile scuttled across Eisenhower’s face. A weasel…that’s what he reminded Louis of. He was all angles and erratic energy.

  “I don’t know, can you?”

  “You were a student of Paul Creed were you not? His protégé, I believe the New York Times called you.”

  Randall closed the door, sealing Louis and the wet, offensive smell in tight. He began to chew his fingers with great enthusiasm, tearing at his own flesh with his sharp teeth. He pulled the dirty lawn chair up to the wall of monitors and began to type frantically on one of the many keyboards.

  “That’s a terrible amount of pressure to put on a person. Protégé. Protégé of what? Not his. More like he was a protégé of mine.”

  Louis watched as two black cats suddenly tumbled out of the one adjoining rooms. Just as skinny and wild eyed as Randall, they pushed the bedroom door open in their battle. A single mattress lay on the floor, surrounded by mason jars filled with what looked like organic matter. Fingernails, urine and…

  “You wouldn’t be a fan of Howard Hughes, would you?” Louis asked, crossing his arms despite himself. Eisenhower was getting more interesting by the minute.

  When the cats, rolling like a furry, hissing wheel through the apartment came close to his chair, Randall slammed his gnawed fingers in his ears.

  “Stop it. Both of you. Stop it.” He shouted at the cats, “I am trying to work.” He looked up at Louis, suddenly seeming very tired and very helpless. “I have to work.”

  Time to change tactic again. This kid oscillated from defensive to defenseless so quickly, it was going to take some fancy footwork on his part.

  “What is it that you’re working on? I hear you’re quite a genius.” Louis leaned over Randall’s shoulders to try to decipher the constantly scrolling code on the screens. Not that he could, but he could seem like he could. It was like keeping one hand on a horse as you walked around it; as soon as you showed you were distracted, they took it as their opportunity for a good solid kick.

  “I am.” Randall said. “I am a genius. But I am not a protégé.”

  “May I ask you what you and Creed were working on?” Louis asked, choosing his words carefully. Randall stopped typing and turned to him suddenly, the cheap plastic of his chair warping around him.

  “No. He wasn’t working. He didn’t work. It was mine, all of it. That award should have been mine. There is no way that man could’ve come up with that kind of technology to make that kind of sophisticated application. He was a figurehead. A pretty statue.” In the gruesome light of the apartment, Randall looked almost ferocious. Creed seemed to have that kind of effect on people – he was a great purveyor of rage and disappointment, that was certain.

  “Did you know Sayeed Mehyar, by any chance?”

  “Another bastard. Not as bad. At least he did his own work. At least he wasn’t a thief. He wasn’t a thief. Not a thief.”

  “According to Mehyar, Creed helped himself to one of his ideas, as well. It seems he had quite a habit of doing that.”

  The cats came rumbling into the room again, both of them launching themselves onto the buffet of keyboards arranged before Eisenhower. Immediately, three of the monitors went blank. Two more began to flicker rapidly, as the cats leaped and clawed at each other. Randall shrieked and jumped from his chair. It fell backwards and clattered to the trash littered floor.

  Randall began to scream curses at the animals. Louis stepped back. Watching, but not reacting, as the sickly young man’s face blossomed into a bright red. He grabbed for the closest cat, but missed, and started to chase after it.

  “Hang on…” Louis said, but there was not stopping him. Randall jumped toward the cat, but it flew, claws and legs whirling, directly into one of the garbage towers. The tower exploded, releasing stained napkins and rotting food all over the already filthy floor.

  “Stupid animal. Stupid animal. Ruined everything. He ruined everything. He ruined it all!” Louis wasn’t shocked to see tears streaming down Eisenhower’s face. He was shrieking out his pain and disappointment, almost doubled over with it. He reached out and grabbed Louis by the arm, his grip moist and strong.

  “It should’ve been mine. It was mine. I was doing so well. I was…” His chest hitched. “I was healthy. It was under control. The medication…it was the right one and it helped but he said it dulled me. He said it dulled my brain and he was right. So I stopped…oh god.”

  Although there was nothing Louis wanted more than to yank the bloody claw off his arm, he remained calm, watching the gelatinous shell of a man sob in front of him.

  “Perhaps we should get you some help, Randall. Do you think that would be good? Open the windows and get some…”

  As suddenly as he started, Randall stopped crying. He was instantaneously emotionless. He stood up to his full height, still gripping Louis’ arm. The grip became tighter.

  “I’m not going out there. I can’t go out there. I have work to do. You’re interrupting me. You’re an interruption. Perhaps you’re the one who needs help. I don’t need help. I never need help. I don’t need help.”

  Louis’ arm was starting to throb under Eisenhower’s grasp. He’d seen enough, certain he wasn’t going to get much more out of the young man. This was going to take a little extra research on his part, to get the kind of clear answers he needed.

  ‘Yes, well…I think I’ve outstayed my welcome. Thank you for your time.”

  Another major shift. Randall let go of Louis’ arm and an eerily beautiful smile broke out on his face. The eyes however, were as dead as before.

  “Thank you so much for coming.” Randall said, walking to the door. He opened it and smiled again, as if the two of them had just finished a coffee date of the most civil variety. “Please drop by again when you’re in town.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that,” Louis said. Only next time with a warrant.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It amazed Sabrina how quickly three weeks could pass. Sometimes it seemed like it took years just to get throug
h a single day, but under the right circumstances time seemed to race ahead. In this case the right circumstances involved the death of a boyfriend and a great deal of time spent in bed.

  It wasn’t that she wanted to stay at home. In fact, staying in one place for longer than a few hours tended to make her antsy. She had been like that from birth. A restless soul. The fact of the matter was that in these last few weeks Sabrina had been unable to leave the house. Gypsy heart or not, she found herself trapped in her own head.

  It wasn’t just the death that immobilized her or the loss of someone that she had been so smitten with – it was the fact that she had been so stupidly blind. All the work that she had done over the years to be an island unto herself, to be completely self-sufficient and attached to no one, had just dissolved with one look from Paul Creed. He had become her oxygen. He had become the space between her heartbeats. He had been the one virus to which she hadn’t made herself immune.

  However, piece by gentle piece, Mac and Louis had filled her in on just what kind of man she had been dating for the whirlwind month. Over cups of tea and plenty of wine, they had held her as she sobbed and raged.

  He was a liar.

  He was a thief.

  He took advantage of any and every opportunity.

  He left a trail of hate in his wake, wherever he went.

  And it appears that Brie was not immune to that either.

  She hated him. This was rare, as Brie was not much of a ‘hater’. She could never be bothered to spend that much time and energy on someone who was essentially meaningless to her. But he had tricked her and Brie didn’t take that kind of manipulation in stride.

  “What about that Eisenhower kid?” Brie asked. She was restocking the cabinets with new batches of chocolates for the first time in almost a month. It felt good to be back at the shop again. Sadly, when Brie shut down so did the shop, and it was only today that the girls removed the ‘closed until further notice’ sign from the front door.

  It had felt so abandoned when Sabrina unlocked the door this morning that she had to battle a lump forming in her throat. Her poor shop. Another thing affected by the notorious Mr. Creed.

  Mac shouted down from upstairs where she was packing more truffles to bring down.

  “Nope. His alibi checked out, too. His landlady said she’d seen him that night, coming back to his place with a bag of take out. He didn’t leave again until the next day.”

  Brie sighed and fiddled a bit more with the pyramid of truffles she was arranging. It was her first truffle using edible gold as a dusting. In her mourning and rage she had become just a little bit obsessed with the Mayan culture. When she couldn’t sleep she took great comfort in learning about the Mayan kings and their chocolate coated blood lust. She had created tiny, pyramid shaped truffles, filled with chili ganache and coated in glistening gold, to celebrate.

  Oh yeah, she was back.

  She could hear Mac hopping down the steps behind her with uncharacteristic levity. Brie concluded her friend was just as happy to be back in business as she was.

  “You know what’s strange though…” Mac said, putting a tray of cameo shaped chocolate lockets (they opened too, thank you very much) on the marble counter. “When Louis did some investigating- remember the kid, Randall? -he was just as enchanted by Creed as you were. The guy convinced him to go off his meds, to abandon what few friends he had, to basically work over time to get that app finished. Then…predictably, completely snatched it away when it was done.”

  Brie stood up straight, stretching herself backward like a cat. She had lost weight and was still a little pale, but it was a beautiful sight to see the light back in her eyes again.

  “So really,” Mac continued, “You can’t blame yourself. He was a con artist. No one was safe from him.”

  “Slime ball.” Brie said, wrinkling her nose.

  “Slime truffle.” Mac offered.

  “Slime fountain.” Brie said. One of her fantastically wide smiles lit her up and Mac felt so relieved she could’ve swallowed her up in yet another hour-long hug.

  Mac was about to add another insulting name to their pile when her phone began to buzz on the counter. The number was unlisted and Mac frowned a bit as she answered it. She had come to distrust unlisted numbers these last few months.

  “It’s Deena Shelat.” The voice sounded ragged on the other line – tired and thick as if she had been crying. “This is Sabrina, correct?”

  Mac was struck dumb. How did this woman get her number? Yes, she was a celebrated genius, but she didn’t realize she was also a professional stalker, too.

  “No.” Mac said, cautiously. “It’s Catharine Mackenzie. We spoke a few weeks ago at Creed’s award ceremony.”

  There was a muffled choking noise on the other end of the line at the mention of Creed’s name. Great. Another body left behind in his wake.

  “I need to speak to Sabrina.” Mac looked at her friend whose eyebrows were raised with curiosity.

  “You can speak with both of us. I’ll put you on speaker.” Deena began to protest, but it was too late. Mac pressed the speaker icon and held the phone between the two of them.

  ‘Go ahead, Deena.” Mac said, “Whatever you need to say, you can say to both of us.” Sabrina clapped her hand over her mouth in surprise, starring at the phone like Deena herself was about to burst out of it.

  “Sabrina,” Deena said, that thick voice sounding a little too off kilter for Mac’s liking. “Sabrina, I know it was you.” There was silence as Brie tried to figure out what the woman was accusing her of.

  “Know what was me?” Brie asked. The shop seemed suddenly completely still, both girls frozen to the spot.

  “I know you killed him.” Deena sighed before she spoke, as if it were completely obvious what Brie had done.

  “What are you talking about?? What would make you…”

  “Who else?” she asked. “Half his age, hanging onto him like he was an IV pole…getting ready to drain all his money, all his power, right into you.”

  “Oh my god, really?” Sabrina laughed incredulously. “Look, woman. I’ve never even met you, let alone killed anyone. Are you completely insane?”

  “I’ve gone to the police. I want you to know who it was that turned you in, you little witch! I want you to hear my voice and know that I know.”

  Mac had had enough. She turned the phone off speaker and held it to her ear, partially blind with rage. How dare she? It didn’t matter how brilliant Louis said she was, or how many accomplishments she had…she was a maniac.

  “You know who’s going to the police?” Mac practically spat into the phone, “I am. To press harassment charges. Where did you get this number?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Oh, but it is,” Mac said, her voice rising as her anger began to boil over. “No one calls my phone and accuses my best friend of murder. Listen to my voice now, you sad cow. You hear MY voice and know that when the cops come knocking on your door, it will be me that sent them.”

  Mac pounded the end button and placed the phone back on the counter. She was shaking she was so angry, but in all honesty she felt amazing.

  “Wow,” Brie said, wide eyed. “Wow. You went all gangster on her.”

  “It’s enough.” Mac said smoothing her hair back with trembling hands. “Even after he’s dead and gone, that man is still causing problems.”

  “Are you really going to tell Louis?” Brie asked. “I mean…if she knows your number, who’s to say she doesn’t know where we are. Holy crud, who’s to say she’s not on her way up here now, to serve up some middle aged vigilante justice.”

  Mac, her cheeks still burning, looked out at the grey streets. It was almost impossible to see out the windows, it was raining so hard. The spring storms had been relentless for the last week or so and as a result the thoroughfare was completely empty. Even the windsocks had to be taken in to protect them from the vicious ocean gusts. It wasn’t going to be busy today, obvi
ously. She could probably safely escape for a bit to make it up to Louis’ house and let him know all about Ms. Shelat’s unfortunate call.

  “Will you be alright if I leave you for a bit?” Mac asked. She needn’t have. Sabrina was already dangling the keys to her motorbike in front of her.

  “Take the bike. You walked here this morning. Just… wear my helmet and don’t break it.”

  Mac snatched the keys from her hand, and headed to the door without hesitation.

  “Keep your eye out for maniac Ted Talk-ers.” Mac said over her shoulder.

  “Will do.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Even though it was mid-morning, the streets of Mackenzie Bay were practically deserted. In a few months, when the summer season began to ramp up, there would barely be enough space to walk down the sidewalk without getting jostled or smeared by an errant ice cream. Now however, in the height of storm season, the only people brave enough to venture out were a few locals, stocking up on candles and beer before the next storm hit.