Chocolate Hearts and Murder Read online

  I was halfway to the doors when Olivia’s voice hounded me the rest of the way in like a sheepish child who’d done her wrong.

  “Dinner begins in one minute. One minute! All guests, please take your seats.”

  Because being bossy was an art form, I guess. But the best part? By the time I reached the big doors—with two young men in uniforms waiting for me to enter with smirks on their faces—I was the last person aside from staff still standing. The. Last. Person. That meant, as the doors behind me swung shut, trapping all of us in the vast room dissected down the center by a long, ruffled runway and flanked by layers of equally long and lavishly decorated tables, it was about as obvious as a walk of shame while I did my best not to bow my head or speed my steps toward—get this—the front of the far table where my parents chose to plant themselves.

  Forcing me to walk the longest ever distance in the history of long distances while being stared at by the entire guest list not to mention the glaring smile/grimace of our dear mayor waiting at the podium on the riser that served as her stage and the entry of the runway.

  Yup. Fiona Fleming. Miss Awkward 2017.

  I slipped in next to Mom and exhaled, reaching for the tall glass of bubbling liquid in the flute in front of my plate. Champagne wasn’t my favorite, mimosa or no mimosa, but I gulped it down in two long swigs while Olivia fired up her vocal chords and got this crap show underway.

  ***

  Chapter Five

  “Thank you all for coming to the celebration of our town and the opening of this most spectacular venue.” The room applauded politely while I blocked her out and stole Mom’s champagne to follow mine. By the time Olivia was done prattling on about how gracious the hosts were to have us and how amazing our town was and oh, wasn’t this just the best year ever and don’t forget to vote in the election to keep her as mayor, I was feeling a bit buzzed and much more relaxed than ten minutes ago.

  Dad grinned at me and saluted with his own glass but Mom squeezed my hand while I exhaled my bubbly breath and leaned in.

  “Slow down or I’ll make you eat bread,” she said.

  Blah. Moms.

  A handsome older man in a white tux coat and a red rose in his lapel joined Olivia on stage, a taller man behind him, hook nose clearly broken at some point in his life, his own tuxedo carefully crafted as evidence the injury hadn’t held him back from making lots and lots of money. I hiccupped delicately—Mom’s scowl telling me I wasn’t as ladylike as I thought I was—and listened as Olivia introduced them.

  “Lucas Day and James Adler, our kind hosts, ladies and gentlemen, and the owners of our very own White Valley Ski Lodge.”

  “And Golf Club,” the white-jacketed man said with a smile.

  Olivia beamed. “Of course, Lucas. Opening this spring.”

  More polite applause. I burped softly and looked around for more to drink, Mom’s shoe pointedly getting my attention. Dad seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. I crossed my arms over my chest, the pushup bra Daisy made me wear digging into my breastbone and under my armpits. The discomfort triggered irritation and I scowled at Mom for being a killjoy.

  Getting drunk and passing out seemed an excellent option despite my earlier reticence.

  “I think you’re forgetting who really owns this place.” My head jerked around, eyes locking on Mason Patterson seated down the table across from me. Simone sat next to him, hissing in his ear, looking embarrassed, but Mason seemed cruelly amused. Lucas scowled while the young man went on, Olivia’s blistering stare doing nothing to silence him. “Mummy dearest died and left her fortune to me, remember?” He stood, wobbly on his feet, waving his arms around him like he owned the place. Which, I guess, he did. “And as the singular representative here tonight of the entirety of the Patterson family—because no one else could be bothered to come, Olivia, how do you like that?—I’m wondering when you’re going to shut up.” He tossed back a glass of his own, triggering a bit of squeamishness in my stomach I might evolve into that big a jerk with enough alcohol. “Where’s my speech?”

  “Oh, do sit down, Mason.” I hadn’t seen Aundrea Wilkins, nor her partner Pamela Shard, until now. “You’re not the only Patterson here and you know it.” They also sat across from me, though the daughter of that founding family with her blonde hair and pinched expression didn’t seem all that happy to be there. I knew how she felt. The singular newspaper woman of our little town nodded to me while keeping one hand on her lover’s back.

  “And you mind your own business, Auntie Andy,” Mason said, vicious in his amusement. “Maybe your little lesbo lover could gag you for us. I’m sure you’d adore that.”

  I gaped at him, buzz gone, paling out in utter shock. Oh, but he wasn’t done, was he? Not by a long shot. He was just winding up, I could see it on his face, in the way he filled his lungs to continue his tirade. Except, bless her, Olivia Walker wasn’t about to let some young upstart—big money or no big money—ruin her perfect event.

  “Shall we welcome our very special guests,” she said far too loudly, gesturing with a hasty hand at the back of the room until music hastily boomed out of the speakers flanking the stage, silencing the weaving and clearly inebriated Mason who fish lipped a moment before falling into his seat. “The charming fashionistas of Reading, Vermont!”

  The curtain parted and, with her tongue lolling out and a perky pink tutu bouncing around her waist, Petunia emerged in the lead of the pack. Why was I not surprised she took front row center? They’d somehow managed to make her leave the costume be and not tear it off herself, her pink painted toenails matching the giant sparkly heart hanging from the glittering collar they’d fastened around her neck. She moved at a sedate pace, waddling her way toward the end of the runway where a young woman knelt with a handful of what had to be treats in her hand.

  Considering the unfaithful creature would do anything for food, I wasn’t too hurt by her enthusiasm. Still, she was my pug, or I was her human, or however that relationship was going to be classified down the road. But despite my jealousy over a dog, I couldn’t resist her cuteness or the fact that she clearly won the hearts of the crowd with her rolling, drunken sailor walk with her butt end scooting out sideways as if trying to go its own way and her bug eyed adorableness.

  I wasn’t a fan or anything.

  Next out was Cookie, the petite little fluff of nothing and silence that Aundrea and Pamela adopted when Peggy Munroe went to prison for murdering Pete Wilkins. I’d been horrified to find out the reason for the little dog’s silence had nothing to do with training and everything to do with the fact the wretched old woman had Cookie’s vocal chords removed. One more reason to hate her. And made me just as happy my nosey neighbor and real life sociopathic criminal mastermind was gone. No more poking her nose into my business. Or organized crime, that I knew of. And I didn’t have to murder her for abusing the dear little creature who bobbed happily down the aisle toward Petunia.

  Cookie had clearly gone to a good home because both of her new moms beamed as the tiny tot of a canine bounced her way down the runway in a wobbling bow and dragging a skirt she’d already shed from her tiny body. She nearly ran into Petunia’s butt as the pug sank to her haunches and begged for more treats while the line of Reading’s most adorable dogs just kept coming to the sound of utter delight from the crowd.

  By the time the last pooch—a very well trained black labradoodle named Ralphie—tugged on a rope and exposed a “Thank you for coming!” sign, the crowd’s mood had lightened and everyone was laughing, even Mason, Olivia’s fashion show a clear hit. Not to mention the handful of dogs who clearly didn’t get the memo about where they were supposed to walk and what they were meant to do during the show, now wandering among the guests licking legs and looking for crumbs.

  The young woman who’d encouraged the entourage of pets carried Petunia to me and deposited her at my feet with a beaming smile, her cheeks rosy from the effort. “She was the star of the show, Fee. Thank you.”

 
I grinned at Lily Myers, Reading’s favorite groomer and trainer and reached down to pat Petunia’s wrinkled head. “If only she’d be this well behaved at home,” I said.

  “Free lessons for my girl.” Lily blew Petunia a kiss before clicking and giving her a treat. I let her go without comment, staring down at the pug who licked her chops and looked back up at me with longing. “Room or stay for dinner?”

  Like she was willingly going anywhere. Because the waiters, now circulating, brought salad and Petunia didn’t turn up her nose at anything.

  I was fairly certain she wasn’t supposed to stay, the bulk of the dogs vanishing with the staff, but my pug girl was smart enough to stay tucked under the table, accepting morsels from Mom and me, content to sit on her wide pug butt with her back legs poking forward and her eyes never leaving us. Even Dad got into the act, tossing her the occasional tidbit as dinner went on.

  Olivia arranged entertainment, a parade of young people singing pop songs and a creepy guy who did a few magic tricks before she shooed him off stage in favor of a couple who ballroom danced down the runway. But the real show of the evening was the rapidly devolving temper of the young man across the way. The more he drank, the worse Mason became and while I couldn’t make out most of what he was saying, it was clear from the occasional swear word and jabbed finger at other guests accompanied by laughter while Simone looked more and more like she was going to crawl under the table, he was as big a jerk as my first impression told me.

  “Someone needs to handle that boy.” Mom’s disapproval mirrored mine.

  “No one has the balls.” Dad grunted when she poked him in the ribs for being rude. “It’s true.”

  “You don’t have to be vulgar about it, Johnathan Fleming,” she said with a sniff.

  I grinned at him behind her back, mouthed, Sucker.

  He stuck his tongue out at me. “Yes, dear.”

  She made a face, frustration clear. “Go say something, would you?”

  But Dad shook his head, focusing on his drink. Likely a double whiskey on those rocks he rattled in response, his favorite. “Not me,” he said with a grin. “That would be Crew Turner’s job.”

  Mom tsked at him before her eyes roved the room and I instantly felt sorry for the new sheriff if he didn’t get up right now and do something because if Mom had to go ask, he’d regret it.

  Instead of letting Crew suffer my mother’s wrath, I changed the subject. “How’s your dinner, Mom?” The beef seemed a bit dry to me, but the potatoes were delicious.

  She tried a smile before poking her own meat with her fork. “Honestly, how can anyone treat a prime rib this horrendously and get away with it?” So that’s why she was really upset. Not about Mason Patterson after all. The truth came out the second she was given permission to complain about the food. “And these vegetables. Were they boiled until they were tasteless on purpose?”

  Mom’s amazing culinary abilities had always held me in awe considering that was something I hadn’t inherited. I might have looked like Lucy Fleming with her auburn hair and green eyes, but I had my father’s soul. I never knew if that made Mom sad or not, but I certainly wished at times it was the other way around. At least then I could cook a decent meal while not holding an old grudge against Dad for ensuring I didn’t go to the police academy in his footsteps.

  Protective sheriff fathers sucked sometimes.

  “I really shouldn’t go on.” Mom touched her lips with her napkin, leaning back. “I know Carol and she’s lovely. But her food just isn’t up to snuff.” She glanced over her shoulder, face tightening. “I wonder if that’s the kitchen.”

  I smothered a snort of hilarity and sipped more sedately at the refreshed glass of champagne a nice young waiter gave me. No more need to drown my sorrows, not when I had the entertainment of John and Lucy Fleming to keep me amused and distracted. And I’d been worried about dinner with my parents on Valentine’s Day. Sitting there with Petunia now squatting on my feet with her warm butt, I couldn’t think of a better way to spend the most miserable night of the year.

  Movement across the table caught my attention. Mason was leaning over Simone and talking loudly with a young woman on her other side. I recognized her then as Ava, the girl from the bathroom hallway, spotting Noah on Mason’s other side looking uncomfortable but staying silent. Ava, on the other hand, seemed incredibly unhappy and Simone just glared between them as if she was ready to murder them both.

  How fun.

  The ballroom dancing couple wrapped up as slices of chocolate tower cake emerged from the kitchen doors in the hands of the fast moving servers. I couldn’t miss the piece that settled before Mason, noted it was Ethan who delivered it, glaring at Ava all the while. Someone put a big, blue candle in the middle of Mason’s slice, the tiny flame flickering. He laughed and blew it out, tossing it aside before taking a big bite of cake. With his bare hand. He offered the dessert smeared fingers to Simone who looked away, furious.

  I glanced away, attention caught by talented Ralphie the labradoodle—Lily’s dog, naturally—who performed his final trick with precise precision. Tail wagging, a big tux collar and bow tie bobbing around his shining, fluffy black neck, he trotted down the runway and tugged one last ribbon. This time, instead of a sign, the net overhead parted and a soft, quiet fall of red heart balloons tumbled toward the crowd in slow motion.

  The gasps of delight turned to popping sounds as guests reached for and burst the balloons, some with treats inside. Punctuated a moment later by a long, powerful scream.

  I leaped out of my seat, staring across the runway to where Simone stood over Mason, her mouth open in a perfect circle, that piercing sound emerging, silencing everyone, while the young Patterson sat motionless, face first in his chocolate cake.

  ***

  Chapter Six

  My instincts got me moving, but I couldn’t just hop over the table in my short dress and heels. I found myself pursuing my father who had the exact same genes if years more experience with stuff like this. He did the work for me, making a path when people tried to stand up, creating a trail I could follow down to the end of the table and up the runway to the fallen Mason and still screaming Simone.

  Crew had appeared out of nowhere, beating us to the scene, so he had to have been sitting further down my table and out of view. Clearly I’d missed seeing him out of sheer stubbornness and focus to get to my seat not so long ago. Must have blocked Vivian out, too, thankfully.

  It was apparent from his expression as he straightened from touching the young man’s neck there was nothing he could do. His blue eyes met mine just before he jerked his chin at Simone, a clear request—I wouldn’t accept order—in that gesture before he spun and leaped over the table, one shoe landing firmly in the middle of the white table cloth in the exact place nothing sat. Like some kind of action hero. He made it to the stage area and had his hands on the microphone before even Olivia could pull herself together.

  I slipped under the table instead of risking people seeing up my skirt by trying Crew’s cross over method and emerged to hug Simone and silence her as the sheriff’s voice crackled through the din of chatter that had broken out, music abruptly cut off as whoever ran the audio shut it down.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” When Olivia said it, it sounded politico. When Crew said it? Everyone shut the hell up. Impressive. I patted Simone’s back, half turning her away from the body, foot slipping on something as I shoved her chair back out of the way. I looked down, Petunia at my feet, the pug sniffing a small, shiny object on the carpet. “Please remain calm.” Funny how cops always said that when terrible things happened in large groups of people. Seemed to work though. I released Simone long enough to retrieve the thing I’d slipped on, stopping myself at the last second and using a discarded napkin to pick up what looked like a glass vial right before my greedy pug could swallow it. “If you would take your seats for the time being and allow me to do my job, I would appreciate your cooperation.”

  I hugged Simon
e again, tucking her against me while she shook and wept. Dad’s big hand settled on my shoulder and I looked up into his eyes, his own narrowed and his face unhappy.

  “Bring her here, Fee.” He guided us out of the way, Mom appearing to hug my friend’s sister, too. Simone collapsed into the chair my mother offered her, Mom perching next to her and rocking her while I stared down into the napkin in my hand and tried to sort out what just happened.

  Crew appeared at my side, but his eyes were on the body. “I need help.” He sounded like that hurt, asking. Dad joined us and nodded. “I need to get people back to their rooms so I can examine the crime scene.” He grimaced, turned to both of us, looking harried and worried. “I tried calling the station.”

  “There’s a storm,” I blurted. Dad looked surprised then grim. “The plows are off the roads.”

  “Now you tell me.” The sheriff didn’t sound accusatory, just tense. Good thing, too. Because the storm was not my fault, thank you very much, Crew Turner. “That’s why I need your help. But this is my investigation.” He spoke directly to Dad. No, wait. He was talking to me, too. Considering I’d done a bit of poking around into Pete Wilkins’s death and not only uncovered the prescription drug theft ring his sister was orchestrating and the falsification of signatures that meant the theft of local properties but also single handedly brought down his murderer.

  Well, with Petunia’s help. But she had paws, so she didn’t count as “handed.” And maybe “little bit of poking around” was an understatement, but that was neither here nor there.

  “At least the weather means the killer isn’t going anywhere either.” Dad said that like he hadn’t heard Crew just tell him to be subordinate.

  The sheriff nodded. “We have that in our court,” he said, the “we” kind of warming me up to the idea of playing nice. “But no forensics, no fingerprinting, nothing. Just us.” He swore softly under his breath while my mind told me not to suggest any street wise, down and dirty forensic measures I’d seen on my favorite police procedural shows, knowing how much Dad made fun of what Hollywood chose to present as possible to move a plot along. “And no doctor, either.” Crew’s jaw jumped.