Chapter 19 #2
“I bet it’s not good for business,” I’m quick to point out. In fact, Gina told me as much.
“It’s devastating,” Muffin confirms. “Sales dropped thirty percent after her book came out. Duncan was livid. He kept saying she was going to destroy everything our family had built.”
“Sounds like everyone had a reason to want Dunky-poo dead,” Carlotta says with a shrug. “Talk about a family that really believes in multitasking.”
“Carlotta,” I snap, because even though she’s not wrong, there are tactful ways to point out that an entire family had murder motives.
“I’m just saying, it’s impressive how many people benefited from his untimely demise,” she continues cheerfully. “Usually, you’ve got to work harder to find this many suspects with this many good reasons.”
It’s so true.
Muffin stares at Carlotta as if she just realized she’s dealing with a woman who operates by completely different social rules.
“Speaking of your books,” I say, steering the conversation toward what might be crucial evidence, “I heard your latest manuscript features a chocolate empire heir who dies mysteriously.” Okay, so I heard something in that arena.
But if what Gina said was true about those books reading like a diary, then maybe, just maybe…
Muffin’s face goes pale in a way that suggests I’ve just hit a nerve with surgical precision.
“That’s... that’s just a coincidence,” she stammers. “Fiction written months before Duncan’s death. Authors write about what they know, and I know the chocolate business.”
“Did you kill him off the same way Duncan died?” Carlotta blurts with her eyes bugging out. “Because honey, that’s either some serious foreshadowing or the universe staging an intervention.”
“Of course not!” Muffin protests, but she’s avoiding eye contact in a way that suggests Carlotta might have stumbled onto something.
Lenny roars my way, “Get a copy of that book, Lottie.”
I’m already on it. Mentally, at least.
“Authors often practice their crimes on paper first.” Lenny gives a dark yowl. “It’s easier to work out the details when you can edit and revise without consequences.”
“What about Luke Lazzari?” I ask, switching topics to see if I can catch her off guard. “He was at the festival. Did Duncan know him?”
Muffin’s expression shifts to something that might be relief at the subject change or might be nervousness about a different kind of trouble.
“Luke’s been a business associate for years,” she admits. “The chocolate company has various arrangements with his organization.”
“What kind of arrangements?” I press.
“Import and export facilitation,” she says each word as if it were its own sentence. I can tell she’s walking through this one as if it were a landmine. Her lips invert for a moment. “Luke helps us navigate certain regulatory challenges with our international suppliers.”
“Regulatory challenges?” Carlotta asks with interest. “Sounds fancy! What kind of regulations need that much help?”
“Just the usual international trade complications,” Muffin says vaguely. “Currency exchanges, customs documentation, shipping logistics. Very boring business stuff.”
It does sound boring. In fact, it’s so boring, I’m afraid she might be telling the truth.
“Duncan had been getting nervous about those arrangements lately,” she finally admits. “He thought Luke was getting too visible, drawing too much attention. They’ve been arguing about it.”
“Arguing? How seriously?” I have a feeling that arguments between chocolate empire heirs and mob bosses rarely end with handshakes and friendly farewells.
“Seriously enough that Duncan was talking about ending the partnership,” Muffin says just above a whisper. “He thought the risk was getting too high.”
“Risk of what?” Carlotta asks.
“Scrutiny,” Muffin replies. “Duncan always said the chocolate business was clean, legitimate. He didn’t want anything that might complicate that image.”
Lenny’s expression grows alarmed. “If Duncan threatened to expose whatever Luke was really doing with those import arrangements, that’s a serious motive for elimination.”
Oh, good gravy. The last person I want to add to this ever-growing suspect list is one of my favorite mobsters.
Someone clears their throat from behind, and I turn to find Noah standing there fully clothed, wearing an expression that suggests he’d like to pretend the last hour never happened.
“Ladies,” he says with an all too brief smile, “we should probably head back soon. It’s getting late, and some of us have jobs that require us to wake at ungodly hours.”
“Jobs that don’t involve removing clothing,” Everett adds dryly as he strides up, having recovered both his shirt and his sense of humor.
“Oh, please! The two of you were natural at removing your clothing,” Carlotta is quick to tell them.
“In fact, you two are walking works of art. If Muffin hadn’t nabbed you, I’d have booked you for my own private photo shoot—the full moon edition.
” She turns to Muffin. “No wonder you wanted to photograph them, cupcake. I would have asked them to pose nude.”
“Me, too,” I mutter, and both Noah and Everett shoot me a look of amusement as if suggesting that it can still be arranged. And I have no doubt it will be—with Everett at least.
“I’m just saying they’re both very photogenic,” Carlotta goes on, unwarranted. “Take Noah—he’s got that rugged detective thing going on. And Everett has those judge hands that look like they could rule in favor of all sorts of interesting things.”
I seriously consider whether it would be justifiable homicide to strangle her with camera equipment.
“You know,” Muffin says dreamily, as if she were getting distracted by Carlotta’s inappropriate musings, “they really are magnificent specimens. I might have to do a follow-up shoot.”
“NO,” both Noah and Everett say without hesitation.
“Spoilsports,” Carlotta mutters.
“One last question,” I say to Muffin quickly, before this conversation can deteriorate further into discussions about handsome lawmen and where Carlotta would like them posed next. “Who do you think could have done this to Duncan?”
“Honestly?” she says. “Everyone knew he was at the festival. And everyone had access to the cakewalk table. That knife wasn’t exactly under lock and key. It really could’ve been anyone.”
“So basically everyone,” Carlotta summarizes, and I shoot her a look.
“Be careful, Lottie.” Lenny belts out a roar. “The killer might know you’re getting closer to the truth. All these questions, all this investigating—word gets around in a small town, especially when organized crime is involved.”
A cold, sharp shiver races through me.
Because maybe this wasn’t personal.
Maybe it was professional.
Maybe Duncan Whitmore was murdered by someone with ties to Vermont’s criminal underbelly—someone who’s already spilled blood and won’t think twice about spilling mine next.