Macchiatos, Macarons, and Malice Read online

  My heartbeat pounded in my ears, making it hard to hear, but there were definitely footsteps approaching. I heard a murmur of voices, too, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying, either because of the rapid throbbing of my heart or because they were trying to keep their voices down.

  The footsteps got louder as I tried to slow my breathing and my heart rate. I peeked through the crack between the door and the doorframe but then pulled back, afraid they’d see my eyeball staring at them. That’s all I needed—to be on the verge of escape and get caught because of my unbearable nosiness.

  “Don’t worry, babe. We’ll be fine. They have no idea it was us.”

  The man’s voice sounded like it was right outside. I held as still as possible, tried not to breathe, and hoped it was enough.

  The footsteps stopped.

  “Stairs or elevator?” the man asked.

  “Stairs. Less likely to get caught.”

  Now that they weren’t whispering, I thought the woman’s voice may have sounded familiar. Maybe his too. I couldn’t be sure though, and I definitely didn’t know who either of the voices belonged to.

  The footsteps resumed, and I decided to risk peeking through the crack again. All I could see was their backs as they walked down the hall away from me. He was tall and thin, with dark hair, a black shirt, and fitted black pants. She was a good bit shorter, with long blond hair that hung in loose curls down her back. She was dressed head to toe in pale blue that looked like hospital scrubs.

  I leaned back against the wall to process everything I’d heard and seen but was immediately distracted as I actually looked for the first time at the room I was in.

  It was another of the show rooms, but this one wasn’t remotely like the simple ones I’d seen down the hall. This one looked like something I’d see in a palace.

  The floor was still the same wood parquet, but here the majority of it was covered by a massive, sumptuous Oriental-style rug that had to be an inch thick. The pattern on the wallpaper was fairly simple, but by the way it sparkled, I was pretty sure it was run through with actual strands of gold to accent the buttery-yellow base color. The bed wasn’t the simple iron single of the other rooms. No, this one was a big four-poster with a canopy in a rich red that looked like velvet from where I stood. It looked like it was just a double, but it still looked elegant. The room was scattered with furniture—a table, a few chairs, a chaise, a desk, a bureau. The chairs and chaise were upholstered in the same rich fabric as the canopy. It looked like a room fit for a king.

  I went to grab the brochures Whitney had given me out of my pocket but realized they were still clutched in my hand. And pretty wrinkled at that point too. I smoothed out the one about the display rooms and found the pictures of the room I was standing in. Apparently, it had belonged to the original owner of the hotel. His wife’s room was down the hall, also available for viewing. From the picture, her room looked equally refined but blue instead of red.

  I turned to go see it when I remembered why I was hiding in the owner’s room in the first place. I had found the murderers. I didn’t know who they were, but I had found them. I needed to tell Mike. But surely there wouldn’t be a problem with going to look at one more room first, would there? I didn’t see why there would be. It wasn’t like I’d heard them planning a second murder. They’d been saying they were going to lay low. Taking five minutes to go look at the other room wouldn’t hurt anything.

  So that’s what I did. I made my way down the hall to the room that had belonged to the lady of the house, back when it was a really fancy, elegant house and not a fancy, elegant hotel. And presumably not the site of a murder.

  The room was every bit as elegant as the husband’s, maybe even a little bit more. It was decorated in shades of blue instead of reds, and the furniture was a bit more delicate, with fluting and scrolls and dainty flowers carved into the wood. While the paintings on the wall in the other room had been mostly wild animals with a few ancient Greek classics thrown in, all the ones in here—and there were quite a few—were of flowers and gardens with a few bowls of fruit thrown in for good measure. Better yet, when I read the couple of paragraphs about the room in the pamphlet, it casually mentioned that among the paintings were two by Monet and Renoir, as though that were a totally normal thing to just have hanging around.

  I tried for a moment to imagine myself living in that room, sleeping in that bed, lounging in that chaise. I tried to think of what it must have been like to sit at the vanity while a maid styled my hair, not for some fabulous event but just to go down to breakfast. And what it would be like to need someone to help me dress, again, not in an evening gown with a zipper I couldn’t reach, but just in an everyday dress, something that I would wear to take a walk in my expansive gardens.

  I couldn’t do it. It was altogether too ridiculous. I couldn’t imagine being that helpless. Then again, the woman who had lived in this room probably couldn’t have imagined prowling around, listening at doors, trying to solve a murder, so I guessed we all had our own strengths.

  At that point, I realized I probably needed to get back downstairs. Aside from the fact that Matt was probably waiting for me and wondering where I’d wandered off to this time, I had a murder to solve. I even had suspects now. They were still unfortunately nameless, but they were suspects all the same.

  I cast one last look around the room and headed for the elevator. I fully expected Matt to be standing in front of the elevator doors when they opened again, but the lobby was empty. I looked around for a second just to be sure then decided to go check the lounge.

  Sure enough, there he was, sitting at the bar but turned toward where Carrick was standing, by the espresso machine, the two of them cracking up about something. Somehow I didn’t think it was Gina’s murder. At least I hoped it wasn’t anyway.

  I hovered in the wide arched opening between the lobby and the lounge for a minute, wondering if I should go over and interrupt or just let them be. I’d already sucked so much fun out of Matt’s vacation with the whole murder investigation thing that I thought maybe I should just let him enjoy himself for a little longer. Of course, he was supposed to be spending a romantic weekend with me, so maybe going over there was the better option.

  The decision was taken out of my hands when Tommy came out from the swinging door behind the bar, spotted me, and waved in my direction.

  Matt turned around and raised his glass in my direction. “Hey, Franny! Come on over.”

  I smiled awkwardly at the few people scattered around as I crossed over to the bar. “Hey, guys.”

  Matt slid his arm around my waist and pulled me close to him. “How’d it go, Franny? Find out what you wanted to know?”

  I tried to keep myself from going bug-eyed. I pressed my nails into the back of his shoulder. What was he thinking? Other people weren’t supposed to know what I was up to. If they did, the whole investigation could be compromised. But if I let on that I didn’t appreciate him saying that, it could be even more of a tip-off to Tommy and Carrick that I was trying to find out who killed Gina.

  So, I tried to sound as calm and casual as I could and hoped that Matt would catch on. “Yep! Whitney gave me some pamphlets about the art in the hotel and some of the historic rooms.” I smiled at him with a little more intensity in my eyes than usual. “I even went ahead and snuck up to look at the rooms for a minute since I didn’t think you’d be very interested.”

  Matt chuckled. “Good call.”

  “So what have you guys been chatting about? You sounded like you were having a good time when I walked up.”

  A look seemed to pass between the three of them that I didn’t know the meaning of. Were they talking about the murder? About women? The relative merits of different kinds of whiskey? Or maybe what kind of season the Celtics were having? Knowing Matt, it was probably that, even though it wasn’t what I’d sent him in there for.

  “The Sox. These guys are big baseball fans.” Matt nodded approvingly at the two of th
em. “Carrick played college ball, and Tommy had pro scouts coming to watch him pitch back in high school.”

  “I blew my arm out senior year. Never could throw a curve the same way again.” He shook his head sadly.

  I tried to look sympathetic even though I barely understood what any of that meant. Sports weren’t really my thing.

  They went on for a couple more minutes, talking about guys they’d played with who made it or almost made it. I listened politely but was relieved when Matt finally slugged back the last of his drink and stood up. “Well, boys, I better get going. As much as I’ve enjoyed this, I didn’t come here to hang out with you guys.”

  “Charge it to the room?” Tommy asked.

  “Yup.”

  Tommy pushed a slip of paper across the bar to Matt.

  “I gotta say, I love this ‘charge it to the room’ thing,” he said as he scribbled his name.

  “You might not love it when you see the bill at checkout,” I said quietly.

  He winked at me and slid the receipt back to Tommy. “See you guys later.” He put his arm around me and started guiding me across the lounge.

  I was disappointed and maybe even a little frustrated that I had asked him to find out what Tommy and Carrick knew about the murder and he’d apparently spent the whole time talking about sports instead. I knew that probably wasn’t fair in light of the fact that I’d basically co-opted the romantic getaway he’d planned and turned it into a murder mystery weekend instead, but it was how I felt.

  As we turned to go down the hall toward the elevator up to our room, Matt pulled me closer to him. He tipped his head down, and for a second, I thought he was going to kiss me on the temple. But it was better than that.

  “I see why you get caught up in these investigations,” he whispered. “It’s kind of fun.”

  I looked up at him, wondering if he meant what I thought—what I hoped—he did.

  His eyes twinkled. “I found out some stuff I think you and Mike are going to be pretty interested in.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Matt refused to say another word about what he’d learned from Tommy and Carrick until we were alone in our room.

  As soon as we walked in, it was obvious that housekeeping had been in while we were gone. The curtains were wide open, letting the bright spring sunshine pour in. The bed was neatly made with all the pillows fluffed and arranged perfectly.

  The bathroom sparkled. The few cosmetics I’d left out had been moved to the side and arranged neatly. The towels we’d used were gone, and in their place was a massive pile of fresh ones. Apparently, Garrett had passed along my unnecessary request for more towels, and housekeeping had complied enthusiastically. I didn’t think we could have used that many towels if we’d stayed for a week.

  Something else had been dropped off while we were gone too—a huge box of macarons. On top was a notecard with the hotel’s logo. A smile spread across my face as I read it.

  Mlle Francesca,

  Merci beaucoup for letting me show you my kitchen today. It was an honor to share my passion with you. Please enjoy these macarons as a token of my appreciation!

  P.S. Don’t forget to bring the cookbook so I can sign!

  It was signed, of course, Jacques de Gaulle. I tried not to swoon. Not only had the Jacques de Gaulle handwritten me a note and sent me a truly massive box of his macarons, but he had also thanked me—me!—for coming in to see his kitchen. I wondered for a second if I’d somehow accidentally led him to believe I was more important than I was, but no, I was pretty sure I had been clear that baking was something I did on the side and that I was just a fan of him and his work. He was just that lovely and charming.

  I opened the box and took a moment to look at the rainbow assortment then grabbed a yellow-and-pale-pink lemon-lychee one. It was divine.

  “Where did that come from?” Matt asked when he saw it.

  “Jacques de Gaulle,” I murmured, letting the tart citrus flavor roll around my tongue as I lay back on the couch. I held up the note for Matt to read.

  “Wow. Looks like you made a good impression.”

  “I can be very impressive.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled. “I know.”

  He sat down and grabbed a brown chocolate-hazelnut cookie. “So you want to hear what I found out?”

  “I’ve already heard enough about their baseball careers,” I grumbled. Matt had missed out on a prime opportunity to get information about the case. Not that he’d asked to be involved in the first place, but still.

  “You were gone a long time. We had time to talk about other things too.”

  “You did? Like what?”

  He gave me a sly look out of the corner of his eye. “Like murder.” Matt popped the rest of his macaron in his mouth and reached for another, a pink-and-white strawberries and cream. Apparently, his experience wasn’t as rapturous as mine, but then he didn’t tend to feel that way about food.

  I sat straight up. “Yes!”

  “So, apparently it’s like a soap opera around here.”

  I raised my eyebrows as I savored another bite of my lemon-lychee macaron.

  “Everybody’s sleeping with everybody. Everybody’s bickering with someone. Tommy said he can’t keep straight who hates whom on any given week.” He shrugged. “Apparently, that’s just how it is in restaurants and resorts like this. He said there’s management, who tends to more or less stay out of it, and then there are the rest of the staff, who basically act like they’re at summer camp.” He looked thoughtful for a second. “Which I guess they kind of are.”

  It made sense. A bunch of young adults spending long hours working in close proximity were bound to have some drama. That was the premise of half the reality shows on TV.

  Matt chuckled as he reached for yet another macaron. I resisted the urge to slap his hand away and tell him that they were mine and they were for savoring.

  “Apparently, they’ve had an issue lately where someone’s been sneaking into the unoccupied guest rooms and… well, you know.”

  “Really? Shouldn’t they get in trouble for that?” I shouldn’t have been surprised, especially given what he’d just told me, but I was. At least they were using unoccupied rooms though.

  “Big trouble. The hotel manager is supposedly furious. Says he’ll fire them on the spot and blackball them from any of the other hotels in the area. It’s a big deal with the staff. The guy’s been checking all the camera footage and the keycard logs, but whoever it is has some sneaky way to avoid all that stuff. Apparently, he’s been threatening lately to have DNA tests done on everyone to match up with… you know.”

  “Oh wow! And ew! But wow. That’s crazy.” My chewing slowed as I started to put something together in my head. “Oh… oh… oh no.”

  “What?”

  “I just realized—” I told him about what I’d seen upstairs and the couple I’d been eavesdropping on. “I was sure they were talking about getting away with Gina’s murder, but now I realize they were probably just talking about not getting caught sneaking into the empty rooms.”

  Matt thought about it for a second then nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  “That’s so disappointing. Now I don’t have anything to tell Mike.”

  “Well…” He tilted his head and made a face Robert De Niro would have been proud of.

  “What?”

  “It’s not much, but I did get a little bit out of them about the murder.”

  “Really? What?” I didn’t know if it was the sugar from the cookie or excitement, but my hands were shaking.

  “So we were just talking. They were telling me about all the drama behind the scenes and all, and Tommy’s the one who said it’s like a soap opera. Well, somebody’s always dying on soap operas, right?” It was a genuine question, like he thought I watched a lot of soap operas or something.

  I didn’t really have time for them, but my grandmother had made sure she did, especially as she got older and my m
om started taking over in the café. I’d caught more than a few episodes by angling my seat at the kitchen table so I could keep up with the latest goings-on in Port Genoa while I was supposed to be doing my homework. “Dying or fake dying.”

  He looked confused, but I waved my hand. It was too much to explain when I wanted to hear what he’d found out about Gina.

  “Anyway, we were kind of joking around about the soap opera thing and all the drama between the employees, and I asked them if Gina was the kind of girl who was always in the middle of all that.” He stopped like that was the end of the story.

  “And?”

  “Well, that’s what was weird—one of the things that was weird. Carrick said no—she was a nice girl, kept to herself, didn’t get involved in everything—but Tommy basically called her one of the instigators of everything. Said she was always in people’s business. She acted all sweet and innocent, but she was a troublemaker.”

  “So one of them is lying.” The trouble would be figuring out which one. Although, having met both Tommy and Carrick, I was inclined to believe Tommy.

  “Well…” Matt managed to say a lot with just the way he drew out the one-syllable word.

  “Well what?”

  “Well, apparently Carrick hasn’t been here that long. Tommy said he just hadn’t had the chance to see the real Gina yet.”

  “That’s not very helpful.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He reached for another macaron. I would have stopped him, but I wanted to see what he thought of a lavender-sage combination.

  Not much, apparently. His lip curled as soon as he tasted it, but the bite of cookie was already in his mouth. He looked around unsuccessfully for a napkin.

  “You know, if you’d just swallowed it, it would have been out of your mouth already.” I was amused but didn’t want him to suffer. I also didn’t want him to throw away the rest of the macaron. It definitely sounded like a weird flavor combination, but I wanted to try it, especially after seeing his reaction.

  He cringed but swallowed. “It tastes like dusty soap!”