nothing. Got it?”
He huffed out some air. “Honestly, Tucker, was that little lecture really necessary? I’ve worked for Charley for almost six months now. I know what I’m doing.”
I could only hope that was true.
When I got to Nectar, I parked in the alley and went inside. The retail store was packed with customers, more so than usual. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe murder and chocolate did mix.
The decor in the shop was done in the rich autumnal colors of gold, cinnabar, carnelian, and bronze. On the wall was a framed drawing of chocolate molds reproduced from the pages of a 1907 Parisian catalog for professional chocolate makers. There was also an oil painting of a cacao plant growing in the jungles of Central America and a reprint of an 1885 poster Helen had purchased at the chocolate museum in Brule. It was a copy of an original advertisement from her great-grandfather’s chocolate shop, which had once been located in the Grand Place in Brussels. Helen had done a masterful job of combining elements of European and Central American cultures to create a place that made you want to kick off your shoes and stay awhile.
Kathy seemed overwhelmed by the crowd of customers, so I grabbed an apron and got behind the counter. Before Nectar, I hadn’t been much of a chocolate eater, but Helen was educating me. I now knew that the cacao tree rarely survived outside an area twenty degrees north and twenty degrees south of the equator, and its large pods sprouted from the trunk of the tree as well as from its branches. I’d learned that white chocolate wasn’t chocolate at all. Real chocolate had both cocoa butter and cacao solids. White chocolate contained no cacao particles, which was why it didn’t taste or look like the real thing. Helen used only the finest chocolate in her recipes, claiming it required less sugar. She also used a higher percent of cacao, at least 65 or more. You didn’t have to be an expert to taste the difference between grocery store chocolate and Helen’s rich, dense, somewhat bitter, and decidedly orgasmic creations. I hadn’t become a chocoholic yet, but I was moving in that direction.
Just as we were gaining control over the crowd of customers, a woman in a blond wig and a pink Chanel suit stormed through the front door. She looked to be in her seventies, but it was hard to tell because of all the work she’d had done by some plastic surgeon who didn’t know when to say no. She used her Fendi handbag as a battering ram and shoved her way to the front of the line. Her rudeness prompted a chorus of angry outcries from her fellow customers.
“I’m late for a doctor’s appointment,” she said with a haughty edge to her voice. “Give me six apricot truffles and six bourbon balls. I want them in the gold box with a red ribbon. And give me a gift card.”
In her rush to be served, the woman pushed aside a stocky man wearing a navy blue suit. His white shirt was starched to perfection and stood in stark contrast to his dark skin. He was probably in his sixties but he seemed older, almost prehistoric, like a pre-Columbian stone god in the jungles of Belize. The man seemed unfazed by the brouhaha. His expression was placid, almost meditative. He held up his hand to address the crowd, exposing fingers stained brown by nicotine.
“Pardon,” he said, trilling the “r” like a Latin lover. “A woman in a hurry is a dangerous thing. Wouldn’t you agree? To save us all, I will allow this lady to take my place in line.”
As Kathy hurried to put the woman’s chocolates in a box, the man strolled to the back of the store. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him studying the pictures on the wall and waiting patiently.
A moment later, a black SUV pulled up to the curb in front of the store. A mountain of a man, dressed head to toe in black, exited the driver’s seat and walked around to open the rear door. Everything about him screamed bodyguard .
A young woman stumbled out of the car
He huffed out some air. “Honestly, Tucker, was that little lecture really necessary? I’ve worked for Charley for almost six months now. I know what I’m doing.”
I could only hope that was true.
When I got to Nectar, I parked in the alley and went inside. The retail store was packed with customers, more so than usual. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe murder and chocolate did mix.
The decor in the shop was done in the rich autumnal colors of gold, cinnabar, carnelian, and bronze. On the wall was a framed drawing of chocolate molds reproduced from the pages of a 1907 Parisian catalog for professional chocolate makers. There was also an oil painting of a cacao plant growing in the jungles of Central America and a reprint of an 1885 poster Helen had purchased at the chocolate museum in Brule. It was a copy of an original advertisement from her great-grandfather’s chocolate shop, which had once been located in the Grand Place in Brussels. Helen had done a masterful job of combining elements of European and Central American cultures to create a place that made you want to kick off your shoes and stay awhile.
Kathy seemed overwhelmed by the crowd of customers, so I grabbed an apron and got behind the counter. Before Nectar, I hadn’t been much of a chocolate eater, but Helen was educating me. I now knew that the cacao tree rarely survived outside an area twenty degrees north and twenty degrees south of the equator, and its large pods sprouted from the trunk of the tree as well as from its branches. I’d learned that white chocolate wasn’t chocolate at all. Real chocolate had both cocoa butter and cacao solids. White chocolate contained no cacao particles, which was why it didn’t taste or look like the real thing. Helen used only the finest chocolate in her recipes, claiming it required less sugar. She also used a higher percent of cacao, at least 65 or more. You didn’t have to be an expert to taste the difference between grocery store chocolate and Helen’s rich, dense, somewhat bitter, and decidedly orgasmic creations. I hadn’t become a chocoholic yet, but I was moving in that direction.
Just as we were gaining control over the crowd of customers, a woman in a blond wig and a pink Chanel suit stormed through the front door. She looked to be in her seventies, but it was hard to tell because of all the work she’d had done by some plastic surgeon who didn’t know when to say no. She used her Fendi handbag as a battering ram and shoved her way to the front of the line. Her rudeness prompted a chorus of angry outcries from her fellow customers.
“I’m late for a doctor’s appointment,” she said with a haughty edge to her voice. “Give me six apricot truffles and six bourbon balls. I want them in the gold box with a red ribbon. And give me a gift card.”
In her rush to be served, the woman pushed aside a stocky man wearing a navy blue suit. His white shirt was starched to perfection and stood in stark contrast to his dark skin. He was probably in his sixties but he seemed older, almost prehistoric, like a pre-Columbian stone god in the jungles of Belize. The man seemed unfazed by the brouhaha. His expression was placid, almost meditative. He held up his hand to address the crowd, exposing fingers stained brown by nicotine.
“Pardon,” he said, trilling the “r” like a Latin lover. “A woman in a hurry is a dangerous thing. Wouldn’t you agree? To save us all, I will allow this lady to take my place in line.”
As Kathy hurried to put the woman’s chocolates in a box, the man strolled to the back of the store. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him studying the pictures on the wall and waiting patiently.
A moment later, a black SUV pulled up to the curb in front of the store. A mountain of a man, dressed head to toe in black, exited the driver’s seat and walked around to open the rear door. Everything about him screamed bodyguard .
A young woman stumbled out of the car
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