Death of a Chocolate Cheater: A Food Festival Mystery by Penny Pike Page A

to make sure she didn’t see me. “What’s she doing now?”
    “She just chugged the rest of her drink,” Dillon said. “Now she’s setting the glass down on a table . . . and she just snatched another drink off a waiter’s tray. Looks like she’s not one to let her mouth go dry for very long.”
    “You said she’s supposed to be quite the party girl,” I said, not surprised at Dillon’s observation. “Is she talking to anyone else yet?”
    Dillon shook his head, then said, “Wait. . . . She’s heading for another guy. . . . I think it’s Harrison Tofflemire, the Chocolate Falls guru. What did he enter in the contest?”
    I was about to scan the brochure when a woman came up to me holding two empty wineglasses. She wore a long chocolate-brown sheath, slit up the side and embellished with sequins and rhinestones. Her black shoulder-length hair d her face, and she’d emphasized her dark eyes with a heavy layer of eyeliner, making her look even more exotic. Her long nails were painted chocolate brown, and one sported a diamond stud that matched the tiny diamond in her pierced nose. A long silk scarf, light beige and dotted with silk-screened chocolate chips, was draped over her neck.
    I was about to admire her themed scarf when she said, “Why are you two just standing there? You’re supposed to be circulating the drinks and hors d’oeuvres. I didn’t hire you to help yourselves and stare at the guests.”
    My mouth dropped open. Apparently she believed Dillon was one of the waiters, but did she actually think I was part of the serving staff too?
    “I’m sorry, but I’m—,” I started to explain, but Dillon cut me off.
    “Yes, we’re sorry. We’ll get right to it.” He bowed his head subserviently.
    I blinked at Dillon’s response but kept my mouth shut and watched as he took the two glasses from the woman’s hands. She gave us the once-over, then said, “See that you do, or you won’t be working for me again.” With that she turned on her dark brown high heels and returned to the crowd.
    “What a beeotch!” I said. “Who does she think she is?”
    Dillon hushed me. “That’s Reina Patel, the event coordinator. She’s the one who’s running this show, and she can get us kicked out of here if she feels like it. Mom says she’s a bit of a diva. She’s even having the event videotaped to submit to one of those Food Network shows—a kind of behind-the-scenes thing. Starring her, of course. Mom said this is her first year hosting the Chocolate Festival, so she’s probably worried about every little thing.”
    So that was the woman who had called Aunt Abby and told her about George Brown’s death. “Why didn’t you tell her I’m part of the competition? Why did you let her think I was staff?”
    Dillon grinned. “It’s more fun this way. When she realizes we’re both on Mom’s team, she’ll be all flustered and embarrassed. And besides, it might work to our advantage if we act like waiters. No one will notice us, so maybe we’ll hear things. . . .”
    Dillon was always scheming.
    Moments later the videographer appeared from out of nowhere. His digital video camera was focused on Reina, obscuring his face, but from his clothes he looked like a typical college student in jeans and a T-shirt. He followed Reina from a distance of a few feet as she began greeting the various guests.
    I returned to the program to see what Harrison Tofflemire was entering in the contest. “It says here he’s created something called Chocolate Kahlua Falls. Sounds interesting.”
    I studied the man who was currently talking to Polly. He was hefty—dare I say fat—as if he’d beenenjoying many of his own Chocolate Falls over the years. Balding, with glasses, a rosy gin-blossom nose, and pudgy fingers wrapped around the wineglass stem, he looked like a man who’d had success early and then gone to pot. But his less than appealing appearance didn’t seem to stop Polly from fawning all