Franco leaned close. “You told me about the stunt at the hotel yesterday, about the guy with extreme sideburns and the blond chick in black. Was there anyone else involved?”
“No. Why? You have someone else in mind?”
“How about an older dude? Tall and lean, silver hair, sharp blue eyes. Smartly dressed with a bone-white scar on a ruddy face.”
I shook my head again.
“Funny, because the guy I just described was hanging around outside the Blend when I got there this morning, and just now I saw him back here in the Javits lobby.”
I whirled. “Where?”
“He’s gone now. Back outside.” Franco turned me back around. “Not interested in paying the admission, I guess.”
“Do you think he was following me?”
“Well, he wasn’t following me.”
“There was an older man in the Blend yesterday,” I said. “He called himself ‘Bob,’ said he was a former customer, and asked questions about Madame. Then he abruptly disappeared.”
“Did he look like I described?”
“Was that scar nasty looking? Running down his cheek, over his chin, toward his throat?”
“That’s him.” Franco caught my alarm. “Take it easy, Clare.”
“You don’t understand. Mike told me he’s looking into a cold case—one that involved the Village Blend and the murder of a police officer. So any ‘former customer’ around Scarface’s age, who also happens to be stalking me, is going to make me plenty paranoid.”
Franco scowled. “If that guy is shadowing you, he’ll be lurking outside when we leave. I’ll introduce myself—” He fingered the gold shield hanging around his neck. “Persuade him to tell me what he wants with you...”
“Yodel-AAY-eee-OOOH!”
The sudden Alpine cry made me jump, and I wasn’t the only one. Given what we were discussing, Franco was so startled he reached into his jacket to touch the butt of his gun.
“Yodel-AYYY-eee-OHHH! Swiss Alpine Village TREE-EETS!”
The crowd parted for a chubby young yodeler wearing Lederhosen and a feathered hiking cap over blond curls. The two pig-tailed women flanking him wore dirndl dresses straight from the Bavarian Alps. Each Fräulein carried woven baskets filled with chocolate-covered treats.
“Petits fours?” one asked Franco.
“Danke schön there, Gretel.” He popped a square into his mouth and smiled politely. “Yummy.”
“Come on,” I said, tugging his leather jacket, and we started walking—until I saw the black banner, red swath, and fine gold lettering of Valrhona Chocolat.
As my steps slowed, the cinnamon stick of a man in brown formalwear approached me (probably because he saw me staring with rapt wonder).
“My name is Christof, mademoiselle, and it would please me if you would sample our Grand Cru chocolates.”
“Oh, if you insist,” I said.
The man’s young assistant lifted a shiny black box containing a dozen dark squares resting on red velvet and tiny doilies of gold paper. Using delicate gold-plated serving tongs, Christof lifted a perfect, shiny square.
“We were the first house to pioneer Grand Cru chocolates,” he said. “Indeed, our mission is to enflame a passion for premium chocolates with origins and taste profiles as complex as fine wines.”
“Or fine coffees,” I noted.
“But of course!” Christof’s head bobbed in complete agreement, then he turned with slight hesitation to my shaved-headed, leather-clad companion. “And one for you, monsieur?”
“Merci. Il semble délicieux,” Franco replied.
Christof’s smile widened. “Oh yes, they are delicious!”
I might have taken a bite of my Grand Cru square if I hadn’t been gawking at Dirty Harry speaking careful French. The detective smiled at me.
“J’ai vécu dans un quartier haïtien,” he explained.
“You grew up in a Haitian neighborhood?”
Franco nodded. “Brooklyn is a country all its own.”
“Ah, yes. That would explain your accent,” Christof noted, then turned back to me. “You are about to sample Guanaja, by the way, a chocolate of Honduran origin, seventy percent cacao and dark as sin.” He winked.
My other four senses went on hold as the fragrant square melted like dark, sweet butter over my tongue, blocking out the noise, the bright convention-hall lights, and pretty much all reason for living except to chew and swallow. When my wits returned from their transcendent food trance, Christof was gone.
“Seventy percent cocoa?” Franco said. “Tastes like all chocolate to me.”
“When a chocolate has seventy percent cocoa content, it simply means seventy percent of that bar is chocolate, the rest are other ingredients like sugar, milk, flavorings, and additives.”
“There can’t be much sugar in this,” Franco said, making a face. “Tastes a little bitter, but good bitter, like a dark beer.”
“Exactly. More cocoa equals less sugar—and more complex flavor. Stout beers have chocolaty flavor notes, just like some of our coffees, and they’re pretty heady together, too. You should taste my Mocha Cake with Chocolate Guinness Glaze. Mike loves it.”
“Coffee, chocolate, and Irish stout in one bite? Sounds like a party in my mouth...” He finished off the dark square. “This is definitely more potent than the stuff I grab at the drugstore counter.”
“That’s because in America, the FDA allows a milk ‘chocolate’ bar to have as little as ten percent cocoa.”
“That’s it?”
“In Europe, a product like that isn’t even allowed to be labeled chocolate.”
“Yeah, well... as interesting as the dark stuff is, I wouldn’t want a steady diet of it. I mean, chocolate needs milk and sugar.”
“That’s how you feel about coffee, too.”
“Hey, c’mon, don’t you think a guy like me needs something light and sweet to balance out the dark?”
“You wouldn’t be talking about more than chocolate and coffee, would you, Detective?”
“Believe me, Coffee Lady, the darkness we see on this job makes you cherish light wherever you find it.”
I stopped and stared. “You know, that’s sort of profound.”
“Yeah, it is. But they’re not my words. I was quoting somebody.”
“Thomas Edison?”
“Mike Quinn.”
Franco smiled at the slightly stunned look on my face. “Why so surprised?”
“I don’t know... I shouldn’t be I guess. Mike’s favorite Blend drink is a sweet latte.”
“C’mon now, Clare, you know he wasn’t talking about coffee.”
“No?”
“No.” Franco studied me. “So, when are you two tying the knot, anyway?”
Oh brother. “Did Joy put you up to asking me that?”
“No.”
“Mike?”
“No.” He shrugged his leather-covered shoulders. “I just wondered...”
“Well, we’re not getting hitched today, okay? So give me a second here...” I waved the guide. “We’re in the right aisle, but I need a booth number...”
When I looked up again, I found Franco flirting with a young brunette dressed as a canary-yellow box of Milk Duds.
“Oh, sure, Milk Duds are chewy,” Franco was saying as one hand raided her sample bag. “But I love the Dud because it’s just like me. It’s sweet, has a surprisingly soft heart, and lasts a long, long time.”
The perky girl-in-a-box giggled, letting him help himself to her goodies. I wandered over.
“I see you’ve gotten over your disappointment at missing Joy.”
Franco grinned. “A little harmless flirting goes a long way on this job, Coffee Lady. You like Duds?”
“No. Never did.”
He popped a few more into his mouth.
“At least you’re enjoying yourself now,” I said.
“Free Duds are like rainbows and lollipops.”
“Childhood memories, huh? Like Proust’s madeleine?”
“Corner candy store. Owner’s daughter ran the counter. She was almost as incredible as your daughter. Her name wasn’t Madeline, though. It was Maria.” He sighed. “Her Duds were always fresh.”