In Zero Dark Chocolate, the fifth book in the series, Miranda and Parker end up in Paris, no less. But this is no vacation. They are in for one harrowing time. Especially with Miranda wondering what Parker knows about those mysterious text messages she's been getting.
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Zero Dark Chocolate (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) #5
Fulfilling your destiny…one killer at a time.
Paris. The City of Lights. The City of Love.
Not to mention the food. Gourmet dining. Fine
wines. Exquisite French pastries. Especially the ones covered in dark
chocolate and crafted by the best chefs in the city.
Chapter One
How
could anything bad happen on such a perfect day?
Joan
Becker stepped out of the glass doors of Le
Gastronomique Divine in the city’s fifteenth arrondissement, into the quaint little French back street, and
breathed in the foreign-smelling air.
Paris.
She’d
been in the city three whole days and still couldn’t believe she was really
here.
With
the smile that must have now been permanently plastered on her face and the luscious
taste of the chocolate and fresh raspberries from her cooking class still on
her tongue, she headed for the corner.
The
dessert she and the other students had prepared today had reminded her of her
own Chocolate Raspberry Delight, the
entry in the Summer Dessert Contest back home that had won her
this week of chocolatier
and patisserie classes at the famous cooking school.
Today’s
lesson had been even more challenging than the two previous days.
An individual-sized yellow
cake with a cream cheese filling topped by a dark chocolate ganache and
garnished with the raspberries the students had selected that very morning from
the open air market.
Their
teacher, Chef Emile, had patiently demonstrated how to make the dish while
everyone took notes. Then there was a tasting and finally, they each had to
reproduce the dessert.
An
elderly gentleman, Monsieur Emile was
so tall, he towered over his students, especially in his mile high chef’s hat.
With his long arms and dramatic gestures he could be a little frightening.
But
Joan thought his pale blue eyes were kind. She liked the way he quoted some of
his father’s sayings, such as Le
secret est dans la recette. “The secret is in the recipe.”
And
besides, he’d taken a liking to her.
Today when
he’d tasted her creation he declared it the best of all. Her layers were even.
Her flavors were wonderful. He’d even pointed out the artistry of her raspberry
drizzle over the concoction and given her a sly wink.
“Parfait!” he had exclaimed, waving a
hand in the air.
The
others in the class had seemed a little jealous.
Still
dizzy from the compliment, Joan made her way down the bustling Paris street, through
the pedestrians and bicyclists on the sidewalk and climbed aboard a waiting bus.
Rather
than the Metro, she liked taking the bus back to the hotel because she preferred
seeing the sights above ground.
She’d
learned it was considered impolite to smile at strangers on public
transportation here so she ignored the grumpy looking man with a beard and a
beret beside her and instead grinned out the window at the passing
architecture.
The
five- and six-story structures of cream and ivory facades with their fanciful
rooftops, charming rounded balconies and delicate iron railings seemed to smile
back at her. They were centuries old. Had been here when carriages rolled down
this avenue, maybe since Marie Antoinette lost her head. Maybe she’d do a
replica of one in white chocolate for her final project.
There
were tons of food places along this street. On every street she’d been to,
really. Bistros, brasseries and boulangeries. Patisseries and chocolatiers and cafés.
She
wondered what it would be like to live here, maybe open her own place and make
wares to rival her neighbors. Would be a tough gig, here in the gastronomical
capital of Europe. Plus she had her own catering service back in Atlanta.
And there
was her honey bun, who was waiting for her back at the hotel.
Dave
liked to wander the nearby shops and do some sight-seeing while she was in
class. But when she got home, all bets were off. After all, it was a second
honeymoon and they were about to celebrate their first wedding anniversary.
Her
smile deepened as she thought of his adorably homely face over strong coffee
and fresh baked croissants this morning. With a sly look, Dave had promised her
a surprise when she got home.
She
wondered what it was.
It
didn’t matter. She loved everything about Paris and everything about Dave. He’d
been her childhood sweetheart. She still had to pinch herself at all the
wonderful things that were coming true for her.
Little
Joan Fanuzzi from Brooklyn in the City of Lights and romance with the love of
her life.
She’d
always thought of herself as a tough cookie. Life had dealt her some hard
knocks. But she’d survived and now…Yes, right now life was just about perfect.
Or as Chef Emile would say, “Parfait.”
She giggled
to herself as she got off the bus at her exit.
She
was humming as she rode up the hotel’s quaint little elevator and nearly danced
down the hall once it stopped. She couldn’t wait to see what Dave had gotten
her.
She
put the old-fashioned key in the door and turned it.
“Honey,
I’m home,” she sang out in her most seductive voice.
No
answer. That was weird.
“Snookums,
guess what Chef Emile said today?” She stepped inside and locked the door
behind her. The room was empty. The bed neatly made.
It was
a small room done in plain brown and beige with a wide angle photo of the Arc
de Triomphe along the wall. Everything looked clean and tidy, as if no one had
been here since the maid. But that couldn’t be right.
She
crossed the floor to the tiny balcony and peeked through the lightweight curtains.
No Dave there. Just the pretty wrought iron railing and the city landscape with
a smidgen of the Eiffel Tower in the distance.
She
turned around. Was he in the bathroom?
She
scampered over to the old wooden door and knocked. Was the surprise a bubble
bath in that old fashioned clawfoot tub? That would be romantic.
“Dave?
You in there?”
Silence.
This
was getting ridiculous. She opened the door. “Ready or not, here I come.”
But
there was nothing inside but the checkerboard floor, the sink, the tub, the small
shower stall that looked like a modern afterthought to the décor.
Fresh
soap and towels neatly arranged on the vanity. Here, too, it looked like the
maid had just left. Everything clean and dry.
What
the Sam Hill?
She
stomped back to the bed and flopped down on the mattress, pulling out her cell
phone. Least he could do was leave a message. But she’d had her phone off all
morning for the lesson.
She
turned it on and checked.
Nothing.
The last text was from yesterday.
Had he
gone off somewhere? Gotten distracted by some shiny gadget in an electronics
store? Would be just like him, she thought, pressing his number. Dave could be
spacey at times, but he wouldn’t forget his own surprise, would he?
She’d
fuss at him for giving her such a start then forgive him right away.
How
could she not? He was so adorable. And he loved her to distraction. And he was
a great father to her three kids. They’d whined when she told them they had to
stay with her mother during this trip. And then there were those big brown puppy
dog eyes of his.
She
sighed as the phone rang. But then it went to voice mail.
His
familiar voice echoed in her ear. “Uh…hi…yeah. You’ve reached Dave. I’m
probably busy now but leave a message and I’ll get right back. Later.”
“Dave,
it’s me,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I’m done with class and I’m at the
hotel. What’s going on? Call me right away.”
She
dropped the phone in her lap and just sat there staring out the window at the
city beyond. A strange feeling of dread began to steal over her. This just
wasn’t like Dave.
Something
was wrong.
She
picked up the phone again and dialed his number. Maybe he had a bad connection.
Again it went to voice mail. She hung up and went to the desk, shuffled through
the few papers there, looking for a note he might have left her.
There
was none.
She
went back to the bed and sank down onto the mattress. She glared down at the
phone willing it to ring.
But it
didn’t.
Okay,
she thought, nerves and anger getting the best of her. If you’re not coming to me, Dave Becker, I’ll come to you. She got
up, grabbed her purse and headed out the door.
Enough
with the fun and games already. Where the hell was her husband?
