Dangerously Dark, page 7
That was the moment I recognized the pun in his name.
Austin Martin was pretty close to Aston Martin! My mom would have loved knowing I’d met someone with almost the same name as one of her favorite cars. She’s crazy about all things British, anyway, but she’s also a big auto buff. I can’t tell you how many international auto museums exist in the world. (Too many, that’s how many, and I’ve toured them all.) That’s how I know that James Bond drove an Aston Martin DB5 in Goldfinger.
But as a person with an unusual triple moniker myself, I wasn’t about to give Austin a hard time about his name. I didn’t intend to try to be “funny” about it, either. I’ve been on the other side of that scenario. (And no, I’m not telling you the top ten “jokes” I’ve heard while people were riffing on Hayden.)
Seriously, stop trying to come up with one. I can guarantee you, someone has already beaten you to it.
“Sorry about that, Austin.” I stepped back and invited him inside, trying not to jostle my painful head. “I’m not at my best this morning, I’m afraid. It was a tough day yesterday.”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m here.” He moved past me, then turned. His owlish face was solemn. I couldn’t help being comforted by his sympathetic demeanor. “I heard you left Muddle + Spade sort of abruptly yesterday. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I’m possibly poisoned. “Don’t I look okay?”
“Well . . .” Austin scrutinized me. For an insultingly long time. I might have been hypothetically dosed to death, but I didn’t like thinking I looked bad. “You look kinda hungover, actually.”
Humph. I scoured the neighborhood outside my front door with a suspicious glance. All I saw were newly leafed green trees, similar foursquare houses, sidewalks, and parked cars.
I shut the door. “You could have at least brought me a coffee, then,” I cracked, still feeling shaky. “I could have—”
Used some wake-up assistance. I spied his face and stopped.
Austin looked appalled. “Coffee to go? No way. I wouldn’t do that to you.” He shook his head. “It would be awful. I mean, assuming you wanted a pour over, brewed with the water at two hundred seven degrees Fahrenheit, you’d still get subpar results once wetting, dissolution, and diffusion took place. That’s for a medium to light roast, too. With a dark roast coming in at ten degrees cooler, you’re talking about . . .” He caught my expression and weakly trailed off. “. . . a major loss of flavor after transport had taken place.”
I smiled. “Sorry. I forgot I was in a serious coffee town.” To Portlanders, java was a beverage, a hobby, a way of life. It made sense, given the drizzle. “Anyway, what I’ve got feels worse than a hangover,” I confided. “I think I might have been—” Poisoned. I stopped. “Hey, how did you know where to find me?”
I certainly hadn’t given Austin my address yesterday. As a woman traveling alone, I tended to be cautious with that intel.
“Your address was on Cartorama’s group page. Online.” Austin described the social-networking site all the vendors used to keep in touch and arrange special events, something started by Janel for the Save Cartorama movement. “Carissa told us you don’t drive much. We thought we might need to take turns picking you up and dropping you off, so—” He broke off, belatedly catching sight of my face. “Don’t worry. It’s private.”
I didn’t feel reassured. Everyone at Cartorama had access to my temporary local address? “That needs to come down.”
“I’ll ask Janel to do it. She’s the one who maintains the site for us, along with Cartorama’s Instagram, Facebook page, and Twitter feed.” Austin gestured to the sofa. “Maybe you should chill for a sec. You look a little unsteady.”
He gently helped me to the sofa, then tucked me onto the cushions with the cable-knit throw, generously if not adroitly. I couldn’t help thinking that of all the Cartorama vendors who might have come to check up on me today, Austin was my favorite.
Danny would have said I was being gullible. I knew I wasn’t. I decided to try out a quasi interrogation, to be sure.
But first . . . “You look a little unsteady yourself, Austin.” I studied his beanie-wearing self with concern. “Are you okay?”
His face twisted. I thought he might be about to cry.
I hoped not. I wanted to maintain some distance from him and the others at Cartorama. If I was going to investigate things—and I increasingly thought I might be, since I appeared to have been targeted, too—I had to be impartial. I couldn’t be misled by Austin’s teddy bear demeanor and red-rimmed eyes.
“I just spent the morning notifying everyone about Declan, that’s all.” Austin’s voice was hoarse with emotion. “I’ve got to say, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”
Distractedly, he lowered himself onto the sofa beside me, then stared at the unlit fireplace, probably looking for a diversion from his gloomy feelings. He let his gaze travel along my armchairs, then meander to the kitchen and stairway.
Danny would have said he was casing the place. Maybe for an attack later. I scoffed inwardly and gave Austin a pat on the knee. “I’m sorry. At least you got through it, right?”
He sniffled and nodded, making his beanie shake.
“Shouldn’t Carissa have done that, though?” I didn’t want to be insensitive, but I couldn’t help wondering about it. “I mean, Declan’s family was going to be her family, too. It would only make sense for her to have made those phone calls.”
Poor Carissa. What awful calls they’d have been, too.
“Oh, they weren’t phone calls. They were posts. On a different private message board. A couple of texts, too.”
Okay, me getting an Evite for this weekend was one thing. Austin notifying Declan’s next of kin via kilobyte was something else again. “You texted Declan’s family about his death?”
“No.” Austin scoffed. He smiled, shaking his head. “I told his gamer group. Well, my gamer group. Declan doesn’t play much anymore. But everyone really liked him. They were pretty upset.”
I was still confused. “I can imagine.”
“That’s how I met Declan. We were both big into online gaming.” Austin reminisced about the various games they’d played. “Declan came to town for Comic Con Portland last year. We had a real-world meetup with some of the other players. I took everyone over to Cartorama, Declan met Carissa, and . . .”
Austin trailed off, his expression turning distant—and bitter, too. I was reminded of his guilty look from yesterday.
I’d never met anyone as outwardly guileless as Austin before, though. I didn’t think he could keep a secret for long.
“And?” I prompted, watching him for clues.
He blinked. “And the rest was history. Declan moved to Portland, started seeing Carissa, and started making chocolate.”
“Making chocolate? I thought Declan’s thing was the tour.”
“Chocolate After Dark? Yeah. It is now,” Austin confirmed, “but first he tried the whole bean-to-bar routine. He lucked into a big hit with his first candy bar—kind of a bacon-y take on a Snickers. Lots of local places stocked it. He made a bunch of connections. He was a big-time wunderkind for a while there.”
That explained how Declan knew enough about the area and its chocolatiers to launch a culinary tour of his own.
“How did he go from bacon-y boy wonder to tour guide?”
“He couldn’t cut it as a chocolatier. Even Carissa had Declan whipped when it came to the science of it all.”
I couldn’t miss Austin’s mildly dismissive tone. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little gratified to have my own skepticism of my friend’s newfound scientific expertise confirmed. Especially by someone like Austin, who would know.
“But Carissa developed all the equipment necessary to freeze her ice cream at Churn PDX herself,” I protested with an inner bat of my eyelashes. I don’t like playing dumb, but sometimes it’s useful. “Wouldn’t that take a lot of brainpower?”
“Technically, yes,” Austin said. “But the rumor going around Cartorama is that Declan designed that equipment for her.”
“Really?” I breathed, gawking at him. “Declan did it?”
Carissa would have flipped her lid to hear Austin say so.
It would explain a lot, though—the disconnect between the (self-admitted) airhead I’d known at university and the smarty-pants I’d hugged hello just twenty-four hours ago, for one thing. But it would also make it less likely that Declan would make a mistake while refilling Carissa’s liquid nitrogen tanks yesterday, which was the current explanation for why he’d been in her trailer. If he’d designed the valves and ventilation, he would have known how to use all of them safely, wouldn’t he?
“I’m pretty sure Declan started the rumor,” Austin added.
“Oh.” I frowned. “Wow. Carissa would have hated that.”
“Yeah. Declan could be kind of a dick to her sometimes.”
“That doesn’t sound like a devoted friend talking.”
“Well, he could be a tremendous dick to me sometimes.” Austin gave a sarcastic grin. I was reminded he wasn’t all flannel-and-bearded good humor. “That’s just the way he was.”
So far, Declan Murphy didn’t sound like the most stand-up guy. I mean, I was sorry he was dead. But he’d slept with Janel and broken her heart, started a rumor that disparaged his own fiancée’s intelligence, and maybe cheated on Carissa. He was no prince, it seemed. Yet everyone had liked him. Why?
“You’d think remembering Declan’s shittier qualities would make me miss him less, wouldn’t you?” Austin grumbled, choking on a laugh. He wiped his watery eyes with the heel of his hand. “But the funny thing is, I miss that bastard. I really do.”
“Aw. Of course you do.” I patted his knee again.
He realized what I was doing and shifted subtly on the sofa, very much the way I’d done when Tomasz had pressed his thigh against mine yesterday in our booth at Muddle + Spade. It seemed evident to me that Austin was keeping his distance.
But why? Did he have a girlfriend he was devoted to?
He sucked in a huge breath, then shook his head. His smile broadened, enlivening his shaggy-hair-framed face. “The funny thing is, I came here to make sure you were okay. Now I’m not.”
“There’s no telling how grief will affect you,” I assured him, wishing I weren’t speaking from experience. “It’ll take some time. Declan didn’t have to be perfect to be lovable, you know.”
Austin snorted. “Declan wasn’t perfect. Not by a long shot. But he liked all the same things I did. Gaming. Tacos de lengua. Vinyl record stores. Coffee. Nintendocore.” He noticed my baffled look and explained. “It’s metal music influenced by video game soundtracks. It’s kind of obscure. But Declan got it.”
I remembered Janel similarly reciting a list of the things she and Declan had had in common. It had been vastly different.
After all, it didn’t get much less vegetarian than tacos de lengua. Who was Declan Murphy, anyway?
“Well, he did move here to Portland, right? So you two—”
“He didn’t do that for me.” Austin held up his hand. “That was all for Carissa. Declan left some cushy job in Seattle real estate to do it, too. The market is totally booming there now.”
Warning bells clanged in my head. Declan had worked in real estate? Just like the developers pursuing Cartorama’s land?
“Or maybe it was a tech company he worked at,” Austin amended, frowning. “I can’t remember for sure now.” He gave me an abashed look. “Most of our conversations centered on gaming.”
Oh, well, so much for that brilliant theory of mine.
“At least they did until Declan got ‘too busy’ to keep up his end of things.” Austin made air quotes with his fingers. “I think he just didn’t want anyone here to know he was a gamer.”
I felt bad for him. “That must have hurt your feelings.”
Austin chuckled, surprising me. “Nah, dude. I mean, I appreciate you jumping in to defend the honor of the nerd herd yesterday, but I get it. Declan wanted to impress Carissa. If I’d had a shot with her, I would have done the same thing.”
I appreciated his honesty. In my experience, it’s too rare.
“Actually, I did have a shot with her,” Austin mused, “but all I got out of it was a chance to troubleshoot her equipment.”
I grinned. “If that’s some kind of double entendre—”
His laughter was heartening. “It’s not. I mean I’m the one who designed Carissa’s liquid nitrogen equipment for her. The software component, at least. There were a lot of late nights spent debugging that thing. If it was going to happen with us . . .”
“. . . it would have.” I understood. “But you have someone now?”
Austin angled his head, confused. “Nope. Why?”
“Oh . . .” I remembered the way he’d deliberately avoided my (innocent) hand on his knee, but decided not to pursue it. “I just thought you would. You know, a nice guy like you.”
“Don’t you know? Nice guys never finish first.” With his hands on his knees, Austin pushed upward. “So you’re okay, then? No lasting effects from yesterday’s debauchery?”
Belatedly, I remembered his reason for coming over. I’d been so busy talking with him, I hadn’t thought about my (alleged) poisoning symptoms for several minutes. “You know, I think I’ll be fine, actually.” I was relieved to realize it.
“Good. Then I’ll leave you to it. I need to get down to Muddle + Spade. It’s getting pretty late.” He trod toward the front door. “Next time,” he warned, winking, “take it easy.”
I followed him to the front door, still chatting away. I get that way sometimes. A respite from death makes me talkative.
“Hey! I only drank a few beers.” And they destroyed me.
“Oh yeah? What did you try? Berk has some good IPAs and stouts on tap, plus some limited-edition hard ciders and perrys.”
“Chocolate porter. It was good, but it packed a wallop.”
“Ah, that explains it.” Austin grinned at me. “At Berk’s place, chocolate porter isn’t just beer brewed with cacao nibs added to the mash. It’s porter plus added chocolate liqueur.”
That explained it. I’d essentially been downing two-for-one drinks yesterday. I was far too much of a lightweight for that.
It was possible that I’d gotten carried away with my murder theory. Most likely, no one in the Rose City was after me.
At the door, Austin stopped. “Just so you don’t worry about it, Carissa’s parents were going to contact Declan’s family.”
Tardily remembering our exchange about that earlier, I angled my head inquiringly. “Really? How do you know?”
“They told me. We’ve been in touch. I’m the one who called them yesterday.” Austin looked away, seemingly absorbed in the homey, hand-wrought details of my entryway. I was onto his distraction technique, though. I figured he was upset. “You know,” he said, “so they could be there to meet Carissa.”
After Declan’s body was brought to the morgue. Neither of us wanted to say it. It was too horrible to contemplate.
“I’m the one who called the ambulance, too.” Austin lifted his chin. “I was right next door. I heard Carissa’s scream.”
Our gazes met in what I imagined was mutual sympathy.
Of course it was mutual sympathy. Otherwise, I’d be suggesting that cuddly Austin was some kind of gentle sociopath.
“It’s a good thing you did,” I told him.
But I couldn’t help thinking, as I showed Austin out the door and watched him galumph good-naturedly down the steps, that that’s exactly what someone would have done if they’d known that Declan was already dead—known that Carissa would be screaming after finding his lifeless body. Otherwise, wouldn’t Austin have come to find out what was wrong first, before calling for help?
Something about Austin’s story didn’t jibe. If Declan had really been murdered yesterday, I contemplated as I waved good-bye to Austin, there weren’t only real-estate developers and landlords to consider. There were also fellow Cartoramians, too.
Like Tomasz Berk. Janel White. And Austin Martin.
I shivered and shut the door; then I went to track down my rental car. Austin had offered to give me a ride, but after everything that had happened, I’d decided it was safer to call a cab rather than hop into a car with a (relative) stranger.
This day wasn’t going to start itself. Neither was my makeshift stint as a Bridgetown chocolate-tour guide. I had to get all the details about Declan’s tour—and maybe call Travis again, too. I couldn’t quite recall what I’d said to him when I’d drunk-dialed him yesterday.
Knowing me, it might have been a doozy.
Five
Remember how I wondered what I might have tipsily said to Travis? (Besides a pseudosultry “What are you wearing?”, my standard greeting for him?) Well, even as I exited the cab I’d taken to Cartorama, paid the driver, and strode into the middle of the cart pod, I still didn’t know. For once, Travis had been “unavailable” to take my call. It was unprecedented.
Concerned over the way that both of my go-to guys seemed to be dodging me at the moment, I shrugged into my jacket and looked around. None of the carts were open. That was odd. After yesterday, someone at least should have been here setting up.
Maybe everyone had decided to stay closed today, out of respect for Declan? But I doubted any of the vendors could afford that kind of sentimentality. Their carts were popular, sure—but they were hardly deluxe. A few of them were basically held together with duct tape and determination. Their entrepreneur owners spent their limited resources on things that were more important than aesthetics, like scrumptious triple-chocolate cookies and down-home chocolate cream pie.
Finding myself alone amid the unopened carts, I frowned in confusion. My rental car was right where I’d left it parked on the street, but nothing else was as I expected it to be.
It was hard not to feel spooked. Sure, there was still construction going on in the distance—heavy equipment beeping as it backed up and workers shouting while clanking things—but here at Cartorama, all was silent. Eerily silent. Even the birds were quiet, leaving only the sound of wind to ruffle the trees.
