CHAPTER ONE

I adjusted the Aztec priest and frowned.

Afternoon sunlight painted the black-and-white floor tiles. Black pedestals dotted the room. Displayed on each was a different aspect of The Magic of Chocolate.

I adjusted a gilded cocoa pod on the Chocolate Alchemy pedestal so it leaned against a dusty alchemical beaker.

Normally, the tiny Gallery room in my paranormal museum was filled with quirky local art. This weekend, the San Benedetto Wine and Visitors Bureau was kicking off Wine and Chocolate days. Since the local wineries had the wine side handled, I was going with a chocolate theme at the museum.

And I had no chocolate.

My stomach butterflied, that feeling of nerves and excitement common to the self-employed. This would be okay. I had an amazing if odd museum, with ever-changing exhibits that kept me on my toes. An amazing and definitely-not-odd boyfriend. Plus, amazing friends—Adele and Harper. The chocolate would arrive in time.

“I’ve got it!” Harper hurried into the room, her olive cheeks dusky-rose from exertion.

I wished sweat made me sexy like it did my friend, the Penelope Cruz clone. I could feel the grit clinging to my damp forehead.

Harper carried a picture frame beneath her arm, and my shoulders slumped. For one relieved moment, I’d thought she’d come bearing chocolate. But Harper was a financial planner, not a delivery girl.

“Sorry I’m late.” Chest heaving, she adjusted the lapel of her pinstriped pantsuit. “Am I too late?”

“You’re right on time. I was just finishing up.” Knotting my brown hair into a ponytail, I motioned around the room.

She handed me the ornately framed poster. “You didn’t get it from me,” she said. On the hand-drawn poster was a modern witch’s perspective on chocolate.

“Of course not,” I said. “You were only doing me a favor and picking up a framed …” Spell? Meditation? Whatever it was, the poster looked spooky, written in Harper’s elegant script and bordered by a cabernet-red mat and black frame.

Harper was a secret strega, a classical Italian witch. But she kept that aspect of her life firmly in the broom closet. It didn’t fit her high-powered, financially savvy image.

She shivered, her expression becoming a careful blank.

“Harper?” I asked, suddenly alert.

Slowly, she turned and walked to the pedestal closest to the door to the museum proper. On it, a whisk from Mexico called a molinillo stood upright in a ceramic jar. Used for mixing Mexican hot chocolate, the molinillo was a thing of beauty. Decorative geometric shapes had been whittled into the pale wood and burned black for contrast. A feminine hand had been carved at the top of the spindle. Beside the display, a tent card read: Haunted Molinillo—Rattles When a Lie Is Told.

Circling, Harper bent toward the pedestal and slipped her hands into the pocket of her pinstriped blazer. “What have you got here?”

“A molinillo. I can’t believe I found one that was haunted.”

She glanced from me to the molinillo. “I’ll say.” Abruptly, she straightened. “My name is Adele Nakamoto,” she deadpanned. She stared intently at the display. “Strange. It’s not rattling.”

“That’s because it’s not a very important lie.” I pushed a wisp of hair behind my ear. Was my witchy friend sensing something I hadn’t? “And besides, I know you’re lying. The molinillo doesn’t need to give me a warning.”

Harper arched a brow.

“Okay,” I admitted. “I don’t know why it’s not rattling, but that’s the legend.”

She tugged on her plump bottom lip. “What’s its story?”

“It’s a little vague. My collector—”

“Herb? You’re trusting him after the cursed cowbell incident?”

“In fairness,” I said, “the riot wasn’t his fault.” And Herb wasn’t exactly my collector. He was a paranormal collector who occasionally dropped by the museum peddling his wares. “Anyway, I got lucky. He turned up with a haunted molinillo right when I needed something chocolate-themed.” Which, on reflection, seemed somewhat suspicious. “I’ll change the sign so it’s clear only important lies set off the molinillo.”

Harper pointed to a corner of the Gallery, where I’d arranged a red-velvet canopy above a round table covered in a star-spangled black cloth. “What’s happening there?”

“A fortune-teller’s coming in to do chocolate scrying for customers.” I bounced on my toes. It was going to be awesome. I’d been promoting her all over town. Though it worried me a little that Harper hadn’t seen my flyers and advertisements. I was also a little concerned about melted chocolate being used during the scrying process and the potential for burns. But the fortune-teller had assured me she had it handled. “She’s also promised to read with the chocolate tarot cards,” I said. I’d be giving everyone who bought a ticket to the museum a single chocolate tarot card-of-the-day as a free gift.

“Are the cards actually made of chocolate? Because that sounds sticky.”

Sticky and delicious! “Sadly, no. They’re paper and ink, just chocolate-themed.” As a confirmed cacaophile, chocolate tarot cards were something I could get behind.

Harper turned to the shelves on the wall opposite the windows. Aside from one that was filled with the boxes of tarot and oracle cards, they were empty. “And the empty shelf space?”

I hung her framed offering over a small ebony table between the shelves. “Actual chocolate, if it ever gets here. The delivery man’s late. He was supposed to arrive this morning.”

“Where are you getting the chocolate?”

“From Reign.”

Harper whistled. “That new place? Good stuff. I’ve been giving their chocolate away as thank-yous to my clients.”

I nodded. Reign’s chocolate was expensive and beautiful, but it tasted just okay to me. My favorite was still See’s Candy, a West Coast institution. That I Love Lucy scene with Lucy and Ethel working the chocolate conveyer belt? Filmed at See’s.

“Listen,” Harper said, her expression turning serious. “I’m thinking of—”

“Where is it?” Our friend Adele Nakamoto, chic in a slim, ice-blue skirt and ivory blouse beneath her Fox and Fennel apron, bustled into the Gallery. She looked around wildly. “Is it here?”

Harper pointed to the black frame.

Adele tossed her head and a wisp of ebony hair floated free from her chignon. “That’s not chocolate. Where’s the chocolate?”

Uh oh. “It hasn’t arrived yet,” I said, fighting a reflexive cringe.

She planted her fists on her slim hips. “But I need it now. Twenty retirees are going to arrive in my tea room in fifteen minutes, and they expect Reign chocolate.” Adele’s tea room, the Fox and Fennel, was conveniently located right next door to the museum. “Plus, Allie is out sick, and our main oven stopped working this morning. I’ve already had to cancel my appointment with the caterer. This week has been a disaster. Even Pug has a cold.”

“Oh no,” I said, frowning. Adele’s pug was sweet as a sugar cube—I cut a glance at GD—unlike some animals I knew. The black cat sneezed, turned, and sauntered into the main room.

“You’ve hired a caterer for your own tea room?” Harper asked.

“No, for the wedding!” Adele paced, her apron strings flying out behind her. “Dieter and I are getting married in three months,” she wailed, “and we haven’t even finalized the menu.”

Easygoing Dieter Finkielkraut and uptight Adele Nakamoto seemed an unlikely couple at first glance. But I believed they had what it took. Unfortunately, Adele was caught in the iron grip of the bridal-industrial complex.

“Let me see what the holdup is.” Hastily, I pulled my cell phone from the back pocket of my jeans and called the chocolate shop.

No one answered.

After the fifth ring, a machine picked up. I left a message and pocketed the phone. “I’m sure they’ll call back.” Preferably before Adele went nuclear.

“Will they? You don’t know that.” Adele’s fingers dug into her ebony hair. “Twenty retirees!”

Ignoring my pleading look, Harper backed out of the Gallery. “I’d help you with your little chocolate problem—”

“Little!” Adele’s eyes bulged.

“—but I’ve got a client meeting.” Harper turned and sprinted into the museum’s main room. The bell above the front door jangled.

I smiled tightly. “It’s fine.” Jussst fine. I brushed off my hands. “The delivery’s probably on its way, but I’ll go to Reign and pick up some chocolate in the meantime. Leo can run the museum without me.” My assistant would have no trouble managing things. The place was depressingly empty this afternoon; Wednesdays are not boom times for paranormal museums.

“How much do you need?” I asked Adele as I walked past her into the main room. It smelled of old objects and furniture polish, and I inhaled a calming breath. I checked the black crown molding for spiderwebs and found none. Freestanding shelves displayed haunted objects and creepy dolls. On the opposite wall, a door disguised as a bookcase led to Adele’s tea room. I loved that secret door, and not just because there were scones on the other side.

Leo, seated behind the glass counter, poured over a college textbook. His thin frame hunched in a comma shape beside the antique cash register. My assistant’s black leather jacket hung over the back of his tall chair. He glanced at me and flashed a grin, and then his head dipped again to the book.

“I need the amount of chocolate I ordered,” Adele said, waspish. “But if I can get seven of each of their bars, it will get me through the retirement party.”

“No problem,” I said lightly. “Leo, do you mind watching the museum while I’m away? I’ll be gone for about thirty minutes.”

“Yeah … sure.” His dyed-black hair fell forward, hiding his eyes. The heater whirred behind him.

“He’s got an exam coming up,” I said in a low voice to Adele.

“Education first,” she chirped.

Leo attended the local community college, and he had bigger things in store than working at a paranormal museum. But I hoped I had a couple years left before my goth assistant moved on to greener and less haunted pastures.

The museum’s ghost-detecting cat meowed from the haunted rocking chair in the opposite corner. GD Cat rose rolled, stretched, and yawned. The old wooden rocking chair swayed beneath the black cat.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Adele pressed the spine of a book on the bookcase. The case pivoted outward, opening into her tea room.

I grabbed a handful of postcards off the counter. “Wait—”

But she’d already vanished through the secret door. It snicked shut behind her.

I sighed and returned the postcards for my Magic of Chocolate exhibit. Last night, after a few glasses of wine from her family’s vineyard, Adele had agreed to stack them on the counter in the Fox and Fennel. I could give them to her later.

I glanced around the main room one last time. Everything was in order. Haunted photos of murderers stared down at me, their black frames gleaming. Rows of shelves containing haunted objects gleamed, dust free. From high atop a wall pedestal, a bronze skull seemed to wink.

“See you in thirty minutes,” I said.

“Mmph,” Leo grunted, not looking up.

I strolled through the bookcase and down the tea room’s elegant, bamboo-plank hallway to the alley. Spring in San Benedetto could be iffy, and this was one of those days that couldn’t decide what it was going to be. Fog hung low in the sky. But it was warm enough for me to shrug out of my Paranormal Museum hoodie, exposing my museum T-shirt beneath. When you’re self-employed, fashion takes a back seat to advertising.

I drove down Main Street in my vintage red pickup. Yes, I could have walked, but there was a chance I’d be returning with a massive chocolate delivery, and for that I needed wheels.

I slowed in front of Reign. A burly, red-headed man in jeans and a slouchy blue T-shirt picketed in front of the chocolate shop’s windows.

Huh. Was a strike the cause of the late delivery? The chocolate shop didn’t seem like a big enough business to have organized labor.

Frowning, I turned the corner, looking for parking. I found a spot on the street beside the bank and walked back to Reign.

“Reign, unfair! Reign, unfair!” The man bobbed his sign, decorated with the single word: UNFAIR! He marched back and forth on the brick sidewalk.

Adele would kill me if I let a single picketer stop me. Averting my gaze, I scuttled past the man and through the glass door into the shop. The aroma of chocolate stopped me in my tracks. Tension dropped from my shoulders. Chocolate might not be magic, but it was great aromatherapy.

The shop’s cinderblock walls were painted light gray and glistened with a dreamlike sheen. A long, polished wood counter the color of dark honey stretched across the back of the store. Driftwood displays showed off jars of sauces and bars of chocolate wrapped in simple brown paper. Colored crowns in varying colors decorated the top of each bar. Rows of chocolate-covered fruits and nuts and truffles infused with wine lined a glass case on the counter.

My mouth pinched, and not with delight. No sales person stood behind the chic counter. Was the guy on strike supposed to be manning the front of the store?

The heady scent of chocolate twined around me, and I told myself not to freak out. If I had to wait somewhere, this wasn’t a bad spot. An artisanal chocolate shop beat a paranormal museum, hands down. Of course, if I owned a chocolate shop, I’d probably be fifty pounds overweight instead of my usual ten.

Ignoring the temptations along the way, I marched to the cash register and rang the bell.

No one responded.

“Hello?” I called, leaning across the counter.

Silence.

If I returned empty-handed, Adele would have an anneurism. And I needed chocolate for the museum too. Settling in to wait, I picked up a brochure and scanned through it.

After years spent working with European chefs and chocolatiers, friends Atticus Reine and Orson Malke began making hand-crafted, ethically sourced, single-origin chocolates in their San Francisco apartment. They opened their flagship branch in San Benedetto, close to the organically grown nuts and other ingredients which complement the subtle flavor of the cacao.

Their pledge? To forever change the way you look at chocolate bars. Because our craft chocolates are made in small batches from select beans, our chocolates are as complex as a fine wine. Sign up for our Chocolate of the Month Club and make sure you get the best of our chocolates when they’re made.

Mouth watering, I flipped past the photos of the owners to the page with wine and chocolate pairings. It listed wines from local vineyards, as well as a logo that proclaimed Reign an associate member of the Wine and Visitors Bureau. Plot 42, owned by Adele’s father, was on the winery list. No wonder my friend was hell-bent on including Reign chocolates at her tea room.

Something metallic clanked in another room, like a heavy door closing.

My head jerked up. “Hello?”

No reply.

My scalp prickled, and I fisted my hands. I needed to get a grip. This was an innocent chocolate shop, for Pete’s sake. The counter guy was on strike outside, and an owner would have to show up eventually. I needed to stop thinking like I was in a haunted museum and lose the paranoia.

I returned to studying the brochure. I’d done a lot of research prepping my Magic of Chocolate exhibit, and the story of the cocoa bean and what people had done with it amazed me. How did the Mesoamericans figure out that the slimy cocoa bean could be fermented and turned into such a delicious drink? Casanova had drunk chocolate daily, believing it to be an aphrodisiac. The tryptophan in chocolate is part of serotonin, a chemical in the brain connected to sexual arousal.

Not that I needed help in the romance department. I was still in the honeymoon stage of a relationship with the sexy Detective Jason Slate. No outside stimulants were necessary. But the honeymoon would end sometime. I hoped it wouldn’t end with the sort of painful discovery my last relationship had.

Folding the brochure, I jammed it into the rear pocket of my jeans. Where was everyone? “Hello?”

Silence.

Oh, come on! I couldn’t wait here all day. Not with Adele tapping her expensive shoes while waiting for my return.

I edged around the counter. A long, rectangular window in the gray cinderblock wall behind the register looked into the kitchen. I peered through the window and saw metal racks and metal counters and tall machines. Something in the kitchen whirred softly. But there was no one inside.

This was getting ridiculous. The store was open. The door was unlocked. The guy on strike couldn’t be the only employee working today.

Fuming, I pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen area and leaned inside. Metal racks of cooling chocolates were stacked high on wheeled carts. “Helloooo?”

No response.

Suddenly uneasy, I sidled into the room. Gleaming metal countertops with massive metal bowls. Black rubber fatigue mats on the floor. At the back, beside a glass-fronted wooden room, a well-lit hallway that cut along the left side of the room.

Promising-looking boxes sat stacked against the wall in the hallway, beside a closed office door. Were those our order? Maybe someone was in the office and couldn’t hear me?

I probably shouldn’t be in their kitchen, but Adele and I needed our order. I headed toward the open hallway.

The whirring sound grew louder behind me.

Hair prickling the back of my neck, I froze, then looked over my shoulder.

In the kitchen, a man lay supine on the floor beside two narrow metal vats. The vats angled downward, chocolate dripping onto his face and chest.