Asking for Truffle

  Also by Dorothy St. James:

  White House Gardener Mysteries

  Oak and Dagger

  The Scarlet Pepper

  Flowerbed of State

  Asking for Truffle

  A SOUTHERN CHOCOLATE SHOP MYSTERY

  Dorothy St. James

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Dorothy McFalls

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.

  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-291-8

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-292-5

  ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-294-9

  Cover illustration by Rob Fiore

  www.crookedlanebooks.com

  Crooked Lane Books

  34 West 27th St., 10th Floor

  New York, NY 10001

  First edition: September 2017

  In memory of Iona (2007–16),

  my beloved and feisty Papillon and the inspiration for the naughty pup Stella. Midway through the writing of this book, Iona left this world to romp in heavenly fields.

  My friend, my minion, my heart.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Recipes Snipped From the Camellia Current, Camellia Beach’s Local Newspaper

  Bertie’s Sweet and Spicy Comfort Chili

  Mabel’s Hot Chocolate Shots and Hot Chocolate

  Dark-Chocolate Hazelnut Truffles

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  The strange letter I’d received in the mail earlier today had me popping chocolate squares into my mouth as if they were candy. Well, to be fair, they were candy. But they were also chocolate. Expensive, organic fair-trade chocolate. Chocolate was supposed to be eaten slowly, each bite savored, not tossed into the mouth without noticing the dark, biting undertones in the exotic delicacy. Or so I told myself.

  My nervous fingers unwrapped another foil-covered square, and I carefully placed the silky smooth chocolate into my mouth. That’s when I realized my visitor was waiting for me to say something.

  So much for savoring. I quickly chewed and swallowed before really tasting anything at all.

  “This isn’t the first time someone has tried to scam me,” I said, staring down at the vanilla-colored envelope in my lap. It had arrived by special messenger that afternoon. “It won’t be the last.”

  I looked up at the thin man seated across from me in the tiny living room I shared with Granny Mae Stoughton. Granny Mae, who wasn’t really related to me, doted on me like any loving grandmother should. She’d given me the bag of expensive chocolates a few hours after the envelope had arrived.

  The thin man nodded in understanding before stretching out his long arm toward me. “Can I see it, Penn?”

  I hesitated before handing it over. I’d only asked Craig “Skinny” McGee for help because Granny Mae had insisted I tell someone.

  Skinny and I had been good friends during our prep school days. He got his nickname not because of his size—although he didn’t have an ounce of fat on him—but because of the ability he’d had since childhood to use his mad computer skills to get the “skinny” on any situation.

  In school we’d both felt like outsiders. As the tallest girl in the class, towering over nearly all the boys, I was all awkward knees and elbows. Skinny, on the other hand, was short and sort of scrawny. Plus, he was a computer nerd long before computer nerds had earned cool status.

  It was during those tough teen years that we had grown close. We’d shared each other’s secrets and adolescent fears. Like brother and sister, we’d protected each other. He’d even asked me to the prom when it looked as if no one else would.

  As we grew up and moved on, I’d always felt safe with his friendship. Even though as adults we had little in common—if it didn’t involve hacking or catching the next wave, it really didn’t interest Skinny—our sense of trust in each other had never wavered.

  I’d called him expecting him to tell me he was too busy to do anything. But he was in Madison on a short winter break to visit his father and was able to come right over.

  “I was hoping you could use your computer to track down who sent this letter to me.” I paused before adding, “Just so I’ll know who I should be wary of.”

  He pulled out a letter that had been printed on high-quality, antiqued paper from the envelope I’d handed him. His dark-brown brows knitted as he read the gold-embossed script. “It says you won a trip to a beach in a contest?”

  “A contest I didn’t enter.”

  His thin mouth formed a funny little smile. “It includes cooking lessons at a chocolate shop. I’d think you’d be excited about that part. You should go.” He tried to hand the envelope back over to me.

  I resisted. “I don’t enter contests. Can you—?”

  “It’s true. She never enters contests.” Granny Mae swept in from the kitchen. The silvery mass of tight curls on the top of her head jiggled like an overflowing bowl of gummy worms around her pink headband. As she crossed the room toward us, she held out a tray with a couple of unrecognizable lumps on it, their edges blackened. “Have a chocolate chip cookie, Craig, dear.”

  “It’s Skinny, ma’am. No one but my dad calls me Craig. And that’s only when he’s shouting at me.” That was another thing I liked about Skinny. We were both the black sheep of our families.

  “You should stay for dinner. I’m trying out a new recipe: cabbage croquettes.” Ah, that would explain the sour odor that had followed her through the swinging door.

  Skinny shifted in his chair as he frowned at the burnt offering in front of him. “Um, no thanks, I . . . I already have plans.” He quickly switched his attention back to the letter. “So the prize to this contest you didn’t enter is a trip to Camellia Beach in South Carolina?” He rubbed his scraggly goatee. “Why does that place sound familiar? Wait a sec.” He tapped his phone’s screen. After a moment, his quirky smile disappeared. The pink color fled from his cheeks. “Oh, that’s why. He lives there now.”

  “Who?” Both Granny Mae and I asked.

  “Nobody. Nobody. Just somebody I’ve—” He shivered. “Nobody. I’ve been to Camellia Beach once. It’s a run-down beach community. No one ever goes there.”

  “Then why would someone send me this ‘prize’?”

  “Don’t know.” He reached over to the side table where I kept a glass dish filled with my dark chocolates. He unwrapped one and tossed it into his mouth. “
Hey, look, this is what I’ll do,” he said as he chewed. “The town is about an hour’s drive from Folly Beach. I’m already planning to be in Folly for next week’s Ice Box Surf Championship. I could swing by after the competition and check things out for you.”

  “I don’t know.” The gnawing dread weighed even heavier on me. “I’d rather you’d just do your magic on the computer.” I didn’t want him to go out of his way or to get mixed up with the scammer. Doing so might be dangerous. “It’s probably nothing. I’m sure whoever sent it is simply trying to con me into buying a time-share or something.”

  He sniffed the paper. “No, this isn’t a mass-produced mailing. And now I’m curious about it.” He gave the untouched cookies another wary look before rising from his chair. I stood too. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  He was halfway to the door when he stopped and turned to me. “Hey, are you still dating that Cheese King?” he asked abruptly.

  “Uh, yeah?” His question surprised me. “I—um—he’s fun to be around,” I answered, not sure why talking about the guy I was dating made my back stiffen up like a board. “And he owns a successful business, so I know he’s not cozying up to me to meet my father like that last guy.”

  He started to say something in reply but clamped his lips together, which only caused my spine to bind up so tightly I thought I might tip over.

  “Why did you ask about him? What do you know?” I demanded.

  He stared at me a long moment but then shrugged and smiled. “Haven’t heard anything. And as long as you’re having fun, do it, right?”

  “Are you sure you can’t stay for dinner, dear?” Granny Mae asked as she followed Skinny the rest of the way to the door. “It’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.”

  “Sorry. No.” This time he didn’t even try to make an excuse. He tucked the letter into the pocket of his baggy jeans and then pulled me into the circle of his boney arms to hug me tight. “Don’t worry, Penn. I’m sure it’s . . .”

  ***

  “Nothing.” Skinny had promised to call first thing in the morning. Two weeks had passed since he’d sat with me in my living room. I’d been eager to talk with him and hear what he’d discovered in Camellia Beach.

  “Really? Nothing?” Granny Mae, dressed in a fluffy pink robe the color of cotton candy, with matching fluffy pink slippers, disappeared on the other side of the kitchen island to pull a tray from the oven. “I thought he said he’d call by now,” she said, her voice bouncing around in the metal oven.

  “He did.” Whenever he was near a beach, “first thing” for him meant before the sunrise. After the sun came up, I could forget about getting in touch with him because his daytime hours were dedicated to surfing, or thinking about surfing, or planning his next surfing trip.

  I dialed Skinny’s number and listened to the rings. His voice suddenly came on the line telling me to leave a message. Again.

  Last night he’d called my cell phone when I was in the shower and left an odd message: “Penn, I need to talk with you.” He’d sounded out of breath. A car with a bad muffler must have driven past him because I could barely hear what he’d said next. “I know why you won that fake contest. I know who sent the letter. And it’s really cool. No, I’m not going to tell you in a message. Don’t want to miss hearing your reaction. I can tell you this—start packing your bags. You really need to come down here and see for yourself.” He paused. I could hear the clop-clop of his clumpy stride. “Look, someone’s following me. I’ve got to go. I’ll give you a call first thing in the morning. We can talk then.”

  I’d tried to call him back right after listening to the message but had been sent to voice mail.

  “He hasn’t responded to any of the texts I’ve sent either.” With a frown, I settled at the kitchen island where I usually drank my morning coffee.

  “I’m sure he’ll get in touch soon. And with a story to tell too. Have a scone. They’re fresh from the oven.” Granny Mae dropped a rock-hard lump of cooked dough onto a ceramic plate. The loud clang made Stella—the little fluff of a dog the Cheese King had given me—bark as if armed intruders had burst through the back door.

  “I think I’ll just stick with coffee.” I loved Granny Mae to pieces, truly I did, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not cook, bake, or broil to save her life.

  Nor could I, for that matter. The scone recipe was the same one she’d encouraged me to try last week. At least her attempt didn’t smell as if brimstone had escaped from the depths of hell. Despite the freezing temperature outside, I’d had to open all the windows to get rid of the stench.

  In many ways we were two peas in a pod, which didn’t surprise me. Even though Granny Mae wasn’t really my grandmother, I’d known her my entire life. She was working as my paternal grandmother’s personal assistant when I was abandoned as a newborn on Cristobel Penn’s doorstep.

  Ending up on that doorstep had actually been the second time in my short life that someone had abandoned me. First my mother, a fortune-teller who’d seduced and conned my father, had dropped me into my surprised father’s arms earlier that day. My father, a junior in college, was unprepared for a baby, especially a baby born to a woman he barely knew. He drove straight to his mother’s house and, without even coming inside, handed me to the butler. From what I heard, Cristobel had threatened to deny the relationship and take me to the local orphanage. It was Granny Mae who’d convinced Cristobel to let me stay. She’d even volunteered to take responsibility for my care.

  Granny Mae hadn’t had time for a baby, what with the work Grandmother Cristobel piled on her as well as researching and writing her dissertation. Even so, she did her best to make sure someone looked after me, even if she had to hand me over to the gardener, who’d smell of freshly cut grass, or to the cook, who’d often put me to work washing dishes. When she’d completed her first PhD and left Grandmother Cristobel’s service to teach at the University of Wisconsin, Granny Mae kept in touch with frequent letters, phone calls, small gifts, and surprise visits.

  She acted more like a devoted family member than any of my blood relatives. So when I was offered the position of chief executive of marketing for the Cheese King, Granny Mae had immediately invited me to stay with her in her vintage cottage in downtown Madison, Wisconsin. It had started out as a temporary living arrangement. Three years later, I still hadn’t moved out.

  “These scones will be perfect for dipping in coffee.” Granny Mae picked one up and tapped it with her finger. She shook her head. The pink curlers in her hair clanged. The noise got Stella barking again.

  “Hush.” I couldn’t think with that yapping machine running around my feet. Did I mention how the Cheese King had given me the dog? The jerk.

  “You should give that thing back to Erik,” she said, not for the first time since Stella had arrived last week. “Why would he give you a full-grown, nasty little dog like that in the first place?”

  “He told me I needed a dog to carry around in my Gucci purse,” I said absently. I was beyond worried about Skinny. Why in the world hadn’t he returned any of my calls? And what had he been so excited to tell me?

  “But you don’t own a Gucci purse,” she pointed out.

  “Exactly. And I wouldn’t carry a dog around in it if I did.” The gift had been a wake-up call. I’d thought Erik had loved me for me and not for my trust fund or the billions my father had in the bank.

  Was it only two weeks ago that I’d told Skinny how much I liked dating Erik and how I much I trusted him? I shook my head at how stupid I could be when it came to the men in my life.

  To be fair, though, it wasn’t like the Cheese King needed more money. He was the Cheese King, for heaven’s sake. He owned a chain of touristy cheese shops all across Wisconsin. I’d been hired to develop and implement a PR campaign for his stores. That was how we’d met. With my help, a state newspaper had bestowed on him the title of king a few years ago. He’d introduced himself as the Cheese King ever since.

&nb
sp; Until about three months ago, he saw me as a competent, valued employee and had treated me as just another member of the team. I saw him as a charismatic boss who just happened to look like a Nordic god with those chiseled cheekbones and icy-blue eyes. But he was my boss and nothing more until one day, quite out of the blue, he’d stopped by my desk and, instead of talking about the latest ad copy I’d been working on, asked me out on a date. And much to my own surprise, I’d accepted.

  I’d been just as surprised this last Thursday when he’d thrust little Stella into my arms. The pup had promptly bit my nose hard enough that I’d bled. Ignoring my dripping nose, Erik had gaily explained how nice he thought the pedigreed Papillon would look in that Gucci purse I didn’t own. Apparently, in his mind, all trust-fund girls carried little dogs in ridiculously expensive purses. It’d been a thoughtless gift. But at the time, I’d given him the benefit of the doubt. When we got to know each other better, he’d learn how I loathed touching even a penny of my trust fund and that I never (okay, rarely) spent frivolously.

  The very next day at work, Gretchen, Erik’s personal secretary, happened to overhear me talking on the phone with a friend about how Erik had given me the dog. She’d rushed over as soon as I’d gotten off the phone and boasted about how she was Erik’s fiancée. The two of them had been dating for years, she’d crowed. She then announced—in tones as sharp as Stella’s bites—that he was using me, since he loved her, not me. When he looked at me, he only saw dollar signs.

  I didn’t waste a minute. I marched right into his office and confronted him. The jerk didn’t even bother denying his relationship with Gretchen. Instead, he’d agreed to call things off with her, totally ignoring the part where he’d been dating two women at the same time. And then, with that same breath, he had the audacity to suggest I invest heavily in his plans for a Midwest expansion of his cheese shops. Sure, it wasn’t the first time someone had loved my money instead of me. But still, it stung.

  “You really should give her back,” Granny Mae said, interrupting my walk down that unhappy memory lane.