"Chocolate can be deadly...."
Reviewed by Debbie Wiley
Posted March 28, 2019
Mystery Paranormal | Mystery Cozy
It all started with a delayed chocolate order. San Benedetto's Wine and
Chocolate days have begun, and Maddie Kosloski's Magic of Chocolate
exhibit is prepared in her paranormal museum- except the chocolate
hasn't arrived. How can you have a chocolate exhibit without
chocolate? Maddie's friend, Adele Nakamoto, owns the tea room next
door and is also panicking so Maddie agrees to go to the new chocolate
shop, Reign, and pick up their delivery. Unfortunately, Maddie stumbles
across another dead body and now she's worried she's in the
crosshairs of a killer. CHOCOLATE A LA MURDER is the
fourth book in the Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum series. Overall,
each book in the series stands on its own merits but readers may want
to read the prior book, DEJA MOO, for some background history on
Maddie's personal relationship issues. However, Kirsten Weiss does an
excellent job at providing a general overview of the town and the other
relationships so that readers can jump in and enjoy the mystery. I love that Kirsten Weiss includes a paranormal mystery within the
context of the main mystery! CHOCOLATE A LA MURDER features a haunted
molinillo and I love the eerie feel the mystery behind it adds to the
paranormal museum. I was a little skeptical as to how Kirsten Weiss
could keep a cozy mystery centered around a paranormal museum
going, but the ingenuity of the murders coupled with the secondary
mysteries featuring various allegedly haunted paraphernalia is a hit! Chocolate infuses every aspect of this paranormal-tinged mystery.
Kirsten Weiss crafts realistic and likable characters and puts them in
intriguing situations. I may never think of chocolate making the same
way again! If you love cozy mysteries and want something just a tad
different, then CHOCOLATE A LA
MURDER is exactly your cup of tea!
SUMMARY
Maddie gets rattled by a candy-coated murder It's Wine and Chocolate Days in San Benedetto, and
paranormal
museum owner Maddie Kosloski has sweet dreams about her
new
Magic of Chocolate exhibit. Her latest attraction is a
haunted Mexican
whisk called a molinillo that rattles if someone lies.
When Maddie visits
the town's new boutique chocolate shop, she finds one of
the owners
dead and covered in melted cocoa. Maddie's determined to catch the killer, and she soon
uncovers deadly
dealings in the world of artisan chocolate. But the
deception
surrounding those dealings are enough to make the
molinillo rattle all
night. Will Maddie have to temper her passion for
sleuthing before a
killer makes her fate a bittersweet one?
ExcerptCHAPTER ONEI 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.
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