decides to answer. ‘Annabelle’s.’
‘Her house is back that way.’
‘The factory.’
‘Why in God’s name are we going to her factory?’
‘To get a new van.’
That makes sense; Paavo occasionally does deliveries for Annabelle when she’s short staffed. Her company has a fleet of vans for distributing her chocolate delights to her network of shops. Over the past seven years she’s built a chain of thirty five stores across three states. As well as selling high-end chocolates, the stores act as coffee shops, selling Viennese chocolate pastries made fresh daily. The latest addition to the range is a suite of creamy, chocolate ice creams; a dozen flavors but all with a chocolate twist.
She’s tapping into a truism – everyone loves chocolate, but rather than giving them emulsified supermarket candy, she’s offering high-end, scrumptious, velvety choco-goodness at reasonable prices. It seems people can’t get enough. She’s the new darling of the entrepreneurial business community. Her plan is to open eight more stores in the next year. Fifteen the year after.
Assuming she’s either alive or has her freedom.
There’s the sound of siren whooping a couple of blocks over. I hold my breath, but it’s heading the other way.
Shit.
‘Where are we dumping this one?’
‘At the factory.’
‘Don’t you think someone will report it being left there?’
Paavo shrugs.
‘Is there no lock-up we can use?’
‘Only my own. They will look there. I know a place.’
My cell phone rings. I dig it out of my pocket wondering whether it might be Annabelle’s kidnapper making contact. The number on the screen is that of my editor. I’ve already avoided answering three of his calls this morning. I sigh and press answer. When all this madness ends, I’m still going to need my job.
‘Hello, Tadhg Maguire speaking.’
‘Tad? Where the hell are you, son?’ Charles King says in his dulcet tones. ‘You were meant to be covering the Somerfield’s christening.’
The story of my working life - weddings, christenings and funerals. Occasionally I’m thrown a community event or a retirement party. It’s all pretty mundane: lots of smiles or tears and tables full of finger food. The nearest I get to danger is being caught in the crossfire of drunken, bickering relatives and witnessing stressed out catering managers berate their staff.
‘I’m … I’m investigating something else.’
‘This something else wouldn’t happen to involve the police would it?’
Oh shit.
‘I … Well … I can’t really say at the minute.’
‘I’ve just had the police onto me, Tad. They wanted to know where you were. They seemed concerned for your safety. I gave them your cell number.’
Wonderful.
‘You’re not in some kind of trouble are you, Tad?’
‘No, no, Mr King. Everything’s fine. I’m … I’m investigating this … scandal.’
‘And what scandal would that be, Tad?’ His even tone hasn’t altered one bit during the conversation. ‘We’re a family newspaper, remember, not the investigative kind.’
‘I’m not … I can’t say right now, Mr King.’ My phone is beeping to tell me I have another in-coming call.
‘I want you to drop whatever it is you’re doing Tad and come into the office. We need to talk.’
‘I …’
‘That wasn’t a request, Tad.’ He ends the call.
Shit.
The phone rings immediately. I don’t recognize the number, but answer anyway.
‘Yes?’
‘Tad?’ Joe Gerlach says.
‘Yes?’
‘Tad, we need to talk.’
‘I’m busy right now.’
‘I know. We’ve been clearing up after you all morning. A fight in John Philips’ place, a major pile-up on the Telegraph Road, a bonfire at Malachy’s Mill, an assault at Jeannie’s Motel.’
So much for getting rid of the bodies discretely.
‘I think you might have got me mixed up with somebody else.’
‘I don’t think so,
‘Her house is back that way.’
‘The factory.’
‘Why in God’s name are we going to her factory?’
‘To get a new van.’
That makes sense; Paavo occasionally does deliveries for Annabelle when she’s short staffed. Her company has a fleet of vans for distributing her chocolate delights to her network of shops. Over the past seven years she’s built a chain of thirty five stores across three states. As well as selling high-end chocolates, the stores act as coffee shops, selling Viennese chocolate pastries made fresh daily. The latest addition to the range is a suite of creamy, chocolate ice creams; a dozen flavors but all with a chocolate twist.
She’s tapping into a truism – everyone loves chocolate, but rather than giving them emulsified supermarket candy, she’s offering high-end, scrumptious, velvety choco-goodness at reasonable prices. It seems people can’t get enough. She’s the new darling of the entrepreneurial business community. Her plan is to open eight more stores in the next year. Fifteen the year after.
Assuming she’s either alive or has her freedom.
There’s the sound of siren whooping a couple of blocks over. I hold my breath, but it’s heading the other way.
Shit.
‘Where are we dumping this one?’
‘At the factory.’
‘Don’t you think someone will report it being left there?’
Paavo shrugs.
‘Is there no lock-up we can use?’
‘Only my own. They will look there. I know a place.’
My cell phone rings. I dig it out of my pocket wondering whether it might be Annabelle’s kidnapper making contact. The number on the screen is that of my editor. I’ve already avoided answering three of his calls this morning. I sigh and press answer. When all this madness ends, I’m still going to need my job.
‘Hello, Tadhg Maguire speaking.’
‘Tad? Where the hell are you, son?’ Charles King says in his dulcet tones. ‘You were meant to be covering the Somerfield’s christening.’
The story of my working life - weddings, christenings and funerals. Occasionally I’m thrown a community event or a retirement party. It’s all pretty mundane: lots of smiles or tears and tables full of finger food. The nearest I get to danger is being caught in the crossfire of drunken, bickering relatives and witnessing stressed out catering managers berate their staff.
‘I’m … I’m investigating something else.’
‘This something else wouldn’t happen to involve the police would it?’
Oh shit.
‘I … Well … I can’t really say at the minute.’
‘I’ve just had the police onto me, Tad. They wanted to know where you were. They seemed concerned for your safety. I gave them your cell number.’
Wonderful.
‘You’re not in some kind of trouble are you, Tad?’
‘No, no, Mr King. Everything’s fine. I’m … I’m investigating this … scandal.’
‘And what scandal would that be, Tad?’ His even tone hasn’t altered one bit during the conversation. ‘We’re a family newspaper, remember, not the investigative kind.’
‘I’m not … I can’t say right now, Mr King.’ My phone is beeping to tell me I have another in-coming call.
‘I want you to drop whatever it is you’re doing Tad and come into the office. We need to talk.’
‘I …’
‘That wasn’t a request, Tad.’ He ends the call.
Shit.
The phone rings immediately. I don’t recognize the number, but answer anyway.
‘Yes?’
‘Tad?’ Joe Gerlach says.
‘Yes?’
‘Tad, we need to talk.’
‘I’m busy right now.’
‘I know. We’ve been clearing up after you all morning. A fight in John Philips’ place, a major pile-up on the Telegraph Road, a bonfire at Malachy’s Mill, an assault at Jeannie’s Motel.’
So much for getting rid of the bodies discretely.
‘I think you might have got me mixed up with somebody else.’
‘I don’t think so,
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