Клео Коул - Murder by Mocha

As a flavoring agent, however, Mocha Magic was a raving success, and that provided a modicum of relief to my Atlas-level worries. As for the instant powdered-coffee version of the thing, the verdict was still out, and I honestly wasn’t feeling up to hearing it.

“To tell you the truth, I’m a little apprehensive about sampling it,” I confessed to my crew.

“Well, naturally you are!” Nancy cried. “The last thing you want is to go all dizzy act, before the guests arrive!”

Tucker, Esther, and I turned to face the young woman.

“What?” Esther said.

“Dizzy act,” Nancy said. “The stuff in these pastries is an herb from Africa, isn’t it? That’s what you’ve been saying all night. This stuff is supposed to make you act dizzy , right?”

Tucker took hold of Nancy’s shoulders. “Sweetie, the word is not Afro-dizzy-act. It’s aphrodisiac .”

She frowned and folded her arms. “So what’s it supposed to do then, if it doesn’t make you act dizzy?”

“Oy,” Esther said.

“Nancy!” I cut in (before Esther could say any more). “We’re going to need more cups. Would you get them?”

“No problem!”

Esther held her head as Nancy dashed off. “That girl can’t possibly be that naive. It has to be an act—a really dizzy one.”

“She’s just young,” I said. “You were young once, too.”

“I was never young.”

(That I believed.) Just then, a cell phone went off again. This time it was mine.

“Oh, those bohemians,” Tucker gushed. “I do love Puccini!”

I silenced the ringtone opera. “Madame,” I said, picking up, “where are you?”

“In the corridor, dear, across from the elevator bank near the cloakroom.”

I slipped off my apron, retucked my white blouse, and adjusted my black skirt.

“Finish laying out all the choco-booty, okay?” I told my crew before pushing through the Loft’s closed doors. “I’m checking on the guests in the Garden.” And a former mother- in-law who owes me some answers.

“Clare! Here, dear!” A voice called as I moved into the long corridor.

Resplendent in a shimmering pearl sheath silk-screened with Monet’s lilies, Madame stepped out from between a pair of faux-marble columns and waved me over.

Like me, she’d swept her hair into a neat French twist for the party. But her blue-violet eyes, lightly accented with periwinkle pencil, held a stressed expression that belied the put-together package.

We embraced, first thing, and I was relieved to feel the tight hug. Things hadn’t been right between us since Alicia Bower entered our lives.

“Did you come alone?” I asked.

“Otto escorted me.” She tilted her head. “I sent him out to the Garden.”

I glanced down the corridor and through the closed glass double doors, but I couldn’t see her current beau. The twinkling Garden was too crowded.

“What happened to your promise to bring Alicia here early, so we could hash everything out?”

“She stood me up! Otto and I waited in the Topaz bar for over an hour. When I called her, she apologized, but said she just didn’t have time to meet and talk before the launch.”

“You mean she’s not here yet ?”

“Oh, she’s here. Out there somewhere.” Madame fluttered her fingers toward the Garden doors. “She slipped by us at the hotel. Clearly, she’s avoiding me.”

“You mean me .” (I’d been patient up to now. But this development was the last straw.) “My crew and I have been setting up in the Loft space for the last two hours. After Alicia drove me crazy micromanaging every minute detail of this launch, she suddenly has no interest in even glancing at our display? What does that tell you?”

“It tells me she’s embarrassed.”

“More like afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of me—and some hard questions about what went on this morning.”

“Clare, you must allow me to apologize again for putting you in such an awkward position.”

“It’s all right. I told you on the phone, apology accepted.”

“But you’re still upset with me. Try to understand . . .” She waved me back into hiding between those faux marble columns, lowered her voice to a whisper. “With the blood pronounced fake and Dennis suddenly gone, the matter was no longer a criminal one. I had to side with Alicia. Involving the police any further would have risked bad publicity—and at the worst possible time for all of us.”

“But don’t you agree what happened this morning added up to much more than a prank ?”

Madame nodded. “Yes. Now I do.”

“Did you do any follow up with this Dennis St. Julian character?”

“We tried calling him. But his phone simply rang and rang. Not even any voice mail, which Alicia said he did have for the last few weeks.”

“Probably a disposable cell,” I said. “Something untraceable that he could quickly toss.”

“Alicia did tell me that she welcomes your help tracking him down. If you can find out why he tried to scare her half to death, she would be most grateful. She’s happy to pay you for your time.”

“I’m far from a professional private investigator!”

“Please.” Madame waved her hand. “What did Roman Brio call you? Shirley Holmes? He was right. As a mama snoop, you’ve done pretty well. And, as always, I am happy to be your Watson.”

Oh brother. Here we go . . . “Alicia should hire someone. I’ll ask Mike for a name—”

“Waste of time. Alicia was adamant. She doesn’t wish to bring anyone else into this, especially a professional.”

“Why not?”

“She fears her position with her company could be jeopardized if someone suspects a scandal brewing. And a hired investigator poking about asking questions is bound to raise some flag some where. Alicia would prefer to keep all of this as quiet as possible, within our little circle.”

“But—”

“Legally, we’re tied into this venture,” Madame pointed out, “which means you’re already publicly associated with Alicia. You can be a nosy Nellie without raising alarms. Simply make your queries sound innocent.”

Like I have time for this!

“Clare . . .” She touched my shoulder. “I know you’re not fond of Alicia. But won’t you do it for me . . . for the Blend? Please?”

I massaged my forehead. “Did this Candy Man character give you a business card?”

“Yes!” Clearly excited to reprise her Watson role, Madame gleefully fished around her small evening bag. “Here you are.”

“Kogo Sweets Inc.,” I read. The logo wasn’t embossed, and the white cardstock felt textureless and flimsy.

“The company is real,” Madame said, watching me bend the card back and forth. “I looked it up after Mr. St. Julian introduced himself a few weeks ago.”

“But if I place a call to Kogo Sweets’ main office,” I said, waving the cheap rectangle, “I doubt very much Dennis St. Julian will be a name they recognize.”

“You think the card is fake?”

“I think the man is fake.”

“Why?”

“Because he was ready to place a ‘large order’ for Alicia’s product without even sampling it. Because his clothes were made of gorgeous, expensive material, but his loafers were old, worn, and scuffed up. Because he was built like a readymade model for Michelangelo, that’s why!”

“What does the man’s build have to do with anything?”

“He claimed his job was tasting candy for a living, yet he had six-pack abs, muscle cuts, and a shaved chest?”

“You don’t think he lifted weights to counteract all the candy sampling?”