Клео Коул - Murder by Mocha

“Why would that matter?” I answered. “Aren’t Sisters allowed to get married?”

“Of course, Sisters can get married!” Patrice laughed. “Selma’s new husband is an independent software developer. He persuaded her to work with him. That’s why she left.”

Laughter from outside interrupted her, followed by applause.

“Looks like things are going well,” Patrice said, pointing to the crowd.

The guests stood among a dozen ionic columns. The columns were faux marble, of course, like the two in the corridor. Composed mainly of fiberglass, they were lit from within and scattered around the Garden’s hedges and potted plants. (As Tuck would say, it was great stagecraft.)

“Is that Aphrodite at the podium?” I asked.

A thirtyish woman in a maroon-red wrap dress was now speaking in front of the Garden’s shallow reflecting pool. Rimless glasses gave her a serious look, though her light brown hair, worn loosely to her shoulders, implied a more casual, approachable style. Beautifully silhouetted by the illuminated spires, she easily held the attention of her listeners.

“That’s Sherri Sellars,” Patrice replied. “She’s a media personality on the West Coast. She also does a weekly satellite radio show called the Luv Doctor .”

“So Sherri Sellars is a Sister, too?”

Patrice nodded. “She governs our Love and Relationship Temple. Right now, Sherri is explaining the psychological benefits of a healthy sex life. Then she’ll introduce Alicia, who will give the big pitch. I’m closing by going over the contents of their press packets and telling them how to order and who to contact.”

She studied both of us. “You two should stop worrying! Alicia’s got one of the most promising products, given the majority of our site’s user profiles.”

“Will Aphrodite speak tonight?” I asked. “I’d love to see her in action.”

(I didn’t think the woman would try to sabotage her own employee, but I did want a better handle on this bizarre shop with its Temples, Sisters, and cutthroat business philosophy.)

“I’m sorry, Clare. Aphrodite won’t be speaking at any of the events. She doesn’t even like to appear in public.” Patrice lowered her voice again. “But she will make a showing at all the parties, including the one tonight. I’ll try to introduce you when she arrives. But if things get crazy, you’ll have another chance to see her. You’re scheduled to cater the yacht party on Friday, right? And one other launch event. Sorry, I can’t remember the dates now. Too many details to keep them all straight! That’s why this baby’s my lifeline—”

As she waved her smartphone, we heard a new burst of applause.

Just then, the Garden doors opened, and a young brunette poked her head through. Her chili-pepper red cat glasses, large for her delicate features, made her auburn-streaked pixie seem all the more adorable. Smiling, she tapped her wristwatch.

“Sherri’s wrapping it up in five. Alicia’s up, then you. Are you ready?”

“No problem, Daphne,” Patrice replied. “I’ll be right there.”

When Daphne departed, Patrice took another deep breath and held it. “Almost time for my big moment. I still get butterflies when I speak in public. But when I’m about ready to faint, I remind myself that I’m not doing too badly for someone who was a pimply faced teenaged blogger ten years ago.”

She activated the digital pad, and Patrice’s nervousness seemed to evaporate with a glowing smile. “My fiancé sent me a message,” she explained. “He said I should break a leg.”

“Is he in the audience?”

“Actually, he’s in Afghanistan. He’ll be back in six months, three days, and nineteen hours.”

“You have that memorized?”

“I have a countdown clock on my digital pad.”

Eyes on the podium, Patrice rocked on her heels several times.

“Wish me luck,” she said softly.

“Break a leg,” I replied, then laid a firm hand on her arm. “One last question, if you don’t mind?”

Patrice tensed. “What’s that, Clare?”

I lowered my voice. “The Sister who had her launch canceled—she’s out, right? Essentially fired off the board?”

Patrice tilted her head. “Why are you asking?’

“I, uh . . . I’ll be making small talk with guests coming by the samples table, and I’d hate to put my foot in it with her. What’s her name?”

“Maya Lansing. She’s our Health and Fitness Sister. But you don’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing.”

“She’s gone for good, then?’

“Well, not exactly. Aphrodite makes all the final decisions about who stays and who goes on her board. Sorry—but now I’ve really got to go!”

“Of course! Good luck!”

Patrice pushed at the heavy glass doors. As she stepped out, a moist gust flowed in, smelling of sea salt and rain. I frowned. Tonight’s weather forecast had been iffy at best, but the threats in the air were impossible to dismiss.

Some kind of storm was headed our way.

“So, what do you think?” Madame whispered.

I folded my arms. “Aphrodite may be in love with this Greece motif, but I’d say her corporate culture looks more like ancient Rome.”

Madame sighed. “ I, Claudius does come to mind.”

“The motivation just got clearer.”

“Do you think Patrice was involved with what happened to Alicia?”

“I doubt it. Patrice’s cheerful ‘out with the old’ view is pretty typical for someone who’s young, ambitious, and thinks she’s immune to failure.”

“Agreed. But what about the other Sisters?”

“We’ll need to take a look at them, especially the woman who was all but fired today—the Health and Fitness Queen.”

“Sister,” Madame corrected.

Corporate jargon? I wondered. Or a twisted convent?

“Well, I’m happy to help.” Madame tilted her head toward the Garden. “After Alicia’s presentation, I’ll find a moment to speak with her. I’d like to know whether she and Maya Lansing have any bad blood between them.”

“Good idea. While you’re at it, keep an eye out for the Candy Man, okay? Whatever he was attempting to pull on Alicia this morning, he failed, and he may just try something else tonight.”

“The game is afoot!”

Ugh, I thought, that word again . . .

As my former mother-in-law pushed through the Garden doors, I turned to find an unnerving sight—a mountain of male flesh barreling toward me.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Are you Clare Cosi?”

Dressed in khaki pants and a blue sport coat—with a neck so large his collar gave his throat a muffin top—the guy was big enough to sub for half the Jets’ defensive line. Whoever he was, I needed a moment to find my voice.

“I’m Clare.”

“We have a situation.”

“A situation?”

The mountain flashed an ID. He was some kind of director for building security.

“A gentleman is trying to gain admittance to this event. First he claimed he was a guest, but he didn’t have an invitation. Then he said he was a member of your catering staff, but he didn’t have a pass and his name wasn’t on the approved list. We’re detaining him downstairs—”

“What does this guy look like?”

The guard repeated my question into a headset and touched the Blue Tooth listening device in his ear.

“He’s well built,” the guard said, then paused to listen. “Muscular. Hair dark and longish . . . he has facial hair . . . a trimmed goatee . . .”

I tensed. It had to be our Candy Man. Dennis St. Julian was a bodybuilder, and a fake beard and wig would help disguise him.

“Let’s go!” I said.