Клео Коул - Murder by Mocha

“Matt! Matt!”

I ran to my ex and dropped to my knees beside the pallet of cacao beans. He wasn’t moving, and it didn’t look like he was breathing, either. I brushed aside his shaggy hair, touched his cheek—and his eyes opened!

“I think I hurt myself . . .” He moaned.

“You big, dumb, stupid hero! You could have killed yourself!”

“Oh, man, the dog was worse than the fall.”

“Dog?”

“A very fast German shepherd guarding the construction site next door. I climbed that building to jump to this one. But not before that damn shepherd bit me in the butt.”

Tears stinging my eyes, I hugged him—then I jumped and Matt bolted upright when a controlled explosion blew the steel gate off. Ropes fluttered down from the shattered skylight, too, followed by armed and armored men. Boots hit the plank floor all around us. More men stormed through the blasted gate, weapons raised.

A SWAT team—a real one—had finally arrived.

“What took you so long,” Matt groused.

A tactical officer in black armor emerged from behind the metal shelf, Nancy Kelly in his arms. Pale and shaken, my barista touched her bruised head. But her buoyant inner Nancy returned when she saw me.

“Holy smokin’ rockets, boss. What the heck hit me?”

Two days later things were back to normal at my coffeehouse—“normal” being a relative term, considering Village life.

“Remember, Punch,” Tuck said from behind our counter, “the part you’re auditioning for today is the most important role in Return to Munchkin Land .”

“But it’s only the chorus, Tuck, just a small part.”

“Punch! What do I always say?”

The lean Latino put down his cup and sighed. “There are no small parts, only—” He suddenly froze, glanced around.

“You can relax,” I assured him from the next stool. “There are no small actors in here today.” (Since we’d opened six hours ago, I’d served a steady stream of hulking, hairy men.) “Exactly,” Tuck said. “And where would the Wicked Witch be without a dependable army of Flying Monkeys?”

“Ha!” Nancy cut in, arriving for her lunchtime shift. “She wouldn’t need them if she had a flying Matteo!”

“More like a plunging Matteo from what I heard,” Esther cracked.

“Matt was very brave,” Nancy said, eyes glazing as she tied on her apron. “He saved my life. I’ll be forever grateful to him.”

Esther stared at Nance a long moment. “Oh no.”

Nancy turned to Tucker. “When is Matteo coming back to the Blend, do you think? Will he be working as a manager again, the way he did the other day? That was a great day! He’s such a good manager!”

“Oh, boss!” Esther sang.

I glanced up from Matt’s revised delivery schedule. “What?”

She leaned down. “Did you hear that?”

“Matt’s flying to Costa Rica next week,” I said. “Let’s hope Ms. Kelly is over her new crush by the time he gets back.”

“I guess we should look on the bright side,” Esther said. “At least she’s over Dante.”

“Nancy’s lucky he’s not pressing charges.”

“Speaking of charges,” Esther said, “did you check out New York One’s In the Papers segment this morning? We’re still the top story across the city.”

I nodded.

Tuck moved toward us. “You know, I can’t decide which headline was my favorite. Chocolate-Covered Serial Killer Gets Licked, Spider-Man Saves 3 in Willy Wonka Hostage Drama, or Cocoa Kook Goes Loca for Mocha .”

“Well, kook is certainly the right noun,” Punch said.

“No doubt,” Esther said. “That sicko actually smiled for her mug shot.”

“I know!” Punch cried, smoothing the monkey hair on his arms. “That girl is cray-zee!”

“But not crazy enough for an insanity plea,” I pointed out, glad of it.

Olympia Temple was no longer the wayward little girl hiding behind a curtain of hair. The media had discovered a brand-new sinister star, and she shined darkly for them. But Warhol’s famous fifteen minutes had begun ticking away already, and Olympia would soon learn what every convicted criminal knew—the brief clock of fame winds down to interminable years behind prison walls.

“You know something I can’t stop thinking about?” Tucker confessed. “Olympia called herself Daphne and escaped off the boat as Laurel. Anyone who knows Ovid or a bit of basic mythology could have connected the two. It’s as if she wanted someone to discover the clues.”

“From what Soles and Bass told me, serial killers tend to take pride in their work. Olympia Temple made killing her art. On some level, she wanted it to be appreciated.”

“What? The art of murder?”

I nodded. “Sociopaths get high on power, control, and manipulation. They also crave pity. I guarantee you, Olympia sees herself as the victim in all this, the star of her own sick show.”

Tucker’s eyebrows rose. “Sounds like my little directorial pep talks to the disparate citizens of Oz. Every actor, no matter the size of his role, is the star.”

“Exactly, and given what we now know about the late Ms. ‘Aphrodite’ Pixley—from her antics in college to her setting employees against each other—that woman was probably a sociopath, too.”

“Yes, well . . . I’m sorry Aphrodite is dead, but I’m not sorry we’re all free of her.”

“You and me both.”

“So, no more Mocha Magic?” Esther assumed. “It’s dead?”

“Kaput,” I assured her. “The only reason Madame signed that contract was to help an old friend.”

“Doesn’t Alicia care about selling the powder?”

“Not anymore. And she’s finished with Aphrodite’s Village, too.”

“I’m not surprised,” Esther said. “I mean how does an ex-professor end up working for a Web site like that, anyhow?”

“A job’s a job,” I said. “After Alicia left Bay Creek Women’s College, she couldn’t find another academic position, so she began to travel and write, which included freelance restaurant reviews and eventually food writing. Thelma was always looking for smart new writers and editors. Apparently, they reconnected on—”

Esther held up her hand. “Don’t tell me. Facebook.”

I shrugged.

Tuck leaned against the counter. “One thing I don’t get. Why would Aphrodite want to put a controlled substance into Mocha Magic, and how could she think she would get away with it? The FDA would have found her out eventually.”

“Alphas,” I said.

“Am I supposed to understand that?”

“Alphas are important to marketers because they’re the kind of customers who influence other customers. That’s what all these parties were about—Aphrodite was marketing to alphas: reporters, bloggers, food and beverage critics, wholesale buyers. If she could impress them with the potency of an adulterated product, then they’d spread the word. After the Mocha Magic took off, she’d remove the drug. By then, she was hoping the product would sustain itself via placebo effect.”

“Sounds like your basic bait-and-switch,” Punch said.

“You’re right. It was unethical—and the woman who created it, Alicia, had scruples. That’s why Aphrodite altered the formula behind her back.”

“So what’s Alicia going to do now?” Tuck asked.

“Travel, eat, write . . .” I smiled. “She’s going to have enough money to retire early.”

Esther smirked. “She won the Powerball?”

“Better. Alicia’s lawyer discovered that Aphrodite was behind Patrice Stone’s hiring Troy Talos to seduce her away from the Rock Center launch party.”