Murder by Mocha (20 page)

“Alicia?” Mike frowned. “Isn’t she your new business partner? The one who invented the Mocha Magic stuff?”

“She is.”

“What about her worries you?”

“She’s a headstrong business woman, yet I found her in a fetal position yesterday morning at her hotel . . .”

The whole fake knife in the chest Candy Man incident seemed like a week ago by now, but I did my best to bring Mike up to speed on it.

“Despite being the obvious target of a horrible prank, she refused to cooperate with the police. According to Madame, Alicia actually wanted to hire me to get some answers rather than bring a professional investigator into it.”

Mike met my eyes. “Would you describe Alicia as mentally unstable?”

“I’d describe her as under extreme pressure—and extremely secretive. But then so is Madame when it comes to whatever past they shared.”

Hearing that, Mike fell silent for a long minute, his expression moving from cop curious to obviously troubled. “So you’re telling me Alicia is connected to Madame’s past? But she’s surfaced only lately?”

I nodded. “Madame says she owes Alicia a great deal. But she won’t say why. And Alicia was supposedly a barista at the Blend, yet Matt doesn’t remember her.”

“I get the picture,” Mike said. “And I’m sure Soles and Bass are already doing a background check on her . . . I’ll talk to them tomorrow, try to find out if she has any kind of criminal record or history of mental problems—but there’s something else you need to know . . .”

The grooves of tension in Mike’s forehead made me stiffen. “Bad news?”

“The primary reason I went to the Fourteenth Floor today wasn’t to turn Franco and Sully’s case over to the Feds. That was incidental. First Deputy Commissioner Hawke was far more concerned about a cold case that’s suddenly heating up. He said I was in a unique position to crack it for him.”

“Unique position?”

“The case involved the Village Blend.”

“My Blend?”

“Hawke learned about my ties to you, this place, and he asked me to investigate.”

“This is the old case you mentioned on the rooftop? The one you said I could help you with?”

Mike nodded. “Your former mother-in-law was somehow involved. She was taken into custody for a short time during the height of it.”

“She was arrested?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“Refusing to answer questions before a grand jury.”

“Questions about what?”

“The murder of a police officer.”

I blinked, stared. “I don’t believe it . . .”

Mike said nothing, just waited for me to absorb the shock.

Finally, I asked: “Was Alicia involved?”

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Hawke only gave me an oral briefing today. Sometime this week I’ll be given access to the files and evidence. I’ll let you know more after I review them.”

“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“What detectives do all the time, Cosi. Wait.”

“Well, I’m not waiting in this kitchen.” I drained my cup, grabbed his hand. “Come on . . .”

B
Y the time we reached the master bedroom, I was more than ready for unconsciousness. My daughter was home safe, thanks to the man climbing under the covers next to me, so I snuggled up close and held on tight.

“Do me a favor,” Mike murmured, stroking my hair.

“What?”

“Don’t have any more bad dreams about me.”

“Believe me, it wasn’t my choice.”

“You know, I’ve been dealing with crime scenes for a lot of years. You want some advice?”

“Absolutely.”

“Try to think good thoughts before you drift off. Focus on a positive image.”

“I’ll try . . .”

Closing my eyes, I summoned the first moment I saw Joy today, looking so lovely and grown up in the grand lobby of Rock Center. I saw us hugging and felt my spirits lift. Next I brought back the image of Joy embracing Mike before she went off to bed. My heart soared even higher. Finally, I recalled my first glimpse of Mike at the party, all freshly shaved and smartly pressed in that blue serge suit, chuckling with Joy at the samples bar . . . which reminded me—

“What were you and Joy laughing about at the party?”

“Oh, that . . .” I could almost feel him smiling in the dark. “We were kidding around about her big question.”

“Big question? What big question?”

“Come on, Clare . . .” He chuckled. “You don’t have to play me.”

“Mike, I swear. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You didn’t put Joy up to asking me when you and I are getting married?”

Oh good God!
“No. I did not . . .” Tension flowed back into me. I took a breath, let it out. “She asked me that same question earlier today. I don’t know why she suddenly cares so much.”

“You don’t? It’s a pretty basic deduction, sweetheart. She loves you, and she wants to see you happy, settled . . .”

“And she might be thinking over that question for herself.”

“It’s certainly possible,” Mike conceded. “So . . .”

“So?”

“So when are we getting married?”

I stiffened. “I don’t want to talk about that, Mike. Not now. I’m too tired. Aren’t you tired, too? Can’t we just go to sleep?”

Mike fell silent for a long moment. I felt the tension in his body now. My reaction obviously threw him. But soon he relaxed, letting it go. “Good night, Clare,” he finally whispered and softly kissed my head. “Sweet dreams . . .”

TWENTY-THREE

T
HE calm after the storm. That’s what I’d hoped for, and when I came downstairs the next morning, my expectations were seemingly met.

Outside the fog had passed; the cobalt sky was clear, and sunlight poured through the Blend’s wall of spotless French doors, transforming our marble tabletops into luminous pools of gold. Everything seemed perfectly normal, except the shop’s customers, most of whom were women—with green skin.

“Who killed the Witch of the East? Who? Who? Who?”

Either I was having another Mocha-induced nightmare or my Blend was hosting a coven of wannabe Wicked Witches. Okay,
two
covens, because a coven is only thirteen, and there were over two dozen witches, some wearing wigs and false noses, most with day-glow complexions more commonly seen on the Yellow Brick Road.

“Okay, Tucker, what’s going on?”

“Good morning to you, too, boss.”

I grabbed a stool at the espresso bar, motioned him closer. “There really
are
green women in here, right?”

“Don’t worry, C.C., you’re not hallucinating.” He fluttered the back of his hand. “This is simply spillover from an open casting call at HB Studios.”

“Glad to know I’m not crazy.”

On the barstool next to me, a leanly muscled Latino man nudged me with a laugh. “Your customers are the ones who are crazy today. Crazy for a part in another ridiculous Broadway spectacle.”

I greeted Punch—dancer-singer-actor and Tuck’s current main squeeze. “Let me take a wild guess,” I said. “It’s not Stephen Sondheim.”

The two silently shook their heads.

“Somebody’s reviving
The Wiz
?” I tried.

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Punch said. “I mean, I wish!”

“You have to understand, these are post-postmodern times,” Tucker said as if they’d been arguing about this subject. “One must either deconstruct the traditional or approach it with an innovative sequel.”

“Innovative,” Punch said, rolling his eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“So what’s the production?” I asked.

Punch smirked.
“Return to Munchkin Land.”

“It’s a working title,” Tuck noted.

“Who killed my sister? Who? Who? Who? Was it you, my pretty?”

Tuck slid an espresso in front of me. “Given the events of last night,
that
question’s timely, you have to admit.”

I blew out air and picked up the demitasse, not wanting to admit anything. But before I could take a sip, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“Clare, we need to talk . . .
now
.”

My ex-husband had spoken (and in such a lovely tone of voice). I could only assume he’d found out about Franco and Joy. I closed my eyes, not yet caffeinated enough for this discussion. As he plopped onto the empty stool on the other side of me, I knocked back the espresso so fast I barely tasted it.

Tuck gawked at me. (It was not my usual way of enjoying espresso.) I met his eyes. “Another one, please. ASAP.”

“A
doppio
this time?”

I nodded.

Tuck glanced at Matt. “You want a double, too?”

With a grunt, my ex nodded his shaggy dark head. The length of his hair still threw me. Yesterday he had looked like a jet-lagged Musketeer. Today it was more like an Arabian pirate—a seriously hungover Arabian pirate. Twelve hours’ worth of dark stubble had sprouted around his trimmed goatee and worry lines notched the skin flanking his rum-colored eyes.

“Whatever could be on your mind?” I asked as Tuck beat if for the back of the espresso machine. (He knew when to get out of the line of fire.)

“Breanne and I tried your Mocha Magic stuff last night,” Matt said.

I cleared my throat, thanking heaven this was not about our daughter’s brilliant decision to tail a known drug dealer with a rogue cop across half the state of New Jersey.

“So?” I croaked. “Did you like the herbal product?”

“That’s precisely the issue, Clare. Your Mocha Magic is
not
herbal. You’re pushing a
drug
!”

“Keep you voice down! What’s your problem?”

“That damn Mocha Magic Coffee is my problem and yours, too. When I brought it home last night, Bree said it might make an interesting lifestyle piece in her magazine. So we talked about trying it together and . . .” He combed long fingers through his disheveled hair.

“And? What?”

“And, after two cups, we stopped talking.”

“You made love?”

“That’s a polite euphemism for what we did. We couldn’t stop. Remember, I was already juiced from the party . . .” Matt sighed. “I guess it was my fault. I kind of swept Breanne off her feet.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You had great sex—with your
wife
—and that raises red flags in your head?”

“Listen to me. Your launch party pushed this as a drink mix of coffee, cocoa, and a few herbs. Well, I don’t buy it. What exactly is in the stuff? Those individual packets don’t list the ingredients.”

“The ingredients are on the boxes—twelve packets to a box. They’re also listed in the press kit. Wait! I have one behind the counter.”

I ducked around the espresso bar for the envelope, spilled the contents on the marble top: a slick brochure, a contact sheet, and six single-serving packets. I scanned the brochure’s ingredient list.

“Okay, here we go. There’s
Panax ginseng
—”

“That’s just ginseng grown in Asia,” Matt said. “Why bother to stick the word
Panax
in there except as a cheap marketing ploy?”

“And
Pausinystalia yohimbe
extract—”

“Yohimbe!” Matt cried. “I smoked that crap back in high school. Everybody said it was a legal high. They were only half right.”

“I’m waiting . . .”

“It was
legal
.”

Punch snickered, and I realized he’d been eavesdropping.

“Okay,” I said, still reading. “What about this:
yin yang huo
, otherwise known as horny goat weed.”

“Excuse me?” Punch interrupted. “You’re kidding with that one, aren’t you?”

“No,” I said. “In fact, there’s a legend attached to it.”

“Really?”

I handed over the brochure, and Punch began to read aloud: “Horny goat weed’s aphrodisiac properties were first discovered when shepherds noticed their goats became amorous after they ate this herb . . .”

Tuck arrived with our double espressos. “Sounds like that legend about the origin of coffee.”

“Which is?” Punch asked.

“Goats started frolicking around in an unusually spirited manner after chewing cherries on a coffee shrub. So the goat herder sampled them.”

“Sampling coffee cherries would just wake you up,” Punch pointed out. “What’s a herder to do, all alone on a mountaintop, after trying horny goat weed?”

“Let’s not go there,” I said.

“Yes,” Tuck said. “After all, in any given countryside, there’s always a goat herder on the next hill!”

“¡Ay ay! ¡Arriba!”

While Punch and Tuck high-fived each other, Matt folded his arms. “Sorry to kill the fun, but no amount of
yin yang hooey
or ginseng can account for the effects Breanne and I felt last night.”

“Wait,” I said, trying not to panic. I grabbed the Mocha Magic brochure back from Punch. “There’s
Passiflora
extract—that’s passionflower—and damiana.”

“Clare, you’ve had damiana before.”

“I have?”

“Los Cabos, Mexico?” Matt said. “That week on the Baja Peninsula.”

“Oh, right . . .” (Joy was three. She had stayed with Matt’s mother while we took a little vacation—only there wasn’t a lot of sightseeing beyond our waterfront bedroom, not after one trip to the bar.)

“They used damiana instead of triple sec in their margaritas,” Matt reminded me. “You loved the taste. We must have sucked down a gallon.”

“There you go! The bartender told us it was an aphrodisiac!”

Matt rubbed his jaw, but then shook his head. “Sorry, Clare, nice try, but damiana isn’t that powerful, either. As I recall, before that trip, you and I hadn’t seen each other for almost a month—we had a lot of catching up to do.”

“True.”

“Trust me, I’ve sampled every illicit narcotic known to man at least once, and this Mocha Magic contains a
drug
, not a collection of herbs.”

“Maybe its Alicia’s proprietary formula. She might have found a way to heighten the effects of those herbal ingredients. And you had a
lot
last night. Maybe you simply overdosed, and it came off more powerfully than it usually does. Maybe if she puts a warning on the label—”