Murder by Mocha (28 page)

I was about to answer, but the question itself struck me as odd. We offered such a lovely variety of treats at the party. It seemed unlikely anyone from Aphrodite’s Village would have complained about missing them.

“Gudrun, how did you know about that?”

“I was there.”

“You were there? At the launch party? Why didn’t you introduce yourself?”

“I often attend events incognito. That way I can hear what people really think about my chocolate.”

“Well, there was nothing wrong with your flowers per se. The problem was you grease-penciled
REF
on the box. Someone in the kitchen threw it in the refrigerator. When they came out, near the warm ovens—”

“Oh, damn! Sugar bloom?”

“Yes?”

“Fine. I’ll mark it differently next time.”

“Wait,” I said. “Would you answer some questions for me? When did you get there exactly? And when did you leave?”

“I’m sorry, Clare. I’m very busy today. We have an event tonight on the yacht, you know. I’ll see you there.”

“You’re coming?”

“I said, ‘I’ll see you there!’ ”

I tried to ask again, but on a
whooshing
noise of exasperation, Gudrun killed the line between us.

B
ACK at the coffee bar, Daphne and Susan were saying their good-byes.

“Thanks for the coffee, everyone,” Daphne called.

“Totally delish,” Susan agreed. “Hey, Daph, you want to meet for dinner?”

“Sure. Where are you headed now...”

The girls separated on Hudson. Then Gardner Evans burst in to start his shift, proudly waving his new CD mix for our sound system. Nancy Kelly waved good-bye, and Tuck waved the phone again.

“Matt wants to know when he should stop by to discuss the seasonal delivery schedule.”

“Tell him to be here at two o’clock sharp,” I replied. “And tell him to bring a car.”

“A car? Why?

“Because I need to be in Queens at three. And he’s going to be my backup.”

THIRTY-TWO

T
HE sun is strong today. Too strong! Too much light!

She whipped closed the window curtains, anxious to bring back the cool, shifting shadows of her underworld. Her heart was beating so fast now, her lungs laboring, her skin beading with perspiration.

Calm down,
she counseled herself.
You have plenty of time... plenty of time . . .

She would prepare for this event the way she always did—like a machine. First she selected her clothes.
Black again . . . black for mourning, black for death . . .

Next she found the mask.

Her masks existed in many forms, but for this performance, she went to a closet and dug out the plastic kind—a copy of the one she’d used on Bay Creek’s bridge, above that snaking canal of water that carried away her old self, which spanned the distance that led to this new one.

After laying out everything on the bed, she sunk to her knees, smirking with a thought:
Years ago, that woman had gone down on her knees in a bedroom, too. But not to pray . . .

With a deep breath, she lifted the mattress and groped around for the cold steel shaft. Fingers closing on hard metal, she pulled, letting the mattress fall with a muffled thud.

Feeling the weight of the weapon, she smiled. Here was something better than prayer. Here was
power
. The power to defend life and exact death. The power to make three women’s lives a living hell.

The same way they did for my mother . . .

She stroked the dark trigger, so cool and smooth, recalled the joy of pulling it, only once before—on her mother’s persecutor.

I showed him what
premeditated
really was, didn’t I?

First she’d bought the gun, so easy, just a weekend drive away. Then she’d stalked him, all the way from Long Island, waited for him to leave the restaurant, then his club, finally the bar. At last, he came back to the Manhattan parking garage, tipsy, distracted . . .

She’d dressed with perfect irony—a young mother, cradling an infant. Hera breast-feeding Hercules. Only this son of Zeus had a belly full of bullets, and when the gun discharged in the chilly gloom, light flashed like the light from Hera’s breast to create all the stars of the Milky Way.

She cackled, recalling the man’s shocked face; his fat, falling body; the light of life leaving his eyes.
Such a brilliant lawyer! Such a brilliant mind! How dazzling are you now? In your coffin? In your grave?

The getaway had been easy. No one saw her. No one stopped her. But she learned a valuable lesson the next day, watching those idiot news people report the execution.

Beware of all-seeing eyes. They record everything: comings and goings, sins and secrets . . .

The gods of the underworld had been with her that night. The police ignored the security camera’s image of a bundled up mother, her face obscured as she carried her child. Instead, they focused on more promising suspects: a young punk with a mugging rap sheet; a vagrant with mental problems; a worker on parole.

From then on, she remembered to look out for those all-seeing eyes—or find a way to trick them. All-seeing people were another matter. People like Clare Cosi.

That woman just wouldn’t stop prodding and probing; pushing and snooping. The stupid Coffee Lady might even be smart enough to unmask her.
Which is why she must die this afternoon. And once that nosy barista is gone, I can begin my grand finale . . .

THIRTY-THREE

T
HAT afternoon, three impatient horn blasts shattered the tranquillity of my coffeehouse. I glanced out the front window to find a military vehicle idling on Hudson.

“I think Mr. Boss has arrived,” Esther announced, “unless we’re hosting a reunion for Desert Storm vets.”

The Hummer was massive; its exterior dabbled in the chocolate-chip brown of army camouflage. When I reached the sidewalk, Matt waved me forward.

“My God,” I said, “are we going to Queens or invading a small country?”

“Get in and we’ll decide.”

I slung my heavy handbag full of tricks over my shoulder. It clattered as I climbed into the cab. I swear I felt the monster engine rumbling in my chest.

“Breanne’s magazine rented this prop for a fashion photo shoot,” Matt explained.

“What to wear when the Joint Chiefs drop by?”

“Apparently, military-style wraps are a Best Bet for a Fall Favorite. Anyway, she had the thing parked in our building’s garage, so I thought, ‘What the hell?’ More fun than her wimpy hybrid, don’t you think?”

That’s when Matt took a closer look at my face—and his smile vanished. “What happened to your nose, Clare?”

“Oh, that . . .” I touched the bruise. “It’s nothing—”

Matt’s expression darkened. “Did Dudley Do-right do something wrong? Because if he did, he won’t know what hit
him
.”

“Matt—”

“I mean it. I’m
pretty
sure I can take that guy, armed or not.”

“Thanks, but Quinn had absolutely nothing to do with this. I ran into a door . . .”
A big canary yellow door with a rock- hard forearm.
“And with enough makeup you can barely see the damage.”

“A door?” Matt repeated. “So what’s the name of this ‘door’ and where can I find him?”

“I’ll explain on the way. Let’s get going. Here—” I passed him the napkin. “Nancy drew me a map.”

He waved it away. “I’ve got all the directions I need right here.” With affection, he patted a GPS device fitted to the dashboard. “We’re 6.9 miles, twenty-eight minutes, and one toll away.”

“Thank R2D2 for me.”

Matt slipped on a pair of Ray-Bans and eased the Hummer into traffic. With his new longish hairstyle and dark goatee, he looked like he was driving to an all-night jam session at the Blue Note—or a Mexican bank robbery.

“Matt,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “I have a quick question for you.”

“Shoot,” he said, then smirked. “Not literally. I mean, Quinn hasn’t given you his gun, has he?”

“Did your mother ever date a cop?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Matt snorted. “My mother trusts cops about as much as I do.”

“Since when?” I challenged. “She never said anything to me about not trusting the police.”

“I’m not surprised, given what your boyfriend does for a living. Around you, she obviously kept her opinion to herself.”

“So you don’t recall her mentioning dating a detective?”

“What’s this all about?”

“Did she ever mention a man named Cormac O’Neil? Maybe she called him Murphy or Murph?”

“No, Clare. That name doesn’t ring any bells. Now why are you asking?”

“I’ll tell you about it—later.”

“Well, at least tell me why I’m driving you to an outdoor art space in Queens.”

I took a breath. “Aphrodite has taken over the park for a PR party to launch a new line of home furnishings. The event is scheduled for Saturday, but at three o’clock today, I’m supposed to meet Maya Lansing and Alicia Bower on the grounds to mediate their peace conference.”

Matt rubbed his dark goatee. “Isn’t Maya that half-naked fitness queen who threaten to end you? Maybe we should buy pepper spray. I can stop by the Queens Spy Shop. They’ve helped me before—”

“No. I don’t need—”

“On second thought, Maya is pretty buff. Maybe you should bring a Taser. The nose is good, though you’ll look tougher with a battered face. Intimidating, you know?”

“This is supposed to be a peace conference.”

“So was the Munich Agreement. Eleven months later Nazi tanks rolled into Warsaw.”

“You’re the one who brought the tank!”

“That’s not the point.” Matt’s eyebrows knitted. “How did this all come about?”

Waving the letter from Alicia, I delivered a carefully edited version of my trip to Nutrition Nation—leaving all of Franco’s involvement on the cutting room floor. By the time I was finished with my update, we were through the Midtown Tunnel and inside the borough of Queens.

“So you’re telling me our new business partner isn’t just a drug pusher. She’s also a—”

“Murderess.” I swallowed hard. “Yes, sorry, but Alicia had motive and opportunity. And she also framed Maya Lansing for the crime.”

The light changed, and we drove past a public housing project and into a distressed industrial area made up of junk-yards, warehouses, and garages. Most depressing were the shuttered businesses: Laundromats, delis, bodegas. Their deteriorated signs were half rusted, their windows dark.

But then Matt made a right turn onto Vernon Boulevard, and the world around us suddenly transformed. Vernon paralleled the East River, and between the sun-kissed chop of that flowing water and the wide road we were on, stretched a lush, green swath of parkland.

A block later, I recognized the walls of the Noguchi Museum, a building with ten art galleries on two floors. I’d spent a glorious day here a few years ago, viewing the works of Japanese-American artists as well as the lamps and furniture designed by Isamu Noguchi.

My tension eased as I remembered the simple tranquillity of the open-air sculpture garden within those walls—an example of the miracle that was New York City.

As challenging and rocky as life often became on these urban streets, sometimes all you had to do was turn a corner to find yourself in a better place, one filled with imagination, vision, beauty, and hope.

“We’re here,” Matt said, one eye on his GPS screen. “Socrates Sculpture Park is on our left, past this big box store.”

“Pull into the store’s lot,” I said. “Nancy warned me there was no other place to park around here.”

We swung into Costco’s sprawling acreage, past its automotive garage and discount liquor store. Matt found a spot big enough to accommodate Bree’s fashionista prop, a space facing the East River, a channel of water that led directly to the Atlantic Ocean.

Matt cut the engine and powered down the windows. Fresh sea air swept in along with the cry of seagulls and the sweet scent of Italian roasted peppers from a nearby concessions area.

In front of our Hummer, a narrow sidewalk paralleled the jagged shoreline. Two African-American teens, an older Greek man, and a Hispanic father and son sat among the damp rocks, dangling fishing lines hopefully.

Across the treacherous river the Manhattan skyline rose up like the shimmering walls of a mythic city—one of the most breathtaking views of New York I’d ever seen.
And in a Queens Costco parking lot. Who knew?

“Okay, Clare. What’s your plan, and why do you need me?”

“I’m going to blackmail Alicia Bower.”

Matt peered over his sunglasses. “That’s a crime.”

“So is murder. I’m going to inform Alicia that I’ve figured out she killed Patrice. I’m going to lay out my evidence and threaten to go to the police unless she cuts me in for a big piece of the profits on Mocha Magic.”

“Alicia won’t like that,” Matt said. “And Maya Lansing won’t, either. And the fitness queen is very big and very buff.”

“I’m going to inform Maya that Alicia tried to frame her by using her Nutrition Nation umbrella when she committed the murder.”

“You’re going to start a cat fight, and you’ll be in the middle!”

I pulled a digital recorder from my purse. “I’m going to document the entire conversation. When I tell Alicia I want money in exchange for my silence, I’m sure she’ll incriminate herself.”

“So what?” Matt threw up his hands. “That recording will be made without consent, so nothing you get will be admissible in court.”

“Doesn’t matter. If I can establish Alicia’s guilt without doubt, I can turn over the recordings to Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass. Those two detectives are trained interrogators. In an interview room, they’ll be able to break Alicia down and get a confession.”

“Not if she shuts her yap and hires a lawyer.”

“I’ll be a witness to whatever she says. So will Maya. They’ll get her, Matt.”

“That still doesn’t explain why I’m here.”