Murder by Mocha (32 page)

The crowed laughed; men applauded.

“Seriously . . .” Sherri held up her finger once more. “In relationships, we must remember the three B’s. Keep things beautiful, bubbly, and buoyant . . .”

Matt glanced at me. He was smirking.

“What?”

“In Africa, there’s a shrub with a small red fruit that causes sour substances to taste sweet. They call it the miracle fruit.”

“And?”

“The glycoprotein in the juice fools the tongue, so you keep eating the bitter, thinking that it’s sweet, until you get sick.”

“What’s your point?”

“Couples can drink all the ‘miracle brew’ on the planet, but they’ll still wake up the next day in the same crappy marriage.”

“Aren’t you being a little hard on her? Aphrodisiacs have been around for thousands of years.”

“Yeah, but not pop-psychology panaceas.”

“You think she’s full of hooey?”

“What else would you call those quick-fix ideas?” He folded his arms. “I think she’s peddling a drug, Clare, and you know what a drug does, right? It makes the sour in your life taste sweet. The problem is you have to keep taking it. Great for the dealer’s bottom line—not so nice for your next-day reality.”

“Wow,” I said. “Pretty profound for a former cocaine addict.”

“The key word being
former
.”

A burst of applause broke through our conversation, and I realized Sherri had finished her presentation. Stepping down from the low stage, she began moving through the crowd, greeting audience members.

My ex shot me another odd look.

“What now?”

“A suspicion. I’ll be right back . . .”

I held my breath as Matt moved up. He firmly shook Sherri’s hand. I couldn’t hear what he said, but it was obviously something complimentary because Sherri laughed and nodded.

“What was that all about?” I whispered when he returned.

“Just wanted to find out something.”

“Well, something occurred to me while you were shaking her hand. This is supposed to be a PR event for her radio show, right? Yet she’s doing a hard sell on the Mocha Magic. Why? What’s in it for her?”

“She must be cut in for some control of it,” Matt said.

“Or she’s angling to, just like Maya.”

I tensed, thinking of the fear and panic in Daphne’s voice. Sherri Sellars appeared together and successful, intelligent, and accomplished. But so did Patrice Stone.
What if Sherri has a dark side? What if—

I was about to tell Matt about my theory when I realized a striking pair of blue eyes were staring at me from under a black, broad-brimmed fedora.

The stranger wore a long, dark coat; a white shirt with no tie; and a full, silver beard with two sidelocks hanging down at his temples. He turned away quickly, but not before I felt a shock of recognition. This man was Scarface! I was sure of it! I’d never forget the penetrating cop stare of those steel blue eyes.

“Matt,” I rasped. “Do you see that guy over there?”

“The rabbi?”

“He’s dressed like a Hasidic Jew, Matt, not a rabbi.”

“What? You have the Mossad after you now?”

“I doubt that man is even Jewish! The first time I met him he said his name was Bob.”

Matt scratched his goatee. “He’s wearing a press pass. He’s probably from a Borough Park newspaper. Maybe his name is Job and you misheard.”

“Please.”

“What? You’re not making a whole lot of sense, Clare.”

“Trust me, okay? Do not approach him. Do not talk to him. And do not let that man get close to your mother. According to Mike Quinn, he might mean her harm.”

Matt’s eyes narrowed. “Then if he gets near Mother, Joy, or you, I’ll take him out.”

“I hope it won’t come to that,” I said as I speed-dialed Mike Quinn. I got his voice mail, just as I had earlier. I told him where I was and that the Scarface man we’d spoken about was on board. Then I dialed the Sixth Precinct and left an emergency message for him.

I hated going through the precinct. They’d radio Mike, which was extreme because so many other cops would hear the call, but this was police business, not personal, and I knew he’d want me to do it.

I’d hardly closed the phone when Madame and Alicia waved me forward. I tucked the phone away and squared my shoulders.

The time had come to confront our crafty chocolatier—Gudrun Voss.

THIRTY-EIGHT

M
ADAME and I followed Alicia down several decks, low enough to feel the spray off the black water. We passed through a large hatch, into a hallway with royal blue carpeting and recessed lighting. Three doors opened onto the corridor, all closed except one at the far end.

One of Aphrodite’s young assistants stopped us, a petite nymph dressed in flowing spring green. Minthe was her name. She had delicate features, celadon eyes, and wavy golden hair. I nearly checked her back for wings.

“We’re here to see Gudrun Voss,” Alicia said.

“Aphrodite is still speaking with her,” she said breathlessly. “Wait here, please.”

Minthe disappeared through the open door. A minute passed. Then two. As Alicia paced, I glanced at Madame and pointed. She gave me a little smile.
Go!
she mouthed. I returned her smile and nodded then began to creep toward the open door.

“Clare!” Alicia rasped in alarm. “Where are you going?”

“To snoop,” I said. “Wait here.”

Hugging the wall, I moved along the corridor, as close as I could to the open door. Finally, I heard voices. Two women were speaking, one arguing passionately, the other calm. I closed my eyes and focused, straining to make out their words over the throb of the yacht’s engine.

“I told you I can’t meet your schedule without compromising quality. Voss is a boutique company with a small, highly trained staff. We don’t operate twenty-four hours a day . . .”

That’s definitely Gudrun Voss!
Though we’d never actually met, I’d asked the chocolatier to speak up so many times over the phone I’d recognize her too-timid voice anywhere.

“You want me to double my output,” she continued, “but when you changed the formula, I had to readjust the recipe . . .”

Changed the formula? Alicia’s formula?

Flattening myself further against the bulkhead, I felt the engine thrum at the base of my spine as I inched closer to the door.

“You’ve ignored my e-mails and you won’t take my calls,” Gudrun said, “so I’ve come here tonight to tell you face-to-face: it can’t be done.”

Aphrodite’s silence was frustrating us both, but only Gudrun was in a position to complain about it—finally, she did. “Do you understand what I said, Aphrodite? Has anything I’ve said gotten through that Hellenic wall you’ve erected against reality?”

The response was completely devoid of emotion, almost robotic. “Yes, I heard what you said.”

I risked a peek around the corner. Aphrodite remained stubbornly out of sight, but I spied Gudrun. The famous “Chocolate Nun” was dressed in chocolate, too—not her signature black chef’s jacket but a simple cocoa pantsuit. Like Alicia, she was slender with pale skin and dead-straight black hair, although hers fell well past her shoulders—and she was much younger, of course. Alicia was in her fifties, at least; Gudrun in her mid to late twenties.

“You’ve ‘heard’ what I said!” Gudrun repeated, obviously annoyed. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You have your instructions, Ms. Voss. The enhanced formula has been delivered, now produce the product.”

“Fine-quality chocolate can’t be churned out like a fast-food burger. It has to be roasted. Ground. Aged. Tempered.”

“Making the schedule is your problem, not mine,” Aphrodite said.

“It’s impossible. I can’t do it. You can sue me.”

“I don’t have to sue you. I own you.”

Gudrun cursed and whirled. Before I knew it, she burst through the door, black hair lifting on an evening breeze, pale cheeks ruddy with anger. She moved down the hall so rapidly I don’t think she realized I’d been eavesdropping.

Alicia tried to block her. “Wait, Gudrun! I want to speak with you.”

“Get out of my way!” she cried, pushing Alicia roughly as she rushed out the open hatch.

Alicia stumbled on her heels, then recovered and tossed her flapper hair. “Well, I never—”

The nymph reappeared at the door. “Ms. Bower, Aphrodite would like to see you and your friends.
Now,
if you don’t mind.”

As we entered, Aphrodite dismissed her assistant with a backhanded wave. In her midthirties at most, the self-styled goddess lounged on a white velvet couch under a window with a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. Her legs were up on the couch, her feet shod in Roman-style leather sandals in the same icy blue as her silk pantsuit. Petite and small-boned, I doubted the Web mistress was much taller than my own five-foot-two frame, despite a rather bizarre, high-fashion upsweep of platinum hair that added inches to her height.

“This is my lifelong friend, Madame Dubois, and her daughter-in-law, Clare Cosi,” Alicia said. “Clare manages the Village Blend and roasts the beans for our Mocha Magic powder.”

She stood and I took Aphrodite’s proffered hand. It held all the warmth of a dead fish. Her gaze remained on the carpet, never once lifting to meet mine. Aphrodite moved from me to Madame as if she were sleepwalking. Madame and I exchanged glances. She mouthed two words—a name, a legend, and one of my idols:
Andy Warhol
.

Decades ago, when Madame was running the Village Blend, Warhol, Edie Sedgwick, and a motley crew of hangers-on from Warhol’s famous Factory often visited her coffeehouse.

Madame once told me how Edie and the others would behave outrageously while Warhol sat in the corner and quietly watched them, impassive behind his thick glasses, invisible under his own signature mop of platinum hair.

Was the creative genius painfully shy or was it something else? Maybe the enigma was part of the persona, or maybe, once crowned, a “visionary” monarch didn’t need to make an effort.

Aphrodite certainly fit the latter theory. While she might have been a powerful force on the World Wide Web, in the flesh this slight, soft-voiced woman presented herself as so unengaged she seemed hardly in the room. Yet from what I just overheard, this woman was fully in charge.

“Why did you want to speak with Gudrun?” Aphrodite quietly asked us.

Alicia cleared her throat. “Well,
Ms. Cosi
here has brought a problem to my attention.”

“Problem?”

“Yes, a problem with the Mocha Magic. The production samples seem to be much more powerful than the small-batch product we tested.” Alicia paused. “I believe another ingredient might have been added by Gudrun Voss . . .”

Aphrodite’s sigh was loud and sustained. She touched her temple and bowed her head. When she spoke again, she sounded close to tears.

“Alicia, I cannot believe that you’re troubling me with this, after all that’s happened this week. First Patrice . . . Poor Patrice. And then today, Maya . . .” Her voice caught, she swallowed, touched her eyes. “Half our events canceled. The tent wrecked. Police everywhere . . .”

Alicia jumped in, immediately solicitous. “I’m so sorry, Aphrodite, perhaps this can wait for a better time—”

“No,” I said. “This can’t wait. We need answers and we need them now.”

As if a switch had been flipped, Aphrodite’s anguish instantly vanished. For the first time, her eyes met mine. I stared hard into those icy orbs—they held no emotion beyond a cold fury at being challenged. The effect was chilling, but I squared my shoulders.

“I overheard your conversation with Ms. Voss,” I confessed. “Clearly, you were the one who altered Alicia’s formula, not Gudrun Voss.”

Alicia gasped then sputtered. “Clare, you . . . you must have misheard!”

“I know what I heard,” I said, and was about to continue when—

“No! Please, no!”

The terrified shout was followed by a piercing scream, then—

SPLASH !

I hurried to the door. The corridor was empty, Minthe gone.

Where is Minthe? Where did she go?

The hatch to the outside walkway was open wide, night air flowing in. Alicia, Madame, and Aphrodite followed me across the carpeted hallway. Once outside, I saw a crumpled form on the deck. The ladies behind me gasped.

I dropped to my knee and checked the woman for a pulse. She moaned when I touched her then turned her face to the light.

“It’s Susan Chu!” I glanced at Madame. “Get help, find a doctor!”

Madame nodded and hurried off, leaving Alicia and Aphrodite behind. I touched the back of Susan’s head and felt blood. Her eyes fluttered open.

“Daphne! Where’s Daph?”

“She’s not here, Susan.”

“But she was. She
was
!” Clutching my arm, she looked around, eyes pools of fear. “She was right here, with me. Daphne was telling me she’d found something on her boss’s computer. She said Sherri was furious and going to
end
her. Then Daph pointed behind me. She looked horrified, confused . . .”

She touched the back of her head, pulled away fingers stained with red.

“What happened next?” I asked. “Susan! What happened?”

Susan stared mutely at her bloody fingers, began sobbing hysterically. I looked up and down the deck for Daphne. Where was she?

Alicia and Aphrodite didn’t appear to care. They weren’t even looking at me, or poor Susan. They stood with mouths gaping, staring at a word spray-painted on the bulkhead.

RUFINA.

“It’s from your college thesis,” Alicia told Aphrodite in a voice of shock and dread. “But who would remember? They’re dead. Everyone is dead!”

That’s when I noticed Daphne Krupa’s pink-and-orange polka-dot scarf, caught on the deck railing a few feet away. I rose and looked over the side. One long end of the brightly colored silk was now trailing in the deathly dark water. Remembering that loud splash, I felt sick to my stomach.

“Help!” I yelled. “I need help! A woman’s been thrown overboard!”

I heard fast footsteps along the walkway. A young Korean-American couple led several crewmen to our aid. I’d seen this man and woman in the crowd, but I thought they were members of the press. Now I blinked in surprise when they flashed their gold shields—these were the undercovers from Queens!