THIRTY-SIX

“I am not a murderer!”

Hands on slender hips, Alicia Bower met my eyes, incensed and defiant.

I pointed to the lovingly battered café chair directly across from mine, the one from which she’d dramatically leaped. “Sit down.”

The four of us—Alicia, Madame, Matt, and I—were positioned like points of a compass around the table. We had our privacy up here on the Blend’s closed second floor. What we didn’t have was peace. We’d barely settled in before Matt blurted out, “Until you two rolled up in your limo, Clare thought Alicia was the shooter.”

“I am outraged! Outraged!” Alicia cried.

“There’s no use getting emotional, dear.” Madame picked up her cup and saucer. “Clare’s right. Sit. Drink your cappuccino. It’s quite delicious . . .”

Tugging on the lapels of her pinstriped blazer, Alicia stood firm a moment, then tossed her perfectly coiffed flapper hair and returned the seat of her skirt to the seat of the chair.

“You called to tell me you were sending over instructions. What was I supposed to think?” I asked Alicia.

“I sent over the catering instructions, that’s all,” Alicia replied. “I had nothing to do with that fake letter.”

Suddenly Matt sprang up. “I need another double!”

I wasn’t surprised. The man had downed his first doppio faster than Quinn’s fire-haired cousin knocked back Irish whiskey. Either my ex-husband really needed more caffeine, which was easy to believe, or he wanted an excuse to regroup after Alicia’s tantrum (even easier to believe).

“Ladies? Anything else?”

We shook our heads, and Matt headed for our corkscrew staircase.

Of course, the police had interviewed us at the crime scene. They processed us further at a Queens precinct, taking our statements, our photos, and our letters. Yes, letters plural.

Alicia had received a typewritten note similar to mine, summoning her to the park tent. Her memo had been from Aphrodite (supposedly), and Susan Chu had been the one to deliver it. The police discovered a third summoning message in the stiffening fingers of Maya Lansing’s corpse, this one also purportedly from Aphrodite. God knows who delivered Maya’s letter. Daphne? Susan? Yet another of the Aphrodite’s Village gofers?

The whole thing made my head spin, and in just a few hours, my staff and I were expected at the Twelfth Street Pier. I’d signed a contract, agreeing to cater another PR event for Aphrodite’s Village—this one on a yacht for relationship expert Sherri Sellars.

I’d accepted their advance, purchased inventory, and scheduled my people. Aphrodite’s contract carried stiff financial penalties for dropping the ball at the last minute (and she was known to be litigious), so I was loath to back out now. But the police had yet to find today’s shooter, and I wasn’t too keen on becoming that killer’s target dummy for the second time today. Consequently, I ordered (yes ordered) Alicia, Madame, and Matt to come back to the Blend with me. It’s time we hashed everything out, I’d told them. Everything.

“Why, in heaven’s name, did you think I would want to shoot you?” Alicia demanded.

“Because I’m a key witness in the murder of Patrice Stone—”

“That doesn’t explain a thing!”

“It will if you allow me to finish. I’ve been helping the two lead detectives on Patrice’s case nail you as the primary person of interest in her murder.”

“You what?” Now Madame joined Alicia for a duet of outrage. (I didn’t blame them.)

“Just listen to the whole story,” I said, “because the circumstantial evidence against Alicia is overwhelming . . .” I laid out the tale, finishing up with the truth about Alicia’s Candy Man, Troy Talos. By the end, both women’s mouths were slack. “And here’s the biggest shock of all: the person who hired Talos to seduce Alicia away from her own launch party was Patrice.”

Alicia’s face blanched. “Patrice Stone?”

I nodded.

“My goodness,” Madame said. “In heaven’s name, why?”

“Ambition. Patrice wanted the top spot at Aphrodite’s Village after Aphrodite retired, and Alicia was stiff competition for it, so Patrice tried to take her down a notch.”

Madame sighed. “How puerile.”

“That’s not the worst of it,” I said.

“What is?” Alicia whispered.

I met her gaze. “Think it through: if you discovered or even suspected that Patrice was behind that criminal prank, then you would also have a highly plausible motive for murder.”

“But I didn’t kill Patrice!” Alicia wailed. “And I didn’t know she’d hired Dennis!”

“You mean Troy, dear,” Madame corrected.

Alicia covered her eyes. “Whatever that man’s name was, I can tell you he was a pro at turning on the charm . . .”

That was easy to believe. “Troy Talos is a wannabe-actor parolee who ran gigolo scams in the past. I’d say pro is the right word.”

Alicia held her head. “Oh God.”

“Listen up, okay?” I touched Alicia’s arm. “I have to ask you a question. It’s an important one so look at me.”

Frowning, Alicia glanced up.

“The night of Patrice’s murder, you put on your raincoat and went into the Garden. Everyone was inside by then. I understand you told the lead detectives that you were simply checking the weather, but I don’t believe it. Why did you go out there, Alicia?”

“I . . . I left something . . .” She looked away.

“If you don’t tell me the truth, I can’t help you.”

She smirked. “So now you’re going to help me?”

I folded my arms. “Believe me, lady, if you want to twist in the wind, I’ll be glad to let you.”

As I sat back, Madame leaned forward, closing still-strong fingers around Alicia’s wrist. “If I were you, dear, I would tell my daughter-in-law the truth.”

Stiffening like an ice sculpture, Alicia cast her eyes downward, fixing her gaze on the old scars in the wooden tabletop. “I went out to the Garden,” she said, voice barely there, “to rifle the files on Patrice’s smartphone.”

“You what?” Now Madame and I were the duet.

Releasing her wrist, Madame sat back, and I leaned forward. “Why did you do that?”

Alicia wrung her hands. “I know it sounds awful. But I noticed Patrice had left it out there after her speech, on the shelf under the podium. When the storm hit and everyone rushed inside, I saw it as luck—an opportunity to watch my back.”

“So you did suspect Patrice was trying to undermine you?”

“Not Patrice—but I heard gossip that other Sisters in our Village were angling for control of my Mocha Magic product. I needed to find out who my enemies really were. So I skimmed Patrice’s e-mails.”

“What did you find out?”

“Not much. There were messages from Maya, Aphrodite, and Sherri Sellars, as well as Patrice’s assistant Susan Chu. The e-mails from Maya were the most incriminating—but you already know what she was up to. You witnessed our argument at the party. What I didn’t know was that Patrice’s words of support for me that night were a total lie. She was two-faced, a good little actress.”

“And now she’s a dead little actress.” Matt walked toward us from the top of the stairs.

“Matteo, that’s awful,” Madame scolded.

“It’s the truth, Mother.” He moved to the table but refused to sit. “And speaking of truths, now is a good moment for another one. Don’t you think, Clare?”

I speared Matt. Don’t you put this all on me or you’ll be the next corpse!

Catching my drift, he folded his arms and shifted his gaze to the woman of the hour. “What’s in the Mocha Magic, Alicia?”

“Excuse me?” She frowned. “Didn’t you read the press packet?”

“Humor me. What’s in it?”

“Village Blend coffee—obviously. Voss chocolate and a proprietary combination of imported herbs and spices.”

“Come clean, honey. What drug did you add to that herbal mix? A narcotic? A controlled substance? What?”

“My boy—” Madame’s voice was stern. Clearly, she didn’t care for Matt’s tone, yet she paused, trusting her son enough to give him some latitude. “What are you suggesting here?”

“I’m suggesting that the ‘magic’ in that Mocha Magic is going to sink us all.” He looked to me. Okay, Clare, now you’re on.

I took a breath, braced myself. “I asked Mike Quinn to help us out. I gave him a sample. He’s having it tested.”

Once again, Alicia went into jack-in-the-box mode, flying into another tantrum—lots of “What nerve!” and “How dare yous!” But she soon ran out of gas, and Matt and I were ready for her.

“If the product ingredients are kosher, then you have nothing to worry about, do you?” I said.

Matt nodded. “Either you’re lying to us or you’re duped, too. Which is it?”

Alicia sank into her chair. She looked to Madame and both admitted an odd fact. Although the two had sampled plenty of the Mocha Magic product during its final stages of development, neither imbibed at the launch party.

“I did eat the chocolates and pastries,” Alicia said, “and so did your mother.”

Matt shook his head. “As a flavoring agent, the active ingredients are diluted. When you drink the stuff, you feel the effects. I promise you.”

I turned to Madame. “Why didn’t you drink the Mocha Magic at the party?”

“Frankly, dear, I’m no fan of instant coffee. Compared with other instants, I found Alicia’s product acceptable, even superior. I did feel a slight boost of euphoria when I sampled it weeks ago, but nothing like a drug.”

Matt glanced at me. “I don’t want my mother putting that stuff into her system. But Alicia needs to try several cups of it now, in front of us all.”

I nodded. “I’ll have Esther bring some up.”

“Thanks.”

I stood but didn’t leave. Matt had interrupted our discussion before I could make things clear to Alicia on the Patrice Stone murder.

“What is it, Clare?” Madame asked.

“I want to make sure you both understand this. After we’re through here, Alicia should call her lawyer. She needs to go up to the Seventeenth Precinct and amend her statement. She’s got to tell the police the truth about what she really did in the Garden on the night of the party.”

“Yes, fine,” Alicia said, waving her hand. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Good,” I said, relieved, and headed for the stairs.

“HOLY smokin’ rockets! It’s just smoke . . . and a rocket,” Nancy complained as I moved toward our espresso bar.

“Exactly,” Dante replied.

Dante Silva, my artista barista, appeared to be showing Nancy Kelly a series of pen-and-ink drawings from one of his sketchbooks. I knew Dante was scheduled to relieve Esther any minute, but I was surprised (and a little upset) to see Nancy here. She had had a shift earlier today and left once already. She wasn’t scheduled to work again until our catering gig tonight.

Slipping behind the counter, I asked Esther to prepare four servings of Mocha Magic and take them to the second floor.

“No problem,” she said, pulling out a tray.

I tipped my head toward Nancy and Dante. “I’ve been trying to keep them apart on the schedule. What is she up to with him?”

Esther rolled her eyes. “She’s paying him to create an original tattoo for her . . .”

“I see.”

“But if you ask me, he’s the one paying for it.”

“I don’t get the whole rocket thing,” Nancy said, obviously agitated.

“I turned your phrase into an image,” Dante calmly explained. “The smoke. The rocket. It’s signature Nancy, so I thought it would make a great tattoo. You can pick out the colors, of course . . .”

I moved closer, glanced at the drawing—an art deco rocket with curlicue smoke belching from its tail pipe. The design was charming, but Nancy appeared stressed out by the very idea.

“Okay . . .” Dante buried the sketch, scratched his shaved head, and found another.

A few rejected designs later, Esther was ready to head upstairs with the Mocha Magic samples, and I was pulling myself a badly needed espresso shot. “Tell Matt I’ll be right up, okay?”

“Sure, boss . . .”

“Here’s a great one,” Dante told Nancy. “The Greek philosopher Plato believed that a serpent devouring its own tail was the first living thing in the universe, the origin of all life. This design is a Norse version of the concept.”

Nancy frowned. “Why is the snake biting its own butt?”

“It’s symbolic for the circle of life—the snake who devours its own tail.”

“Yuck. Who would want a ringworm for a tattoo?”

“Fine. What do you think of a unicorn?”

“I think it’s uni-corny!”

“How about an ankh?”

“A what?”

Dante touched one of the colorful tattoos on his own ropey arms—a cross with a loop on top. “It’s an ancient Egyptian symbol.”

“It’s called the Key of Life,” interjected Barry, one of our most loyal customers.

“Yes, it’s very spiritual,” agreed Jung-Min, another regular. “It looks cool on your arm, too.”

Dante smiled at the pretty, young grad student, now leaning over his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re welcome,” Jung-Min said, grinning back. “When do you start pulling shots, Dante? I love your latte art!”

He checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

A friend of Jung-Min’s wandered over (another coed, of course). “Would you show me some of your sketches, too, Dante?”

“Excuse me!” Nancy glared at the girls. “Dante is working with me now. Some privacy, please?”

Jung-Min and her friend blinked, shrugged, and found an empty table.

With an exhale, Dante closed his sketchbook. “How about a dolphin? All girls love dolphins, don’t they?”

“What’s romantic about a fish? I want something personal. From you.”

Dante visibly tensed. Finally, the boy got a clue. I bit my cheek and sipped my espresso. The earthy warmth felt as though it were spreading into my very bones. God, I needed that... and this break from the Tantrum Queen. Now I know why Matt slipped away . . .

“How about a flower?” Nancy continued, reaching across to take Dante’s hand. “A rose with a heart around it—and your signature. I’ve got to have your name etched into my skin.”

“Oh, man . . .” Dante pulled back his hand. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea . . .”

“Why not? You sign your paintings, don’t you?”

Dante’s reply was drowned out by three loud voices—Alicia’s, Madame’s, and Matt’s. As they descended the staircase, Matt’s gaze found mine behind the counter. Looking pleased, he gestured as if he were drinking, then flashed a thumbs-up sign.

Setting down my demitasse, I hurried to catch up with Alicia, but she was already out the front door. Turning, I faced Matt and Madame.

“Where is she going?”

“To dress for this evening’s yacht party,” Madame said. “Which is where I’m going, too.” She pecked my cheek. “I’ll see you on the boat, dear!”

As Madame moved to the sidewalk, arm up, a cab pulled over and she was gone.

I turned to Matt. “Doesn’t Alicia understand how much trouble she’s in with the police? She needs to go up to the Seventeenth Precinct now, with a lawyer. She needs to amend her previous statement and straighten things out with Detectives Soles and Bass!”

Matt shrugged. “Alicia doesn’t seem to think it’s so urgent. She said she’s putting it off until the morning. She’s a lot more upset about what Gudrun Voss did to her product. And so am I.”

“What happened up there?”

He smiled down at me. “Score.”

“You got through to her?”

“Alicia drank a single cup of the Mocha Magic and admitted we were right. She started cursing like a sailor, ranting that Gudrun changed the product profile.”

“Why would Gudrun do that without telling her?”

“I don’t know. But Alicia swore she’d have it out with the little chocolatier on the boat tonight. I’m looking forward to seeing that.”

Given the “Sisterly” confrontations I’d witnessed this week, I wasn’t at all sure I was. Frowning, I checked my watch and glanced across the coffeehouse floor. Quinn’s two undercover sentries were still settled in our corner, nursing large lattes. Matt still didn’t know about them—or Quinn’s cold-case assignment or Scarface.

The bizarre story of his mother’s old flame being a cop killer had taken a back seat to the hot water we were in with Alicia and her Village people. Frankly, I was glad Matt was here. If something went down, I wanted someone around who could handle chaos, and Matt’s third-world travails—from African uprisings and Bangkok brawls to Indonesian tsunamis—had tempered him well.

Given the shooting gallery we’d gone through a few hours ago, I was glad he was coming tonight, too. But now I was the one slipping away. I had plenty to do before this yacht party started.

I just hoped to God it didn’t end with a bang.