Murder by Mocha

“I like that name!” Nancy cried. “Brownies Italiano sounds really cute.”

I stared.

Esther folded her arms. “Okay, maybe not.”

“Maybe Ms. Cosi’s right,” Nancy said. “The name kind of reminds me of Nanaimo bars. It’s a weird name for a dessert, but nobody in Canada has a problem eating them!”

“Nano-what bars?” Esther said.

“Nun-EYE-mo,” Nancy repeated. “They’re a no-bake bar cookie, yummy stuff. They’re a little like Ms. Cosi’s tiramisu bars.”

“Good call, Nancy,” I said. “Nanaimo is exactly what inspired me to make a bar version of tiramisu.”

Esther squinted at Nancy. “So now you’re from Canada?”

Nancy shrugged. “Like I said, I’m from all over.”

“I am completamente finito!” Tucker interrupted with a Fred Astaire soft-shoe shuffle.

One glance at his section of the display and I could see why he was celebrating. With a field of Cappuccino Kisses and Chocolate Espresso Saucers as his canvas, Tucker used the lighter-hued Hazelnut Latte Thumbprints to create a series of interlocking hearts across half of the samples bar tables.

“We’re pushing an aphrodisiac, right?” Tuck said. “So I thought, let’s go for it!”

I smiled. “Really amazing.”

“Neato,” Nancy chirped.

“Not bad,” Esther said with a sniff.

“It’s simple stagecraft,” Tuck said. “Five years of HB Studio classes taught me to strut across a stage and dress one, too.”

I checked my watch. Most of the guests would have arrived by now. The Garden presentations should be starting any minute.

“We have about thirty to forty minutes to finish our work,” I warned.

“Well, the urns of water are hot. I can start the coffee brewing,” Esther said, “or whatever a coffee powder does while real coffee is brewing.”

“It’s too soon,” I said. “I want the beverages served as fresh as possible. I’ll give you a five-minute warning on preparing the thermal carafes.”

“Fine,” Esther said. “Do you guys need help with anything else?”

I looked around. “The tiramisu bars are laid out. The budini are bu-done, and Tuck took care of the cookies. All that’s left are the Ganache-Dipped Chocolate-Chip Cookie Dough Bites, the Mocha-Glazed Rum Macaroons, and the candies.”

“My God, woman!” Esther exclaimed. “They’re not just ‘candies’! They’re Voss chocolates! Mini masterpieces. Where are they? What did they send?”

“Calm down,” I said. “They’re right here.”

The top half of the bakery cart held black, glossy boxes. Esther, Tucker, and I carried them to the serving trays and peeked inside.

“Petit Nibs!” Esther yipped.

“Baby chocolate bars with crunchy cocoa nibs,” I explained to Tuck and Nancy. “The chocolate in these is seventy-two percent cocoa.”

“Hearts of Darkness!”

“These are intense,” I warned. “Eighty percent cocoa.”

“Mocha-Mint Squares!”

“Flavored with white crème de menthe and our espresso.”

“Caramel Latte Cups!”

“Quarter-sized cups of milk chocolate laced with Village Blend espresso and liberally drizzled with fleur de sel caramel.”

“Chocolate-Dipped Cinnamon Sticks! Be still my heart!”

I smiled. They were one of my favorites, too. Placed on the tongue, the treat delivered a sensual, sensory experience of quality chocolate and spicy cinnamon—two ancient aphrodisiacs in themselves. Used to stir a cup of hot coffee, the melting chocolate became an instant stick of delectable mocha.

“Voss Chocolate, I love you!” Esther cried.

“One more box, Ms. Cosi.” Nancy reached down to a lower shelf of the cart and brought up a black box with the letters REF written in white grease pencil.

When we opened it, all of us frowned. The Raspberry-Espresso Flowers inside were not glossy and smooth like the other chocolates. They were mottled with dull white streaks.

I shook my head. “What a shame.”

“What happened to these chocolate flowers?” Tuck asked.

“Bloom,” I replied.

“Is that a joke?”

I pointed to the milky lines. “This is either fat bloom or sugar bloom. Both look the same.”

“So what’s the difference?”

“Fat bloom happens when chocolate hasn’t been properly tempered—”

“And tempering is?”

“Basically, a process of heating, cooling, and mixing chocolate—it’s what pastry chefs do before they mold it—and when chocolate isn’t tempered correctly, the fats don’t properly emulsify. When the cocoa butter rises to the surface and sets, you get fat bloom. Sugar bloom looks the same, but it’s caused by condensation from improper storage.” I sighed. The deduction was easy enough. “Given Voss’s expertise in tempering, I doubt this is fat bloom.”

I turned to Nancy. “Why wasn’t this box on the same shelf with the others?”

She pointed at the box. “Someone in the kitchen saw the REF label and thought it meant to refrigerate.”

“So this box has been in the fridge for hours?”

Nancy nodded.

“That’s a shame,” I said. “But it makes sense.”

“I don’t understand,” Nancy said. “Why would putting chocolate in the fridge cause this sugar-bloom stuff?”

“When you store chocolate in a cold, humid environment and then return it to a warm room, you sometimes get condensation on the surface. As the water evaporates, the sugar in the chocolate crystallizes. That’s what causes the white streaks. It’s perfectly safe to eat—but the texture and mouth-feel are ruined. We can’t serve this.” I handed it back to Nancy. “Set it aside, okay?”

“Too bad,” Nancy said, frowning. “The flowers were cute, like little hex signs.”

“Hex signs?” Esther said. “What’s up with that? Are you a Wiccan?”

“Not hex like a witch. Hex sign like from Pennsylvania Dutch country. American folk art, you know? Those cute little designs on houses and barns. I use them in my quilting and embroidery.”

“So now you lived in eastern PA?” Tuck asked.

Nancy shrugged again.

“Well, I hope nobody tells Voss Chocolate what happened.” Esther shook her head. “They’re perfectionists at Voss!”

Tucker covered his ears. “‘Voss Chocolate. Voss Chocolate.’ You sound like a corrupt audio file. If you love this stuff so much, why don’t you get your rapper boyfriend to buy you a truckload of champagne truffles the next time you visit his man cave?”

“I know you’re Manhattan-centric, Tuck, but Boris lives in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, which is not Williamsburg, Brooklyn. It isn’t even close to Williamsburg, and Williamsburg is where Voss Chocolate has its only retail store.”

“Whatever.”

“Anyway, Boris can barely pay the rent on his Brighton Beach walk-up,” Esther said. “So ten-dollar chocolate