Murder by Mocha

Mike’s primal need for fleshly delights reasserted itself. Once again, I felt his hands shortening my hemline. This time I didn’t stop him. My own unbearable need for release had finally short-circuited every synapse of my better judgment.

Thank heaven for the urgent ringtone of his cell, which put the brakes on his out- of-control libido (and mine). Mike cursed softly as he answered the cell call with one hand, kept tight hold of me with the other.

“Yeah, Sully.”

Mike listened, his face growing impatient. “And this has to be done now and not later?”

Within a minute, the conversation was over. As he put away his phone, I readjusted (and rebuttoned), which took a good minute.

“It seems a certain member of the NYPD requires my attention,” he said, clearly annoyed. (Those little veins at his temples were more accurate readers of his mood than a standard polygraph test.)

“Hey, look on the bright side,” I said, “this morning you thought you were out of a job.”

“I also thought I’d be spending the evening with you.”

“The evening’s not over yet,” I whispered.

“You really understand?”

I smiled, leaned close, and kissed him deeply. “I know you, Michael Ryan Francis Quinn. When duty calls, you go . . .” Then, taking his hand, I led him out of the Garden and back into the light.

Seventeen

At the elevator bank, I gave Mike’s hand a final squeeze. By now, the gathering was breaking up, and the cars to the lobby were crowded. Just before the doors shut, Mike sandwiched himself between a pair of jovial middle-aged confectionary executives, asking directions to the Carnegie Deli.

Before returning to the party, I used the glass on the rain-streaked Garden doors as a mirror to check my state. As I turned my wrecked French twist into a simple ponytail, I spied another reflection in the glass.

A young woman in a red jacket moved toward the elevator bank with a new group of departing guests. Despite her hood being up, I recognized my daughter immediately.

Now where is Little Red Riding Hood going? I wondered. If I were a suspicious parent, I might conclude she was up to something.

The moment I confronted Joy, she turned doe-eyed. “Oh, hi, Mom!” she chirped, way too energetically. “I was looking all over for you!”

“Well, you found me. Where are you sneaking off to?”

“I’m not sneaking. How funny!” Joy laughed (in a pitch too high) and gave me a one-armed hug. When the elevator car binged, she pecked my cheek and ducked inside. Only then did I spot the glossy black box tucked under her jacket—the one marked in white grease pencil with the letters REF.

“I’m just meeting a friend!” she sang while jamming the lobby button over and over. “Going to catch up while I’m in town . . .”

“What friend?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you in the morning. I have the key to the duplex. Don’t wait up—”

The sliding doors cut off any further discussion.

Okay, so my daughter was an adult and she had plenty of close friends in the city. But the stealthy way she was attempting to depart, along with that box of Raspberry-Espresso Flowers, set off alarms in my head.

I hurried back to the party to question Matt.

By now, the Loft space was half empty. The final, lingering guests had clustered themselves into two tight knots on opposite ends of the room. The larger group was exclusively male—all of them buyers, circling Maya Lansing.

I didn’t see Matt, but it did dawn on me that Maya was still here. Clearly, no showdown had taken place between her and Alicia. Almost immediately, I saw why. The elusive Captain Herbie was now glued to Maya’s side.

Given the fitness queen’s oh-so-perfect butt, I was more than a little surprised to find her husband a stout, middle-aged regular guy. He was cute enough—a teddy bear with a yachtsman’s cap, but he was obviously no bodybuilder, which meant the identity of “Dennis St. Julian” and the purpose of his fake murder this morning remained a mystery.

The second group in the half-empty room was mostly female. Among them were Madame and Alicia Bower, along with those two twenty-something acolytes I’d met—Susan Chu and Daphne Krupa. I also recognized Sherri Sellars, the Love and Relationship Sister. They’d gathered so thickly around a central figure I suspected it must be the one and only Aphrodite.

Putting off my desire to meet the World Wide Web’s goddess of love, I focused instead on the pursuit of motherly truth. I found Esther Best at the samples table, merging what was left of the pastries into tidy new displays.

“Where’s Matt?” I demanded.

“Gone,” she said. “He left shortly after you disappeared.”

“I see.” Folding my arms, I considered the bait. “So tell me, Esther, are we completely out of Voss chocolates?”

“Nearly,” she replied, clearing away an empty tray. “We still have some Hearts of Darkness and Petit Nibs, but everything else is nom-ed.”

I pretended to weigh her assessment. “You know what? Let’s put out that box of Raspberry-Espresso Flowers, after all. They may have sugar bloom, but I’m sure they’re delicious and the remaining guests might enjoy them.”

“Uhm . . .” Esther froze. “Sorry, boss, I think most of those are gone.”

“Gone? How can that possibly be?” I stared. Hard.

She threw up her hands. “I put half the box aside to share with Boris, okay? Joy saw me and asked for the rest. She wanted some cupid helper, too. Where’s the harm? They were just sitting there, going to waste!”

Cupid helper? I closed my eyes. “Esther, who is Joy meeting tonight?”

“I’m not supposed to say.”

Hands on hips, I tapped one foot in a managerial countdown. “Unless you want nothing but opening shifts for the next five months, you better—”

“Okay, okay! If you’re going to use Gestapo tactics!”

“Who?”

“I’ll tell you. Just don’t let Mr. Boss find out. Joy already knows how her dad feels about this dude, and if he—”

Oh no. “Not Franco!”

“Oh yes. The General, aka Sergeant Rambo, aka Mr. Magic Hands, aka—”

“Stop. Please!” Could this day get any worse? “She told me their little fling was over!”

“Naw,” Esther replied. “The whole ‘moving on’ thing was just something she said to humor you and Matt.”

“There’ll be no ‘humoring’ Matt if he gets wind of this.”

“Well, I’m not about to tell him.”

“Good,” I said, and quickly collared Tucker.

“What now?” he asked.

“Don’t try to play me,” I said. “You heard every word.”

“I hate to be the bearer of obvious news,” Tuck said, “but Joy’s really into Franco.