Murder by Mocha

“Help me! Please!”

I saw no blood in the water, no terrible wound. Her skin no longer appeared gray or pasty but radiant as an angel, warm as a sun. Locks of golden hair floated like a halo around her head. With her expression so lovely and serene she didn’t appear to need help at all.

But she’s underwater! She must be drowning!

I lunged to the pool’s edge, seized both her hands, and heaved. She felt heavy as a block of marble. With all my strength, I yanked again then abruptly the force was reversed. A jolt came and then a shock. I was no longer pulling her out. She was pulling me in!

The pool roiled with our tug-of-war. Water sloshed over the side, soaking my skirt and legs. I battled like a madwoman, strained every muscle, but her strength was unreal. Now I was in the water, suddenly cold. My hands felt like ice, and then Patrice turned to ice, actual ice.

I thrashed and fought, aware her features were transforming. Soft curves resculpted themselves into hard angles until Patrice was no longer Patrice. She’d become the Venus de Milo, carved from frozen water, like the centerpiece of my budino staircase—except this Venus had arms, glacial arms, and they locked around me.

Reclining in her pool, the icy beauty hugged me tight. Then we sank together toward her underworld, the shallow water bottomless. I gasped for air, I choked and coughed. An umbrella opened over me. Black as death it floated, down, down, down . . .

As freezing fluid filled my lungs, I closed my eyes and screamed.

Twenty-One

“Clare? Are you okay?”

I opened my eyes.

Mike was bending over me, his hand on my shoulder. I took a breath, felt the certainty of air in my lungs, the sweetness of a pillow behind my head. My clothes were no longer damp. My thin blouse and torn stockings were gone, replaced with a faded Steelers jersey and fleecy sweatpants.

Propping myself up, I found my duplex living room softy lit, flames crackling in the hearth. Firelight flickered across the polished surfaces of Madame’s antiques, bringing me back over twenty years to those nights when Matt’s mother sat up with me, soothing away my expectant-mother anxieties with cups of Belgian chocolate melted into hot milk and plates of buttery praline sablés.

Despite the cozy externals, my heart was still hammering.

“What time is it?” I checked my wristwatch—2:55 AM.

Mike, still in his blue suit, sat on the edge of the sofa, concern creasing his features. “You were crying for help. Did you have a bad dream?”

A dream, I thought. Of course. Clearly, I’d been dreaming. What wasn’t so clear was when it started. Maybe my head was too fuzzy from sleep, but I couldn’t discern where my real memories ended and my nightmare began.

I glanced at Mike, about to ask what (if anything) had happened between us on that Rock Center rooftop when—

“Mom?”

My daughter’s voice. Excited, I sat farther up, searched the room to find her standing in the shadows, still wearing her red hooded jacket. I swung my legs to the floor, patted the cushion next to me.

“Sit!”

Joy stripped off her jacket and sat down. I put my arms around her and hugged her tight.

“Why did you run off like that?”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I just . . . all of a sudden . . . I really needed to see Manny.”

Manny? I blanked for a second, forgetting Manny was short for Emmanuel, as in Sergeant Emmanuel Franco, the young detective on Mike’s squad who’d once arrested me and Joy’s father. (But that was another story.)

By now, I’d forgiven the guy. My ex-husband had not. In fact, a short time ago, Matt stupidly forbade Joy to get involved with the cocky cop, which (knowing my daughter) made the prospect all the more enticing.

“I know you’re not a child anymore,” I told her, “but I’m never going to stop worrying about you . . .”

Joy sighed, shook her head. She really did appear sorry. “I don’t know what came over me . . .”

“It’s okay. That Mocha Magic powder had us all acting a little”—I shot Mike a look—“out of character.”

Mike arched an eyebrow. “At least you know the stuff works.”

“Works?” I said. “I’m beginning to think the product needs an outsized warning label.”

“Like what?” Joy said. “Do not take without your significant other present?”

Mike smiled. “Consuming alone may prove hazardous.”

“Consuming while driving may prove hazardous!”

Joy laughed.

I didn’t. “Is that what you and Franco were doing all night? Driving around eating aphrodisiac-laced chocolates?”

“We were driving and then”—Joy couldn’t hide her amusement—“we weren’t!”

Right, I thought. But it failed to explain Mike’s involvement. I speared him. “So you tracked Joy down and gave her a lift home?”

“I tracked Sergeant Franco down,” Mike corrected. “Police business.” He’d clipped the words, unwilling to elaborate, at least in front of Joy.

“Don’t be angry, Mom. I know I shouldn’t have run out on you . . .” She playfully nudged me. “You know, a part of me was surprised I actually got away with it, considering what you used to pull on me in high school.”

“Is that right?” Mike said, moving to stoke my dying fire. “And what was that?”

“Mom always knew when I was getting ready to sneak out. Always! I’d call my friends from my bedroom, make my plans, quiet as anything. Her door would be shut, her lights off, but just as I climbed out my window— she’d be in the yard waving me back inside with a flashlight! I couldn’t figure out how she knew, but she always did. She used to tell me she was a little bit psychic.”

“That’s right, honey. I am. Just remember that. I always know when you’re about to do something stupid— so don’t.”

“I really am sorry.”

“It’s okay. As it turned out, your leaving was for the best. Something happened at the party and . . . frankly, I’m glad you weren’t there for it.”

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

“C’mon, Mom!”

I exchanged glances with Mike. “Someone had an accident, okay? No one you know. The police came. They had to do interviews, take IDs. It’s good that you and your father were gone by then. As you know, your dad doesn’t react well to authority—and you need to return to France very soon. The whole thing might have held you up.”

“Oh, merde! You are so right! After what I went though with Chef Keitel’s death, I absolutely hate dealing with the police!” Joy froze. Cringing slightly, she cast an apologetic expression Mike’s way. “I mean except for you and Franco. I don’t hate you guys.”

“I know.” Mike patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay, honey, you’ve had a long day.” I hugged Joy again. “The guest room bed is all ready for you.”

“Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Good night, Mike.”

“Good night.”

Joy gave him a hug, too. I was surprised how much it warmed my heart.