Murder by Mocha

I told Mike about Maya and Herbie and a few other possible suspects, including the suspect who worried me most: Alicia Bower.

“Alicia?” Mike frowned. “Isn’t she your new business partner? The one who invented the Mocha Magic stuff?”

“She is.”

“What about her worries you?”

“She’s a headstrong business woman, yet I found her in a fetal position yesterday morning at her hotel . . .”

The whole fake knife in the chest Candy Man incident seemed like a week ago by now, but I did my best to bring Mike up to speed on it.

“Despite being the obvious target of a horrible prank, she refused to cooperate with the police. According to Madame, Alicia actually wanted to hire me to get some answers rather than bring a professional investigator into it.”

Mike met my eyes. “Would you describe Alicia as mentally unstable?”

“I’d describe her as under extreme pressure—and extremely secretive. But then so is Madame when it comes to whatever past they shared.”

Hearing that, Mike fell silent for a long minute, his expression moving from cop curious to obviously troubled. “So you’re telling me Alicia is connected to Madame’s past? But she’s surfaced only lately?”

I nodded. “Madame says she owes Alicia a great deal. But she won’t say why. And Alicia was supposedly a barista at the Blend, yet Matt doesn’t remember her.”

“I get the picture,” Mike said. “And I’m sure Soles and Bass are already doing a background check on her . . . I’ll talk to them tomorrow, try to find out if she has any kind of criminal record or history of mental problems—but there’s something else you need to know . . .”

The grooves of tension in Mike’s forehead made me stiffen. “Bad news?”

“The primary reason I went to the Fourteenth Floor today wasn’t to turn Franco and Sully’s case over to the Feds. That was incidental. First Deputy Commissioner Hawke was far more concerned about a cold case that’s suddenly heating up. He said I was in a unique position to crack it for him.”

“Unique position?”

“The case involved the Village Blend.”

“My Blend?”

“Hawke learned about my ties to you, this place, and he asked me to investigate.”

“This is the old case you mentioned on the rooftop? The one you said I could help you with?”

Mike nodded. “Your former mother-in-law was somehow involved. She was taken into custody for a short time during the height of it.”

“She was arrested?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“Refusing to answer questions before a grand jury.”

“Questions about what?”

“The murder of a police officer.”

I blinked, stared. “I don’t believe it . . .”

Mike said nothing, just waited for me to absorb the shock.

Finally, I asked: “Was Alicia involved?”

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Hawke only gave me an oral briefing today. Sometime this week I’ll be given access to the files and evidence. I’ll let you know more after I review them.”

“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“What detectives do all the time, Cosi. Wait.”

“Well, I’m not waiting in this kitchen.” I drained my cup, grabbed his hand. “Come on . . .”

By the time we reached the master bedroom, I was more than ready for unconsciousness. My daughter was home safe, thanks to the man climbing under the covers next to me, so I snuggled up close and held on tight.

“Do me a favor,” Mike murmured, stroking my hair.

“What?”

“Don’t have any more bad dreams about me.”

“Believe me, it wasn’t my choice.”

“You know, I’ve been dealing with crime scenes for a lot of years. You want some advice?”

“Absolutely.”

“Try to think good thoughts before you drift off. Focus on a positive image.”

“I’ll try . . .”

Closing my eyes, I summoned the first moment I saw Joy today, looking so lovely and grown up in the grand lobby of Rock Center. I saw us hugging and felt my spirits lift. Next I brought back the image of Joy embracing Mike before she went off to bed. My heart soared even higher. Finally, I recalled my first glimpse of Mike at the party, all freshly shaved and smartly pressed in that blue serge suit, chuckling with Joy at the samples bar . . . which reminded me—

“What were you and Joy laughing about at the party?”

“Oh, that . . .” I could almost feel him smiling in the dark. “We were kidding around about her big question.”

“Big question? What big question?”

“Come on, Clare . . .” He chuckled. “You don’t have to play me.”

“Mike, I swear. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You didn’t put Joy up to asking me when you and I are getting married?”

Oh good God! “No. I did not . . .” Tension flowed back into me. I took a breath, let it out. “She asked me that same question earlier today. I don’t know why she suddenly cares so much.”

“You don’t? It’s a pretty basic deduction, sweetheart. She loves you, and she wants to see you happy, settled . . .”

“And she might be thinking over that question for herself.”

“It’s certainly possible,” Mike conceded. “So . . .”

“So?”

“So when are we getting married?”

I stiffened. “I don’t want to talk about that, Mike. Not now. I’m too tired. Aren’t you tired, too? Can’t we just go to sleep?”

Mike fell silent for a long moment. I felt the tension in his body now. My reaction obviously threw him. But soon he relaxed, letting it go. “Good night, Clare,” he finally whispered and softly kissed my head. “Sweet dreams . . .”

Twenty-Three

The calm after the storm. That’s what I’d hoped for, and when I came downstairs the next morning, my expectations were seemingly met.

Outside the fog had passed; the cobalt sky was clear, and sunlight poured through the Blend’s wall of spotless French doors, transforming our marble tabletops into luminous pools of gold. Everything seemed perfectly normal, except the shop’s customers, most of whom were women—with green skin.

“Who killed the Witch of the East? Who? Who? Who?”

Either I was having another Mocha-induced nightmare or my Blend was hosting a coven of wannabe Wicked Witches. Okay, two covens, because a coven is only thirteen, and there were over two dozen witches, some wearing wigs and false noses, most with day-glow complexions more commonly seen on the Yellow Brick Road.