Murder by Mocha

“There you go! The bartender told us it was an aphrodisiac!”

Matt rubbed his jaw, but then shook his head. “Sorry, Clare, nice try, but damiana isn’t that powerful, either. As I recall, before that trip, you and I hadn’t seen each other for almost a month—we had a lot of catching up to do.”

“True.”

“Trust me, I’ve sampled every illicit narcotic known to man at least once, and this Mocha Magic contains a drug, not a collection of herbs.”

“Maybe its Alicia’s proprietary formula. She might have found a way to heighten the effects of those herbal ingredients. And you had a lot last night. Maybe you simply overdosed, and it came off more powerfully than it usually does. Maybe if she puts a warning on the label—”

“Why not just send a text message to the Food and Drug Administration?” He raised his voice an octave higher. “Oh, look at me, I appear harmless, but I’m really dangerous if you ingest too much of me, and I’m made with Village Blend coffee beans.” His voice went down again. “Just imagine the lawsuits, ’cause I can.”

“So what are you going to do? Send this Mocha Magic to a lab for testing?”

“Not me. You’re the one who needs to have it tested. This stuff isn’t a soil sample or a new hybrid—and you know my history with Bogotá Marching Powder. Why don’t you get your boyfriend to do it? He sniffs out illegal narcotics for a living.”

I chewed my lip. “I’ll ask him.”

“I can’t believe this is such a surprise to you. I saw Dudley Do-Right at the party, sucking down cup after cup of this stuff. Didn’t he say something when you two took this Mocha Magic for a test drive?”

“We didn’t. Not exactly.”

“Oh, really? Trouble in paradise?”

“No.” I lowered my voice. “We were pretty turned on, both of us, but we were interrupted by ...” What could I say? A cop going rogue with your daughter? A woman bludgeoned to death and dumped in a Garden pool? An erotic dream turned nightmare?

“By?”

“It’s complicated.”

“He’s a narc, Clare. He should have noticed something.”

“Mike Quinn always takes me at my word. I told him this stuff is purely herbal, and he believed me.”

“Love is blind? You expect me to buy that?”

“Love is trusting. And Mike trusts me ...” (I never realized just how much until this moment.)

“Well, here’s the problem, Clare: you trusted my mother, and she trusted Alicia—but her product can sink us. You know we could lose the Blend over this?”

“Calm down, okay? Let’s start with having the powder tested.”

Matt gulped his doppio. “Damn. I must have OD’d last night. That stuff was crazy powerful—and, let me tell you, that half-nude woman at your party didn’t help!”

“Her name is Maya Lansing ...” I tapped my chin. “Matt, when exactly did you leave last night?”

“Early. Right after I grabbed the samples. Why?”

“Because something happened after you bolted.”

I finally dropped the news bomb about Patrice Stone’s death and the police investigation. I also told him about the rivalry among the Sisters of Aphrodite and the possibility that Alicia may have done the deed.

“So now our new business partner might be a murderess?” Matt cried.

“Keep your voice down. Maya Lansing is just as likely to be guilty here. She had the most to gain from Patrice’s death.”

Matt shook his hairy head. “That theory won’t hold water. Maya never left that party, not once, not even to go to powder her... uh, nose. Believe me, I would have known, and so would every other man in that room.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

I cradled my face in my hands. “Alicia can’t be a murderer. This Mocha Magic can’t be illegal. It will kill your mother.”

“Want me to rub your shoulders?”

“No... Yes... No—wait! What about Maya’s husband, Herbie Lansing? The guy with the yachtsman’s cap?”

Matt nodded. “The captain? I nearly asked him why he left Tennille at home.”

“Did he leave the party and come back? I’m pretty sure he did. But did you actually see it?”

Matt shrugged. “I wasn’t staring at the chubby yachtsman—I was ogling his wife.” He swatted the hair away from his eyes and drained his demitasse. “I’ve got to go. I’d love nothing better than to get a shave and a haircut, and then hit the sack. But that’s not to be. I’m meeting Breanne for lunch.”

“How long can it take to get a haircut?”

Matt shook his head. “Breanne loves the hair now. She said she liked me scruffy. Either that or the Mocha Magic scrambled her fashionista brain. Anyway, after last night, I’m sure she’ll demand an encore performance right there in her office. So I’m going to the health club for a quick steam bath before I face the music.”

Matt rose and snatched the powdered coffee packets from the countertop. Still clutching them, he shook his fist at me. “This stuff is a drug, Clare. I’m warning you,” he said before cramming the packets into his pocket.

I folded my arms and glared.

“What?” he said.

“You just stuffed your pockets with it!”

“So? Using isn’t selling. Big difference. One I’m sure Dudley will explain if you ask him real nice.”

“Just go already.”

Matt was about to face the door when I spied a familiar roughneck over his shoulder. Sergeant Emmanuel Franco had strolled in, espresso-dark leather jacket open, shaved scalp gleaming in the sunlight. His detective’s gold shield dangled from a strap around his neck, but I suspected Franco wasn’t here on NYPD business—and if Matt caught sight of him, there’d be hell to pay (and plenty of broken furniture).

“Wait!” I cried, seizing Matt’s arms.

Annoyance registered. “What is it, Clare?”

Franco heard us, spotted Matt, and made a swift retreat.

“It’s... It’s your hair,” I said. “Breanne might be right. It’s very attractive long like that. Takes ten years off your face.”

“Really? You think so?”

The coast was clear, so I released my grip. “Yes. I really think that’s a good look for you.”

“Thanks,” Matt said, grinning now. “I’ll drop by later,” he added, then tossed me a wave before heading out the door.

Not even a minute passed before the Blend had a return customer. This time Detective Franco carefully scanned the coffeehouse before stepping over the threshold. When our eyes met, he sauntered toward me, flashing his cocksure grin. 

Twenty-Four

“You! Sit!” I tapped my index finger on the stool beside me. Franco’s confident expression vanished.

“Detective,” I said with motherly sternness, “I just saved you from a world of hurt. If my ex-husband knew you took his little girl on a dangerous stakeout—”

Franco blinked as he sank onto the barstool. “You got it wrong, Coffee Lady. Joy and I parked on a variety of suburban streets in very nice Jersey neighborhoods, ate fruity chocolate flowers, and talked.”

I narrowed my gaze.