Murder by Mocha

Daphne’s head bobbed. “And that fireplace looks so cozy and warm.”

“I’ll bet this is the original plank floor, isn’t it?” Susan said.

Daphne pointed. “And those circular wrought-iron stairs are fabulous!”

Esther glanced at me. “Wow. These two could turn the world on with a smile.”

“Hate to disappoint you,” Daphne shot right back. “But the only way I’d throw my Mary Richards cap in the air is if a television network paid me a hundred thou an episode.”

“My kind of girl,” Esther said.

“What’s in your Mocha Diablo?” Susan asked, pointing at the chalkboard.

“Espresso, chocolate sauce, cinnamon, steamed milk, and a devilish pinch of chipotle powder.”

“Yum! I’ll have one.”

“Cappuccino for me,” Daphne said.

“What size?” Esther asked.

“Large, I guess, or...” Daphne stared at the board. “What the heck is a King Kong?”

My cell went off on the counter. I picked it up.

“How are you, Cosi?” Lori Soles began, sounding upbeat.

“Good morning, Detective. Thanks for calling back.”

“I know you’re anxious,” she said. “But I don’t have any news for you.”

Seeing Daphne and Susan staring at me, I lowered my voice and swiveled the stool. “No physical evidence yet?”

“No, but thanks to Ruben Salter, we’ve got a new view from another camera, actually from a neighboring building—”

“Did you get a look at the killer?”

“The high-angle security cam shows the umbrella moving under the podium’s canopy. Two minutes later Patrice Stone’s body plunges into the pool. I say body because the autopsy found no water in the victim’s lungs, which means Stone was dead before she hit the reflection pool.”

“It was the blow to the head that killed her?”

“Two blows. The first from behind, and the second above the left eye when the victim was on the ground.”

The details were grisly enough to make me cringe.

“Hang in there. We’ve got a digital expert working on those recordings. Something will turn up. But listen, I have a question for you.”

“For me?”

“Yeah, we just sent some Nutrition Nation umbrellas to our CSU. They’ll run tests, try to verify whether the heavy handle could have been used as the murder weapon.”

“Did you ask Maya about it?”

“She and her husband admitted to bringing the umbrella, but they couldn’t produce it in the cloakroom. They claimed it was taken.”

Exactly what I thought. Alicia is trying to frame her!

“Anyway,” Lori continued, “you were very helpful with that umbrella angle, and my lieutenant thought you might have some ideas on that note we found in the raincoat pocket—do you remember the word on the note?”

“Laeta?”

“Yes. Have you heard anyone mention it?”

“No. Not yet, but I’ll be sure to let you know if I do.”

“Thanks, Cosi. Got to run now. Talk to you again,” Lori promised, right before the line went dead.

“Are you okay, Ms. Cosi?” Daphne asked as she sipped her cappuccino. “You look kind of pale. Did you get bad news or something?”

“It was a private call.”

“From the police?”

“Excuse me?”

Daphne shrugged. “Sorry to be so nosy, but my boss, Sherri Sellars—she asked me to find out.” She lowered her voice. “At the Mocha Magic party, she saw you come back with those two lady detectives. She said you were pointing people out for the police to speak with, that you were working with them.”

“Well, if you remember, I was the one who found Ms. Stone’s body, so they asked me to help. And I’m pretty sure the police spoke to everyone who attended the party, not just the ones I pointed out—”

“Ms. Bower told us you’re some kind of investigator,” Susan cut in. “And your boyfriend has some kind of big-deal special position with the New York Police Department?”

“Don’t believe every piece of gossip you hear, ladies. I’m just a coffeehouse manager—”

“Boss!” Tuck called from behind the register.

“What?”

He pointed to the front window and sang. “You’ve got company.”

I swiveled around again to find two unmarked police cars pulling up fast in front of our shop. Both had red bubble lights going on their dashes.

Mike walked in, radio in hand, dressed in his usual brown suit. In lock step behind him were two young detectives—a man and a woman. Both moved to an empty table and sat.

Like the Fish Squad, I’d served these two detectives many times. They worked at the Sixth, but today they weren’t wearing blazers and pressed slacks. They were dressed like neighborhood regulars in jeans and light Windbreakers.

“I need to speak with you,” Mike said, grim faced. “Privately.”

As I excused myself, Daphne displayed a smirk. Told you!

Thirty-One

“What’s with all the little people?” Mike asked when we reached my tiny office on the second floor.

“Return to Munchkin Land flash mob,” I said. “Short people need caffeine, too.”

He met my eyes. “I read the files this morning.”

“The cold-case files? That’s what all this is about?”

“It’s not good, Clare. You better sit down.”

Crap.

I settled into my rickety office chair, and Quinn pulled up another.

“Years ago, your former mother-in-law was brought before a grand jury. She’d been involved romantically with a police detective who frequented the Village Blend. Sound familiar?”

Oh my God.

“Are you sure she never mentioned anything like this to you?”

“Of course, I’m sure! What happened?”

“This detective, Cormac Murphy ‘Murph’ O’Neil, he was dirty, on the take. Mrs. Dubois probably didn’t know it at the time—at least, I hope she didn’t. Anyway, as it all went down, he and his partner were questioning a major drug dealer in the field when shots were fired. The partner and the dealer were killed, the dealer’s money went missing, and so did your former mother-in-law’s dirty boyfriend.”

“What do you mean ‘he went missing’?”

“He disappeared. Mrs. Dubois was called before a grand jury and asked to testify all she knew about her boyfriend. She answered questions about their relationship, explaining how they’d met, how long they’d been involved. They asked her if he’d made any statements about leaving town, if he ever contacted her, what he said, but she refused to answer any questions that might give away his intent or locations. The judge put her in