Murder by Mocha

Matt!

Seeing the headlights rushing toward me across the red carpet, I ran toward the Hummer, waving my arms. The vehicle came to a skidding stop right beside me. I reached for the handle, but the passenger’s door was already open.

“Get in!” Matt yelled.

I entered with a single leap. “Alicia’s trying to kill me!”

“That’s Alicia?” Matt said, eyes forward.

I peered through the windshield and saw the white Kabuki mask glowing in the tent’s eerie gloom. Then I glanced away in time to avoid being blinded by the stab of a brilliant scarlet light.

“She’s using a laser sight!” Matt cried, pushing me onto the floor. Glass rained down on me when the passenger window exploded.

I screamed. “I thought Hummers had bulletproof glass!”

“This is a prop Hummer! Not a real—oh, never mind!”

Matt slammed the vehicle into reverse and punched the gas. The wheels spun, shredding the red carpet for a moment before gaining traction. Then the big car lurched, and we were on our way.

Matt’s head turned, so he could drive backward, which meant he couldn’t see the red laser dot coming to rest on the side of his skull. Lucky for him, I did.

“Get down!” I yelled. Grabbing a handful of Matt’s long hair, I pulled as hard as I could.

Matt howled, but his big head moved just in time—the window blew out a second later. He didn’t slow down. We exited the tent and kept going, through the cattle chute and back toward the street. The fence and the gate were already in ruins, shattered when Matt drove in.

As we hit the street, he slammed the brakes—too late, unfortunately. A limousine had rolled into the intersection behind us, and the Hummer smashed into its front grill, a rear-end collision in reverse.

“God, Matt! I hope no one was hurt.” I pushed open the door.

“Stay down, Clare! Help is on the way. I already called 911!”

Heedless of the danger, I jumped out of the Hummer and raced to the car we’d struck. The hood was crumpled, the hissing radiator belching steam. I could hear approaching sirens, too. Lots of them.

The other driver, a Sikh with a full beard and turban, emerged from his smashed Town Car, shaking his head with exasperation. Then the man opened the passenger doors, and two women climbed out. Both were shaken but unhurt.

One of them was Madame. The other was Alicia Bower.

Thirty-Five

Damn her! Damn her straight to hell!

Face sweaty behind the mask, she bolted from the dazzling light. Safe in the shadows of the tent, she ripped away her white face, peeled off her midnight togs. Beneath, more clothes clung damply to her skin, yet another self.

She pulled out the Go Green! shopping tote, stuffed everything inside—the gun, the mask, the laser site. The black disguise came last, topped with a decoy box to bury all the evidence.

In the distance, sirens wailed. Hugging the tote, she dropped and rolled. The tent bottom gave as she moved against it, birthing her into the fresh-cut grass.

Out on the street, a car horn blared, voices shouted, traffic screeched, but she remained invisible. Hidden by the canvas mountain, she ran for the edge of Socrates Sculpture Park.

At the shoreline, the river shimmered, tempting her with a watery escape. If only she could swim across! But the current was too treacherous, the very act suicidal. Given her performance on the Bay Creek bridge, the irony nearly made her cackle.

Another bridge beckoned now, down river—the Queensboro. She had to reach it, as fast as possible. Slipping down the damp rocks, she moved to the river’s edge, hurried for the property line. Now trees and shrubs would be her shield as she climbed back up the embankment. Finally, on a steadying breath, she stepped into the open.

The Costco lot was vast and crowded—exactly what she needed. Slinging the tote bag over her shoulder, she wandered out as stupid and glassy-eyed as the shoppers before her: mommies struggling with toddlers, families fumbling with carts, couples bickering over needs and receipts. Invisibly, she slithered among them. None bothered the lone woman snaking by their minivans, economy cars, and SUVs; and if they glanced into her tote, all they’d see was a box of Pampers.

When she reached the store’s busy exit, she flowed with the crowd and began her search. In almost no time, she saw it—a dark sedan moving slowly, like a shark. The livery driver had disgorged his fare, appeared hungry for a new one. She waved him over. He pulled up and she ducked in back.

“Manhattan,” she said, hearing the pathetic quiver in her voice. She swallowed hard, tried again: “No hurry. Take your time . . .”

As they headed for the main road, she chewed her lower lip. Her fury had given way to fear and, for the first time, an admission... failure. But she would not stop. Not now. Not ever. She just had to get clear of this place.

“Some kind of car wreck up here,” the driver warned. “Big backup. Lots of police . . .”

“Can you get around them?”

“I’ll try.”

As the driver turned the car, she held her breath. Soon he found a new exit, and she was on her way again, heading down river, into the shadow of that towering bridge.

Sitting back, she closed her eyes. Once again, she was invisible. No one would suspect her, and that’s how she would win. That’s how she always won.

Striking from the shadows, she’d get them all, one by one, including that stupid little witch who’d ruined today’s performance. The very thought nearly brought a giggle to her lips. Clare Cosi may not know it yet, but she had been judged and sentenced.

And won’t you be surprised, Ms. Cosi, when you find me your executioner!

Thirty-Six

“I am not a murderer!”

Hands on slender hips, Alicia Bower met my eyes, incensed and defiant.

I pointed to the lovingly battered café chair directly across from mine, the one from which she’d dramatically leaped. “Sit down.”

The four of us—Alicia, Madame, Matt, and I—were positioned like points of a compass around the table. We had our privacy up here on the Blend’s closed second floor. What we didn’t have was peace. We’d barely settled in before Matt blurted out, “Until you two rolled up in your limo, Clare thought Alicia was the shooter.”

“I am outraged! Outraged!” Alicia cried.

“There’s no use getting emotional, dear.” Madame picked up her cup and saucer. “Clare’s right. Sit. Drink your cappuccino. It’s quite delicious . . .”

Tugging on the lapels of her pinstriped blazer, Alicia stood firm a moment, then tossed her perfectly coiffed flapper hair and returned the seat of her skirt to the seat of the chair.

“You called to tell me you were sending over instructions. What was I supposed to think?” I asked Alicia.