Murder by Mocha

looked to me. Okay, Clare, now you’re on.

I took a breath, braced myself. “I asked Mike Quinn to help us out. I gave him a sample. He’s having it tested.”

Once again, Alicia went into jack-in-the-box mode, flying into another tantrum—lots of “What nerve!” and “How dare yous!” But she soon ran out of gas, and Matt and I were ready for her.

“If the product ingredients are kosher, then you have nothing to worry about, do you?” I said.

Matt nodded. “Either you’re lying to us or you’re duped, too. Which is it?”

Alicia sank into her chair. She looked to Madame and both admitted an odd fact. Although the two had sampled plenty of the Mocha Magic product during its final stages of development, neither imbibed at the launch party.

“I did eat the chocolates and pastries,” Alicia said, “and so did your mother.”

Matt shook his head. “As a flavoring agent, the active ingredients are diluted. When you drink the stuff, you feel the effects. I promise you.”

I turned to Madame. “Why didn’t you drink the Mocha Magic at the party?”

“Frankly, dear, I’m no fan of instant coffee. Compared with other instants, I found Alicia’s product acceptable, even superior. I did feel a slight boost of euphoria when I sampled it weeks ago, but nothing like a drug.”

Matt glanced at me. “I don’t want my mother putting that stuff into her system. But Alicia needs to try several cups of it now, in front of us all.”

I nodded. “I’ll have Esther bring some up.”

“Thanks.”

I stood but didn’t leave. Matt had interrupted our discussion before I could make things clear to Alicia on the Patrice Stone murder.

“What is it, Clare?” Madame asked.

“I want to make sure you both understand this. After we’re through here, Alicia should call her lawyer. She needs to go up to the Seventeenth Precinct and amend her statement. She’s got to tell the police the truth about what she really did in the Garden on the night of the party.”

“Yes, fine,” Alicia said, waving her hand. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Good,” I said, relieved, and headed for the stairs.

“Holy smokin’ rockets! It’s just smoke . . . and a rocket,” Nancy complained as I moved toward our espresso bar.

“Exactly,” Dante replied.

Dante Silva, my artista barista, appeared to be showing Nancy Kelly a series of pen-and-ink drawings from one of his sketchbooks. I knew Dante was scheduled to relieve Esther any minute, but I was surprised (and a little upset) to see Nancy here. She had had a shift earlier today and left once already. She wasn’t scheduled to work again until our catering gig tonight.

Slipping behind the counter, I asked Esther to prepare four servings of Mocha Magic and take them to the second floor.

“No problem,” she said, pulling out a tray.

I tipped my head toward Nancy and Dante. “I’ve been trying to keep them apart on the schedule. What is she up to with him?”

Esther rolled her eyes. “She’s paying him to create an original tattoo for her . . .”

“I see.”

“But if you ask me, he’s the one paying for it.”

“I don’t get the whole rocket thing,” Nancy said, obviously agitated.

“I turned your phrase into an image,” Dante calmly explained. “The smoke. The rocket. It’s signature Nancy, so I thought it would make a great tattoo. You can pick out the colors, of course . . .”

I moved closer, glanced at the drawing—an art deco rocket with curlicue smoke belching from its tail pipe. The design was charming, but Nancy appeared stressed out by the very idea.

“Okay . . .” Dante buried the sketch, scratched his shaved head, and found another.

A few rejected designs later, Esther was ready to head upstairs with the Mocha Magic samples, and I was pulling myself a badly needed espresso shot. “Tell Matt I’ll be right up, okay?”

“Sure, boss . . .”

“Here’s a great one,” Dante told Nancy. “The Greek philosopher Plato believed that a serpent devouring its own tail was the first living thing in the universe, the origin of all life. This design is a Norse version of the concept.”

Nancy frowned. “Why is the snake biting its own butt?”

“It’s symbolic for the circle of life—the snake who devours its own tail.”

“Yuck. Who would want a ringworm for a tattoo?”

“Fine. What do you think of a unicorn?”

“I think it’s uni-corny!”

“How about an ankh?”

“A what?”

Dante touched one of the colorful tattoos on his own ropey arms—a cross with a loop on top. “It’s an ancient Egyptian symbol.”

“It’s called the Key of Life,” interjected Barry, one of our most loyal customers.

“Yes, it’s very spiritual,” agreed Jung-Min, another regular. “It looks cool on your arm, too.”

Dante smiled at the pretty, young grad student, now leaning over his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re welcome,” Jung-Min said, grinning back. “When do you start pulling shots, Dante? I love your latte art!”

He checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

A friend of Jung-Min’s wandered over (another coed, of course). “Would you show me some of your sketches, too, Dante?”

“Excuse me!” Nancy glared at the girls. “Dante is working with me now. Some privacy, please?”

Jung-Min and her friend blinked, shrugged, and found an empty table.

With an exhale, Dante closed his sketchbook. “How about a dolphin? All girls love dolphins, don’t they?”

“What’s romantic about a fish? I want something personal. From you.”

Dante visibly tensed. Finally, the boy got a clue. I bit my cheek and sipped my espresso. The earthy warmth felt as though it were spreading into my very bones. God, I needed that... and this break from the Tantrum Queen. Now I know why Matt slipped away . . .

“How about a flower?” Nancy continued, reaching across to take Dante’s hand. “A rose with a heart around it—and your signature. I’ve got to have your name etched into my skin.”

“Oh, man . . .” Dante pulled back his hand. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea . . .”

“Why not? You sign your paintings, don’t you?”

Dante’s reply was drowned out by three loud voices—Alicia’s, Madame’s, and Matt’s. As they descended the staircase, Matt’s gaze found mine behind the counter. Looking pleased, he gestured as if he were drinking, then flashed a thumbs-up sign.

Setting down my demitasse, I hurried to catch up with Alicia, but she was already out the front door. Turning, I faced Matt and Madame.

“Where is she going?”

“To dress for this evening’s yacht party,” Madame said. “Which is where I’m going, too.” She pecked my cheek. “I’ll see you on the boat, dear!”

As Madame moved to the sidewalk, arm up, a cab pulled over and she was gone.

I turned to Matt. “Doesn’t Alicia understand how much trouble she’s in with the police? She needs to go up to the Seventeenth Precinct now, with a lawyer. She needs to amend her previous statement and straighten things out with Detectives Soles and Bass!”