Murder by Mocha

Daphne began to continue with her tale when she glanced over my shoulder and tensed. “We’ll talk later,” she whispered. “Don’t approach me. I’ll find you.”

A second later, a hand touched my arm. I jumped.

“You seem tense, dear,” Madame said.

Alicia stood beside her, hands tightly fisted. “Our chocolatier Gudrun Voss is on board. We’ll have our private meeting with her before we leave this ship.”

A rolling swell from a passing sanitation barge slammed the Argonaut, but the happily buzzing crowd barely noticed the motion. With the night beautifully balmy and clear, the city’s skyline provided a dramatic backdrop for Sherri’s stage, on the yacht’s top deck.

As we sailed up the East River, the view was split. On our left gleamed the towering skyscrapers of Manhattan, the glare of headlights on its FDR Drive creating a bright string of pearls down its riverbank. On our right, a lesser glow pulsed from the outer boroughs with their low-rise buildings and row houses, the pale yellow of distant headlights flickering more like backyard fireflies.

My baristas moved among the partygoers with trays of real Voss chocolates and faux Mocha Magic.

(Matt and I refused to serve the drug-laced stuff so we secretly swapped it for our Mexican Choco-Lattes. Historically, chocolate, coffee, and cinnamon were all considered aphrodisiacs, so it wasn’t a total dupe.)

Tucker ran things without a hitch—well, maybe one small one. We had no room for our frozen staircase tonight, so I’d ordered a Venus duo for dramatic impact.

“Weren’t we supposed to have two ice sculptures?” I asked.

“One Venus to a customer, I guess,” Tuck quipped.

Nancy Kelly appeared to be performing well. “How are you holding up?” I asked her as Matt snatched a dark-chocolate-mint truffle from her tray.

“Gosh, Ms. Cosi. Joy and Tucker think I’m going to pass out or something just because I got sick at Rock Center.” Blushing, she rattled a plastic bottle in her apron pocket. “Tuck even gave me seasick pills.”

“It could be worse.”

“I know! Esther could be here!”

Above the humming boat motor, swish of waves, and salt-laced Atlantic breezes, Sherri Sellars’s amplified voice echoed across the dark river as she welcomed her guests.

“In the sweep of life, love can be a glorious dream. But that dream will come true only for those who are open and ready, like budding flowers . . .”

Sherri cupped her hands. Then she slapped them closed, like a trap. “People who entomb their hearts like turtles in their shells miss the magic life has to offer. My desire, my fervent wish, is for all people to emerge from their shells and blossom in each other’s light. That’s why my late-night LA radio show, Smooth Sailing in Relationships, is going into national syndication this summer!”

Sherri nodded her burnished head, accepting the requisite applause. Since taking the microphone, her voice had been flawlessly modulated, her dulcet tones and perfect pitch ideal for radio. Yet every time the relationship specialist dropped a new nugget of mixed-metaphor wisdom, my ex-husband groaned audibly.

“In my years as a partnering counselor, I’ve heard the same refrain from other specialists. You have to work at a relationship, they all say. It’s not easy. You must knuckle down; pick up a paddle and row, row, row; put your nose to the grindstone.” Sherri paused. “No wonder young people shy away from marriage. It sounds like a second job!”

The crowd laughed, some applauded.

Sherri raised her index finger. “I have a thought. Instead of working at relationships, let’s play at them.” She grinned. “I mean, if it isn’t fun, why have a relationship at all, right?”

More light applause.

“So, ladies, instead of meeting your man at the door with a pout on you lips and that tired old line ‘We have to talk,’ why not greet him wearing a big smile and nothing else!”

Some of the men hooted.

“That’s right. Hand him a cup of Mocha Magic—a ‘miracle brew’ that’s guaranteed to put the magic moments back into your relationship. Then hit the bedroom! Play now, talk later. Or maybe not . . . Maybe you won’t have to talk ever again. And won’t he be happy!”

The crowed laughed; men applauded.

“Seriously . . .” Sherri held up her finger once more. “In relationships, we must remember the three B’s. Keep things beautiful, bubbly, and buoyant . . .”

Matt glanced at me. He was smirking.

“What?”

“In Africa, there’s a shrub with a small red fruit that causes sour substances to taste sweet. They call it the miracle fruit.”

“And?”

“The glycoprotein in the juice fools the tongue, so you keep eating the bitter, thinking that it’s sweet, until you get sick.”

“What’s your point?”

“Couples can drink all the ‘miracle brew’ on the planet, but they’ll still wake up the next day in the same crappy marriage.”

“Aren’t you being a little hard on her? Aphrodisiacs have been around for thousands of years.”

“Yeah, but not pop-psychology panaceas.”

“You think she’s full of hooey?”

“What else would you call those quick-fix ideas?” He folded his arms. “I think she’s peddling a drug, Clare, and you know what a drug does, right? It makes the sour in your life taste sweet. The problem is you have to keep taking it. Great for the dealer’s bottom line—not so nice for your next-day reality.”

“Wow,” I said. “Pretty profound for a former cocaine addict.”

“The key word being former.”

A burst of applause broke through our conversation, and I realized Sherri had finished her presentation. Stepping down from the low stage, she began moving through the crowd, greeting audience members.

My ex shot me another odd look.

“What now?”

“A suspicion. I’ll be right back . . .”

I held my breath as Matt moved up. He firmly shook Sherri’s hand. I couldn’t hear what he said, but it was obviously something complimentary because Sherri laughed and nodded.

“What was that all about?” I whispered when he returned.

“Just wanted to find out something.”

“Well, something occurred to me while you were shaking her hand. This is supposed to be a PR event for her radio show, right? Yet she’s doing a hard sell on the Mocha Magic. Why? What’s in it for her?”

“She must be cut in for some control of it,” Matt said.

“Or she’s angling to, just like Maya.”

I tensed, thinking of the fear and panic in Daphne’s voice. Sherri Sellars appeared together and successful, intelligent, and accomplished. But so did Patrice Stone. What if Sherri has a dark side? What if—

I was about to tell Matt about my theory when I realized a striking pair of blue eyes were staring at me from under a black, broad-brimmed fedora.

The stranger wore a long, dark coat; a white shirt with no tie; and a full, silver beard with two sidelocks hanging down at his temples. He turned away quickly, but not before I felt a shock of recognition. This man was Scarface! I was sure of it! I’d never forget the penetrating cop stare of those steel blue eyes.

“Matt,” I rasped. “Do you see that guy over there?”

“The rabbi?”

“He’s dressed like a Hasidic Jew, Matt, not a rabbi.”

“What? You have the Mossad after you now?”