Murder by Mocha

“Did Mother’s story upset you that much?” he whispered.

I wanted so badly to spill more than tears, tell Matt about the call, about Franco, Hawke, everything. But I felt bound by Quinn’s request. Just like Madame, I had no evidence of Hawke’s guilt, none. The only thing I could do for Mike Quinn was what he’d asked—not tell a soul what was happening. Not even my family.

“Please don’t cry,” Matt whispered, stroking my hair. “It’ll be okay . . .”

“You don’t know that.”

“No. But I find if you say it enough times—and click your heels—sometimes it is . . .”

“What are you? Glenda the Good Witch?”

“Naw. The good witch auditions aren’t till next week.”

I pulled away, swiping at my eyes. “Better tell Punch then. He’s willing to do drag to get into that show . . .”

Matt touched my wet cheek. I squeezed his hand. “Check on our daughter, okay? Let her know I won’t be back to the coffeehouse until late tomorrow.”

“Where are you going?”

“Your mother and I may not be able to help Cormac O’Neil or Mike Quinn, but we can do something to help Alicia Bower—and that’s what we’re going to do . . .”

Forty-Two

I rented a car and drove us east, toward the brightly rising sun. Bypassing the city’s gritty borough of Queens, we headed for the north shore of Long Island, land of quaint waterfront villages, pedigreed horses, and exclusive yacht clubs.

Over a dozen institutes of higher learning were located on the Island east of New York City. Bay Creek Women’s College was not among them—and for good reason. A decade ago, the school had gone coed, changing its name to Bay Village College.

According to its Web site, the campus’s Essen Library held the archives for student theses, and that was our destination. But we had a problem: neither Madame nor I knew Aphrodite’s real name.

I’d searched the Web, read her Wiki bio, her Facebook page (three million likes!), but Aphrodite had reinvented herself so aggressively, I had no clue where she was born or who she really was.

Fortunately, scholarly papers are generally cross-referenced by subject, so I was hopeful that any thesis referencing Laeta, Severa, or Rufina would be listed in the card catalog.

I didn’t think the paper itself would clue us to the killer’s identity. The real lead would be found on a lending card of some sort, the kind that listed all the people who’d accessed the thesis, hopefully stretching back years. If I found a familiar name—one who had motive and opportunity to frame Alicia and Sherri—that person would zoom to the top of my suspect list.

Now, as we crossed the lush green of the manicured campus, Madame openly admired the main library’s High-Victorian Gothic style. We quickly checked the brass plaque for the architect’s name and I noticed the building was a national landmark, which housed the college library, a collection of rare first editions, and the Juliana Gregg Saunders Archive and Reading Room.

Madame pointed at the plaque. “Who knew Juliana Saunders had a philanthropic bone in that venal body of hers?”

“You know the woman?”

“I’m afraid so. She’s one of Otto’s more disagreeable clients—and in oh-so-many ways. Last year she bid on a Chuck Close self-portrait because ‘it was just the right size’ to fit her two-story Park Avenue living room and the colors matched her brand-new Aubusson.”

“Ouch.”

“Thank goodness she lost the auction.”

“Yes . . .” I was smiling now but not because of the story. I realized Madame’s acquaintance with Ms. Saunders might be the miracle we needed, right when we needed it.

The Essen Library, a private institution at a private college, required a student or faculty ID to enter. Rather than try to explain ourselves at the dean’s office, I thought my work-around would save us valuable time.

“Do you think you can channel this Juliana Gregg Saunders? Imitate her mannerisms? Her attitude? Convince people you’re the real deal?”

“Why would I want to do that?” Madame suppressed a shudder.

I pointed out the security issue, and Madame agreed. As we ascended the steps to the library’s entrance, she slipped into her role and boldly took the lead.

The student working the front desk didn’t bother to look up from her iPad as we approached. “ID, please,” she said, hand extended.

Madame squared her shoulders. “My good woman, one does not need a common ID when one’s name is on the door!”

The girl looked up. “Excuse me?”

Madame tapped a manicured nail on the polished desk. “My name is Juliana Gregg Saunders, and I wish to see my room!”

“Room?”

“The Juliana Gregg Saunders Archive and Reading Room, young dolt. I pay a steep annual stipend for the privilege, and because the room bears my name, I would like to see it . . . Now.”

“Oh . . . oh! I’m so sorry Mrs. Gregg—I mean Saunders, er, Mrs. Saunders.”

Madame sniffed and the student jumped to her feet. “You can go up right now. It’s almost lunchtime, but I’m sure Ms. Themis will be happy to give you a tour.”

“Announce us,” Madame said. “Immediately.”

“Of course!” The girl lifted the receiver and with shaky hands dialed a three digit extension. She waited. “Ms. Themis isn’t picking up. She’s probably working in the stacks. If you want, I can escort you—”

“I’m capable of following directions, if they are accurate.”

The girl appeared relieved. “Okay. Take those stairs one flight up, to the second floor. Then make a left.”

“Come, Clare. Let’s see how this institution spends my largess!”

A wide staircase behind a granite arch led upstairs. Halfway to the top, Madame sighed. “That was quite distasteful. Imagine going through life behaving in such a ghastly manner. It’s so taxing . . .”

“Don’t drop your newfound nasty just yet. We’re not out of the woods.”

I opened a heavy door and we entered the archive. The walls were lined with darkly stained shelves packed with volumes thin and thick. A half-dozen reading tables, arranged to take advantage of the western sun streaming through the tall windows, were empty now. In fact, we saw only one occupant—an elderly woman with wild gray hair, sorting books beside a wheeled cart.

Madame cleared her throat. “Excuse me—”

Without facing us, the woman raised a hand for silence. With her other hand she fished a pair of false teeth out of a Mason jar and slipped them into her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she said, facing us at last. “I can’t say a comprehensible word without my teeth. Someday I’ll be gone from this room, but these choppers will still be in that jar, chattering away like the voice of the Cumaean Sibyl!”

The woman approached us, her teeth roughly in place, which gave her a crooked, toothy smile. Not much younger than Madame, she had that same spark in her eyes and spring in her step. Dressed appropriately tweedy, her jacket actually had leather patches on the elbows. But her outspoken attitude and wild gray-white hair were far from retiring.

“I’m Miss Themis, the head archivist. But please call me Phoebe,” she said, extending a hand.

“I’m Juliana Gregg Saunders,” Madame said solemnly. “And this is Clare, my personal assistant.”

“Now that’s odd,” Phoebe said, “because the Juliana I know is just now rolling out of bed with a bad