Murder by Mocha

was now rumbling across.

Inside, Madame and I grabbed a snack at the bar and asked to see the head waiter. After our wine was poured and fried oysters served, the bartender introduced us to Freddie—really Fredrick Lloyd, a round, bald little man with a charming accent, who told us he was born in London and raised in Oxford.

“Oh, sure. I was there the night of the jumper,” he said. “Me and Connie, who died last year. Most everyone else is new.”

He leaned close, glanced at his watch, and nodded in the direction of the railroad bridge, just visible in the gathering dusk through the large bay windows.

“Keep your eyes on that bridge,” he advised.

We did and within a minute the lights came on, illuminating the entire span. One central light was much brighter than the others. Like a spot, it shone all the way down to the inlet’s rippling waters.

“See that big light. The jump came from right there. I heard this scream, and then some of the guests pointed. Then everyone was screaming and running about. But not Freddie.”

He tapped his temple. “I was feeling nostalgic, so I kept on watching the girl.”

“Nostalgic?” I asked. “What do you mean by that?”

“When I was a boy, me and me mates had an annual ritual. Every May first we rose early and showed up for the Bridge Jumpin’ Festival at Magdalena.”

“Oh, the bridge jumping!” Madame nodded. “If memory serves, students from Oxford have been jumping off that bridge for more than a century. Am I correct, sir?”

“You are indeed, ma’am. But me and me mates, well, to be honest, we were there to watch the girls jump into the Cherwell. It was a long time ago—lots of pretty hippie girls around with their flowered dresses. Those dresses would balloon up, and we pimply faced boys would catch our first glimpse of bloomers, er . . . beggin’ your pardon, ladies.”

“No apologies necessary,” Madame assured him. “Boys will be boys. I have a son myself . . .”

Yes, I thought, one who’s made a global study of glimpsing girls’ bloomers.

“Like I say, I was no stranger to seein’ girls in dresses jump from bridges. And I watched that jumper’s white dress balloon up just fine, but the whole way down it was the same.”

Freddie pressed his arms to his side and stood erect, making like a chubby Oscar statue. “She was stiff, you know? Like an ice sculpture. She never moved once the whole drop.”

He leaned in, lowered his voice. “That’s a big, bright light there, and that bridge is plenty higher than the Magdalena. Yet I didn’t see any bloomers, and I don’t recall seein’ any legs. None at all.”

Twenty minutes later, we stood by our rental car while I took one last look at the railroad bridge and the dark, treacherous depths below it. Our day of inquiry was over, and it yielded a crucial conclusion.

“Olympia Temple isn’t dead,” I said. “She faked her death and created a new identity to get even with the people she blamed for her mother’s imprisonment and suicide.”

“The judge and prosecutor?”

“Yes, they were killed outright. But a quick death wasn’t vengeance enough for Olympia when it came to Alicia Bower and Sherri Sellars. Those women had testified against her mother, and Olympia wanted to see them suffer—not in one quick instant before death, but for years.”

“So she framed them for murder.”

“Exactly.”

“But who is Olympia?”

“Someone close to Alicia and Sherri. Someone who knew about the friction between the Sisters of Aphrodite and exploited it. She sent those fake letters, right? So it had to be an inside job.”

“Her age should help give her away.”

“Olympia Temple would be in her twenties. Like Nancy Kelly, our youngest barista. The killer would have attended the party at Rock Center, and the Sherri Sellars PR event on Aphrodite’s yacht . . .”

I closed my eyes, replaying my walk up the Argonaut gangplank, the look of our coffee and chocolate display, the meeting with Aphrodite, the scream, the splash.

Freddie’s voice came back to me: “She was stiff . . . like an ice sculpture.”

“Stiff,” I whispered, like the roots of Phoebe’s laurel tree. Her face lost in the canopy. The nymph transformed.

That’s when I knew.

Forty-Four

Night dropped her veil on Manhattan, turning the bright maze of city streets into a shadowy underworld. As I rolled home, the tall, spotless windows of my coffeehouse shone like welcoming beacons in a wine-dark sea. The golden glow cheered me for a moment—but only a moment.

“Where’s Mother?” Matt asked from behind the counter.

“Safe with Otto. I dropped her at his gallery. Don’t worry.”

“Worrying is all I’m doing, Clare. All I’ve been doing.”

“That makes two of us.”

Feeling down but not out, I settled in at my own marble-topped bar. I still hadn’t heard from Quinn—and Joy hadn’t heard from Franco, or so she had informed me the last time I’d phoned her.

Matt slid me a fresh ristretto, took the stool next to me. “Find out anything that will help Alicia?”

I held up a finger, knocked back the strong elixir. “We found out plenty. It will help Sherri, too.” I brought Matt up to speed on what we’d discovered.

He sat dumbfounded a moment. “You have been busy.”

“The ride home was just as productive. Your mother drove part of the Grand Central so I could have a long cell phone conversation with Lori Soles.”

“Wait. Didn’t Lori cut you off at the dock last night?”

“She did, but I don’t blame her. All the evidence pointed to Alicia—except for one thing. And that’s why she listened to me tonight. This morning, the crime scene people finally came up with a solid forensic image off a hidden security camera. The date and time stamp made the evidence irrefutable.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Remember those fake Greek columns at Rock Center’s Garden? They were lit from inside.”

He nodded. “I remember.”

“Well, their glow turned the rain puddles into mirrors—and one of the building’s hidden cameras picked up a clear reflection of the killer’s legs as she moved to and from the podium to bludgeon Patrice Stone.”

“You’re telling me a photo of legs will ID the killer?”

“No, but they are exculpatory for Alicia because she wasn’t wearing opaque red stockings that night, and my killer was—or, rather, the young woman I believe is really Olympia Temple.”

“So what’s Lori going to do?”

“She and Sue Ellen are starting to run background checks, follow up on that thread. I hope they come up with something, before Olympia strikes again. . . ” I dug into my bag for my cell, checked the messages. “Why won’t she call me back?”

“Who?”

“Aphrodite. She’s next on Olympia’s hit list. I’m sure of it. What I don’t know is what she’s planning—an outright murder or another frame job. And if she’s planning a frame job, I can only guess who she’s going to kill.”

“I take it you called Aphrodite to warn her.”

“Of course. I warned Lori Soles, too. I don’t know if the police have gotten in touch with her yet, but so far Aphrodite is ignoring me, just like she ignored Gudrun.” I closed my eyes. “Mike hasn’t called me, either. Not since