Murder by Mocha

“What do you think?”

“This is beyond bad.”

“That’s why I called you, dear. And an attorney. He’s on his way.”

“I’m coming back to your room to talk.”

“Fine.”

With a sigh I closed my phone. There was nothing more to do here, except say a silent prayer for the soul of this poor man—and Alicia Bower. Whatever she’d done (or hadn’t done), a truckload of trouble was rolling her way.

Fearful of contaminating evidence, I carefully backed out of the room, then stopped. Remembering that maid at the end of the hall, I slipped my sleeve back over my hand and hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside handle.

I found my employer in her own room, pacing its stunted entryway. Alicia was now lying on the bed (in a fetal position), still facing the window, quietly sobbing.

I waved Madame into the bathroom and shut the door.

“Who is that man?” (Who was that man would have been more accurate, but she got my drift.)

“His name is Dennis St. Julian,” she whispered. “He’s a wholesale buyer in town for the ICE.”

“The IC—?”

“The International Confectioners’ Expo. It just kicked off at the Javits Convention Center. That’s why Patrice Stone scheduled the Mocha Magic Coffee launch party for this evening—”

“Wait. Back up. Who’s Patrice Stone? You never mentioned her before.”

“Patrice is the right-hand girl to Aphrodite.”

Madame wasn’t actually referring to the Greek goddess. Alicia’s boss was an enigmatic businesswoman known only by the name Aphrodite. Just a few years ago, she’d started a Web site called Aphrodite’s Village Online.

The site began humbly enough as a chatty, informative little online catalog carrying products for women, focusing primarily on those interested in enhancing or improving their love lives and relationships.

Aphrodite found investors, added content, and ratcheted up the PR. Mentions in major newspapers, on television talk shows, and two Hollywood feature films catapulted the little product site into one of the most popular communities for women on the World Wide Web.

The site became so big that Aphrodite divided it into “temples,” each one controlled by a different so-called Sister of Aphrodite. Much like the section heads of a magazine, each “Sister” was in charge of a different area of expertise: Health and Fitness, Travel and Leisure, Arts and Entertainment, Love and Relationships, and so on.

Alicia’s temple of expertise was Food and Spirits, which was why her Mocha Magic Coffee was being given an international launch by Aphrodite. The woman and her company were essentially partners in the deal and cut in for a hefty share of profits, as well.

“Because of the ICE trade show,” Madame continued, “a number of wholesale buyers are in town this week, looking for new products, and every last one of them has been invited to the Rock’s Loft & Garden tonight to sample Alicia’s Mocha Magic—and hopefully place orders.”

“Okay. But that doesn’t tell me why Candy Man had a date with a carving knife in Alicia’s room. How long has she known this guy?”

“At the most, three weeks. He approached her in a downtown bar and they hit it off. I met the man myself last week, very briefly. He said he was originally from Long Island but based somewhere in the Midwest for the past few years—Missouri, I believe—but he travels quite a bit on business. He said he was ready to place a very large order for Alicia’s new product.”

“Why would he claim that when he hasn’t even tried it?” I considered those empty martini glasses, sitting next to the vase of wilting flowers. “Has Alicia been using her aphrodisiac on him? Did she give him some last night?”

Madame frowned. “What difference would that make?”

“The man was stabbed. Through the heart. And appeared not to have moved. I think he was drugged.”

“What does that have to do with who murdered him?”

“When the police see that crime scene, they’ll know who murdered him!”

“Shhhhh . . . I told you. Alicia is not capable of murder. She did not do it.”

“Okay, but you’re not suggesting that I help you cover this up, are you? You know we have to call the police, right?”

“Yes, I understand.” Madame exhaled. “You don’t know Alicia like I do. The history we have.”

“What history is that? I’ve asked you. But you haven’t yet enlightened me.”

Madame shook her head, studied the bathroom floor. For almost a minute she seemed lost in thought—or memories.

“Madame?”

“She worked as my barista for about six months.”

“When?”

“A long time ago. Before you and Matt were married.”

“Why didn’t you ever mention her before? And why do you feel you owe her so much?”

“It’s not something that I ever intended to share. And I . . . well, I don’t wish to here and now.” She lifted her gaze. Her blue-violet eyes were actually damp. “The counselor is on his way. In the meantime, won’t you please help us, Clare? Tell the detectives that Alicia would never do a thing like this.”

Oh man.

I didn’t argue with her anymore. I just couldn’t. Reaching into my jeans pocket, I gripped my mobile phone.

Four

Once I brought up my cell’s address book, I began toggling through names—

Joy Allegro—my daughter. No. (Obviously.)

Mike Quinn—No. Not only was the man exhausted, he was no longer a precinct detective. The only thing he could do was advise me on who to call at the One Seven, and I already knew that.

I moved past my ex-husband, Matt, who’d been touring coffee farms in Indonesia, which put him out of cell phone range for weeks (as usual). I swept by my baristas—Tucker, Esther, Gardner, Dante, Vickie, and Nancy— blew by more names (acquaintances and suppliers). Finally, I came to the entry I needed and pressed the auto- dial.

“Lori Soles.”

“Good morning, Detective.”

“Clare Cosi, what are you doing calling me? Aren’t you right upstairs?”

“You’re sitting in my coffeehouse now, correct?”

“First cup of the day.” She took a loud sip to make her point.

“I have a situation . . .”

Lori Soles and her partner, Sue Ellen Bass (together known around the NYPD as “the Fish Squad”), had worked out of the nearby Sixth Precinct for years. Both had become addicted to my Americanos, and both still stopped by for their fix every morning before heading north to work at the Seventeenth, their newly assigned precinct house in Midtown.

Soles listened to my brief description of the homicide and thanked me.

“We just had a court appearance rescheduled,” she said, “and this sounds like it’s worth an early start. Sue Ellen and I will call it in. You know the drill?”

(For a variety of reasons, Soles and Bass were under the impression I possessed a private investigator’s