Murder by Mocha

leaving a message last night.”

“You need a cop that bad?”

I need Mike that bad. I took a breath, tried not to ache for him, and opened my eyes. They felt wet.

“Clare?”

“It’s a cinch,” I said, swiping at my cheeks. “My own personal cop would come in handy right now.”

Matt touched my arm. “Look, as long as Dudley Do-Right is MIA, I’ll be your cop, okay?” He formed a gun with his finger and thumb, took aim, fired, even blew on the finger barrel. “No kidding. I’ll help any way I can.”

“Help!” Esther squeaked, eyes wide.

Matt and I turned to find her hanging up the store phone.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nancy has gone off the deep end!” Esther came at us, hands flying like the Scylla monster. “That crazy girl drugged Dante!”

“What!” Matt’s eyes bugged. I covered mine, and Tucker misplaced his latte pour. Half the steamed milk ended up on the work counter.

“Is this your typical day, Clare?”

“Esther,” I said, “who exactly was on that phone?”

“Dante,” she replied. “Calling from Beth Israel’s ER.”

“Is he poisoned?”

“Dante’s fine. Apparently, it was Nancy who got sick.”

“Explain, please!” Tucker demanded, wiping up the latte foam. “Narrative, narrative!”

Esther folded her arms. “Dante went over to Nancy’s place to show her more tattoo designs. He told me he knew she was crushin’ on him, but he figured it would be okay because she has two roommates. But, of course, Nancy arranged to be alone when he arrived, and she slipped him a massive dose of Mocha Magic in a mug of hot cocoa!”

“The definition of date rape,” Matt said, rubbing his goatee. “It’s also a felony.”

I held my head. “Oh brother.”

“Dante claimed he was in control of his libido—and then he wasn’t,” Esther said. “But Nancy got dizzy before they got very far and threw up all over him.” She rolled her eyes. “Serves Baldini the Barista right. I warned him to steer clear of that lovesick girl! Now she’s just sick.”

“Wait,” I said. “Why is Nancy sick?”

“Apparently she drank the stuff, too—and it gave her a temporary bout of hypertension,” Esther tapped a finger on her chin. “Or was it hypotension. Anyway, the doctor said it was a reaction to siden-daffodil, or siden-dafquil—”

“Sildenafil,” Tuck said a bit sheepishly. “That’s in Viagra. You know, the little blue pill.”

“If that’s what Aphrodite put in our Mocha Magic, it’s definitely a controlled substance,” I said. “I can’t believe she jeopardized people’s health like that. What was she thinking?”

Matt spit an ugly word about Aphrodite. Then he cursed in French, long and hard.

“So where’s Nancy now?” I asked.

Esther took a breath. “Dante stayed with Nancy at the ER for three hours, but he had to leave her—he’s late now for a gallery event with some of his own paintings.”

I reached for my sweater. “I’ll go get her—”

Esther stopped me. “Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Boss, but it gets worse. Nancy is convinced Gudrun Voss is responsible for that crap in the Mocha Magic. She told Dante that as soon as she’s discharged—which is any minute now—she’s going to hop a train to Williamsburg and give the chocolatier a piece of her mind.”

I reached for my cell and speed dialed Nancy. After several agonizing rings, an electronic voice told me to leave a message.

I turned to Matt. “I couldn’t reach her. She must be in the subway already. There’s no signal down there.”

Matt had calmed a bit—or at least he’d stopped cursing.

“Listen,” I said, grabbing his arm. “We have to go to Voss Chocolate. I feel partially responsible for this. That poor girl is lovesick and just plain sick. She’s not thinking straight, Matt. We have to get to Nancy, explain it’s not Gudrun’s fault, and bring her home.”

Matt began a new string of curses, this time in Portuguese. I had no clue what he said, but it sounded very rude.

Esther waved her hand. “Take me! Take me! If you’re going to Chocolate World, I will be happy to ride shotgun. Mr. Boss can stay here.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Matt said. “I’ve been slaving away all day behind that counter. Even a drive to Brooklyn in Breanne’s crappy hybrid sounds like a vacation.”

“Fine,” Esther said folding her arms. “But I’m giving you both my chocoholic shopping list.”

“Matt! That’s Aphrodite’s town car. I recognize the vanity plates.”

“Eros, huh?” Matt snorted. “That woman is a walking cliché.”

My ex-husband’s foot was as heavy as Esther’s list was long, and we’d made it to Williamsburg in record time. But progress slowed in the maze of narrow, one-way streets in this waterfront district, so it was after ten when we arrived.

A Voss Chocolate banner hung like a medieval standard from the walls of a century-old, three-story building on the edge of the river. It was past closing time, and all the doors and windows were shuttered with steel gates, including the tiny retail outlet on the ground floor where Aphrodite’s car was parked.

Matt edged our sedan into a spot next door, in front of a plywood-walled construction site. I jumped out before he cut the engine.

My heels echoed hollowly as I ran to Aphrodite’s vehicle. A boat whistle sounded, the lights on the towering span of the Williamsburg Bridge winked between a pair of ancient marine warehouses, newly transformed into trendy stores and pricey co-ops for the affluent hipster.

The windows on the late-model town car were tinted, but I could see a Mocha Magic press kit on the back seat.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, “this is Aphrodite’s ride.”

“So?”

“So I’ve been trying to reach her all evening, warn her she’s in danger. Obviously, she’s inside now with Gudrun.”

“We’re here to find our wayward barista. Not rescue a drama queen.”

“Calm down, Matt. You’re getting angry again.”

He grunted.

“This is a working factory,” I told him. “Deliveries arrive at all hours, There has to be a way in . . .”

The building was unadorned and had few windows. It housed a full-scale chocolate factory, along with facilities where Gudrun mixed her cocoa with the Blend’s coffee beans and Alicia’s powder to create the Mocha Magic syrup. The mocha concentrate was then bottled and sent to Long Island City where another facility freeze- dried and packaged it.

As I hugged myself against a chilly wind whipping off the water, I noticed a hand-scrawled sign beside one of the smaller gates: Late-Night Deliveries. Over that sign I found the doorbell and intercom. I hit the button and a buzzer sounded deep inside the building.

“What are you doing, Clare? Let’s go back to the car and wait for Nancy to show up.”

“But Nancy is probably inside already.”

“Clare, she took mass transit. You know how lousy subway service can be at night. Nancy might not even be in Brooklyn yet.”

“She’s had plenty of time to get here.” I said, buzzing again. Stubbornly, I pressed a third time, then a fourth. Finally, I reached for my purse and phone—only to discover I’d left them in the car.