“He said it was possible.”
Trenton says, “Congress Drugs is located in the middle of San Andreas Farms. There are public tours of the farms every day.”
“But there are no public tours inside Congress Drugs. You have to work there or be a special visitor, like CC was a few weeks ago,” I say.
“CC?”
“Colorful Copies, the daughter of Carbon Copies, who just bought Mars Media. I knew her briefly in college. She seduced Drew Barron, who was then my boyfriend.”
“Whoa! The Drew Barron? Heartthrob Drew Barron? Gorgeous Drew Barron? You dated Drew Barron? I can’t believe it!” She looks at me more closely. “What was he like?”
“He was different. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Jersey and Trenton pass significant silent looks.
Trenton walks to a row of computers with alternating blinking red numbers followed by rows of blinking black letters. “Let’s see if I can get more on Solaria’s cousin Pluto.” He sits, sticks his index finger into a slot, closes his eyes, and looks blissful.
Jersey ties and unties the ends of her blue-and-white scarf three times.
“The right side is shorter,” I say. She starts to do the process again. “Only kidding.”
“No,” she brightens. “You’re right.”
Trenton opens his eyes and removes his finger from the computer. “I used a thermal scan that bounces DNA readings off the clothing of the man at the Candy Universe, and it did match the DNA of Solaria’s cousin Pluto.”
“And the woman with Pluto?” I ask.
“Name’s Breezy Point, and they are not married, related, or on their honeymoon. What’s more, police on several planets have been following their activities for years,” says Trenton. “If Breezy’s father is the scientist Decibel Point, it’s a big connection. He developed a drug causing invisibility, but you gained ten pounds for every minute you were invisible. The project was scrapped when the Martians learned of the side effect.”
I pat my hips. “I don’t think ten pounds is so much. I’ve gained and lost ten pounds lots of times. I could do a lot being invisible for one minute.”
Jersey laughs. “Yeah, like eat all the candy in the Candy Universe.” Then more seriously she says, “Why did Congress Drugs make a dangerous product?”
Trenton rises. “I bet no one knew it was dangerous. I read a report saying the testing was incomplete. Decibel probably created the anti flavonoids for an advanced Freedom Plan product. It’s possible that when the testing was slow, he or someone else tried to test it by throwing some in the chocolate vat and seeing the reaction. But that’s not likely. He’d never risk ruining his reputation. Besides, Congress Drugs must want him full time instead of as a freelancer because, like all research scientists, he has plenty of opportunities to work in off-planet labs.”
Jersey pales. “Don’t even think about it, Trenton.”
Trenton smiles and pecks her cheek. “Sandy Andreas must pay him plenty so he won’t wander off. But someone else could have used the idea.”
“Who?” Jersey and I say together.
“My computer keeps bringing up the name Rocket Packarod with most pharmaceutical products. His name is linked with Decibel in the Orange Blossom Spray Company, but the partnership was brief.”
Jersey pops some gum into her mouth. Like many Martians she loves gum because it’s food she doesn’t have to eat. “Want a piece?” she offers. I shake my head no.
Trenton continues. “I’ve analyzed the composition of every type of anti-flavonoid I know. Now I need to analyze a Chocolate Moon.”
“Simple,” I say, reaching into my pocket and pulling one from the old stash I saved in case I ran out. I hand it to Trenton. “Any chance you would want to eat one?”
“Why would I want to eat it?”
Trenton crushes the Moon. I wince. Then he inserts some into an analysis unit and discards the rest. “Well, nothing wrong with this one.” His hands rotate at the wrists 360 degrees. There’s a beep. He scans a screen. “The Chocolate Moons found in the bodies of all the coma victims came from boxes with the same packaging code, meaning they came from the same vat, packaged at the same time, and distributed soon after. Hmm…the analysis of the chemical composition of the poison is exactly opposite of the composition of the harmless Chocolate Moon you just gave me, Molly. Of course, I wouldn’t be affected if I ate a poisoned one. Maybe I’d find them delicious.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” I say. “The people who ate them are lucky they didn’t die; you can recover from a coma. I’ve had a vague feeling about an antidote and a French connection.” I reach into my pocket and take the decorative paper from the Candy Universe that the Chocolate Moons sat on. “I scraped this off the bottom of the case. Lamont’s got a larger piece, but I wanted your opinion.”
Trenton inserts it into the analysis unit. A few seconds later more numbers and letters appear on a screen. “Well, here’s no surprise—a small spot matches that in the poison.”
“I wonder how long that candy sat in that case.”
“Candy moves quickly. Couldn’t have been there more than a day.” Jersey eyeballs me. “And in some cases only for a few minutes.”
Trenton flexes his hand. He picks up a can of WD-4,000 and sprays his hand. “Ah, I could live on that stuff.” He opens a drawer and takes out a gray metal box and lifts the cover. “What do you think about my latest generation of listening devices, Molly?”
“Looks like candy sprinkles that top ice cream.”
Jersey groans. “Only you would think that. It’s obviously electronic devices with nano-nuclear eyes and digital ears.”
“But sprinkles are a good name,” Trenton says. He closes the box. “Lamont inserted them onto the ceiling of Drew’s apartment.”
“Drew’s apartment! I didn’t know he’s a suspect.”
“Sandy Andreas insists everyone be investigated. Two days ago those ‘sprinkles’ transmitted a conversation between Drew and Rocket concerning gambling debts. We also heard Rocket switching the Giacometti that Drew bought at Park Bengay with an identical copy. Drew sounded very upset. I’m sure that he’ll make every effort to get it back and in the process hopefully lead us to Scheherazade. We suspect she is the one flooding the market with fakes.”
Drew and Kandy are having dinner at home. Kandy wears a black bare-backed jersey halter and her latest purchase, a full-length black-and-gold skirt with a dollar-sign pattern. The service-bot rolls toward them with a roasted duck that sits on a bed of macadamia nut wild rice. It stops next to Drew. He says, “Carve and serve.” As the service-bot carves, Drew raises a rare glass of syrah, sniffs, and swirls. Then Rocket calls.
Drew turns his chair away from Kandy, who slips off her gold sandals anticipating what she hopes will not be a long discussion. “I know you already asked me about getting you more from Congress Drugs, but it’s difficult!”
There is a pause followed by an “uh–huh,” followed by a longer pause. He doesn’t want to get on Rocket’s bad side and risk never getting his Giacometti back. “I am trying harder!” Pause. “Yup, of course Kandy is thrilled to go to the Nirgal Palace Hotel. She’s never been to a hotel in space before.”
18
CC ENTERS CRAIG Cashew’s private dining room. She clicks her open-toed icepick heels on the brown polished floor. Her one-shoulder peach-colored dress is circled with a gray belt. Craig thinks risqué yet conservative like jalapeño chunks in double-dark chocolate.
The room is next to his office. The table sits near a window that overlooks the Culinary’s rose garden. It is set with a periwinkle tablecloth and matching napkins. A skinny glass vase holds a sprig of magenta bougainvillea.
Craig slides out a white damask armchair. CC sits. She smiles at Craig, hoping that this lunch will lead to a more in-depth interview and private tour of the Culinary Institute.
“Well, Colorful Copies,” Craig says.
“Please, all my friends call me CC.”
“Well, CC, I
’ve looked forward to our meeting.”
A waiter pours ice water from a silver pitcher. A sommelier approaches and places on the table two tall flutes etched with the Culinary Institute of Mars logo. He pours a small amount of wine into Craig’s glass.
Craig sips. He looks at the label. “Ah, 2318,” he says. “It was a very good year.” He nods to the sommelier who fills both glasses.
Craig and CC look at each other for a minute longer than necessary. “To food,” Craig says, raising his glass.
“To gourmet food,” CC says. They clink glasses. CC puts the drink to her lips. Bubbles tickle her nose. She dabs it with her napkin.
They lower their eyes to the tabletop. There are ten buttons on the top. CC presses the first one and a holograph of a half roasted duck in black cherry sauce appears. She presses the second and the duck is replaced by grilled Dover Sole in lemon butter sauce. A third brings a rack of lamb. “I can’t decide,” says CC. “Everything looks wonderful. Why don’t you order?”
Craig motions with his hand. A waiter places a basket of minuscule golden harbor prawns with a dish of garlicky aioli between Craig and CC.
“Eat while they’re hot,” Craig says, dipping a prawn in the sauce and popping it into his mouth. CC reaches for one and drops it on her plate. “Ooh, its sooo hot.” She picks it up, looks Craig in the eye, and blows on it before putting it into her mouth. “Delicious,” she says.
“I hope Sandy Andreas’s tour of Congress Drugs and San Andreas Farms didn’t wear you out. I saw your interview with Nova Scotia. I heard that Sandy gave you a personal tour of his company.”
“Yes, but I was annoyed that I only got to interview two or three of the Congress Drugs scientists and I never completely saw how his Freedom Plan diet foods and supplement pills are made. But when he left to take a call, I got one scientist to show me the products that they’ve not finished testing. The farms are beautiful, but plants don’t talk.” She leans closer to Craig. “I’m really more interested in the Culinary.” CC blinks her newly dyed rainbow-colored eyelashes.
“Are those eyelashes your natural color?” he asks.
“Is sugar sweet?” she purrs.
Craig kisses her hand. “I’ll be delighted to show you the Culinary Institute—our restaurants, our kitchens, the gardens and vineyards, and the Flying Saucer Supermarket. Feel free to interview anyone you want.”
“I’m already interviewing someone I want.” Craig smiles.
A waiter approaches. “Have you made your decision, or do you want a minute more?” he asks.
“We’ll share the crab bisques with Io mushrooms and the colossal raw-seafood platter,” Craig says. He turns to CC. “The seafood arrived fresh this morning from Hellas Planitia Ocean. You need at least two people to finish it.”
CC’s cornflower-blue eyes look deep into Craig’s brown eyes. She reaches out and touches his sleeve. “You’re soooo creative. I hear you’re going to build a new members-only club.”
“Yes, Gramercy Gardens. Why don’t I add your name as a charter member? My compliments.”
CC oozes. “Wonderful.”
“How is Sandy Andreas? I haven’t seen him or his wife, Solaria, in a while. Solaria’s firm, Sumptuous Solars, is catering and hosting the Mars Malt gala at their home. Did you get an invitation?”
“Not exactly. I’ll be there but as part of the Mars Media team.”
A waiter places a small green tureen of crab bisque on the table.
“Shall I?” he says, ladling the steaming soup into their bowls. They look at each other, dip in their spoons, and swirl until the pink coral and sand-colored mushrooms fill them.
“Ah,” they say together.
“I have to go to Nirgal Palace Hotel for a conference next week. I’ve never been there.” says Craig. “Would you like to join me? I’m told that the room that I booked on Outer Ring 3 is one of their best.”
CC says, “Those rooms have the illusion of only having three inner walls. The beds at the far end appear to float in space. A lot of people are afraid, but I’m not one of them.” She sips her champagne, takes out her scheduling tablet, and looks. “Maybe,” she smiles. “Maybe.” One waiter clears the soup. Another places an enormous platter of raw seafood resting on a bed of ice between Craig and CC. “Ah, the pièce de rèsistance,” Craig says, putting several raw oysters on his plate.
CC takes half a lobster and pries its white meat from the pink shell and dips it into a pink creamy sauce.
“Did you ever find that bracelet charm you lost?”
“No. But my father sent me a duplicate.” She shakes her wrist. “See, all present and accounted for.”
By the time the waiter brings two triple espressos and a chocolate soufflé, CC agrees to go to Nirgal Palace with Craig and accepts his offer of a complimentary charter membership in Gramercy Gardens.
19
WHEN I BRING a chocolate decadence cake, two dozen cinnamon doughnuts, and three pounds of caramel crackles to Lamont Blackberry’s office, Jersey says, “I’m embarrassed to be seen with you!”
“But I want to make a good impression.”
“You’re making an impression, all right. But it looks like a bribe.” “It’s a peace offering.”
“Bribe.”
“Peace offering. The last time Lamont and I met, the day the boys ate the poisoned Chocolate Moons at the Candy Universe, we disagreed about sending the uncontaminated candy into space.”
“Bribe,” Jersey mutters under her breath.
“Enough,” Trenton growls.
Lamont sits at his desk behind a clear glass wall. He rocks back and forth on a beat-up chair that matches his mood and appearance. Three stacked screens, each divided into quadrants, are on the left side of the office, and a large jar of unshelled walnuts is on the right.
From the other side of the glass wall, we see Lamont pick up a walnut and throw it at his partner, Sid Seedless. Sid rubs his head.
Trenton taps on the glass. Lamont looks and buzzes us in. When we enter, Jersey lowers her head because she is embarrassed about all the stuff we are carrying toward his desk.
“What’s this?” Lamont asks suspiciously.
“Chocolate Decadence cake, a gift from the Flying Saucer Supermarket. It’s an ancient recipe written by a trader named Joe. I hope you like chocolate; I could have brought vanilla.”
“Vanilla’s good,” Sid says, lured to Lamont’s desk by the smell of chocolate.
“Shut up. They’re not talking to you,” Lamont snaps. “And in case you haven’t noticed, this case is about chocolate, not vanilla.”
Lamont runs his finger around the side of the cake and puts it to his mouth. “Mmm…” Then he does it again.
I poke Jersey in the ribs and whisper, “See?”
Jersey shrugs. “See what?”
“What have you got for me, Trenton?” Lamont raises his eyes from the cake.
“My report proves—”
Lamont slaps Sid’s hand as it reaches for a doughnut. The box collapses; doughnuts roll.
“Catch them!” Lamont cries to Sid. “If I catch them, can I eat them?”
Lamont grabs one before it hits the floor and stuffs it into his mouth. Sid does the same.
Stone-faced, Jersey—who never saw a Belgian chocolate that she liked—picks up the cake with the cold detachment of a lab technician and carries it to a nearby table. Trenton gathers the rest and puts them next to the cake.
Then Trenton places his briefcase on Lamont’s desk and says, “Gentlemen!” Then again, more loudly, “Gentlemen!” while clicking the briefcase open. “My report proves how only some Chocolate Moons could become infected and the others left untainted.”
Everyone springs to attention.
“Yes, they were all mixed in the same vat, but the composition of the poison was so small that it didn’t dissolve but instead bonded with one chocolate nib, meaning only random candies got infected. By the time the Moons reached the packing area, they separated into
different boxes and were distributed. I don’t think they were targeted for anyone in particular; whoever got a poisoned candy was just unlucky.
“We also studied the Culinary’s security holos and saw a man named Pluto Pastrami raising his hand like he was about to throw something into the vat. Turns out he’s Solaria Pastrami Andreas’s cousin.”
Lamont taps the computer and says, “Pluto Pastrami.” Several orange and blue lights blink. Lamont’s eyebrows rise. “Yes, nephew of Salami Pastrami, owner of Mars Malt Beer, and first cousin to Solaria Pastrami Andreas, Sandy Andreas’s wife. She owns the high-class catering firm Sumptuous Solars.” He scrolls further. “His girlfriend, Breezy Point, is daughter of Decibel Point.” Lamont pauses. “Isn’t Decibel Point the same scientist who won a four-flame Bunsen Burner prize?”
Jersey gives my ribs a wincing jab to remind me not to say anything more about Decibel Point.
“He burned down Nero Roma’s restaurant with that thing. I loved that place; instead of putting fortunes in cookies they put fortunes in ravioli.” Lamont sighs and turns back to his computer. “Aha! Just as you told me, Trenton—Rocket Packarod and Decibel Point were partners in the Orange Blossom Spray Company. A notation claims that Rocket cheated Decibel out of the patent when they were in Las Venus.”
I say, “Good thing the listening devices you put in Drew Barron’s apartment transmitted what was going on between Rocket and Drew. But it was a close call when Rocket looked up at Drew’s ceiling and saw those dots.”
“I’m an art history maven,” Sid says. “And I think.”
“Art history maven? The only culture you get is in yogurt,” Lamont snarls. “But if you are, then you’re the perfect person to go to the ABC and round up Scheherazade and recover the stolen items stored there.”
“Well, I only got a C,” Sid gulps.
Lamont glares at Sid. “Even if Drew is found innocent of taking a poisonous substance from Congress Drugs, if he leads us to Scheherazade, that would be a major accomplishment.” Lamont reaches for a caramel crackle and pops it in his mouth. “And while we’re at it, what’s the name of Drew Barron’s beautiful girlfriend?”
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