by Клео Коул
“She’s using a laser sight!” Matt cried, pushing me onto the floor. Glass rained down on me when the passenger window exploded.
I screamed. “I thought Hummers had bulletproof glass!”
“This is a prop Hummer! Not a real—oh, never mind!”
Matt slammed the vehicle into reverse and punched the gas. The wheels spun, shredding the red carpet for a moment before gaining traction. Then the big car lurched, and we were on our way.
Matt’s head turned, so he could drive backward, which meant he couldn’t see the red laser dot coming to rest on the side of his skull. Lucky for him, I did.
“Get down!” I yelled. Grabbing a handful of Matt’s long hair, I pulled as hard as I could.
Matt howled, but his big head moved just in time—the window blew out a second later. He didn’t slow down. We exited the tent and kept going, through the cattle chute and back toward the street. The fence and the gate were already in ruins, shattered when Matt drove in.
As we hit the street, he slammed the brakes—too late, unfortunately. A limousine had rolled into the intersection behind us, and the Hummer smashed into its front grill, a rear-end collision in reverse.
“God, Matt! I hope no one was hurt.” I pushed open the door.
“Stay down, Clare! Help is on the way. I already called 911!”
Heedless of the danger, I jumped out of the Hummer and raced to the car we’d struck. The hood was crumpled, the hissing radiator belching steam. I could hear approaching sirens, too. Lots of them.
The other driver, a Sikh with a full beard and turban, emerged from his smashed Town Car, shaking his head with exasperation. Then the man opened the passenger doors, and two women climbed out. Both were shaken but unhurt.
One of them was Madame. The other was Alicia Bower.
Thirty-Five
Damn her! Damn her straight to hell!
Face sweaty behind the mask, she bolted from the dazzling light. Safe in the shadows of the tent, she ripped away her white face, peeled off her midnight togs. Beneath, more clothes clung damply to her skin, yet another self.
She pulled out the Go Green! shopping tote, stuffed everything inside—the gun, the mask, the laser site. The black disguise came last, topped with a decoy box to bury all the evidence.
In the distance, sirens wailed. Hugging the tote, she dropped and rolled. The tent bottom gave as she moved against it, birthing her into the fresh-cut grass.
Out on the street, a car horn blared, voices shouted, traffic screeched, but she remained invisible. Hidden by the canvas mountain, she ran for the edge of Socrates Sculpture Park.
At the shoreline, the river shimmered, tempting her with a watery escape. If only she could swim across! But the current was too treacherous, the very act suicidal. Given her performance on the Bay Creek bridge, the irony nearly made her cackle.
Another bridge beckoned now, down river—the Queensboro. She had to reach it, as fast as possible. Slipping down the damp rocks, she moved to the river’s edge, hurried for the property line. Now trees and shrubs would be her shield as she climbed back up the embankment. Finally, on a steadying breath, she stepped into the open.
The Costco lot was vast and crowded—exactly what she needed. Slinging the tote bag over her shoulder, she wandered out as stupid and glassy-eyed as the shoppers before her: mommies struggling with toddlers, families fumbling with carts, couples bickering over needs and receipts. Invisibly, she slithered among them. None bothered the lone woman snaking by their minivans, economy cars, and SUVs; and if they glanced into her tote, all they’d see was a box of Pampers.
When she reached the store’s busy exit, she flowed with the crowd and began her search. In almost no time, she saw it—a dark sedan moving slowly, like a shark. The livery driver had disgorged his fare, appeared hungry for a new one. She waved him over. He pulled up and she ducked in back.
“Manhattan,” she said, hearing the pathetic quiver in her voice. She swallowed hard, tried again: “No hurry. Take your time . . .”
As they headed for the main road, she chewed her lower lip. Her fury had given way to fear and, for the first time, an admission... failure. But she would not stop. Not now. Not ever. She just had to get clear of this place.
“Some kind of car wreck up here,” the driver warned. “Big backup. Lots of police . . .”
“Can you get around them?”
“I’ll try.”
As the driver turned the car, she held her breath. Soon he found a new exit, and she was on her way again, heading down river, into the shadow of that towering bridge.
Sitting back, she closed her eyes. Once again, she was invisible. No one would suspect her, and that’s how she would win. That’s how she always won.
Striking from the shadows, she’d get them all, one by one, including that stupid little witch who’d ruined today’s performance. The very thought nearly brought a giggle to her lips. Clare Cosi may not know it yet, but she had been judged and sentenced.
And won’t you be surprised, Ms. Cosi, when you find me your executioner!
Thirty-Six
“I am not a murderer!”
Hands on slender hips, Alicia Bower met my eyes, incensed and defiant.
I pointed to the lovingly battered café chair directly across from mine, the one from which she’d dramatically leaped. “Sit down.”
The four of us—Alicia, Madame, Matt, and I—were positioned like points of a compass around the table. We had our privacy up here on the Blend’s closed second floor. What we didn’t have was peace. We’d barely settled in before Matt blurted out, “Until you two rolled up in your limo, Clare thought Alicia was the shooter.”
“I am outraged! Outraged!” Alicia cried.
“There’s no use getting emotional, dear.” Madame picked up her cup and saucer. “Clare’s right. Sit. Drink your cappuccino. It’s quite delicious . . .”
Tugging on the lapels of her pinstriped blazer, Alicia stood firm a moment, then tossed her perfectly coiffed flapper hair and returned the seat of her skirt to the seat of the chair.
“You called to tell me you were sending over instructions. What was I supposed to think?” I asked Alicia.
“I sent over the catering instructions, that’s all,” Alicia replied. “I had nothing to do with that fake letter.”
Suddenly Matt sprang up. “I need another double!”
I wasn’t surprised. The man had downed his first doppio faster than Quinn’s fire-haired cousin knocked back Irish whiskey. Either my ex-husband really needed more caffeine, which was easy to believe, or he wanted an excuse to regroup after Alicia’s tantrum (even easier to believe).
“Ladies? Anything else?”
We shook our heads, and Matt headed for our corkscrew staircase.
Of course, the police had interviewed us at the crime scene. They processed us further at a Queens precinct, taking our statements, our photos, and our letters. Yes, letters plural.
Alicia had received a typewritten note similar to mine, summoning her to the park tent. Her memo had been from Aphrodite (supposedly), and Susan Chu had been the one to deliver it. The police discovered a third summoning message in the stiffening fingers of Maya Lansing’s corpse, this one also purportedly from Aphrodite. God knows who delivered Maya’s letter. Daphne? Susan? Yet another of the Aphrodite’s Village gofers?
The whole thing made my head spin, and in just a few hours, my staff and I were expected at the Twelfth Street Pier. I’d signed a contract, agreeing to cater another PR event for Aphrodite’s Village—this one on a yacht for relationship expert Sherri Sellars.
I’d accepted their advance, purchased inventory, and scheduled my people. Aphrodite’s contract carried stiff financial penalties for dropping the ball at the last minute (and she was known to be litigious), so I was loath to back out now. But the police had yet to find today’s shooter, and I wasn’t too keen on becoming that killer’s target dummy for the second time today. Consequently, I ordered (yes ordered) Alicia,
Madame, and Matt to come back to the Blend with me. It’s time we hashed everything out, I’d told them. Everything.
“Why, in heaven’s name, did you think I would want to shoot you?” Alicia demanded.
“Because I’m a key witness in the murder of Patrice Stone—”
“That doesn’t explain a thing!”
“It will if you allow me to finish. I’ve been helping the two lead detectives on Patrice’s case nail you as the primary person of interest in her murder.”
“You what?” Now Madame joined Alicia for a duet of outrage. (I didn’t blame them.)
“Just listen to the whole story,” I said, “because the circumstantial evidence against Alicia is overwhelming . . .” I laid out the tale, finishing up with the truth about Alicia’s Candy Man, Troy Talos. By the end, both women’s mouths were slack. “And here’s the biggest shock of all: the person who hired Talos to seduce Alicia away from her own launch party was Patrice.”
Alicia’s face blanched. “Patrice Stone?”
I nodded.
“My goodness,” Madame said. “In heaven’s name, why?”
“Ambition. Patrice wanted the top spot at Aphrodite’s Village after Aphrodite retired, and Alicia was stiff competition for it, so Patrice tried to take her down a notch.”
Madame sighed. “How puerile.”
“That’s not the worst of it,” I said.
“What is?” Alicia whispered.
I met her gaze. “Think it through: if you discovered or even suspected that Patrice was behind that criminal prank, then you would also have a highly plausible motive for murder.”
“But I didn’t kill Patrice!” Alicia wailed. “And I didn’t know she’d hired Dennis!”
“You mean Troy, dear,” Madame corrected.
Alicia covered her eyes. “Whatever that man’s name was, I can tell you he was a pro at turning on the charm . . .”
That was easy to believe. “Troy Talos is a wannabe-actor parolee who ran gigolo scams in the past. I’d say pro is the right word.”
Alicia held her head. “Oh God.”
“Listen up, okay?” I touched Alicia’s arm. “I have to ask you a question. It’s an important one so look at me.”
Frowning, Alicia glanced up.
“The night of Patrice’s murder, you put on your raincoat and went into the Garden. Everyone was inside by then. I understand you told the lead detectives that you were simply checking the weather, but I don’t believe it. Why did you go out there, Alicia?”
“I . . . I left something . . .” She looked away.
“If you don’t tell me the truth, I can’t help you.”
She smirked. “So now you’re going to help me?”
I folded my arms. “Believe me, lady, if you want to twist in the wind, I’ll be glad to let you.”
As I sat back, Madame leaned forward, closing still-strong fingers around Alicia’s wrist. “If I were you, dear, I would tell my daughter-in-law the truth.”
Stiffening like an ice sculpture, Alicia cast her eyes downward, fixing her gaze on the old scars in the wooden tabletop. “I went out to the Garden,” she said, voice barely there, “to rifle the files on Patrice’s smartphone.”
“You what?” Now Madame and I were the duet.
Releasing her wrist, Madame sat back, and I leaned forward. “Why did you do that?”
Alicia wrung her hands. “I know it sounds awful. But I noticed Patrice had left it out there after her speech, on the shelf under the podium. When the storm hit and everyone rushed inside, I saw it as luck—an opportunity to watch my back.”
“So you did suspect Patrice was trying to undermine you?”
“Not Patrice—but I heard gossip that other Sisters in our Village were angling for control of my Mocha Magic product. I needed to find out who my enemies really were. So I skimmed Patrice’s e-mails.”
“What did you find out?”
“Not much. There were messages from Maya, Aphrodite, and Sherri Sellars, as well as Patrice’s assistant Susan Chu. The e-mails from Maya were the most incriminating—but you already know what she was up to. You witnessed our argument at the party. What I didn’t know was that Patrice’s words of support for me that night were a total lie. She was two-faced, a good little actress.”
“And now she’s a dead little actress.” Matt walked toward us from the top of the stairs.
“Matteo, that’s awful,” Madame scolded.
“It’s the truth, Mother.” He moved to the table but refused to sit. “And speaking of truths, now is a good moment for another one. Don’t you think, Clare?”
I speared Matt. Don’t you put this all on me or you’ll be the next corpse!
Catching my drift, he folded his arms and shifted his gaze to the woman of the hour. “What’s in the Mocha Magic, Alicia?”
“Excuse me?” She frowned. “Didn’t you read the press packet?”
“Humor me. What’s in it?”
“Village Blend coffee—obviously. Voss chocolate and a proprietary combination of imported herbs and spices.”
“Come clean, honey. What drug did you add to that herbal mix? A narcotic? A controlled substance? What?”
“My boy—” Madame’s voice was stern. Clearly, she didn’t care for Matt’s tone, yet she paused, trusting her son enough to give him some latitude. “What are you suggesting here?”
“I’m suggesting that the ‘magic’ in that Mocha Magic is going to sink us all.” He looked to me. Okay, Clare, now you’re on.
I took a breath, braced myself. “I asked Mike Quinn to help us out. I gave him a sample. He’s having it tested.”
Once again, Alicia went into jack-in-the-box mode, flying into another tantrum—lots of “What nerve!” and “How dare yous!” But she soon ran out of gas, and Matt and I were ready for her.
“If the product ingredients are kosher, then you have nothing to worry about, do you?” I said.
Matt nodded. “Either you’re lying to us or you’re duped, too. Which is it?”
Alicia sank into her chair. She looked to Madame and both admitted an odd fact. Although the two had sampled plenty of the Mocha Magic product during its final stages of development, neither imbibed at the launch party.
“I did eat the chocolates and pastries,” Alicia said, “and so did your mother.”
Matt shook his head. “As a flavoring agent, the active ingredients are diluted. When you drink the stuff, you feel the effects. I promise you.”
I turned to Madame. “Why didn’t you drink the Mocha Magic at the party?”
“Frankly, dear, I’m no fan of instant coffee. Compared with other instants, I found Alicia’s product acceptable, even superior. I did feel a slight boost of euphoria when I sampled it weeks ago, but nothing like a drug.”
Matt glanced at me. “I don’t want my mother putting that stuff into her system. But Alicia needs to try several cups of it now, in front of us all.”
I nodded. “I’ll have Esther bring some up.”
“Thanks.”
I stood but didn’t leave. Matt had interrupted our discussion before I could make things clear to Alicia on the Patrice Stone murder.
“What is it, Clare?” Madame asked.
“I want to make sure you both understand this. After we’re through here, Alicia should call her lawyer. She needs to go up to the Seventeenth Precinct and amend her statement. She’s got to tell the police the truth about what she really did in the Garden on the night of the party.”
“Yes, fine,” Alicia said, waving her hand. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Good,” I said, relieved, and headed for the stairs.
“Holy smokin’ rockets! It’s just smoke . . . and a rocket,” Nancy complained as I moved toward our espresso bar.
“Exactly,” Dante replied.
Dante Silva, my artista barista, appeared to be showing Nancy Kelly a series of pen-and-ink drawings from one of his sketchbooks. I knew Dante was scheduled to relieve Esther any minute, but I
was surprised (and a little upset) to see Nancy here. She had had a shift earlier today and left once already. She wasn’t scheduled to work again until our catering gig tonight.
Slipping behind the counter, I asked Esther to prepare four servings of Mocha Magic and take them to the second floor.
“No problem,” she said, pulling out a tray.
I tipped my head toward Nancy and Dante. “I’ve been trying to keep them apart on the schedule. What is she up to with him?”
Esther rolled her eyes. “She’s paying him to create an original tattoo for her . . .”
“I see.”
“But if you ask me, he’s the one paying for it.”
“I don’t get the whole rocket thing,” Nancy said, obviously agitated.
“I turned your phrase into an image,” Dante calmly explained. “The smoke. The rocket. It’s signature Nancy, so I thought it would make a great tattoo. You can pick out the colors, of course . . .”
I moved closer, glanced at the drawing—an art deco rocket with curlicue smoke belching from its tail pipe. The design was charming, but Nancy appeared stressed out by the very idea.
“Okay . . .” Dante buried the sketch, scratched his shaved head, and found another.
A few rejected designs later, Esther was ready to head upstairs with the Mocha Magic samples, and I was pulling myself a badly needed espresso shot. “Tell Matt I’ll be right up, okay?”
“Sure, boss . . .”
“Here’s a great one,” Dante told Nancy. “The Greek philosopher Plato believed that a serpent devouring its own tail was the first living thing in the universe, the origin of all life. This design is a Norse version of the concept.”
Nancy frowned. “Why is the snake biting its own butt?”
“It’s symbolic for the circle of life—the snake who devours its own tail.”
“Yuck. Who would want a ringworm for a tattoo?”
“Fine. What do you think of a unicorn?”
“I think it’s uni-corny!”
“How about an ankh?”
“A what?”
Dante touched one of the colorful tattoos on his own ropey arms—a cross with a loop on top. “It’s an ancient Egyptian symbol.”