Murder by Mocha cm-10

by Клео Коул

  Madame glanced at me. “Now that does sound like premeditated murder.”

  Jeffries nodded. “She brought the gun and she pointed it. The prosecutor believed it was premeditated, too, and he was aggressive. Alicia and Sherri were friendly with Mrs. Temple. They didn’t want to testify against her, but they took their sworn oaths seriously and told the truth as they saw it.

  “The prosecutor compelled them to testify for his side—including a statement they overheard Mrs. Temple make during the struggle. ‘I swear I’ll end them both.’ ” He snapped his fingers. “Those two sealed the deal. The scandal with all the requisite publicity ruined them at the college, of course. Alicia resigned her post and went off to be a freelance writer. The jury found Mrs. Temple guilty of all charges. She showed no remorse, and the judge sentenced her to twenty-five years to life.”

  “And she died in prison?”

  “After seven years, Mrs. Temple applied for early parole. The board denied her request. She still hadn’t shown any remorse, and she’d physically assaulted a female guard. When she heard her parole was denied, she hanged herself in the prison laundry.”

  “Dora had a daughter,” I said. “What happened to her?”

  Jeffries’s buoyancy flagged suddenly. “Olympia Temple. Now there was a tragedy.”

  “How so?” Madame asked.

  “Olympia hardly knew her father, but she was close to her mother. Mrs. Temple made bail, and for two years before the trial, that girl listened to her mother rail against the prosecutor, the judge, the friends who had ‘turned on her’ to testify against her. When her mother was sent to prison, the daughter was devastated.”

  “Do you have a photo?” I asked.

  Jeffries found only a few. Olympia was young during the height of the trial—around thirteen years old. She was a slender, Caucasian girl with long, dark blond hair, which she used to cover her face when cameras began snapping her photo.

  He tapped the image on screen. “Several years after Mrs. Temple was sentenced, I wrote a piece about her life in prison. A few days after that article was published, I started getting poisoned-pen letters. Then someone slashed the tires on my car.”

  Letters followed by violence? Madame and I leaned forward. “What did you do?”

  “I turned the letters over to the police. They believed Olympia was responsible. When I heard that, I couldn’t bring myself to press charges, but they spoke with her, hoped to frighten her into stopping. She didn’t. The tire slashing was repeated after I wrote an article about Mrs. Temple’s parole being denied.”

  “There was no one else who could have done it?” I asked. “An angry cousin, an uncle, a sister? The Temples must have had close friends.”

  “Dr. Temple and his wife were transplants from Maine. They had no relatives in the area. None that I could find, and I looked, too. Their friends were connected to the college, and when the scandal broke, most of them distanced themselves from Dora Temple—understandable since they had upstanding reputations to maintain and Mrs. Temple couldn’t escape the bad publicity. When Mrs. Temple went to prison, her daughter was taken in by guardians, not related, an elderly couple also connected to the college.”

  He shook his head. “After all Olympia had been through, I didn’t wish to press charges against her, and the harassment did stop after she vanished.”

  “You mean after she killed herself.”

  Jeffries scratched his head. “I’m not so sure she did.”

  “But Phoebe Themis told us there were witnesses. They heard a scream, saw something plunge off a bridge. Dora’s belongings and a suicide note were found on top of that same bridge. She’d worn her mother’s wedding gown for that jump and shreds of it washed ashore.”

  “And no body was ever recovered.”

  Prickles iced my skin. “Are you certain?”

  “Are you hungry, Ms. Cosi?”

  “Excuse me?” Oh no, I thought. I hope he’s not hitting on me for a dinner date.

  “I suggest you stop by the River View restaurant, just outside of our village. Ask for the head waiter, Freddie. Tell him I sent you. Freddie has an eyewitness opinion about what happened.”

  “We’ll do that,” I said, rising.

  “And try the bay scallops with saffron risotto.” Jeffries kissed the tips of his fingers. “Délicieux!”

  By the time Madame and I arrived at the River View, dinner service was under way. In the parking lot, we paused to admire the sweeping view of the “river”—really a long, wide inlet of the Long Island Sound with strong currents shimmering between thickly forested cliffs.

  “That’s where Olympia Temple jumped,” Madame said, gazing at the high bridge, where a commuter train 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 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.