by Coyle, Cleo
Tuck nodded. “That’s the third time I’ve heard that thing since we got here. I’d swear it was a ringtone, but whose phone would have a song that sappy on it?” He shifted his gaze to Esther.
Her pale cheeks reddened. “Boris put it on there while I was sleeping, okay? He thought it would be funny to have this dopey tune play whenever he calls me, but obviously, it’s just embarrassing.”
Tuck stared at Esther. “Debby Boone?”
“He heard the song on the oldies station at the bakery and liked it. I guess they didn’t allow schmaltz in the former Soviet Union, so he was never exposed to the disease that is Debby Boone.”
“If it upsets you that much,” Tuck said, “why don’t you change the ringtone?”
She threw up her hands. “Because Boris used a password to lock it in!”
I touched Esther’s arm. “Please tell your boyfriend that we’re going to be very busy, very soon, okay? Make your plans, then turn off your phone and let the rest of your calls go to voice mail.”
Esther whipped the cell out of her pocket, cooed her regrets to Boris, and clapped her hands. “So are we going to taste this java-love-potion stuff or what?”
I tensed. By now, I’d sampled a few spoonfuls of a budino and small bites of the pastries prepared by Voss. All were borderline orgasmic—in flavor but not so much in any other way. Frankly, the aphrodisiac part of the equation seemed rather tepid, which was what I’d feared all along (the claims were likely bogus).
I did feel a very slight tingling on my skin and a little flushed, but that was it. Maybe I needed a bigger dose for a bigger reaction? Or maybe it didn’t work without an object of affection. Unfortunately, mine had yet to arrive—even worse, after the day he had, I doubted he’d be in the mood to take our featured product out for a private test drive.
As a flavoring agent, however, Mocha Magic was a raving success, and that provided a modicum of relief to my Atlas-level worries. As for the instant powdered-coffee version of the thing, the verdict was still out, and I honestly wasn’t feeling up to hearing it.
“To tell you the truth, I’m a little apprehensive about sampling it,” I confessed to my crew.
“Well, naturally you are!” Nancy cried. “The last thing you want is to go all dizzy act, before the guests arrive!”
Tucker, Esther, and I turned to face the young woman.
“What?” Esther said.
“Dizzy act,” Nancy said. “The stuff in these pastries is an herb from Africa, isn’t it? That’s what you’ve been saying all night. This stuff is supposed to make you act dizzy, right?”
Tucker took hold of Nancy’s shoulders. “Sweetie, the word is not Afro-dizzy-act. It’s aphrodisiac.”
She frowned and folded her arms. “So what’s it supposed to do then, if it doesn’t make you act dizzy?”
“Oy,” Esther said.
“Nancy!” I cut in (before Esther could say any more). “We’re going to need more cups. Would you get them?”
“No problem!”
Esther held her head as Nancy dashed off. “That girl can’t possibly be that naive. It has to be an act—a really dizzy one.”
“She’s just young,” I said. “You were young once, too.”
“I was never young.”
(That I believed.) Just then, a cell phone went off again. This time it was mine.
“Oh, those bohemians,” Tucker gushed. “I do love Puccini!”
I silenced the ringtone opera. “Madame,” I said, picking up, “where are you?”
“In the corridor, dear, across from the elevator bank near the cloakroom.”
I slipped off my apron, retucked my white blouse, and adjusted my black skirt.
“Finish laying out all the choco-booty, okay?” I told my crew before pushing through the Loft’s closed doors. “I’m checking on the guests in the Garden.” And a former mother- in-law who owes me some answers.
ELEVEN
“CLARE! Here, dear!” A voice called as I moved into the long corridor.
Resplendent in a shimmering pearl sheath silk-screened with Monet’s lilies, Madame stepped out from between a pair of faux-marble columns and waved me over.
Like me, she’d swept her hair into a neat French twist for the party. But her blue-violet eyes, lightly accented with periwinkle pencil, held a stressed expression that belied the put-together package.
We embraced, first thing, and I was relieved to feel the tight hug. Things hadn’t been right between us since Alicia Bower entered our lives.
“Did you come alone?” I asked.
“Otto escorted me.” She tilted her head. “I sent him out to the Garden.”
I glanced down the corridor and through the closed glass double doors, but I couldn’t see her current beau. The twinkling Garden was too crowded.
“What happened to your promise to bring Alicia here early, so we could hash everything out?”
“She stood me up! Otto and I waited in the Topaz bar for over an hour. When I called her, she apologized, but said she just didn’t have time to meet and talk before the launch.”
“You mean she’s not here yet?”
“Oh, she’s here. Out there somewhere.” Madame fluttered her fingers toward the Garden doors. “She slipped by us at the hotel. Clearly, she’s avoiding me.”
“You mean me.” (I’d been patient up to now. But this development was the last straw.) “My crew and I have been setting up in the Loft space for the last two hours. After Alicia drove me crazy micromanaging every minute detail of this launch, she suddenly has no interest in even glancing at our display? What does that tell you?”
“It tells me she’s embarrassed.”
“More like afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of me—and some hard questions about what went on this morning.”
“Clare, you must allow me to apologize again for putting you in such an awkward position.”
“It’s all right. I told you on the phone, apology accepted.”
“But you’re still upset with me. Try to understand . . .” She waved me back into hiding between those faux marble columns, lowered her voice to a whisper. “With the blood pronounced fake and Dennis suddenly gone, the matter was no longer a criminal one. I had to side with Alicia. Involving the police any further would have risked bad publicity—and at the worst possible time for all of us.”
“But don’t you agree what happened this morning added up to much more than a prank?”
Madame nodded. “Yes. Now I do.”
“Did you do any follow up with this Dennis St. Julian character?”
“We tried calling him. But his phone simply rang and rang. Not even any voice mail, which Alicia said he did have for the last few weeks.”
“Probably a disposable cell,” I said. “Something untraceable that he could quickly toss.”
“Alicia did tell me that she welcomes your help tracking him down. If you can find out why he tried to scare her half to death, she would be most grateful. She’s happy to pay you for your time.”
“I’m far from a professional private investigator!”
“Please.” Madame waved her hand. “What did Roman Brio call you? Shirley Holmes? He was right. As a mama snoop, you’ve done pretty well. And, as always, I am happy to be your Watson.”
Oh brother. Here we go . . . “Alicia should hire someone. I’ll ask Mike for a name—”
“Waste of time. Alicia was adamant. She doesn’t wish to bring anyone else into this, especially a professional.”
“Why not?”
“She fears her position with her company could be jeopardized if someone suspects a scandal brewing. And a hired investigator poking about asking questions is bound to raise some flag somewhere. Alicia would prefer to keep all of this as quiet as possible, within our little circle.”
“But—”
“Legally, we’re tied into this venture,” Madame pointed out, “which means you’re already publicly associated with Alicia. You can
be a nosy Nellie without raising alarms. Simply make your queries sound innocent.”
Like I have time for this!
“Clare . . .” She touched my shoulder. “I know you’re not fond of Alicia. But won’t you do it for me . . . for the Blend? Please?”
I massaged my forehead. “Did this Candy Man character give you a business card?”
“Yes!” Clearly excited to reprise her Watson role, Madame gleefully fished around her small evening bag. “Here you are.”
“Kogo Sweets Inc.,” I read. The logo wasn’t embossed, and the white cardstock felt textureless and flimsy.
“The company is real,” Madame said, watching me bend the card back and forth. “I looked it up after Mr. St. Julian introduced himself a few weeks ago.”
“But if I place a call to Kogo Sweets’ main office,” I said, waving the cheap rectangle, “I doubt very much Dennis St. Julian will be a name they recognize.”
“You think the card is fake?”
“I think the man is fake.”
“Why?”
“Because he was ready to place a ‘large order’ for Alicia’s product without even sampling it. Because his clothes were made of gorgeous, expensive material, but his loafers were old, worn, and scuffed up. Because he was built like a readymade model for Michelangelo, that’s why!”
“What does the man’s build have to do with anything?”
“He claimed his job was tasting candy for a living, yet he had six-pack abs, muscle cuts, and a shaved chest?”
“You don’t think he lifted weights to counteract all the candy sampling?”
“Serious bodybuilders are rigorous about their diets. They don’t make their living as wholesale junk-food buyers. The candy buying was a spiel to get close to Alicia, I’m sure of it. Someone hired that guy.”
“Who? And for what? This is the first product Alicia’s ever pitched to the confectionary trade. Do you suppose this St. Julian character was after the Mocha Magic Coffee’s secret ingredients?”
“I don’t suppose Mr. St. Julian was Mr. St. Julian, and I say we keep our eyes and ears open tonight. If you see a dead guy rise again, let me know ASAP, okay?”
“You expect that man will have the nerve to show up here?”
“Yes. Possibly in disguise. For all I know, he may be in the Garden already.” I glanced again at those glass double doors. “Just remember, whatever he wanted from Alicia, he failed to get this morning.”
“And you think he’s going to try again?”
“Or his partner will,” I said.
“His what?”
“Don’t you remember the reason I was buried in dirty laundry this morning? The blond woman in black I was chasing?”
“Oh yes! You know I never did see her. I took your word for it and sent those young police officers after you.”
“Maybe I should sketch a picture of her for Alicia.”
“Oh, good idea!”
“On the other hand, she might be . . .”
“What?”
I was too busy staring to finish my sentence. A slender woman in a sleek black pantsuit had exited the elevator and moved swiftly toward the glass doors, but she didn’t push through them. She just stood there staring at something in her hand—a smartphone. She was text messaging.
Look! I mouthed, pointing to the blonde. The contrast of her long, glossy ponytail against the black backdrop of her silky suit material appeared just as striking as I remembered.
Madame’s eyes widened. Is that her?
“Wait here,” I whispered. If I had to fight the woman to hold her, I didn’t want Madame catching any flying elbows. Quickly and quietly I moved across the faux-stone floor. Thank goodness, the woman appeared too distracted to notice me.
I gripped her upper arm, held tight.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
Slowly, the woman turned.
TWELVE
“CLARE!” Madame’s heels clicked hastily across the floor. She touched my shoulder. “This is Patrice Stone.”
The young woman regarded me. “Clare? Oh, you must be Clare Cosi!”
Madame eyeballed me with a silent question: Is this the blonde you chased?
I sent her a very subtle shake of my head. No. Sorry, it’s not.
Oblivious to our exchange, Patrice beamed at us with a smile as bright as a Great Plains sunrise. Holding tight to the smartphone in her left hand, she extended her right.
“So nice to meet you! Alicia has been bragging about your mocha recipes all week. I can’t wait to taste everything!”
Surprising me, she moved from a quick handshake to a big, warm hug. “Thank you for all you’ve been doing! And thank your staff for me, too.”
Stepping back, Patrice swiped a long lock of corn-yellow hair away from her oval face. She wore almost no makeup—with her youthful skin and those prairie-sky eyes, she really didn’t need to.
Madame cleared her throat. “Patrice works with Aphrodite.”
“An understatement,” Patrice said with a laugh. “When I was Aphrodite’s personal assistant, I pretty much worked for all the Sisters—”
“Sisters?” I interrupted. “Oh, sorry, I forgot. That’s what Aphrodite calls the heads of her sections—I mean Temples.”
“That’s right. You’ve got it! When you reach Sister level, you’re also a kind of board member of the community.”
“Board member?” I glanced at Madame. “You mean the Sisters actually share in the profits?”
“Oh yes. That’s why everyone strives to become one. After four long years, I finally made it. I’m still training a new assistant to take over my old duties. Her name is Minthe. You’ll meet her soon, I’m sure.”
“Congratulations,” I said, even more curious now. “Are there always a set number of Sisters, then? Or does it fluctuate?”
“Seven Sisters. That’s what Aphrodite’s worked out for her financials.”
“Then the competition must be pretty fierce? I mean—to become a Sister?”
“Oh yes. To become one and stay one.” She lowered her voice. “I was forced to cancel one of the Sisters’ launches this afternoon.” She paused. “It wasn’t pleasant.”
“I can imagine,” I said.
“You know how it is. These ladies are super competitive.”
Madame raised an eyebrow. I gave her a nod, thinking—
Just how competitive is “super competitive”? Enough to sabotage your competition with some kind of fake murder scheme?
With a jerk of her head, Madame directed me to continue grilling Patrice. She didn’t have to.
“Now you’ve got me curious,” I said, forcing a laugh to keep things light. “What exactly happens if a Sister has her launch canceled?”
Patrice hesitated.
Darn. I spooked her. I shot Madame a look. Okay, Mrs. Watson, you’re on . . .
“You’ll have to forgive Clare for all her questions,” Madame said, waving her hand. “Alicia’s been so busy, she hasn’t explained much about your business. I have to admit, I’m still learning how it all functions.”
“Oh, well . . . it’s pretty simple, really: Each of the Seven Sisters has her own area on the Aphrodite Web site. And each is responsible for the traffic—”
“Traffic?” I asked, looking appropriately clueless.
Patrice nodded. “We track the number of visitors to our site in all sorts of ways.”
“And you want as many visits as you can get, right?”
“Right. The more visits, the more we can charge for our advertising. Unfortunately, ad dollars fluctuate with seasonal traffic, so Aphrodite now expects each of the Sisters to submit a lucrative product idea designed to bring steady revenue to her Temple.”
“I see. So each Sister’s job depends on the success of her product?”
“In a word, yes. Aphrodite invests in each product. She becomes a full partner with every Sister, and she expects them to deliver a profitable payback.” After a pause, Patrice shrugged. “I know i
t sounds harsh, but Aphrodite has worked very hard to build our site globally. There are plenty of talented editors, writers, and Web developers applying every day to work for us. Competition keeps all of us at the top of our game.”
Game . . .
I gritted my teeth. I actually liked Patrice, but to me a business was not a game. In the best possible world, a business was a close-knit unit, working toward a common goal with colleagues. In games, there were always winners and losers—and, more often than not, cheaters.
“So,” I said, “are you having a launch party this week?”
“Mine’s done, thank goodness! We held it two weeks ago in California.”
“What’s your product, dear?” Madame inquired.
Patrice beamed. “Next season our brand-new Love in the Afternoon feature will debut. It’s the very first, original Web-isode series that’s produced especially for the Aphrodite Village community. It’s even based on an original e-book novel from my Arts and Entertainment Temple! It’s daunting, but I’ll soon be in charge of it all.”
“That’s fantastic, congratulations!” I said, and exchanged another quick glance with Madame. She appeared to be wondering the same thing I was. “What happened to the Sister whose job you took?”
Patrice shrugged. “She got married.”
“Why would that matter?” I answered. “Aren’t Sisters allowed to get married?”
“Of course, Sisters can get married!” Patrice laughed. “Selma’s new husband is an independent software developer. He persuaded her to work with him. That’s why she left.”
Laughter from outside interrupted her, followed by applause.
“Looks like things are going well,” Patrice said, pointing to the crowd.
The guests stood among a dozen ionic columns. The columns were faux marble, of course, like the two in the corridor. Composed mainly of fiberglass, they were lit from within and scattered around the Garden’s hedges and potted plants. (As Tuck would say, it was great stagecraft.)
“Is that Aphrodite at the podium?” I asked.
A thirtyish woman in a maroon-red wrap dress was now speaking in front of the Garden’s shallow reflecting pool. Rimless glasses gave her a serious look, though her light brown hair, worn loosely to her shoulders, implied a more casual, approachable style. Beautifully silhouetted by the illuminated spires, she easily held the attention of her listeners.