Murder by Mocha

Fourteen

After signing in my daughter with building security, our little reunited family moved to the elevator bank. The spring in Joy’s step fortified me, and I noticed her dark brown hair was much longer than I remembered.

Like father, like daughter, I thought, and not for the first time.

Over the years, Joy had picked up a few habits from Matt. The very worst of which (some drug use in nightclubs) I continually prayed would remain far behind us. Joy’s height was her dad’s, too, but her heart-shaped face and big emerald eyes were totally Cosi. What cheered me most of all was seeing the meat back on her bones.

Before she’d gone to France, a horrific ordeal had sunk Joy’s spirits along with her appetite. She’d lost enough weight to worry me. But now her figure was back to displaying its natural curves, the kind that seldom wanted for male attention.

“So tell me?” I fished, “what’s the boyfriend news? Another adorable French cook in your brigade?”

“Not even close!” Joy replied so quickly and lightly I flashed back on my own attempt to snowball Mike earlier in the day.

I folded my arms, shot her the maternal X-ray.

“It’s true, Mom! I’ve been way too busy at work.”

“Then how did you get away?”

She waved her hand—a gesture identical to Matt’s mother. It was so adult, so self-assured, I blanked for a moment, wondering how that could be. She was just five years old, wasn’t she? Helping me frost her grandma’s birthday cake. Or eleven, crying over some jerk of a neighbor boy who’d made fun of her. Fourteen, laughing as we tested a new recipe in our Jersey kitchen. Sixteen, alone at the stove, excitedly cooking a Julia Child feast for one of Matt’s visits. How could she possibly be in her twenties now? All grown up and living in Paris?

“. . . and next week Monsieur Boucher’s youngest sister is getting married. It’s a huge deal for their family. They rented a neo-Gothic castle in the Loire Valley, and since half his restaurant staff is related, he just threw up his hands and closed us down for a week.”

In the pause that followed, I stared at my daughter, willing my mind to catch up to the incomprehensible passage of time. “Boucher’s sister is getting married,” I repeated. “Well . . . I’m surprised you weren’t invited.”

“Oh, I was. But then Dad showed up and offered to buy me a ticket home.” She grinned. “How could I say no?”

My mind sharpened fast. Something about Joy’s tone sounded off. “I hope Monsieur Boucher wasn’t offended about your missing his sister’s wedding. What did you tell him?”

“Mon père et ma mère me manquent!”

My father and mother miss me. “Oh, honey, we do . . .”

As I hugged her again, I noticed Matt staring.

“No boyfriend?” he said. “Really?

“Oh, Dad, the French guys I’ve met are okay, but none of them are worth hooking up with, you know?”

I stiffened. So did Matt. He was thinking the same thing I was, but neither of us had the stomach to ask. I certainly wasn’t going to bring up the dreaded Franco question, certainly not in front of Matt. Then my daughter turned the tables on me.

“So, Mom, when are we going to hear wedding bells for you and Mike?”

I blinked and stared. Joy’s question surprised me so much I wasn’t sure what to say. Thank goodness the elevator car binged its arrival. As we boarded, I was sure Matt would change the subject.

He didn’t.

“Come on, Mom—” Joy was grinning now. “Don’t go all quiet on me. I know you and Mike love each other.”

“We do,” I finally said. “And we may consider matrimony in the future. But right now things just aren’t settled enough in our lives.”

“That’s no excuse! Look at Dad. His life is crazy, but he married Breanne.”

Matt coughed—I’m pretty sure to hide a laugh. As I shifted from foot to foot, I could see he was smirking.

“What’s so funny?” I said.

“The day has finally come when our daughter thinks I’m a good role model for you.”

“Oh, please.”

“Come on, you guys,” Joy said, “don’t fight.”

“We’re not fighting,” I said. “But you should understand that Mike and I don’t view marriage the same way your father and his new wife do. They don’t have . . .” I was about to say a sacred union, but I knew it would come off badly.

“What?” Joy said. “They don’t have a traditional marriage? I’m not a kid anymore, Mom. We can certainly talk about these things.”

I didn’t reply. For one thing, this wasn’t the time or place. So I just gritted my teeth and checked our progress. Man, this was one slow elevator!

Bing, went the bell. Finally!

“Here we are!”

Leading the way down the corridor, I checked over my shoulder. The Garden was still full of guests, but it wouldn’t be for long. We had fifteen minutes before service, even less if the weather turned. Recalling that smell of dampness in the outside air, I pushed quickly through the Loft’s doors and waved Joy and Matt inside.

Tucker and Esther yipped when they saw Joy. Hugs followed, and I introduced Nancy Kelly. Then Joy touched my arm.

“Dad wasn’t kidding. I’d like to help out tonight.”

Pleased as punch, I held myself back from hugging her yet again. Instead, I pulled out one of our pressed black aprons. As Joy stowed her red hooded jacket and tied on the Blend’s version of formalwear, Esther suggested we taste test the coffee before the guests poured in.

I eagerly gave her the thumbs-up, surprised at how different I felt about the whole thing now that Joy and Matt were with me.

Mike Quinn was right, I realized at last. You’re fully on board with this thing. If it goes bad, you’ll figure out the next step. You always do. . . .

“All right,” I said when the carafe was ready. “Let’s try it!”

Esther poured four-ounce samples all around.

I put the paper cup under my nose. The aroma was an earthy combination of roasted coffee and dark chocolate. Good so far. I sipped, thinking everything was going to be okay, until Matt cried out—

“You’re serving instant coffee! Clare, have you gone mad?!” Tucker, Esther, and Nancy froze.

I narrowed my gaze. “What?”

“You heard me!”

“You mean to tell me that you don’t know what this party is all about?”

Matt folded his arms.

“This is a product launch, Matt. Alicia Bower is introducing her brand-new beverage to the world, a mix of Village Blend beans, Voss chocolate, and natural herbs. It’s a powder called Mocha Magic Coffee.”

“Dear God . . .” Matt held his head. “My meticulously sourced beans are going into an instant coffee powder?”

“Oh, Mr. Boss?” Esther raised a finger. “Point of information. Mocha Magic is also a natural aphrodisiac.” She fanned herself. “And the stuff is starting to work. Hey, anybody remember Edmund Spenser? Maybe you should rename this stuff Bower of Bliss!”

“The Faerie Queene!” Tucker gushed, raising his sample high. “Okay, Esther, now you’re talking my kind of poetry!”

Joy sniffed her sample, rolled the hot liquid around on her tongue, and swallowed. “Not bad for an instant, Mom. Better than a lot of premium brands I’ve tasted.” She smiled with daughterly encouragement. “And since chocolate and coffee are natural aphrodisiacs, anyway, I think this is a great idea for a product!”

“Thanks, honey. What about the rest of you? What do you think of the taste?”

“Quaffable,” Esther said. “For a powder it’s not swill.”

“Oh, it’s better than that,” Tuck said. “It’s much nicer than most espresso powders I’ve tried.”

Esther shrugged. “Why worry about the taste, anyway? People won’t be drinking it for that, right?”

“But it should taste good,” I said.

“Luckily I have a late-night date!” Tuck drained his cup and went for a second.

“Clare, please . . .” Matt said. “For the love of all that is holy, give me some answers. Why didn’t you consult with me about this insane venture?”

“Matt, what is the matter with you? Your mother said she wrote you a long e-mail explaining everything. She said you were on board!”

“My mother sent me an e-mail, Clare, about a deal she made to sell our beans to a boutique chocolatier. She conveniently left out the rest of the story!”

Oh God. “She never mentioned Alicia Bower?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? Try to remember. Alicia is supposed to be a very dear friend of your mothers.”

“Then why is this the first time I’ve heard the woman’s name?”

“Your mother said Alicia used to be a barista at the Blend, once upon a time. You must remember her.”

“Sorry. The only barista my mother ever referred to as her ‘very dear friend’ was the one I married.”

Now I wanted to hold my head. Just this morning, Madame appeared ready to cover up a murder for Alicia Bower—a friend so important that her own son had never heard of her? What in the world was happening?

“I’m going to have a talk with my mother right now,” Matt promised. “And then I’m confronting this Bower woman—”

“No, you’re not.” I gripped my ex’s muscular forearm hard. “This is not the place for a mother-son showdown.”

“So my mother is here?”

“She’s in the Garden with the other guests. And she’ll be incredibly thrilled to see her granddaughter. So please do not upset her.”

“Fine. I’ll postpone my talk until tomorrow,” Matt said, gritting his teeth.

With almost two hundred VIP guests about to swamp us, I decided the same thing. I wanted to bring my ex up to speed on every bizarre aspect of this unfortunate deal, but tales of a fake murder and the very real threat of some kind of saboteur weren’t likely to help Matteo Allegro find his center.

“Just keep your cool,” I said. “And so you know, Mike’s going to be here, too. Please be nice.”

“Why? Is Dudley Do-Right going to make a bust? Investigate the herbal supplements in this powdered crap, maybe?”

Joy giggled. I sighed.

“This isn’t a closed, little gathering, you know. We have international buyers and press here tonight.”

“Press? What for?”

“Aphrodite’s Village is launching this product. They’re in charge of the PR, not me.”

When Matt pushed with more questions, I explained it all—the site, the traffic, the competition, the odd associations with ancient Greece.

“Seven Sisters?” he echoed.”Temples? My God, Clare, it sounds like a cult!”

“A lot of industries use jargon, Matt. Cult or not, they’re a global success story, and they’re still growing.”

While we were talking, I noticed the slightest streaking of rain across the Loft’s wall of windows. I also noticed Joy talking to Esther, who’d brought out our broken goodies bowl.

“You should sample this spread, Dad!” Joy shoved the bowl under Matt’s nose. “They’re delicious. Esther said they’re made from Mom’s recipes.”

Matt picked up a piece of Cappuccino Kiss. He sniffed the treat, his expression dubious.

“Come on, Dad! Don’t be such a unit!”

“It’s good,” Matt conceded after finally taking a bite, “but it could be because I’m famished.”

“Voss chocolate is primo,” Joy assured him. “Higher cocoa content, no husks, just the nibs. They really know their stuff.”

Matt reached for another damaged cookie. “Okay, this is good,” he conceded.

As he snatched a third, the pitter-pat of precipitation turned into heavy plinks and plunks. Soon the windows were awash with an outright downpour. Within seconds, we heard the stampede. Guests abandoned the outside Garden and burst through the Loft’s doors. Mad for mocha, they rushed our samples bar.

“Brace yourselves, team. Here we go!”

For the next thirty minutes, Esther, Nancy, and Joy wended their way through the crowd, doling out cups of Mocha Magic. I manned the samples table with Tuck, who dolefully watched the barbarian horde tear apart his culinary construction, one tasty goodie at a time.

Upon seeing her only grandchild, Madame opened her arms and cried (literally). The two drifted off alone, eager to catch up. A short time later, when I saw Joy again, she had an odd look on her face.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Grandma says you should come into the hallway. She’s hiding by the cloakroom.”

“Why is she hiding?”

“She’s spying on a couple of women. She says you need to hear what they’re talking about.”

“What women?”

“Grandma says one of them is Alicia Bower and the other is . . . well, I don’t know who she is, but she’s not wearing clothes.”

“What did you say?”

“She’s not wearing—”

“She’s naked?”

“Not exactly. She’s just not . . . You know what, Mom? It’s hard to explain. I think you should see for yourself.”

“You know what? So do I.”