Murder by Mocha

Prologue

Five years ago . . .

From head to toe, the woman wore black. Black for mourning, she thought. Black for death.

All day she waited, checking her watch, preparing the props, counting down minutes till uncertain light. When the sun sank low and the sky’s blues deepened, she made her way to the railroad bridge.

With a quick unzipping, she exposed the belly of the large Pullman, specially outfitted for this evening’s performance. She removed the old pair of white satin pumps, set them beside the four-foot rail.

In the warm purple twilight, yellow bulbs flickered on. “Spots for my stage,” she whispered. “Kliegs for this Kabuki.” Far below the river flowed, dark and distant as a starless night.

“My Rubicon . . .”

A popular eatery sat on the river’s bank, a scenic patch near the country club stables of Bay Creek Village. She saw those diners, young and old, raising glasses, speaking civilly, adhering to dress codes.

Look at them, pretending to be decent, loyal, kind . . . Liars! Cheaters! Monsters! Hypocrites, every one . . .

Seven years before, her mother’s trial had been passing entertainment for all of them, a morsel of scandal to be relished with appetizers, forgotten completely by the second course.

“Hey! Down there! You wanted a look at me? Look at me now!”

Fading back into the shadows, she watched the round white faces moon her way. Seconds later, a brand-new shout echoed along the water, shattering the serenity of the eight o’clock seating. Customers leaped to their feet, knocked over cocktails, stained outfits with wine.

She knew what they were seeing, as they gawked upriver—a woman plummeting off the bridge. Down the body sailed, through violet sky, wedding gown ballooning like a favorite yacht spinnaker. The figure splashed and quickly sank, as if eager to reach the underworld.

“My world now,” whispered the woman in black. “Now I am Persephone, queen of shadows . . .”

With a hollow thud, her purse dropped—well beyond any pool of illumination. Inside that bag was an epic tale, scrawled in perfect longhand on neatly folded sheets. Here were the answers to the inevitable question, “Why did she do it?” along with enough IDs to satisfy every last dull, distracted authority on Long Island.

Hurrying toward a thicket of evergreens, she found a new path. At last, her plan was under way, blossoming like Aphrodite’s red anemone beneath the dying Adonis.

Sixty yards away, every diner would tell the police they had witnessed a suicide . . .

Well, she thought, this is one drowned corpse who’s about to be reincarnated. And, in this new life, no one will be judging me or my mother. The turn will be mine to act as judge, jury, and executioner.