Chocolate Chocolate Moons (11 page)

“Whoever put something in the chocolate vat did it during the day, right under our noses,” Jersey says, sipping her tea. Unusual things happen in plain sight all the time. Besides, people on tours are like a flock of sheep. The Culinary, and especially Candy Universe, is filled with people being told where to walk and what to look at. They are listening to the guide, not listening for strange sounds.”

A waiter brings our orders. “And the salad is for…ah, let me guess.”

My eyes narrow. “We’re not leaving this one a big tip,” I whisper. I take a bite of my burger and swallow. I look at Jersey’s roll. “Are you going to finish your roll, Jersey?”

“No, I’m not. I didn’t like its shape.” She is happy to push it closer to me. And before you can say
carbohydrates,
I move her roll to my plate.

“One doesn’t eat a roll for its shape,” I say.

“But the right side is higher than the left side.”

I take a small bite and hold it up. “Not anymore.” After a larger bite, I say, “Tell me, how do Chocolate Moons get made?”

Jersey sits straight up and brushes crumbs on the table into a tissue and hands it to a passing waiter. She slowly presses her napkin flat with the palms of her hands and folds it into equal quarters.

“San Andreas Farms roasts and shells the beans at a factory on its farm. The company only sends the nibs, the part of the bean that makes the chocolate. I think one guy with a computer can do the whole process, except for the picking.”

“What happens after the Culinary gets it?”

“The beans are ground into liquid called chocolate liqueur but there is no liqueur in it.”

“Mmm, too bad.”

“Then they add other ingredients and it all gets heated and mixed. The art of chocolate making is in the mixing. That’s the part that the tourists see. Everyone tells me it smells so good, but as you know I have a poor sense of smell.”

“You mean like the smell of those brownies the waiter is carrying? I never realized your condition was so serious.” I breathe in their aroma and signal the waiter to bring me an order.

“We just finished lunch. We haven’t even left the café, and you had an extra roll. Now you’re ordering brownies.”

“Maybe I’ll take the order out and save them for later.”

“Ha, with you and chocolate, there is no ‘later’!”

“You never know.”

“I know.”

“So where does the chocolate go after it is mixed in the vat?”

“It’s sent to different areas and poured into individual molds, one of which creates Chocolate Moons. When they have hardened, they are sent to three different tasters. If they approve, they are sent on to packaging.”

“I know a professional taster. She’s married to Cortland’s cousin. Her name is Florida. I never see her eat a thing.”

“Bet she has beautiful clothes.”

“Stay focused, Jersey. What happens to the chocolate next?”

“Twenty-five pieces are put into each box. Then the boxes are sealed and wrapped.”

“Who puts the pieces in the boxes? Sounds like a good job.”

“Robots put the chocolate in the boxes. Can’t worry that someone like you would slip through the screening process and eat the goodies. And, after they are packed they are sent to local middlemen at various distribution centers, who deliver them to neighborhood shops.”

“So, since Chocolate Moons are the most popular product, most tourists want to see how they are made. Right?”

“The only time the vat is exposed is when the melted chocolate is being mixed, which is done right in front of the tourists so they can get the maximum smell, which of course increases sales. Every tourist wears a sterile gown, hat, and gloves so there is no contamination.”

I close my eyes, imagining the scene and the smell of melted chocolate.

“Are you with me or not on this, Molly? You look like you’re in a trance.”

I open my eyes.

Jersey continues, “After the melted chocolate is poured from the mixing vat into molds, the tourists are led to the gift shop. No one leaves the Candy Universe without buying something, even if it’s just a candy statue of Saint Hershey, OBM.”

“OBM?”

“Of Blessed Memory.”

I raise my eyes. “Amen! Unless the tourists are like you and can’t smell at all.” I peer at Jersey. “But you’re an exception that way. Aren’t you?”

“Yes. Martians can smell as well as you.”

“At least my sense of smell is something I have in common with you natives. Because when it comes to food, it sure looks like native Martians don’t love it the way I do.”

“Oh, we love food, but we usually don’t eat much of it.”

“Yeah, like you eat but don’t swallow.”

Jersey says nothing.

“Let’s backtrack. The chocolate vat is exposed in front of the tourists. What if a foreign substance were put into the vat? Would it be possible for nanosized amounts to mix with the chocolate then randomly scatter down the line before it is poured into the molds? And then when it is packed, one piece could be infected and the rest not?”

“Yes, I suppose it could happen.”

“Hmm, mixed but not dissolved.” I finish the brownies.

Jersey frowns. “I knew there was no chance you would save those for later. Let’s check and see if any of the lab reports and security holographs are ready. Unless of course you want to start lunch all over again.”

“Not funny, Jersey.” I sigh. “I still want to come over to talk to Trenton about my hunch. The last time I was at your home, he showed me his new laboratory equipment.”

“He’s a forensic freelancer for Mars Yard now, so he has even more stuff. Come any time. Ever since his race car accident, he’s had so many body parts replaced he needs tune-ups rather than check-ups. The media called him a human-android. Not everyone is comfortable being with him.

“Too bad he didn’t win the four-flame Bunsen Burner prize and only got the three-flame for finding out how many filberts were in a filibuster.”

Jersey leans back and takes a last sip of her raspberry quince iced tea. “Although that was brilliant it couldn’t match Decibel Point’s discovery of what came first—the gin or the tonic.”

We stand. Jersey pushes our chairs carefully under the table. A waiter approaches holding a tray. “Won’t you try a free sample of our new Freedom Plan coconut cream candy before you leave?”

We each put one in our mouth. Jersey swallows.

“Not bad,” I say. “Reminds me of pureed okra.” When the waiter’s back is turned, I spit mine into a napkin then reach for some regular spearmint taffies that sit next to the pay-scan.

“Not going to get me to eat that Freedom Plan junk,” I say.

Jersey represses a giggle. “I thought it was good but not as good as pureed okra.”

We exit the Quantum Corner and walk down a hall lined with large picture windows that show off the tiled open kitchens with hanging copper pots. I watch a chef pipe snowy whipped cream around the tiers of a wedding cake.

“I love working here. Even with all the recent troubles, what could be better?”

Jersey marches, arms at her sides, head high, eyes straight ahead. “Maybe a bank,” she says.

I gaze at Jersey and think,
Ah the smell of money. How sweet it is.

Breezy lies curled up on their four-poster bed. She wears a t-shirt with a picture of a man with three eyes that says property of MOMA (Museum of Martian Art). Her hands cover her ears. Pluto is screaming. “What do you mean you can’t find the remote control I gave you when we were at the Culinary?”

Breezy lowers her hands and sighs.

“After they examine the security cubes and check the time everyone was distracted by the alarm sound, they’ll find that it was the same time everyone looked away from the chocolate vat.”

Breezy pouts. “They could think it was a coincidence?”

“Not if they discover that the remote can trigger an alarm. What’s more, it’s possible that the holo cube recorded my hand raised near the chocolate vat at the same time all that was happening.”

“I must have dropped it when you were rushing me. You’re always rushing me, Pluto.”

“Oh, now it’s my fault you lost it.”

“I didn’t say that. I just said you rushed me.”

“Think back. When was the last time you remember having it?”

“I think it was in the Chocolate Moons room at the Culinary. I thought I dropped it into my purse, but it must have fallen on the floor. Then with all the confusion, I didn’t realize it was gone. It was hard to do two things at the same time.”

“Yeah, like walk and chew gum.”

Breezy starts to cry. “You don’t have to be so sarcastic, Pluto,” she sobs. “I’m sorry.”

Pluto puts his arm around her. She reaches for a tissue and blows her nose. “The robotic crew that collects garbage might have chewed it up and tossed it into the recycle. I guess we’re going to have to wait it out and see what turns up. To do anything else looks suspicious.”

Breezy gets up from the bed and goes to the bathroom to wash her face. When she comes out, she is more composed. “My father wants to have dinner with me. On top of his regular work at Congress Drugs, he consults for several off-planet unregulated labs on the outer moons.”

“Three cheers for Daddy Decibel Point! It’s about time Sandy Andreas and his Congress Drug company gets some serious competition.”

“He is also having problems with Rocket. Rocket says he found a loophole in an old contract that says if Dad develops any new products, they are his to market. But he’s willing to drop it if he helps him in his new laboratory on Titan that will make generic drugs.”

Pluto interrupts. “I don’t care if your father and Rocket are in business together or not, just as long as your father doesn’t ask me for any money.”

“Who said anything about money, Pluto? You’re always thinking about money.”

Pluto smiles. He puts his hand on Breezy’s breast. “Not always,” he says.

15

C
RAIG
C
ASHEW SITS
at his desk in his office at the Culinary Institute and stares at the stack of mail labeled “hate mail: Chocolate Moons.” Opposite is a small gold bag marked “Eyes Only.” He reaches for it and rips its seal. Three large chocolate fortune cookies containing new recipes from Al Lacart, his head chef, tumble out. He cracks one, nibbles, and frowns. This is not a good time to try anything new. Or, for that matter do anything new like build Culinary satellites in other cities, a project he hoped would deflect the constructing of a convention center that some board members were touting, because it would destroy beautiful natural areas.

Craig opens a desk drawer and pulls out the device he found on the floor of the Candy Universe the day the Chocolate Moons were poisoned. He suspects that the device might be connected to the unfortunate event. He examines both sides, slides it back into the drawer, and turns the lock.

He steeples his fingers and folds them into fists, shifts in his chair, pushes his hand through his silver hair, and thinks about the Giacometti sculpture he lost to Drew Barron at the last Park Bengay auction. His stomach tightens. Although another work by Giacometti called
The Palace at 4 a.m.
is up for auction next month, Craig already owns
The Palace at 9 a.m.
and thinks it unwise to downgrade, because he reasons a nine must be worth more than a four.

Craig sighs. He knows he must call a board meeting immediately to discuss what happened at the Candy Universe and how to restore confidence.

Board member Sandy Andreas, CEO of the major supplier of produce to the Culinary, is the first to arrive. As a young man, he worked for several farming communities and put all his money into an emerging spice market. He bought a small piece of land near Aram Chaos, an area close to the equator, and grew exotic blends that he sold to the first luxury upscale restaurants. It’s never been clear where he got the money to expand his products that gave him his mega-bucks.

The San Andreas Farms company runs the farms that surround the Culinary. Sandy calls these farms his “trophy farms” because young seeds are planted next to rich old plants. Now, thanks to Drew Barron, who insisted he change the words
artificially bioengineered
to
new organic,
sales here and on all his farms have tripled.