Authors: Cleo Coyle
“I’m not finished!” Patrice added, turning quickly to Alicia. “I am totally against Maya’s proposal for a number of reasons.”
Maya tossed her spiky head. “But you’re not in charge, Patrice. Not yet, anyway. Aphrodite is.”
“Maybe so,” Patrice said, “but our boss changes her mind like the wind changes direction. Tomorrow she’ll have forgotten your memo, and nobody is going to remind her. Least of all me.”
“She may act flighty and eccentric, but you and I both know Aphrodite manipulates us into competing. She wants us to tear each other to pieces, trying to outdo each other. The harder we go at it, the wealthier she gets.” Maya’s frown flipped into a cajoling smile. “Come on, Patrice, we can work together on this. Alicia’s product, my salesmanship—we can
all
become rich!”
But Patrice shook her head. “Listen to me: I’ve been Aphrodite’s right hand for a long time now. What I say carries enough weight to make a difference to her, and you aren’t getting near the Mocha Magic
.
”
“Yes!” Alicia clapped her hands. “Oh, thank you, Patrice!”
“Now, Maya, I think you’d better go.”
“Oh, I’ll go. I’ll go right into that launch party and prove to you and Aphrodite that I can sell more of that stupid sex potion than ten Alicia Bowers.”
Maya whirled, with astounding grace (given her extreme footwear), and strode down the hall like a platinum-plumed peacock.
I hated to admit it, but Aphrodite wasn’t wrong. Maya’s poise, stature, and attention-grabbing presence were impossible to deny, which meant her power to sell would be, too. But the woman was obviously hard-to-handle trouble, and that could spell disaster for any growing corporation. As she vanished into the party, Patrice tried to calm Alicia.
“She’s being ridiculous. Just try to ignore her.”
“You
could
have taken her off the guest list!”
“Maya is still a Sister, Alicia, at least for now.”
“But she’ll ruin everything! Tomorrow Maya’s going to be the story, not my product—”
“Hey, don’t forget, we have a publicity machine of our own,” Patrice reminded her. “I’ll make sure any captions under photos of Maya mention Mocha Magic Coffee.”
If that was supposed to calm Alicia, it failed to. She looked ready to cry, then kill. But Patrice was finished discussing the matter. She turned to Madame.
“I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“I’m not!” The speaker’s voice sounded amused. It came from one of the two young acolytes who’d rushed here with Patrice. I’d almost forgotten about the girls.
On first glance, they looked related. Both were average height (giving them several inches on me). Both were brunettes with identical Audrey Hepburn–esque pixie cuts, boldly painted with port wine highlights. Even their dresses were similar, with girlish cap sleeves and sixties-style kaleidoscopic prints. The way the two glanced at each other, they appeared tight. Both had delicate features, but one of the girls was Caucasian, the other Chinese.
“You’re Daphne, aren’t you?” I said, meeting the pretty, leaf-green eyes of the Caucasian girl.
“Yes.” She extended her hand. “Daphne Krupa.”
This was the same young woman who’d come out of the Garden earlier to fetch Patrice for her presentation. Her chili-pepper red cat glasses, which matched her opaque stockings, were off her nose now and hooked onto her dress’s square neckline.
I introduced myself. “So you work for Patrice?”
“No,” Patrice clarified. “For the past few years, Daphne’s worked as the personal assistant of Sherri Sellars, who governs our Love and Relationship Temple.”
“Our Luuuuuv Doc,” Daphne sang, then grinned. “That’s Sherri’s call sign on LA radio.”
“Nice to meet you, Daphne,” I said, and introduced Madame.
“Nice to meet you both, too. Just don’t call me
Daffy
, okay?” she said with a laugh.
“
This
is my new assistant.” Patrice gestured to the second girl. Her face was round and smooth, her eyes chocolate-covered almonds, her lips slick with a pretty gloss that matched her sheer, plum stockings. She extended her hand. The shake was surprisingly firm.
“Susan Chu,” the girl said.
“And don’t call her
Sue
,” Daphne warned.
Susan rolled her eyes. “Sue Chu sounds ridiculous, don’t you agree?”
“Sue-Chu!
Gesundheit!
” The two young women chanted it together, like it was a very old joke.
“Both names sound pretty to me,” I said.
Susan smiled. “Daphne and I are the glorified gofers for all of Aphrodite’s Sisters this week. If you have any problems, just ask us to help.”
“That’s very nice of you . . .”
“Well,” Patrice said, “now that the show’s over . . .”
“It
was
a show, wasn’t it?” Daphne said, eyes sparkling. Clearly, she wanted to keep dishing.
Susan giggled. “When it comes to Maya, it’s more than show. That woman is a twenty-four-seven three-ring circus.”
“And Susan knows of what she speaks,” Daphne added.
“Really,” I said, “and why is that?”
Susan shrugged. “During my first year with our community, I worked for Maya.”
“Yeah, and Maya made Susan
work out
with her, too, didn’t she?” Daphne teased.
Susan gave a mock shudder. “Let’s not relive the horror . . .”
Madame touched my arm.
The escort,
she whispered in my ear.
Oh yes!
“Would either of you happen to know anything about Maya’s escort tonight?”
Susan made a face. “You mean the captain?”
“Captain?” I said. “He’s a military man?”
Daphne and Susan laughed. “Oh, funny! . . . No, no! . . . Wow, not even close!”
“Herbie Lansing is an independent film producer,” Patrice levelly informed us.
“That silly cap is for show,” Susan explained. “He belongs to a sailing club on Long Island and swans around pretending he’s a yachtsman to impress potential clients and investors, but really all he owns is a little Chris-Craft—”
“Okay!” Patrice sent a pointed glance toward the two young women.
Enough dirty laundry in public.
“Let’s all get back to the party . . .” She looked ready to say something more, but as she reached into the tiny pouch on her belt, her face froze in horror. “Ohmigod!”
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you in some kind of pain?”
“I lost my smartphone!”
Automatically, we all looked on the ground, but there was no sign of it.
Patrice groaned. “I remember setting it down on the Garden podium. But the rain started before I finished my speech, and I got caught up in herding everyone inside. It must still be out there!”
“Won’t your device be ruined?” Madame asked.
“No, the podium has a shelf. It should be perfectly dry under there, but I’ve got to find it. My whole life is in that thing!”
“I’ll get it,” Susan offered.
“No, it’s my fault,” Patrice insisted. “You all go back to the party.”
Alicia touched her arm. “Do you have a trench?”
“No.” Patrice shook her head. “I didn’t think we’d get rain.”
“Take my Burberry. It has a hood.” Alicia handed over the still-damp coat. “Do you want an umbrella, too? There are several from guests in the cloakroom stand.”
“The wind’s blowing too hard,” Patrice said. “And there’s a canopy over the stage area.”
“Just be careful out there—the floor is slippery.” Alicia turned to us. “If you’ll all excuse me, I need a moment to freshen up.”
As Alicia made a beeline toward the ladies lounge, Patrice slipped on the pearl-gray trench, hurried to the Garden’s doors, and flipped up the hood. The dark rectangle of glass served as a stark backdrop for her light-colored figure—the perfect subject for a pen-and-ink. Maybe that’s why I stared at her image so long, or maybe on some level I felt a premonition.
Patrice cracked the door and a chilly gust swept down the corridor. The damp air swirled around my stocking-covered legs, sending shivers through me as she stepped outside.
The wind was still strong, but the steady rain was easing, its tattoo decelerating with a promise that waiting it out would be worth it. Beneath the narrow awning, Patrice lingered, watching drops turn to drizzle.
“Clare?” Madame called. “Are you coming?”
“Yes.”
Turning to go, I stole one last glimpse of the desolate image: Patrice Stone, arms folded, waiting for the wind to die.
SIXTEEN
A
S we moved back inside the crowded party room, Daphne and Susan drifted away, and I leaned toward Madame. ��We need to find Maya Lansing’s husband.”
“Captain Herbie? Why, dear?”
“Because . . . the fake corpse we saw covered in fake blood this morning was a bodybuilder, and Maya is a fitness queen. There might be a connection. Alicia actually called her a ‘steroid-shilling witch.’”
“Coincidence?”
“Mike says in police work there are no coincidences. This isn’t exactly a criminal investigation, but . . .” I met Madame’s gaze.
Her silver-gray brows knitted. “You think Maya really put her own husband up to seducing Alicia?”
“It’s outrageous, I grant you, but Maya strikes me as the kind of woman who banks on outrage.”
“But why bring the Candy Man here? How could it help her? What would it accomplish?”
“For one thing, it would rattle Alicia, goad her into causing a scene while Maya can stand back and look poised and together.”
“Oh yes, I see. That would be disastrous—and diabolical.”
We found Maya easily enough. She was holding court near the tall windows, her stunning body dramatically backlit by New York’s cityscape. On the edge of the knot that had formed around her, I spotted my ex-husband. (Not a surprise. Next to coffee beans, half-naked women were Matt’s favorite stimulant.)
Every few seconds he stole a glance at the daringly undressed fitness diva. The photojournalists weren’t nearly as coy. Snapping pictures, they openly admired her display right along with the wholesale buyers, some of whom actually took personal cell phone shots.
“That Maya is one clever operator,” Madame whispered.
I wasn’t going to argue. Her topless stunt, plus a room of mostly male buyers, plus samples of our new aphrodisiac would add up to a stunning success for her attention grab—unless we could stop it. Unfortunately, as Madame and I crept closer, our hopes sunk. “Captain” Herbie Lansing was nowhere to be found.
“Dead end,” Madame whispered.
“Not funny.”
“Sorry, dear.”
“Listen, Maya’s husband is here somewhere. Maybe he stepped out to the restroom. Just keep an eye out for a cheesy yachtsman’s cap.”
Suddenly, Madame’s eyes lit up. She pointed.
“You see Herbie?” (I assumed.) “Where?”
“Not Herbie. Someone else. Someone I know you’ve been looking for . . .”
Turning, I finally saw him: Detective Michael Quinn. He stood near the samples table, talking with my daughter, his broad-shouldered form draped in the blue serge suit that I’d helped him pick out a few months ago. Expertly altered by an NYPD-friendly tailor, the coat was nipped and tucked to curve with his athletic physique while giving away no sign of his weapon (in Mike’s case, the gun and shoulder holster he wore like a third arm). As he turned, I noticed his tie, silver and blue silk—the one I’d helped his young son and daughter select for a special Christmas present.
Whatever Joy was discussing with Mike appeared to amuse him immensely. His lighthearted mood surprised me. Could he really be over his resignation so fast? Or was laughing with my daughter just a polite act?
“Go visit with your man,” Madame said. “I’ll keep an eye out for Captain Herbie.”
“Captain Herbie?” It actually took me a second to refocus, but refocus I did. Leaning close, I left Madame with a piece of advice: “When Alicia gets back here, warn her—in no uncertain terms—what could be coming her way.”
“Oh, I will. Don’t you worry, but . . .”
“But what?”
“If Maya’s husband does turn out to be Alicia’s Candy Man, what next?”
“Tell Alicia she should use the situation to her advantage. She needs to stay calm and composed. She should pull Maya aside and demand she leave the party right now and drop all attempts to cut herself in on the profits of Alicia’s product or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Or else Alicia will file charges.” When Madame tilted her head in confusion, I reminded her: “You know that martini the Candy Man pushed on Alicia last night?”
“The drink he brought to her hotel room?”
I nodded. “Alicia was smart. She pretended to drink the stuff but poured most of it into the flower vase. Then those two martini glasses vanished the very same time that Dennis did, and I got suspicious. I convinced Detectives Soles and Bass to have the alcohol in the vase tested for drugs. If they find any, the Candy Man can be charged with a felony, and if Maya put him up to it, then she’s culpable . . .”
I stopped talking when I saw Madame was no longer paying attention to me. “What are you looking at?”
Lifting her chin, she smiled. “Good evening, Detective Quinn.”
“Good evening, Madame Dubois. Mind if I borrow your manager?”
Her violet eyes sparkled. “I think she’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
A moment later, Mike’s breath was hot at my ear. “Somewhere private where we can talk?”
I swallowed, surprised at the voltage just one of Mike’s whispers could send through my system.
“Follow me,” I said, taking his hand.
The kitchen was dimly lit and empty, the constant whir of large refrigerators the only sound. As I turned to face him, he deftly slid an arm around my waist and yanked me close.
“Whoa, slow down!” I said, flattening my palms against his chest. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Five shots of that Mocha Magic stuff . . . Or maybe it was six.”
“Six shots!”
“Esther fixed me up.” Mike’s hands slipped up and down my back, then over my backside.
“Seems to me, she fixed
me
up!”
“Not her fault,” Mike said. “I told her I needed a major caffeine hit, and she said there were more than enough samples to go around.”