Authors: Cleo Coyle
I left the room with a kind of clueless buoyancy, pretending they were about to have a stimulating discussion about books, film, music, art, but (of course) one glance back revealed lips and tongues engaged in something other than discourse.
I sighed, wondering what was wrong with me anyhow. When Mike and I first started dating, we didn’t talk about art, either—and we certainly didn’t need Mocha Magic.
When Mike finally arrived, I unfurled my favorite tablecloth of Florentine lace, lit two tapers in crystal holders, and the four of us settled ourselves around the Spode Blue Italian pattern (Madame’s third best china) in the duplex’s small dining room of porcelain antiques and polished mahogany. More wine was poured; my food was eaten with smacking lips (on Franco’s part), kind compliments from my daughter, and Mike’s occasional thrilling moan of taste bud bliss.
Mike and Franco never talked work, although an exchanged wordless glance or two suggested secret understandings. I might have been put off if Joy and I hadn’t engaged in a few private looks of our own.
Dessert and coffee went quickly, thanks to Franco’s inhaling of my fresh-baked cookies. I’d contemplated making an easy, self-saucing Chocolate-Chip Cobbler, or my quick Chocolate Crostada, but I had two kinds of dough already chilling in the fridge. The first was my secret recipe for “Pure Ecstasy” Chocolate-Chip Cookies.
With brown butter, espresso powder, homemade brown sugar, and two kinds of chips, my version of the time-honored American cookie produced a toffee-like gourmet treat with mouthwatering notes of buttery caramel. Naming them was easy: Mike never failed to make his man-in-ecstasy noise when he consumed them. (Actually, he said they qualified as a drug.)
The other dough I had chilling was a classic peanut butter.
Franco rivaled Elvis in his love of peanut butter. (This I knew from the Five-Borough Bake Sale.) And since an ICE chocolatier handed me a promo bag of sixty percent cacoa chips, I decided to create a “surprise” cookie center of dark chocolate. The result was a sweet and tender peanut butter cookie with the kind of ooey-gooey chocolate heart that grown men swooned for.
My daughter liked the cookies okay, but her swooning was for Manny. Eager to be alone with him, they departed to go “clubbing”—in the East Village, they assured us, not East Jersey.
Just before they headed out, I noticed Quinn murmur something to Franco (in a seriously dangerous tone) about GPS tracking. The young sergeant looked fairly cowed on that front. Then again, I speared the man with the kind of motherly glare that warned: if you even
think
about taking my daughter across the Hudson, you won’t see another sunrise.
Alone again with Mike, the fireplace newly stoked, I settled into the sofa beside him. With our hot mugs of coffee and a fresh plate of warm cookies, time stretched luxuriously again, like that fine square of Valrhona dark chocolate melting on my tongue (or, in this case, the gooey chocolate centers of my Peanut Butter Surprises).
“Sweetheart, these are...”
I think he said outstanding. His mouth was too busy chewing to tell.
“Freezing the dough balls before baking is the secret to successfully stuffing a cookie with chocolate,” I said, absently channeling an old
In the Kitchen with Clare
column. “Not that you need to know that in your line of work.”
He laughed, leaned back, and put his arm across the sofa back, coaxing me to tuck into his long, strong body. (I didn’t need coaxing.)
“Actually, I made them for Franco,” I confessed, snuggling closer, “a foodie token of thanks for backing me up today.”
Mike fell silent after that, a somewhat sullen silence it seemed to me.
“Okay, what’s wrong?”
“You got a bloody nose,” he said. “Franco shouldn’t have let that happen . . .”
We’d recounted the story at dinner—Franco and I took turns telling it (although I left out the part about the Incredible Hulk Vince checking me out, and Franco left out the Milk Duds girl).
“You’re missing the point,” I said. “Troy Talos was cutting off my air. If Franco hadn’t doubled back and body-slammed the jerk, I would have had more than a bloody nose. I would have had brain damage.”
“You’re the one missing the point, Cosi. Franco shouldn’t have taken Joy across the Hudson last night—and today you and he both should have called Soles and Bass.”
“Oh, please. Do not equate what I did with what Joy did. I phoned Lori Soles. I got her voice mail. I only went to the ICE show to see if Nutrition Nation was giving out black umbrellas. Then Alicia’s Candy Man dropped in as the Apollo of Abs and . . . well, it just snowballed!”
“Take it easy. I’m not looking for an argument.”
“Neither am I...”
I shouldn’t have been surprised at Mike’s criticism of Franco. Mike was his supervisor, after all, responsible for his actions and well-being. On the other hand, I’d seen Mike bend the rules, even bend the truth if it would help him get the job done, because like all good detectives, Quinn was as much Odysseus as Dudley Do-Right. He was valiant but he was wily.
Well, so am I...
With long sips of my dark, rich (still-unnamed) coffee blend, I let the silence stretch between us until the man’s inner Odysseus emerged again.
“So what happened?” Mike finally asked (as I knew he would). “I mean after Franco sent the One Seven your convention-center cargo? What did Soles and Bass tell you?”
“Not much I didn’t know already. They did find out how Troy pulled the stabbed-to-death routine.”
“Fake knife?”
“Not exactly. The carving knife was real but the blade was sliced off, the bottom bent into a ninety-degree angle. Flesh-colored latex sealed the flat end to the man’s chest in an upright position and all that fake blood camouflaged the latex. That and a sedative with a zombie cocktail to slow his heartbeat and cool his skin and the illusion was complete.”
“Clever.”
“It was. And it almost worked, too. Vanessa was all ready to play the part of Troy’s wife, pounding on the hotel room door to confront her cheating husband—only to find him stabbed to death and Alicia the likely suspect.”
“I get the scam. Alicia should have opened the door fuzzy from a drugged martini, hysterical from waking up next to a corpse—and, therefore, amenable to Vanessa’s suggestions.”
“Like give me some money and get out of town fast,” I said. “Then Alicia would have missed her own product launch party, which would have damaged her standing with her boss, Aphrodite, especially with Maya Lansing swooping in to steal the show along with a big chunk of the Mocha Magic profits. And that’s exactly what Patrice Stone wanted—to bring Alicia down a peg and move herself up the game board, closer to becoming Aphrodite’s successor.”
“So is the Fish Squad picking up Alicia Bower for an interview?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Their lieutenant doesn’t think the case is strong enough. No physical evidence has turned up to implicate Alicia—not yet. They’re still looking.”
“Yeah,” Mike said on an exhale. “I’ve been there, all right...”
“As Sue Ellen put it to me: ‘Even a half-wit of a defense attorney could pull apart a case of circumstantial evidence.’ ”
“It’s true... especially if there were others at that party who had motive.”
“On the other hand, Lori said this new development has moved Alicia up their persons of interest list. Troy and Vanessa have solid alibis for last night: They were working the ICE show with plenty of witnesses. And they admitted that Patrice paid them for a criminal ‘prank’ against Alicia, which would have given Alicia a very strong motive for murder. The whole thing narrows the field for the Fish Squad’s investigation.”
“It also narrows the field for the detectives analyzing the crime scene.”
“You mean they’ll start looking to match physical evidence to Alicia?”
“That’s how they’ll build the case against her. They’ll find something. And when they do, they’ll secure warrants, uncover what they can to get a confession. It’s barely been twenty-four hours. You just have to—”
“Wait. I know. It’s what detectives do.”
“You’re usually pretty good at waiting.”
“Not in this case.”
“Why?”
“Well . . .”
I paused, took a breath, and raised my mug for a long, strong sip of fortification. I didn’t want to ruin the evening, but I had to bring this up—
“Alicia’s product,” I said. “The Mocha Magic powder. . .”
“What about it?”
Mike shifted on the sofa, suddenly uncomfortable—which didn’t make me all that comfortable, either. Leaning forward, I put distance between us, enough to see the truth in his midnight blues.
“You suspect already, don’t you?”
He glanced away, stared into the fire, and silently sipped his own coffee.
“Mike?”
“You have to be the one to tell me, Cosi, because I’m not working right now.”
That’s when it hit me. My ex-husband had been right. Mike already knew.
Oh God.
“I really don’t want to believe Matt. But he thinks . . .”
I let my voice trail off, waiting for Quinn to jump in, admit what he thought, and just make the accusation already. But he refused, just sat there in silence waiting for me to make the decision.
“Finish your sentence,” he finally said. “What does Matt think?”
“He thinks Mocha Magic has something in it that’s a lot more powerful than herbs and spices. He thinks I should have it tested, and we were hoping you’d help us with that.”
“Clare . . .” Mike rubbed the back of his neck. At last, he met my eyes. “Are you
sure
that’s what you want?”
“Look, I’d rather have you tell me there’s an illegal narcotic in our product than we find out through class action lawsuits or a lawyer from the FDA.”
“All right, then. I’ll have it tested, let you know.”
“Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for helping me.”
“You’re welcome.”
I put my arms around his neck. “And thank you for trusting me.”
It was hard to believe, given Mike’s commitment to his work, but the man’s inner Odysseus was actually ready to look the other way, let me break the law if that’s what I wanted. But it wasn’t what I wanted, and I was glad we got that straight between us.
I began to pull away, but Mike held my arms in place. Then his big hands moved to splay across my back, urging my heart closer to his. I shut my eyes, inhaled the citrus aftershave of his freshly shaved cheek, the earthy aroma of his leather holster, the faint scent of java on his breath . . .
He put his lips to my ear. “Are we done working now, Cosi?”
“Yes,” I replied, a thrill going through me as his lips found mine.
Oh yes . . .
At first, Mike’s kisses were light and teasing, tasting of cookies and coffee, but soon they deepened, their sweetness darkening into something much sultrier. When his hands left my back, I felt momentarily bereft, mourning the loss of that satisfying contrast of soft breasts against hard chest. Then I realized why he’d put the space between us: he was undoing my buttons.
“Mike,” I whispered, “the dirty dishes . . .”
“What about them?” he rasped, slipping his hand inside my blouse. With one sure flick, he unhooked the front clasp of my bra. I inhaled sharply as his rough palm cupped a heavy breast; then his callused fingers found ways to make me sigh and moan and forget how to say the words
dirty dishes
.
For a moment, I recalled our young guests, Joy and Franco, locked together on this same sofa. I nearly laughed as I realized that being a hostess has its advantages.
“Want to finish our coffee upstairs?” I managed to whisper between heavenly gasps.
“Absolutely . . .”
TWENTY-NINE
T
HE sound of an ambulance siren woke me from a light sleep. A soft glow lit the master bedroom. The fireplace had burned down to cinders, but a small lamp next to the four-poster was still burning. I glanced at my alarm clock—3:45 AM. Beside me, Mike was breathing in the steady rhythms of deep sleep, his arms curled possessively around me.
Mike’s lovemaking tonight had been languorous and dreamy; his touches tender; his words caring; and the way he drank in my less than perfect curves made me feel as desired as Titian’s Venus.
I kissed his head when we finished, told him to get some rest. Then I cracked a book along with the front window, determined to listen for Franco’s car pulling up, my daughter coming safely home.
Nice plan. But Mike’s sweet, regular exhales soon lulled me into oblivion. Now I was worried. Had Joy come home or was she still out clubbing? Had Franco heeded Mike’s warning to stay on our side of the Hudson?
I’d already thrown on my oversized T-shirt, now I tied a bathrobe around me and shoved my feet into slippers. Down the hall, I quietly pushed open the guest-room door.
Joy was tucked cozily under the bedcovers. A rush of relief washed over me when I saw her long, dark hair spilled over the white pillow, a little smile on her angel face.
I smiled, too, recalling my sleeping beauty at sixteen, at twelve, at six, at two, and just born.
The years
... They went by so slowly and so fast. Feeling tears well, I turned to descend the steps.
As I headed for the kitchen, a flash of pink caught my eye. A small paper gift bag sat on an end table in the dimly lit living room, right next to the sofa where Joy had thrown her red jacket.
Looking at that glossy little bag, I felt my heart stop. Slowly, I walked toward it, dreading what I’d discover inside.
Oh, please,
I prayed,
for Matteo’s sake, please don’t let me find an empty ring box in here!
I peeked inside. “What the . . . ?��
“Clare . . . what are you doing?”
I turned. Mike had trailed me. He’d thrown on a pair of sweatpants. His sandy hair had boyish cowlicks; his powerful chest and arms were bare. My body’s reaction to a half-naked Quinn was practically autonomic. I ignored it (or tried to) and held up what I’d found.
“Is that women’s lingerie?”
“Baby-doll pajamas—a gift to Joy from Franco.”