Authors: Cleo Coyle
As I continued moving slowly forward, Olympia kept backing up. Now she stood beside a metal shelf holding cellophane-covered buckets of dark mocha syrup.
I heard a moan coming from the other side of that shelf. I risked a peek and saw Aphrodite sprawled on the floor but stirring. Gudrun lay nearby, stripped down to her black brassier and slacks. My breath caught when I spied
Nancy,
lying right next to them, eyes closed, arms curled.
Oh my God, Nancy! Is she still alive?
I choked down my fear, my rage. “I know something else, Olympia. I know that’s not my barista you’re threatening. Why don’t you let the poor girl go?”
Olympia faked surprise and pushed the girl to her knees. Then she ripped the sack away. Minthe’s puppy dog eyes blinked up at me.
“My mistake,” Olympia said. Before I could react, she pressed the gun against Minthe’s head and pulled the trigger.
The blast was deafening. One second Minthe’s thin, pale face was there—and then it wasn’t. The body flew sideways and struck the plank floor with a hollow thud.
“You crazy bitch!” I screamed.
Then we both heard a crash loud enough to cut through the gunshot still ringing in our eardrums. Shards of shattered skylight rained down. Along with the glass came a figure clinging to a thin black cord
“POLICE! SWAT TEAM! FREEZE! WE’RE ARMED! DROP YOUR WEAPON! GIVE IT UP!
Unfortunately, it wasn’t a real SWAT team—it was Matt, all alone. He’d heard the shot, freaked, and taken a reckless chance. For a moment he hung suspended above the factory floor, yelling that he was the police, the army, SEAL Team Six, and whatever else popped into his head. Then, suddenly, whatever he’d used for a rope snapped under his weight, and Matt plunged straight down.
“POLICE! PUT YOUR HANDS UP! YOU’RE UNDER AR—
oooph!
”
Matt landed on a stack of Madagascar cacao. The hard landing shut his mouth and eyes.
The fall knocked him out!
Olympia was rattled, then raging. She approached my unconscious ex, gun extended.
Oh no you don’t!
I rushed her. Reaching up, I yanked a pail of mocha syrup off the shelf, dumping it over her head.
As Olympia knocked the pail away, I grabbed her wrist with both hands. She fought me, eyes closed, blinded by the brown goo. She was strong, but I was determined, and it came down to a battle of wills.
As we struggled over the gun, Aphrodite ran by us, on her way to one of the factory’s windows and a fire escape beyond.
“Help me!” I begged. “Grab the gun, Aphrodite! Do something!”
But she kept going, her only interest saving herself! With a single heave, she lifted the big window and crawled through onto the metal fire escape. Night air whipped her flowing dress as the river’s black water roiled below.
Olympia could see by now—enough to realize her prize prey was escaping. Enraged, she kicked me hard, sending me backward.
“Die! Die! Die!” she howled as she pumped three shots into Aphrodite’s back. The goddess swayed in the wind, then tumbled into the water below.
Olympia whirled to face me. But I was ready with another bucket of Mocha Magic—and this time I swung it like a club. Again and again, I bounced the metal pail off Olympia’s head. The chocolate-covered monster finally dropped without a sound, and I kicked the gun out of her limp hand.
“Matt! Matt!”
I ran to my ex and dropped to my knees beside the pallet of cacao beans. He wasn’t moving, and it didn’t look like he was breathing, either. I brushed aside his shaggy hair, touched his cheek—and his eyes opened!
“I think I hurt myself . . .” He moaned.
“You big, dumb, stupid hero! You could have killed yourself!”
“Oh, man, the dog was worse than the fall.”
“Dog?”
“A very fast German shepherd guarding the construction site next door. I climbed that building to jump to this one. But not before that damn shepherd bit me in the butt.”
Tears stinging my eyes, I hugged him—then I jumped and Matt bolted upright when a controlled explosion blew the steel gate off. Ropes fluttered down from the shattered skylight, too, followed by armed and armored men. Boots hit the plank floor all around us. More men stormed through the blasted gate, weapons raised.
A SWAT team—a
real
one—had finally arrived.
“What took you so long,” Matt groused.
A tactical officer in black armor emerged from behind the metal shelf, Nancy Kelly in his arms. Pale and shaken, my barista touched her bruised head. But her buoyant inner Nancy returned when she saw me.
“Holy smokin’ rockets, boss. What the heck hit me?”
FORTY-FIVE
T
WO days later things were back to normal at my coffeehouse—“normal” being a relative term, considering Village life.
“Remember, Punch,” Tuck said from behind our counter, “the part you’re auditioning for today is the
most important
role in
Return to Munchkin Land
.”
“But it’s only the chorus, Tuck, just a small part.”
“Punch!
What
do I always say?”
The lean Latino put down his cup and sighed. “There are no small parts, only—” He suddenly froze, glanced around.
“You can relax,” I assured him from the next stool. “There are no
small actors
in here today.” (Since we’d opened six hours ago, I’d served a steady stream of hulking, hairy men.) “Exactly,” Tuck said. “And where would the Wicked Witch be without a dependable army of Flying Monkeys?”
“Ha!” Nancy cut in, arriving for her lunchtime shift. “She wouldn’t need them if she had a flying Matteo!”
“More like a
plunging
Matteo from what I heard,” Esther cracked.
“Matt was
very
brave,” Nancy said, eyes glazing as she tied on her apron. “He saved my life. I’ll be forever grateful to him.”
Esther stared at Nance a long moment. “Oh no.”
Nancy turned to Tucker. “When is Matteo coming back to the Blend, do you think? Will he be working as a manager again, the way he did the other day? That was a
great
day! He’s
such
a good manager!”
“Oh, boss!” Esther sang.
I glanced up from Matt’s revised delivery schedule. “What?”
She leaned down. “Did you hear that?”
“Matt’s flying to Costa Rica next week,” I said. “Let’s hope Ms. Kelly is over her new crush by the time he gets back.”
“I guess we should look on the bright side,” Esther said. “At least she’s over Dante.”
“Nancy’s lucky he’s not pressing charges.”
“Speaking of charges,” Esther said, “did you check out New York One’s
In the Papers
segment this morning? We’re still the top story across the city.”
I nodded.
Tuck moved toward us. “You know, I can’t decide which headline was my favorite.
Chocolate-Covered Serial Killer Gets Licked, Spider-Man Saves 3 in Willy Wonka Hostage Drama,
or
Cocoa Kook Goes Loca for Mocha
.”
“Well,
kook
is certainly the right noun,” Punch said.
“No doubt,” Esther said. “That sicko actually smiled for her mug shot.”
“I know!” Punch cried, smoothing the monkey hair on his arms. “That girl is cray-zee!”
“But not crazy enough for an insanity plea,” I pointed out, glad of it.
Olympia Temple was no longer the wayward little girl hiding behind a curtain of hair. The media had discovered a brand-new sinister star, and she shined darkly for them. But Warhol’s famous fifteen minutes had begun ticking away already, and Olympia would soon learn what every convicted criminal knew—the brief clock of fame winds down to interminable years behind prison walls.
“You know something I can’t stop thinking about?” Tucker confessed. “Olympia called herself Daphne and escaped off the boat as Laurel. Anyone who knows Ovid or a bit of basic mythology could have connected the two. It’s as if she wanted someone to discover the clues.”
“From what Soles and Bass told me, serial killers tend to take pride in their work. Olympia Temple made killing her art. On some level, she wanted it to be appreciated.”
“What? The art of murder?”
I nodded. “Sociopaths get high on power, control, and manipulation. They also crave pity. I guarantee you, Olympia sees herself as the victim in all this, the star of her own sick show.”
Tucker’s eyebrows rose. “Sounds like my little directorial pep talks to the disparate citizens of Oz. Every actor, no matter the size of his role, is the star.”
“Exactly, and given what we now know about the late Ms. ‘Aphrodite’ Pixley—from her antics in college to her setting employees against each other—that woman was probably a sociopath, too.”
“Yes, well . . . I’m sorry Aphrodite is dead, but I’m not sorry we’re all free of her.”
“You and me both.”
“So, no more Mocha Magic?” Esther assumed. “It’s dead?”
“Kaput,” I assured her. “The only reason Madame signed that contract was to help an old friend.”
“Doesn’t Alicia care about selling the powder?”
“Not anymore. And she’s finished with Aphrodite’s Village, too.”
“I’m not surprised,” Esther said. “I mean how does an ex-professor end up working for a Web site like that, anyhow?”
“A job’s a job,” I said. “After Alicia left Bay Creek Women’s College, she couldn’t find another academic position, so she began to travel and write, which included freelance restaurant reviews and eventually food writing. Thelma was always looking for smart new writers and editors. Apparently, they reconnected on—”
Esther held up her hand. “Don’t tell me. Facebook.”
I shrugged.
Tuck leaned against the counter. “One thing I don’t get. Why would Aphrodite want to put a controlled substance into Mocha Magic, and how could she think she would get away with it? The FDA would have found her out eventually.”
“Alphas,” I said.
“Am I supposed to understand that?”
“Alphas are important to marketers because they’re the kind of customers who influence other customers. That’s what all these parties were about—Aphrodite was marketing to alphas: reporters, bloggers, food and beverage critics, wholesale buyers. If she could impress them with the potency of an adulterated product, then they’d spread the word. After the Mocha Magic took off, she’d remove the drug. By then, she was hoping the product would sustain itself via placebo effect.”
“Sounds like your basic bait-and-switch,” Punch said.
“You’re right. It was unethical—and the woman who created it, Alicia, had scruples. That’s why Aphrodite altered the formula behind her back.”
“So what’s Alicia going to do now?” Tuck asked.
“Travel, eat, write . . .” I smiled. “She’s going to have enough money to retire early.”
Esther smirked. “She won the Powerball?”
“Better. Alicia’s lawyer discovered that Aphrodite was behind Patrice Stone’s hiring Troy Talos to seduce her away from the Rock Center launch party.”
Tucker, Esther, and Punch hooted. I didn’t blame them. It was a real bombshell.
“Apparently, Aphrodite wanted Maya Lansing, the fitness queen, to be the spokesperson for Mocha Magic. Aphrodite knew Alicia would never agree to that. Her solution was to keep Alicia away from her own launch party and allow the fitness queen to take the spotlight. Alicia’s product hadn’t even hit the market, and Aphrodite was conspiring to undercut her.”
Evidence on Aphrodite’s computer made it clear that she knew and approved of Patrice’s plan to hire parolee Troy and his girlfriend, Vanessa, which gave Alicia grounds to sue the Hades out of the woman’s estate and company.
“The attorneys are working out a big, fat settlement as we speak,” I told them. “Soon Alicia will have enough of the Love Goddess’s money to do whatever her heart desires.”
T
HE lunch crowd came and went, the flying monkeys with them as the Broadway auditions wound down for the day. Madame stopped by. I was happy to see her and immediately pulled a fresh espresso.
“Have you heard from Lieutenant Quinn yet?” she quietly asked as I slid the demitasse across the blueberry marble.
I shook my head, unable to trust my voice. The news was good otherwise, and I tried to focus on that. Sherri Sellars was released, the charges against her dropped, and Alicia Bower was a free woman who’d soon be stinking rich. But I couldn’t stop counting the hours since I last heard from Quinn (sixty-three going on sixty-four). Late last night, alone in bed, I had broken down and tried his cell, but as he warned, I only reached his voice mail—and I cried myself to sleep.
“Try not to worry, dear,” Madame said.
“I don’t know how to do that . . .”
“Focus on what’s in front of you. Live each hour, each day, one at a time . . .”
I nodded, unable to speak again. I could tell from her answer that Madame wasn’t hopeful. This was starting to feel like Cormac O’Neil all over again.
“Mom! Mom!”
I whirled, panicked at the sound of fear in Joy’s voice.
“Honey, what’s wrong?”
“I was upstairs, watching the local news. I heard something
terrible
. I think it’s about Franco.”
I gripped her arms. “What did you hear? Tell me.”
“Arrests were made by the Internal Affairs Bureau—arrests of officers, some of them high ranking! The mayor’s holding a press conference in a few hours.”
Oh God . . .
I turned to read Madame’s face. She looked as stricken as I felt. Was this Larry Hawke again?
He must have pulled the trigger on Franco and trumped up charges against Mike and Sully . . .
I would have stumbled, even fallen, if I hadn’t been more concerned about propping up my daughter. When the bell over our front door rang, I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was close the shop and turn off the lights.
“Joy? You okay? What’s wrong?” Manny Franco stood five feet away wearing a navy blue suit, his shaved head clean, his rugged face strained at the sight of my daughter’s tears.
“Franco!” Joy rushed the man so fast and hard, the mountain of muscle nearly tipped over. He held her tight as she showered him with kisses.