“She’s just young,” I said. “You were young once, too.”
“I was never young.”
(That I believed.) Just then, a cell phone went off again. This time it was mine.
“Oh, those bohemians,” Tucker gushed. “I do love Puccini!”
I silenced the ringtone opera. “Madame,” I said, picking up, “where are you?”
“In the corridor, dear, across from the elevator bank near the cloakroom.”
I slipped off my apron, retucked my white blouse, and adjusted my black skirt.
“Finish laying out all the choco-booty, okay?” I told my crew before pushing through the Loft’s closed doors. “I’m checking on the guests in the Garden.” And a former mother- in-law who owes me some answers.
Eleven
“Clare! Here, dear!” A voice called as I moved into the long corridor.
Resplendent in a shimmering pearl sheath silk-screened with Monet’s lilies, Madame stepped out from between a pair of faux-marble columns and waved me over.
Like me, she’d swept her hair into a neat French twist for the party. But her blue-violet eyes, lightly accented with periwinkle pencil, held a stressed expression that belied the put-together package.
We embraced, first thing, and I was relieved to feel the tight hug. Things hadn’t been right between us since Alicia Bower entered our lives.
“Did you come alone?” I asked.
“Otto escorted me.” She tilted her head. “I sent him out to the Garden.”
I glanced down the corridor and through the closed glass double doors, but I couldn’t see her current beau. The twinkling Garden was too crowded.
“What happened to your promise to bring Alicia here early, so we could hash everything out?”
“She stood me up! Otto and I waited in the Topaz bar for over an hour. When I called her, she apologized, but said she just didn’t have time to meet and talk before the launch.”
“You mean she’s not here yet?”
“Oh, she’s here. Out there somewhere.” Madame fluttered her fingers toward the Garden doors. “She slipped by us at the hotel. Clearly, she’s avoiding me.”
“You mean me.” (I’d been patient up to now. But this development was the last straw.) “My crew and I have been setting up in the Loft space for the last two hours. After Alicia drove me crazy micromanaging every minute detail of this launch, she suddenly has no interest in even glancing at our display? What does that tell you?”
“It tells me she’s embarrassed.”
“More like afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of me—and some hard questions about what went on this morning.”
“Clare, you must allow me to apologize again for putting you in such an awkward position.”
“It’s all right. I told you on the phone, apology accepted.”
“But you’re still upset with me. Try to understand . . .” She waved me back into hiding between those faux marble columns, lowered her voice to a whisper. “With the blood pronounced fake and Dennis suddenly gone, the matter was no longer a criminal one. I had to side with Alicia. Involving the police any further would have risked bad publicity—and at the worst possible time for all of us.”
“But don’t you agree what happened this morning added up to much more than a prank?”
Madame nodded. “Yes. Now I do.”
“Did you do any follow up with this Dennis St. Julian character?”
“We tried calling him. But his phone simply rang and rang. Not even any voice mail, which Alicia said he did have for the last few weeks.”
“Probably a disposable cell,” I said. “Something untraceable that he could quickly toss.”
“Alicia did tell me that she welcomes your help tracking him down. If you can find out why he tried to scare her half to death, she would be most grateful. She’s happy to pay you for your time.”
“I’m far from a professional private investigator!”
“Please.” Madame waved her hand. “What did Roman Brio call you? Shirley Holmes? He was right. As a mama snoop, you’ve done pretty well. And, as always, I am happy to be your Watson.”
Oh brother. Here we go . . . “Alicia should hire someone. I’ll ask Mike for a name—”
“Waste of time. Alicia was adamant. She doesn’t wish to bring anyone else into this, especially a professional.”
“Why not?”
“She fears her position with her company could be jeopardized if someone suspects a scandal brewing. And a hired investigator poking about asking questions is bound to raise some flag somewhere. Alicia would prefer to keep all of this as quiet as possible, within our little circle.”
“But—”
“Legally, we’re tied into this venture,” Madame pointed out, “which means you’re already publicly associated with Alicia. You can be a nosy Nellie without raising alarms. Simply make your queries sound innocent.”
Like I have time for this!
“Clare . . .” She touched my shoulder. “I know you’re not fond of Alicia. But won’t you do it for me . . . for the Blend? Please?”
I massaged my forehead. “Did this Candy Man character give you a business card?”
“Yes!” Clearly excited to reprise her Watson role, Madame gleefully fished around her small evening bag. “Here you are.”
“Kogo Sweets Inc.,” I read. The logo wasn’t embossed, and the white cardstock felt textureless and flimsy.
“The company is real,” Madame said, watching me bend the card back and forth. “I looked it up after Mr. St. Julian introduced himself a few weeks ago.”
“But if I place a call to Kogo Sweets’ main office,” I said, waving the cheap rectangle, “I doubt very much Dennis St. Julian will be a name they recognize.”
“You think the card is fake?”
“I think the man is fake.”
“Why?”
“Because he was ready to place a ‘large order’ for Alicia’s product without even sampling it. Because his clothes were made of gorgeous, expensive material, but his loafers were old, worn, and scuffed up. Because he was built like a readymade model for Michelangelo, that’s why!”
“What does the man’s build have to do with anything?”
“He claimed his job was tasting candy for a living, yet he had six-pack abs, muscle cuts, and a shaved chest?”
“You don’t think he lifted weights to counteract all the candy sampling?”
“Serious bodybuilders are rigorous about their diets. They don’t make their living as wholesale junk-food buyers. The candy buying was a spiel to get close to Alicia, I’m sure of it. Someone hired that guy.”
“Who? And for what? This is the first product Alicia’s ever pitched to the confectionary trade. Do you suppose this St. Julian character was after the Mocha Magic Coffee’s secret ingredients?”
“I don’t suppose Mr. St. Julian was Mr. St. Julian, and I say we keep our eyes and ears open tonight. If you see a dead guy rise again, let me know ASAP, okay?”
“You expect that man will have the nerve to show up here?”
“Yes. Possibly in disguise. For all I know, he may be in the Garden already.” I glanced again at those glass double doors. “Just remember, whatever he wanted from Alicia, he failed to get this morning.”
“And you think he’s going to try again?”
“Or his partner will,” I said.
“His what?”
“Don’t you remember the reason I was buried in dirty laundry this morning? The blond woman in black I was chasing?”
“Oh yes! You know I never did see her. I took your word for it and sent those young police officers after you.”
“Maybe I should sketch a picture of her for Alicia.”
“Oh, good idea!”
“On the other hand, she might be . . .”
“What?”
I was too busy staring to finish my sentence. A slender woman in a sleek black pantsuit had exited the elevator and moved swiftly toward the glass doors, but she didn’t push through them. She just stood there staring at something in her hand—a smartphone. She was text messaging.