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.