Free Murder by Mocha by Cleo Coyle Page B

chocolate, sugar, eggs, and cream weren’t its only ingredients. Like everything else we were serving, the treats were laced with Alicia’s Mocha Magic Coffee “love” powder.
    Tucker and Esther, who’d been filling silver trays with goodies, now turned to offer their oohs and aahs at my frosty staircase of passion-inducing pudding shots. Then Esther went back to munching her stolen kiss and Tucker returned to fixing the chorus line of cookies she’d disturbed.
    Their verbal sparring ceased, but Tuck couldn’t stop himself from pointing two fingers at his own eyes before thrusting them at Esther.
    “I’m watchin’ you, girl,” he said, playing up his Louisiana twang.
    Esther pulled her serving glove free, pushed up her black-framed glasses, and stuck out her tongue. Then she snatched a piece of broken tiramisu bar from the “damaged goods” bowl and waved it in the air before popping it in her mouth.
    “Chill, you two,” I warned.
    Esther faced me, mouth full. “I’m out,” she garbled then swallowed. “What next?”
    “More’s coming.” I pointed across the room to Nancy Kelly, who was wheeling a stainless steel bakery cart our way.
    “Holy smokin’ rockets!” she cried. “Those cute little ice steps are really something!”
    “What’s that?” Esther slid her dark frames down enough to peer at Nance over them. “You didn’t have ice back in Yokelville?”
    “We didn’t have ice stairs, except maybe in the winter,” Nancy replied honestly.
    “Where are you from exactly?” Tuck asked.
    “All over. I come from a lot of places.”
    “Where they get up with the chickens, apparently,” Esther said.
    “Roosters.”
    “Which implies Nancy actually kept chickens.”
    “Why should I tell you anything!” Nancy threw up her hands. “All you guys ever do is make fun of me.”
    “We’re not making fun of you,” Esther said. “We’re alternately appalled and yet charmed by your bumpkin ways.”
    Tuck waved a gloved hand. “Don’t sweat it, honey. All newbies get tortured. When I first came to New York, my bayou accent earned me so much ribbing I tasted barbecue sauce.”
    “How did you get it to stop?”
    “Simple, sweetie . . .” He snapped his fingers. “I stuck.”
    “To what?”
    “To doing what I came here to do. When you stick around long enough, you become a New Yorker. It’s inevitable—although you do have to hold on tight.”
    “To what?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. Your dreams, your soul, your sanity . . .”
    “It’s like that sign you read before you get on an amusement park roller coaster,” Esther said. “Secure your belongings.”
    “You’ll see,” Tuck added, “unless you beat it for a kinder, gentler burg. Believe me, there are plenty—but none as exciting . . .”
    I didn’t say anything to counter Tuck and Esther, mostly because I agreed with them. New York was a glorious town filled with memorable thrills, but like any carnival coaster enduring the dips required gripping the bar with everything you had.
    “Oh, wow!” Esther pointed to the tray I’d pulled from the bakery cart. “What do you call these?”
    “ Gianduia ,” I said. “It’s a lovely brownie named after a hazelnut-chocolate invented a few hundred years ago in northern Italy. We also have a tray of gianduia fudge.”
    Esther blinked. “Za- do -ka? Like bazooka only with a z in front?”
    Nancy shook her head. “It’s Zudoku, almost like the game.”
    “No, no. It may start with a g ,” I explained, using the appropriate Italian arm gestures. “But you pronounce it zhahn- doo -yah.”
    Esther munched one of the chocolate triangles and rolled her eyes. “Ohmigod, it’s so delicious, rich and chocolaty, moist and chewy, with the most perfect toasted hazelnut finish, but . . .”
    “It’s gianduia , Esther . How can there be a ‘but’?”
    “Listen, boss lady, trust someone whose grandfather turned the name Bestovasky into Best: this particular treat needs a reassessment of