Chocolate Chocolate Moons Page 13

  “Either yes or no. I couldn’t hear.”

  After the honey-and-Grappa-marinated poached raspberries, after the Jupiter-chocolate layered cake, after the fig-and-balsamic ice cream, and after the poached-pear soufflé, Kandy and CC finish with double espressos. Rocket asks for a cup of hot water. When it arrives, he adds a packet of beige powder. Craig comes to their table and gives everyone a gold bag embossed with “Gramercy Gardens” in a decorative green script filled with chocolate bonbons and red-rock spices to take home.

  Rocket gives his bag to Scheherazade and leaves in a hurry.

  I clear their empty table and slide their spoons into my pocket so their DNA can be tested.

  26

  WHEN ROCKET REACHES Hernando’s, a hideaway hotel that never asks questions, he knocks three times and whispers low into the callbox. The door opens.

  “You don’t look well, Number Nine,” Velma says from behind the front desk, using his code name. Rocket doesn’t say anything. Nor does he look at her long red hair barely covering her right breast as he usually does. She takes his left hand and scans the palm. “You’re freezing. Are you sure you’re all right?” She rubs his fingers. “Do you want me to call a doctor?”

  “No doctors. Don’t trust ‘em. Just need to sleep.” He turns and walks down a hall.

  Velma hears a thud. She runs in the direction of the sound. Rocket’s door is open. He’s on the floor of his room eyes closed and barely breathing.

  Rocket is taken to a hospital. When he awakens, he smells hospital smells and gags. He pushes himself up and drinks some water. He hears a knock, followed by a click. Rocket slides back down, pulls up his sheet, and faces the wall. A doctor and two interns enter.

  “We know you’re up, Mr. Packarod,” the doctor says, reading the blinking lights behind the bed.

  “How long have I been here?” Rocket asks.

  The doctor comes closer. Then he says, “You’ve been here a day. It was touch-and-go until we found the right medication. Fortunately you responded well and are out of danger, although you did some damage to your system. You’ve taken quite a lot of unapproved alternative food supplements, haven’t you?”

  Rocket rolls back over and looks at the doctor. He fumbles with his sheet.

  “You must be very careful about these so-called health foods. Lots of snake-oil salesmen out there.”

  “Snake oil? Is snake oil back on the market?” he half jests. The doctor and his interns glare.

  “You of all people should know how dangerous some of that stuff is, especially in untested combinations. We have to do a better job catching the guys who operate unregulated off-planet labs like Titan Drugs. Their products hit the market faster than quarks.” He moves closer to Rocket, pulls up his eyelid, and shines a light in his eye. “Get my drift, Mr. Packarod?” He clicks off his light and takes a step back. He pushes a button on his prescription screen and hands the resulting printout to Rocket.

  “That medication will continue to reduce the poisons in your blood. Make sure you fill it, or those levels will rise again.” He turns to go, followed by the two interns, each of whom frowns the doctor’s frown and clicks his light on and off into Rocket’s eyes until he sees pinwheels.

  Rocket crumples the prescription and tosses it into one of the three baskets that dance before his eyes. Then he calls Drew and tells him what happened.

  “Well, are you going to fill that prescription?” Drew asks.

  “How do I know what they prescribed won’t kill me? I made plenty of drugs in my day—and know every trick in and out of the book.” He sips water from a straw in his glass. He coughs and blows his nose. Finally he says, “Come and get me out of here before they hook me up to jumper cables.”

  Jersey calls. “Come over,” she says. “Trenton wants to tell you what he found at Congress Drugs.”

  Trenton greets me wearing a nifty blue shirt. There’s no question that good clothes, one of the few things Trenton splurges on, softens his unusual appearance.

  Jersey closes a hall closet, where she just finished arranging cans of the lubricant WD from WD-40 through WD-40,000.

  Trenton plops down on his favorite faded chair. “Remember that I told you four people, on four different days, took samples from Congress Drugs? Three took poisonous samples from the same batch of anti-flavonoids and one took a harmless substance. Well, I can trace the first sample of the poisonous anti-flavonoid, taken on July 6, to Decibel Point.”

  “The same Decibel Point who invented Freedom Plan foods?”

  “Yes,” says Trenton. “The same.”

  “Who took the two other poisonous substances that week?” Jersey asks.

  “Don’t know. Still working on it.”

  “So why did you call me here?”

  “Thought you would like to know who took the harmless substance a week later, on July 18.” Trenton cocks his head to one side. “Want to guess?”

  “No, Trenton, just tell us,” Jersey says shifting from one foot to another. “Stop making this such a big drama.”

  “The harmless sample, taken July 18, was taken by Drew Barron. The date of his visit matches it. It doesn’t match taking poisonous anti-flavonoids.”

  Jersey’s voice drops in disappointment. “I was sure he was guilty.”

  “But that doesn’t make him guilty. Drew must have been so rushed and nervous he grabbed the first thing he thought was the anti-flavonoid,” Trenton explains.

  “And that’s what he probably gave to Rocket,” Jersey adds.

  I wrinkle my brow and give a quizzical look. “But people were poisoned.”

  “But not by what Drew Barron took,” Trenton says. “Who else had access?”

  I say, “CC had access when she did that big interview with Sandy Andreas. She had time in the lab. I remember she told Nova Scotia that Sandy Andreas left her alone for a while in the lab and she talked to Decibel Point, who wasn’t happy with how Congress Drugs tested its products.”

  Jersey and Trenton nod.

  “If so,” I add, “that would mean the chocolate was poisoned before it arrived at the Candy Universe.”

  Trenton agrees. “I thought of that too. But even if CC is the third person, there’s still a missing fourth sample.”

  “Does Lamont think Drew should be arrested?” I ask.

  “No. He thinks we should leave him alone and let him think he stole the poisonous anti-flavonoids. Mars Yard can still charge him for stealing something from Congress Drugs that didn’t belong to him. He’s no flight risk—not with his expensive lifestyle and beautiful girlfriend. Lamont thinks that Drew might lead us to Scheherazade. Drew’s Giacometti that Rocket switched is probably one of her fakes. And if it is, we can match it and similar art to auction houses and galleries that sell the stuff.”

  “And Decibel Point?” I ask. “You just told us that he took some anti-flavonoids.”

  “Lamont wants to wait and see. Thinks he may lead to drug cartels, unregulated off-planet labs, who knows what else.”

  27

  SANDY ANDREAS STANDS on the curved staircase that descends into the ballroom of his mansion in Redwich, a luxury gated suburb north of New Chicago. He watches as one of the spotlights that the men are trying to affix to the ceiling slip from their hands and crash.

  “How much is this Mars Malt gala costing me?” he shouts to his wife, Solaria who removes her hands from her ears she had just covered.

  Solaria walks to the bottom of the staircase and meets Sandy. “Mars Malt and my father are paying for this, darling. We’re just lending our house.”

  Sandy glares. “So he says.”

  “Having the Mars Malt gala at our home is going to bring you such good publicity,” Solaria purrs thinly masking her anger at his attitude. “It’s a close call between Max and the Planks, Neils and the Bohrs, and the Lunar Tunes, twin girls from Earth’s moon. Plus, Marilyn Marzipan has agreed to come and sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Earth’s ambassador.”

  “Don’t care abou
t the entertainment. Just be in budget.”

  Solaria Pastrami Andreas is the daughter of Salami and Lasagna Pastrami, who own the Mars Malt Beer Company. She graduated with honors from the Culinary Institute of Mars. At her graduation, Craig Cashew awarded her a prize for her dissertation on the long-forgotten Martha Stewart, credited with inventing pastels. Now she owns and runs Sumptuous Solars, a successful high-class catering firm.

  Solaria has blond hair, a small, straight nose, large blue eyes. She does not look her age. In fact, nobody does. As man’s life span increased to over 150 years, Solaria is typical of many who have looked thirty five for the last sixty five years. Many of her friends are wealthy bohemians with an appetite for social causes. The Museum of Charity Parties, where she is the acquisitions chairman, is her favorite. Last month she chose the year’s best toothpicks and cocktail napkins for the museum’s permanent collection.

  Solaria sits on a soft green floral chair, places her notebook on a pink crystal table, and peers at her reflection in an ornate gold-framed mirror. Her palm signals a call. What now? she thinks, pushing her hair behind her ear.

  Immediately she recognizes Craig Cashew’s voice. “Hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

  “As good a time as any, Craig. Sandy’s driving me crazy because of all the construction needed to get this place ready for the Mars Malt gala.”

  “Need more staff? I’ll send some from the Culinary.”

  “No, I’ll get through this. What can I do for you?”

  “Is your cousin Pluto Pastrami?”

  Solaria’s heart sinks. “Well, yes…”

  “Ah, then I guessed right. Not that many Pastramis on Mars. And even less who are hot Pastramis.”

  “Hot Pastramis?”

  “Lamont Blackberry from Mars Yard told me that he had reviewed the security holos taken a few days before the children were poisoned at the Candy Universe. They identified Pluto and a woman named Breezy Point standing near the poisoned chocolate vat. Pluto’s hand was raised. His girlfriend next to him clutched something in her hand. Later that night I went back to the Candy Universe and found some kind of device. I have a feeling it might belong to one of them. If so, I would like to give him a chance to explain before I give it to the police.”

  “Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

  “Please, Solaria, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think this was the best way to handle this.”

  Solaria clicks off, sighs, and palms Pluto. “I didn’t know you were at the Culinary, Pluto. I just got a call from Craig Cashew, who says he found something you or Breezy dropped. Is it valuable?”

  “Well, it has sentimental value.”

  “Stolen. Right?”

  “No, it wasn’t. Why do you always think everything I do is not on the up-and-up?”

  “Well, was this on the up-and-up?”

  “Depends on your definition of up-and-up. But, no, nothing was stolen.

  Solaria says nothing.

  “By the way…”

  “I’m braced. What?”

  “I’m not invited to the Mars Malt gala, but could you could hire me as staff or sneak me in? I saw Max and the Planks at the Pollywood film festival on Pluto. Max is mega deep. I feel so smart not understanding him. Don’t worry, you won’t even know I’m there; I’ll wear one of my disguises.”

  Two days before the Mars Malt gala, Solaria shows Sandy how she’s transformed their home.

  “I mixed expensive and inexpensive flowers in unusual arrangements that came in under budget,” says Solaria, pointing to one of the large colorful containers.

  Sandy nods and smiles.

  “And the stage’s curtains have transparent layers, providing enough magic for any type of event. The new undulating fiberglass ceiling ripples like the sea. It fits the ballroom so well; we can have it permanently installed for future events. It’s way under budget.”

  “Love it,” Sandy chimes.

  “Now let me show you the garden.”

  “The garden? My pride and joy.”

  Solaria opens the door and they walk outside. Sandy’s mouth drops. He looks at the raked Zen rock garden with swirling graveled patterns that replaced his beloved Astroturf and faux Greek statues in compromising positions.

  “What’s this? A graveyard?”

  “It’s a Zen rock garden.”

  “I can’t believe you actually bought rocks!”

  “But sweetheart, less is more.”

  “Not where I come from.”

  “All the nouveau riche will be envious.”

  “You’re sure?”

  As much as he hates to admit it, Sandy knows Solaria is right. He knows she endowed his garden with a look of expensive exclusivity and snobbishness that up to this point he had craved but had eluded him. However, he’ll never get over how much little gray stones can cost.

  The twins arrive in New Chicago to shop for the gowns they will wear at the Mars Malt gala. Flo meets them wearing a casual light-blue-and-white-striped dress with a long flowing scarf.

  “I love your outfit,” Lois says. “We never see people wear things like that in Pharaoh City. Do we, Becky?”

  “Never.”

  Flo throws her blue scarf over one shoulder. It billows like a sail in the wind. “Has your mother lost any weight?”

  “Are you kidding?” Becky says. “Working at the Culinary. Not a chance.” She tosses her sweater over her shoulder with limited success.

  They get into Flo’s rover. “I’m taking you to Ooh Ga Ga, New Chicago’s most exclusive shop. When they heard I was coming with two Mars Malt contestants, they couldn’t wait to meet you.”

  The interior of Ooh Ga Ga looks like a glass cube. In one corner there is a small white counter and four white chairs and in each of the other corners, a dress on a black headless mannequin. Two saleswomen in identical white coats that could have passed as lab coats a few hundred years ago and wearing lacy white gloves make a big display of greeting them with air-kisses. Then one pushes a button hidden beneath the counter and a wall slides to the side, revealing two pale gowns suspended from clear Lucite hangers.

  “These are our exclusives imported from Titan,” she says. “As you can see, they’re woven like silver spider webs. Adafruit flora microprocessors are woven into the fabric. When you move rainbows and silver stars will dart out, making you both look like living moonbeams.” She flutters the sleeves for effect. “Try them on.”

  The girls take the gowns and go into the dressing room hidden behind the parted wall. They emerge a few minutes later twirling and bowing. Three women who just entered wave and clap at them. Becky and Lois wave back and blow them a kiss.

  “Sold,” Flo says to the saleswomen pleased with the choice. She slides her index finger over the charge.

  The twins change into their regular clothes and emerge from the dressing room. Flo beams at them. “You can’t lose in those dresses, girls. Let’s celebrate with a Freedom Plan pizza.”

  28

  MY FAMILY AND I are thrilled that the Mars Malt Beer Company is treating us to New Chicago’s luxury Heartbreak Hotel. It is a favorite of superstitious people who wouldn’t leave home without knocking on plastic and honeymooners hoping that the name of the hotel will help them avoid a divorce. We have the three-bedroom Elvis and Priscilla Suite vacated that morning by bangers from Neptune attending a Bubble and Squeak convention.

  Cortland, knowing he will be busy with rehearsals, arranges for me to have a day at Ruby’s Spa. And, although he wants me to look my best, he also did it because he doesn’t want any distractions.

  The next day a cab drops me in front of Ruby’s Spa. Two guards, dressed as bottles of Beefeater gin, stand on either side of a bright red door.

  I enter a low-lit reception area. Women who make Flo look overweight sit and watch little screens attached to their chairs and view poker-faced models strut on catwalks. The receptionist takes my gift certificate and drops it in a box on her desk. I head toward an uncomfortable-
looking chair up front.

  “That is reserved,” she says as my bottom hits the seat. “You can wait over there.” She points to a low stool in a dark corner. Eyes silently shift from the little screens to me. I feel like a child in a dunce cap. When it is obvious that those who came after me are being taken before me, I go back to the receptionist. “Excuse me. Am I invisible?”

  “Shh,” she says, hand over mouth. “Are you sure you are in the right place?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I gave you a gift certificate from the Heartbreak Hotel.”

  “You did?” she chirps. “I don’t remember. Sorry, I must have forgotten.”

  I see the certificate in the “out” box on her desk. I retrieve it and wave it in front of her.

  “Here!” I say.

  She takes it and holds it at arm’s length like a child’s dirty tissue.

  “I think whoever issued this made a mistake. I think it was meant for Rose’s Spa, not Ruby’s Spa. We are so overbooked with people attending the Mars Malt gala. You’ve probably not heard about it. Just a minute,” she sputters. “I’ll get Ruby.”

  She disappears behind a pink door.

  I hear a lot of murmuring. I hear the words Rose’s Spa again. Then Ruby appears. Those sitting on the chairs with the little screens look up at her with adoring expressions. She wears a black suit with a black leather belt and a ruby necklace. Her kohl eyeliner makes Nefertiti’s look Spartan. High stiletto heels look like they are part of her feet. I know there is no way she could walk in them without having had cosmetic foot surgery.

  Ruby gives me a withering look. “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs in a voice that would make onions cry. “You’ve caught us on an extremely busy day. Everyone here is going to the Mars Malt gala. Besides, we don’t have any plus-size robes. Now excuse me. I see one of my regular customers.” She turns to greet Solaria, who has just opened the door.

  “Solaria!” Ruby exclaims, arms outstretched. “Right on time.” She takes Solaria’s coat and hands it to an attendant who has rushed to her side. Her eyes glare at me over Solaria’s shoulder. I hear, “Any last-minutes tickets to the Mars Malt gala, darling? All my clients will be there.”