Chocolate Chocolate Moons Page 5

  The Culinary Institute is beautiful. Major food companies and wealthy individuals donate millions to have their names put on its jeweled glass walls. There are eight public restaurants, linked to the main building by Tuscan-like bridges. Glittering chandeliers imported from Venice on Venus, make every building sparkle including the Flying Saucer supermarket famous for produce like the poton, a hybrid of a potato and an onion that grow in long ovals because of Mars’ lower gravity than Earth.

  The Candy Universe is the Culinary Institute’s most popular building. It’s where Chocolate Moons are made. The inside combines the design of a Las Venus casino with Sephora, an ancient store on Earth that sold makeup. Clients entering Sephora were lured to the right by indecision and lured to the left by insecurity contributing to the sales of the most esoteric brands, most of which now reside in Mars’s Makeup Hall of Fame. It took me over a month to learn how to walk from front to back without swaying or straying. Jersey insists I still haven’t mastered the chocolate area.

  As soon as school groups roll through the triple arches of the Culinary, few look at the fields of golden wheat, orange groves, apple orchards and rose gardens that produce seven-inch blooms. Nor do they think about the bioengineering that created a paradise of greenery on a planet of dry rock and sand. All anyone is thinking of is being the first to spot the red-and-white-striped stack that spews holographs of swirling candy and start chanting, “Candy! Candy! Chocolate Moons!”

  Victor and Hugo are among thirty children, age ten, who are in excellent health when they go on their class trip that starts at Mars Disney and ends at the Candy Universe. No one fidgets and no one punches his neighbor as they pile off the bus and make two straight lines. They march erect and silent into the lobby of the Candy Universe, take one deep chocolate-scented breath, and swoon as they wait for the large bronze door in front of them to open.

  Then a trumpet fanfares. A blinding white light makes eyes snap shut. And when the doors open, more shapes and colors than anyone has ever seen ripple and reflect into infinity.

  A giant wheel of fortune made of jelly beans plays carnival music. Chandeliers sway beneath pink clouds of cotton candy, swings twist on taffy ropes, a chocolate malted river circles the room and ends in a bubbling waterfall, and everywhere transparent cases overflow with mouthwatering, tooth-cracking, jaw-breaking, calorie-and cholesterol-loaded pleasures.

  I watch some tilt their heads, mouths open, tongues extended—trying to catch freeze-dried ice cream flakes falling from the ceiling. But, just as I begin to salivate when hands are loaded with lychee-ginger jam, raspberry-apple, cinnamon caramel, butter cream, and for the brave, habanera pepper chocolates, Jersey says, “The head of the security office wants one of us outside to monitor broccoli. I monitored sugars and spices last week, so it’s your turn.”

  I exit the building vexed that Jersey, who doesn’t appreciate the subtleties between sugars, spices, and everything nice and, say liver, has that job while I get broccoli.

  When I finish and go back inside, I see students and teachers in an opiate state blind to anything but the taste of candy. Then I see Victor and Hugo wander behind the Chocolate Moons counter, reach in, take a handful and down them. A moment later they sway forward, fall to the ground, and shake in a convulsive seizure unconscious in the fetal position, their backs swollen like hunchbacks.

  The boys are flown to Pharaoh Medical Center, a place that has very tight security and holds no fond memories for me. Before I was let up to see a sick friend, I had to register. A stone faced woman asked so many questions I was so stressed that I ate all the chips and dips reserved for dying patients’ last meals out of the vending machines.

  Five minutes later Flo calls from Tasters and Spitters Inc. and screams, “You never should have taken that job as a security guard! Remember when I told you I felt sick after sampling their Tootsie Targets? And I didn’t even swallow!”

  “How did you get the news so fast?”

  “Everything has been ringing off the hook. Believe me, the tongue knows.”

  “What that’s supposed to mean?”

  “Gotta run. Bye.” Click.

  Jersey grabs my arm and yanks me toward the other security guards, who buzz with theories but don’t have a clue. I need some quiet so I find a seat away from them. Then I remove my i-Chip from my side pocket, and type therapies tried on comatose patients. Sensory Dynamics pops up. I read the article and wave Jersey over. “I think I found something.”

  “Sweet or savory?”

  “This isn’t about food. Not everything I find interesting is about food.”

  Jersey tilts her head, gives me one of her looks, and then begins straightening the buttons on her jacket.

  “Ever hear of Sensory Dynamics, new offbeat therapies that have been tried on comatose patients?”

  “No. So, what happens?” Jersey stops fiddling with her buttons and puts a hand on a hip, signaling sounds like a blind alley to me, so make it short.

  “Patients are bombarded with cultural stimuli. The most successful have been those who use French culture. The patient’s room is filled with French perfume while Edith Piaf’s voice wafts over linguists arguing about the pronunciation of French vowels. The cancan song plays when bedpans are emptied.”

  “You’re kidding. I love the cancan.”

  “No one understands why this works faster than the smell of chicken soup and the sounds of Jewish mothers wailing guilt-loaded philosophical questions like Have a nice day? Who am I to have a nice day? And Why will it be any different than any other day?

  “All that is known is that upon awakening, 49 percent of the patients’ first words are I’ll have a glass of white wine, another 49 percent ask for red, and 2 percent said they should of had a V16.”

  “I wonder what they’ll say when the V32 hits the stores.”

  “Stay focused, Jersey.”

  “When they tried the paradigm of an Irish pub, three people who regained consciousness immediately asked for a beer.”

  “What kind of beer? Light beer is healthier.”

  I ignore the question. “All the products that they used had a very short expiration date, which made testing difficult. I wonder if they were organic. Organic products have no preservatives therefore a shorter shelf life. That could be significant.”

  “I love preservatives, because I can’t throw anything out.”

  “Well, I can’t go further without a scientist’s advice. Your husband, Trenton, is a brilliant scientist and he works with the Mars Yard forensics. Mind if I ask him?”

  “Just give a call.”

  I check the time. “We better collect the security cubes and start our scans. Detective Lamont Blackberry and his partner, Sid Seedless, are on their way.”

  11

  LAMONT AND SID are half-brothers, related to the wealthy Melon family. They are descended from the branch whose mothers belonged to the Flying Cantaloupes, a circus group known for girls who had “big ones.”

  Lamont Blackberry has a first-class mind in a second-class body. Sid Seedless has the opposite. Lamont’s face looks like garlic pushed through a press. He considered getting a makeover, but in his line of work it is an asset to have an appearance that doubles as a weapon.

  They both wear dark brown fedoras, black turtlenecks, khaki trousers, and loose gray coats with lots of zippered flaps containing handcuffs, kits with various chemicals, magnifying glasses, mini vacuums, a spectroscope, recording devices, gas masks and gloves. On the back of Lamont’s coat, in large red letters, are the words “Chief Detective.” Large red letters on the back of Sid’s coat say “See Other Side,” where tiny red letters say “Call 1-1-9.”

  Lamont grabs the rim of his fedora and slides it down over his eyes. Sid reaches up and tips his hat over his eyes. Lamont hunches his shoulders and raises his collar. Sid does the same.

  “You know, Sid, you don’t have to shadow my every move,” Lamont says.

  “Maybe I’m doing these things first and y
ou’re copying me?”

  “Ridiculous. You’re in back of me.”

  “Well, then, you should be flattered by my sincerest imitation.”

  Lamont pushes the door to the Candy Universe open. As soon as Sid smells the intoxicating aroma of melted chocolate, he clutches the wall. Lamont gives Sid a shove. “It’s Showtime!” he says. Then he points to the other side of the room. “Use your magnetic-resonance-residue spectroscope to detect any discrepancies in the chemical compositions of the remaining candy.”

  He turns his back to Sid, looks right and left, dips his hand into a bin of licorice, then, like a child who knows he has a mouthful of cavities and sees the dentist’s drill come closer, covers his mouth with his hands.

  “I saw that. I saw that. You just took some licorices from that container and ate it,” Sid says. “Can I have some?”

  “For your information this procedure is called evidence testing.” He scoops a handful of jumping jelly beans and puts them in his pocket, but most leap out and dance on the ground. “Now see what you made me do?”

  “Looks more like tampering with the evidence,” Sid says, reaching beyond the jelly beans for a cherry chew.

  Jersey and I walk closer. When we step on the jelly beans, we grab each other’s hand to steady ourselves as we slide toward Lamont and Sid.

  Jersey hands Sid the original image cubes, installed to deter the theft of the candy that we made before they arrived. I keep duplicates for the Culinary’s files.

  Sid slides a honey asteroid into his mouth.

  “I saw that,” Jersey glares. “You’re not supposed to eat that.”

  “It’s part of our research.”

  “Yeah, right.” Jersey says, closing in on him.

  Sid, not paying attention to how close he is standing to the chocolate malted river, takes a step back to avoid Jersey’s index finger jabbing his chest. He slips and splashes into the chocolate malted river. Head bobbing, arms flailing, he grabs at a taffy swing that lifts him up and quickly hurls him toward the jelly bean wheel of fortune. He whirls around then tumbles back into the chocolate river. When he comes around the next turn, his speed accelerates. He grabs my leg. I stagger, then plop!

  Everyone gawks as we’re swept away.

  Two little girls jump and shout, “They’re headed toward the waterfall!”

  I hold my breath and close my eyes. Sid and a Niagara of melted chocolate pound over me. As soon as we’re yanked out, the freeze-dried ice cream flakes that drop from the ceiling make us look tarred and feathered. Children clap thinking it was an act. We stagger to the employees’ locker room and clean ourselves up.

  By now Lamont has collected information using his magnetic-resonance-residue spectroscope and has forwarded the information to computers at Mars Yard. He is sweating and pacing, waiting for results.

  Everyone in the room wants to go home. Lamont gets looks that could kill a yogurt’s lactobacillus. Suddenly his palm registers an incoming call. “Attention, everyone,” he says with the voice of authority. “Mars Yard has just confirmed that twenty-three other cases of poisoned candy are being reported.”

  “Oh no!” the crowd choruses.

  “The problem is more widespread than we first thought,” Sid says, spitting out the honey asteroid.

  “This also means that the candy was probably poisoned before today. It takes at least one day after the candy has been packaged for it to arrive in shops,” I say.

  Lamont looks at me and frowns. “And since when have you become a detective?”

  “This case is important to me. I have a personal interest. I practically live on Chocolate Moons.”

  “That’s true. She does,” Jersey says, rolling her eyes at Lamont.

  “Well, none of this is our fault. We want to go home,” yells a thin young man with a head of popcorn-looking curls.

  Everyone chants, “Home now! Home now!”

  Lamont waves his arms in the air. “Another message!” The crowd quiets. “Mars Yard’s analysis finds that none of the candy remaining in this room is contaminated. You can all go home.”

  The crowd stampedes toward the exit.

  “At least we have everyone’s contact information,” I say. “With a hundred eyewitnesses and a hundred different stories of what happened today, I’m sure there will be more questions.”

  Lamont glares at me. “For all I know, you and your skinny friend may have been in cahoots and poisoned the chocolate yourselves. You certainly had easy access.”

  “Easy access but no motive. I consider Godiva and Hershey saints and chocolate to be the food of the gods. As far as I’m concerned, a person who would stoop to poison Chocolate Moons is a person who could poison Communion wafers.”

  Lamont looks at Jersey. “But I bet Chocolate Moons are not your favorite. You look like you never eat candy and might welcome a transfer.”

  Jersey blushes and freezes, her mouth open. She knows it’s true. She never eats candy. And just the other day she thought of transferring to the executive wing.

  “You’re only saying this so we won’t say we saw you and Sid eat some of the evidence,” I point out.

  Lamont squares his shoulders.

  “I think you may have overlooked something,” I add.

  “And what is that?”

  “The paper in the display case that had the poisoned Moons has one area with a strange stain.”

  We walk to the display case. I point to a small dark purple stain. “I would analyze that if I were you.”

  “Your job, Sid,” Lamont says.

  Sid dons a pair of protective gloves and puts the display paper into a police bag.

  “I’m going to recommend that the Culinary remove all the candy and send it into space.”

  “Isn’t that a little extreme?”

  “Can’t be too careful,” Lamont replies, looking at his watch.

  My hair knots and my dental fillings vibrate. I close in on Lamont like an avalanche of soft butter, stopping just short of pinning him to the wall. “How can you say that? Mars Yard’s analysis shows that there is nothing wrong with any of it. You can’t actually mean all the Gum Craters, Malted Meteors, Toffee Planets, Rum Rockets, Vanilla Comets, the…the…oh my God, not the rest of the Chocolate Moons?”

  Lamont and Sid walk away. Lamont turns, puts his hand to his throat, and makes an off-with-your-head motion. “Too late. While you were having your little tantrum, my palm registered a message from the Culinary’s top security office. They thought putting the candy into a rocket quarantine pod and sending it into space was such a good idea that, as we speak, a truck is collecting it now.”

  When Jersey and I lock up, I say, “Let’s go back to the Chocolate Moons case and see if we can scrape another sample so Trenton can do an independent analysis.”

  “But Lamont will send his sample to Mars Yard forensics. Trenton can read their report. Isn’t that good enough?”

  “Something makes me think that Lamont doesn’t believe that ‘The Case of the Chocolate Moons’ has the gravitas of cases like ‘The Hasidim of Baskerville.’ I’m tired of candy being considered a second-class food. I’ve got to get to the bottom of this!”

  I shake so hard that a box of Chocolate Moons falls from my pocket to the floor.

  “You’re not going to eat those,” Jersey says, watching me pick them up.

  “Probably not,” I say.

  “Probably? You have a thing about living dangerously?”

  CEO Craig Cashew is very upset. When it is dark and everyone has left the Candy Universe building, he taps a code into the lock and enters. He runs his hand over the empty display cases and sighs. He crisscrosses the room several times. His foot taps something not far from one of the chocolate vats. He picks it up and sees that it is small, smooth, and rectangular with a button in the middle of one side. He slides it into his pocket and leaves.

  12

  I LEAVE THE Culinary Institute emotionally shredded and sizzling like a bubbling caramel. I head
for my silver Flexcar and inflate it. I ease myself inside. My home is on the east side of Pharaoh City; the Culinary Institute is on the west side. After a twenty-minute drive, I pull into the garage. Lois and Becky, who now call themselves the Lunar Tunes, are rehearsing. The vibrations coming from their thumping music are loud enough to crack an airlock.

  Cortland couldn’t make a go of his band, Cracked Craters. For months he was more depressed than a B-flat. When he heard the twins sing in harmony and clap syncopated rhythms, he arranged all their music. Now he thinks he’ll be the next Gordy Blueberry managing the Subprimes.

  Becky and Lois are nervous wrecks because they have made the finals in a talent contest sponsored by the Mars Malt Beer Company by singing “You Light Up My iPad,” a song Cortland wrote for me when we were courting. They are unnerved because their competition, Max and the Plancks and Neils and the Bohrs, are both past winners of the Venus Biennale.

  Sandy Andreas and his wife, Solaria Pastrami Andreas—whose family owns the Mars Malt Beer Company—will host and judge the event at their forty-thousand-square-foot French-exterior hyper mansion in Redwich, a luxury gated suburb of New Chicago.

  I enter a small room near the laundry and peel off my bodysuit. A hook pops followed by a rip that feels like marching insects with very sharp teeth. This depresses me more because now they only sell the lighter, tighter type, which is more flexible and, which I am told, feels like a second skin. But I have enough skin and have no desire to show more.

  I thrust my arms into my pink terry-cloth robe, slide on a pair of worn velveteen slippers, and paddle into the bedroom. Cortland is on the floor, stretching on his exercise mat. He rolls over and pushes himself up. “You had quite a day,” he says.

  I groan and charge into the bathroom. I key Hot Aqua Shower: Double Massage. I would have stayed in longer, but Cortland calls and says that the evening news is starting, so I leap out, drape my robe around me, and go back into the bedroom.

  When I lie on the bed, Cortland puts down his Mars Malt and hands me his special pomegranate margarita. He’s circled the rim with colored vitamins to cheer me up. “Nothing like a glass of antioxidants to change a gloomy mood,” he says.