Murder by Mocha by Cleo Coyle

Author:Cleo Coyle [Coyle, Cleo]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Coffee, Cosi; Clare (Fictitious Character), Mystery & Detective, Fiction, General, Coffeehouses
ISBN: 9780425241431
Google: fNTkTgEACAAJ
Amazon: 0425241432
Publisher: Penguin Group USA
Published: 2011-08-01T06:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-SIX

NUTRITION Nation’s expo footprint was big and flashy with a sparkling disco ball spinning overhead. Inside the booth’s resin walls strobe lights flashed on displays packed with products geared toward sports nutrition, bodybuilding, and toning.

“What are these guys doing at a candy fair?” Franco asked. “Nutrition Nation is nothing but a slop shop.”

“A what?”

“A 7-Eleven for Red Power Ranger Go-Go Juice. Every’roid head on the job shops at their stores.”

“You’re referring to steroids? Aren’t they illegal?”

“Science is faster than the law. Nutrition Nation peddles anabolic steroid alternatives, stuff that doesn’t turn into a steroid until it’s ingested. That technicality allows them to skirt the law—for now.”

While Franco drifted off, checking product labels and shaking his head disapprovingly, I spied a familiar face: Maya Lansing, actually a life-sized cardboard standee of the fitness queen.

This Maya wore more clothing, spandex mainly. With sculpted arms flexed, she clutched a ten-pound weight in each hand. At her Adidas-clad feet sat skin toners and diet powders in packaging bearing her smiling face.

“Excuse me,” I called to a man in a black leotard. He was crouched down low, fiddling with an extension cord. “I need to speak to someone in charge.”

Muscle Man rose to his full height. He wasn’t that big—if you considered the average New York delivery truck. And his craggy middle-aged face wasn’t all that wrong for his hyperpumped frame. (My family scrapbooks contained an old photo of my nonna sticking her head through a cut out of Charles Atlas taken at Kennywood Park. There was a surprising resemblance, although Nonna didn’t have a walrus mustache.)

“If you’re the replacement girl, then you’re late,” he snapped.

“Excuse me?”

“What agency sent you over?” he asked, checking me out. “You’re fine, I guess, except for your age ...”

“I’m not a model.”

“Oh! Sorry about that. I’m Vince.” His hand pumped mine. “I thought you were my replacement booth bunny.” He winked, looking me over with a whole new interest level. “One of the three girls I hired bugged out at the last minute, claimed she dyed her skin green and couldn’t get the stuff off. Crazy, huh?”

“Uh...” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Franco watching us, but he kept his distance, pretended to be checking out the booth’s products.

“So, are you a fan of Maya Lansing? Interested in her stuff?” Vince asked, gesturing to the standee. “She came by yesterday for a meet-and-greet. You should have been here.”

“Really? Did you happen to give Maya an umbrella? A big golf umbrella with your logo on it?”

“I did indeed. But I’m sorry to tell you, honey, those aren’t freebies. They’re for Nutrition Nation associates and national wholesale buyers only. You’re welcome to purchase one online for thirty-five dollars.”

An amplified voice interrupted him. “Vince to the stage, please. Two-minute warning . . .”

“Time for the show. Grab a spot up front.” He winked again. “You’ll get plenty of free samples.”

Vince walked to a raised platform and climbed a few steps, where he picked up a wireless microphone. A recorded drum roll began, and the disco ball over his head spun wildly.

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