“Well, everything’s just delicious,” Tad replied.
I was grateful for the positive word. Tad was a good guy. A thirty-something, self-employed investment banker who lived in the neighborhood, his receding hairline and paunchy physique presented a stark contrast to the chiseled male models packed into the coffeehouse, but the leprechaun-like sparkle in his eyes, along with his gregarious nature, made him instantly likeable.
At his side, Rena Garcia—clad in a Fen caramel silk blouse with cream collar and cuffs and a long, brown leather skirt—smiled and sipped a latte. A pretty, vivacious Latina with a savvy head for marketing and publicity, she’d become Lottie’s other business partner after losing her job at Satay and Satay, an advertising and marketing firm just a few blocks away.
“So, you must be excited with what Matt’s up to,” said Tad, gesturing to the private conversation I’d interrupted by the fireplace.
“Excuse me?” I could think of a lot of words to describe what I felt about Matt’s behavior and “excited” was not one of them.
“Matt’s just being smart,” he said with a reassuring look.
“Smart?”
“Chatting up his kiosk idea with some key players.”
Before I could ask Tad what the hell he was talking about a familiar voice interrupted.
“Pardon me, but can I get a latte with soy milk?”
It was Lloyd Newhaven, the stylist, sans his two beautiful companions. He was suddenly hovering near Moira, who was lining up more tall glass mugs for Tucker.
“Of course,” said Moira. “But we’ve really backed up so it will take a few minutes.”
“I’ll wait,” he said with a sigh.
Soy milk was a fairly common request, and the Blend had an ample supply. As Moira went back to her work, Lloyd glanced our way. “I’m just dying for one, but, you know, I’m lactose intolerant.”
Tad, Rena, and I nodded. That’s when I noticed Tucker hoisting a tray of drinks and scanning the crowded room to find one of the model waitresses to deliver it. I was about to grab the tray from him to help out when a model swept in and whisked the tray off. But she hadn’t gone four feet before a crowd swarmed her and snagged every last latte.
“Is my soy latte coming?” Lloyd Newhaven prompted, impatient after barely a minute. Moira glanced up with annoyance on her face. Before she could say a word, I decided my short break was over.
“I’ve got it,” I declared, then moved around the coffee bar to search the fridge beneath the counter. “Figures,” I muttered when I realized we were out of soy milk up front. I ducked downstairs to retrieve a fresh container from one of our two large storage refrigerators in the basement.
“Hey, Tucker…I can do that,” I heard Moira insisting as I returned to the coffee bar. A tray with a single glass latte mug was sitting on the blue marble counter.
“Nonsense, dear,” Tucker told Moira. “You volunteered to help me behind the coffee bar, not hustle drinks to this monstrously catty cartel, and you’re doing great.”
With that, Tucker swept up the tray and headed across the crowded room.
At some point after I’d gone downstairs, Esther had stepped away from the counter to gather used mugs. She passed Tucker on her way back. “Uh-oh,” said Esther when she saw where Tucker was headed. “Watch out for fireworks.”
“Excuse me?” I said, preparing Lloyd Newhaven’s soy milk latte. “Where’s Tucker going with that drink?”
“After you went downstairs, Tucker made Lottie a latte. That’s where Tucker’s headed, to give it to her—only
“Who?” I asked.
“He’s the fashion writer for
Esther pointed. “He’s standing in the group next to Lottie’s. And before you ask how I know, it’s because Tucker used to date him. He’s stopped in the Blend a few times.”
“He has?” I murmured, handing the finished soy milk latte to Lloyd Newhaven. I followed Esther’s pointing finger, but I didn’t recognize anyone.
“John Waters-esque mustache,” said Esther by way of description.
I nodded, spying the tall, lean, thirtyish man with a pencil-thin moustache and long black hair that fell down his back in oiled ringlets. He wore a brown silk jacket and a canary yellow shirt opened practically to his navel. At his side stood a blond young man in tight jeans and a V-neck cream sweater, his teeth bone white behind a Miami Beach tan on a hard-muscled frame.
“I’ve never seen him in the Blend before,” I said.
“You were probably off roasting beans or dealing with a delivery or something whenever he passed through. Ricky burned Tucker about two weeks ago—romantically, I mean. They had some kind of quarrel and Ricky totally dumped him. And not in a nice way. Now the jerk’s obviously here flaunting his newest boy toy. If you’re Tucker, that’s gotta hurt.”
As Tucker approached Lottie, Ricky Flatt stepped out to block his path. Esther crossed her arms and cocked her head, as if she’d just taken her seat at a WWF event. “Check it out, boss, this is going to be interesting. Five dollars says that latte Tucker’s carrying ends up in Ricky’s face.”
But it didn’t. Before Tucker could stop him, Ricky snatched the latte off Tucker’s tray as if the drink was meant for him. Then he gestured to the hard-muscled young man seated next to him as if he were ordering Tucker to bring him another for his date. Tucker snapped something at Ricky—and Ricky snapped his fingers in Tucker’s face. Of course, I couldn’t hear either man’s conversation over the loud music, but it was easy to see Ricky was baiting poor Tucker.
Finally, Tucker turned his back on the two men and returned to the coffee bar. I’d never seen him so upset. “Someone…someone took the latte I made for Lottie,” he managed. “I need another.”
For a long moment, we all just stared at Tucker.
“Clare,” Tuck said loudly. “I need another latte for Lottie!”
I turned quickly, loaded the espresso machine and pulled another shot, then prepared the latte and set it directly on the tray in Tucker’s hands.
“Thanks,” said Tucker. He lifted the tray and made a wide detour to avoid Ricky Flatt’s spot. After he handed Lottie her drink, Tuck crossed the center of the room, strolling past Ricky’s group. The fashion writer lifted his latte, saluted Tucker. After swallowing a huge gulp, he passed the glass mug to his partner, who drained it dry.
Tucker shook his head in obvious disgust, then returned to the coffee bar. Just then, a commotion broke out among the audience. A woman cried out, “Are you all right?” Then a man shouted, “Someone help!”
I looked up, saw Ricky Flatt grimace as he clutched his throat. His mouth opened and closed like a fish on a dry dock.
“Oh god, I think he’s choking,” cried Esther.
My pulse racing, I pushed through the crowd toward Ricky. When I reached him, however, I saw Ricky Flat’s face wasn’t turning blue from lack of air, but a bright shade of pink! Then he slumped over his table and slid to the wood plank floor.
“Ricky! Ricky!” keened a hysterical voice. Ricky Flatt’s muscular date knelt at the man’s side and shook him.
“Get away from him,” a short, older man in a Truman-Capote-wannabe white fedora said. “Give him some air.”
Suddenly, Ricky’s boyfriend also turned a bright shade of pink and clutched his stomach.
Standing over the pair, I felt someone at my shoulder—Tucker. The kneeling boyfriend looked up, his eyes wide. He raised his hand and pointed an accusing finger at my barista.
“That…that bastard poisoned me and Ricky!” he cried, then collapsed across the inert form of Ricky Flatt.
Three
