Decaffeinated Corpse

cake of grounds is uneven when steaming water is forced through it, you’re in for some nasty business. Water takes the path of least resistance, so the lower side of an uneven cake would end up over-extracted (too much water passing through), the higher side under-extracted (not enough water), and the result is a vile little schizoid cup I’d be embarrassed to serve to a paying customer.

Today there were no such problems. I sampled both of Dante’s shots. The first was the tiniest bit over- extracted, but the second was perfect—from the viscosity to the roasty, caramelly flavor of the crema (that beautiful, nut brown liquid that separates from the ebony espresso like the head of a freshly tapped Guinness).

We worked in tandem after that. I greeted customers, manned the register, watched the levels on the Breakfast Blend urns. Dante pulled espressos and kept the stainless steel pitchers of milk steamed and frothed. Then we switched positions.

“I’m glad you came by, Dante.”

“No problem.”

“I still need two, even three more part-timers for coverage.I ended up closing last night, and I’m still dragging this morning.”

“Why did you close? Wasn’t Tucker scheduled for that?”

“Yes, but...” I stopped my running mouth. After letting my guard down with Matt, I wasn’t about to start spewing last evening’s details to my newest barista. “A friend of mine dropped by and our chatting ran late, so I just let Tucker go early.”

“A friend? You mean that cop, don’t you?”

“Detective Quinn. Yes.”

Dante nodded. “Well, I guess you’re right then. It’s a good thing I came by...”

When Tucker arrived at seven fifty, the real morning crush began. We were soon swamped, with a line out the door until ten thirty. As the crowd finally thinned, I left the two of them alone with a vague excuse about needing to complete some paperwork. Then I headed upstairs with a basket of freshly baked muffins.

Federico Gostwick hadn’t been up long when I entered the duplex. He’d just showered, and I called upstairs, inviting him down for breakfast. His clothes were still at his hotel, so he threw on Matt’s long terrycloth bathrobe and slippers. Then he shuffled into the kitchen, dropped down at the table, and sampled a warm cappuccino muffin— made for the Blend by a local bakery from one of my old “In the Kitchen with Clare” column recipes.

“Mmmm...” Ric murmured as he chewed and swallowed. “What nut am I tasting here? Wait. I can tell you...” He took another bite, closed his eyes. “Hazelnut?”

“That’s right.”

“Quite delightful, Clare... very rich texture.”

“Sour cream. That’s the secret.”

As I brewed Ric’s un-coffee, I continued with the general chit-chat, asking after his injury (it ached, but he would live), his night’s sleep (very restful, thank you), and his trip here from Brazil (the JFK customs processing was detestable). Then I poured him a cup of his “why bother?” and started bothering—with the real questions.

“Did Matt happen to mention that I’ve had some pretty good luck investigating”—how do I put it? I thought— “suspicious things?”

Ric smiled, rather indulgently it seemed to me as I took a seat across from him at the small kitchen table.

“He told me I could trust you,” Ric said.

“You can. I want to see you safe, you know?”

“Me, too, love, believe me.”

“Then tell me why all the secrecy? Why won’t you go to the police about last night? What is it you aren’t telling me?”

Ric sipped his decaf, stared into the dark liquid. “This breakthrough of mine... it’s very new.”

“I know.” Hence the term “breakthrough.”

“There are a lot of people who may want my new coffee plant to grow for themselves.”

“That goes without saying, but they can’t get it, right?”

“Yes, the farm and nursery are in a remote location, but more important, my family and I have kept the research very private.”

“Then last night, someone assaulted you. Think, Ric... do you have any enemies? Anyone who might want to see you hurt... or even killed?”

Ric laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“You Americans watch too many crime shows. I’ve been counting them up on my hotel room’s telly: true crime, fake crime, funny crime, scary crime... supernatural,mathematical, and neurotic. Twenty-four hours a day on U.S. TV, you can see someone getting killed twenty-four different ways.”

“You’re saying I’m a paranoid American?”

“I know you mean well, love. But nobody is trying to kill me. I know what the mugger wanted.”

“What?”

“The cutting. I’m sure of it. So is Matt.”

“Cutting?” I blinked. “What cutting?”

“It’s the reason Matt and I don’t want the police involved. We did something... how shall I put it? Not quite legal...”

Oh, lord. Mike was right. “What? What did you two do?”

“We smuggled a cutting of my hybrid arabica into the country.”

“You what?”

“It was quite cleverly done, actually. A few weeks ago, I shipped it to Matt overnight, hidden inside a specially lined statue of Saint Joseph, which Matt broke open.”

“He broke a religious statue?” I frowned. “That’s bad luck.”

Ric laughed. “Little Clare... you’re as adorable as I remember.”

“I thought you said I’ve changed, that I’m more ‘head-strong’ than you remember?” I made little air quotes around the word to remind him.

Ric shrugged. “You’re that, too.” He sipped his decaf. “And you still make heavenly coffee.”

And you’re still as smooth a charmer as ever.

The man was as attractive as ever, too. The rugged shadow of his beard framed a dazzling smile, dark chest hairs peeked out between the lapels of Matt’s white terrycloth bathrobe, and the man’s big, brown long-lashed eyes looked just as sleepy and bedroomy as I remembered.

But ten years was a long chunk of time. It had been enough to change things about me. I wondered what it had changed about Ric.

When I’d first met him, he’d been a laid back foreign exchange student. Although he’d been interested in his studies, he’d never appeared especially committed. I still remember him sauntering into the Blend for wake-up espressos at eleven o’clock, having missed an early lecture because of partying too late the evening before.

As far as I knew, the Gostwicks’ highly profitable coffee farm had let Ric live the life of a carioca, a Brazilian term for a guy who preferred to spend his days hanging out at the beach, looking good, eating, drinking, and making love to whatever female admirers happened by. (I’d learned the word from Matt, who probably qualified as one since Rio’s Ipanema Beach—i.e. “Carioca Central”—was pretty much his South of the Equator headquarters.)

I wondered what had changed Ric Gostwick. Obviously, something had pushed him into hunkering down and focusing on the coffee business so intensely he’d achieved a botanical breakthrough that others had been diligently striving and failing to accomplish for years. I also wanted to know why he was in such a hurry to get the cutting into the country.

“You really shouldn’t have broken the law,” I told him. “I don’t understand why—”

“Getting a live plant into this country is full of government red tape, that’s why,” Ric countered. “Any plant parts intended for growing require a phytosanitary certification in advance from your United States Department of Agriculture.”

“There’s a reason for that.”