Decaffeinated Corpse

Good god, I thought. Did I actually use the phrase “old” New Wave?

Folding his arms, Tucker leaned his lanky form against the bar. “Well, artists and political revolutionaries aren’t the only caffeine addicts. Did you know when David Lynch is directing a film, he downs bottomless pots of coffee and gallons of double chocolate milkshakes to maintain a constant caffeine buzz?”

“And did you know Honoré de Balzac drank forty cups a day?” Esther noted. After a rather long pause in the conversation, she felt the need to add: “Balzac was a nineteenth-century French writer.”

Tucker rolled his eyes. “You may not remember ‘Der Kommissar,’ Esther, but we know who Balzac is.... Now are you sure you know who David Lynch is? Or do Holly-wood movies offend your literary sensibilities?”

Esther narrowed her eyes as she adjusted her black glasses. “Actually, Lynch is an acceptable postmodern filmmaker. His short films are particularly effective.”

Tucker threw up his hands. “Well, I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear you approve.”

Gardner stroked his goatee. “Lynch also uses coffee as an image system. You can see it in Twin Peaks and especially Mulholland Drive.”

Esther, Tucker, Dante, and even I stared for a moment in dumbfounded silence.

We were used to hearing Gardner discuss music theory or bebop versus West Coast jazz, but we’d never heard him wax philosophical about “image systems” in film before.

“What gives?” Tucker asked, raising an eyebrow.

Gardner shrugged. “My new girlfriend works at the Museum of the Moving Image, and she likes Lynch. Anyway, she’s right. If you watch his movies, you’ll see the guy’s seriously into coffee.”

“I wish my new boyfriend were as well connected as your new girlfriend,” Tucker said with a sigh. “If she hears about any new TV series in pre-production over at Astoria Studios let me know, okay? Off-Broadway’s good for the artistic soul, but I need a paycheck like my last one.”

I cleared my throat and gestured in the direction of the two elevators, where a group of men and women were waving their invitations.

“Speaking of paychecks,” I told my staff, “it’s time we earned ours.”

The space filled steadily after that. I acted as the hostess, greeting each new elevator full of people as it arrived. Matt should have been doing this, but although he’d arrived looking gorgeous in a sharply tailored black dinner jacket, he was now talking constantly on his cell phone.

Tonight’s guests were culled from a list that included trade magazine writers and food critics from many nations, all of them looking for a brand new angle or a breakout product while they covered the International Coffee Growers Exhibition. These men wore jackets and ties, the women tailored business suits.

Convention attendees and members of international coffee cartels were far more affluent, and generally arrived in evening clothes, their escorts or obscenely young trophy wives resplendent in shimmering gowns—an indication they had more elegant parties to attend after the tasting ended.

Local chefs had been invited as well. I spotted celebrity chef Robbie Gray. His famous restaurant, Anatomy, featured delicacies made of organ bits. Basically, the man had become famous serving animal parts most American housewives wouldn’t be caught dead feeding to anything but the garbage disposal, but his three-star rating was no joke, and if he liked what he tasted tonight, the Blend could land a lucrative contract to provide him with our micro- roasted Gostwick Estate Reserve Decaf.

To keep Robbie and the rest of the arriving guests in a jovial mood, we began to serve brie, a variety of wines, and Italian sesame cookies—delicate nibbles that wouldn’t hijack anyone’s taste buds. Before the actual tasting of the Gostwick Decaf, we would serve glasses of sparkling water so guests could clear their palate.

After about twenty minutes of greeting guests, I was becoming annoyed. I was supposed to be helping Matt and Ric throw this press tasting, not running the show solo. But Matt continued to keep his ear glued to his phone. Finally, as I moved to greet yet another batch of arrivals, Ric stepped up to take over. With a nod, I returned to the bar.

A few minutes later, I noticed Matt’s mother exiting the elevator. Madame’s escort this evening was her longtime beau, Gary McTavish. The good doctor looked quite dashing in a dark suit and Scottish plaid waistcoat. Madame was dressed stylishly, as well, in a charcoal cocktail dress trimmed in silver, her necklace and earrings simple delicate twists of platinum. Instead of her usual relaxed, confident self, however, she appeared agitated.

Ric was busy with a small crowd, and Matt was still doing some sort of business. He’d failed to greet her with even a wave, his ear still plastered to that damn cell phone. I quickly moved from behind the bar to welcome the senior pair. To my surprise, the usually friendly Dr. McTavish barely acknowledged my presence with a nod.

“Some wine?” he tightly asked Madame.

“Perhaps later,” she replied.

McTavish raised a gray-white eyebrow. “Another pleasure postponed?” he tossed off before heading for the bar.

The two were obviously fighting about something. “What’s the good doctor peeved about?” I whispered.

“Never mind,” said Madame. “Tell me what’s happening with your friend, Ellie. Has she called you back yet?”

I shook my head. “I’ve left messages for two days now. She hasn’t returned one call.”

“Did your messages include the fact that you think her husband is having her followed?”

“Yes. At first, I didn’t want to drop a bombshell like that on a voicemail message, but I had no choice. I felt she needed to know...”

“I agree. From what we witnessed at the hotel, Ellie and Ric aren’t fooling anyone, and we don’t know what sort of man her husband really is.”

“I’m worried about her.”

“Do you think her husband would turn violent?”

“That’s the problem. I need to speak with Ellie to find out more. And after that, I plan on speaking with Ric, too. Matt doesn’t want me to upset him, and I’ll be as polite as I can, but I’d honestly like to know what Ric’s intentions are towards Ellie. He’s either planning to leave her again. Or...”

“Or what?”

“He’s making plans for their future together.”

“What do you mean plans? Plans of marriage?”

“Maybe.”

Madame groaned. “If that’s true, there must be something in the air.”

“What do you mean?”

She shook her head. “Gary asked me to marry him. That’s why he’s in a foul mood.”

“But that’s wonderful news. Why would he be in a— wait, what did you tell him? Did you turn him down?”

“I’m thinking it over.”

“You’ve been dating the man for more than a year. He’s an intelligent, accomplished, respected oncologist with the sex appeal of Sean Connery. He’s got a romantic Scottish lilt and actually looks good in a ceremonial kilt —what’s to think about?”

“You don’t understand. Gary’s giving up his position at the hospital in a few months. He wants to move to an exclusive community in Albuquerque. Can you believe it?”

“I hear New Mexico’s beautiful.”

“It’s the desert. What will I do with myself? Listen to coyotes bay all night? Head out to the chuck wagon in the morning to rustle up chicken fried steak?”

I began to laugh, and then realized Madame wasn’t joking. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why Albuquerque?”

“Gary has some friends who’ve retired there and say they love it. He wants to take up golf and the community has a golf course.”

“And you don’t want to golf?”

“I see no point in spending hours hitting a tiny white ball with a stick.”

“I’m sure he has other plans for his retirement.”

“He wants to try camping, too.”

“That sounds interesting.”