Decaffeinated Corpse

“As you can see from this cutting, the hybrid I developed is not a typical arabica. I used another variety of the genus Coffea, crossbreeding and backcrossing with arabicas to create a wholly new, naturally decaffeinated variety of Coffea plant.”

Men and women stepped forward to examine the cutting. “I don’t have to tell you what this breakthrough will mean. Without the intervening technological process, decaffeinated coffee will reach the market more quickly. For the consumer, that means decaffeinated coffee that is fresher, cheaper, and far superior to the products currently available.”

While Ric spoke, my staff pressed the coffee and began to pour it into the Village Blend cups.

“With approximately a two percent caffeine content— which is less than the amount of caffeine in average decaffeinated arabica, and far lower than decaffeinated robusta products—this hybrid bean already has been certified as a caffeine-free product.”

Thanks to Tucker’s able choreography, my baristas moved with theatrical precision, fanning out into the crowd with their trays of cups, just as Ric’s sales pitch ended. “As for the taste? Please savor it now and judge for yourself.”

The audience members accepted their samples, and I soon heard ohs, ahs, and a growing buzz of excitement. I wasn’t surprised. Ric had a superior product and most of the people in this room were discerning enough to appreciate it.

Matt placed the cutting on a table in the center of the room. Ric stepped up to stand right next to it and spoke again. “The sample is here. Please feel free to take photos. I’ll be here with it, to answer any questions you may have.”

And make damn sure it doesn’t disappear, I thought, especially since it didn’t take long for the first round of cups to disappear. With each new round, people seemed more impressed. I could tell by the astonished expression on the faces of many that Ric Gostwick’s hybrid was a genuine hit.

Since this wasn’t a traditional cuptasting (i.e. the noisy slurping of pure, steeped coffee grinds, which were then spit out), we made sugar and cream available at the bar. Few guests used either.

While the participants enjoyed their second or third cup, I sent Gardner back to the piano, then grabbed Esther to help me pass out the prepared press kits. They included photos and a history of the Gostwick Estate in Brazil, photographs of an actual shrub, the cultivated fields, rows of mature plants, along with close-ups of the cutting, the cherries, and contact information. I’d seen the package earlier and thought Ric and Matt had done a thorough job.

“I know you all want to sample more after you leave here,” Ric said. “The good news is—you can. The first batch of my hybrid bean has already been shipped. You can sample it at the Village Blend here in New York City, and any Village Blend kiosk in the United States, Europe, or Canada. A new world of decaffeination is coming to the premium market in the next few weeks.”

A smattering of applause greeted the news. I returned to the bar to continue helping with the coffee service. Tucker had transferred a third round of French pressed brew to insulated carafes, and I moved around the room with Esther, refilling cups.

Along the way, I spied Joy. She looked lovely tonight with her hair smoothed into a grown-up French twist. Her makeup was a little heavier than usual, and the décolleté on her aquamarine dress was way too daring for my comfort level, but I said nothing. Why? Because I decided to at least try following Matt’s advice and start treating Joy like a grown up. If she chose to wear a plunging, borderline indiscreet neckline, that was her business, and I would keep my mouth shut about it.

I was delighted that she’d come at all. And I wondered where Chef Tommy Keitel was. She’d told Matt that he was coming, but I didn’t see anyone close to her age around her, and I feared the new wunderkind chef had bowed out on my daughter at the last minute.

With the press kits distributed, and Ric handling the questions while watching the cutting, everything seemed to be under control. Except Matteo, who was back to romancing his cell phone. I couldn’t believe it, but I spotted him in a secluded, corner booth with the thing pressed to his ear as he scribbled notes on a tiny pad.

Too busy and weary to argue with him again, I returned to the bar to refill an empty carafe, and found Dante Silva standing behind Tucker.

“Dante,” I said, “shouldn’t you be serving?”

The young man ran his hand over his shaved scalp, like he was combing back hair that wasn’t there. “I can’t go out there, Ms. Cosi. He’ll see me.”

“Who’ll see you?”

“That guy, over there,” Dante said, suddenly looking trapped, hunted, desperate—a little like Java when I put the little fur ball in a cage for a trip to the vet. “He works for the Times. Last week I met him at a gallery show. He said really great things about my work in the past. I... I kind of left him with the impression I was more successful than I am—”

“You don’t want him to know you’re working as a barista?”

Dante shook his head. “Can’t I work here behind the bar? Or help with something downstairs in the kitchen?”

I sighed and looked at Tucker. “I hate to pull Gardner off the piano. The crowd’s responding well to him.”

Tucker grabbed a tray. “I’m going!” he sang.

Dante exhaled with relief. “Thanks Ms. Cosi—”

“Dante, once and for all, will you please call me Clare? And you better not stay up here if you don’t want to be seen by that Arts reporter. Just go down to the kitchen and start packing up the grinders, okay?”

“Sure, Ms.... Clare... thanks.”

Dante disappeared and I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Joy! She gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek.

“Looks like this new decaffeinated thing is a hit,” she gushed.

I nodded, my gaze drifting to a young man lurking behind my daughter. Tall and rather shy, he was handsome and seemed very sweet. Standing next to him was an older man, maybe early fifties. He was attractive in a different way. With arresting blue eyes, a jutting chin, and salt-and-pepper hair, the man radiated confidence. He was casually dressed in an open sport shirt that revealed wiry muscles, a silver chain, and curling chest hair.

“Mom, I want you to meet a friend of mine,” Joy announced breathlessly.

I self-consciously wiped my damp hands on my apron, ready for a handshake from the young man at Joy’s side.

“This is Chef Tommy Keitel.”

I looked at the young man. He looked away. Then a strong hand wrapped around mine, pumped my arm.

“Wonderful to meet you, Ms. Cosi,” said the fiftysomething man.

Still clutching his hand, I blinked in surprise. Chef Tommy Keitel, my daughter’s new flame, had enough years on him to be her father’s older brother. Still smiling, his left hand covered mine.

That’s when I saw it—the wedding band. I’d been able to avoid my daughter’s plunging neckline, but I could not tear my eyes away from the gold circling the third finger of Tommy Keitel’s left hand. My gaze shifted to the shy young man at Joy’s side. He shuffled his feet, smiled tentatively, and looked away again.

Joy followed my confused stare. Noticed the young man. “Oh, god, how rude I’ve been. This is Vinny. He works at Tommy’s restaurant, too.”

Chef Keitel’s hands released mine. I smiled wanly, extended it to the young man.

“Vincent Buccelli, ma’am... I mean, Ms. Cosi.” His words were halting, and his eyes were downcast, but his handshake was firm.

“I tasted that coffee you’re shilling,” Chef Keitel announced with a superior smirk. “Good stuff. I like coffee, don’t love it, mind you. My thing’s wine, but I couldn’t tell the coffee was decaffeinated, and I think I have the palate to tell. Of course, you did use a French press. That’s sort of like cheating, right? Christ, I bet tinned coffee would taste good if you made it with a French press.”