Holiday Grind

I’d been so distraught after finding Alf that I didn’t think I could tell my staff about the murder without breaking down. Matt had understood. While I’d gone up the back stairs to collapse in bed, he agreed to return to the tasting party, break the news to my baristas, and handle locking up.

“Tucker didn’t say much about Alf’s death this morning,” I told Matt. “Just that it was too depressing. How did everyone else take it?”

“They were upset, of course,” he said. “But I didn’t tell them right away. I let the tasting go on as planned —”

“You what?” That decision stunned me.

“I broke the news near the end of the party. You wanted the tasting info, didn’t you? Oh, that reminds me —”

He shifted on the bar stool and pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his back pocket. “Here are last night’s reactions to the latte flavors. It went pretty well overall. There were only a few duds and a couple of suggestions for tweaking the recipes.”

I ignored the folded paper. “I can’t believe you let that tasting party go on! What were you thinking?! What about Vicki—”

“Vicki Glockner never showed, Clare. If she had, I would have told her about her father right away. Give me a little credit.”

“Oh.” I frowned, processing that. “Why didn’t Vicki show? Do you think the police got to her first? Called her to give her the news?”

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t Esther try to reach her? Call her cell?”

“Yeah, sure, but she just got Vicki’s voice mail, and—” Matt shrugged. “Esther wasn’t about to inform her friend that her father was murdered on a recorded message.”

I closed my eyes. “Of course not.” My heart really went out to Vicki—especially after I saw the morning papers. The death of her dad wasn’t just news. It was a tabloid bonanza.

Ho-Ho-Homicide, screamed one front page in red and green letters. Santa’s Final Sleigh Ride, declared its rival. Randy Knox’s scandal sheet wasn’t about to miss the fun. The Grinch Who Plugged Santa Claus was the lead story for the New York Journal, complete with the head of Dr. Seuss’s Grinch Photo-shopped over the body of a gun-waving street punk.

All over the Five Boroughs, beleaguered parents now had to explain the news to distraught youngsters who’d heard on television that jolly old St. Nick would no longer be riding his sleigh—or pushing it, in Alf’s case.

“Clare?”

I opened my eyes.

“You okay?” Matt asked.

I nodded.

“Espresso then,” he said, “if you don’t mind.”

“No problem.”

I was relieved to turn my attention to something so familiar, not to mention fundamental—the espresso being the basis for most Italian coffee drinks. After burring the beans, dosing the proper amount of grounds into the portafilter, and tamping them in for perfect distribution, I locked the handle into place and sent a small amount of hot water under high pressure through the puck. In less than thirty seconds, the water extracted the flavor from the freshly roasted beans, producing that quintessential full-bodied, aromatic liquor topped with crema—the term for that dark golden foam that defines a correctly drawn espresso shot.

After finishing the pull, I set the white porcelain cup on its saucer and slid Matt’s shot across the blueberry marble counter.

Customers sometimes ask me if I ever grow tired of smelling coffee. I never do. Unlike perfume or incense, the caramel-sweet aroma of a perfectly pulled espresso is neither overbearing nor monotonous. To me, it’s a living scent, rising and falling with the life of the cup. Intoxicating yet invigorating, it’s like a song I never tire of hearing; the sight of an old friend stepping again and again through my front door...

“Getting back to last night,” Matt said as he brought the demitasse to his lips. “Did your guard dog ever call you back? Or are you frosted at him for ignoring you?”

“Mike dropped by after work. And I’m not frosted at him. There was a very good reason he didn’t come to the crime scene.”

“Another woman?”

Spare me. “No. As I recall, that was typically your reason for not returning my calls. But only when we were married.”

Matt grunted. We’d run our wagon wheels over this road so often, the grooves reached the earth’s mantle.

“And how’s Breanne?” I asked after a long, awkward silence.

“Breanne is...” Matt looked into his cooling cup, where the exquisite crema was slowly beginning to dissipate. “The same as she ever was.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Matt shrugged. “You know how she gets.”

“What exactly are you two fighting about?”

“At the moment?” Matt shifted on his bar stool. “She’s obsessed with micromanaging her magazine’s holiday party: all the details, the food, the music, the guest list—”

“Guest list? I thought a company party was supposed to be for the employees? You know, to pat them on the back for a job well done over the past year.”

“Well, that’s your version. Breanne sees it as a networking opportunity for Trend. She’s invited name designers, press people, celebrities—she’s got her staff working after hours on an ‘exclusive’ holiday issue for the attendees. Photographers will be there to capture every Technicolor moment. She’s determined to garner national buzz.”

“I see. And how do you fit into all this?”

“I don’t. And frankly, Clare, I’m sick of being ignored by my own bride. I mean, I come home after a two- week tour of Central American coffee farms and what do I get? The cold shoulder. She comes to bed after I’m asleep, gets up before I’m awake—”

No sex, in other words. I arched an eyebrow. For Matt, that was tantamount to no food or water.

“I’m just going to stay out of her way till this holiday crap blows over. But it really pisses me off. I cleared my travel schedule for December. I thought we were going to celebrate a nice, romantic Christmas together. Now I can’t wait until January second.”

Great, I thought, another bah-humbug refrain. “Well, you shouldn’t be so eager to see the holidays come and go. Our daughter’s flying all the way from Paris to spend time with us.”

“Joy’s coming?”

I nodded. “She called yesterday morning—morning my time, I should say, with Paris six hours ahead. She asked for two weeks off to celebrate the holidays with us. She says the restaurant’s sure to be busy, but she’s owed a lot of time off and her bosses are willing to give it to her.”

Matt’s expression lightened. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all week. You know, you’re right, Clare, I should focus on our daughter...” He reached out and took my hand. “You want some company tonight? I mean, you’re probably still upset about Alf and everything.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need company.” I gently reclaimed my appendage. “Listen, can I give you some advice?”

Matt exhaled. Loudly.

“Breanne’s just stressed right now. A combative attitude from you is not going to help the situation. Try to be patient with her. And while you’re waiting for her workload to lessen, don’t go looking for love in all the wrong places.”