On What Grounds

“Ms. Cosi.”

“Detective Quinn—”

A lanky beige wall was the last thing I expected to be colliding with upon returning to the Blend. For a moment, I was mortified. How the heck was I supposed to know Lieutenant Quinn had been sitting at a Blend table waiting for me for the past fifteen minutes? Or that he had moved to greet me at the door like any well-mannered gentleman?

Well, he was. And he did. The man’s worn-out raincoat effectively became a coffee-stained toreador’s cape, and I’d embarrassingly butted it head-on.

What can I say? My mind had been preoccupied.

I’d like to tell you I’d been engrossed in rejiggering the suspect list. After all, my view of the Dance 10 girls as potential assassins was now passé. That left Mommy Dearest, boyfriend Richard Gibson Engstrum (affectionately referred to by Anabelle’s roommate Esther as “The Dick”), and…? Could there be others?

As I said, I’d like to tell you that was what I’d been thinking about when I’d collided with Quinn. And I had been sorting through these remaining suspects during my walk back uptown from Dance 10. However, right before I walked through the Blend’s beveled glass door, I slipped a hand into my jacket pocket and rediscovered the rectangular piece of cardstock I’d shoved in there the day before. It was the $105 parking ticket I’d pulled off the windshield of my Honda, which had been parked too close to a fire hydrant for most of the morning.

I cursed upon rediscovering the thing, but the truth is I was supremely lucky that the city tow trucks had been behind schedule yesterday; otherwise I would have found the ticket—and my Honda—at the impounding lot in the Bronx.

So there I was, walking back into the Village Blend, reading the small-print instructions from the City of New York about how and where to contest the darned thing, when I’d collided with the lanky beige wall.

I immediately looked up—away from Quinn’s brown pants (presumably a different pair from yesterday’s identical ensemble)—and beyond the starched shirt and striped tie (sporting today’s colors of brown and rust).

Quinn’s jaw was still as square as I remembered, his dark blond hair still as short but the stubble was gone. He’d managed to shave close without a scratch. And the shadows under his eyes were less pronounced this morning, though their intense color was still blue enough to require a conscious effort on my part to take a breath.

“How are you?” I asked after regaining my balance and a small portion of my dignity.

The question was simple enough, but it seemed to fluster the detective—as if my asking about his personal well-being was as odd to him as someone asking if he’d enjoyed his recent trip to Mars.

“I’m fine,” he answered after an awkward silence. His voice sounded less wrung out today, but his clipped words still had the bite of burnt coffee.

“You look better,” I said, trying to lighten things up. “Like you got some sleep, at least, since we last saw each other.”

“I’d like to speak with you,” he said, chipping each word out of ice.

Okay, so the man had beige walls inside as well as out. Fine. I wasn’t going to dwell on it.

I scanned the room for a place to sit. We had about an hour before the lunchtime rush and only a few tables were occupied. Two customers stood at the coffee bar, behind which I noticed my ex-husband staring at me and Quinn.

To be honest, Matt’s dark eyes were shooting us more of a glare than a stare.

I ignored him.

“How about we sit in the corner. Over there,” I told Quinn, gesturing to a table near the exposed brick wall —and far from listening ears.

“That’s fine.”

As I walked him over, I asked, “How long have you been waiting?”

“Not long. Ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Did Matt get you a cup of coffee?”

“No.”

My jaw clenched. “Well, please sit down. I insist you have a cup with me. I’ll be right back.”

“What the hell does he want?” Matt groused the second I stepped behind the coffee bar. He was putting the finishing touches—whipped cream and chocolate shavings—on two mochaccinos for the only waiting customers.

“Lower your voice,” I told him, shedding my jacket. Matt eyed my cashmere blend sweater, bought at Daffy’s fall sweater bonanza. (Daffy’s Fifth Avenue store was a real treasure trove—designer clothes remaindered at outlet prices, and without having to travel to the typical New Jersey outlet locations.) The sweater’s soft pine color brought out the green of my eyes, and the way it fit my petite figure didn’t do my breasts a disservice, either.

“Answer my question,” Matt demanded. “What does he want?”

“A cup of coffee, for starters,” I said. Hands on hips, I waited for Matt to oblige. After all, he was the barista on duty.

“Come off it.”

“Why else do people come to the Blend?” I asked.

“Clare, what does he want?”

“I swear, Matt—I can’t believe he’s been waiting here fifteen minutes and you didn’t at least offer him a cup of the house blend on the house—”

“Why, for God’s sake? You know these cops will drink anything that’s brown and in a paper cup. Half of them aren’t even particular about its viscosity level, as long as it’s under a dollar.”

“You’re being insulting to someone who is trying to help us—”

“Us? Or you.”

“Temper. Temper,” I said. “Just make us a couple of lattes.”

“No.”

“C’mon, just singles.”

“I am not wasting my talent on a Robusta-drinking philistine. And neither should you.”

With a sigh of disgust, I nudged Matt aside and smacked the switch on the automatic grinder. I took hold of the handle on the espresso basket, dumped the wet grounds, rinsed the basket, and packed the freshly milled coffee beans tightly in.

“He probably keeps a jar of Sanka in his desk drawer,” muttered Matt.

“That’s uncalled for,” I said as I began the extraction process.

“Or better still,” Matt whispered into my ear. “Folgers instant crystals.”

“Go to hell!” I whispered.

“Temper. Temper.”

After the extraction process was finished and the espresso had properly oozed out of the two spouts into separate shot glasses (remember, it should ooze like warm honey, otherwise you’ve got a brewed beverage—not espresso!), I poured the contents of each glass into their individual serving cups.

Because the lattes would be consumed in the dining room, I eschewed the paper cups and instead used the tall cream-colored ceramic cups stacked in neat rows on a shelf against the back wall. Next came the steamed milk, splashing into the dark liquid like a white tsunami.

I placed the lattes on a cork-bottomed tray, held it high like a good barmaid, and sashayed on over to our corner table, letting Matt watch my hips deliberately swing for good measure. With veiled glee, I could feel him seething silently behind me.

Tray held high, I weaved through the coffeehouse’s obstacle course of small marble-topped tables. I noticed Quinn watching me approach from across the room.

He was staring at my swaying jean-clad hips. I couldn’t read the guarded expression on the man’s square- jawed face, or the cool look in the depths of those dark blue eyes: Not as they watched my hips. Not even as they traveled north, up my pine-colored sweater, pulled tight from my upraised arm.

Now, another woman might have been delighted with this undivided male attention, and I