Latte Trouble

“You do know all the details about what happened in my coffeehouse last night?” I asked. “Someone was poisoned. Died. My barista was arrested for the crime. I believe he’ll be charged today with murder.”

Lottie frowned. “It’s so terrible. You must feel awful.”

I met Lottie’s gaze. “Tucker, my barista, said something before the police arrested him. He told me that the latte he had on that tray was supposed to be for you.”

Lottie seemed genuinely surprised. “Are…are you sure?”

“Tucker told me Tad asked him to make one for you, specifically. The victim snatched the cup off the tray while Tucker was carrying it to you.”

Lottie’s expression darkened. She brushed an errant strand of scarlet hair away from her face and stared at me. “Are you saying someone tried to kill me?”

“I can’t say that,” I replied. “Not honestly. The poisoning could have been random. Or—”

“Or your barista could be lying. Trying to hide the fact that he’s guilty.”

I shook my head. “That’s not possible.”

Lottie reddened. “No, you’re right. I shouldn’t have said that, Clare, and I’m sorry. But really, think about it. Who would want to get rid of me?”

I shrugged, not wanting to reveal my suspicions just yet because they could possibly hurt Lottie in the same way her remark about Tucker wounded me. In any case, accusing Lottie’s business partners of trying to murder her without a shred of evidence to prove it would not convince her—I wasn’t even sure I was convinced myself.

“Maybe a business rival?” I suggested after a pause.

Lottie tossed her head back and laughed that strained laugh of hers. “I’ve been out of the fashion scene for twenty years, Clare, and only back into the muck for a year. Believe me, it takes a little longer for your rivals to want to kill you in this business—though not much longer, I grant you that.”

“Maybe a crazy stalker? Or someone from your past?”

Lottie smiled sympathetically. “Look, Clare. I understand why you’re searching for answers, for someone to blame. Something terrible happened in your coffeehouse, and one of your employees was arrested. I can see why you’d want to get to the truth, and you probably will, eventually. But I can’t think of anyone who would want me out of the picture for any reason.”

Then Lottie grinned, rose, and pulled herself together.

“I feel much better now,” she said. “The cramps have subsided and my ears aren’t ringing anymore. I’m sure this episode was just a bout of nervous tension, just like my doctor told me.”

Eleven

After saying goodbye to Lottie, I hopped into a cab going west on Forty-second Street. Traffic was not as light as it had been on my way up and it took nearly forty minutes to drive less than two miles.

As I exited the cab one block from the Blend, I noticed two things. The first was a television crew doing a live interview on Hudson. The subject was a twenty-something woman with so many tattoos and pierced body parts that her round, pretty face resembled a pin cushion, her neck a brightly colored tapestry. In her hand, she clutched a Village Blend take-out cup. The interviewer’s earnest face and photogenic smile looked vaguely familiar and I assumed it was because I’d seen her on one of the local channels.

The second thing I noticed was a crowd loitering on the sidewalk in front of my coffeehouse, and I simply assumed Esther’s guess had been correct, when we’d spoken on the phone earlier, that some special event was taking place in the neighborhood.

I jostled my way through groups of people and clouds of tobacco smoke to the front door of the Blend. Inside, customers packed the main floor. It was so crowded, in fact, that some of the people had taken it upon themselves to open a few of our French doors for air and space, and they were flung wide despite the autumn chill.

At the bar alone, a line of at least twenty men and women were waiting for coffee drinks. As I threaded my way to the counter, Esther spied me, relief evident on her tired face.

Moira was behind the counter, too, along with Matteo. With his sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms, he looked to be pulling espressos as fast as the Blend’s exacting standards would allow (because, if you pull an espresso too fast, i.e., if the liquid does not flow slowly out of the spout like syrup, what you’ve made isn’t espresso but brewed coffee).

“I thought Gardner was here,” I cried over the noise.

Matteo looked up, face sour. “He had a dentist appointment. Left a half hour ago. I had to take over for him.”

It was obviously not something my ex wanted to do.

“Nice of you to pitch in,” I said without a trace of sarcasm (for once). Then I slipped behind the counter, donned an apron, washed up, and replaced Moira at the espresso machine.

“What’s with the mob scene?” I asked. “Is there some event going on? A new tourist attraction?”

Matteo stared at me as if I’d cluelessly suggested we start serving instant coffee crystals. “Don’t you get it? We’re the attraction, Clare.”

I blinked. Still clueless.

“Just look around, take a look at the customers…especially the ones who’ve just been served their drinks.”

I watched a young man collect two take-out cups, slip one to a young woman hovering over an occupied table. The man opened the top of his cup, sipped his first taste, then he grimaced and made a face as if he were in his death throes. The woman slapped his arm playfully.

“I see,” I muttered.

Matteo shrugged. “I suppose it’s better than being shunned.”

Realization dawned. “That reporter…out on the sidewalk…”

“She’s from New York One,” said Esther Best, bringing more cups in from the pantry.

“Yeah, I ran the camera crew out of here a half hour ago,” Matteo said, fuming. “I can’t believe they’re still stalking our customers.”

“Have you heard anything about Tucker?” I asked.

Matt glanced at the Breitling on his wrist. “We should hear something in the next two hours. Breanne promised she’d call as soon as she spoke with her lawyer about the case.”

“So Breanne hears everything first.”

Matteo ignored me as he finished pulling another espresso, dumped the caked grounds, and reached for the coffee bin only to find it empty. “Hey, we’re out of our house espresso blend,” he complained.

“I haven’t had time to prepare any this week,” I told him. “You took over the roasting room, remember?”

Matt grunted. Which I still didn’t consider a reasonable explanation. When he’d first arrived back home from Ethiopia, he’d hardly said two words to me before vanishing into the Blend’s basement roasting room for hours. Holed up with three fifty-pound canvas bags of green coffee beans delivered from Kennedy International Airport customs, he interrupted the store’s roasting schedule in order to roast those beans. When he was finished, he divided up the entire batch into twenty-five pound, vacuum-sealed bags, carried all the bags up to his room, and locked them inside—singularly odd behavior, even by Matteo’s diminished standards. I’d pressed him for an explanation but he’d refused to answer.

“Use the French roast Mocha Java,” I advised him.

For the next two hours the flow of customers was practically nonstop. Then, around four thirty, a semblance of calm descended. We still had a big crowd—bigger than normal—but it was manageable. Matteo was taking a caffeine break himself when the cell phone in his pocket rang.

He checked the display, then, turning on the charm in his voice, said “Hello, Breanne.” I figured the call was about Tucker, and intended to stay close and eavesdrop, but their conversation seemed to steer dangerously toward the intimate and Matteo turned his back to me and crossed the room to an empty table a discrete distance away.

They talked awhile, and it was clear from his smiles that Tucker’s fate wasn’t the only topic of conversation.