Latte Trouble

admit the two poisonings are likely linked and there might be another perp involved.”

“Not another perp,” I insisted. “An altogether different perp.”

“One step at a time, Detective Cosi.”

I smiled, actually picked up the slight teasing in Mike’s tone—no easy feat, considering the man usually maintained a poker voice to match his poker face. Half the time, reading Quinn was about as easy as reading a brick wall—a blank one, of course, one without a collection of overdressed babes covering it.

“Thanks for calling back, Mike.”

“Sure, Clare.”

I continued to hold the cell to my ear. A long silent moment passed. Neither of us, it seemed, had anything more to say—but neither of us wanted to sign off, either.

“Here you go, sweetheart, fresh coffee!” Matt had returned to the master bedroom with two steaming mugs.

“I have to go now,” I softly told Mike.

“Good night, Clare.”

“Good night.”

I closed the phone and accepted the mug. The warm, nutty fragrance of the dark roast was more than welcome and I drank it down with extreme satisfaction.

“God, I needed that.”

“You’ll need these too.”

Matt dropped two aspirins into my hand and I gulped them down, along with the rest of the water. Then back to the coffee. After a long silence, Matt sat down on the edge of the bed and folded his arms.

“You want to tell me what you told him?”

I squirmed. “Nothing to tell. Really. I just drank too much at the Trend party and then ran into a friend who took me to the Inferno, where I saw Joy.”

“Liar.”

“Oh, Matt. It’s close enough to the truth. Just let it go.”

“Clare, I’m warning you, don’t get in over your head with this detective game. It’s too dangerous.”

“Please, Matt. Let’s not argue.” I drained the coffee mug and was about to throw the cold cloth over my eyes again when the phone on the nightstand rang. I lunged for the receiver, miraculously snagging it before Matt.

“Hello?” I said.

“Clare, dear, I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, Madame.”

Matt’s eyebrows rose.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Madame in a conspiratorial tone, “about our case, you know?”

Oh, lord, I thought. Please don’t let Matt hear you say that. With my suspicious ex-husband continuing to stare, I carefully asked, “What’s on your mind?”

“Only this…do you think it’s possible Lottie herself is the culprit?”

“Lottie herself?” I hadn’t considered that possibility. “Why would you think that, Madame?”

“Because Lottie may have learned of Tad and Rena’s plan to sell their shares. And Rena would have trusted Lottie. She would have easily taken a poisoned latte from her and drunk it down.”

“True. But why would Lottie have poisoned herself?”

Matt frowned and glowered, finally hearing a phrase that confirmed I was discussing the case with his mother. I twisted away from his disapproving eyes.

“Well, my dear, I thought that through, too,” Madame replied. “It’s possible that Lottie found an accomplice to help her set the whole thing up—that she never intended to drink the poison but only to taste it and then accuse Tad and Rena of poisoning her, but, of course, Ricky Flatt and that poor Jeff Lugar drank down the poison instead. Lottie Harmon may have been trying to gain control of her own label by any means necessary.”

“It’s an interesting possibility, Madame…I can’t deny it.”

“Of course, I could be wrong, but I thought you should hear the theory.”

“Yes…well…” I looked up again to find Matt ready to blow. “I better get some rest now—and so should you. Big day tomorrow!”

“Oh, yes, the runway show. I’ll see you there, my dear. Sweet dreams!”

Bryan Goldin had wished me the same, as I recalled, but I doubted very much I’d have them. I hung up the phone and collapsed into the pile of bed pillows, smacking the cold cloth back over my eyes before Matt could grill me.

“Clare.”

“Don’t, Matt. Don’t.”

“Fine. Let’s go to bed then.”

Before I could ask what he meant by “let’s,” the light was clicking off and my ex-husband was climbing in beside me under the bedcovers.

Oh, god, no, I thought, but was too exhausted to protest. I simply turned on my side, away from the father of my child. A moment later, I felt Matt’s muscular arm curling around me and pulling me possessively against him.

I knew it was wrong, that I should resist. But the familiar feel of his strong body tucked around me again was like that cup of java he’d brought me, warm and reassuring, and reminiscent of those days during our marriage when we’d been happy together, young and undamaged, hopeful and optimistic.

With a sigh I relaxed into him and let dreams descend.

Twenty-Six

Sunday morning started far too early. I awoke at six with a parched mouth and the fringes of a hangover headache, courtesy of Fen’s atomic cocktail.

Matt was still sleeping in my bed and I silently thanked him for making sure the slight discomfort I was experiencing took the place of the blinding pain I would have surely endured without his help.

After showering and dressing like a George Romero zombie, I stumbled downstairs to find Gardner Evans chipper and wide awake despite the fact that he’d closed last night and had just opened this morning. He and two other evening employees would be serving the Blend’s regular customers here at the Village store while Esther, Moira, and I catered the Fen runway show in midtown, which was scheduled to go off in less than six hours.

Esther and Moira soon arrived and we all loaded up the van I’d rented days before and parked in the alley behind the Blend: two espresso machines and service for three hundred, including cream, milk, sugar, coffee, disposable cups, stirring sticks, and napkins and paper plates for the baked goods, which would be delivered on site at eight o’clock sharp. We even brought our own water—filtered fresh this morning (good-tasting water being an essential ingredient for a great cup of joe).

To get our hearts jump-started, I prepared a thermos of double-strength Breakfast Blend, a medium roasted mix of Arabicas with the highest caffeine content on our play list, which we all shared before heading out.

“You drive. I don’t think I’m up to it,” I told Esther, handing her the keys.

Under normal circumstances, I would have resisted turning over the keys—and my life—to a vehicular novice, but at seven on a Sunday morning, traffic in Manhattan was virtually nonexistent and my head pounded too much to care anyway.

I climbed into the van’s cab, then called to Moira. “Take off your backpack and you can squeeze into the front seat with Esther and me.”

“That’s all right, Ms. Cosi, I’ll just ride in back.”

Moira climbed into the back of the truck and settled in. We could hardly see her among all the stuff packed inside the van.

“God,” whispered Esther, roiling her eyes. “Why can’t she be sociable? You’d think that pack was glued to her