Murder Most Frothy

rendering in cerulean blue. The rain had cleansed the air, and the surf had transformed from a roiling black cauldron into a gently lapping sea of tranquility. The morning, in fact, was so dreamy I almost forgot that a man had been shot and killed on the other side of the mansion. Almost.

Before another night came and went, I was determined to convince Joy and Madame to leave this house. I knew this would not be easy. For twenty years, I’d butted heads with one pigheaded male member of the Allegro family. Two generations of its women working together might utterly defeat me.

I decided it would be best to approach Joy and Madame separately. After that silly disagreement with my daughter the night before over that actor’s phone number, I figured it might be wise to give her a little more time to cool off.

First up would be my ex-mother-in-law—after my morning swim, which I prayed would relieve my throbbing headache and fortify me for the inevitable argument.

I ran a brush through my hair and donned my red suit, a no-nonsense one-piece that probably looked like I’d stepped out of Baywatch lifeguard training. Of course, my breasts weren’t even close to Pamela Anderson’s monumental assets, although they were enough to make me self-conscious in anything without an underwire, and ever since that hot tub incident ten years ago in that awful share house, I’d dumped bikinis from my wardrobe for good.

I wrapped myself in one of the thick, white terrycloth robes David provided for all of his guests (part of his spa product line), and with a pair of decidedly retro rubber flip-flops on my feet, I was good to go.

Halfway down the back stairs, I caught the scent of something wonderfully enticing. With one whiff, I knew someone was brewing a fresh pot of Summer Porch, a seasonal blend I’d just invented about a month ago to showcase the Bagisu Sipi Falls beans—Matteo’s latest amazing find on Uganda’s Mount Elgon. The pull of the heady roast was too powerful to pass up, and I lurched instinctively toward the kitchen like a George Romero zombie.

Mount Elgon is one of the tallest mountains in Africa, and the terrain is steep and treacherous with thick forest cover. According to Matteo, roads were less common than dirt tracks, which were often washed away during rainy season when gullies overflowed. Nevertheless, the Bagisu tribesman who lived near the Sipi Falls had become experts at coffee farming, and they had a foolproof method of transporting their cherries, even amid the challenging terrain. No, they did not use Hummers. They used donkeys.

“Good morning, dear,” said Madame, her eyes full of energy, despite the hour. Her silver hair was down this morning, sleekly combed into a pageboy. Her erect, elegant frame was wrapped in a white terrycloth robe identical to mine. She handed me a freshly-brewed cup of the Summer Porch blend. I accepted it with a nod and a grunt.

“Drink up,” Madame advised. “This is my second pot. A few cups of this and I guarantee your disposition will improve.”

My mood-altering drug of choice, I thought as I shuffled over to the kitchen table and plopped down with a weary sigh. But at least it’s legal.

Still bleary-eyed, I wondered for a moment what made Madame choose the Summer Porch this morning. I’d placed twenty different types of coffee in David’s kitchen cupboards. It was the same selection I’d put on his tasting and dessert pairings menu at Cuppa J. When I saw what Madame had placed in middle of the table, however, I didn’t have to ask why. A selection of last night’s strawberries sat mounded inside a Waterford crystal bowl like a lush ruby mountain.

The hint of strawberry in the finish of Sipi Falls was rare and surprising; and since the Sipi was the star coffee in my Summer Porch blend, it was the perfect pairing for the fresh Long Island fruit. I sipped the coffee black and let the flavors wash over me like the warm sluicing water of a Jacuzzi.

A coffee taster trains the tongue and the nose to detect the faintest traces of every flavor. There were hints of star-fruit, pear, and red cherry behind the Jasmine tealike flavors of the Sipi Falls. And I’d roasted it light to really bring out the strawberry flavor (a darker roast produced a sort of black tea finish to the cup). The coffee was sweet in the mouth and I’d balanced the blend to make sure the Sipi Falls shortcomings were diminished in the taste profile. The problem with this unique Ugandan coffee was that, unlike its East African neighbors, it lacked acidity.

In the coffee world, acidity was not a bad thing. It actually referred to a brightness or pleasant sharpness in the mouth, and you definitely wanted it in your taste profile, or your coffee would come off as flat.

Since a good blend’s three elements are acidity, aroma, and body, I remedied the low acidity of the Sipi Falls by blending it with Kenya AA beans. To boost its body, I used a Costa Rican bean. But the Sipi Falls itself was the star of this trio, providing delightful aromatic notes.

I sipped the coffee again and sighed. As it cooled, it actually gained rather than weakened in its rustic intensity. I reached for a strawberry, took a bite, then another sip. The strawberry flavor in the coffee was now enhanced a thousand percent, practically exploding in my mouth.

This was indeed a cheerful, uplifting coffee to wake up to—a bright country morning in a cup, a coffee to disperse bad dreams.

“What are you up to today?” Madame asked with an amused smile at my obvious return from the dead.

“I’m going for a swim,” I replied as she slipped a bone china saucer under my cup. “Then I’m going to check on David. After that, I’m going to help you pack and drive you to the train station.”

“Nice try, my dear,” Madame said.

“But—”

“Don’t waste your breath. I’m not leaving,” Madame pronounced with a regal wave of her hand.

“But—” I tried again.

“Drink up, Clare. You don’t want to waste your husband’s—”

“My ex-husband’s.”

“Matteo’s latest find in your latest blend, because you still don’t have your wits about you if you think I’m going back to the city and leaving you to play detective all by yourself.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a series of electronic musical tones, a snippet from Vivaldi. Madame reached into the voluminous pocket of her terrycloth spa robe and found her cell phone.

“Matteo! You’re home,” she cried upon answering.

“Speak of the devil,” I quietly muttered and gulped more coffee.

“Oh, no. Everything’s fine. Just fine,” Madame chirped, rather like her phone, before changing the subject. “How did things go in California, my boy?”

Matteo’s latest trip was not to a Third World coffee plantation, but to a series of First World shopping Meccas. David Mintzer had become one of Matt’s biggest backers in a financial plan to expand the Village Blend business via coffee kiosks in high-end clothing boutiques and department stores worldwide. This last trip of Matt’s was to the West Coast, where he was overseeing Village Blend coffee kiosk installations in Marin County, Rodeo Drive, and Palm Springs.

Madame spoke with her son for a few minutes, while I finished my first cup and poured another.

“Yes, she’s right here,” Madame finally said, passing the phone to me.

“Hello, Matt,” I said on a yawn.

These days, our relationship was actually pretty good. Like it or not, we were stuck with one another as business partners in the Blend, not to mention parental partners in the raising of Joy. Parenting, as I’d often lectured Matt, was not only a full-time job, it was a lifetime appointment, sort of like a judgeship on the Supreme Court, but with far less influence.

“What’s wrong out there?” Matt asked, his voice had gone low. “Mother sounded strained.”

“Everything’s fine. Just fine,” I chirped, rather like Madame. I could almost see Matteo’s eyes squinting with suspicion.

“Whatever,” he said at last. “I just phoned to tell you I’m at La Guardia waiting for a taxi. I’m heading over to the Blend to check things out.”

Good, I thought, Tucker can use the extra pair of helping hands.

“After that, I’m hitting the sack in the duplex, catching a few hours sleep. I’m wasted. Totally jet lagged.”

So much for the extra helping hands.