Murder by Mocha

Three hours later, I was back in my coffeehouse, mainlining the tranquillity of an Athenian temple. The sun god was smiling through our spotless French doors, gentle flames danced in the exposed brick hearth, and caffeinated customers were quietly bowing over books, notepads, and laptops.

Our morning “crush” wasn’t quite finished. Our tables were still crowded, but no ugly jam-ups were evident in the queue.

I have no idea what Wharton professors teach their aspiring administrators, but in my humble experience managing a business had plenty in common with raising a child. Case in point, one of my first shining moments of motherly pride was hearing my daughter’s preschool teacher declare, “Joy is a joy!”

So, okay, my girl hasn’t worn Hello Kitty underwear for two decades, but you just know you’re doing something right as a mommy when your child behaves without your direct supervision; and you know you’re doing something right as a manager when your shop runs like a high-performance sports car without your shouting when to change gears.

Esther Best was now actively engaged behind the espresso machine. Nancy Kelly looked confident at the register. Neither sight surprised me—Esther was on the schedule, and I’d called in Nancy.

What did surprise me was the sight of the six-two floppy-haired actor chatting with customers from behind my counter.

“Tuck, what are you doing here?” He wasn’t scheduled to work until this evening. “Did you misread the schedule?”

“No,” he said. “I called in to ask for a favor, but Nancy picked up and told me that you had a personal emergency, so I came on down to help out.”

I squeezed Tucker’s arm. “Thank you.”

If our Blend crew was a family, then Louisiana-bred Tucker Burton was the responsible older brother. An actor-playwright and occasional cabaret director, he had an easygoing southern charm and showman’s wit that made him as popular with our customers as the near-perfect God shots he pulled.

“Whatever your favor is,” I told him, “consider it granted.”

“Really?” he said. “I know we’re short-staffed right now, but I need someone to take my shift next Friday.”

“I’ll work it myself.”

“Oh, you’re a peach!”

“More of a pear with these hips, but you’re welcome. What’s the occasion? Starting rehearsals for something new?”

“I have a hot date!” He beamed. “Punch has tickets to the Met and a friend in the chorus of Cavalleria rusticana.”

“Rustic Chivalry,” I translated. “Isn’t that the opera Coppola used in—”

“Godfather 3. Indeed, it is.”

“So if Talia Shire sits down next to you with a box of cannoli, you should—”

“Just say no. Very funny. But, really, Clare, given the smorgasbord of slayings in this town, there are worse ways to go than eating poisoned mascarpone while listening to a cute tenor sing ‘Hail to the Bubbling Wine.’ ”

Tuck was right. There were worse ways to go—like a carving knife jammed into your chest while you slept off an aphrodisiac. But where there’s fake blood, there must be a fake knife, right?

During my three hours at the Seventeenth, the Fish Squad let me know that nothing was discovered during the canvas of the Topaz guest rooms. No dead bodies, anyway. They’d found victims of the burglaries galore, which made their case. Personally, I continued to pray no corpse would turn up in the hotel Dumpsters.

“Excuse me, Tuck, you’re keeping me from my art,” Esther said, sidling around his lanky form.

Esther’s hips were twice the size of mine, and her latte-arts skills nearly as lean and mean. With an effortless flick of her wrist, she poured a thin stream of textured milk out of a small silver steaming pitcher. As if by enchantment, a cloud-colored phoenix floated up from just beneath the backdrop of chocolate-kissed espresso shots.

After proudly sliding the hot café mocha to a young, pierced sous-chef from a nearby bistro, Esther acknowledged my presence with a nod.

“Good almost afternoon, boss,” she said. “I understand an officer of the law is on the premises. I hope he doesn’t distract you too much. We do have that party to cater tonight.”

If Tuck was the Blend’s dependable older brother, then Esther was its challenging middle child. With a figure as full as the old Ziegfeld Follies hotties, and wild dark hair either sculpted into a retro half beehive or ironed as straight as Vampyra (which she attractively librarian-bunned for barista work), she ruled the neighborhood as a local urban poetess and Goth icon.

She was also my best latte artist and a reliable draw for two distinct fan bases. The slam poets came to see her throughout the day, many of them NYU students, where she worked as a TA while completing her graduate degree (don’t ask in what—she’d changed it two times already). After sunset, the rappers dropped by, many of them also rabid followers of her Russian boyfriend, Boris—a baker’s assistant-cum-minor rap recording artist. (The happy couple had met at a slam poetry throwdown in Brooklyn.)

All of these friends and admirers tended to hang around the Blend for hours. Fortunately, they downed lots and lots of caffeinated drinks.

“Is everything okay, Ms. Cosi?” It was Nancy Kelly asking. Seeing me behind the counter, her young brow crinkled. “You sounded kinda frazzled on the phone this morning.”

“Yes,” I said, “I had to deal with . . . a situation. Thanks for coming in on such short notice.”

“Holy smokin’ rockets, Ms. Cosi, no problem! I was already up and rarin’ to go anyhow!”

I smiled. Nancy was the newest addition to the Blend family. At close to her age, I’d moved to New York City with an equally effervescent outlook (most young people did). It took a year or so before the city’s pinpricks collapsed most of their bubbliness.

The crowds, crime, and insidious corruption inevitably boiled down fizzy new excitement into firm guardedness. A few years more and any remaining youthful optimism was usually cooked into hard-crack cynicism. In my experience, though, the transplants who thrived in this town found a way to hold on to that inner Nancy. (At least that’s what I tried to do.)

“Well, I appreciate the fact that you’re an early riser,” I told her. “I guess you weren’t kidding when you said you rose with the chickens.”

“Roosters, actually,” Nancy said, then pursed her lips in a lemony frown. “You know it’s those males who make all the dang noise.”

“How now?” Esther sang, pushing up her black-framed glasses. “Is that a thinly veiled man bash I hear?”

“I guess.”

“Does that mean your first night of New York clubbing didn’t go so well?”

Nancy blew air out of her ruddy cheeks. Like me, she wasn’t cover-model material, more sturdy than willowy, but she had the trustworthy complexion of a Vermeer Dutch housewife and the kind of generous curves that magnetized roving male eyes. Her baby-fine wheat-colored hair went well past her shoulders. At work she kept it secured in braids.

“I did meet a guy last night,” she confessed. “But . . .”

After a lengthy pause, Esther planted a fist on her bountiful hip. “Hello! Buts in stories are frequently followed by the best part, so please do dish, Ms. Kelly. I assume this guy was somewhat hot, right?”

“Smokin’!” Nancy’s head bobbed. “I thought things were going great, too. Really great—until I asked him where he lived.”

“You’re kidding?” Esther said. “How bad could it be? South Bronx? Newark? That big metal trash bin in the alley behind Whole Foods?”

“The dude told me he lived in ‘Alphabet City,’” Nancy explained, using her fingers to make little air quotes.

“Alphabet City.” Esther nodded. “So?”