Murder by Mocha

“Well, geez! I may be a newbie to this big ol’ town, but I’m not that naive!”

Esther and I exchanged glances. Okay, we’re both confused.

“Nance,” I said, “what exactly do you mean by that?”

“I mean I got the hint! When a guy makes up a stupid, phony address, he’s telling you to get lost. I felt like calling him out: asking him if ‘Alphabet City’ was near ‘Conjunction Junction’ or if Big Bird lived next door. But I didn’t waste my breath, just picked myself up and left him cold in that chill-out room.”

Esther made a moaning sound.

“What?” Nancy asked.

“That boy you met . . .” I said as gently as I could. “He wasn’t channeling Sesame Street. There are avenues named A, B, C, and D on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. It’s what New Yorkers call Alphabet City.” (I left out the air quotes.)

The stricken look in Nancy’s puppy dog eyes made my heart ache. But then she bucked up and gamely waved a hand.

“Oh well. He wasn’t all that hot, anyway. And he kept on showing off his stupid watch to me, bragging how much it cost. There are much nicer and hotter guys around. Like . . .”

Nancy’s voice trailed off again, but I knew what she was thinking. In the four weeks she’d been with us, Nance had developed a fairly obvious crush on Dante Silva, another of my baristas. With self-designed tattoos on ropey arms, a shaved head, and the authentically sensitive soul of a true artist, Dante was what Tuck called a “coed magnet,” which actually didn’t hurt our bottom line. In addition to being an aspiring artist, Dante was also a very talented barista who learned the skill in his family’s Quindicott, Rhode Island, pizza business.

Dante was either unaware of Nancy’s feelings, or he was very good at pretending not to notice. The whole thing worried me as a manager. Frankly, I did what I could to schedule them on different shifts, although that wasn’t always possible.

It was Esther who finally took Nancy aside and tried to talk some sense into the girl (something I wish someone had done for me at her age, during my long, hot, far-too-steamy summer in Italy with Matteo Allegro).

“There’s a serious line of admirers waiting for Dante’s attention,” Esther had warned, “and right in front you’ll find Kiki and Bahni, his two roommates.”

“Which girl is Dante hooked up with?” Nancy asked upon hearing this news.

“Both, we think,” Esther replied. “But none of us have actually asked. In New York it’s sometimes better to adopt the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy.”

“Boss, could you come here for a minute?” Tuck suddenly called.

He’d been chatting with an older customer at the end of the espresso bar. I’d noticed the man when I first came in, probably because the silver-haired stranger had claimed Mike Quinn’s favorite barstool.

Mike told me he preferred the seat because with one quick half turn, his back was protected by the wall, and he had a view of the entire coffeehouse, including the spiral staircase to the second floor, and the front door. (Such was the fiction of a coffee “break” for an officer of the NYPD.)

I got the same hypervigilant vibe from this older man.

“What’s up, Tuck?”

“This is Mr. . . . Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Bob,” the man said.

Even sitting down, he impressed me as tall with a highly sketchable profile: prominent nose, jutting jaw, and the sort of interesting crevices that begged further exploration. He seemed solidly built for his age (late sixties, seventies maybe?). His eyes were bluish gray, an autumn sky before a storm, with unruly white brows suggesting the wisdom of Socrates.

I would have warmed to him immediately apart from two things: his scrutiny for one. That stormy gaze was boring into me like a TSA agent with an itchy Taser finger.

The bone-colored scar was my other concern—the jagged line mapped a path from his left ear, across part of his cheek, disappearing somewhere under his chin. While some kind of accident might have caused the faded wound, I couldn’t help flashing on my childhood in western Pennsylvania, where I’d worked in my nonna’s little grocery.

Behind a thick curtain in back of the store, my pop ran a quiet bookie operation. Clients were mostly neighborhood people, factory workers, and little old men. But every so often, a thuglike character moved through our aisles, sporting a scar similar to this man’s—the cause, invariably, was not from a factory mishap or motorcycle accident but the business end of a switchblade in some barroom scuffle.

“Your Americano is excellent,” Bob declared.

The man’s lined face shed decades when he smiled. He looked far less intimidating, too.

“Thanks,” I replied, happy he’d noticed. (Few people realized how tricky the drink was to get right.)

“It’s the best I’ve tasted in over twenty-five years.”

Now I was smiling. “We try to put love into every cup.”

“I’m glad to hear that’s still the case.”

Still the case? I glanced at Tuck.

“Bob has a few questions about the Blend. I thought you should answer.”

I extended my hand. “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Clare.”

“Clare,” he said in a gruff tenor. “I’ve always loved that name. I had a sister named Clare . . .”

His accent was stronger now, Brooklyn—but not Yuppie Brooklyn where Manhattanites flocked to buy artisan pickles and microbrewed beers. Working-stiff Brooklyn, areas like Coney Island and Bensonhurst. On the other hand, his camel hair jacket, finely woven shirt, and high-end watch implied an address other than those immigrant-packed ’hoods.

“I haven’t been here for twenty years or more,” he said, “but I remember this place well. I was wondering if it’s still a family-owned business.”

“The Allegro family still owns the Blend, and if I can help it, someone from the family always will.”

His eyes sparkled. “I take it you’re a member of the family?”

Was. Past tense. By marriage. I could have said as much, but the man’s continued scrutiny was making me uncomfortable.

“Did you know Antonio?” I asked. “Or Madame?”

“Madame?”

“Madame Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois,” I said.

The sparkle faded, the lines returned. “So, she’s married again.”

“Widowed, for a second time, I’m sorry to say.” I leaned closer. “Listen, I’m sure Mrs. Dubois would love to speak with you. Why don’t you tell me your last name. Bob—”

“Clare!” Tuck was calling me again. I hadn’t noticed he’d stepped away. “Sorry, but our Chocolate Nun is on the phone. She has a delivery issue.”

“Excuse me,” I told Bob.

“Chocolate Nun” was the nickname for Gudrun Voss, the young proprietress of Voss Chocolate. New York magazine gave her the moniker in a piece it had done a few months back. While “chef’s whites” were traditional, Gudrun’s daily uniform consisted of a black chef’s jacket and chocolate- colored Kabuki pants. The black garb combined with her austere personality and zealous focus on bean-to-bar quality had inspired the reporter to come up with the Homeric epithet.

I’d never met the “Chocolate Nun” face-to-face and still didn’t know much about her. Even the magazine piece included little about Gudrun Voss’s background, focusing instead on her Williamsburg factory as part of Brooklyn’s artisanal food movement.

Picking up the phone, I was relieved to hear Gudrun had no problem getting the pastries and chocolates to the party tonight. All she needed from me was the direct phone number of the catering kitchen at the Rock Center event space.

By the time I finished the conversation, I was even more curious about Bob’s questions. But when I moved back to the counter, Mike’s favorite barstool was empty, the elderly stranger gone.

I checked my watch. It was time for me to go, too. I needed to shower and change. Even more pressing was that important meeting Mike had mentioned at the break of dawn. I’d promised to caffeinate him up for