Espresso Shot

polish job on you, wasn’t it?”

Breanne’s glossed lips twisted into a smirk. “I considered it a fair trade at the time. Stuart Winslow was a blueblood. Back then he was riding high with money and connections. In the ten years we were together, I did a lot of catching up. He taught me how to dress, how to speak, what to praise, what to disdain. And I taught him how to screw.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“His Mayflower name was a huge help on my pitch to Reston-Miller to start Trend. I’d been a Winslow for so long by marriage, I’d created a whole new me, a whole new life. No one in my new social circle ever questioned my right to be there.”

I looked at Breanne once more, but I didn’t see Nunzio’s braying donkey. I saw the Esmeralda geisha, a spindly coffee tree that no one noticed until she was planted at a higher altitude, cultivated, and brought to market, where bidding could drive up her value.

I’d once read a breeder’s notes on the varietal. The geisha, he’d written, was an undesirable type of bean, long and thin, which, under neglectful conditions, produced a liquor of poor quality; yet it almost always displayed resistance to leaf rust. Breanne carried innate resistance, too, and she’d been forced to become hearty in the big, bad city. She’d not only learned how to adapt and survive but flourish. Still, Breanne’s choices had exacted a price. Women with real patrician backgrounds had nothing to prove. They floated through social circles on lilting breezes of carefree laughter. For Breanne, the facade of taste and class had to be scrupulously maintained. Without the silk shawl of Nunzio’s little proverb, the world might just label her a pack mule.

“If Knox knows what I know, he can ruin you. Can’t he?”

“He can’t take away Trend’s phenomenal circulation,” Breanne said. “But he can embarrass the hell out me.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Don’t you worry about Knox. I’ll swat that little pest myself. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with this sort of thing, and I doubt it will be the last.” She exhaled and met my eyes. “Okay, Clare, you know everything about me now, the ugly truth.”

“It’s your private business, Breanne. I just need to know one more thing. Why are you marrying Matt? What’s the real reason? Is he some part of an elaborate game plan, like your first husband was?”

“Not even close.”

“You really love him?”

Breanne glanced away, which I didn’t take for a good sign. I waited in silence as she studied the view beyond her floor-to-ceiling windows. Finally, she answered. “More than any other man I ever met, Matt makes me feel the way I used to feel about myself.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

She faced me again, met my eyes. “I’m a fighter, Clare. I did what I had to for my family and for myself-to succeed. Here at the magazine, I’m the bitch boss. It’s a role that gets the job done, gets the magazine out on time, keeps my people employed and my bank account healthy. But when I’m with Matteo…”

“Go on.”

“He’s like no other man I’ve ever known…” The woman’s brassy voice had become a whisper, and her gaze drifted back to the clouds, the park, her dreamy view. “When he takes me in his arms at night, I feel vulnerable again, innocent and sweet and beautiful. When he kisses me, he makes all the bad days… all the bad years… disappear…”

I never, not in a million years, expected an answer like that from the grand bitch of fashion. It was exactly how Mike Quinn made me feel; and in that moment I realized, beneath all of her Machiavellian scheming and bridezilla-on-steroids demands, Breanne Summour really did love her groom.

“Thank you for being honest with me,” I said.

Breanne nodded, then her gaze fell on the piece of paper on her desk, the one with her sister’s contact information.

“She misses you,” I said. “And she still admires and loves you.”

“She said that?”

“She didn’t have to. The way she talked about you-it was clear as sunlight through plate glass.”

Breanne sighed. “I know what you must be thinking, Clare, but seeing my sister again, making contact… I don’t know if I can do it.” She shook her head. “When you travel so far from who you were, it’s like living in a new world. You can’t go back again. I decided that long ago. My family would never understand my life, my choices.”

“Maybe… or maybe you just never gave them a chance to understand.”

Breanne picked up the piece of paper. “Maybe. I’ll think about it…”

I nodded and turned, heading for the door. Before throwing the lock and departing, however, I turned back to say one last thing.

“Breanne, I really will keep your past a secret, but only on one condition. You have to tell Matt the whole truth about your life before you take your vows.”

“I can’t do that,” she whispered. “He’ll never want me then…”

“If that’s how little you think of Matteo Allegro, then you really should call the wedding off.”

THIRTY-FOUR

“OKAY, guys, what’s the verdict?”

“Pretty amazing, Clare,” Gardner said, paper cup in hand.

Dante nodded. “Good job on the roast!”

“Superb,” Tucker said.

“Thanks.” Three down one to go. “What do you think, Esther?”

Esther Best pushed up her black rectangular glasses and peered at me with her big, brown, hypercritical eyes. “I think I can’t get my mind around where these beans have been.”

It was eight o’clock in the evening. Matt, Joy, and Madame were all at the wedding rehearsal dinner. Here at the Blend, I’d just finished roasting the final batch of green beans for tomorrow’s reception. My top baristas and I were now sampling the freshly roasted Kopi Luwak.

Mike elbowed me. “What does she mean by that? Where have the coffee beans been?”

“You can ask me directly, you know?” Esther told Mike flatly. “I won’t bite your head off. I generally don’t bite people’s heads off unless the moon is full.”

Mike raised a sandy eyebrow. “Okay, Esther. What do you mean by that?”

I stifled a smile as she explained that kopi was the Indonesian word for “coffee,” and luwak referred to the small catlike animal from which the coffee beans were collected.

“I don’t understand,” Mike said, taking another hearty quaff from his paper cup. He looked down at me. “Coffee beans come from trees, don’t they?”

I bit my lip, met Esther’s eyes.

“He has no idea, does he?” Esther asked.

I shook my head, and she looked about ready to lose it. Then she did, literally doubling over with laughter.

“What?” Now Mike’s blue gaze was spearing me.

“The luwak is a feral, forest animal,” I explained. “It eats coffee cherries and voids them whole. The Indonesian farmers collect them, process them, and sell them as the most expensive coffee on earth: Kopi Luwak.”

Mike stared into the ten-dollar cup he’d previously been enjoying and blanched. But there was nothing wrong with the coffee! Kopi Luwak had the cup characteristics of a really good Sumatran, heavy and earthy with hints of caramel and chocolate, as well as a superlative smoothness and a unique, lingering mustiness.

His eyes met mine again. “You’re telling me this coffee came out of a cat’s-”

“The digestive tract changes the chemical composition of the bean,” I said. “See, a coffee bean’s proteins contribute to its bitterness. The luwak’s digestive process breaks down some of the proteins, making the coffee extremely smooth.”

“Kopi Luwak is its official name,” Esther said, “but some people refer to it as something else.”

“Don’t tell me,” Mike muttered.

“Cat-poop coffee!” Esther cried then cracked up again.

Now Dante, Gardner, and Tucker were laughing, too.

Mike put down his cup.

Oh, God. I should have warned him.

“You look a little green, Detective,” Dante said. “What’s wrong?”

He glanced back at me. “Too much information.”

I bit my cheek. “Didn’t you once tell me that you can never give a detective too much information?”

“Yeah, but in this one case, I would have made an exception.”

“Its okay, Mike.” I patted his shoulder. “I’ll get your usual.”

As I prepared an extra special make-it-up-to-him latte, the bell over our door jangled. A few minutes later, Mike was introducing me to the customer who’d walked in. He was a cerebral-looking, middle-aged man with a receding blond hairline, fair complexion, and a bit of a paunch under a tweedy blazer.

“This is Dr. Mel Billings, Clare. He’s a pathologist who works with the OD Squad.”

I greeted the man, made him a cappuccino, and joined both men at a cafe table. Mike turned to me. “Dr. Billings is the man who performed the autopsy on Monica Purcell.”

“Oh?”

Billings nodded, took off the half-glasses he wore on a black cord around his neck. “Mike asked me to drop by and speak with you. He thought maybe you’d have some ideas for us.”