Espresso Shot

“Okay, I’ll do my best.”

“The victim I examined didn’t die of an overdose of conventional medication. She was poisoned-and not by anything usual. An exotic batrachotoxin was used to kill her. It’s perplexed us all.”

“Me included,” Mike said. “I thought maybe you’d have a theory, Clare.”

“Me? On what? What exactly is batrachotoxin?”

“It’s a poison extracted from the skin of toxic frogs,” Billings said. “Very rare. In Colombia, natives use it against predators. An expert I spoke to in Colombia tells me that many rural farmers dose thorny trees around their land with the batrachotoxin to scare away marauding bands of FARC.”

“FARC,” I repeated. “That definitely rings a bell. Matt’s mentioned FARC to me, usually with an expletive attached. As far as I know, they’re a revolutionary group that stands opposed to Colombia ’s current government. They terrorize farmers and land owners.”

“You should also know that the items in Ms. Purcell’s stomach were barely digested,” Billings said. “There was some kind of bread or muffin product made primarily of soy protein and a pulpy beverage made of wheatgrass.”

“I’m thinking Monica Purcell saw Winslow that morning,” Mike said. “The robbery went bad the night before. I’m thinking he poisoned her breakfast.”

“Her breakfast… soy and wheatgrass…”

My mind went back to the morning that Monica was poisoned. I’d been sitting in the reception area when the intern came out in a panic, telling us about finding Monica’s body. But shortly before that, Breanne’s breakfast was taken from the front desk to the company’s break room.

“Mike, the food items you’re describing in her stomach are exactly the breakfast I turned down the day Monica was found dead: a soy-protein muffin and a wheatgrass shake. The receptionist couldn’t give those items away, so she had them moved to the company’s break room. She said the breakfast was a regular daily delivery to Trend ’s offices.”

“A delivery for Monica?” Billings asked.

“No.” I met Mike’s eyes. “That breakfast was meant for Breanne Summour. She didn’t come to the office that day.”

“You witnessed the delivery?” Mike asked, leaning forward. “In the reception area?”

“I didn’t see who delivered the food. But I witnessed it taken to the break room. And I can’t believe it was Winslow who poisoned it, either. He had access to so many conventional drugs. Why would he use something so obscure?”

“The connection to Colombia is clear,” Dr. Billings noted.

“Which means we’d need to find a man from Colombia with a motive for murder,” Mike said. “Clare, what do you think? You’ve been working this case all week. Does anyone come to mind?”

Oh, my God. “Javier.”

“Who?”

“Javier Lozado. I met him at Madame’s luncheon. He’s a very dashing Colombian man, operates several coffee plantations down there. He also had a terrible past experience with Matt over a woman he loved named Louisa. Matt slept with the woman behind his back. They came to blows over it.”

“Is Javier’s grudge strong enough to commit murder?”

“He’s a proud Latin American man.” I closed my eyes.

“And he told me he used to be a commando in the Colombian army! He’d know how to stalk someone, how to shoot a gun and hit a target. My God, it was Matt’s past all along and not Breanne’s that was the key to the danger. Why didn’t I see it?”

I leaned forward in my chair, laid out the facts. “The night Hazel Boggs was murdered, Javier wasn’t at the bachelor party, which means he could have been staking out the Village Blend, waiting for Breanne to appear. When he saw the look-alike with Matt, he could have shot her for revenge-by mistake.”

Mike nodded. “Go on.”

“Javier would have discovered the next day that Breanne was still alive. So he changed tactics and used the poison. When that didn’t work, he got more brazen and simply attacked her in the restaurant’s bathroom. He certainly had the opportunity for the bathroom attack. He was at Madame’s tapas luncheon, but he left before Breanne went into the bathroom! We all thought he ran after Matt, but he could have doubled back to attack Breanne. Koa Waipuna said they all split up to find Matt, and he didn’t see Javier again for almost an hour!”

Mike nodded again, pulled out his notebook. “We need more on this man. Write down his name for me, Clare. I want his description and anything else that can ID him. Do you know where he’s staying?”

“No, but I can find out.”

I rang Matt to warn him about Javier. Matt had trouble believing it, but not after I told him about the poison.

“Is Javier there now?” I asked. “At the rehearsal dinner?”

“No,” Matt said. “He’s not a member of the wedding party. I haven’t seen much of the man all week. I don’t even know where he’s staying!”

“Take it easy, okay? Mike Quinn’s on the phone with his precinct now. He’s going to have a BOLO issued. We’ll find him.”

We spoke a few more minutes, and then I had to ask. “Matt, did Breanne have a talk with you? Did she tell you about her past?”

After a pause, Matt lowered his voice. “She told me everything, Clare. Where she was born, how she grew up, her real name, everything.”

“The wedding’s still on, isn’t it?”

“Of course! I don’t give a crap about her past. It’s nobody’s business but her own. All that matters to me now is our future.”

I couldn’t stop the smile. For the first time in a long while, I was actually proud of my ex-husband. “Now that’s the Matt I married.”

“What?”

“Forget it. I just hope you’ll both be very happy.”

A minute later, Mike finished his own call. “If we can’t pick up Javier before tomorrow’s wedding, we’re going to the wedding in plain clothes.”

“It’s a big crowd, Mike. How many cops are coming?”

“Soles and Bass, some of the guys in my building. The detectives on the Machu Picchu attack.”

I shook my head. It was hard to believe, but Breanne’s white wedding was about to become an NYPD stakeout.

THIRTY-FIVE

“ EVERYTHING looks perfect, Clare! Just perfect!”

Janelle Babcock folded her arms and stepped back from our coffee and dessert station. Her delicate confections were arranged on serving trees, surrounded by hand-blown Venetian glass, each jewel-toned piece filled with samples of my rare, roasted coffee beans.

“Perfect isn’t my favorite word,” I said. “But it does look spectacular.”

Esther Best strolled up to us, her wild dark hair tied neatly back, her blue Village Blend apron covering a plain white blouse and black slacks. “Nice bling,” she said, pointing to Nunzio’s fountain at the center of the display.

“Priceless bling,” I said. “Go ahead and take a closer look.”

The tabletop fountain consisted of three golden catch basins. Around the rim of each bowl, finely detailed reliefs depicted scenes from the stories of history’s most famous lovers. The entire sculpture was capped by the stylized nudes of a man and woman. Prosecco champagne-kissed with the sweetness of peach nectar-poured out of the apple in the woman’s hand and flowed like golden rain from one bowl to the next, through hundreds of holes in each basin’s bottom.

“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here,” Esther said. “Adam and Eve at the top, and I can see the snake, too, with real ruby eyes. Nice. And what’s on the middle tier?”

“That’s Antony and Cleopatra,” I said. “You can follow the story in pictures around the bowl. See the poison asp biting the queen of the Nile? The snake has real emeralds for eyes.”

“The base is Romeo and Juliet,” Janelle noted.

Esther studied the entire piece for a moment then scratched her head. “Ah, kids? Weren’t these lovers sort of screwed by the end of their stories? I mean, I don’t see any happily-ever-after here.”

I froze for a second then glanced at Janelle. We’d been working with photos and dimensions and metric volumes. We’d never considered the sculpture’s overall meaning.

“I think she’s right,” Janelle said, stifling a laugh.

I folded my arms and sighed, recalling my evening with Nunzio. The man was sexy as hell, but he’d displayed all the sentiment of a soccer ball. “You know what? I think the artist knew exactly what he was doing, and the joke’s on us.”

I checked my watch. At this very moment, beneath a rose bower on the Met’s Roof Garden, Matt and Breanne were exchanging vows, surrounded by a half-dozen NYPD detectives, including Mike Quinn, Sully, Soles and Bass, and Rocky Friar. I felt confident they would snatch Javier Lozado the moment he showed his mustachioed face.

Everything was good to go on our end of the European Sculpture Court. The espresso machines at the Blend’s station were up and running, the Clovers were in place, the cups and glass mugs ready, and my baristas were eager to begin serving the moment the guests arrived.

“Tell me again about the first toast?” Janelle asked.

“As soon as the bride and groom come down from the roof, we’re going to become the center of attention. The newlyweds will walk right over to us and toast each other with shots of espresso.”

I showed Janelle the heavy, sterling silver tray Madame was going to use to serve the couple the first cups of their married life.

Janelle shook her head. “I still don’t get it. Why toast with coffee when there’s all this great champagne around?”

“The guests will be drinking champagne, but not the wedding party. Toasting with coffee is a family tradition started by Matt’s great-grandfather. It’s based on an old Turkish custom. The bridegroom made a promise to always provide coffee for his wife. If he failed to deliver, it was grounds for divorce.”