Murder by Mocha

“My Rubicon . . .”

A popular eatery sat on the river’s bank, a scenic patch near the country club stables of Bay Creek Village. She saw those diners, young and old, raising glasses, speaking civilly, adhering to dress codes.

Look at them, pretending to be decent, loyal, kind . . . Liars! Cheaters! Monsters! Hypocrites, every one . . .

Seven years before, her mother’s trial had been passing entertainment for all of them, a morsel of scandal to be relished with appetizers, forgotten completely by the second course.

“Hey! Down there! You wanted a look at me? Look at me now!”

Fading back into the shadows, she watched the round white faces moon her way. Seconds later, a brand-new shout echoed along the water, shattering the serenity of the eight o’clock seating. Customers leaped to their feet, knocked over cocktails, stained outfits with wine.

She knew what they were seeing, as they gawked upriver—a woman plummeting off the bridge. Down the body sailed, through violet sky, wedding gown ballooning like a favorite yacht spinnaker. The figure splashed and quickly sank, as if eager to reach the underworld.

“My world now,” whispered the woman in black. “Now I am Persephone, queen of shadows . . .”

With a hollow thud, her purse dropped—well beyond any pool of illumination. Inside that bag was an epic tale, scrawled in perfect longhand on neatly folded sheets. Here were the answers to the inevitable question, “Why did she do it?” along with enough IDs to satisfy every last dull, distracted authority on Long Island.

Hurrying toward a thicket of evergreens, she found a new path. At last, her plan was under way, blossoming like Aphrodite’s red anemone beneath the dying Adonis.

Sixty yards away, every diner would tell the police they had witnessed a suicide . . .

Well, she thought, this is one drowned corpse who’s about to be reincarnated. And, in this new life, no one will be judging me or my mother. The turn will be mine to act as judge, jury, and executioner. 

One

Once you wake up and smell the coffee, it’s hard to go back to sleep.

—FRAN DRESCHER

“What’s your pleasure?” I asked, holding open the Blend’s beveled-glass door.

Against the pink champagne of the dawning sky, Mike Quinn’s grim face gave up a small smile—not that anyone else could tell. Like New York’s police commissioner, whose official photo had every cop in the city calling him Popeye, Quinn’s smile was more of a wince.

“Got something hot for me, Cosi?”

“Maybe,” I said, stifling a yawn. “But you have to come in to get it . . .”

As the corner streetlight flickered off, Mike’s broad-shouldered form moved smoothly by, snagging my hand as he went. He’d been a street officer for years before making detective, and he brought that cop authority wherever he went, a quiet, commanding coolness that attracted me from the first moment he’d set foot in my coffeehouse.

While the heavy door swung shut, Mike backed me into the shadows of my empty shop. Flattened against an exposed brick wall, I looked up at him.

“I can’t pour from this position.”

“You can kiss from this position.”

“True,” I said, then my arms curled around his neck, and I finally gave the man a proper greeting.

Such was the oh-so-sweet beginning to my morning.

It wouldn’t last.

Before the day ended, I would have two dead bodies on my hands—one a likely murder, the other something else entirely. Soon after, I’d have two female NYPD detectives on my case, a half-naked fitness queen ready to kill me, and a member of my staff dizzy enough with unrequited love to commit a felony.

None of the above was on my mind at the moment, just Mike Quinn’s sturdy body pressing against mine and the kind of soft morning light that gave everything the illusion of beauty.

When Mike’s head finally pulled away, I noticed the gray paleness of his complexion. His jaw felt wrong, too, like sandpaper. And thin strokes of crimson slashed the whites of his midnight blues. The details of his expression implied more than physical exhaustion. He looked mentally worn down.

“So,” I said, keeping my tone light, “what kept you up all night?”

Mike’s jaw tightened. He glanced away.

“Okay,” I said, “come on . . .” Now I was the one tugging his hand, pulling him along. At the espresso bar, I moved behind the counter, scraped my Italian-roast brown hair into a kitchen-ready ponytail, and began turning ordinary cow juice into liquid velvet.

Mike peeled off his rumpled sport coat and took over his favorite stool. Then he trained his gaze on me so he could drink in the ritual.

It occurred to me then, as I fixed his steamer, that most of our days are spent in ritual and routine, at least until some dramatic event jerks us off our hamster wheels, puts us on brand new ones. Nineteen, for example, brought the end of my childhood—with the beginning of my daughter’s.

Joy’s conception was far from planned. After marrying her father, I developed close bonds with his mother and began working in their family coffee business. Ten years later, my marriage ended, and (much to the dismay of my mother-in-law) I ended my job, too.

Taking custody of my girl, I retrenched to west Jersey, land of safer schools and saner streets. Then Joy grew up.

My daughter’s coming-of-age came with her enrollment in culinary school along with a move to an apartment in the city I’d abandoned. At last, she was on her own, and so was I. At thirty-nine, I entered what felt like a second stage of adulthood; and even though I resisted making a change, I needed it.

My freelance food writing kept me far too isolated. Not that I’d been living like a nun—well, almost. I’d dated since my marriage ended, but every encounter had left me cold.

My subpar love life aside, Joy and her bubbly friends were no longer around. Without them, my quiet suburban ranch became intolerable. I wasn’t simply alone anymore; I was lonely.

Returning to New York’s Greenwich Village had its challenges (now there’s an understatement), but I’d never been happier. I’d always loved managing this landmark coffeehouse for my mother-in-law, and if I hadn’t taken a leap of faith and admitted to her that I wanted my old job back, I never would’ve met the man sitting across from me now . . .

After texturing the whole milk, I coated the bottom of a glass mug with our newest bar syrup, poured in the thick white milk-paint, stirred everything to blend the shades, and slid my drinkable masterpiece across the counter.

Mike’s brow furrowed. “Where are my shots of espresso?”

“You don’t need caffeine. You need sleep. I made you a chocolate steamer.”

He peered into the mug. “What’s a—?”

“Steamed milk with a special syrup. In this case, tempered bittersweet, turbinado sugar, a kiss of sea salt, vanilla, pure almond extract, and canela—”

“Canela?”

“Mexican cinnamon. Still spicy but with less bite.” I angled my head at the chalkboard. “It’s the same syrup we use for our new Mexican Choco-Latte.”