Клео Коул - Holiday Grind

Vicki’s mouth tightened, and her hazel green eyes went cold. “You don’t know my mother,” she said, and then she rose and grabbed her coat. “Well, thanks for doing what you’re going to do, Ms. Cosi. You have my home phone number, and Esther has the number for my cell. Call anytime.”

We hugged again, and then Vicki headed for the door. When she was out of earshot, Esther turned to me. “I don’t know if she’s paranoid about this neighbor of theirs or not, boss, but I’m sure Vicki will appreciate anything you can do.”

“What do you mean, anything I can do? We’re going to be working together on this one.”

Behind her black glasses, Esther’s eyes went from their typical, world-weary squint to freak-out wide. “Excuse me?”

I bolted back the remains of my mochaccino and set down my cup. “I just decided. You and I are going to start investigating Alf’s death right now.”

“What?!”

“Listen up, Esther. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to need a partner—and tonight you’re it.”

“What are you wearing?” Esther whispered fifteen minutes later.

“For what we’re about to do, I needed something black and grungy.”

“Well, boss,” she said, making a theatrical show of looking me up and down, “you scored.”

In the apartment upstairs, I’d shed my pressed slacks and sweater, replacing them with scuffed black denims, a navy turtleneck, a faded Best Mom in the World sweatshirt, and worn hiking boots leftover from my snow-shoveling days in Jersey. I’d draped a dark hoodie over it all and weighed down its deep pockets with a few devices I thought I might find useful on the little outing on which I was about to embark.

“What about me?” Esther asked, gesturing to her ensemble. “Don’t I need to change, too?”

From her rectangular glasses to her steel-toed shoes, Esther was usually dressed for skulking around in the dark. Tonight was no exception: shiny dark pants (leather, pleather, vinyl?) topped with knee-high boots. I paused for a moment, considering the Renaissance level of cleavage bulging out of her sweater’s plunging neckline—a garment layered over what looked like a deep purple lace-up bustier. (Since she’d started dating BB Gunn, aka Russian rapper Boris Bokunin, elements of Esther’s wardrobe had taken a decidedly racy turn.) Then again, her Doctor Who scarf was the length of a football field and her ankle-length black duster would certainly provide enough warmth.

“You’re fine,” I told her.

Unfortunately, our route to tonight’s snoop wasn’t.

Dante Silva had begun bussing empty tables near the front door. When he saw my street duds, he laughed—loudly—and moved to stand right in front of us.

“ Carumba , boss! Heading out for a rumble?” With one hand he brushed his shaved head in what I took to be a gang sign. “Did you join the Crips or the Bloods?”

“The Latin Kings,” Esther replied flatly. “Her café con leche won them over.”

Dante folded his tattooed arms and regarded us. “No kidding, you two, where are you cruisin’ together?”

“Out,” I replied, grabbing Esther’s arm and hustling her around the overly curious painter.

So far, so good , I thought, until someone else noticed me.

“Sister Clare! Is that you?!” The voice was male, the Jamaican lilt all too familiar.

I looked across the room, surprised to see Dexter Beatty sitting with Matt. When did he get here?

“Come yuh !” Dexter waved me over with a grin. “Come, come!”

Dex was in his early forties; his Rasta dreadlocks, which he always tied back on the job, were now loose, framing his light-skinned African features like a cocoa-brown mop. As Esther and I approached his café table, he pointed to us and said something to my ex-husband.

Matt turned in his chair, and his gaze immediately narrowed on my oversized black hoodie. “What are you dressed for?” he demanded.

“The latest trend,” I said flatly. “ Gangsta chic. I’m surprised Breanne didn’t tell you about it.”

“Clare, what are you up to?”

“Not a thing,” I lied. “Java needs Cat Chow. Esther’s coming with.”

Matt scowled. “You mean you’re not all dressed up to play detective again? Because I’ll tell you right now, Clare, it’s a bad idea. You shouldn’t get involved in—”

“Don’t be paranoid! I told you where I’m going.” Time to change the subject. I turned to Matt’s friend. “And how are you, Dexter?” I chirped with more perkiness than a caffeinated Brady sister.

“Good, good,” Dex answered with a nodding grin. “You must come to Brooklyn, Clare, and see my shops all decorated for the holiday.”

“Yes, of course. You know I love your shops!”

No forced perkiness there. I really did love them. Like my grandmother’s grocery, which had kept the Italians in her zip code supplied in fresh mozzarella, prosciutto di Parma, salt-packed Sicilian anchovies, and chestnut flour; Dexter’s three Taste of the Caribbean shops kept the pantries of West Indians stocked up with pigeon peas, chicken feet, freshly cut sugarcane, ginger beer, scary-hot Scotch bonnet peppers (for your jerk seasoning), and burnt sugar syrup (for your black cake).

Also like my Nonna, Dex was a stickler for authentic products, and that included coffee. Given the world market, the Caribbean was far from a major coffee-growing player, but Matt routinely sought out its coffees for Dex—from Haiti, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, even St. Vin cent, where a single coffee farmer was attempting to bring back the crop to his tiny island home.

Dex also depended on Matt to acquire one of the most expensive varieties of coffee on the planet: Jamaica Blue Mountain. Some roasters mixed JBM with less expensive beans to make a blend. But Jamaica Blue was such a smooth, mild brew that cutting it negated the entire reason for drinking it. My Village Blend JBM was pricey, but it was pure—which was one reason Dex dealt exclusively with us for that particular import.

Anyway, with the winter holidays Dex’s busiest and most profitable selling season, I was surprised to see him here this evening.

“And speakin’ of holidays,” Dexter continued. “This Blend of yours, she looks magical. The lights, the tree, the little jingle bells—to the fullness, sister!”

“Thank you,” I said.

“And this holiday latte—” Dexter raised his glass. “Sweet!”

“Sweet, huh?” Esther broke in. “Which one are you drinking? Because I still think Tucker’s candy cane concoction is borderline insipid.”

“Well, that one may be. But this one’s a marvel!”

Okay, now I was downright curious. It must have shown, because Matt caught my eye and explained.

“I asked Gardner to mix up Dex his Caribbean Black Cake from last night’s tasting.”

Dex took another sip. “The flavor of rum comes through first. Then the nutty sweetness of the brown sugar. And cinnamon is ticklin’ my tongue at the end, the way it tickled my nose at the beginnin’. I taste a note of heavy fruit flavor, too—”

“That’s the black currant syrup,” I said.

Dexter sipped again. “There’s a hint of somethin’ more. Somethin’ dark, sweet, earthy—”

“Chocolate.” I smiled. “Gard and I agreed that authentic black cake is so rich it tricks the taste buds into thinking chocolate is one of the ingredients; we compensated with a splash of my homemade chocolate syrup.”

“Clever! And what other flavors are you offerin’, Clare?” He glanced around the shop. “Where is your holiday menu?”

I shifted uneasily. “To tell you the truth: I had mixed feelings about putting it up. Something happened to a friend of mine last night and suddenly the whole Taste of Christmas thing feels... I don’t know... wrong .”