Клео Коул - Decaffeinated Corpse

I followed the girl into the crowded kitchen. We kept to the edges of the busy room, away from the ovens and grills.

“Here,” she said, shaking two pills into my palm. Then she poured me a cool glass of a syrupy golden beverage to take with the medicine. “Apricot nectar,” she explained.

She wasn’t much older than Joy, and she projected that same kind of sweetness I saw in my daughter, despite her pierced tongue and scarlet hair under a mesh net.

She pointed to the apricot drink. “My grandmother swears by the stuff.”

I knocked back the pills and the nectar, which actually did make me feel a little better. I thanked the girl and headed back upstairs, arriving just in time to help Tucker close the burgundy curtains that framed the plate glass windows. Ric wanted to block the stunning view of midtown skyscrapers so his audience would focus solely on his presentation.

As Tucker and I brought the curtains together, I glanced outside. Rain showers were moving in over the city, and dark clouds were forming all around us. The omen wasn’t lost on me.

Between Ellie abandoning Ric at the last minute and Matt causing a scene with a visiting dignitary, I had a dreadful premonition that the gathering clouds would bring more than one storm before the night was done.

“I’m sure everyone here knows that the market for decaffeinated coffee has exploded in the past few decades. One in five coffee consumers prefer it at least some of the time...”

While Ric spoke, I oversaw the preparation of the French presses at the bar. The Gostwick Estate beans had been burred in the kitchen to spare the guests any unpleasant noise. Now my baristas were pouring steaming water over the grounds, sending the aroma of the rich, earthy decaffeinated beans through the crowd.

“The decaffeination process was started in Germany over a century ago,” Ric continued. “Though effective, it is far from a perfect method.”

Ric was a natural salesman. He moved around the room with ease, holding the attention of a jaded audience, most of whom had heard more than their share of presentations and sales pitches.

“Refinements and new techniques have been made, but all of these technological processes—Swiss Water, Royal Select, the solvent method, or pressurized gas—rob the bean of its freshness and complexity, its pleasing gusto.” He stopped and grinned. “At my family’s estate in Brazil, I think we’ve discovered a better way.”

Matt stepped forward, holding the cutting. The sprig had been planted in a mocha-colored ceramic pot filled with topsoil. It seemed like such a small thing, yet it had the potential to transform the coffee industry, not to mention put processing plants in Switzerland and Mexico out of business.

“As you can see from this cutting, the hybrid I developed is not a typical arabica . I used another variety of the genus Coffea , crossbreeding and backcrossing with arabicas to create a wholly new, naturally decaffeinated variety of Coffea plant.”

Men and women stepped forward to examine the cutting. “I don’t have to tell you what this breakthrough will mean. Without the intervening technological process, decaffeinated coffee will reach the market more quickly. For the consumer, that means decaffeinated coffee that is fresher, cheaper, and far superior to the products currently available.”

While Ric spoke, my staff pressed the coffee and began to pour it into the Village Blend cups.

“With approximately a two percent caffeine content— which is less than the amount of caffeine in average decaffeinated arabica , and far lower than decaffeinated robusta products—this hybrid bean already has been certified as a caffeine-free product.”

Thanks to Tucker’s able choreography, my baristas moved with theatrical precision, fanning out into the crowd with their trays of cups, just as Ric’s sales pitch ended. “As for the taste? Please savor it now and judge for yourself.”

The audience members accepted their samples, and I soon heard ohs, ahs, and a growing buzz of excitement. I wasn’t surprised. Ric had a superior product and most of the people in this room were discerning enough to appreciate it.

Matt placed the cutting on a table in the center of the room. Ric stepped up to stand right next to it and spoke again. “The sample is here. Please feel free to take photos. I’ll be here with it, to answer any questions you may have.”

And make damn sure it doesn’t disappear, I thought, especially since it didn’t take long for the first round of cups to disappear. With each new round, people seemed more impressed. I could tell by the astonished expression on the faces of many that Ric Gostwick’s hybrid was a genuine hit.

Since this wasn’t a traditional cuptasting (i.e. the noisy slurping of pure, steeped coffee grinds, which were then spit out), we made sugar and cream available at the bar. Few guests used either.

While the participants enjoyed their second or third cup, I sent Gardner back to the piano, then grabbed Esther to help me pass out the prepared press kits. They included photos and a history of the Gostwick Estate in Brazil, photographs of an actual shrub, the cultivated fields, rows of mature plants, along with close-ups of the cutting, the cherries, and contact information. I’d seen the package earlier and thought Ric and Matt had done a thorough job.

“I know you all want to sample more after you leave here,” Ric said. “The good news is—you can. The first batch of my hybrid bean has already been shipped. You can sample it at the Village Blend here in New York City, and any Village Blend kiosk in the United States, Europe, or Canada. A new world of decaffeination is coming to the premium market in the next few weeks.”

A smattering of applause greeted the news. I returned to the bar to continue helping with the coffee service. Tucker had transferred a third round of French pressed brew to insulated carafes, and I moved around the room with Esther, refilling cups.

Along the way, I spied Joy. She looked lovely tonight with her hair smoothed into a grown-up French twist. Her makeup was a little heavier than usual, and the décolleté on her aquamarine dress was way too daring for my comfort level, but I said nothing. Why? Because I decided to at least try following Matt’s advice and start treating Joy like a grown up. If she chose to wear a plunging, borderline indiscreet neckline, that was her business, and I would keep my mouth shut about it.

I was delighted that she’d come at all. And I wondered where Chef Tommy Keitel was. She’d told Matt that he was coming, but I didn’t see anyone close to her age around her, and I feared the new wunderkind chef had bowed out on my daughter at the last minute.

With the press kits distributed, and Ric handling the questions while watching the cutting, everything seemed to be under control. Except Matteo, who was back to romancing his cell phone. I couldn’t believe it, but I spotted him in a secluded, corner booth with the thing pressed to his ear as he scribbled notes on a tiny pad.

Too busy and weary to argue with him again, I returned to the bar to refill an empty carafe, and found Dante Silva standing behind Tucker.

“Dante,” I said, “shouldn’t you be serving?”

The young man ran his hand over his shaved scalp, like he was combing back hair that wasn’t there. “I can’t go out there, Ms. Cosi. He’ll see me.”

“Who’ll see you?”

“That guy, over there,” Dante said, suddenly looking trapped, hunted, desperate—a little like Java when I put the little fur ball in a cage for a trip to the vet. “He works for the Times . Last week I met him at a gallery show. He said really great things about my work in the past. I... I kind of left him with the impression I was more successful than I am—”