Клео Коул - Murder Most Frothy

At the top of the staircase a massive clock was set into the wall. This mosaic timepiece, fashioned from sheets of translucent quartz and colored stones, was a homage to the central motif of the now defunct La Café Costes, right down to the movement of the clock’s arms, which spun around twenty-four times every hour.

David assumed this bizarre Alice in Wonderland feature was a nod to the surrealists. To me it seemed a fairly obvious statement about the nature of caffeine.

The narrow mezzanine circled the entire restaurant. Along with additional seating, the upstairs featured a cherrywood bar, a spectacular view of the main dining room below, and an eye-level view of the huge brass-and-glass chandelier that dangled from the high ceiling.

Crossing the dining room, I walked over to the first floor’s open coffee bar.

Over the years, the crimes I’d seen upscale restaurants commit against the bean truly made me shudder. Leaving pots to simmer on burners until the liquid had the consistency of muddy tar. Serving customers espressos in cold cups. Frothing cappuccinos with steam wands that hadn’t been properly cleaned. Filling stacks of paper filters with pre-ground coffee and allowing it to sit around aerating for hours before brewing. (The moment you grind your beans, they begin to lose their freshness.)

As Cuppa J’s barista manager/drill sergeant, I’d pretty much browbeaten every waiter and waitress into following the holy rituals of high-quality coffee service.

With my clipboard in hand, I was very pleased to note that the area had been left shipshape by the previous evening’s closers. The espresso machine had been properly cleaned, demitasses neatly stacked on top; the coffee canisters were left tightly sealed; and the French presses were lined up in formation on the cherrywood shelves like good little soldiers of sparkling glass.

I checked the contents of the coffee canisters. There were twenty in all, each holding a different blend or single-origin coffee featured on our menu. Back in the city, we did micro-roasting daily in the shop. In my weekly trips back to the city, I’d create the roasts needed at Cuppa J, then transport the whole beans back here in vacuum-sealed bags.

I began making careful notes on the levels in each canister. Which ones needed replenishing? Which ones weren’t moving? This data would be fed into the computer where I’d created a program to track customer favorites.

“Ms. Cosi, will you be finished soon?”

I let out a reactive yelp of surprise. Papas had crept up on me. There was no other way to describe it. One second I was alone, the next he was there, right next to me.

Others had joked about this phenomenon. Colleen O’Brien likened him to the ghost of Squire Malone, a legendary Irish haunter from her home county. Graydon Faas, a fan of Anime, maintained that the manager’s ability to spring upon an employee the moment he made a mistake must mean he’s housing a secret teleportation device in that office of his that he seldom let anyone enter. I could believe it.

“I’m almost through,” I told Papas. “We’re really low on the Mocha Java. Probably because it’s a dark roast, so I’m pairing it with the chocolate soufflé and the flourless chocolate-kahlua cake, and chocolate’s the most reliably popular dessert flavor. I have more MJ in the basement, but not enough to get us through Sunday brunch. I guess I’ll call the Blend and have Tucker send some through our delivery service.”

Thinking out loud was something I did when nervous and Papas was a guy who made me very nervous. He stared at me for a long silent moment. This was an annoying habit of his: you spoke, he stared, answering in his own good time.

“Very well then, call your people,” he replied at last. Then he checked his watch. “I must run an errand. I will be gone for an hour, no more.”

“That’s fine. When the wait staff starts arriving, I’ll put them to work dressing the dining room tables. By the way, have you heard from Prin about her family emergency? Do you think there’s a chance she’ll be back before Monday?”

The man’s frown deepened. “No.”

Poor girl , I thought, assuming the worst. “Is there a death in her family? Is that the emergency? Maybe I should give her a call and ask if—”

Papas cut me off. “That won’t be necessary. Prin won’t be back.”

I blinked. “Really? What happened?”

Jacques Papas looked away. “David Mintzer happened. He personally fired the young woman a few days ago. Gave her the boot without even a letter of recommendation. Left me short of help, I can tell you. And in the middle of the season.”

“But two days ago you yourself told the staff she’d left on a family emergency. We assumed she’d be back.”

Papas shook his head. “That was a lie that David made me pass along to everyone because he didn’t want anyone else in his employ to know he’d fired her. David loves to be loved, you know. But at times he can be an indiscriminate bastard.”

It was now my turn to fall silent and stare. “Do you know the reason for Prin’s dismissal?” I finally asked.

The manager shook his head. “No. David doesn’t like to be questioned, Ms. Cosi—surely you’ve seen that side of him.”

With that, I couldn’t argue.

“I have worked for two decades in restaurant management,” Papas continued. “And I do find that the stick gets much better results than the carrot. But I would never have fired Prin. Not when we’re so shorthanded.”

I nodded, not quite sure what to say.

“I’d appreciate your remaining discreet with this information,” Papas pointedly added. “The only reason I’m telling you is to stop you from wasting time pursuing Ms. Lopez. Now you know there’s no reason to call the girl.” Papas glanced at his Rolex. “I have to go.”

After the manager departed, I took a deep breath and made use of the espresso machine in front of me. What I badly needed at the moment was a shot (excuse the pun).

Last night, I found out that Treat Mazzelli was secretly bedding every girl on the Cuppa J wait staff—Prin Lopez being one of the first to get shagged and dumped. Now I find out she’s been dumped a second time in the middle of the busy Hamptons season by David Mintzer himself.

If that wasn’t enough to make a girl a little angry, I didn’t know what would be. But how angry? As I sent whole beans of our espresso blend through the grinder, then tamped, clamped, and extracted the essence of the beans into a shot glass, I considered this question.

I’d found Prin to be a consummate professional on the job. But Suzi Tuttle maintained the girl had one hell of a temper off it. I remember an animated story Suzi had told in the break room about how Prin “went totally postal” at a Hamptons nightclub. A pretty hostess from a Southampton restaurant dissed Prin in some way at the crowded bar. The fight escalated from verbal to physical, with Prin pulling handfuls of the girl’s hair out. The bouncer had to be called in to stop it and ejected them both.

It was very hard for me to believe that Prin herself would have gone “totally postal” by stalking and shooting Treat Mazzelli—whether she’d been trying to get revenge on Treat himself, or David, or both of them. It was equally hard to believe she may have persuaded some gangbanger friend from her South Bronx neighborhood to do it.

But Prin’s firing was unexpected, and I wanted to talk to her. I downed the espresso, absorbing the rich, warm, nutty essence of the darkly roasted Arabica beans in one fortifying hit. Then I dried my hands and went back to the break room. An employee schedule was posted on the wall next to the door. Next to Prin’s name was a cell phone number. I dialed it and got a voicemail message.