Клео Коул - Murder Most Frothy

“Look, Mom, look. See him over by the pool? He winked at me. He totally, actually winked . At me .”

“Uh-huh,” I said as I dosed freshly milled Arabicas into the portafilter cup. I tamped the ground beans in tightly, swept the excess from the rim, used the handle to clamp the portafilter securely into the espresso machine and hit the start button to begin the extraction process.

“And why is that a ‘good thing’?” I asked Joy.

A number of Famous types—actors, pop stars, writers, television personalities—lived in or near the Village, and I’d served them many a grande latte. But even before my time, the coffeehouse’s revered owner and my ex-mother-in-law, Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois, had regularly served some of the most famous members of the Beat generation, from Jack Kerouac to Lenny Bruce, Willem de Koonig to James Dean. So I was far more jaded than my daughter about “celebrity sightings.”

“C’mon, Mom. Don’t tell me you don’t know who Keith Judd is.”

“Oh, I know who he is, honey. Star of slick spy thrillers, right? He landed a courtroom drama role that got him an Oscar nod this year. Hunk of the moment.”

“Hottie, Mom. Hunk is old school.”

With a groan, I finished pulling the two espresso shots, dumped the dark liquid into a waiting blender, added crushed ice, milk, chocolate syrup, and a dash of vanilla syrup, then took the whole thing for a spin on high. I poured the “Iced ChocoLattes” (as we called them at the Village Blend) into two glass mugs, mounded the frothy drinks with chocolate whipped cream and chocolate shavings, and waved Graydon Faas over to the outdoor espresso station.

Like my daughter, Graydon was a member of David’s Cuppa J waitstaff working tonight’s party. A surf-crazy twentysomething with a brown buzz-cut streaked blond, Graydon was the tall, silent type. With a quick, nervous-looking glance at Joy, he picked up the frothy drinks and walked them over to the two waiting guests who’d ordered them.

“Okay,” I told my daughter. “Hottie then. What I want to know is why you think I’d be happy to hear that a man at least as old as my ancient forty years, is winking at my twenty-one-year-old daughter?”

Joy rolled her eyes. “Because he’s a big star.”

“Honey, half the faces here have been on the cover of Trend magazine and the other half have been profiled in the Wall Street Journal . Didn’t you study Chaucer back in high school? The House of Fame has dubious structural integrity.”

“I don’t care. He’s cute.”

“Who’s cute?” said Treat Mazzelli, walking up to Joy and throwing a muscular arm around her shoulders. “Talking about moi again?”

Another Cuppa J waiter, Treat was in his mid-twenties. He had flashing brown eyes, raven hair, and the stocky, muscular build of a weightlifter. He was also an outspoken guy who loved to use his flirty sense of humor on the younger females of the species.

“What an ego,” teased Joy. “I wasn’t talking about you . I was talking about Keith Judd. He winked at me.”

I grunted in disgust and shook my head. Treat noticed my reaction. “Relax, Mother Clare,” he teased. “I saw the whole ‘Keith Judd’ incident.”

I raised an eyebrow. “It’s an incident , is it?”

Joy smirked at Treat. “What did you see?”

He shrugged. “Just Joy staring at Judd with naked abandon. Can you say ‘obvious’? The guy was clearly shining her on. Apparently, he’s used to groupies like her.”

“I am not a groupie.” Joy’s voice held mock outrage, but I could see the little flirty smile forming as she eyeballed Treat. “Yeah, okay, so I was probably staring. But at least I didn’t drop the tray, okay? Give me credit for that.”

“Okay, sweet thing.” Treat laughed. “Here’s your credit.”

The two were about the same height and he easily tightened his arm around her neck, trying to pull her into a half-nelson so he could buff her head. But Joy was too quick for him. With a squeal, she slipped out of his grip.

“Do not. Repeat. Do not touch the hair!”

Treat rolled his eyes. “What up, princess? It’s just a ponytail?”

“A neat ponytail,” Joy pointed out. “I don’t want you mussing it.”

“Check it, baby. You haven’t lived till you had Treat muss you…just a little, what do you say? After the party?” He reached out to tug her hair.

Joy flipped her chestnut ponytail out of his reach, but I could see she was enjoying the game—a little too much.

So I cleared my throat—a little too loudly.

“You two better get some more trays circulating or Madame may flog you with her Gucci shoe.”

“Aye, aye, Barista Bligh.” With a salute for me and an exaggerated wink for Joy, Treat headed off to the kitchen, where my French-born ex-mother-in-law was reigning supreme as the “Culinary Queen,” as Treat had put it earlier in the evening.

One thing about Madame, whether she was in a vintage Oscar de la Renta or a béarnaise-stained apron, she maintained a regal bearing like nobody’s business. And for a woman pushing eighty, she often displayed more upbeat energy than I could muster at the end of the day. I was glad she’d come out to visit me and her granddaughter—and even happier she’d volunteered to manage the mansion’s kitchen tonight, making sure our waiters and waitresses properly arranged their trays and kept the prepared food flowing.

Joy watched Treat head back inside the mansion. “C’mon, Mom, give me a chance to impress Keith Judd. Whip me up something extra-special to take to him.”

“No.”

“Pleeeeeze.” Joy tapped her cheek. “How about your eight-layered chocolate-almond espresso!”

The eight-layered espresso was a complicated balance of physics—it required the careful pouring of heavier syrups and lighter liquids to create a beautiful-looking drink. It was my own version of a café pousson, that multi-layered cocktail of liquors of different colors and densities, which originated in New Orleans. Since the French translation of the drink is “push coffee,” and since they say a true café pousson separates the men from the boys where bartenders are concerned, I decided to create one using actual coffee. But the last thing I wanted to do was use my talents to help my daughter impress a womanizing thespian.

“That’s a hot drink,” I told her. “I’m making iced tonight.”

“Come on,” Joy pleaded. “He’ll love a hot drink. The weather’s cooling off now anyway.”

My daughter’s eyes were as wide as emerald moons. Like a little girl she wanted what she wanted when she wanted it. So what did I do? What any self-respecting American mom would do. I sighed, shook my head, and gave in.

“Okay,” I said. “But how about a Tropical Coffee Frappe instead?” Rum and coconut had made that one a favorite of tonight’s guests.

“No. Not special enough.”

“An Amaretto Iced Coffee Smoothie?” Kahlua and amaretto gave that one a kick.

“No.”

“Please do the eight-layer thing. He’ll love it! Please , Mom!”

“Okay, but it’ll take a few minutes of concentration. You take over mixing the cold drinks for guests until I finish.”

“Deal!”

About fifteen minutes after Joy delivered my “hot” version of a café pousson cocktail to the “hottie” actor, the fireworks began.

I always was a sucker for July Fourth displays. When my ex and I had been happily married—for a few years there, when Joy was still very young and things hadn’t gone totally to hell yet—we would put Joy in a stroller and go over to the FDR drive in Manhattan. The city closed the highway off so residents could line the East River from Harlem to the South Street Seaport and watch the most spectacular fireworks display in the country. The rockets would shoot off from barges floating in the river. Ice cream, hot dog, and shish-kabob vendors would supply the crowd with delicious street fare, and portable radios would provide broadcasts of synchronized music.