Клео Коул - Latte Trouble

“That Mattari smells heavenly,” said Matt.

I grunted in reply.

It remained quiet after that, though silence between Matteo and I was not unusual, having been together—and apart—so much in our lives. Matt stood and retrieved two mugs from the cupboard and a pint of cream from the fridge. The cream was a gesture. He always drank his coffee black. After pouring both cups, he splashed cream into mine and set it down in front of me.

“Nice crop this year,” he said. “Sweet, fruity, nice depth.”

The Mocha Yemen Mattari was a single-origin coffee; that is, it was unblended with any other bean and simply came straight from its country of origin, in this case the country of Yemen and the region of Mattari. The “mocha” aspect of the name referred not to “chocolate” as in your average mochaccino, but the port from which the coffee was originally exported. If you mixed these beans with Java arabicas , then you’d have Mocha Java, the oldest known of the coffee blends.

I took in the piquant aroma, the warmth, the earthy richness, but none of it was reviving me.

“So,” sighed Matteo, breaking another long silence. “Why do you think he did it?”

“Who…did what?”

“Come on, Clare. Why do you think Tucker poisoned that guy? A lover’s quarrel? I never thought of Tucker as all that tempestuous. But you never know, I guess.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“What?”

“Do you really believe Tucker Burton is a murderer?”

Matteo sat back in his chair. “If not Tucker, then who?”

I set my mug down hard enough to rattle the small table. “That’s what I intend to find out.”

Matteo closed his eyes. “Oh, please, Clare. Not again.”

“Not what again?”

“You know. That Nancy Drew thing of yours. This time would you please call that Irish flatfoot,…what’s his name? Flanagan?”

“Quinn!”

“Fine. Call Quinn.”

“I did already, but he didn’t answer his cell and he’s not even in the city. He’s on leave. Family trouble.”

“Oh.”

“Matt, I can’t believe you could think Tucker would do anything like this. Why did you help him if you think he’s a killer?”

“I…I don’t know. Tucker’s a nice guy, and he works for the business my great grandfather started—my family’s business—and for that I feel like he’s part of the family. And everyone has a right to a fair trial.”

“But you do think he’s guilty.”

For a full minute, Matteo just sipped his coffee and mulled over his response. Finally, he sighed. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to believe it yourself, but yes, Clare, I think Tucker is guilty.”

Two hours later, I was stunned when I came downstairs. Esther was there. She’d used her key to get in, and had already opened the pastry case in anticipation of the morning bakery delivery. Though she seemed her old cynical self, Esther’s face was pale and her thick glasses could not hide the redness behind them.

Moira arrived fifteen minutes later. She looked delicate in the harsh morning sun and I suspected she’d had as sleepless a night as Esther and I. When she complained of a headache but declined any aspirin because of an allergy, I knew I should send her home—but I needed the help. She was carrying the morning edition of the Post , the only paper that had put the murder on the front page—the others had placed it on inside pages. “Lethal Latte” was the headline on a sketchy story stating “a suspect had been detained but not yet charged.” I knew that would change later in the day.

After we looked over the paper, I sat Moira and Esther down. Over coffee, I told them what Matteo had told me—that Tucker spent the night in jail and would be arraigned later today with a lawyer present. Of course, I left out the fact that my ex-husband thought Tucker was guilty.

“How could this have happened?” Esther moaned.

“That’s what I want to figure out,” I replied. “We were all here when it happened. Let’s try to recall exactly what took place and who was present.”

I rose and stepped to the customer side of the coffee bar. “I was standing here. Then I walked around the counter and checked the fridge for soy milk. When I didn’t find any, I went downstairs to bring some up from storage.”

Esther stepped up to stand next to me. “Before you left, I was standing next to you.”

“And after I left? What did you do?”

“I hung out a little longer. Then I went back out on the floor to collect more used mugs and napkins.”

“Moira?” I asked. “What do you remember about that time?”

“Well, Ms. Cosi, I was behind Tucker, who was pulling espressos. There was a whole line of them right here on the counter, in the tall glass latte mugs.” She pointed to the space. Moira, Esther, and I exchanged glances. We were all thinking the same thing.

“Those mugs were in easy reach. Anyone in this area of the coffee bar could have tampered with one of them,” I pointed out.

“A lot of people moved by that area,” said Esther.

“Then anyone could have done it!” Moira cried.

“Hold on, calm down,” I replied. “Let’s try to recall who was at the bar during the specific time when Tucker was making that latte. Think. Who did you see sitting or standing here between the time I went downstairs and came back up.”

“That Lloyd Newhaven character,” said Esther. “That’s the reason you went downstairs in the first place—to get soy milk for his latte.”

“Right,” I said. “Wait.” I ducked into the pantry near our back door and grabbed an inventory checklist, then I returned to the counter, pulled a pen from my pocket, and wrote Lloyd’s name on the blank back. “Okay,” I said. “What else do you two remember?”

“After you went downstairs,” recalled Moira, “a woman came up to talk with Lloyd.”

“What did she look like?” I asked.

“She was tall, had long black, straight hair—really long, like down to her hips. And she was all in violet. I think she was Asian.”

That sounded to me like one of the women whom Lloyd had escorted into the party. “Did you happen to notice if she had violet eyes, too?” I asked.

“I think she did,” said Moira.

“She did,” said Esther. “I came back and forth to the counter while I was collecting dirty mugs. And I saw her, too.”

“She’s a friend of Lloyd’s,” I told them, jotting down a few more notes. “That much I know, but not much else because she came as Lloyd’s guest, and his was the only name on the invitation. Who else do you remember coming up to the coffee bar?”

“There was a male model type,” said Esther.

“And what did he look like?” I asked.

Esther closed her eyes. “Dyed white-blond hair…crew cut…white T-shirt, black leather jacket and pants, bike chains, a wristband with studs—”

“Excuse me? Did you say studs?”

Esther opened her eyes and nodded. “He had this whole Billy Idol thing going.”

“Billy Idol, that’s right!” I cried. “I remember seeing him in the crowd. How old would you say he looked?”

“Oh, young,” said Esther. “Maybe twenty. Eighties retro is the new trend.”

“Oh, geez,” I said, scribbling away. “The twenty-year cycle continues.”

“What’s that?” asked Esther.

“When I was in high school, the fifties had made a come-back…you know, with Laverne and Shirley and Happy Days .”

“Happy what?” asked Moira.

“It was a TV show,” Esther informed her. “Ron Howard was in it.”

Moira’s brow wrinkled. “The movie director?”

I sighed. “Okay, do either of you remember anyone else?”