Клео Коул - On What Grounds

“It’s ready,” I murmured, pulling away.

“Let it boil,” said Matt, capturing my lips again.

Given my happy position in Matt’s arms, not to mention my level of almost-forgotten arousal, I didn’t have it in me to protest. Sure, my logical, pragmatic self knew this was really, really stupid. But I wasn’t listening to that self at this moment.

“Let’s go upstairs,” whispered Matt.

I nodded.

He reached over and turned off the burner, took my hand, and led me through the living room. Maybe, if the phone hadn’t rung, things would have turned out differently that evening. But the phone did ring.

“Let it go,” said Matt.

“It could be Joy,” I said, and he nodded, picking it up himself.

“Hello?” he said. He listened for a minute, then his face fell. His eyes met mine. “It’s Dr. Foo,” he said. “Anabelle didn’t make it, Clare. She just died.”

“Good night, Tucker,” I said an hour later. “Go home and get some sleep. The Sunday morning shift is a busy one.”

“No way, Sugar,” Tucker replied. “You went to the ball, now it’s this Cinderella’s turn to par-tee.”

With a wave, Tucker disappeared into the night.

I locked the front door and made myself one last espresso shot. I was so tired, I actually left the grounds in the portafilter, telling myself I’d clean it properly and take the last bag of garbage out in the morning. This was a real breach for me, but hey, I was the boss and it had been one rough night.

I stirred a bit of sugar into the demitasse cup, drank it down, then headed up the stairs to the small office on the second floor, the day’s receipts tucked under my arm. I switched on the halogen lamp above my desk, then stepped up to the small black safe set in the stone wall. The safe had a brass dial, handle, and trim and had served as the sole vault for the Blend’s valuables for over one hundred years.

On the right side of the safe hung a sepia-tinted photograph of a man with dark, intense eyes and a rakish mustache—a turn-of-the-century portrait of the Allegro family patriarch, Antonio Vespasian Allegro.

On the left side of the safe hung a glass display case that held a worn, stained, century-old ledger book that was said to contain the secret Allegro family coffee recipes—painstakingly recorded by the hand of Antonio Vespasian and entrusted to succeeding generations of Allegros.

I paused, staring intently at the photograph of Matteo’s great grandfather. I recognized the strong chin, the hint of arrogance, and the undeniable intelligence in the man’s eyes—they belonged to Matteo, too.

In many ways, marrying into the Allegro family was akin to entering a secret society, like the Freemasons, the Illuminati—or the Mafia. Secrets, secrets, and more secrets…about the family business, the specialty beans, the roasting process, the one-of-a-kind blends.

Short of taking a blood-oath of omerta , I was beginning to suspect I was in for life. Madame was certainly doing her best to make it so. And judging from his actions tonight, so was Matteo.

Shaking off these thoughts, I opened the safe, stuffed the day’s receipts into it, closed it again, and spun the tumbler. I was exhausted and ready for bed— alone. I’d made that conviction clear to Matt after I’d finished crying about Anabelle…

The news of her death shocked me to my senses, and though Matt had been upset, too, he saw no reason why we couldn’t find comfort in each other’s arms, between a clean set of sheets.

I gently reminded him of our divorce. And the reasons for our divorce.

This led to his accusing me of being scared to give him another chance, which I didn’t dispute.

The fact that I didn’t dispute it set him to stewing, but I got the impression he hadn’t given up quite yet. He still had a few days to work on me after all, before he’d be flying off to South America, or Africa, or Asia, or god knows where his next plantation appointment was.

I tearfully made the point that his coffee brokering might be the best thing for him to concentrate on right now since the Blend could very well be lost forever.

Anabelle was dead. That was awful enough in itself. But there were undeniable repercussions—

She’d never be able to tell us who, if anyone, had pushed her down the stairs. There would be an autopsy, but Dr. Foo didn’t think it would prove anything. The hospital had already done a thorough exam, blood tests, everything. Beyond bruises that could be attributed to her fall, what more could be learned?

No, Anabelle’s stepmother would be swooping in with a vulture of a lawyer in no time. We were ripe for the picking, that was certain.

I sighed. Regardless of this legendary coffeehouse’s future, the Blend was still my responsibility tonight, and I had one more thing to check on before I could finally crawl into bed and cry some more.

Earlier I had asked Tucker to clear some space near the roasters if he found the time. Matteo’s first shipment of Peruvian coffee was due to arrive early tomorrow morning. (That little announcement at dinner about greenlighting the shipment with his Palm Pilot was just a ploy; he’d greenlighted the order weeks ago.) Now bags and bags of raw beans would have to be stored in the cellar until they were roasted.

Unfortunately, I forgot to ask Tucker if he’d got the job done. Now I would have to go down into that dark, scary basement and check for myself.

I closed the office, crossed the length of the Blend’s darkened second floor, weaving through the bohemian clutter of mismatched sofas, chairs, and lamps, and descended the stairs to the first floor.

On the landing above the basement steps, I hit the light switch. Down in the cellar, there was a bright flash, then a loud pop—damn, the stairway’s bulb had blown.

A whole bank of fluorescent lights had been installed to illuminate the basement roasting area, but the switch that controlled them was down there in the darkness.

I almost threw up my hands right then, but I suddenly got worried there might be a short circuit or something. I didn’t want to top off this perfect week by burning the whole place down, so I grabbed a flashlight and a new bulb from the pantry area just off the landing.

With one hand on the wooden rail, I carefully walked down the stairs, acutely aware that Anabelle had taken her fatal plunge right here. My footsteps echoed in the stairwell as I moved, and I breathed a whole lot easier once my foot touched the concrete basement floor.

The area was pitch black, but the light socket was just at the bottom of the steps. As I fumbled to find it with the flashlight, I heard a sound. The hardwood creaked above my head. It creaked again. Footsteps.

Someone was walking across the floor inside the Blend.

Matt? I thought. But that was highly unlikely. Although he’d offered to help me close tonight, I made it clear I wanted some space from him to think. He’d announced that he, therefore, had no choice but to sulk.

I froze, hearing the steps again. They were very tentative, which told me it most certainly wasn’t Matt. If my headstrong ex-husband was anything, it was not tentative.

Who could it be then?

I held my breath, trying to remember if I’d locked the shop’s front and back doors. I had. I was sure of it. But I hadn’t set the burglar alarm.

I tried not to panic. I knew I was trapped. There was no telephone down here, no way to call the police and the only other way out was the trapdoor to the sidewalk, which was bolted from the outside as well as the inside. If there was an intruder up there, the only thing I could do was stay down here until he was gone and hope he didn’t find me.