Read Decaffeinated Corpse Online
Authors: Cleo Coyle
Tags: #Mystery And Suspense Fiction, #General, #Fiction, #Detective, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Fashion, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - General, #Coffeehouses, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Cosi; Clare (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction, #Restaurants - Employees
Decaffeinated Corpse (9 page)
“Matt?” I called.
“Yeah?” He turned, one hand still on the doorknob.
“Does Breanne know about Ric and his breakthrough?”
“Of course, she knows. I introduced them last week.”
“So you invited Bree to Friday’s launch tasting at the Beekman Hotel, right?”
“Her magazine is going to cover it.
Trend
is very influential. One article can have a tremendous impact.”
Trend
is very influential. One article can have a tremendous impact.”
Pillow-talk publicity,
I thought. “Did she, by any chance, know about Ric coming to the Blend tonight?”
I thought. “Did she, by any chance, know about Ric coming to the Blend tonight?”
“As a matter of fact, I was with her when I took the call from Ric earlier today. When he heard about my giving you his beans to taste test with our baristas, he said he wanted to drop by and see what they thought. Bree wanted me to go with her to some launch party tonight, but frankly I was happier coming to the Blend . . . until the mugging, that is.”
I nodded and began to wonder about Breanne. Could she have set Ric up? Sent someone to rob him or worse? What would be her motive if she had?
I gave Matt a halfhearted smile as I considered voicing these suspicions. But I knew he’d blow his top before I finished talking. And he’d most likely be right. Notwithstanding my total dislike for the woman, Breanne Summour just didn’t strike me as a criminal mastermind.
“See you tomorrow,” I told my ex.
The front door closed, and I stepped to the window, watched the sidewalk below until a dark-haired male head appeared. Breanne wasted no time. She threw her burning cigarette into the gutter. Laughing loudly enough for me to hear three floors away, she snaked her long, slender arms around my ex-husband’s neck and began passionately kissing him.
Matt’s body remained tense as she ground against him, but he didn’t push her away. His mouth moved over hers, and I knew what I was missing. Matt was an amazing kisser. A piece of me shifted with regret—but only a very little piece.
When he finally broke it off, he pointed to the Town Car. The two of them disappeared inside, and I watched the vehicle pull away. I continued watching until the misty gray shadows closed like a curtain on the car’s red tail-lights.
Letting go of the sheers, I frowned, trying to guess Bree’s endgame with my ex-husband. As long as he needed her influence, she could pull his strings.
But
, an annoying little voice nagged in my head,
what would happen if Ric’s breakthrough made Matt a fortune? Would he cut those strings completely? Was Breanne capable of quietly sabotaging Ric, just to make sure her prized boy toy didn’t flee the sandbox?
, an annoying little voice nagged in my head,
what would happen if Ric’s breakthrough made Matt a fortune? Would he cut those strings completely? Was Breanne capable of quietly sabotaging Ric, just to make sure her prized boy toy didn’t flee the sandbox?
The hearth’s fire was dying out, and the room had grown colder. I felt almost empty inside, hollowed out and exhausted. Rubbing my arms, I couldn’t help thinking of Mike Quinn. . . . Was he sleeping now? Missing his wife? His kids? His old home in Brooklyn? Could he possibly be lying in bed, thinking of me?
I cupped my hand against my cheek and chin, where he’d touched me earlier, and wondered if it had crossed his mind to touch more of me anytime soon.
I could certainly push things . . . but he was a trusted friend, and I didn’t want to lose that. I couldn’t risk misreading him, or—as Matt had advised me about my own daughter—if I pushed too hard, I could end up pushing him away. Then again, maybe Matt was speaking from his own experience with Breanne.
A sudden yawn put an end to my tortuous conjectures. I picked up my bowl, put it to my mouth, and guzzled the last dregs of Matt’s tangy ragout. Then I took the bowl to the kitchen, wiped my mouth on a paper towel, and headed up to bed.
At the top of the staircase, I remembered Ric. Quietly I opened the door to Matt’s room. I stepped a little way into the darkness. The light from the hallway splashed onto the bed pillows, illuminating Federico Gostwick’s ebony hair and handsome profile. I could see he was sleeping comfortably. His breathing sounded even, not labored, and I was glad. Then I closed the door and headed down the hall to my own bedroom.
“Attempted murder . . .”
Mike’s words came back to me as I stripped off my clothes and pulled the extra-large Steelers T-shirt over my head. I thought again of how much Matt and Ric looked like brothers, and my mind began to worry that fact . . .
If the person after Ric means to harm him and makes a mistake, could Matt end up in the crosshairs?
The vision of Ric in the cold, wet alley came back to me then. I saw the man’s slumped over body, but this time with Matt’s face. The image sent a sick chill through me.
Matt was my business partner and my child’s father. He and I were no longer husband and wife, but after all we’d been through together, I wasn’t prepared for any harm to come to him. Unfortunately, I’d blown his trust this evening when I’d admitted talking to Quinn.
But I haven’t blown it with Ric yet.
“Tomorrow morning,” I whispered, settling under the covers.
Matt will be at Bree’s, and I can talk to Ric without interference.
“One way or another,” I mumbled as my head hit the pillow, “I’m going to get my questions answered. . . .”
EIGHT
“HOW about a fresh pot?”
Ric nodded.
When it came to mornings, I didn’t consider myself conscious until I’d sucked down at least one mammoth cup of our Breakfast Blend. But Ric was off caffeine. At his request, I was about to brew up a pot of the Gostwick Estate Reserve Decaf in my apartment’s kitchen. Ric said he’d been researching decaf so long, he’d grown to prefer it.
Since I was going to use a standard drip method this time out, I set the burr grinder between coarse (for French presses) and fine (for espresso machines). I could almost hear Detective Mike Quinn’s voice over the grinder’s noisy whirring—
“You know, Cosi, you might want to dial that same setting for your interrogation. Too coarse, you’ll spook the subject. Too refined, you won’t get what you need. Aim for the middle . . .”
“You know, Cosi, you might want to dial that same setting for your interrogation. Too coarse, you’ll spook the subject. Too refined, you won’t get what you need. Aim for the middle . . .”
I’d already had hours to think about questioning Ric. I’d been up since five thirty, taking in the day’s bakery delivery downstairs and brewing urns of our Breakfast Blend.
“You can call me Clare,” I said, and not for the first time. “What are you doing here? You said you were running a fever last night.”
“I was, but I stayed in bed, slept it off . . . I’m good to go now, and I thought I’d make up the time by pulling a double shift today. I wouldn’t want to lose this job, you know? Rents are tough around here, even with the three of us in the two bedroom.”
Dante lived on the Lower East Side near Teany (the recording artist Moby’s restaurant) in a two bedroom apartment he shared with two female friends from college. He said each of the girls had their own bedroom and he spent most of his nights on the sofabed in the living room. “Most” of his nights had a sort of
Big Love
bigamist ring to it, but I never pried.
Big Love
bigamist ring to it, but I never pried.
In the course of his barista chatting, I’d overheard him talk about a pipe dream of purchasing his own Soho loft— a pretty common wish for young painters who come to the big bad city expecting a sun-washed studio. The reality check, of course, was more than obvious with one glance at the
Times
real estate section. Those legendary spaces were priced for investment banker types, not aspiring artists working part-time at coffeehouses.
Times
real estate section. Those legendary spaces were priced for investment banker types, not aspiring artists working part-time at coffeehouses.
“Dante, calling in sick every now and then isn’t going to get you fired,” I assured him. “But I’m glad you’re here. Apron up.”
“Excellent.”
He clapped his hands and came around the counter. Stepping into the pantry area, he removed the backward Red Sox baseball cap from his shaved head and peeled off his long flannel shirt, revealing more than a few tattoos on his ropey arms. I actually liked his pieces of skin art. My favorites were the demitasse on the top of his left wrist and a Picasso-esque Statue of Liberty on his right forearm.
The day I’d met him, I’d asked what was up with the body art, and he admitted, with a great deal of pride, that he’d designed every tattoo he displayed. As a painter, he said he wasn’t about to let anyone else stain the canvas of his own skin.
A new crowd of customers flowed into the store, and I put Dante on the espresso machine. “Take a few practice runs.”
“Don’t need to, Ms. Cosi,” he said, tying on the Village Blend apron.
“Humor me, Dante. Take them.”
To me, espresso-making was an art. Like a perfectionist painter, a superior barista was one who exhibited an expert hand and palate. From day to day, adjustments needed to be made. Even the weather was a factor. High humidity meant the espressos could run slower, and the beans would have to be ground somewhat coarser. Lower humidity meant the espressos could run faster, so a finer grind was required.
I didn’t want one single inferior demitasse served under my watch, which was why I insisted Dante make some test shots. As I supervised, he ran through the process.
Initially, I’d been wary of Dante. When he’d approached me three weeks earlier, asking after employment, the guy’s tattoos made me wonder just how fringe he was. I’d already lost two part-timers in two months, and I didn’t want to spend time training someone who would start bugging out on shifts. But then he began talking, and I could see he was articulate, intelligent, and (this capped it) he’d already been trained. In his teen years, he’d worked at a coffeehouse in Providence, so he was an old hand at making Italian coffee drinks, not to mention handling thirsty urbanites with caffeine deficits.
During his first week, he was a little rusty at applying even pressure at the tamping stage. At least thirty pounds of pressure is needed when tamping down the freshly ground coffee beans into the portafilter—and if the cake of grounds is uneven when steaming water is forced through it, you’re in for some nasty business. Water takes the path of least resistance, so the lower side of an uneven cake would end up over-extracted (too much water passing through), the higher side under-extracted (not enough water), and the result is a vile little schizoid cup I’d be embarrassed to serve to a paying customer.
Today there were no such problems. I sampled both of Dante’s shots. The first was the tiniest bit over-extracted, but the second was perfect—from the viscosity to the roasty, caramelly flavor of the crema (that beautiful, nut brown liquid that separates from the ebony espresso like the head of a freshly tapped Guinness).
We worked in tandem after that. I greeted customers, manned the register, watched the levels on the Breakfast Blend urns. Dante pulled espressos and kept the stainless steel pitchers of milk steamed and frothed. Then we switched positions.
“I’m glad you came by, Dante.”
“No problem.”
“I still need two, even three more part-timers for coverage.I ended up closing last night, and I’m still dragging this morning.”
“Why did you close? Wasn’t Tucker scheduled for that?”
“Yes, but . . .” I stopped my running mouth. After letting my guard down with Matt, I wasn’t about to start spewing last evening’s details to my newest barista. “A friend of mine dropped by and our chatting ran late, so I just let Tucker go early.”
“A friend? You mean that cop, don’t you?”
“Detective Quinn. Yes.”
Dante nodded. “Well, I guess you’re right then. It’s a good thing I came by . . .”
When Tucker arrived at seven fifty, the real morning crush began. We were soon swamped, with a line out the door until ten thirty. As the crowd finally thinned, I left the two of them alone with a vague excuse about needing to complete some paperwork. Then I headed upstairs with a basket of freshly baked muffins.
“Mmmm . . .” Ric murmured as he chewed and swallowed. “What nut am I tasting here? Wait. I can tell you . . .” He took another bite, closed his eyes. “Hazelnut?”
“That’s right.”
“Quite delightful, Clare . . . very rich texture.”
“Sour cream. That’s the secret.”
As I brewed Ric’s un-coffee, I continued with the general chit-chat, asking after his injury (it ached, but he would live), his night’s sleep (very restful, thank you), and his trip here from Brazil (the JFK customs processing was detestable). Then I poured him a cup of his “why bother?” and started bothering—with the real questions.
“Did Matt happen to mention that I’ve had some pretty good luck investigating”—
how do I put it?
I thought— “suspicious things?”
how do I put it?
I thought— “suspicious things?”
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