by Клео Коул
Decaffeinated Corpse
( Coffeehouse Mysteries - 5 )
Клео Коул
When an old friend of her ex-husband develops the world's first botanically decaffeinated coffee bean and smuggles it into the country, Clare Cosi, manager of Village Blend, believes it's a business opportunity she needs to investigate...at least until the first dead body shows up.
Cleo Coyle
Decaffeinated Corpse
This book is dedicated with affection and admiration
to a brilliant sister and a fellow java lover—
Grace Alfonsi, M.D.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to the woman and man behind the curtain—Editor Katie Day and Literary Agent John Talbot
“Even a bad cup of coffee is better than no coffee at all.”
—David Lynch
Prologue
IN 1862 New York instituted its first gun control law, banning rifles to discourage hunting within the city limits. Over one hundred and fifty years later, at least one hunter failed to be discouraged.
Strolling along the wet, wide sidewalk of Sixth Avenue, this particular hunter found stalking prey a simplistic pursuit. Actually overtaking it, however, was a trickier matter. Unlike mouse or bird or lesser mammal, this prey wasn’t small, and it wasn’t weak. This prey was at least six feet in height and possessed muscles enough to fight back should it feel threatened.
Street after street, the two walked, pursuer and pursued, the little covert parade taking them from quiet Perry to bustling Bleecker then picturesque Grove, by pizzerias, novelty shops, bistros, bookstores, and boutiques.
The setting sun had swept in a passing storm, killing the reassuring warmth of the clear October day. Having failed to dress for the weather, the hunter shivered. The newly purchased windbreaker and Yankee cap were thin protection against the rapidly plunging temperature. But conditions weren’t all bad. The location, at least, was an advantageous place to tail a pedestrian.
The narrow, winding lanes of this small historic district weren’t nearly as congested as other parts of Manhattan— downtown’s glass-and-steel Financial District, for instance, or the sardine-packed sidewalks of Midtown with its hordes of tourists stopping dead to take cell phone photos of twenty-story digital billboards and send them god knew where.
Here in this quaint little town within a town, genteel residents roved at their leisure, walking groomed dogs, carting home groceries, clustering on corners to chat with neighbors. All obstacles were easy enough to dart around in pursuit of the moving target, and the elegant brick row houses provided ample doorways to hide should the prey decide to double back.
But the prey never did. Not once did he glance over the shoulder of his fine suede jacket. With the compact umbrella now collapsed at his side, the dashing, accomplished, ebony-haired entrepreneur strode forward with confidence, even arrogance, like a bullet seeking a bull’s-eye. He walked the way he lived his life, unmindful of the people around him, his primary concern penetrating the path ahead.
Before one last corner was turned, toward the Village Blend, the hunter pulled on the ski mask, then shoved down all remaining reservations, along with the bill of the brand new Yankee cap. Reaching into a jacket pocket, chilled fingers found cold courage—the hard handle of an unlicensed .38.
My little leveler, the hunter thought, less than a pound of metal, but with it the balance of power is about to tip in my favor...
One
For some of my customers, Greenwich Village is more a time than a place. They remember my neighborhood when Bob Dylan was young, when Allen Ginsberg howled poetry, Andy Warhol shot avant-garde films, and Sam Shepard waited tables while scribbling award-winning plays.
A few really old school hipsters like to go back even further (with or without the help of modern chemistry), to the days when rents for a one-bedroom flat were one hundred dollars a month, instead of the current two thousand, and Edward Albee was making a living delivering telegrams while he wrote Zoo Story. They see a young Marlon Brando, in black leather cruising the cobblestone streets on his motorcycle, and James Dean whiling away his hours at the Rienze coffeehouse that was once on MacDougal.
I certainly understand the appeal of mental time travel. Back then, the Village was the “Paris of New York,” a passionate little bohemia, where hundreds of artists toiled in garret studios beside working-class immigrants. Poets scribbled all day and recited their masterpieces in cafes the same night, and young men and women, wearing black turtlenecks, argued intensely for hours about Nietzsche and Sartre over espressos and cigarettes.
These days, starving artists are living in the working class neighborhoods of Brooklyn and Queens. Any poets residing in the landmark, ivy-covered townhouses between Fourteenth and West Fourth are either drawing down trust fund annuities or temping for Wall Street law firms. And although young men and women still do argue for hours over espressos in my coffeehouse, cigarettes now carry a twenty-eight point violation by New York City’s Department of Health and Mental Hygiene.
On the other hand, the caffeinated heart of Greenwich Village hasn’t flatlined yet. Fueled by cabarets and bistros, Off-Broadway Theaters, and flamboyant gay pride, my neighborhood remains one of the most alive and eclectic parts of Manhattan. Where else can you see the 1852 house where Louisa May Alcott wrote Little Women sharing the same block as a body piercing and tattoo parlor?
Like the White Horse Tavern (founded 1880), Cherry Lane Theater (1924), Marshall Chess Club (1915), and Chumley’s pub and restaurant (1927), the Village Blend stands as part of this neighborhood’s dwindling continuity. For over one hundred years, the coffeehouse I manage has served the highest rated cup of java in the city. And when customers walk through our beveled glass door today—be they NYU college students, S&S advertising execs, Chase bank tellers, St. Vincent’s paramedics, or Seventh Avenue street performers—they expect a warm, fresh, satisfying experience in a cup.
Most are also expecting stimulation, i.e. caffeine.
This, too, is a marked change from bygone days. When struggling painters and writers stumbled through the Blend’s doors in the ’50s and ’60s, many were looking to pass out on the second floor couches. According to Madame, who’d been managing the place back then, she never minded.
The French-born, silver-haired Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois, herself a Village landmark, is now the Blend’s owner. Her own acquaintance with despair (having lost mother, sister, and family fortune during her flight from Nazi-occupied Paris) is almost certainly what prompted her to enable alcohol-soaked playwrights and painters to treat the Blend as a second home. Back then, even after the aroma of her bold dark roasts would sober them up in the mornings, they’d go right back to the bottle the next night. So perhaps you can understand why, when I found the body slumped in our alleyway one night, I’d thought for a moment I’d gone back in time.
The man was too well dressed to be homeless, and I flashed on those stories Madame used to tell of so many artists and writers falling victim to the bottle or the needle. But this was no longer the Village of the ’50s and ’60s. A well-dressed gentleman passed out in an alley was practically unheard of. Residents in this area might still favor wardrobes the color of outer space, but few wanted to “drop out” anymore. They didn’t want to get stoned, either.
What they primarily wanted to get was “wired,” which, in my circle of the universe, had as much to do with 24/7 connectivity as the act of sucking down premium priced Italian coffee drinks from dawn till midnight.
Like me, my customers universally loved the bean buzz, which is why, on the same night I’d found that slumped-over man in our alley, three of my best baristas were horrified when I called them together
—not to observe the body, because I hadn’t found it yet, but to taste a new kind of decaffeinated coffee.
Yes, I’d said it... the “D” word.
I, Clare Cosi, consecrator of caffeine, scorner of the neutered brew, had seen the decaffeinated light. Unfortunately, my baristas hadn’t. Upon hearing the dreaded adjective, Esther, Tucker, and Gardner glared at me as if I’d just uttered an offensive political opinion...
“Decaffeinated coffee?”
“Say what?”
“Omigawd, sweetie, you’ve got to be kidding!”
We were all gathered behind the coffee bar’s blueberry marble counter. Hands on hips, I stood firm, determined to reverse the barista revolt. “I know we’ve had trouble with quality in the past, but this is something new.”
“Something new?” Esther echoed. “So it’s not Swiss Watered-down?”
An NYU student, Esther Best (shortened from Bestovasky by her grandfather) hailed from the suburbs of Long Island. A zaftig girl with wild dark hair, she favored black rectangular glasses, performed slam poetry in the East Village, and maintained a Web profile under the upbeat pen name Morbid Dreams.
“No,” I assured her. “These beans were not decaffeinated by the Swiss Water Process.”
“Then it’s the Royal Select method,” Tucker presumed.
Tucker Burton was my best barista and a trusted assistant manager. For a few months earlier this year, however, the lanky Louisiana-born actor/playwright had landed a recurring role in a daytime drama, and I feared we’d lose him. Then the television writers had Tucker’s character shoot his boyfriend and himself in a jealous rage—and I was back to enjoying the pleasure of his company.
“Isn’t the Royal Select method the best way to decaffeinate beans these days?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. “I mean, yes, that’s probably the best method for the money—even though it’s really just the Swiss Water Process moved down to Mexico—but no, these beans weren’t processed that way, either.”
Esther sighed. “Meet the new decaf, same as the old decaf.”
“C’mon, guys,” I cajoled. “Keep your minds open.”
“Boss, you know the quality of un-coffee just sucks compared to unadulterated beans, no matter what method you use to decaffeinate them. And decaf’s not what this place is about anyway.”
“Word,” Gardner said. “Gotta agree with my Best girl.”
In a rare show of sentiment, Esther responded to Gardner Evan’s laid-back smile with the slightest blushing on her pallid cheeks. Gardner was from the D.C. area. The young African-American composer, arranger, and jazz musician worked for me part-time between gigs with his quartet, Four on the Floor.
“It’s all about the caffeine hook up,” he insisted, stroking his new goatee.
“Of course it is!” Tucker threw up his hands. “We’re the crack house for the ADD generation.”
My staff’s reactions weren’t entirely unexpected. Most baristas viewed asking for decaf on a par with asking a French chef to hold the butter. Even coffeehouse slang had labeled it a “why bother”?
Still, the last time I’d researched the subject for a trade journal article, I’d learned that fifteen to eighteen percent of coffeehouse customers wanted the lead out. The Village Blend was coming up short in that department. Over the years, we’d given a number of decaffeinated methods a shot on our menu, but maintaining the trademark Village Blend quality had been a challenge.
Decaffeination robs beans of their acidity (coffee speak, not for bitterness but the lovely brightness of flavor that keeps the drink from tasting flat). On top of that, the best decaffeination methods required fifty-five bag minimums. To manage that amount, the Blend had to rely on a third party roaster, since decaffeinated green beans had a significantly shorter shelf life than untouched beans. But that solution went against our century-old philosophy of micro-roasting daily.
The product quality sank so low, we just pulled it. At the moment, the only decaffeinated item we carried was “Coffee Milk” (coffee syrup mixed with moo juice, which we served hot or cold; skim or soy; regular or decaf ). The drink was introduced to me by our new part-time barista, Dante Silva, regrettably absent tonight.
A compact guy with a shaved head and some interesting tattoos, Dante was a young painter with one modest gallery show to his credit. He was also born and raised in Rhode Island, where Coffee Milk was apparently the official state drink.
So even though I could certainly understand the skepticism on the part of Esther, Gardner, and Tucker when it came to the decaf coffee thing, I implored them to: “Keep your minds open, okay? There’s a very good reason we’re doing this.”
Unfortunately, the reason we were doing this was late— that is, Matt was late, which wasn’t like him. Not in the last few years anyway.
Matteo Allegro was an international coffee broker and the Village Blend’s coffee buyer. One day in the future, after his mother, Madame, passed away (which I certainly prayed would not be anytime soon) Matt and I would become the legal co-owners of the Blend as well as the multimillion-dollar four-story Federal-style townhouse it occupied.
Neither Matt nor I had much in the way of savings, so both of us were committed to maintaining the business’s viability. Our relationship, however, was not always on the best of terms.
A decade ago, when Matt was my husband, he was frequently late and often lied. The dashing, ebony-haired, extreme-sports globetrotter was also constantly wired, but not on caffeine. The train wreck of his life (and therefore mine) happened over a pile of cocaine.
Now whenever Matt was late for anything, I automatically tensed inside, a kneejerk of nostalgia, not for penniless artists painting in sun-washed garrets or actors in black leather cruising on motorcycles, but those lovely days in my own Village memories when I’d been trying to raise a young daughter while constantly asking myself where my husband was.
“Did you see the Science Times piece on caffeine?” asked Esther, bringing my attention back to the business at hand. “Apparently, it’s the most widely used stimulant in the world—”
Tucker waved his hand. “I read that piece, too. Ninety percent of Americans ingest it daily, but they don’t just get it in coffee. Soda, tea, chocolate—they all have caffeine, and—”
“My point, if you’d let me make it, is that caffeinated coffee stimulates frontal lobe activity in the brain, so working memory is improved. It also lights up the anterior cingulum, which controls your ability to focus attention, so I’m not dumping it anytime soon.” Esther pushed up her black glasses. She tapped her wristwatch. “Boss, how long is this going to take? I’m giving a reading in ninety minutes, and I need to change.”
“Aw, Best girl,” Gardner winked. “Don’t ever change.”
Esther smirked. “Don’t pull my chain, Bird man.”
Gardner laughed.
Esther’s impatience couldn’t be blamed totally on her overstimulated anterior cingulum. Her shift had ended twenty minutes ago, and I’d asked her to hang around until Matt showed.
I reached beneath my blue Village Blend apron and felt for the cell phone in my jeans pocket. I pulled it out, flipped it open.
No messages.
My annoyance was changing to worry. Matt was over an hour late now. Had something happened to him? Why hadn’t he called? I pushed the speed dial for his cell and reached his voicemail.
With a sigh, I went ahead with the tasting preparations. As I set up a second burr grinder beside our espresso machine, I made the quality-control point to my staff that when properly preparing decaf for service (as we were about to do again) one grinder should be used for caffeinated beans and a second for decaffeinated beans.
I ground the beans coarsely and measured the grinds into a large French press. The water was simmering on the burner, but I didn’t want to pour until Matt arrived. Once again, I tried his cell number. I was just hitting speed dial when I heard the bell over the Blend’s front door give a little jingle.
On this rainy Tuesday evening, only six of the Blend’s nineteen marble-topped tables were occupied. In the last forty minutes, we’d had a mere two new patrons approach the coffee bar, so we were a little surprised by the arrival of a new customer, until we realized we hadn’t gotten one. Coming through the door at long last, was my ex-husband.
Anxious to grill him, I closed my cell phone and set it down on the counter—an act I would soon regret.
Two
“Where were you? I couldn’t reach you? What happened? Why didn’t you call?”
A moment after barking these charming queries, I wanted to take them back. Matt and I functioned best when we communicated in a cordial, businesslike manner. The tone I’d just used had more attitude than a jilted fiancée on Dr. Phil.
Matt didn’t appear bothered by it. He walked up to the coffee bar, flashing one of his confident, masculine smiles. “Sorry, honey.”
Behind the counter, I tensed even more.
“Honey” was a term of endearment appropriate for a married couple. We were no longer married. I’d pointed this out several times. Matt never disagreed. He usually turned sheepish, saying it was a hard habit to break.
“Well, please try harder to break it,” I’d told him just last week, “because you’ve clearly got a pretty steady ‘honey’ these days, and it’s not me.”
“I mean, you’re right, Clare,” Matt quickly amended. Beneath a new charcoal cashmere sweater and black camel hair jacket, his muscular shoulders shrugged. “I would have called, but I couldn’t get a signal, and Joy wanted to come down for the tasting.”
“Okay,” I said. “But where... wait! Did you just say Joy’s coming?”
“She’s here. That’s the reason I’m late.”
My spirits instantly lifted. I hadn’t seen my daughter in nearly three weeks, and I was used to her stopping by almost every day—if not to see her mom, then at least to get her vanilla latte fix.
