by Клео Коул
“Detective Egan is a former New York undercover cop who cracked that big Mafia case years ago, the one that led to the mob graveyard in Queens. He retired from the force, got his law degree, and is now practicing with a big firm.”
I nodded, recalling old headlines as mob victims from decades past were unearthed. “But how do you know this Egan person?”
“I don’t. Breanne Summour does. Egan writes a monthly column for Trend.”
“What would a man like that write about for a fashion magazine?” I asked. “The aesthetics of pinkie rings and prison tattoos? How to dress like a Wise Guy?”
“Breanne’s magazine doesn’t just cover fashion. It publishes all kinds of articles,” he replied, a bit too defensively, I thought.
“All right, okay. So…what about bail?”
“If the judge sets bail, it will be sometime this morning. Tucker is most definitely going to be arraigned for the murder of Ricky Flatt—that’s the bad news. But the good news is a top-notch criminal defense lawyer will be there to represent him.”
“Thank God. I tried Jacobson, but only got the service.”
“Clare, come on. Larry Jacobson’s not a criminal lawyer. We have him on retainer for civil matters.”
“I know that! I just didn’t know who else to call for a criminal lawyer recommendation!”
“Well, I worked it out.”
“I’m glad you did. Believe me, I’m grateful.”
“His name is Walter Tanner. He won a few high profile criminal cases. He agreed to represent Tucker as a favor.”
“A favor?” Matt had made a lot of connections over the years with his world travels, but I couldn’t recall him ever mentioning knowing a high-powered criminal lawyer. “A favor to you?” I prompted.
Matteo shrugged, looked away at the French press. The hot, filtered water was now clear as mud.
“Oh, I see…another favor for Breanne Summour.”
My ex didn’t answer. He simply checked his watch, then reached across the table and pressed the French press’s plunger. The flavors had been extracted from the grounds and now they were forced downward, all the way to the bottom. The beans had been chopped, drowned, and now they were being shoved out of the way. The entire process seemed very violent to me, all of a sudden, and through my exhausted gaze, the plunging action seemed to go on forever in surreal slow motion.
“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.”
Eight
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?”
“Well, there was that man and woman,” Moira said. “The ones who work for Lottie Harmon.”
“You mean her partners, Tad Benedict and Rena Garcia?” I clarified, but I’d already remembered them and didn’t consider them suspects. After all, they had no motive. What was there to gain from killing off your golden goose partner?
“You know what?” said Moira, eyes widening. “Tad was the one who asked Tucker to make that latte in the first place.”
“Tad was?” I asked, intrigued. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” said Moira nodding emphatically.
“Yeah, that’s right.” Esther agreed.
I whirled. “You heard it, too?”
Esther shrugged. “I thought you were there for that.”
I shook my head. “No, I must have still been downstairs. Tell me exactly what you remember.”
“Well,” Esther began, “it was so crazy that people were taking the lattes before the trays could get more than a few feet beyond the coffee bar and Tad said that Lottie looked like she could use some caffeine. And then Tucker sort of announced he was going to make a latte for Lottie.”
“That’s right,” said Moria. “That’s what I remember, too. Tad touched Tucker’s arm and said something like, ‘Sorry to pressure you, but could you see that Lottie gets one? She could probably use another shot of caffeine to get her through the final hour.’ Then Tucker said something like, ‘One very special caramel-chocolate latte for the guest of honor coming up.’ He announced it very theatrically, you know?”
“Well, that’s nothing new for Tucker,” I pointed out. “But it does mean anyone nearby would have been aware the drink was going to Lottie…I just wonder why Tad didn’t take the latte to Lottie himself?”
Moira shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Neither do I,” said Esther. “By that time, I was back doing my clean-up rounds.”
“So Tad asked for it to be made, but didn’t take it to Lottie…” I murmured.
“You think Tad poisoned the latte with arsenic?” asked Moira.
“Cyanide,” I corrected. “And I’m not saying that at all…it’s just…interesting.”
“You mean suspicious,” said Esther. “Sounds that way to me.”
Only if Tad had a motive, I thought. What could he gain by killing Lottie? Her designs made him a wealthy man—well, a wealthier man, anyway. Why would he murder his meal ticket? Could it be a war over control of the designer label? That didn’t seem to make sense because the label wouldn’t be worth half as much without Lottie’s designs behind it.
“Ms. Cosi?…Clare?”
I blinked, finally hearing Moira’s voice break into my thoughts. “Yes…what is it?”
Moira and Esther exchanged a look. “The bakery van is here,” said Moira. “Didn’t you hear the knocking?”
“Oh,” I said and rose to unlock the back door. I was surprised to find Theresa Rosario standing there, in jeans and a sweater, her long brown curls tied back. Next to her stood the regular delivery person, Joey, a good-looking Italian kid attired in his usual baggy jeans, backwards baseball cap, and Yankee jacket.
Theresa was the youngest baker in her large Italian family. Like the Village Blend, the history of the Rosario Bakery stretched back over a century. A small storefront in Little Italy had led to a second shop on First Avenue in the East Village, then to two more on the Upper East and West sides of Manhattan.
“I brought over more Ricciarelli,” Theresa told me as she and Joey carried in boxes of pastries and deposited them in our pantry area near the back door. “We had so many almonds on order, I just whipped up another big batch.”
Joey had delivered the special order of pastries for Lottie’s bash the night before. The little diamond-shaped almond cookie with powdered sugar on top was a delicious rarity, so I wasn’t complaining to hear she’d included them in our standard daily delivery, too.
“The guests practically inhaled them last night,” I told her. “And I’m sure my customers will love them today.”
“Last night, right…you know, I heard something on news radio about your party,” she said. “Was there some kind of trouble?”
I met Theresa’s intense, gossip-hungry brown eyes and suddenly realized why she’d shown up to help with deliveries, today of all days. “Oh! You know, I think I hear the first customers of the day knocking!” I cried. “I’ll tell you all about it later, okay? Gotta go!”
Then I shooed Teresa and her delivery boy out the back door and darted off to open the front.
Nine
The morning rush was typical of a weekday, a welcome surprise considering the Post’s headline. The bulk of my regular clientele hadn’t heard or read about the poisoning—not yet anyway. Or, at least, they didn’t mention it to my face.
A few, however, were most definitely whispering about “that thing that happened here last night.” And one young businessman actually took a swig from his cup, then grabbed his throat like he was dying. His colleagues practically doubled over with laughter.
“What a card,” I muttered.
Meanwhile, I was waiting for a lull to duck out and have a talk with Lottie Harmon. I had to warn her that she might be in danger, though I wasn’t quite sure how I’d break that news to her—or if she’d even accept it. Fortunately, I knew exactly where to find her on this particular Wednesday morning. Weeks ago, she’d handed me a pass to view a special display showcasing her work from the vintage designs of the 1970s to her label’s current renaissance in the new century. The embossed invitation, sent to magazine editors, newspaper reporters, and wire service correspondents, stated that the designer herself would be on hand from 11:00 A.M. to 3:00 P.M. “to answer questions from the domestic and foreign press.” I’d kept the pass in my office, not really intending t
o use it. But after the murder last night I decided it was my ticket to paying Lottie Harmon a visit.
It’s my personal philosophy that nothing says “I’m sorry” like a double-tall mocha latte—so when the Blend’s early morning rush slid into its usual mid-morning lull, I took off my apron, slathered on some lip gloss, and took extra care in whipping up the drink to present to Lottie. After I sealed my masterpiece in a Village Blend thermal mug, I spoke to Esther and Moira.
“I’m going up to the Fashion Week tents to speak with Ms. Harmon. After last night, I need to find out if she still wants us to cater her runway show with Fen on Sunday—a long shot by any stretch.”
“You’re bearing a caffeinated gift, I see,” Esther noted. “Good idea.”
I held up the latte. “Yes, a frothy bribe. You and Moira hold the fort until I get back.”
“Let me bag that up,” said Moira, taking the hot cup.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Well, if you’re trying to bribe her, why don’t you throw in a couple of those Ricciarelli the baker brought this morning?” said Esther. “Didn’t Tad say something last night about Lottie loving them?”
“Good idea,” I noted and sighed with relief as I left to find my jacket on a hook in my second floor office. Esther had always been a reluctant worker, but she was really rising to the occasion now and I was grateful. A few minutes later, Moira handed me two paper bags, and I stepped out to a brisk fall day—not cold, but with a distinct chill in the air.
The sky over Hudson Street, pristine and cerulean blue, offered a vista only possible near the ocean. Coupled with a cool breeze off the water a few blocks away, this particular autumn morning reminded New Yorkers of a fact they often forgot—that their fair city was also a port, and the salty waves of the Atlantic Ocean lapped at her shores.
I caught a cab on Hudson and listened to Bollywood music on the cabbie’s sound system as the Sikh driver raced uptown. Traffic was light and I was soon climbing out of the cab in front of the New York Public Library’s flagship building on Forty-second Street. The pair of immense stone lions that guarded the cathedral-like front entrance stared impassively as I paid the fare and followed the wide sidewalk to the back of the massive structure, where a lovely patch of green sat nestled among the skyscrapers just one block east of Times Square’s blinding neon and crazy congestion.
