by Cleo Coyle
“You were not invited!”
Ignoring the accusation, the hooded figure floated toward the circle of twelve princesses. “Show me your keys,” the specter commanded.
Each of the twelve quivering fairy princesses pulled out a golden key, hanging on a chain beneath her gown. I touched the chain around my own neck, pulled it free, but there was no key attached.
“Show me your key!” the specter demanded.
“But I have no key,” I squeaked
A hideous howl sounded and everyone fell back.
“She is a princess,” Madame warned the specter. “You must bow to her.”
The hooded figure stooped in front of me. I could feel its dark pride and murderous anger as it went down on one knee—but not to bow. An animal paw shot out of the robe. A single claw stabbed my leg. Blood poured out, but there was no pain, only wooziness.
“Sleep!” the figure commanded, and I collapsed on the stage.
* * *
I woke abruptly. The crowd was gone and so were my clothes.
Stripped naked, I sat in a giant cauldron of hot water. Dark woods surrounded me and an open fire burned underneath. The sound of cackling filled my ears—Fletcher Endicott stood laughing at me.
A black pointed hat covered his receding hairline, and a velvet cape hung from the shoulders of his hound’s-tooth sport jacket. His nose had grown long and crooked, and warts freckled his newly pronounced chin.
“You’re in hot water now, my pretty!” he cried.
Equal parts embarrassed and enraged, I sank lower in the water, folding my arms over my breasts.
“What do you want?” I demanded.
He pointed to something in the distance—a large snow-covered hill. Two figures were skiing down the slope toward us. One was Matt in his Prince Charming costume. The other was Endicott’s heavyset partner, wearing his flapping raincoat.
As they skied up to the fire, Endicott’s partner pulled out his gun and waved it at Matt.
“Get in, Your Royal Pain-ness!”
“That’s right!” Endicott cried. “You two should be in it together!”
Matt said nothing. Head hanging low, he pulled off his boots and climbed into the hot water with me. But he didn’t float. He sank.
“Matt, no! Don’t give up!”
As I lunged to save him, Endicott’s partner used his ski pole to stir the pot. Then the two men chanted—
“Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble!”
The flames beneath us rose higher and the water began to spin. The bubbling whirlpool was pulling me under!
All sound stopped as the water enveloped me, washed me down a giant pipe. With a splash, I landed in an immense rectangular pool. The woods were gone, along with Endicott and his partner. I looked around for Matt, but there was no sign of him.
“Ma’am? Would you like a hand?”
I looked up to find two linebackers in blue suits. They stood next to a horse-drawn carriage.
In the distance, I saw the rounded dome and fluttering flag of a grand castle. Closer to me stood an immense obelisk. In the opposite direction, a stone giant sat on his throne, gazing into the pool I’d landed in.
As I waded out of the water, one of the blue-suited men held up a bath sheet. I wrapped myself in it and climbed into the carriage, where my towel transformed into a ball gown and my wet hair dried into a stunning French twist laced with flowers and pearls.
One of the men talked into his suit sleeve while another tapped an earbud.
Then the horses began to trot and we were on our way, rolling along a lengthy strip of manicured lawn and towering trees. Finally, the carriage pulled up to my destination—a neo-Palladian palace of painted sandstone.
The carriage door opened to a red carpet flowing down a staircase between grand columns. On the carpet stood a rugged man in formalwear, light brown hair in military trim, cobalt eyes blue enough to steal the breath from my lungs.
“Hi, Clare.”
“Hi, Mike.”
“Welcome to the White House.”
He escorted me inside, where a large party was under way. Men and women waltzed on a ballroom floor. Mike took me in his arms and we danced together. He spun me so fast that I felt drunk, dizzy with happiness.
“Choose me,” he whispered.
“I do,” I said, and my words released a glittering whirlwind around us.
Then the ballroom dissolved.
FORTY
“GOOD morning, sleepy head . . .”
The edge of the mattress sank a little as Mike sat. The man was grinning, ear to ear.
“You never grin.” I reached out and pinched his arm—hard.
“Ouch! What’s the idea?”
“I needed to make sure you were real.”
“Is that so? Then I guess I better prove it—” Pushing me back against the pillows, his mouth took over mine. When the sweetly aggressive kiss was done, he was grinning again.
“Real enough for you?”
Still catching my breath, I nodded.
“Good,” he said, “because I made us some real coffee and it’s getting cold.” He gestured to a silver tray with a French press and two cups.
Oh, God, not again . . .
“Don’t worry. I checked the bag this time. Go on, try it.”
With trepidation, I took a small sip and recognized the sparkling citrus of the Ethiopian, silky body of the Colombian, and floral fruitiness of the Guatemalan. They all added up to one thing—my Sunshine Breakfast Blend.
“It’s delicious,” I said with relief, “but it doesn’t explain the grin.”
“Come on, Cosi, you know why. I’m happy about your decision.”
I blinked, confused. “You’re happy I—”
“Don’t worry. I know you need time to put things in order. You still have to give notice to Allegro and his mother, right? But I’m overjoyed you’re going to be moving to Washington.”
I nearly spit out my coffee. “Refresh my memory. What did I say exactly?”
“I asked you to choose me. You said ‘I do.’”
“Mike, I dreamed that.”
“I know. It’s my dream, too—having you in my life every morning and every night. And speaking of dreams. I had a few crazy ones last night, including Endicott as the Wicked Witch of the West.”
“Wait, back up. What did you dream?”
“Endicott and his fat partner were trying to boil you alive in a big cauldron out in the woods—you and Allegro. After that, you went skinny-dipping in the Lincoln Memorial reflecting pool; I enjoyed that part. Then you joined me at the White House for a state dinner. Funny, huh?”
No, I thought, not funny—disturbing. How in heaven’s name could we have had the same dream?!
“—then I woke up and you were gazing at me so lovingly from your pillow. That’s when I asked you for your decision. And you said yes, you’re moving to Washington. You won’t regret it, Clare, I promise.”
He glanced at the bedside clock. “I better get a move on. My kids are expecting me for brunch. You’re joining us, right?”
“Ah . . . right.”
“Good. Shall we tell the kids about your big move?”
“No! I mean, it’s like you said, I still have things to work out.”
“You’re right. We won’t tell them yet. After all, I have to break the news to Molly and Jeremy about Anya. I’m sure they’ll be upset.” He paused a moment, met my eyes. “I’m glad you’re coming, Clare. I really need you there.”
His choice of words surprised me. “You never say that.”
“What?”
“That you need me.”
“That’s because I don’t like to need anyone.” His gaze held mine. “But I need you.”
I touched his cheek. “Why do
n’t you take the shower first? I have to make a phone call . . .”
As Mike whistled his way to the bathroom, I threw off the covers, found my cell, and speed-dialed my ex-husband.
FORTY-ONE
“MATT, we need to talk,” I whispered.
“About my case?”
“About your beans! Your crazy magic beans!”
“Why? What happened?”
“I had more visions, that’s what happened. Then Mike and I drank the coffee before we made love, and we had the same dream.”
“That’s a new one.”
“It gets worse. Mike said I woke up and told him I was moving to Washington.”
“You what?!”
“I don’t remember telling him, but he says I did.”
“Well, tell him you made a mistake!”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Wait, I hear him coming—”
I listened and realized he was still in the bathroom. What I heard sounded like singing. Singing? Mike Quinn was singing in the shower!
“My God,” I whispered. “How am I going to tell him I didn’t mean what I said? The man is floating. I have to let him down easy. What is happening to me? Am I going insane?”
“Clare, you’re perfectly sane. It’s my coffee that’s affecting you. I knew it last night. That’s why I contacted Dr. Pepper.”
“The soft drink company?”
“No, this Dr. Pepper has an MD and a PhD, actually he has a few doctorates—biochemistry, anthropology—anyway, he’s an expert on the chemistry of coffee and he’s intensely interested in these beans, which have a pretty incredible history behind them.”
“Well, get over here this afternoon and tell it to me because I need to get control over this! And you need to cancel any plans you have for tonight.”
“But Bree wants me to take her—”
“Listen to me. Your coffee has made a mess of my head and my personal life. And you are still a person of interest in a reckless endangerment case that could turn into homicide, which means you are not taking Bree anywhere tonight, you’re coming to Esther’s Poetry Slam.”
“I don’t follow. What does Esther’s Poetry Slam have to do with—”
“I’ll explain this afternoon—”
“Clare, sweetheart,” Mike sang, “the shower’s free!”
“Thanks!” I cooed sweetly into the hallway then ended my call with a threatening hiss. “Just get over here!”
* * *
FOR the next few hours, I tried my best to focus fully on Mike Quinn and his kids—especially his kids.
Molly and Jeremy were upset about Anya’s condition, but in different ways. Jeremy was shocked at first and then he began to act like his father, grilling me about where I’d found her, how she’d looked, how long she’d been like that.
“Why didn’t you tell us last night?!”
“That’s enough,” Mike said, shutting down his queries, but it didn’t stop the boy from stewing, and I could understand why. At thirteen, he was old enough to take on a complex mix of feelings over what happened to Anya—anger, frustration, even guilt over being so close to her in the woods yet failing to keep her from harm.
Mike sensed his son’s distress and said a few words, but I could tell they didn’t help.
Molly didn’t become angry or frustrated. The little girl just cried.
As I hugged her sobbing form, she insisted we visit her “Annie” at the hospital.
Once there, Jeremy remained stoic at Anya’s bedside, but I could see the questions in his gaze. He wanted answers.
“Your dad and I are working to find out what happened,” I told the boy.
“But I want to help.”
Quinn overheard. “There’s nothing for you to do, son. And I don’t want you involving yourself. Understand?”
Jeremy didn’t argue, but his jaw was set and I wondered if the boy had something specific in mind.
When we finally dropped off the kids at Leila’s apartment, Quinn asked me to wait in a lobby chair while he informed his ex-wife of Anya’s condition—which was (sadly) no better.
“How did she take it?” I asked when he came back down. “Was she emotional?”
“No, not really. She looked a little . . .”
“What?”
“Well, a little scared actually.”
“Scared? Of what?”
“I asked her what was wrong, but she clammed up.”
“I wish you would let me talk to her.” I started for the elevator, but he yanked me back.
“The last time you two spoke, Leila nearly clawed your eyes out. She’s in a state.”
“But I still have questions.”
“Next time.” He tapped his watch. “See me off?”
We grabbed a cab, and by the time we reached Penn Station, his train was already boarding.
“I’m going to miss you,” he said.
“I’ll miss you, too.”
“Stay out of trouble, okay?”
He threw me a wink before turning to go. He also promised that Franco would keep me informed of any developments in Anya’s case.
Though I had no evidence, I was pretty sure the newest development was about to happen tonight—and in my own coffeehouse.
I just prayed my ex-husband would be waiting there for me when I got back.
FORTY-TWO
FOR once, my prayers were answered.
When I returned to the Village Blend, I found Matt at our espresso bar, hunched over his smartphone, munching one after another of our new Peanut Butter Chews. (My special recipe gave a sophisticated spin to the traditional peanut butter cookie, making them, as Matt discovered—and he would know—dangerously addictive.)
I pulled us a couple of doubles, and then I pulled him to a corner table, far away from the prying ears of Esther and Nancy.
“So?” Matt began the moment we sat down. “Did you tell the flatfoot?”
“Tell him what?”
Matt scowled. “That you’re not moving to Washington.”
“I told you, I have to let him down easy.”
“Why? Because you’re afraid he’ll dump you?”
“No, because I love him, and I don’t want to hurt him. And I don’t want to talk about this now—I want to know about your crazy coffee. Am I going insane? Or did you spike those beans with LSD?”
“You’re perfectly sane, Clare. And my coffee is unadulterated. If it’s inducing visions and dreams, then pay attention because they’re real.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means what it means.”
“Matt, my dream last night was not real. It was a Fellini movie! Endicott in a witch’s hat? His partner on snow skis? Dancing fairies and an angry intruder with a poisoned animal claw?”
“You have to look at it like a fortune teller. When you read coffee grinds, you decipher the symbols formed in the grounds, right?”
“Right.”
“It’s the same with these visions. You have to interpret what you see. Apply it to the present and the future.”
“Are you having visions, too?”
“No.” He resolutely shook his head. “I’ve never gotten them.”
“Then why are you so sure these coffee-induced hallucinations have any validity for me?”
“Personal experience.”
“I need more.”
Matt shifted and expelled a breath. “Over in Africa, these beans saved my life.”
“They what?!”
A few customers looked our way.
“Matt, you never told me your life was in danger!”
“Lower your voice, will you? I’m fine now. But what happened in Africa convinced me there is something to this ‘magic coffee.’ The beans themse
lves are extremely rare.”
“I know they’re rare. That tells me nothing.”
“Fine, I’ll start at the beginning.” He paused for a hit of espresso and leaned across the table. “Last year, in Addis Ababa, I met with the Patriarch of the Ethiopian Christian Church. During my audience, he told me about a sacred coffee that once grew wild in the forests around Lake Tana.”
“Sacred?”
Matt nodded. “Three thousand years ago Hebrew tribes carried the Ark of the Covenant to Lake Tana and hid it on an island. You’ve heard of the Ark of the Covenant, haven’t you? That holy relic from the Indiana Jones movie?”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. “You mean that holy relic from the Old Testament. Yes, I’ve ‘heard of it.’ Go on.”
“The Patriarch claimed that proximity with the Ark had infused nearby wild coffee plants with mystical power. Naturally I expressed an interest in tasting the stuff, but he explained that the region was so heavily deforested that the beans were nearly extinct.”
“Nearly?”
Matt nodded, a glimmer of pride in his gaze. “But I found some.”
FORTY-THREE
I stared at my ex-husband. “You actually went to Lake Tana?”
“I did, and I was pretty nervous about it, too . . .”
That didn’t surprise me.
For years, my bean-hunting partner has been traveling to Harar, Sidamo, Yirgacheffe, and Limu—all of them traditional growing regions in Ethiopia. Lake Tana, however, was on the other side of the country. Matt had no connections there, no guide, and no clue where to look for coffee.
“But after a week of searching, I located a tribe on the Zega Peninsula,” he confided. “They still harvest wild, forest-grown coffee on a small stretch of protected land. I can’t say I was greeted with open arms, but I hung around a few days, tried to help out, and I finally managed to charm my way in.”
“There must have been a woman involved.”
“As a matter of fact, Adina supervised the harvest for the tribe. She also happened to be the village shaman. She spoke Greek and French and a little bit of English, so we managed to communicate. When I told her I wanted to sample the sacred coffee, she nodded and sent me back to my tent to wait.”
