Latte Trouble (23 page)

Moira sobbed and the gun wavered. Then she bit back her tears and straightened the weapon.

“I even tried aspirins again, ground up on those fancy Italian cookies Ms. Cosi brought you the other day…but you’re still alive. It’s like I can’t kill the monster…so I killed Rena, just to show you what it’s like…what it’s like to lose someone you love…and how dare you…how dare you treat Rena like a daughter, buying her an apartment, taking her into your business as a partner…while all along you conveniently forgot about your own sister’s daughter…”.

Moira clutched her head with one hand, the other still gripped the handgun. A security guard pushed past me and ran out of the room. Since he was unarmed, I assumed (and hoped) he was running for help and not fleeing the scene.

As Lottie/Harriet watched the hysterical girl, realization naturally dawned. “You’re Mona Toratelli’s daughter…” she murmured, stunned.

“Don’t speak my mother’s name!” Moira shrieked. “You murdered my mother, you bitch. Your own sister…I saw you push her over the balcony…I see it every night in my dreams…how could you kill her like that…and then run away? You just left me! You’re a
monster
and now it’s time for you to die!”

“No, Moira!” I cried.

Moira closed her mouth and her eyes shot in my direction—she looked crazy, maddened by grief and the insane need for revenge.

“You’re going after the wrong person,” I quickly explained. “The woman you see in front of you isn’t your aunt. She’s not even related—”

“Shut up! I know who she is,” Moira cried. “I told you! I saw her kill my mother. My mother came to me. She told me in my head what I had to do to make the nightmares go away. Lottie has to die.”

Standing beside Harriet, Fen didn’t appear to be listening to Moria—but intensely watching her instead. The moment he noticed her hand waver again, he lunged for the weapon.

“No!” I cried. Too late. The shot sounded like an exploding canon, and Fen, struck in the chest, folded around Moira’s arm. With the last of his strength, he yanked the gun away from her. A moment later, he collapsed, the gun clattering to the floor.

Byran Goldin immediately jumped on top of Moira while Lloyd Newhaven scooped up the gun. Amid the screams of half-dressed models, cowering amid the clothing racks, Harriet dropped to her knees at Fen’s side.

Soaked in blood, he stared up at her. All of Fen’s swagger, his arrogance was gone, and I saw only sad, desperate affection behind his dying eyes.

“Lottie…I…”

“Quiet,” Harriet whispered, covering his lips with her fingers.

“Forget the pain…the bad things…” Fen gasped. “Forgive me for those…remember only the ecstasy…we shared…”.

Fen’s eyes went wide, and then the light left them. Harriet Tasky, now and forever Lottie Harmon, held him in her arms until the paramedics arrived and pronounced him dead.

I
slept fourteen hours that night. No dreams and no nightmares. Just dark, healing rest.

Believe it or not, Fen and Lottie’s runway show had gone off without a hitch. In one short hour, Moira McNeely had been taken into custody, Fen’s body had been taken to the morgue, and the pre-show activity resumed. Guests arrived, took their seats, and Bryan Goldin himself delivered a tearful, touching eulogy to his uncle at the start of the runway show.

Lottie helped the young man through it all, and by the end of the day, the two appeared to have forged a solid bond. Bryan, it seemed, was the sole heir to the Fen house of fashion, and because of his need for an experienced hand, he asked Lottie to become a full partner.

Fen’s death had made headlines all over the world. Consequently, the orders for his spring collection—and Lottie’s java jewelry—were huge.

A week later, Quinn was sitting at my coffee bar again.

“Here you go, Mike.”

“Thanks, Clare.”

I’d steamed up a latte for him and an espresso for myself. As I added a bit of sugar to my demitasse, I watched Quinn sip his hot drink, make his usual deep sound of satisfaction, and wipe the foam from his upper lip with two fingers.

“Well,” I said, “are you ready to spill?”

He lifted the tall glass mug. “It’s too good to spill.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Bad joke,” he said with slight twitch of his lips. “Okay, what first?”

“Mona Lisa Toratelli.”

“Bangkok authorities filed a report in ’88. It all checks out. The little girl’s statement was taken, but the authorities claimed there were no other witnesses to corroborate that her aunt had been at the hotel so they quickly swept the mess under the rug, concluding the little girl simply made up the story to cope with her mother’s suicide. That’s how Moira was treated ever since—as if her memories were some delusion. But clearly, Moira Toratelli McNeely had witnessed her mother’s murder at the hands of her aunt—and she never forgot.”

I shuddered. “The thought that one sister would kill another over a man…especially one like Fen…it’s so sad. And so brutal. It’s difficult to comprehend.”

“Precisely. Imagine how Moira felt.”

I eyeballed Quinn in surprise. “Sentimental? For a murderer’s point of view?”

He shook his head. “Empathetic. You better understand your perpetrator if you want to catch him.”

“Or her.”

“Or her.”

I sipped my espresso in silence. Quinn sipped his latte.

“So what will happen to Moira now?” I asked.

“Best guess—she’ll plead guilty. Her lawyer will claim criminally insane, and she’ll end up in a hospital for twenty-five years of treatment.”

“That poor girl…and the people she poisoned…Rena Garcia and Jeff Lugar and Ricky Flatt…and Tad losing his fiancée, poor Tad…” I shook my head at the tragic waste, the heartache. “How do you do it, Mike? How do you get over all the bad stuff?”

“You don’t.”

“Clare?” Matt was calling me from the back stairs.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Quinn softly, then headed for the Blend’s back door. Matt was descending the steps with his baggage. He’d packed with his usual efficiency: one large black pulley suitcase, a black garment bag, and a black leather carry-on. He’d already shipped some of the Special Reserve Ethiopian beans to Tokyo via DHL.

“My car service is here,” he said.

I nodded. “Have a good trip.”

“Sure I can’t change your mind?”

A question like that at a time like this was usually rhetorical. But my ex-husband’s eyes looked almost hopeful, proud but edged with enough pleading to make me feel guilty—but only slightly.

“You’ll have company,” I told him with a small smile.

He sighed. “Clare—”

Three days before, Breanne had left a lengthy message on our answering machine, telling Matt that she had business in Tokyo, too. (Matt was traveling to Japan for a major presentation on his kiosk plan—one arranged by David Mintzer, who, after his conversation with me at the
Trend
party, had decided to heavily invest in Matt’s idea.) Ms. Elegant gushed about how she would be happy to join him on the long flight and happier still to take him to some of her favorite sights and restaurants.

Just the day before, Matt had asked me to go with him—and I had been mulling it over when that phone message came. It quickly helped me make up my mind.

“Go,” I told him, opening the Blend’s back door. “It’s what you do.”

He stared.

“Good luck, Matt. I mean it.”

He sighed again and nodded, then moved to kiss me. I stepped back and extended my hand. Hurt appeared in his eyes again, but I insisted we shake, squeezing his fingers in a sincere gesture of friendship. He didn’t respond, his hand limp, and before I knew it he had turned and vanished.

But I wasn’t surprised. Disappearing was what some men did best.

“Clare!”

Now Esther was calling me from the Blend’s front room, and her voice sounded strained—upset.
What now?!
I ran into the coffee bar, worried at what disaster I was going to find there next. But there was no disaster. Esther had simply been overwhelmed with emotion when she saw who was coming through our front door.

“Hello, Village Blend!” cried Tucker Burton, throwing his hands in the air. “I’m back!”

Mike’s eyes were on me. I think I was crying.

“You see, there, Detective Cosi,” he said softly. “Maybe you don’t get over the bad stuff…but there’s usually something good to focus on instead. Remember that.”

I nodded. Then I quickly moved across the room and hugged my Tucker tight.

The Village Blend’s
Caramel-Chocolate Latte

Cover bottom of mug with Clare’s homemade caramel-chocolate syrup. Add a shot of espresso. Fill the rest of the mug with steamed milk. Stir the liquid, lifting from the bottom to bring up the syrup. Top with sweetened whipped cream and a chocolate-covered coffee bean.

Clare’s Foolproof Homemade
Caramel-Chocolate Syrup

This syrup is out of this world! Try it warm over ice cream or use it for dipping strawberries or biscotti. Delicious! This recipe will yield about 2 cups of syrup, but it can easily be doubled or tripled for a big batch.

1 cup heavy cream

1 cup light Karo syrup

1/2 cup granulated sugar

½ cup light brown sugar, packed

1/8 teaspoon salt

8 oz milk chocolate or 1 cup of milk chocolate chips

4 tablespoons (½ stick) salted butter

Combine cream, Karo syrup, sugars, and salt in a non-stick or Teflon saucepan. Stir over medium heat until smooth. Bring to a rolling boil and maintain for 8-10 minutes. Continue to stir intermittently—do not let burn. In a separate saucepan, melt butter and chocolate together, stir until smooth. Pour the chocolate mixture into the saucepan with the caramel syrup and stir over heat until smooth. If there are still lumps, remove sauce from non-stick pan and whisk in a bowl until completely smooth. Serve warm. Store in refrigerator. Tip #1: best bet for storing syrup is a sturdy plastic squeeze bottle. Syrup will become thicker as it cools. To reheat syrup, place the squeeze bottle in a warm water bath or reheat in a microwave. Tip #2: use a good quality milk chocolate, such as Ghirardelli. You can also experiment with your own taste preferences, substituting semi-sweet, Mexican, or dark chocolate for the milk chocolate. Have fun!

Café Brulée

Not for the faint of heart. Brew a strong pot of a darkly roasted coffee. Mix seven parts hot coffee with one part cognac in a large, steamed or heated wine glass after its rim has been dipped first into freshly squeezed lemon juice, then rolled in confectioners sugar. Immediately before serving, carefully set the beverage ablaze—and keep a fire extinguisher handy just in case!

Clare’s Basic Biscotti

Italians use the term biscotti to refer to any type of cookie. In today’s coffeehouse culture, biscotti is used to describe a long, dry, hard twice-baked cookie designed for dunking into wine or coffee. The name biscotti is derived from bis, meaning “en-core” in Italian, and cotto, meaning “baked” or “cooked.”

There are many basic biscotti recipes. Some use oil instead of butter, some use no butter at all. This particular recipe produces a more tender biscotti, which is generally preferred by the American palate. To create a harder biscotti out of this recipe, reduce the butter by ½ cup (or ½
stick)
and increase the flour by ½ cup.

Yields: 2 dozen

1-½ c butter (1-½ sticks)

3 eggs

1 cup granulated sugar

1 tablespoon vanilla extract

3 cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

½ teaspoon salt

Parchment paper

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. With an electric mixer, cream butter, add eggs, sugar, and vanilla and mix well. Sift together flour, baking powder, and salt. Gradually add dry ingredients to wet ingredients until soft dough forms. Place dough on lightly floured surface and knead slightly, then divide dough into two even pieces. Roll each piece into a cylinder about 10 inches long and 2 inches wide. Place these 2 logs of dough onto a baking sheet covered with parchment paper—the bottoms of the logs can flatten when you place them on the baking sheet. They don’t need to stay round. Make sure the 2 logs are well separated. Bake in the 350-degree oven for 35 minutes. Let the logs cool for about 10 minutes, then carefully slice them on a diagonal angle. (Because this recipe is for a slightly softer biscotti, the dough may be a bit crumbly. The best way to slice is with a very sharp knife, straight down. No sawing.) Each log should yield about 12 cookies sliced approximately
¾
inches wide. Turn the cookies onto their sides, and place on a baking sheet. Put them back in the 350-degree oven for 8 minutes on one side, then turn over and bake another 8 minutes on the other side. Let cool. Store in an airtight container.

The above is a very basic biscotti recipe. Different variations can come from this recipe by adding such things as nuts, dried fruits, and various extracts. Have fun experimenting! Here are some possibilities:

Almond Biscotti:
In above recipe, change 1 tablespoon of vanilla to 2 teaspoons vanilla and 2 teaspoons almond extract. And mix 1 cup of chopped, toasted almonds into the dough. (To toast raw almonds, spread on baking sheet and place in 350-degree oven for about 12 minutes.)

Anise Biscotti:
In above recipe, change 1 tablespoon of vanilla to 2 teaspoons vanilla and 2 teaspoons anise extract. (Optional) Mix
¹
₂
cup of anise seeds into the dough.

Pistachio Biscotti
: In above recipe add to the dry ingredients
½
cup of toasted pistachios that have been ground to a powder. After dough forms, add 1 cup of whole, toasted pistachios. (To toast raw pistachios, spread on baking sheet and place in 350-degree oven for about 12 minutes.)

Ricciardelli

Simply marvelous! These sweet, delicate almond cookies have been popular for centuries. During the Renaissance, ricciarelli were served at the most lavish banquets in Italy and France. They are still a popular addition to dessert and cookie trays at festive gatherings. In Tuscany, they are a popular Christmas cookie and have been called “Tuscan Macaroons.”

Yield: about 36 cookies

This is a quick and easy version of the traditional recipe—creating a tender, chewy cookie you’ll flip over!

1 cup whole, raw almonds

½ cup granulated sugar

½ cup powdered sugar

1/8 cup honey (mild, such as clover)

2 egg whites

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

¾ cup all-purpose flour

Powdered sugar (for dusting)

Parchment paper

Preheat oven to 300 degrees Fahrenheit. First prepare your almonds. Blanche whole, raw almonds by dropping into boiling water for 2 minutes. Drain the almonds and rinse under cold water. Spread on a paper towel. When dry, squeeze each almond between your fingers so that the clean almond pops out of its dark skin. Repeat until all the almonds are skinned, then dry the almonds with a paper towel. Spread these blanched almonds in a single layer in a baking pan. Bake about 20 to 30 minutes—stir a few times throughout the baking process. Let cool. Place these almonds into a food processor. Grind them into a powder. Add the granulated and powdered sugars, then add the honey, egg whites, and vanilla; process these ingredients until they are well mixed. Add flour. If you do not have a food processer, use a blender to grind the nuts, then transfer to a bowl and use a hand mixer to mix in the other ingredients. A soft dough will form. If too soft, add a bit more flour—but do
not
create a stiff dough. Dough should be soft without being runny. Sprinkle a large cutting board generously with powdered sugar. Drop rounded teaspoons of dough into powdered sugar. Roll each piece of dough into a small ball. Drop ball onto baking sheet lined with parchment paper. Flatten into a circle with back of spoon and, if you like, shape into the traditional diamond shape. Dust unbaked cookies with powdered sugar (use a sieve or sifter for even dusting). Bake until cookies are set but not brown, about 10 to 15 minutes. Dust again with powdered sugar as soon as they come out of the oven. When completely cool, store in an airtight container.

The Village Blend’s
Guide to Roasting Terms

LIGHT

Cinnamon

Half city

MEDIUM

Full city

American

Regular

Breakfast

DARK

Continental

New Orleans

Vienna

DARKEST

French

Italian

Espresso