Murder by Mocha (12 page)

“Well, I’m happy to help.” Madame tilted her head toward the Garden. “After Alicia’s presentation, I’ll find a moment to speak with her. I’d like to know whether she and Maya Lansing have any bad blood between them.”

“Good idea. While you’re at it, keep an eye out for the Candy Man, okay? Whatever he was attempting to pull on Alicia this morning, he failed, and he may just try something else tonight.”

“The game is afoot!”

Ugh,
I thought,
that word again . . .

As my former mother-in-law pushed through the Garden doors, I turned to find an unnerving sight—a mountain of male flesh barreling toward me.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Are you Clare Cosi?”

Dressed in khaki pants and a blue sport coat—with a neck so large his collar gave his throat a muffin top—the guy was big enough to sub for half the Jets’ defensive line. Whoever he was, I needed a moment to find my voice.

“I’m Clare.”

“We have a situation.”

“A situation?”

The mountain flashed an ID. He was some kind of director for building security.

“A gentleman is trying to gain admittance to this event. First he claimed he was a guest, but he didn’t have an invitation. Then he said he was a member of your catering staff, but he didn’t have a pass and his name wasn’t on the approved list. We’re detaining him downstairs—”

“What does this guy look like?”

The guard repeated my question into a headset and touched the Blue Tooth listening device in his ear.

“He’s well built,” the guard said, then paused to listen. “Muscular. Hair dark and longish . . . he has facial hair . . . a trimmed goatee . . .”

I tensed. It had to be our Candy Man. Dennis St. Julian was a bodybuilder, and a fake beard and wig would help disguise him.

“Let’s go!” I said.

When the doors closed on our elevator, I cleared my throat. “Listen. If this is the person I think it is, he could be real trouble.”

With newly alert eyes, the Blue-Toothed Matterhorn passed on my warning in a low rumble.

“I don’t know if he’ll be violent,” I said, “but better safe than sorry, right?”

Again the guard spoke into his headset. One of his meaty hands balled into a fist. By the time the elevator hit the ground floor, I was keyed up and ready for anything.

The guard walked me to a corner of the vast lobby. Five men in uniforms had formed a ring around their captive.

“Back off!” a deep voice boomed.

Oh crap.

I still couldn’t see the man, but his two-syllable yell told me all I needed to know. This party crasher wasn’t the Candy Man; it was my ex-husband.

“I’ve had just about enough pat downs in the last twenty-four hours!”

“What are you doing here?!” I cried.

“Clare! Will you please tell these tin-plated fascists who I am!”

“It’s okay!” I assured the guards. “I know this guy. I’ll sign him in . . .”

“This guy,” of course, was Matteo Allegro, the very same man who’d enticed me, with honey-drenched figs and a dazzling smile, into the room of his
penzione
more than two decades ago. At the time, Matt was barely older than my nineteen years and no better educated. In the language of love, however, the boy was a polysyllabic genius (the figs had been just as hard to resist).

With my unexpected pregnancy, Matt proposed marriage. It didn’t last. The primary reason: his nonstop use of linguistic talents—too many languages with too many women, about whom he didn’t give a fig. I might have forgiven him if it weren’t for the coffee-buying trips to Columbia, where recreational cocaine use slowly transformed my dream boy into a newlywed nightmare.

By now, our relationship had improved a great deal. Matt had kicked his bad habit (the drugs, not the women), and with my return to his mother’s coffeehouse, he and I became partners again—in the coffee business, that is, and in the business of parenting our daughter.

When Rock Center security finally backed off, I exhaled with relief. So did Matt. (One guard had a Taser all ready to go.)

“What are you doing here?” I asked again.

“I had a connection out of Paris,” Matt said. “Went straight from JFK to the Blend, where I heard about this little shindig from Dante and Gardner.”

“They’re holding down the fort for me at the coffeehouse. Tucker, Esther, and Nancy are upstairs.”

“Who’s Nancy?”

“My newest barista. She just stared a few weeks ago.”

“Well, Dante told me this thing you’re doing tonight is something major.”

“It is.”

Matt swept back his dark hair, much longer now, and a marked contrast from his usual closely trimmed Caesar. He’d grown a goatee, too.

My ex-husband had always struck me as a pirate, but now he more resembled one of the Musketeers. Aramis came to mind, dashing as all get-out but
way
too popular with the ladies.

Even now, with fatigue circles under his eyes, Matt was turning the heads of random females passing by. (No surprise.) His black sport coat was cut to hug his buff torso; his latte-cream button-down contrasted attractively with his tan—not the spray-on kind but a deep, natural glow from the kiss of an African sun. Even his jeans were fashionably scuffed, though in Matt’s case the wear and tear didn’t come from some urban house of design; it was earned via treks around the world’s coffee belt as he hunted the highest-quality arabica for the Blend and his other global clients.

“This is supposed to be a private party,” I informed him. “Invitation only. What did you think you were going to do? Charm your way past teenage usherettes?”

Matt folded his arms, suddenly looking pleased with himself. “I told them I had to make a delivery. A last-minute addition to your catering staff.”

“You mean you?”

“No. Not me, Clare. You know I don’t cater—”

“No, generally you’re the one catered to.”

“Very funny.” Matt jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Your new assistant is in the ladies’ room, freshening up.”

“Oh God.” My throat was closing up already. “You don’t mean Breanne?”
(The second Mrs. Matteo Allegro and I didn’t much get along.)

“Relax. Breanne’s uptown. Like I said, I had a connection in Paris so—”

“Oh God! You saw Joy?”

“Better than that.”

“You mean—”

“Yup,” Matt said with a nod.

“Hey, Mom, I’m home,” a voice called from across the lobby.

“Joy!”

A moment later, my daughter and I were wrapping our arms around each other in a hug I wanted never to end.

FOURTEEN

A
FTER signing in my daughter with building security, our little reunited family moved to the elevator bank. The spring in Joy’s step fortified me, and I noticed her dark brown hair was much longer than I remembered.

Like father, like daughter,
I thought
,
and not for the first time.

Over the years, Joy had picked up a few habits from Matt. The very worst of which (some drug use in nightclubs) I continually prayed would remain far behind us. Joy’s height was her dad’s, too, but her heart-shaped face and big emerald eyes were totally Cosi. What cheered me most of all was seeing the meat back on her bones.

Before she’d gone to France, a horrific ordeal had sunk Joy’s spirits along with her appetite. She’d lost enough weight to worry me. But now her figure was back to displaying its natural curves, the kind that seldom wanted for male attention.

“So tell me?” I fished, “what’s the boyfriend news? Another adorable French cook in your brigade?”

“Not even close!” Joy replied so quickly and lightly I flashed back on my own attempt to snowball Mike earlier in the day.

I folded my arms, shot her the maternal X-ray.

“It’s true, Mom! I’ve been
way
too busy at work.”

“Then how did you get away?”

She waved her hand—a gesture identical to Matt’s mother. It was so adult, so self-assured, I blanked for a moment, wondering how that could be. She was just five years old, wasn’t she? Helping me frost her grandma’s birthday cake. Or eleven, crying over some jerk of a neighbor boy who’d made fun of her. Fourteen, laughing as we tested a new recipe in our Jersey kitchen. Sixteen, alone at the stove, excitedly cooking a Julia Child feast for one of Matt’s visits. How could she possibly be in her twenties now? All grown up and living in Paris?

“. . . and next week Monsieur Boucher’s youngest sister is getting married. It’s a huge deal for their family. They rented a neo-Gothic castle in the Loire Valley, and since half his restaurant staff is related, he just threw up his hands and closed us down for a week.”

In the pause that followed, I stared at my daughter, willing my mind to catch up to the incomprehensible passage of time. “Boucher’s sister is getting married,” I repeated. “Well . . . I’m surprised you weren’t invited.”

“Oh, I was. But then Dad showed up and offered to buy me a ticket home.” She grinned. “How could I say no?”

My mind sharpened fast. Something about Joy’s tone sounded off. “I hope Monsieur Boucher wasn’t offended about your missing his sister’s wedding. What did you tell him?”

“Mon père et ma mère me manquent!”

My father and mother miss me.
“Oh, honey, we do . . .”

As I hugged her again, I noticed Matt staring.

“No boyfriend?” he said. “Really?

“Oh, Dad, the French guys I’ve met are okay, but none of them are worth hooking up with, you know?”

I stiffened. So did Matt. He was thinking the same thing I was, but neither of us had the stomach to ask. I certainly wasn’t going to bring up the dreaded
Franco
question, certainly not in front of Matt. Then my daughter turned the tables on me.

“So, Mom, when are we going to hear wedding bells for you and Mike?”

I blinked and stared. Joy’s question surprised me so much I wasn’t sure what to say. Thank goodness the elevator car
binged
its arrival. As we boarded, I was sure Matt would change the subject.

He didn’t.

“Come on, Mom—” Joy was grinning now. “Don’t go all quiet on me. I know you and Mike love each other.”

“We do,” I finally said. “And we may consider matrimony in the future. But right now things just aren’t settled enough in our lives.”

“That’s no excuse! Look at Dad. His life is crazy, but he married Breanne.”

Matt coughed—I’m pretty sure to hide a laugh. As I shifted from foot to foot, I could see he was smirking.

“What’s so funny?” I said.

“The day has finally come when our daughter thinks I’m a good role model for you.”

“Oh, please.”

“Come on, you guys,” Joy said, “don’t fight.”

“We’re not fighting,” I said. “But you should understand that Mike and I don’t view marriage the same way your father and his new wife do. They don’t have . . .” I was about to say a sacred union, but I knew it would come off badly.

“What?” Joy said. “They don’t have a traditional marriage? I’m not a kid anymore, Mom. We can certainly talk about these things.”

I didn’t reply. For one thing, this wasn’t the time or place. So I just gritted my teeth and checked our progress.
Man, this was one slow elevator!

Bing,
went the bell.
Finally!

“Here we are!”

Leading the way down the corridor, I checked over my shoulder. The Garden was still full of guests, but it wouldn’t be for long. We had fifteen minutes before service, even less if the weather turned. Recalling that smell of dampness in the outside air, I pushed quickly through the Loft’s doors and waved Joy and Matt inside.

T
UCKER and Esther yipped when they saw Joy. Hugs followed, and I introduced Nancy Kelly. Then Joy touched my arm.

“Dad wasn’t kidding. I’d like to help out tonight.”

Pleased as punch, I held myself back from hugging her yet again. Instead, I pulled out one of our pressed black aprons. As Joy stowed her red hooded jacket and tied on the Blend’s version of formalwear, Esther suggested we taste test the coffee before the guests poured in.

I eagerly gave her the thumbs-up, surprised at how different I felt about the whole thing now that Joy and Matt were with me.

Mike Quinn was right, I realized at last.
You’re fully on board with this thing. If it goes bad, you’ll figure out the next step. You always do. . . .

“All right,” I said when the carafe was ready. “Let’s try it!”

Esther poured four-ounce samples all around.

I put the paper cup under my nose. The aroma was an earthy combination of roasted coffee and dark chocolate.
Good so far.
I sipped, thinking everything was going to be okay, until Matt cried out—

“You’re serving
instant
coffee! Clare, have you gone mad?!” Tucker, Esther, and Nancy froze.

I narrowed my gaze. “What?”

“You heard me!”

“You mean to tell me that you don’t know what this party is all about?”

Matt folded his arms.

“This is a product launch, Matt. Alicia Bower is introducing her brand-new beverage to the world, a mix of Village Blend beans, Voss chocolate, and natural herbs. It’s a powder called Mocha Magic Coffee.”

“Dear God . . .” Matt held his head. “My meticulously sourced beans are going into an instant coffee
powder
?”

“Oh, Mr. Boss?” Esther raised a finger. “Point of information. Mocha Magic is also a natural aphrodisiac.” She fanned herself. “And the stuff is starting to work. Hey, anybody remember Edmund Spenser? Maybe you should rename this stuff Bower of Bliss!”

“The Faerie Queene!”
Tucker gushed, raising his sample high. “Okay, Esther, now you’re talking my kind of poetry!”

Joy sniffed her sample, rolled the hot liquid around on her tongue, and swallowed. “Not bad for an instant, Mom. Better than a lot of premium brands I’ve tasted.” She smiled with daughterly encouragement. “And since chocolate and coffee are natural aphrodisiacs, anyway, I think this is a great idea for a product!”

“Thanks, honey. What about the rest of you? What do you think of the taste?”