A Brew to a Kill (4 page)

“C
LARE
, I have never seen anything like this…”

With a kind of bewildered horror, Matt stared at the sideshow next to our sidewalk. The truck’s service window clanged open, revealing Kaylie Crimini’s honey-hued beehive bouncing among her staff inside the vehicle. Suddenly a sign appeared:
Twilight Special, 50% Off!

With the Kart now ready for cut-rate business, passersby began lining up.

The tinny faux-French music continued pouring from Kaylie’s truck speakers as the annoying menu recitation played on: “Fla-
vours
for
vous
!
Chocolat
fooge!
Chocolat
ship…”

With the Blend’s peace shattered, a dozen of my patrons closed up their books and laptops and began packing up. Matt watched in disbelief as many of these exiting customers stopped to purchase cupcakes before heading home.

“She’s baa-
ack
,” sang Nancy Kelly, approaching our table with a new round of espressos.

Nancy was the newest and youngest member of my barista staff. A fresh-faced farm girl from “all over,” as she put it, Nancy was a reliable opener and a constant source of good
cheer—no mean feat in a fast-moving city whose demanding, overanxious customers could reduce courteous countergirls to tears. As she cleared our empty cups and handed out new ones, Matt frantically jabbed the air.

“That truck… it’s actually selling pastries and coffee in front of
our
shop! What is this?
Who
is this?”

Nancy answered for me (with a slight crushin’-on-you batting of eyelashes—an affliction of which I had yet to cure her). “She’s our nemesis, Matteo… er…” She threw him an apologetic smile. “I mean, Mr. Allegro.”

“Nemesis?” he repeated. “Nancy, what are you taking about?”

“Kaylie Crimini is crazy jealous because our Muffin Muse is the talk of the foodie blog world and her cupcakes aren’t anymore!”

Matt’s face went blank. “What’s a Muffin Muse?”

“The name of our coffee truck,” I reminded him flatly. “Do you have selective hearing? Maybe I should have tried PowerPoint.”

“It’s like this,” Nancy tried again. “The Village Blend’s one-two punch of espresso drinks and muffin awesome-isity has beat the Cupcake Queen at her own game.”

“Game?”
Matt said. “What game?”

“The street food game,” I said. “Last summer Kaylie Crimini’s Kupcake Kart was the star of the food truck world, but this year we’re getting the attention.”

“That’s right!” Nancy flipped back one of her wheat-colored braids and grinned with home-team pride. “Our truck has been stealing Kaylie’s spotlight. How cool is that?”

“We’re stealing her spotlight, so she’s stealing our customers!” Matt turned to face me. “Great, Clare. You launch a food truck and gain a predator?”

“
Peer
, Matt. Kaylie is simply a business peer, a competitor in a big town with plenty of other competitors and literally millions of potential customers to go around. I’m sure she’ll grow up and get over these childish stunts soon.” At least, I hoped she would.

The bell over the front door jingled again, but this time it wasn’t a patron departing. An attractive Filipina woman entered our shop: Lilly Beth Tanga, my new business associate.

In her late thirties, Lilly was built much like me: petite but with a mature, shapely figure that nicely filled out her jeans. She was a hard worker, too, with a constant surplus of energy and ideas, and from the sparkling look in her beautiful, almond-shaped eyes, I could tell she was brimming with more.

“Kaylie Crimini
again
!” Lilly cried, approaching our table with a grin. “
Diyos Ko!
I think the Kupcake Kween is stalking me. She and that diabetic coma on wheels!”

After a quick, warm hug for me and another for Madame, she pulled up a chair to join us—and I was very glad that she did. Earlier today, I’d asked her to stop by and help me convince Matt to get on board the Muffin Muse truck (so to speak). With the sugar queen’s arrival, I could use all the help I could get.

“So good to see you again, Lilly,” Madame said. “How is little Paz?”

“Up to his tricks, as usual. He’s barely done with fifth grade, and he’s ready to program network television. He actually got his friends to help him organize a weekly recess variety show.”

“What do they call it?” I asked. “
Playground Idol
?”

“Close!” Lilly laughed. “
P.S. 11’s Got Talent.
”

Matt actually cracked a smile. “And you are?” he said, his mood obviously improving with the arrival of an attractive female.

“Lilly Beth Tanga,” I jumped in, “meet my business partner, Matt Allegro. Lilly is—”

“Filipino, right?” Matt extended a hand. “
Magandang araw,
Ms. Tanga.”

Lilly Beth took Matt’s hand. “
Sandali lang,
Mr. Allegro. But honestly, you’ll make more points speaking with my mom. I was born in Jackson Heights and my Tagalog is very rusty.”

“No problem,” Matt said. “My own’s pretty rusty these days—although I do remember
sarap nito
.”

“
Sarap nito
? Then you must enjoy Filipino food,
oo
?” Lilly Beth cocked her head and her sweet smile turned slyly flirtatious. “Or are you maybe referring to something else?”

I raised an eyebrow. Lilly once told me that
sarap nito
, the Tagalog word for “delicious,” had a literal translation of “that feels good,” which meant it also described sensory delights
beyond
the dining room.

Either my new friend wasn’t listening when I warned her about Matt’s open marriage and womanizing ways, or, with one look at my muscular, attractive, albeit overly-hairy ex, Lilly decided the best way to persuade the man was with a little flirtation.

I cleared my throat. “Lilly Beth is an expert on delicious things. Her mother, Amina, runs a popular Filipino eatery in Queens. Lilly is also a registered dietician. That’s why I hired her. She’s consulting with me and our baker on cutting some of the fat and calories out of our popular pastries.”

“And I brought some new samples for you and Madame to taste tonight… and Matt, too,
since he’s here…”

She smiled at him again, very sweetly, which, I had to concede, wasn’t exactly hurting the
Sway Matt
campaign.

“Do me a favor, Matteo,” she said, pulling a small bakery box out of her tote. “Take a taste of these donut bites. They come in two flavors: cinnamon sugar and pumpkin spice. I’ve got a low-fat mocha muffin, too, with dreamy chocolate cream cheese filling and chocolate
fooge
frosting…” She threw a wink my way.

We all dug in, sampling in silence and glancing at each other with wonder.

“These are really low fat?” I asked, mouth still full.

Lilly Beth nodded. “The donut bites are baked, not fried, and I’ve cut the fat in the mocha muffins by using skim milk ricotta. The filling is low-fat cream cheese and high-quality cocoa powder.”

“What about this chocolate fudge buttercream?” I asked.

Lilly Beth smiled. “No butter.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Melted semisweet chocolate blended with thick, Greek-style yogurt, a little vanilla and a pinch of salt for balanced flavor.”

“Okay, these are good,” Matt admitted, reaching for another donut bite, “but will this ‘healthier’ stuff sell?”

I nodded emphatically. “Our Cakelet-and-Cream Sandwiches and ‘Healthified’ Blueberry Pie Bars are the talk of the foodie blog world. Our truck can’t keep them in stock.”

“The Nutella-Swirled Banana Muffins and low-fat Strawberry Shortcakes are winners, too,” Lilly added. “The customers will enjoy these new donut bites even more. Consider all those moms, Mr. Moms, and nannies out there, pushing strollers on sidewalks, hanging out with their kids in parks and playgrounds. Treats like these are just the right portion size for little ones—without a crazy amount of fat and calories from copious amounts of butter or shortening.”

“Be careful, Clare,” Matt warned. “You don’t want to be labeled the diet food truck.”

“You’ve been in the bush too long, Matt. By law, New York City requires its restaurants to post calorie counts. With federal regulations on their way, much of the food world is paying attention. Almost everyone is searching for ways to add nutritious to delicious—”

“Well, maybe not
everyone
.” Lilly Beth jerked a thumb toward the circus outside. “That woman parked in front of my son’s school today. She’s actually peddling that slow-death monstrosity she calls the Three Little Piggies to children!”

“Three Little Piggies? What? It’s got bacon in it?”

“No, that’s her Maple-Bacon Cupcake, in which she whips solid bacon grease into butter at the start of the recipe. The Piggies is a giant coconut cupcake stuffed with a mini cheesecake topped by a chocolate-fudge cupcake with whipped cream and a little pink plastic pig on top.” Lilly Beth threw up her hands. “There should be a law!”

Matt crossed his arms. “I’m not a big fan of laws, Lilly—not that I’m happy this cupcake truck has planted itself
beside our café, but all this woman’s peddling is a boatload of sugar and butter, right? As for her bacon grease pastry, I routinely visit parts of the world that use lard in their traditional cooking… I mean, it’s not like she’s lacing her stuff with LSD.”

“I’m not suggesting we outlaw guilty pleasures,” Lilly clarified. “You and I are adults, and we can make our own informed decisions. But Kaylie’s favorite marketing targets are grade schools, and her Three Little Piggies cupcake is deceptive. It looks like an innocent snack, but the thing packs more fat and calories than a double cheeseburger with extra-large fries.”

Matt glanced at me. “We aren’t selling anything like that, are we?”

“Our portions are standard. We do have decadent pastries but the calories are always posted on our menu, and on our truck, too.”

“I said something to Kaylie today,” Lilly went on, “caused a big scene in front of Paz’s school. I didn’t care. I’m on the mayor’s Council for Nutrition Awareness now, and I let her know that
and
my feelings about her tactics,
loud and clear
.”

Matt’s gaze swept across me and Lilly Beth. “So now the Kupcake Kween has a hate on for both the Bobbsey Twins?”

Bobbsey Twins?
The remark confused me for a second. But then I realized, sitting side by side, we could have been fraternal twins, if you weren’t looking too closely.

For one thing, we were dressed nearly identically this evening—in blue jeans and sleeveless yellow cotton blouses, although mine was a pale polenta and Lilly’s more of a lemon curd. We wore our shoulder-length hair in ponytails, too, and from a distance you
could
say the color was dark, even though Lilly’s was more of a Spanish roast while mine was closer to Viennese with cinnamon highlights.

True, both of us had complexions on the dusky side, but Lilly’s face was nearly a perfect oval while mine was more heart-shaped. Our eyes were different, too: Years ago (
many
of them), Matt once sang about my bright, green “Guinevere”
eyes, but Lilly’s were much more exotic, it seemed to me, with their liquid dark hue and almond shape.

“Twins…” Lilly Beth repeated, glancing at me before winking at Matt. “Is he
trying
to be a bad boy?”

Matt’s expression lit up at that. He opened his mouth for a reply, but what he said, I’ll never know because his words were swallowed by the sudden surging of Kaylie’s fake French menu—

“Fla-
vours
for
vous
!
Chocolat
fooge!
Chocolat
ship…”

The volume vibrated our windowpanes and rattled our demitasses. What upset me the most, however, was seeing the reaction of my former mother-in-law.

Through half a century of turbulence and change, Madame had struggled to keep this shop’s doors open. She’d sheltered starving artists, sobered up drunken playwrights, and propped up penniless poets. She’d survived a world war and the loss of a beloved husband—the man who’s family had birthed this business at the turn of the nineteenth century.

Now she stared with distress at our sidewalk, watching our customers casually leave our café tables to purchase goodies from that preening little vulture.

“Do you want me to go out there and put a stop to this?” Matt asked, beginning to rise.

“No,” I said, finding my feet. With a gentle but firm hand, I pressed him back. “Stay.”

For nearly two weeks, I had ignored this situation, hoping it would resolve itself, but my conversation with Madame had woken me up to an important aspect of my business partnership with Matteo Allegro.

“This coffeehouse is my responsibility. I’ll deal with it.”

And her,
I silently added. Then I bolted the remains of my espresso and strode toward the door.