Mocha, She Wrote

by Ellie Alexander

  “Either way is fine with us.” James tapped the pencil on the paper. Was he in a hurry to get back to work, or was he nervous? He grabbed a menu and handed it to me. “Take a look at this. It’s our catering pub fare. We can do a few options from it if you want. That might make it easier on the kitchen, but really we can handle standard ordering too.”

  I reviewed the menu and tried to think of a way to bring up what Andy had told me about Sammy and Benson without it seeming too obvious. “Everything sounds delicious. Let’s do the fried chicken with bacon gravy and Brussel sprouts, tomato and herb flatbread pizza, and the summer salad with fresh berries, goat cheese, walnuts, and grilled salmon.”

  James made a note. “Got it. The pub menu also comes with a selection of our desserts. We can do a couple platters of chocolate brownies, cookies, and mini carrot cakes.”

  “Perfect.”

  “What do you want to do about drinks? I can put together a craft beer list and offer a choice of red, white, or sparkling wine.” He leafed through some paperwork, looking for the bar list.

  “That would be lovely.” I wanted to splurge a bit and celebrate the team’s hard work, but I didn’t want to spend a fortune on cocktails. “If anyone wants a cocktail or more expensive glass of wine, can they order that directly?”

  “Of course.”

  There wasn’t much more to discuss. I needed to work up the courage to ask him about Sammy, but I couldn’t figure out the right way to broach the subject without seeming pushy. But if I didn’t do it now, I was going to lose my chance.

  “You mentioned payment?” James asked.

  “Right. I forgot to ask if you need a deposit or prefer pre-payment.” I handed him the menus.

  He returned the menus to their spot on his desk. “I think I know where to find you if you try to sneak out on us.”

  I smiled.

  “No, actually this isn’t anything out of the norm for us. You’re not even that big of a party. You can pay the server at the end of the dinner. We add a customary gratuity for parties your size.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “Was there anything else?” James asked. He glanced briefly at his watch.

  “Actually, I have an off-topic question for you.”

  His jaw tightened ever so slightly. “What’s that?”

  “It’s about Sammy.”

  Again he flinched. “What about her?”

  I decided my best option was to tell a little white lie. “She stopped by Torte yesterday and we had a nice chat about the business. It sounds like she’s planning to go big with Fluid. As the owner of a small coffee shop myself, I’m impressed with her vision.”

  “Yeah, I heard something about that.” He didn’t offer more.

  “Did you hear anything about Benson being her financial partner?” I hoped that my tone sounded innocent.

  “The coffee world is still small. Word gets around pretty quick and Benson wasn’t known for being discreet.”

  “Oh really?”

  James softened his shoulders. “The guy had such an inflated ego. Even if he wanted to be discreet, he couldn’t. He had to be the center of attention. He bragged to everyone about all of his business ventures. He liked to make it known that he was the most successful guy in the room. I’m sure you know the type.”

  Richard Lord came to mind.

  “Did he brag about investing in Sammy’s shops?”

  James cleared his throat. “I don’t know. I tried to keep my distance from the guy. We didn’t see eye to eye, if you know what I mean.”

  “He seemed harsh, for sure.” Maybe if I mirrored James’s tone he would keep talking.

  “Harsh doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface. He was intentionally cruel. He took pleasure in tearing people down. The guy was evil.”

  I had clearly hit a nerve. James had a fist clenched. I noticed for the briefest moment his face turning toward the mounted magazine article. I was going to ask him more, but he coughed and rolled his shoulders before standing up. Yet again, I couldn’t help but wonder if there had been more to James and Benson’s relationship.

  “Sorry, I have so much to do. I need to cut this short and get back to work.” He moved toward the door. I had no choice but to follow him.

  “Feel free to call if you think of anything else, but otherwise we’re looking forward to having the Torte staff here for dinner later.” James held the door open for me.

  “I think it will be fun. Thanks for your help.” I felt his eyes on my back as I walked down the hallway to the lobby.

  My first order of business was to do some research into James’s past. If he had been a barista in Seattle, odds were good that he and Benson’s paths had crossed. Both Sammy and Piper had mentioned that the coffee scene had been small. James and Benson must have known each other. Could that have given him a motive for murder?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  At Torte, I did a quick check-in with the team before heading to my office. There were multiple things I wanted to look into, but the first was James. I searched his name, and the first few links took me to the Sunset article along with numerous stories I’d seen in his office about his new position at The Hills. As I scrolled further, a headline caught my eye: “Seattle’s Star Satellite Barista Receives Scathing Starless Review.”

  I clicked on the link.

  Jackpot!

  My jaw dropped as I read the Seattle Times column written by none other than Benson Vargas. He had systematically eviscerated James’s first coffee shop, Satellite, in a front-page feature in the Food Section.

  “The famed Satellite had me wishing I could launch myself into orbit and jet into a different galaxy to escape the lifeless sludge barista and owner James is trying to pawn off on hopeless customers. My thirty minutes at Satellite is time I’ll never get back. I call foul on James calling himself a barista. He had no knowledge of the bean’s origin or the brewing process. Rather than freshly grinding the roast, he simply stuffed the portafilter with stale pre-ground beans. Tragic! James not only squandered my precious time but he assaulted my palate with his lackluster, watered-down dirty-bathroom sediment that he claims is coffee. Let me tell you, sir, that what you’re serving is not coffee. The smeary mocha made me wonder if one of the baristas had had an unfortunate accident and rather than rushing to the bathroom they opted to defecate in my cup.”

  Woah.

  I couldn’t read on. It was too painful. Benson had gone for the jugular. No wonder James had no love for him.

  I clicked away from the article and did a little more searching. Subsequent stories written after the review had been published painted a sad picture. Benson’s vile words about Satellite appeared to leave a lasting mark. The coffee shop shuttered its doors for three months after the review originally ran. Poor James. I had a newfound empathy for him, and yet this was tangible proof that he had a clear motive for killing Benson. Could James have been involved in the lawsuit that Sammy had mentioned?

  I copied the stories, pasted them in an email, and sent them to Thomas. It was highly likely that he, the Professor, and Detective Kerry were already investigating Benson’s previous columns, but it wouldn’t hurt and I had made a promise to the Professor to share anything I learned.

  Next, I shifted gears and found Sammy’s website and social media. Fluid’s online presence matched Sammy’s haughty attitude. There was no mention of franchising anywhere on her website. However, there were numerous photos of her and Benson posing together at barista competitions and at her shop, and even links to the glowing articles he had written about her.

  The contrast between his adoration for her talents versus his utter disgust with James was revealing. What did it mean in terms of his murder?

  I was becoming more convinced that James might be the killer. He had motive and he certainly had the opportunity. I’d witnessed a nasty argument between him and Benson. Had James tried to give Benson one last warning? Is that why he’d told Andy about Sammy? Was he trying to make s
ure that suspicion shifted to her and away from him?

  In some way, I couldn’t blame James for being upset with Benson—not that I condoned murder. I played out different scenarios in my head. Maybe James hadn’t expected to see Benson here. He had started a new life in Ashland and put the coffee world behind him. What if seeing Benson brought back memories he had buried? Could he have snapped? That was certainly a possibility. But there was another one. What if Benson’s murder was premeditated? Since James managed the catering department for The Hills, he must have been involved in planning for the Barista Cup. Could he have seen Benson’s picture or bio on the publicity materials and decided this was his opportunity to exact his revenge?

  I didn’t have a ton of time to stew over other possibilities as the lunch rush picked up. I returned to the kitchen to help plate my pasta salad and Ruben sandwiches grilled to perfection on our house-made rye bread, brushed with Russian dressing, and oozing melted Swiss cheese. Sterling’s carrot and cilantro soup was a hit too. The same was true for Marty’s buttered and blackened naan served with creamy hummus and summer veggies.

  The afternoon breezed by. Soon it was time to close up and caravan to The Hills. Steph had finished her trio of party cakes. One was a silky simple two-layer buttercream cake with fancy rainbow sprinkles. Another was an ice blue cake with a wreath of buttercream succulents, and the last cake had been designed with layers of chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry buttercream with a chocolate drip spilling over the edges and an ice-cream cone made entirely of cake smashed on the top.

  “Those turned out great.” I complimented her creative efforts.

  She returned the praise with her signature half shrug. “Thanks.”

  “I’m going to head over to The Hills a little early to hold seats for everyone. How are we on deliveries?”

  Steph folded cake boxes together. “We’re going to deliver the ice-cream cake on our way. The other two are due to be picked up in the next half hour.”

  “Perfect. Does anyone need anything else from me before I go?” I looked to Sterling and Marty, who were finishing lunch cleanup.

  “Nope. We’ll see you there soon.” Marty plunged a stockpot into soapy water.

  “Be sure to get front-row seats again,” Bethany added as she positioned the succulent cake in the center of the counter to take a picture.

  “I’m on it.” I waved and left for the hotel. In truth, I did want to get good seats, but I also wanted a chance to swap notes with Lance.

  He was already waiting for me when I arrived. He had placed white sheets of paper with the word RESERVED on every seat in the first two rows.

  “How did you manage to reserve us an entire section?” I asked, setting my purse on a chair.

  “Don’t ask questions. I have my ways.”

  I didn’t doubt that.

  He looked around us. A few staff members milled about, but there was no sign of the judges or competitors.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked.

  “They just went into the adjacent room for a meeting, so let’s not dally. Do tell, what did you learn?” He crossed one leg over the other.

  I told him about James’s former career as a barista and how Benson’s review was responsible for the death of that career.

  “You must send me that. It sounds like excellent bedtime reading.” Lance winked.

  “It was painful and cringeworthy to say the least.” Spectators began filing into the ballroom. “What about you? Any luck with Sammy?”

  “She’s a shady one, that girl. I’m not sure about her. I would bet money that there’s something she’s not saying, but I couldn’t get it out of her. She did admit that she had financial backing from Benson, but I’m not sure that’s earth-shattering news.”

  “How did you get that out of her?”

  “As if you need to ask. Please.” He tapped his fingers together. “Let’s just say that I might have tossed out the possibility of the festival being on the hunt for a new coffee vendor.”

  “Smart.”

  “I know.” He soaked in the praise, motioning for me to keep it going.

  I punched his arm. “Did she say anything about Benson pulling out of the deal?”

  “Not a word, and that’s why I’m not so sure she’s trustworthy. She skirted answering that question faster than an actor trying to get out of a fitting after a weekend of imbibing. And that girl should cut out the caffeine and take up meditation. She’s as jittery as an ingenue on opening night.”

  Carlos arrived, followed shortly by the rest of the team along with Andy’s grandma June, and Mom and the Professor. We put our conversation on hold.

  Andy and the remaining contestants entered the ballroom to “Eye of the Tiger.” He spotted us and beamed.

  We must have looked like an official cheer squad. Our team filled two entire rows and erupted in applause for our favorite barista. Marty had made enough cutouts of Andy’s head for everyone, and Bethany started a Torte chant.

  James went through his introductory routine with a bit of a tweak. He informed the crowd that one of the competitors had been disqualified and that yesterday’s sixth-place finisher would be returning. “You can’t script this, folks! The West Coast Barista Cup has had it all this year, and by the end of the day we’re going to crown a winner, award a ten-thousand-dollar cash prize, and send this year’s champ on to Nationals. Hold onto to your seats, because it’s about to get wild in here.” He pointed to the DJ, who blasted a dance mix.

  James pumped up the crowd, then he made a slicing motion across his neck to cut the music. “All right, let’s get serious. Since we had to eliminate a contestant and make some last-minute changes, today’s rounds will freestyle. That means that none of our baristas have had a chance to plan or prepare for what’s to come. The judges decided this was the only way to level the playing field.”

  He caught Piper’s eye. She pushed her leopard-rimmed glasses to the bridge of her nose and gave him a curt nod.

  Sammy threw her hands over her face. “Wait, what? You can’t do this. I’ve spent months preparing my talking points and each drink offering. Freestyle?”

  “I’m afraid so.” James put one hand out in front of him and held the mic with the other. “You’re going to have to think on your feet. The judges came up with a list of traditional espresso drinks found on any coffee shop menu. You’ll have fifteen minutes to come up with a concept and then an additional fifteen minutes to prepare and present your offerings in each round. Got it?” He looked to the baristas.

  Sammy ran her fingers through her hair and shook her head in disgust as the other baristas, including Andy, nodded their approval.

  “Okay, let’s get this party started.” James reached into a clear vase with folded up pieces of paper. He took extra time unfolding and reading the paper he chose. After a minute, he grinned and directed his words to the baristas. “How are you feeling about blended drinks? Break out those blenders and stock up on ice because for this first round, the judges want you to present not one, not two, but three blended coffees. You have fifteen minutes to think about what you want to blend—and your time starts now!” He snapped and the countdown clock and music started.

  While the baristas frantically searched through their stockpile of supplies and began sketching out recipes, my thoughts turned to Diaz. Where had he gone? Had he left town? Would the Professor have allowed that?

  I’d been so focused on James, Sammy, and Piper that I’d forgotten that Diaz had been my top suspect just a day ago. On a hunch I surveyed the ballroom. Sure enough, Diaz was slumped in a chair in the very back row. He wore a black baseball cap low on his forehead in an attempt to conceal his face. What was he doing here?

  I was surprised he’d been allowed to return to the building. Did that mean that the Professor had eliminated him as a potential suspect? Or could there be another reason he was lurking in the back?

  I made a note to try and have a word with him before the night was over.

  J
ames returned to the mic. “That’s it, baristas! I hope you’ve blended up something amazing in your mind. Time’s up for your prep. How are you feeling about your frozen concoctions?”

  Sammy pushed the mic away when James approached her for comment. “I don’t have time for this.”

  So much for her speech to Andy about the mental game. Lance wasn’t exaggerating about her lack of composure.

  “Ouch! Someone’s feeling the pressure.” James moved on to Andy’s station. “How about you? Care to entice the crowd with what you’re going to blend up?”

  Andy spoke with ease and confidence. It was like he and Sammy had swapped personalities over the course of the competition. “Sure. I’m going to start with a tiramisu-blended coffee that will be Italian espresso infused with dark chocolate, almond extract, heavy cream, and a splash of Grand Marnier.”

  The audience let out collective “ooohhh.”

  “Yeah, what they said.” James clapped Andy’s shoulder. “Save me a sample of that, okay, kid?”

  Andy’s boyish grin had returned to his face.

  Carlos leaned in. “I think that this is good for Andy, si? He does well under pressure. This is because of his training at Torte. He isn’t rehearsed. He’s tapping into his heart center and his creativity.” He pressed his fingers to his chest.

  I agreed. Andy’s cheeks had color and his eyes twinkled as he explained that his second blended drink would be his take on a Thai iced tea with shots of strong spiced chai, and that he would round out his tasting tray with a classic coffee milkshake featuring Torte’s coffee concrete and a Guatemalan roast, served with spiced whipped cream and chocolate shavings.

  “He is going to win this no problem.” Carlos leaned against his chair and reached for my hand. “You watch and see.”

  “I hope you’re right.” I crossed my fingers.

  The bell rang to announce that it was time for the contestants to start blending their drinks. I got swept up in the excitement. Andy performed like a champ. I had a feeling his massive squad had given him a boost. As Carlos had predicted, he ended the round with top marks. Sammy pouted when James announced that she was holding steady in second place.