by Coyle, Cleo
I blew out air and picked up the demitasse, not wanting to admit anything. But before I could take a sip, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“Clare, we need to talk . . . now.”
My ex-husband had spoken (and in such a lovely tone of voice). I could only assume he’d found out about Franco and Joy. I closed my eyes, not yet caffeinated enough for this discussion. As he plopped onto the empty stool on the other side of me, I knocked back the espresso so fast I barely tasted it.
Tuck gawked at me. (It was not my usual way of enjoying espresso.) I met his eyes. “Another one, please. ASAP.”
“A doppio this time?”
I nodded.
Tuck glanced at Matt. “You want a double, too?”
With a grunt, my ex nodded his shaggy dark head. The length of his hair still threw me. Yesterday he had looked like a jet-lagged Musketeer. Today it was more like an Arabian pirate—a seriously hungover Arabian pirate. Twelve hours’ worth of dark stubble had sprouted around his trimmed goatee and worry lines notched the skin flanking his rum-colored eyes.
“Whatever could be on your mind?” I asked as Tuck beat if for the back of the espresso machine. (He knew when to get out of the line of fire.)
“Breanne and I tried your Mocha Magic stuff last night,” Matt said.
I cleared my throat, thanking heaven this was not about our daughter’s brilliant decision to tail a known drug dealer with a rogue cop across half the state of New Jersey.
“So?” I croaked. “Did you like the herbal product?”
“That’s precisely the issue, Clare. Your Mocha Magic is not herbal. You’re pushing a drug!”
“Keep you voice down! What’s your problem?”
“That damn Mocha Magic Coffee is my problem and yours, too. When I brought it home last night, Bree said it might make an interesting lifestyle piece in her magazine. So we talked about trying it together and . . .” He combed long fingers through his disheveled hair.
“And? What?”
“And, after two cups, we stopped talking.”
“You made love?”
“That’s a polite euphemism for what we did. We couldn’t stop. Remember, I was already juiced from the party . . .” Matt sighed. “I guess it was my fault. I kind of swept Breanne off her feet.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You had great sex—with your wife—and that raises red flags in your head?”
“Listen to me. Your launch party pushed this as a drink mix of coffee, cocoa, and a few herbs. Well, I don’t buy it. What exactly is in the stuff? Those individual packets don’t list the ingredients.”
“The ingredients are on the boxes—twelve packets to a box. They’re also listed in the press kit. Wait! I have one behind the counter.”
I ducked around the espresso bar for the envelope, spilled the contents on the marble top: a slick brochure, a contact sheet, and six single-serving packets. I scanned the brochure’s ingredient list.
“Okay, here we go. There’s Panax ginseng—”
“That’s just ginseng grown in Asia,” Matt said. “Why bother to stick the word Panax in there except as a cheap marketing ploy?”
“And Pausinystalia yohimbe extract—”
“Yohimbe!” Matt cried. “I smoked that crap back in high school. Everybody said it was a legal high. They were only half right.”
“I’m waiting . . .”
“It was legal.”
Punch snickered, and I realized he’d been eavesdropping.
“Okay,” I said, still reading. “What about this: yin yang huo, otherwise known as horny goat weed.”
“Excuse me?” Punch interrupted. “You’re kidding with that one, aren’t you?”
“No,” I said. “In fact, there’s a legend attached to it.”
“Really?”
I handed over the brochure, and Punch began to read aloud: “Horny goat weed’s aphrodisiac properties were first discovered when shepherds noticed their goats became amorous after they ate this herb . . .”
Tuck arrived with our double espressos. “Sounds like that legend about the origin of coffee.”
“Which is?” Punch asked.
“Goats started frolicking around in an unusually spirited manner after chewing cherries on a coffee shrub. So the goat herder sampled them.”
“Sampling coffee cherries would just wake you up,” Punch pointed out. “What’s a herder to do, all alone on a mountaintop, after trying horny goat weed?”
“Let’s not go there,” I said.
“Yes,” Tuck said. “After all, in any given countryside, there’s always a goat herder on the next hill!”
“¡Ay ay! ¡Arriba!”
While Punch and Tuck high-fived each other, Matt folded his arms. “Sorry to kill the fun, but no amount of yin yang hooey or ginseng can account for the effects Breanne and I felt last night.”
“Wait,” I said, trying not to panic. I grabbed the Mocha Magic brochure back from Punch. “There’s Passiflora extract—that’s passionflower—and damiana.”
“Clare, you’ve had damiana before.”
“I have?”
“Los Cabos, Mexico?” Matt said. “That week on the Baja Peninsula.”
“Oh, right . . .” (Joy was three. She had stayed with Matt’s mother while we took a little vacation—only there wasn’t a lot of sightseeing beyond our waterfront bedroom, not after one trip to the bar.)
“They used damiana instead of triple sec in their margaritas,” Matt reminded me. “You loved the taste. We must have sucked down a gallon.”
“There you go! The bartender told us it was an aphrodisiac!”
Matt rubbed his jaw, but then shook his head. “Sorry, Clare, nice try, but damiana isn’t that powerful, either. As I recall, before that trip, you and I hadn’t seen each other for almost a month—we had a lot of catching up to do.”
“True.”
“Trust me, I’ve sampled every illicit narcotic known to man at least once, and this Mocha Magic contains a drug, not a collection of herbs.”
“Maybe its Alicia’s proprietary formula. She might have found a way to heighten the effects of those herbal ingredients. And you had a lot last night. Maybe you simply overdosed, and it came off more powerfully than it usually does. Maybe if she puts a warning on the label—”
“Why not just send a text message to the Food and Drug Administration?” He raised his voice an octave higher. “Oh, look at me, I appear harmless, but I’m really dangerous if you ingest too much of me, and I’m made with Village Blend coffee beans.” His voice went down again. “Just imagine the lawsuits, ’cause I can.”
“So what are you going to do? Send this Mocha Magic to a lab for testing?”
“Not me. You’re the one who needs to have it tested. This stuff isn’t a soil sample or a new hybrid—and you know my history with Bogotá Marching Powder. Why don’t you get your boyfriend to do it? He sniffs out illegal narcotics for a living.”
I chewed my lip. “I’ll ask him.”
“I can’t believe this is such a surprise to you. I saw Dudley Do-Right at the party, sucking down cup after cup of this stuff. Didn’t he say something when you two took this Mocha Magic for a test drive?”
“We didn’t. Not exactly.”
“Oh, really? Trouble in paradise?”
“No.” I lowered my voice. “We were pretty turned on, both of us, but we were interrupted by ...” What could I say? A cop going rogue with your daughter? A woman bludgeoned to death and dumped in a Garden pool? An erotic dream turned nightmare?
“By?”
“It’s complicated.”
“He’s a narc, Clare. He should have noticed something.”
“Mike Quinn always takes me at my word. I told him this stuff is purely herbal, and he believed me.”
“Love is blind? You expect me to buy that?”
“Love is trusting. And Mike trusts me ...” (I never realized just how much until this moment.)
“Well, here’s the problem, Cl
are: you trusted my mother, and she trusted Alicia—but her product can sink us. You know we could lose the Blend over this?”
“Calm down, okay? Let’s start with having the powder tested.”
Matt gulped his doppio. “Damn. I must have OD’d last night. That stuff was crazy powerful—and, let me tell you, that half-nude woman at your party didn’t help!”
“Her name is Maya Lansing ...” I tapped my chin. “Matt, when exactly did you leave last night?”
“Early. Right after I grabbed the samples. Why?”
“Because something happened after you bolted.”
I finally dropped the news bomb about Patrice Stone’s death and the police investigation. I also told him about the rivalry among the Sisters of Aphrodite and the possibility that Alicia may have done the deed.
“So now our new business partner might be a murderess?” Matt cried.
“Keep your voice down. Maya Lansing is just as likely to be guilty here. She had the most to gain from Patrice’s death.”
Matt shook his hairy head. “That theory won’t hold water. Maya never left that party, not once, not even to go to powder her... uh, nose. Believe me, I would have known, and so would every other man in that room.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
I cradled my face in my hands. “Alicia can’t be a murderer. This Mocha Magic can’t be illegal. It will kill your mother.”
“Want me to rub your shoulders?”
“No... Yes... No—wait! What about Maya’s husband, Herbie Lansing? The guy with the yachtsman’s cap?”
Matt nodded. “The captain? I nearly asked him why he left Tennille at home.”
“Did he leave the party and come back? I’m pretty sure he did. But did you actually see it?”
Matt shrugged. “I wasn’t staring at the chubby yachtsman—I was ogling his wife.” He swatted the hair away from his eyes and drained his demitasse. “I’ve got to go. I’d love nothing better than to get a shave and a haircut, and then hit the sack. But that’s not to be. I’m meeting Breanne for lunch.”
“How long can it take to get a haircut?”
Matt shook his head. “Breanne loves the hair now. She said she liked me scruffy. Either that or the Mocha Magic scrambled her fashionista brain. Anyway, after last night, I’m sure she’ll demand an encore performance right there in her office. So I’m going to the health club for a quick steam bath before I face the music.”
Matt rose and snatched the powdered coffee packets from the countertop. Still clutching them, he shook his fist at me. “This stuff is a drug, Clare. I’m warning you,” he said before cramming the packets into his pocket.
I folded my arms and glared.
“What?” he said.
“You just stuffed your pockets with it!”
“So? Using isn’t selling. Big difference. One I’m sure Dudley will explain if you ask him real nice.”
“Just go already.”
Matt was about to face the door when I spied a familiar roughneck over his shoulder. Sergeant Emmanuel Franco had strolled in, espresso-dark leather jacket open, shaved scalp gleaming in the sunlight. His detective’s gold shield dangled from a strap around his neck, but I suspected Franco wasn’t here on NYPD business—and if Matt caught sight of him, there’d be hell to pay (and plenty of broken furniture).
“Wait!” I cried, seizing Matt’s arms.
Annoyance registered. “What is it, Clare?”
Franco heard us, spotted Matt, and made a swift retreat.
“It’s... It’s your hair,” I said. “Breanne might be right. It’s very attractive long like that. Takes ten years off your face.”
“Really? You think so?”
The coast was clear, so I released my grip. “Yes. I really think that’s a good look for you.”
“Thanks,” Matt said, grinning now. “I’ll drop by later,” he added, then tossed me a wave before heading out the door.
Not even a minute passed before the Blend had a return customer. This time Detective Franco carefully scanned the coffeehouse before stepping over the threshold. When our eyes met, he sauntered toward me, flashing his cocksure grin.
TWENTY-FOUR
“YOU! Sit!” I tapped my index finger on the stool beside me. Franco’s confident expression vanished.
“Detective,” I said with motherly sternness, “I just saved you from a world of hurt. If my ex-husband knew you took his little girl on a dangerous stakeout—”
Franco blinked as he sank onto the barstool. “You got it wrong, Coffee Lady. Joy and I parked on a variety of suburban streets in very nice Jersey neighborhoods, ate fruity chocolate flowers, and talked.”
I narrowed my gaze.
“Okay,” he said, dropping his voice, “there was some liplock involved, but give us a break, we haven’t seen each other in months.”
“How could you take her on the stakeout of a criminal?”
“Joy was never in danger, okay. I wasn’t going to do squat with her in the car. I just wanted to start getting a handle on this guy’s routine. She’s a grown woman, you know, and she wanted to come. I don’t see the big deal. It’s not like it was official.”
“Not official? Don’t you give me that dodgy crap! Mike told me the whole story. You shouldn’t be pursuing this dealer at all.”
A shadow crossed Franco’s face. “Listen, it’s real simple. Some poor innocent schmuck of a wannabe artist kissed a Brooklyn sidewalk from ten stories up—partly because I couldn’t see he needed bigger help than I threw his way. The scumbag responsible for his death and a beautiful young girl’s overdose is going to pay. Just think of me as the cosmic collection agent. All I have to do is catch the SOB on my side of the Hudson.” He folded his arms. “And when I’m done with him, the DEA is welcome to mop up what’s left.”
“I’m sure Mike warned you of the consequences if things go south on that plan.”
“Hey, look, Lieutenant Quinn is the man. I have nothing but respect for my loo, but he can’t tell me how to spend my free time, and I know what I’m doing.” Franco met my eyes. “So truce, okay?”
I had plenty more to say, but I decided to save it for my daughter. This was a grown man with a deadly serious mission in his eyes, and making an enemy of a possible future son-in-law wasn’t a brilliant move in any case.
I sighed. “How about a House Special? Double cream, double sugar?”
Franco’s grim expression broke. “Aw, Coffee Lady, you remember?”
“That’s what we do here, Manny.”
I saw the line at the register. “I’ll get it myself.”
As I rose from the espresso bar, a young woman with green skin and a black fright wig sat down on the other side of Franco.
“Greeeeetings, my pretty!” she cackled.
“How’ya doin’?” Franco said with a calm little nod. (Now there was a New Yorker.)
To make Franco’s joe, I used our Clover—essentially a cross between a single-serving French press and a high-tech vacuum pot. The handy little eleven-thousand-dollar machine allowed me to customize every cup by digitally calibrating everything from water temperature and pressure to brew time in order to coax the utmost flavor out of Matt’s scrupulously sourced (and my roasted-with-love) beans.
As I ground those beans fresh, I noticed Tuck boning up on his director’s skills while whipping up a slender actress’s decaf (“why bother”) latte with skim milk and sugar-free caramel.
“From what I understand,” he told the young actress, “the witch role is pivotal to the entire show.”
“Oh, come on,” she replied. “The play’s called Return to Munchkin Land, so the munchkins are going to be the real stars, right?”
“Actually, I got a peek at the script. It’s really about a tragic love between the young Wicked Witch and a handsome munchkin. So you can see how the role of the Wicked Witch is actually the key to the whole story.”
The woman’s eyes lit up. “And I thought I was trying out
for a small part.”
“There are no small parts, honey, only small actors.”
She frowned, pointed to her lime-green bodysuit. “Small actor might define me. These other girls went all out, with wigs and body paint, even fake noses and warts. Maybe I’m not showing enough commitment to the part.”
“It’s your voice, movement, and vulnerability that matters.” Tuck completed her latte pour with a perfect little heart. “Show your warts emotionally, and you won’t need fake ones on your face.”
“Thanks for that. I’ll do my best. I had no choice. That body paint is a bitch to get off, and I have this modeling gig at the Javits Convention Center later today. Those trade shows are pretty good jobs. Ever done them?”
“The Toy Show,” Tuck said, handing her the drink. “I love it. One year I played a mad scientist for Creepy Crawly Critters—rewrote their sales pitch and everything. Where are you modeling?”
“The International Confectioners’ Expo. The Nutrition Nation booth hired me through my agency. They’ve got a pretty big setup this year—”
I spilled half of Franco’s meticulously brewed coffee on our restored plank floor. “Excuse me,” I interrupted, “who did you say you were modeling for?”
“Nutrition Nation,” she said, a latte-milk moustache decorating her pretty upper lip.
I blinked. Adding it up was too easy: Nutrition Nation—NN—the letters on the big black golf umbrella carried by Patrice’s killer. The company had a booth at the ICE show, where giveaways were part of doing business, and many of the ICE attendees were invited to last night’s Mocha Magic party.
The actress glanced at her watch. “My audition! I’m up in ten minutes! I’d better go—”
“No!” Tuck said, raising a finger. “You’re the Wicked Witch. You don’t go... You fly.”
“Got it,” she said, flashing Tuck a thumbs-up.
“Break a leg,” he called as she hit the door.
“If you need me, I’ll be in my office,” I told Tuck after brewing a new coffee for Franco—this one in a paper cup.
“What took you so long?” he asked.
“Everything takes longer when you’re snooping.”