Murder by Mocha

by Coyle, Cleo

  “You suspect already, don’t you?”

  He glanced away, stared into the fire, and silently sipped his own coffee.

  “Mike?”

  “You have to be the one to tell me, Cosi, because I’m not working right now.”

  That’s when it hit me. My ex-husband had been right. Mike already knew. Oh God. “I really don’t want to believe Matt. But he thinks . . .”

  I let my voice trail off, waiting for Quinn to jump in, admit what he thought, and just make the accusation already. But he refused, just sat there in silence waiting for me to make the decision.

  “Finish your sentence,” he finally said. “What does Matt think?”

  “He thinks Mocha Magic has something in it that’s a lot more powerful than herbs and spices. He thinks I should have it tested, and we were hoping you’d help us with that.”

  “Clare . . .” Mike rubbed the back of his neck. At last, he met my eyes. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

  “Look, I’d rather have you tell me there’s an illegal narcotic in our product than we find out through class action lawsuits or a lawyer from the FDA.”

  “All right, then. I’ll have it tested, let you know.”

  “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for helping me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I put my arms around his neck. “And thank you for trusting me.”

  It was hard to believe, given Mike’s commitment to his work, but the man’s inner Odysseus was actually ready to look the other way, let me break the law if that’s what I wanted. But it wasn’t what I wanted, and I was glad we got that straight between us.

  I began to pull away, but Mike held my arms in place. Then his big hands moved to splay across my back, urging my heart closer to his. I shut my eyes, inhaled the citrus aftershave of his freshly shaved cheek, the earthy aroma of his leather holster, the faint scent of java on his breath . . .

  He put his lips to my ear. “Are we done working now, Cosi?”

  “Yes,” I replied, a thrill going through me as his lips found mine. Oh yes . . .

  At first, Mike’s kisses were light and teasing, tasting of cookies and coffee, but soon they deepened, their sweetness darkening into something much sultrier. When his hands left my back, I felt momentarily bereft, mourning the loss of that satisfying contrast of soft breasts against hard chest. Then I realized why he’d put the space between us: he was undoing my buttons.

  “Mike,” I whispered, “the dirty dishes . . .”

  “What about them?” he rasped, slipping his hand inside my blouse. With one sure flick, he unhooked the front clasp of my bra. I inhaled sharply as his rough palm cupped a heavy breast; then his callused fingers found ways to make me sigh and moan and forget how to say the words dirty dishes.

  For a moment, I recalled our young guests, Joy and Franco, locked together on this same sofa. I nearly laughed as I realized that being a hostess has its advantages.

  “Want to finish our coffee upstairs?” I managed to whisper between heavenly gasps.

  “Absolutely . . .”

  TWENTY-NINE

  THE sound of an ambulance siren woke me from a light sleep. A soft glow lit the master bedroom. The fireplace had burned down to cinders, but a small lamp next to the four-poster was still burning. I glanced at my alarm clock—3:45 AM. Beside me, Mike was breathing in the steady rhythms of deep sleep, his arms curled possessively around me.

  Mike’s lovemaking tonight had been languorous and dreamy; his touches tender; his words caring; and the way he drank in my less than perfect curves made me feel as desired as Titian’s Venus.

  I kissed his head when we finished, told him to get some rest. Then I cracked a book along with the front window, determined to listen for Franco’s car pulling up, my daughter coming safely home.

  Nice plan. But Mike’s sweet, regular exhales soon lulled me into oblivion. Now I was worried. Had Joy come home or was she still out clubbing? Had Franco heeded Mike’s warning to stay on our side of the Hudson?

  I’d already thrown on my oversized T-shirt, now I tied a bathrobe around me and shoved my feet into slippers. Down the hall, I quietly pushed open the guest-room door.

  Joy was tucked cozily under the bedcovers. A rush of relief washed over me when I saw her long, dark hair spilled over the white pillow, a little smile on her angel face.

  I smiled, too, recalling my sleeping beauty at sixteen, at twelve, at six, at two, and just born. The years... They went by so slowly and so fast. Feeling tears well, I turned to descend the steps.

  As I headed for the kitchen, a flash of pink caught my eye. A small paper gift bag sat on an end table in the dimly lit living room, right next to the sofa where Joy had thrown her red jacket.

  Looking at that glossy little bag, I felt my heart stop. Slowly, I walked toward it, dreading what I’d discover inside. Oh, please, I prayed, for Matteo’s sake, please don’t let me find an empty ring box in here!

  I peeked inside. “What the . . . ?��

  “Clare . . . what are you doing?”

  I turned. Mike had trailed me. He’d thrown on a pair of sweatpants. His sandy hair had boyish cowlicks; his powerful chest and arms were bare. My body’s reaction to a half-naked Quinn was practically autonomic. I ignored it (or tried to) and held up what I’d found.

  “Is that women’s lingerie?”

  “Baby-doll pajamas—a gift to Joy from Franco.”

  “How do you know?”

  “They’re Hello Kitty pj’s.”

  He scratched his head. “Isn’t that a little girl thing?”

  “It was Joy’s thing when she was a little girl. Franco knows it.” I sighed and put the pajamas back in the little pink bag. “This is major.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Mike, this isn’t a bustier or a thong—something a young woman would wear with a lover. It’s the kind of cutesy thing a girl would sleep in when she’s alone.”

  “So?”

  “So don’t you get the message? Franco wants Joy to wear these when she’s back in Paris. He wants her to remember him when she goes to bed every night.”

  “That’s kind of sweet. Don’t you think?”

  “Matt can’t know about this.”

  “What? The pajamas?”

  “No! That they’re in love!”

  “In love?”

  “Didn’t you notice how they acted at dinner? How they finished each other sentences?”

  “Now that you mention it. I did. And the salt thing . . .”

  “Oh God, the salt . . .”

  When Franco had reached for the saltshaker, Joy laid her delicate hand on his big arm. Like a magic wand, her light touch was all it took to paralyze him.

  “Remember what I told you?” she said quietly. He instantly put the shaker down again, tasted his food, and whispered, “You’re right. Doesn’t need it.”

  One end of Mike’s mouth quirked up. “Yeah, Franco is into Joy. That’s clear.”

  I wrung my hands. “Don’t you think it will pass with him? I mean . . . when Joy’s away, back in Paris. He has a roving eye, right?”

  Mike shrugged. “Up to now, Franco’s had nothing but hit-and-run bedmates. Joy’s the first young women he’s maintained a friendship with.”

  “That’s what Joy told me when I asked: ‘Franco is just a friend.’ Well, I didn’t want to admit this, but when she asked about us getting married, I wondered whether she was thinking about that question for herself. But she’s way too young to consider it—and Matt would strangle Franco before he’d let his little girl walk down an aisle with him.”

  “Let’s table the discussion on your ex-husband, okay? I want to talk about something else. Something important—at least to me.”

  “You mean those cold-case files? The ones that involve the Village Blend and Matt’s mother? Did you read them yet?”

  “No. I’m still waiting on archived files.”

  “Then what do you want to talk about?”

&
nbsp; “Joy’s question—the one you don’t want to talk about.”

  “You want some hot cocoa? Because I do . . .”

  “Clare . . .”

  I led Mike into the kitchen and stopped in shock. I’d expected to find a sink overflowing with dirty dishes, pans, and cutlery. But the place was spotless, not even a crusted fork sat in the sink.

  “It’s all cleaned up,” I whispered.

  “Must have been a good fairy,” Mike said, behind me.

  “A fairy named Joy.”

  Grateful, happy, proud (and still worried she was in for massive heartbreak with Franco), I reached for a saucepan and put some whole milk on the burner to warm.

  “Okay,” I said, pulling out the squeeze bottle of dark chocolate syrup I’d made from Voss’s bittersweet. “What do you want to talk about?”

  Mike sat down, ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. “Clare, answer me straight, okay? Why do you have reservations about making a commitment?”

  “That’s not a fair way to characterize it.”

  “Then what is?”

  “I just have reservations . . .”

  “About me?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? Because most of my days are spent digging the truth out of a steaming pile of equivocations, and it certainly sounds to me like you’re trying to break it to me gently.”

  “Break what?”

  “The fact that your feelings for me . . . that they have limits.”

  “Mike, I love you. I love you with all my heart.”

  “Then what’s your problem?”

  “It’s not my problem. It’s yours. I’m sorry Joy brought this question up, because whether or not you want to admit it, you don’t want a wife—”

  “Hold it right there—”

  “Look, maybe want is the wrong word. Need is a better one—what you need and what you don’t need.”

  He folded his arms.

  “You need your freedom, Mike, a pass to come and go, to put your work first. And that’s okay with me. You don’t need the burden of a wife waiting for you to show for dinner every night, expecting you to hold up your end of a conventional relationship.”

  “I don’t follow your argument. I’m very happy in a relationship with you. And I thought you were, too. I don’t see how you can argue that what we have now isn’t working, because it is.”

  “You’re not hearing me. I’m saying the opposite. What we have now is working. And that’s why I want to keep things the way they are. I love my life, too . . . and I’m not about to change on you, but if our relationship changes, our lives change, and I’m not ready for that . . .”

  “Clare, please . . .” He massaged his forehead. “Explain to me exactly: Why would our lives have to change?”

  “Why?” I threw up my hands. “You’re the one who nearly resigned his position this week! You don’t think that would change everything? If they reassigned you to a precinct in southern Brooklyn or eastern Queens, I would never see you.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Okay, I would hardly see you.”

  “I would simply commute to a new precinct.”

  “With the hours you keep? The commitment you have? I’d have to move with you to keep our relationship going. Uproot from this place, this life . . .”

  “You do realize this is a theoretical argument?”

  “So? Most of your days are spent finding and proving some theory of a case, aren’t they?”

  “That’s work. Law and procedure; cold, concrete crime solving. What I’m talking about is practically the metaphysical opposite—and I know you know that.”

  Did I? I looked away, not sure what to say . . .

  Mike spoke again, his voice quiet. “You’re a worrier, Clare, but worrying isn’t going to solve anything. You have to learn to trust.”

  “Trust you?”

  “Trust yourself. Your decision. Your choice. Trust that things will work out . . . and if they go off track, you’ll find a way to get them back on again.”

  “I just . . .” With a deep breath, I turned off the burner under the milk, moved to sit with him at the table. “I want things to stay the way they are. Is that so bad?”

  Mike fell silent. He met my eyes. “You’re telling me it’s my turn to wait?”

  Another man might have said those words with brittleness, with sarcasm. Mike said them with calm, quiet comprehension. I loved him all the more for it.

  Leaning closer, I took his hands in mine. “I just need time, Mike.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know. Enough to be sure we’re on the same path, enough to make certain that a wedding ring won’t end up feeling like a locked handcuff, on either of us.”

  He took a breath. “I guess we both know waiting is a state I’m acquainted with.”

  “Thank you. I mean it.”

  “You don’t have to thank me, Clare. I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I said. “And I’m here for you. That I promise you.”

  “A promise is all I’m after.”

  THIRTY

  THE next day my coffeehouse was filled with small actors (literally).

  Up the street, auditions were again under way for the new musical sequel to the Wizard of Oz, and (like the Wicked Witch coven before them) the vertically challenged citizens of Munchkin Land designated us their java bean outpost.

  Our morning regulars fell silent as the front door opened and sixteen little people paraded across our floor. Most were middle-aged, a few older, every one of them less than four feet tall. As the group approached the counter, my newest, youngest barista didn’t even blink.

  “Good morning,” Nancy Kelly said with a practiced smile. “What can I get you?”

  I bit my cheek as Esther threw me a deadpan stare. “Looks like Dorothy is finally getting the hang of not being in Kansas anymore.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Except she never mentioned living in Kansas.”

  “Hey, given all the places that girl is supposedly from, I’m sure it was a stopover.”

  Tucker Burton’s boyfriend, Punch, was back at our coffee bar, too. Like Nancy, the lean Latino didn’t bat an eyelash at the new rush of customers. He stopped sneering at the concept for this new musical, too. Now he was complaining there were no parts for him.

  “I’ve already missed the witch call,” Punch said with a sigh. “And I do great green-skinned drag. I would jump in today, but I’m too tall to play a member of the Lollipop Guild.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s a big show,” Tuck said in his usual upbeat tone. “Check the audition schedule at HB Studio. I’m sure you’ll find a chorus part.”

  “This is my first audition,” one of the little people announced. In his late twenties with a square-jawed handsome face, the wannabe Munchkin waited patiently for me to pull him a double. “That’s what I’m hoping for—a part in the chorus. You got to start somewhere.”

  Tuck nodded. “Good attitude! Remember, there are no small parts, only small—”

  Esther and I froze, Punch’s eyes bugged in horror, and Tuck’s mouth suddenly snapped shut.

  “I’m... I’m so sorry,” he stammered.

  All of the little people burst out laughing.

  “I’ve heard that line ever since I got my Equity card,” an older actor shouted out. “The only funny thing about it is seeing big people like you swallow their tongues.”

  The little people laughed even harder.

  “YO! Boss!” Esther called an hour later.

  By now, the Munchkin rush had slowed considerably. Some had left with cups in hand, but most were still relaxing at our café tables.

  “What it is?” I called.

  “Your apron has been beeping for the last fifteen minutes. Do you have a clue when it’s going to explode?”

  “Sorry, that’s my cell.” I looked up from the inventory spreadsheet on the countertop. I’d hung up the apron before taking a break. “Would you mind handing it to me?�
��

  I set down my pen and gently touched my tender nose. Fortunately, the bruise from my scuffle with the Apollo of Abs was healing fast. By the time I’d opened the Blend this morning, only a little tenderness remained, but something pained me even more—the cloud Alicia Bower had placed over this shop.

  “Here you go, boss.”

  “Thanks.” I punched up the voice mail message and scowled. Don’t speak of the devil, my nonna used to warn, or he may appear.

  In this case, the devil was a she.

  “Clare, it’s me. Listen up,” Alicia began in her imperious tone. “I’ve dispatched Daphne with a set of instructions. It is crucial that you follow them to the letter. I’ll be unavailable for a call back from you, but we will speak soon . . .”

  God, it was difficult to swallow that tone from the woman who could put this landmark shop out of business. And “out of business” for the Blend meant more than breaking my heart by breaking up my cozy little family of baristas. It meant Madame would lose her life’s work, Matt his century-old family trade, and my daughter her legacy.

  Gritting my teeth, I tried to focus on the spreadsheets again when Esther interrupted. “Look who’s here, boss.” She jerked her thumb toward the door. “The Mod Couple.”

  I swiveled my stool to find Daphne Krupa and Susan Chu walking toward me. Given their colleague’s untimely death less than forty-eight hours ago, I would have expected the two young women to be wearing black, but apparently, mourning did not become them.

  Garbed again in sixties retro chic, both girls wore shift dresses in dynamic colors. Susan’s was a hot-pink design. She also wore sunglasses with pink frames. Daphne’s print was teal—and she’d swapped her chili-pepper red cat glasses for little round ones with blue frames.

  Both dresses displayed plenty of leg, each encased in opaque tights that matched the dress. Their little backpacks matched, too; Daphne’s was over her shoulder, Susan’s strapped to her back.

  “Hey, guys,” Daphne said with a chipper wave.

  “Remember us from the other night?” Susan called, equally perky.

  Tucker and Nancy smiled big. “Hey, there!”