that. I greeted customers, manned the register, watched the levels on the Breakfast Blend urns. Dante pulled espressos and kept the stainless steel pitchers of milk steamed and frothed. Then we switched positions.
“I’m glad you came by, Dante.”
“No problem.”
“I still need two, even three more part-timers for coverage.I ended up closing last night, and I’m still dragging this morning.”
“Why did you close? Wasn’t Tucker scheduled for that?”
“Yes, but . . .” I stopped my running mouth. After letting my guard down with Matt, I wasn’t about to start spewing last evening’s details to my newest barista. “A friend of mine dropped by and our chatting ran late, so I just let Tucker go early.”
“A friend? You mean that cop, don’t you?”
“Detective Quinn. Yes.”
Dante nodded. “Well, I guess you’re right then. It’s a good thing I came by . . .”
When Tucker arrived at seven fifty, the real morning crush began. We were soon swamped, with a line out the door until ten thirty. As the crowd finally thinned, I left the two of them alone with a vague excuse about needing to complete some paperwork. Then I headed upstairs with a basket of freshly baked muffins.
FEDERICO Gostwick hadn’t been up long when I entered the duplex. He’d just showered, and I called upstairs, inviting him down for breakfast. His clothes were still at his hotel, so he threw on Matt’s long terrycloth bathrobe and slippers. Then he shuffled into the kitchen, dropped down at the table, and sampled a warm cappuccino muffin— made for the Blend by a local bakery from one of my old “In the Kitchen with Clare” column recipes.
“Mmmm . . .” Ric murmured as he chewed and swallowed. “What nut am I tasting here? Wait. I can tell you . . .” He took another bite, closed his eyes. “Hazelnut?”
“That’s right.”
“Quite delightful, Clare . . . very rich texture.”
“Sour cream. That’s the secret.”
As I brewed Ric’s un-coffee, I continued with the general chit-chat, asking after his injury (it ached, but he would live), his night’s sleep (very restful, thank you), and his trip here from Brazil (the JFK customs processing was detestable). Then I poured him a cup of his “why bother?” and started bothering—with the real questions.
“Did Matt happen to mention that I’ve had some pretty good luck investigating”—how do I put it? I thought— “suspicious things?”
Ric smiled, rather indulgently it seemed to me as I took a seat across from him at the small kitchen table.
“He told me I could trust you,” Ric said.
“You can. I want to see you safe, you know?”
“Me, too, love, believe me.”
“Then tell me why all the secrecy? Why won’t you go to the police about last night? What is it you aren’t telling me?”
Ric sipped his decaf, stared into the dark liquid. “This breakthrough of mine . . . it’s very new.”
“I know.” Hence the term “breakthrough.”
“There are a lot of people who may want my new coffee plant to grow for themselves.”
“That goes without saying, but they can’t get it, right?”
“Yes, the farm and nursery are in a remote location, but more important, my family and I have kept the research very private.”
“Then last night, someone assaulted you. Think, Ric . . . do you have any enemies? Anyone who might want to see you hurt . . . or even killed?”
Ric laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“You Americans watch too many crime shows. I’ve been counting them up on my hotel room’s telly: true crime, fake crime, funny crime, scary crime . . . supernatural,mathematical, and neurotic. Twenty-four hours a day on U.S. TV, you can see someone getting killed twenty-four different ways.”
“You’re saying I’m a paranoid American?”
“I know you mean well, love. But nobody is trying to kill me. I know what the mugger wanted.”
“What?”
“The cutting. I’m sure of it. So is Matt.”
“Cutting?” I blinked. “What cutting?”
“It’s the reason Matt and I don’t want the police involved. We did something . . . how shall I put it? Not quite legal . . .”
Oh, lord. Mike was right. “What? What did you two do?”
“We smuggled a cutting of my hybrid arabica into the country.”
“You what?”
“It was quite cleverly done, actually. A few weeks ago, I shipped it to Matt overnight, hidden inside a specially lined statue of Saint Joseph, which Matt broke open.”
“He broke a religious statue?” I frowned. “That’s bad luck.”
Ric laughed. “Little Clare . . . you’re as adorable as I remember.”
“I thought you said I’ve changed, that I’m more ‘head-strong’ than you remember?” I made little