Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,20

and I was not unusual, having been together—and apart—so much in our lives. Matt stood and retrieved two mugs from the cupboard and a pint of cream from the fridge. The cream was a gesture. He always drank his coffee black. After pouring both cups, he splashed cream into mine and set it down in front of me.

“Nice crop this year,” he said. “Sweet, fruity, nice depth.”

The Mocha Yemen Mattari was a single-origin coffee; that is, it was unblended with any other bean and simply came straight from its country of origin, in this case the country of Yemen and the region of Mattari. The “mocha” aspect of the name referred not to “chocolate” as in your average mochaccino, but the port from which the coffee was originally exported. If you mixed these beans with Java arabicas, then you’d have Mocha Java, the oldest known of the coffee blends.

I took in the piquant aroma, the warmth, the earthy richness, but none of it was reviving me.

“So,” sighed Matteo, breaking another long silence. “Why do you think he did it?”

“Who…did what?”

“Come on, Clare. Why do you think Tucker poisoned that guy? A lover’s quarrel? I never thought of Tucker as all that tempestuous. But you never know, I guess.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“What?”

“Do you really believe Tucker Burton is a murderer?”

Matteo sat back in his chair. “If not Tucker, then who?”

I set my mug down hard enough to rattle the small table. “That’s what I intend to find out.”

Matteo closed his eyes. “Oh, please, Clare. Not again.”

“Not what again?”

“You know. That Nancy Drew thing of yours. This time would you please call that Irish flatfoot,…what’s his name? Flanagan?”

“Quinn!”

“Fine. Call Quinn.”

“I did already, but he didn’t answer his cell and he’s not even in the city. He’s on leave. Family trouble.”

“Oh.”

“Matt, I can’t believe you could think Tucker would do anything like this. Why did you help him if you think he’s a killer?”

“I…I don’t know. Tucker’s a nice guy, and he works for the business my great grandfather started—my family’s business—and for that I feel like he’s part of the family. And everyone has a right to a fair trial.”

“But you do think he’s guilty.”

For a full minute, Matteo just sipped his coffee and mulled over his response. Finally, he sighed. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to believe it yourself, but yes, Clare, I think Tucker is guilty.”

EIGHT

TWO hours later, I was stunned when I came downstairs. Esther was there. She’d used her key to get in, and had already opened the pastry case in anticipation of the morning bakery delivery. Though she seemed her old cynical self, Esther’s face was pale and her thick glasses could not hide the redness behind them.

Moira arrived fifteen minutes later. She looked delicate in the harsh morning sun and I suspected she’d had as sleepless a night as Esther and I. When she complained of a headache but declined any aspirin because of an allergy, I knew I should send her home—but I needed the help. She was carrying the morning edition of the Post, the only paper that had put the murder on the front page—the others had placed it on inside pages. “Lethal Latte” was the headline on a sketchy story stating “a suspect had been detained but not yet charged.” I knew that would change later in the day.

After we looked over the paper, I sat Moira and Esther down. Over coffee, I told them what Matteo had told me—that Tucker spent the night in jail and would be arraigned later today with a lawyer present. Of course, I left out the fact that my ex-husband thought Tucker was guilty.

“How could this have happened?” Esther moaned.

“That’s what I want to figure out,” I replied. “We were all here when it happened. Let’s try to recall exactly what took place and who was present.”

I rose and stepped to the customer side of the coffee bar. “I was standing here. Then I walked around the counter and checked the fridge for soy milk. When I didn’t find any, I went downstairs to bring some up from storage.”

Esther stepped up to stand next to me. “Before you left, I was standing next to you.”

“And after I left? What did you do?”

“I hung out a little longer. Then I went back out on the floor to collect more used mugs and napkins.”

“Moira?” I asked. “What do you remember about that time?”

“Well, Ms. Cosi, I was behind Tucker, who was pulling espressos. There was a