Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,21

whole line of them right here on the counter, in the tall glass latte mugs.” She pointed to the space. Moira, Esther, and I exchanged glances. We were all thinking the same thing.

“Those mugs were in easy reach. Anyone in this area of the coffee bar could have tampered with one of them,” I pointed out.

“A lot of people moved by that area,” said Esther.

“Then anyone could have done it!” Moira cried.

“Hold on, calm down,” I replied. “Let’s try to recall who was at the bar during the specific time when Tucker was making that latte. Think. Who did you see sitting or standing here between the time I went downstairs and came back up.”

“That Lloyd Newhaven character,” said Esther. “That’s the reason you went downstairs in the first place—to get soy milk for his latte.”

“Right,” I said. “Wait.” I ducked into the pantry near our back door and grabbed an inventory checklist, then I returned to the counter, pulled a pen from my pocket, and wrote Lloyd’s name on the blank back. “Okay,” I said. “What else do you two remember?”

“After you went downstairs,” recalled Moira, “a woman came up to talk with Lloyd.”

“What did she look like?” I asked.

“She was tall, had long black, straight hair—really long, like down to her hips. And she was all in violet. I think she was Asian.”

That sounded to me like one of the women whom Lloyd had escorted into the party. “Did you happen to notice if she had violet eyes, too?” I asked.

“I think she did,” said Moira.

“She did,” said Esther. “I came back and forth to the counter while I was collecting dirty mugs. And I saw her, too.”

“She’s a friend of Lloyd’s,” I told them, jotting down a few more notes. “That much I know, but not much else because she came as Lloyd’s guest, and his was the only name on the invitation. Who else do you remember coming up to the coffee bar?”

“There was a male model type,” said Esther.

“And what did he look like?” I asked.

Esther closed her eyes. “Dyed white-blond hair…crew cut…white T-shirt, black leather jacket and pants, bike chains, a wristband with studs—”

“Excuse me? Did you say studs?”

Esther opened her eyes and nodded. “He had this whole Billy Idol thing going.”

“Billy Idol, that’s right!” I cried. “I remember seeing him in the crowd. How old would you say he looked?”

“Oh, young,” said Esther. “Maybe twenty. Eighties retro is the new trend.”

“Oh, geez,” I said, scribbling away. “The twenty-year cycle continues.”

“What’s that?” asked Esther.

“When I was in high school, the fifties had made a come-back…you know, with Laverne and Shirley and Happy Days.”

“Happy what?” asked Moira.

“It was a TV show,” Esther informed her. “Ron Howard was in it.”

Moira’s brow wrinkled. “The movie director?”

I sighed. “Okay, do either of you remember anyone else?”

“Well, there was that man and woman,” Moira said. “The ones who work for Lottie Harmon.”

“You mean her partners, Tad Benedict and Rena Garcia?” I clarified, but I’d already remembered them and didn’t consider them suspects. After all, they had no motive. What was there to gain from killing off your golden goose partner?

“You know what?” said Moira, eyes widening. “Tad was the one who asked Tucker to make that latte in the first place.”

“Tad was?” I asked, intrigued. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” said Moira nodding emphatically.

“Yeah, that’s right.” Esther agreed.

I whirled. “You heard it, too?”

Esther shrugged. “I thought you were there for that.”

I shook my head. “No, I must have still been downstairs. Tell me exactly what you remember.”

“Well,” Esther began, “it was so crazy that people were taking the lattes before the trays could get more than a few feet beyond the coffee bar and Tad said that Lottie looked like she could use some caffeine. And then Tucker sort of announced he was going to make a latte for Lottie.”

“That’s right,” said Moria. “That’s what I remember, too. Tad touched Tucker’s arm and said something like, ‘Sorry to pressure you, but could you see that Lottie gets one? She could probably use another shot of caffeine to get her through the final hour.’ Then Tucker said something like, ‘One very special caramel-chocolate latte for the guest of honor coming up.’ He announced it very theatrically, you know?”

“Well, that’s nothing new for Tucker,” I pointed out. “But it does mean anyone nearby would have been aware the drink was going to Lottie…I just wonder why Tad didn’t take the latte to Lottie himself?”

Moira shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Neither do I,” said Esther. “By