Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,7
Matteo looked up at the two policemen. “We have a medical emergency here,” he informed them.
“Help’s coming,” said Langley, raising his radio.
And it arrived soon after. An ambulance pulled up to the curb, siren’s blaring, red lights rippling through our tall front windows. Two paramedics hurried into the coffeehouse, both laden with medical equipment.
Officer Demetrios touched my arm. I jumped, startled out of my entranced disbelief that something like this could have happened tonight of all nights. “Choking victim, Ms. Cosi?” asked the young, raven-haired Greek cop.
I stammered an unintelligible reply.
Esther quickly translated. “Choking seems really unlikely. The odds against two people choking at the same table are phenomenal—and I’d say the odds are just as high against double heart attacks…unless of course they were both smoking crack cocaine and simultaneously OD’d or something like that.”
Demetrios frowned. He turned from Esther to face me. “I’m sorry, Ms. Cosi, but if this was the result of a crime, or criminal activity was involved, we’re going to have to secure the area.”
“What do you mean exactly by ‘secure the area’?” I asked. “Does everyone have to clear out?”
“No. The reverse. They can’t leave. They’re all suspects.”
I closed my eyes, not entirely surprised but sick to my stomach nonetheless. “My god, this is a private party…all these people are here by invitation. What will they think?”
Demetrios glanced around. “They’ll probably think they’ll have another story to tell at their next party.” The Greek officer turned, waved to his tall Irish partner, gestured with his chin toward the front entrance. Already some of the partygoers were attempting to slip out the door. Langley jumped to the exit before a pair of young women could flee the scene.
“Just hang out awhile, ladies,” Langley told them. “Once we get names, addresses, and statements, everyone can go home.”
“Statements? Why in the world do you need statements?” whined the short, white fedora-wearing, Truman Capote wannabe, standing near me. “Those young men were poisoned. Surely you can see that for yourself.”
“Just take it easy,” Demetrios replied. “It’s not our job to rush to judgement. The docs will rule on that.”
I frantically scanned the room for Lottie, finally catching sight of her on the edge of the crowd. The sponsor of the party seemed worried, but not overly distraught. Thank goodness, I thought, because I felt horrible. Seeing these two men collapse made me feel bad enough—but poor Lottie had chosen the Village Blend as the perfect location for her preview party. Now the entire event was ruined. I could only pray the negative publicity (which, with this catty crowd, was as sure a thing as the rising sun) would not ultimately ruin her runway debut with Fen at the end of the week. And, of course, I was worried about the Blend’s reputation.
While I pondered a possible rocky future, most everyone else watched with varying levels of interest as the two paramedics checked vital signs on the two stricken men. For Ricky Flatt, things looked bad. The medical technician hovering over him lifted a stethoscope from Ricky’s stiffened chest and shook his head. I felt sick to my stomach as I watched both paramedics abandon Ricky as gone, then move to the man who was still breathing. They checked his pulse, blood pressure, and the dilation of his eyes, and they snapped on an oxygen mask.
Finally the paramedic with the stethoscope looked up—addressing the crowd in general. “What happened here? This isn’t a heart attack, and it’s not a choking incident either.”
“That man said he was poisoned!” cried a young woman in a metallic gold minidress and matching stiletto ankle boots. She pointed to the gasping victim. “His face turned so pink, he looked like an ad for Juicy Couture!”
“Juicy Couture?” I whispered to Rena, who was standing behind me.
She shrugged. “West coast designers. A few seasons ago they made pink the new black.”
As the two paramedics continued to work on Ricky’s date, I noticed Matteo standing by, watching. Behind his eyes, I saw that something was upsetting him—that is, beyond the level of distress anyone would feel over two strangers possibly dropping dead right in front of you. I simply knew Matt too well not to recognize when he was personally disturbed, but I also knew now was not the time to ask him what was wrong.
At Matt’s side stood Tucker, face flushed, hands trembling as he stared in disbelief at Ricky’s corpse. The paramedics primed a needle and shoved it into a vein on the other man’s