Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,88

Consequently, the orders for his spring collection—and Lottie’s java jewelry—were huge.

A week later, Quinn was sitting at my coffee bar again.

“Here you go, Mike.”

“Thanks, Clare.”

I’d steamed up a latte for him and an espresso for myself. As I added a bit of sugar to my demitasse, I watched Quinn sip his hot drink, make his usual deep sound of satisfaction, and wipe the foam from his upper lip with two fingers.

“Well,” I said, “are you ready to spill?”

He lifted the tall glass mug. “It’s too good to spill.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Bad joke,” he said with slight twitch of his lips. “Okay, what first?”

“Mona Lisa Toratelli.”

“Bangkok authorities filed a report in ’88. It all checks out. The little girl’s statement was taken, but the authorities claimed there were no other witnesses to corroborate that her aunt had been at the hotel so they quickly swept the mess under the rug, concluding the little girl simply made up the story to cope with her mother’s suicide. That’s how Moira was treated ever since—as if her memories were some delusion. But clearly, Moira Toratelli McNeely had witnessed her mother’s murder at the hands of her aunt—and she never forgot.”

I shuddered. “The thought that one sister would kill another over a man…especially one like Fen…it’s so sad. And so brutal. It’s difficult to comprehend.”

“Precisely. Imagine how Moira felt.”

I eyeballed Quinn in surprise. “Sentimental? For a murderer’s point of view?”

He shook his head. “Empathetic. You better understand your perpetrator if you want to catch him.”

“Or her.”

“Or her.”

I sipped my espresso in silence. Quinn sipped his latte.

“So what will happen to Moira now?” I asked.

“Best guess—she’ll plead guilty. Her lawyer will claim criminally insane, and she’ll end up in a hospital for twenty-five years of treatment.”

“That poor girl…and the people she poisoned…Rena Garcia and Jeff Lugar and Ricky Flatt…and Tad losing his fiancée, poor Tad…” I shook my head at the tragic waste, the heartache. “How do you do it, Mike? How do you get over all the bad stuff?”

“You don’t.”

“Clare?” Matt was calling me from the back stairs.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Quinn softly, then headed for the Blend’s back door. Matt was descending the steps with his baggage. He’d packed with his usual efficiency: one large black pulley suitcase, a black garment bag, and a black leather carry-on. He’d already shipped some of the Special Reserve Ethiopian beans to Tokyo via DHL.

“My car service is here,” he said.

I nodded. “Have a good trip.”

“Sure I can’t change your mind?”

A question like that at a time like this was usually rhetorical. But my ex-husband’s eyes looked almost hopeful, proud but edged with enough pleading to make me feel guilty—but only slightly.

“You’ll have company,” I told him with a small smile.

He sighed. “Clare—”

Three days before, Breanne had left a lengthy message on our answering machine, telling Matt that she had business in Tokyo, too. (Matt was traveling to Japan for a major presentation on his kiosk plan—one arranged by David Mintzer, who, after his conversation with me at the Trend party, had decided to heavily invest in Matt’s idea.) Ms. Elegant gushed about how she would be happy to join him on the long flight and happier still to take him to some of her favorite sights and restaurants.

Just the day before, Matt had asked me to go with him—and I had been mulling it over when that phone message came. It quickly helped me make up my mind.

“Go,” I told him, opening the Blend’s back door. “It’s what you do.”

He stared.

“Good luck, Matt. I mean it.”

He sighed again and nodded, then moved to kiss me. I stepped back and extended my hand. Hurt appeared in his eyes again, but I insisted we shake, squeezing his fingers in a sincere gesture of friendship. He didn’t respond, his hand limp, and before I knew it he had turned and vanished.

But I wasn’t surprised. Disappearing was what some men did best.

“Clare!”

Now Esther was calling me from the Blend’s front room, and her voice sounded strained—upset. What now?! I ran into the coffee bar, worried at what disaster I was going to find there next. But there was no disaster. Esther had simply been overwhelmed with emotion when she saw who was coming through our front door.

“Hello, Village Blend!” cried Tucker Burton, throwing his hands in the air. “I’m back!”

Mike’s eyes were on me. I think I was crying.

“You see, there, Detective Cosi,” he said softly. “Maybe you don’t get over the bad stuff…but there’s usually something good to