Espresso Shot by Cleo Coyle Page B
Authors: Cleo Coyle
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Mystery, Mystery Fiction, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, Fiction - Mystery, New York (N.Y.), Weddings, Coffeehouses, Cosi; Clare (Fictitious character), Divorced people, Brides, Brides - Crimes against, Cookery (Coffee), Attempted murder
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.”
“Then why do you smell like the guy’s cheap drugstore aftershave?”
“Mind your own business.”
“I am,” Matt said, as we racewalked the tree-lined street. “You and Quinn are my business now that you’re going to help me figure out who wants to kill Breanne.”
“I wouldn’t count on Quinn this week. Not unless Breanne ODs on painkillers.”
“What are you talking about?!”
I told Matt about the OD Squad that Quinn was supervising.
“Well, then, Sherlock, I guess it’s up to you to figure this out.”
We reached the corner, and Matt stepped off the curb to look for a cab. Hudson Street was one-way uptown, and the traffic was sporadic. The April breeze was mild, and the sun felt warm on my cheeks, which was lucky, because I’d failed to foresee this private investigation gig, and I hadn’t worn a jacket.
At the moment, I was dressed for espresso bar work in hip-hugging Old Navy blue jeans, low-heeled boots, and a long-sleeved cream-colored jersey. I really liked the jersey ($26 at the Gap). It was super-soft cotton blended with clingy spandex; and the line of tiny cocoa buttons that marched all the way down the V-neck highlighted a somewhat sexy hint of cleavage—which, now that I think about it, was probably what provoked Mike Quinn’s cop stare in the first place, not to mention the “word” we had in private.
There was nothing wrong with my outfit per se. It was cute, casual, certainly presentable, but it wasn’t close to appropriate for a Fifth Avenue house of haute couture, where the least expensive item was probably a small imported silk print scarf retailing for $295. I shifted my weight from one scuffed boot to the other, anticipating the crap I was probably going to get from Breanne.
“Listen, Matt, don’t push me with this investigation. Like I told you in the precinct, I’ll give it a day. If I don’t find anything suspicious, you’ll have to open that tight fist of yours and hire a professional. True , you might have to give up that overpriced French cologne you’ve been wearing lately, but I’m sure Quinn will tell you which drugstore you can get his aftershave.”
“Very funny,” Matt said, craning his neck down the street for a glimpse of a yellow cab. “And, by the way, it’s not a matter of money, Clare. It’s a matter of motivation. You saw that girl gunned down in the street last night. Don’t you want to help catch who killed her?”
I closed my eyes. “Of course.”
“Then stop qualifying your involvement.”
Matt raised his hand to signal an approaching cab, but the driver whizzed by us. He already had a fare.
“Okay . . .” I said with a surrendering exhale. “I’ll stop bellyaching. But you can’t bug out on me with the Blend this week. Double-check the schedule with the baristas and make sure our orders are coming in for the wedding on Saturday. We’ll need the extra milk and half-and-half.”
“I will.”
“I’m going to roast the single-origin green beans myself. I brought in Janelle Babcock to handle all of the pastry and cookies, but we need to start roasting the extra house blend for the espresso drinks. You can get started on that—”
“Okay, Clare. Don’t worry. Once I explain things to Breanne, I’m coming right back down here.”
“Fine.”
As I took a breath, it occurred to me that my priorities probably were a little skewed. In the end, showing off the Village Blend’s catering abilities at a Metropolitan Museum of Art reception would be all for naught if the bride got whacked before the wedding day.
“Taxi!” Matt whistled, at last scoring us an empty cab.
The driver swung to our side of the street. But as I began to open the back door, I heard a woman’s voice urgently calling, “Matteo! Matteo Allegro!”
Matt and I both turned to find a gorgeous young woman striding up to us. She was model slender with large dark eyes and long black hair. Her smooth, light-mocha skin was a
“Then why do you smell like the guy’s cheap drugstore aftershave?”
“Mind your own business.”
“I am,” Matt said, as we racewalked the tree-lined street. “You and Quinn are my business now that you’re going to help me figure out who wants to kill Breanne.”
“I wouldn’t count on Quinn this week. Not unless Breanne ODs on painkillers.”
“What are you talking about?!”
I told Matt about the OD Squad that Quinn was supervising.
“Well, then, Sherlock, I guess it’s up to you to figure this out.”
We reached the corner, and Matt stepped off the curb to look for a cab. Hudson Street was one-way uptown, and the traffic was sporadic. The April breeze was mild, and the sun felt warm on my cheeks, which was lucky, because I’d failed to foresee this private investigation gig, and I hadn’t worn a jacket.
At the moment, I was dressed for espresso bar work in hip-hugging Old Navy blue jeans, low-heeled boots, and a long-sleeved cream-colored jersey. I really liked the jersey ($26 at the Gap). It was super-soft cotton blended with clingy spandex; and the line of tiny cocoa buttons that marched all the way down the V-neck highlighted a somewhat sexy hint of cleavage—which, now that I think about it, was probably what provoked Mike Quinn’s cop stare in the first place, not to mention the “word” we had in private.
There was nothing wrong with my outfit per se. It was cute, casual, certainly presentable, but it wasn’t close to appropriate for a Fifth Avenue house of haute couture, where the least expensive item was probably a small imported silk print scarf retailing for $295. I shifted my weight from one scuffed boot to the other, anticipating the crap I was probably going to get from Breanne.
“Listen, Matt, don’t push me with this investigation. Like I told you in the precinct, I’ll give it a day. If I don’t find anything suspicious, you’ll have to open that tight fist of yours and hire a professional. True , you might have to give up that overpriced French cologne you’ve been wearing lately, but I’m sure Quinn will tell you which drugstore you can get his aftershave.”
“Very funny,” Matt said, craning his neck down the street for a glimpse of a yellow cab. “And, by the way, it’s not a matter of money, Clare. It’s a matter of motivation. You saw that girl gunned down in the street last night. Don’t you want to help catch who killed her?”
I closed my eyes. “Of course.”
“Then stop qualifying your involvement.”
Matt raised his hand to signal an approaching cab, but the driver whizzed by us. He already had a fare.
“Okay . . .” I said with a surrendering exhale. “I’ll stop bellyaching. But you can’t bug out on me with the Blend this week. Double-check the schedule with the baristas and make sure our orders are coming in for the wedding on Saturday. We’ll need the extra milk and half-and-half.”
“I will.”
“I’m going to roast the single-origin green beans myself. I brought in Janelle Babcock to handle all of the pastry and cookies, but we need to start roasting the extra house blend for the espresso drinks. You can get started on that—”
“Okay, Clare. Don’t worry. Once I explain things to Breanne, I’m coming right back down here.”
“Fine.”
As I took a breath, it occurred to me that my priorities probably were a little skewed. In the end, showing off the Village Blend’s catering abilities at a Metropolitan Museum of Art reception would be all for naught if the bride got whacked before the wedding day.
“Taxi!” Matt whistled, at last scoring us an empty cab.
The driver swung to our side of the street. But as I began to open the back door, I heard a woman’s voice urgently calling, “Matteo! Matteo Allegro!”
Matt and I both turned to find a gorgeous young woman striding up to us. She was model slender with large dark eyes and long black hair. Her smooth, light-mocha skin was a
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