Grounds for Murder by Sandra Balzo Page A

how clever you thought your name was, someone already had come up with it.
    ‘Is that legal?’ Priscilla asked from the judges’ table. While the technical judges roamed, looking for violations, the sensory judges got to sit down and be waited on.
    ‘Don’t know.’ I gave Priscilla a sensory score sheet. ‘It probably depends on trademarks and market areas and all that jazz.’
    The judges had turned their attention to their score sheets, so I turned my microphone back on.
    ‘Each of our contestants will have fifteen minutes to prepare their workstation, fifteen minutes to create their drinks, and fifteen minutes to clean up,’ I told the crowd. ‘Throughout that forty-five minutes, two of our judges will score the barista on his or her technical skills. Things like using the equipment properly and keeping the work area clean.’
    Mitchell promptly knocked over the bag of coffee beans on his cart, sending them cascading on to the floor.
    ‘Not to worry,’ I said. ‘The two technical scores are averaged together and added to all four sensory scores.’
    I turned to make eye contact – or lens contact – with the camera. I was trying to treat it as a member of the audience. A very important member of the audience.
    ‘The presentation, smell and taste of the drink itself, is more important than a few coffee beans on the floor.’ I gestured grandly toward Mitchell and his beans.
    Henry and Sophie applauded wildly. I smiled down at them. I liked having shills of my very own.
    ‘Are you ready?’ I asked Mitchell.
    Having corralled most of his beans, he was standing next to his cart, waiting for my signal to start setting up. He nodded nervously in response to my question.
    ‘Begin.’ I clicked the stop watch as Mitchell began to unload his cart.
    ‘As you can see,’ I explained, ‘the competitors are responsible for bringing their own beans, as well as the drink ingredients.’
    Mitchell was frantically shoving milk and cream into the mini-fridge. I wasn’t sure why he was in such a hurry. He still had fourteen minutes of prep time.
    ‘They also bring their own china, napkins and any decorations they might use,’ I continued. ‘Even ice –’ Mitchell looked up from the table where he had been arranging his china – ‘is the responsibility of the individual contestant.’
    Mitchell pivoted with a yelp and raced offstage.
    ‘Happily,’ I said as I watched him run off, ‘each contestant has this time to make sure he or she has everything they need. After this fifteen minutes – ’ Mitchell came skidding around the corner with an ice bucket – ‘we will reset the clock for another fifteen minutes.’
    I accidentally glanced down at Henry and Sophie. Apparently thinking it was their cue, they applauded.
    I cleared my throat. ‘Thank you. During that quarter hour, the contestant will prepare twelve drinks.’
    ‘Oh, my Lord,’ Sophie gasped. ‘Twelve drinks?’
    I couldn’t help it: I looked at her.
    Henry clapped.
    Mae West was wrong. Too much of a good thing is not wonderful.
    ‘Yes, twelve drinks in just fifteen minutes,’ I said. ‘First four espressos – one for each of the four sensory judges. Then, four cappuccinos. And finally, four of the barista’s specialty drink.’
    I could just feel Sophie and Henry staring up at me, their hands poised to applaud. I willed myself not to look.
    ‘Each contestant also brings music to be played during his or her performance. Do we have the music queued?’
    Because the convention center was a unionized facility, their tech people had to handle the music. The woman in charge of the CD-deck nodded. That would probably cost LaRoche a cool fifty bucks. I stifled the impulse to ask her another question to up the ante.
    Instead, I turned to look at Mitchell. He was standing to attention behind his work table. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.
    ‘Each barista will explain what he or she is doing as he or she is doing it.’ I was starting to