Latte Trouble by Cleo Coyle Page A

his side with Esther at mine.
    “Tucker’s lawyer postponed the arraignment another twenty-four hours,” Matt announced.
    “Why?” I asked, outraged. “Detective Hutawa told me Tucker can’t be bailed out until he’s arraigned.”
    Matteo frowned. “Clare, you better wake up and smell the java. The judge isn’t going to set bail on a case like this.”
    “Why the hell not?”
    “Because it’s poisoning, and we don’t exactly keep cyanide in a canister next to the sugar, so it wasn’t in any way an accident, which means it was premeditated, which means Tucker is a danger to the public and will be kept off the street until his trial.”
    “But that could be months!”
    “The lawyer’s doing his best. He got the case postponed as a procedural tactic. He told the judge he’d just joined the case and didn’t have adequate time to interview his client. He actually asked for a seven-day adjournment, but the judge refused.” He sighed. “At least Tucker’s name hasn’t been leaked to the press—not yet, anyway.”
    I shot Esther a not-so-subtle look. She got the message and obediently returned to her duties. I sat down across from Matteo at the coral-colored, marble-topped café table.
    “This is so terrible,” I sighed.
    “Bad for Tucker. Fortunately not bad for the Blend, which seems to be more popular than ever.”
    “And what’s that about?” I cried, rather too loudly. Matt raised an eyebrow and I lowered my voice considerably. “Someone was poisoned here. We’re lucky the health department hasn’t shut us down. Instead we have more customers than ever before. I know this city drives people crazy on a daily basis—but have they completely lost their minds?”
    Matteo shrugged. “I suspect it’s the fugu effect.”
    “The what effect?”
    “Fugu. Japanese blowfish. It contains deadly poison in its organs, a tiny, near-microscopic sliver can be fatal if ingested. Preparing it is so dangerous the chefs have to have a special license to serve fugu in Japan. Yet despite the risk, fugu dishes—especially blowfish soup—are considered great delicacies.”
    “Are you feeling all right? We’re talking about coffee here.”
    “No, we’re talking about human nature. The sudden appeal of our coffee has nothing to do with the coffee. With fugu, it isn’t the taste, either. It’s so delicate it borders on nonexistent—yet it cost over two hundred dollars for a single dish the last time I was in Shimonoseki, which is the fugu capital of Japan.”
    “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
    Matteo shook his head. “All those years you were married to me and you still don’t understand, do you Clare?”
    “Do tell. What don’t I understand?” I was in no mood for one of Matteo’s “my wife never understood me” lectures—that act might get him a night of casual sex from some impressionable bimbo, but it made me want to run screaming from the room (which, given the past twenty-four hours, was highly likely at this juncture).
    “There’s an expression in Japan that translates, ‘I want to eat fugu but I don’t want to die.’ We don’t have that exact sentiment in America, but think of that saying as a combination of our ‘wanting our cake and eating it too,’ and ‘you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.’”
    “Are you speaking Japanese?” I was so tired from my lack of sleep and the events of the last twenty-four hours that nothing was making sense to me anymore.
    “Clare, the attraction of fugu doesn’t have anything to do with eating the stuff. True connoisseurs will tell you it’s surviving the meal that gives you the thrill. What could be more intense? You and your companions sit down to a perfectly prepared meal that tastes delicious and just might result in a slow and agonizing doom…It’s aesthetics and death combined like, bungee jumping or mountain climbing—”
    “Or casual sex with strangers? Maybe a cocaine overdose? Are you talking about