Latte Trouble by Cleo Coyle

forearms, he looked to be pulling espressos as fast as the Blend’s exacting standards would allow (because, if you pull an espresso too fast, i.e., if the liquid does not flow slowly out of the spout like syrup, what you’ve made isn’t espresso but brewed coffee).
    “I thought Gardner was here,” I cried over the noise.
    Matteo looked up, face sour. “He had a dentist appointment. Left a half hour ago. I had to take over for him.”
    It was obviously not something my ex wanted to do.
    “Nice of you to pitch in,” I said without a trace of sarcasm (for once). Then I slipped behind the counter, donned an apron, washed up, and replaced Moira at the espresso machine.
    “What’s with the mob scene?” I asked. “Is there some event going on? A new tourist attraction?”
    Matteo stared at me as if I’d cluelessly suggested we start serving instant coffee crystals. “Don’t you get it? We’re the attraction, Clare.”
    I blinked. Still clueless.
    “Just look around, take a look at the customers…especially the ones who’ve just been served their drinks.”
    I watched a young man collect two take-out cups, slip one to a young woman hovering over an occupied table. The man opened the top of his cup, sipped his first taste, then he grimaced and made a face as if he were in his death throes. The woman slapped his arm playfully.
    “I see,” I muttered.
    Matteo shrugged. “I suppose it’s better than being shunned.”
    Realization dawned. “That reporter…out on the sidewalk…”
    “She’s from New York One,” said Esther Best, bringing more cups in from the pantry.
    “Yeah, I ran the camera crew out of here a half hour ago,” Matteo said, fuming. “I can’t believe they’re still stalking our customers.”
    “Have you heard anything about Tucker?” I asked.
    Matt glanced at the Breitling on his wrist. “We should hear something in the next two hours. Breanne promised she’d call as soon as she spoke with her lawyer about the case.”
    “So Breanne hears everything first.”
    Matteo ignored me as he finished pulling another espresso, dumped the caked grounds, and reached for the coffee bin only to find it empty. “Hey, we’re out of our house espresso blend,” he complained.
    “I haven’t had time to prepare any this week,” I told him. “ You took over the roasting room, remember?”
    Matt grunted. Which I still didn’t consider a reasonable explanation. When he’d first arrived back home from Ethiopia, he’d hardly said two words to me before vanishing into the Blend’s basement roasting room for hours. Holed up with three fifty-pound canvas bags of green coffee beans delivered from Kennedy International Airport customs, he interrupted the store’s roasting schedule in order to roast those beans. When he was finished, he divided up the entire batch into twenty-five pound, vacuum-sealed bags, carried all the bags up to his room, and locked them inside—singularly odd behavior, even by Matteo’s diminished standards. I’d pressed him for an explanation but he’d refused to answer.
    “Use the French roast Mocha Java,” I advised him.
    For the next two hours the flow of customers was practically nonstop. Then, around four thirty, a semblance of calm descended. We still had a big crowd—bigger than normal—but it was manageable. Matteo was taking a caffeine break himself when the cell phone in his pocket rang.
    He checked the display, then, turning on the charm in his voice, said “Hello, Breanne.” I figured the call was about Tucker, and intended to stay close and eavesdrop, but their conversation seemed to steer dangerously toward the intimate and Matteo turned his back to me and crossed the room to an empty table a discrete distance away.
    They talked awhile, and it was clear from his smiles that Tucker’s fate wasn’t the only topic of conversation. Finally, about the moment when I was ready to scream with impatience, Matteo closed the phone and caught my eye. I hurried to