Latte Trouble Read Online Free PDF Page B

pocket of her trenchcoat, carefully touched the interior of the glass with the tip of the eraser, then lifted the writing implement to her nose and sniffed it. Finally, she rose and faced Officer Demetrios. They spoke softly for a minute or two, too softly for me to hear them over the still pounding music. It looked as if the woman was giving Officer Demetrios instructions, because he nodded occasionally, face nervous. Then the woman turned to address the crowd.
    “Okay, what happened here?”

F OUR
    A dozen voices spoke at once, mine and Matteo’s among them.
    “Quiet!” the woman barked. “One at a time.”
    Matteo stepped up to her, taking on the police woman directly. I was suddenly afraid my ex-husband’s inbred antagonism toward authority figures in general and members of the law enforcement community in particular was about to assert itself. I was right.
    “Look, lady, I don’t know what you think happened here, but nobody was poisoned.”
    This isn’t the right approach, Matt , I silently wailed. Then I stepped between them—while attempting to push Matteo backward with my elbow. Given that he was over six feet and all muscle, and I was under five-five with zero weight training, the effect was nil.
    “Hello,” I said, extending my hand. “My name is Clare Cosi. I’m the manager of the Village Blend.”
    “Detective Rachel Starkey,” she replied, ignoring my proffered palm. Then she eyed Matteo behind me. “And who’s the big bohunk behind you?”
    Bohunk? Who talks like that?
    “He’s Matteo Allegro, my—”
    “Business partner,” Matteo finished for me with a glance at Breanne Summour.
    “Okay, Mr. Allegro. My partner here will get your statement, while I speak with your partner here, and the rest of her staff.”
    I realized as I was listening to Detective Starkey that she had the very slight but telling signs of a Queens accent—a drawling of vowels and dropping of Rs. The Blend’s private carting company was based in Queens, and I heard that accent at least twice a week because I always invited the sanitation crew in for a coffee break when they stopped by to empty our dumpster.
    Like me, it appeared Detective Starkey had cleaned up well, virtually masking her working-class accent and dressing for a slick presentation of authority.
    Starkey faced the rest of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said loud enough to be heard over the dance music, “the uniformed officers will take statements from everyone else.”
    “Excuse me, Detective,” declared the Truman Capote wannabe. “But I should think you’d want to talk with me. I saw the whole thing. That poor man was poisoned. His friend said so before he collapsed, too.”
    A middle-aged woman in a silk pantsuit and tinted glasses placed a hand on her hip. “Well, I saw it, too.”
    I couldn’t believe this crowd was so catty they were jockeying for prime positions at a crime scene.
    Detective Starkey seemed unfazed. “Detective Hutawa will take both of your statements,” she said.
    The heavyset detective’s frown deepened as he pulled out a notebook and pen and motioned the short man in the white fedora to follow him to the coffee bar.
    Detective Starkey took my arm. “Get your staff together, Ms. Cosi, and let’s talk behind the counter.”
    I turned, waved for Tucker to come forward. Esther and Moira McNeely were already behind the coffee bar, waiting. We gathered next to the espresso machine, and Starkey pulled us all into a tight circle as she fixed her Ice Station Zebra blue eyes on mine. “What happened here, Ms. Cosi? In your own words.”
    “Well…one minute Mr. Flatt was enjoying himself—”
    “You call him Mr. Flatt ?” the detective cut in. “Does that mean you know the victim?”
    “No,” I replied and chose my next words carefully. “His name was…on the guest list.”
    “I see,” Starkey said, eyes unblinking. “Go on.”
    “So,” I continued, “Mr. Flatt seemed fine. Then he just collapsed.