Read Through the Grinder Online

Authors: Cleo Coyle

Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Detective, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - General, #Coffeehouses, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Cosi; Clare (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction, #Detective and mystery stories, #Murder - Investigation, #Mystery and detective stories

Through the Grinder (9 page)

N
INE

“H
E
just made a good impression on me, that’s all,” I tried to tell Joy.

“Mr. Right?” said Tucker. “I’d say that’s a little more significant than just ‘a good impression.’”

“Did he make a date with you?” asked Joy.

I studied my daughter’s pretty, pensive face, dreading her reaction. I knew very well that a part of Joy had never given up hope that I would one day get back together with her father.

Her grandmother (my ex-mother-in-law) felt the same way. Madame’s offer to me of equity over time—in the Blend and the duplex—was not a sole offer. She’d made the same deal with her son, Matteo, arranging our future so that we’d both one day co-own this building and its business, which, if fortune smiled, I assumed we would both eventually leave to Joy.

With her strategic little deal, my ex-mother-in-law was clearly harboring the same hopes as my daughter—that I’d one day remarry Matt.

But I couldn’t live my life by other people’s hopes.

Not anymore.

Getting back together with my ex-husband was off the charts. Out of the question. I’d remain civil to Matt, of course—sometimes even more than civil. There were times when I actually enjoyed Matt’s company, but as a friend. Nothing more.

I was through loving Matt too much. Through being infatuated with his larger-than-life presence. Through letting him hurt me. And if part of that meant becoming romantically involved with another man—or men—then so be it. It was time I moved on.

Still,
I hated the idea of hurting Joy. This whole night was supposed to have been about my trying to prevent her from getting hurt.

I met my daughter’s green eyes. “I’ll tell you the truth, okay? Bruce Bowman and I had a very nice little meeting, but that’s all it was. He asked me out, but I really don’t think he’ll call. He left with that Sahara McNeil person, and it’s obvious he’s much more interested in her than me.”

“No, he’s not.”

I blinked. That was the last thing I’d expected Joy to say. “Of course, he is, honey. So just forget about it.” I turned to my assistant manager. “Tucker, we need more cardboard heat sleeves. Can you bring some out from the pantry?”

“Sure, Clare.”

I abandoned my espresso beans and turned to continue checking inventory, but Joy wasn’t taking the hint that I’d closed this discussion. She came around the counter and began following me as I surveyed the shelves and cabinets.

“Listen, Mom, Bruce told me Sahara McNeil is just an old college friend. He was glad to see her only because he was hoping to reconnect with some other classmates they both knew.”

“Honey, it sounds like this McNeil woman is an old flame, and he wants to date her again.”

“No. Listen. When Bruce sat down, he told me right off the bat that I was too young for him—he was really nice about it, too, but he said he’d tried dating someone a year ago in her early twenties, someone who worked in his office, and it was a disaster, so I was definitely not even in the ballpark. So we just chatted in general and he mentioned being surprised at seeing his old classmate sitting at the table next to mine. I quietly asked him if he was interested in her, and he shook his head no. He told me she was always too far out for him. Too edgy. Said her real name was Sally but in college she’d changed it to Sahara because it sounded more artsy. I could tell by the way he said it that he thought that was sort of silly and phony. He said he liked more down-to-earth women. So, of course, I told him about you.”

“You
what?
” I stopped checking inventory and faced my daughter in shock.

“I told him he should keep an eye out for someone special around the circle, a woman in a green velvet dress named Clare, because she would be the best connection he’d have a chance at making. Ever.”

“You said that?”

“Yeah, Mom. I want you to be happy, you know. And I liked Bruce. So I’m glad you and he connected.”

“I’m not sure we did, honey. But I’m…I’m very glad you’re glad.”

“Why do you look so surprised?”

“Because I thought…” I shook my head and took a break from checking inventory. I went back over to the grinder and processed more beans, enough for three espresso shots.

“What did you think?” asked Joy. “C’mon, tell me.”

“I thought you were hoping I’d get back together with your dad.”

Joy shrugged. “I do…but…”

“But what?”

“But I want you to be happy. And…to tell you the truth…well…you remember Mario?”

“Sure.”

“You remember how I told Esther I hadn’t really been into him or anything?”

“Yes.”

“I lied. I really liked him, Mom, and I was really hurt when he broke it off with me…”

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was personal, and I was…I don’t know…embarrassed, I guess. I thought it would be easier to pretend he didn’t matter to me. And, you know, after the hurt, I was so angry with him, Mom, I could have killed him.”

I sighed. “Honey, believe me, I know what you went through.”

“Exactly…Look, remember when you said you wanted to try dating again? I wasn’t thrilled at first, and I did want you to get back together with Dad, but then I thought how I would feel if you wanted me to get back together with Mario, even after he broke my heart and made me so angry and everything…and well, I wouldn’t be very happy with you if you dumped that on me, you know?”

“That’s different, Joy. Mario and I don’t have a relationship. You and your father do. So it’s natural you’d want me to get back together with him. But no matter what happens with me and your dad, your dad will always love you. And so will I. That’s not going to change.”

“Sure, Mom. You’ve told me that, like, a million times. And for a long time I still couldn’t help feeling like the whole world would be right again if only you and Dad remarried…but I’m starting to think that maybe it’s not realistic. And so…I figure if you and Dad aren’t going to get back together…then there’s no reason you shouldn’t be happy. I mean, if any Mom deserves to be happy, it’s you.”

I reached under the counter—way under, behind the unopened coffee syrups and boxes of wooden stirrers.

“You know what this calls for?” I announced, motioning for Tucker to come over and join us.

“What?”

“Frangelico lattes.”

Into each of the three cups, I splashed the translucent gold, added a freshly pulled espresso shot, poured in a tsunami of steamed milk, and topped it with a fluffy cloud of foam.

“She’s underage, you know,” teased Tucker as I handed out the drinks.

“She’s old enough to vote, drive a car, have a baby, and fall in love. I say she’s old enough for two ounces of hazelnut liqueur. Joy, just pretend we’re in Milan.”

“Okay, Mom,” said Joy. She lifted her cup.
“C’ent anni, mama mia.”

“C’ent anni, mia fia.”

“One hundred years,” said Tucker.

And we all drank.

I sighed, tasting the sweet hazelnut flavor of the Frangelico, the glowing heat of its alcohol, the earthiness of the espresso, and the soft, milky froth of the steamed milk.

I hated myself for speculating, but I couldn’t help wondering if Bruce Bowman could possibly taste this satisfying.

“Uh-oh,” said Tucker.

Looking up from my pathetic, unattainable reverie, I saw why Tucker had complained. We hadn’t locked the door yet, and a new customer had walked in, a young man in a long gray overcoat.

“Shall I tell him we’re closed?” asked Tucker.

“No, I’ll take care of his drink order and tell him it has to be to go. You grab the keys and lock up after him.”

“What about the lovebirds?” asked Tucker.

The last three couples, spillovers from the Cappuccino Connection “Power Meet” session, were still nursing coffee drinks near the fireplace, heads together, talking with that intimate tell-me-everything-about-yourself intensity that always comes during the first fiery flush of an infatuation. I still didn’t have the heart to pull the plug.

“We’ll let them out one at a time as they approach the door,” I said. “I have another thirty minutes’ work here at least, then we’ll kick their butts into the street.”

“Sounds good,” said Tucker.

He turned and strode toward the back pantry, where we kept our thick ring of shop keys on a hook. I took another satisfying sip of my Frangelico latte, waiting for the new customer to approach our coffee bar counter and place his order.

But he didn’t.

Like a ghost, the young man drifted hesitantly over to those last three remaining couples. He approached one of the tables, hands in the pocket of his long gray overcoat. He stood there, waiting for them to look up. When they did, he mumbled to them. They shook their heads and looked away, then he moved to the next couple.

“Joy, something’s up with this guy,” I whispered. “Go get Tucker.”

In less than thirty seconds, both Joy and Tucker were back.

By this time the lone customer had drifted to the second couple, with the same result. The man at the table, a slight guy in a navy sport coat and glasses, and the young dark-haired woman shook their heads; then the stranger moved along.

“Tucker, watch this guy,” I whispered. “Something’s not right.”

The stranger moved to the third couple, spoke to them, and again was turned away. Finally, the man in the overcoat moved toward the coffee bar. He wasn’t that old, maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven. He had pale skin, short brush-cut brown hair, and a very unhappy expression on his face.

“May we help you?” called Tucker, stepping in front of the counter to confront the man.

“Yes,” said the stranger. The collar of his long gray overcoat was still turned up. He removed his hands from his coat pockets, took off his black leather gloves, and turned down the collar. “I’m looking for someone.”

If the young man had sounded relaxed, I wouldn’t have worried. But his tone was venomous, full of naked hostility.

“Tucker…” I said, trying to call him back.

“It’s okay, Clare,” he said over his shoulder.


Your
name is Tucker?” asked the young man.

“Yes,” said Tucker.

The young man looked Tucker up and down. “And earlier this evening you talked to Percy?”

Percy?
I thought to myself. Who the heck was Percy? A second later it hit me. Percy was Mr. Switch-hitter. The nice-looking graphic designer who’d advised me to consider “tadpoling”—the one I’d suggested get together with Tucker after the Cappuccino Connection night ended. The one with the “insanely jealous” ex-boyfriend.
Ohmygod.

Before I could warn Tucker, he was already telling the young man, “Yes, Percy and I hit it off. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Oh, but it is,” said the young man.

The punch came so fast and so hard I stood completely stunned for a second.

“Call the police!” I told Joy and rushed forward to help.

But one of the men from the couples’ tables, the slight guy with glasses in the navy sports coat, had gotten to Tucker faster. As the attacker was about to swing again, the slight guy body-slammed him, sending him soaring. Chairs clattered to the floor as the attacker’s body flew into them. With an ear-shattering screech, a heavy marble table was dragged across the wood planks as the attacker used it to quickly pull himself back up.

By then, I was coming at him with a raised baseball bat—the one I’d kept behind the counter ever since my own frightening encounter with a bad guy a few months back. The attacker didn’t tarry—he raced to the door and out into the black, cold night.

I dropped the bat and rushed to Tucker.

“Ah, shit, shit, shit!” he cried, blood pouring from his face, “I have an audition in three days! Do you think it’s broken, Clare?”

“Take it easy, Tuck. Sit down.”

I led him to a chair and had Joy bring out an ice pack. We had a first aid kit in back, of course, and I always kept ice packs in our freezer for staff burns or injuries.

“Honey, hold this against your nose,” I told him.

After a minute, I had him remove the pack and took a look. “It’s not twisted or misshapen. Do you feel a tingling or numbness?”

“No, but it hurts like hell.”

“That’s good, Tuck. It’s probably not broken—just badly bruised.”

“Well, thank God! And thank God Percy wasn’t dating Mike freakin’ Tyson or my career would be completely over!”

Within minutes a siren was screaming down Hudson. The red lights painted our front windows as the police car pulled up to the curb.

Officer Langley, a lanky young Irish cop, rushed toward our front door, nightstick in hand. His partner, a shorter, more muscular Greek cop named Demetrios was right behind him, one hand on the butt of his holstered gun.

I met them as they entered, and told them the attacker had fled. Then Langley put away his nightstick and pulled out his notebook, and Demetrios called in my description of the attacker over his radio.

“The cars in the area will look out for him, Ms. Cosi,” said Demetrios. He and Langley had been regular Blend customers for a few months now—ever since they’d both helped Madame and me out of a few jams.

“Do you want an ambulance?” Langley asked Tucker.

“God, no. I’m a drama queen, but only on the stage.”

I put a hand on Tuck’s shoulder. “You need to see a doctor. I insist you at least get checked out at St. Vincent’s ER.”

“Fine,” he said. “But I’m not going in a paramedic mobile, thank you very much. Flag a cab or something.”

“We’ll give him a ride,” Demetrios offered.

“Thanks,” I said.

Joy tugged my sleeve. “Mom, you go with Tucker if you want. I can lock up and take care of things here.”

Was there any more rewarding feeling for a mother than a daughter rising to the occasion? “Are you sure, honey?” I asked.

“Yeah. No problem,” she said. “Go. Take as long as you want. I can sleep over, if it’s okay with you.”

“Of course, Joy, you can sleep over anytime. You know that.”

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