Murder by Mocha

Twenty-One

“Clare? Are you okay?”

I opened my eyes.

Mike was bending over me, his hand on my shoulder. I took a breath, felt the certainty of air in my lungs, the sweetness of a pillow behind my head. My clothes were no longer damp. My thin blouse and torn stockings were gone, replaced with a faded Steelers jersey and fleecy sweatpants.

Propping myself up, I found my duplex living room softy lit, flames crackling in the hearth. Firelight flickered across the polished surfaces of Madame’s antiques, bringing me back over twenty years to those nights when Matt’s mother sat up with me, soothing away my expectant-mother anxieties with cups of Belgian chocolate melted into hot milk and plates of buttery praline sablés.

Despite the cozy externals, my heart was still hammering.

“What time is it?” I checked my wristwatch—2:55 AM.

Mike, still in his blue suit, sat on the edge of the sofa, concern creasing his features. “You were crying for help. Did you have a bad dream?”

A dream, I thought. Of course. Clearly, I’d been dreaming. What wasn’t so clear was when it started. Maybe my head was too fuzzy from sleep, but I couldn’t discern where my real memories ended and my nightmare began.

I glanced at Mike, about to ask what (if anything) had happened between us on that Rock Center rooftop when—

“Mom?”

My daughter’s voice. Excited, I sat farther up, searched the room to find her standing in the shadows, still wearing her red hooded jacket. I swung my legs to the floor, patted the cushion next to me.

“Sit!”

Joy stripped off her jacket and sat down. I put my arms around her and hugged her tight.

“Why did you run off like that?”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I just . . . all of a sudden . . . I really needed to see Manny.”

Manny? I blanked for a second, forgetting Manny was short for Emmanuel, as in Sergeant Emmanuel Franco, the young detective on Mike’s squad who’d once arrested me and Joy’s father. (But that was another story.)

By now, I’d forgiven the guy. My ex-husband had not. In fact, a short time ago, Matt stupidly forbade Joy to get involved with the cocky cop, which (knowing my daughter) made the prospect all the more enticing.

“I know you’re not a child anymore,” I told her, “but I’m never going to stop worrying about you . . .”

Joy sighed, shook her head. She really did appear sorry. “I don’t know what came over me . . .”

“It’s okay. That Mocha Magic powder had us all acting a little”—I shot Mike a look—“out of character.”

Mike arched an eyebrow. “At least you know the stuff works.”

“Works?” I said. “I’m beginning to think the product needs an outsized warning label.”

“Like what?” Joy said. “Do not take without your significant other present?”

Mike smiled. “Consuming alone may prove hazardous.”

“Consuming while driving may prove hazardous!”

Joy laughed.

I didn’t. “Is that what you and Franco were doing all night? Driving around eating aphrodisiac-laced chocolates?”

“We were driving and then”—Joy couldn’t hide her amusement—“we weren’t!”

Right, I thought. But it failed to explain Mike’s involvement. I speared him. “So you tracked Joy down and gave her a lift home?”

“I tracked Sergeant Franco down,” Mike corrected. “Police business.” He’d clipped the words, unwilling to elaborate, at least in front of Joy.

“Don’t be angry, Mom. I know I shouldn’t have run out on you . . .” She playfully nudged me. “You know, a part of me was surprised I actually got away with it, considering what you used to pull on me in high school.”

“Is that right?” Mike said, moving to stoke my dying fire. “And what was that?”

“Mom always knew when I was getting ready to sneak out. Always! I’d call my friends from my bedroom, make my plans, quiet as anything. Her door would be shut, her lights off, but just as I climbed out my window—she’d be in the yard waving me back inside with a flashlight! I couldn’t figure out how she knew, but she always did. She used to tell me she was a little bit psychic.”

“That’s right, honey. I am. Just remember that. I always know when you’re about to do something stupid—so don’t.”

“I really am sorry.”

“It’s okay. As it turned out, your leaving was for the best. Something happened at the party and . . . frankly, I’m glad you weren’t there for it.”

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

“C’mon, Mom!”

I exchanged glances with Mike. “Someone had an accident, okay? No one you know. The police came. They had to do interviews, take IDs. It’s good that you and your father were gone by then. As you know, your dad doesn’t react well to authority—and you need to return to France very soon. The whole thing might have held you up.”

“Oh, merde! You are so right! After what I went though with Chef Keitel’s death, I absolutely hate dealing with the police!” Joy froze. Cringing slightly, she cast an apologetic expression Mike’s way. “I mean except for you and Franco. I don’t hate you guys.”

“I know.” Mike patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay, honey, you’ve had a long day.” I hugged Joy again. “The guest room bed is all ready for you.”

“Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Good night, Mike.”

“Good night.”

Joy gave him a hug, too. I was surprised how much it warmed my heart.

When she headed upstairs, Mike shrugged off his beautiful blue suit jacket, threw it over a chair. For the briefest moment, the sight of his shoulder holster and weapon actually startled me. It was easy to forget what kind of weight Quinn carried around with him all day, every day.

He sank down next to me, exhaling like a battered balloon. Leaning back, he stretched out his strong arm. I nestled into him, and for long minutes, we simply watched the fire snap and crackle, both of us too drained to talk. Finally, I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed.

“Thank you for bringing her home,” I whispered.

“Glad to.”

“You want to crash here again?”

“I thought you didn’t want me to sleep over when Joy was here.”

Mike was right. That was my rule. But sending him away seemed even more wrong.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious Joy won’t mind.”

“All right, then, I will . . .” He paused. “Okay if we stay up a little longer?”

I’d been through this before with Mike whenever he came off duty late. If he went to bed now, he’d be staring at the ceiling for an hour.

“You’re wired, right?” I said.

“I just need to unwind a little more.”

“Good. Because I’d like to know what the heck happened between Sergeant Franco and my daughter.”

“I figured you would.”

“Then come into the kitchen. I’ll fix you a snack.”

Mike smiled. “Now who could say no to that?”

“So how did you do it?” Mike asked, folding his long body into one of my kitchen chairs.

“Do what?”

“Catch Joy in the act of vacating her bedroom via the window, past midnight, every single time she tried it?”

I smiled. “Trade secret of the Maternal Union.”

“I see . . .” Sitting back, Mike began to roll up his starched white shirtsleeves. He did it to keep his cuffs clean, but the gesture always reassured me.

Quinn was the most trustworthy man I knew—the most dependable, patient, and steady—but all that control came with a caveat. He was also the most guarded. For years, I was forced to guess what he was thinking—until he rolled up those sleeves. Then, at least, I knew he could get comfortable in my kitchen.

“You can trust me, you know,” he said.

“I know . . .” Bending down, I poked my head in the fridge, began pulling out ingredients. “But I like the idea of having valuable information to barter with.”

Mike eyed my backside. “Sweetheart, you can barter with me in that position all night.”

“Don’t get fresh, Detective.”

“Fresh is the last thing I am right now.”

“Which is why coffee is on our midnight menu . . .”

Caffeine and I were such old friends, drinking coffee late seldom kept me up. In fact, a hot cuppa joe relaxed me like most people’s cocoa, so I reached for my French press.

The bean choice was easy enough. Matt had sourced some amazing new cherries from Rwanda and Sumatra. During my last roasting, I’d paired them with an old favorite from Costa Rica. The new blend I’d created produced a rich, enticing brew with notes of brown sugar, chocolate, and spices. The blend was so new, I hadn’t yet thought of a name for it . . .

“And is there going to be food on our menu?” Mike inquired.

“But of course. Croque monsieurs with coffee Welsh rarebit.”

“In English?”

“The croque monsieur is just a French bistro version of a grilled ham and cheese—thin slices of ham, Dijon mustard, and melted cheese on buttered and grilled bread. The coffee cheese is my own little spin on it.”

“And what exactly is coffee cheese?”

“Watch and learn, grasshopper . . .”

I cut four thick slices from a rustic French loaf and buttered them. On two of the slices, I laid out my beautiful Black Forest ham and caressed it with Dijon. Next I began making the coffee cheese.

“You’re kidding,” Mike said, watching me. “Where in the world did you come up with this one?”

“College . . .”

My short answer. The truth was, during my two years of fine arts education—before I’d spent a summer studying in Italy, met Matt Allegro, and became pregnant with Joy—I kept two small appliances in my dorm room: a toaster and an electric kettle. With the kettle I conjured countless pots of French-pressed bliss. With the toaster, I created tasty snacks, slathering toasted bread with everything from compound butter, fruit preserves, and Nutella to freshly made deli salads. Then one day, I had a craving for a grilled cheese. I tried using the microwave in the community room, but the results failed to inspire.

Well, I thought, some people make Welsh rarebit with beer. Why not try coffee?

The recipe I came up with was ridiculously easy—in other words, perfect for an eighteen-year-old dorm rat. I half filled a coffee mug with shredded cheese. Tonight was a combo of mild cheddar and Gruyère, but over the years I’d used almost every semisoft variety: Colby, Monterey jack, provolone, Gouda, mozzarella, cellophane-wrapped American, you name it.

When my freshly brewed coffee was good and hot, I poured it over the cheese in the mug. Mike couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. His eyebrows practically fused together with naked skepticism.

“Oh, ye of little coffee faith,” I scolded. “As I recall, you were just as squeamish about trying your first café latte.”

“True.”

“And now they’re your favorite.”

“I don’t know—that giant Depth Charge you made me today practically let me see into the future.”

“Well, don’t tell Esther. She’ll insist we rename it Nectar of Delphi.”

For about fifteen seconds, I stirred the mug’s contents then poured off the greasy coffee, carefully holding back the gooey ball of spreadable goodness. What I had left in the mug was a unique delicacy—melted cheese with a meatier, more complex umami flavor, like a Welsh rarebit.

Finishing our croques monsieurs, I covered the two remaining slices of bread with my melted coffee cheese, slapped the ham sandwiches together, and slipped them into a hot skillet of bubbling melted butter.

After frying them on both sides—getting that chewy, crusty, rustic French bread to turn a golden toasty brown—I slid the sandwiches onto separate plates, cut them on the bias, and presented one to the skeptical cop at my table.

Mike took a tentative bite and closed his eyes. “Oh man . . .” He took a few more bites, made a guttural kind of man-in-ecstasy noise, and inhaled the rest.

I finished off my own sandwich. As I licked my fingers, I noticed Mike casting a sheepish glance my way. “What’s wrong?”

“Can I have another?”

I laughed. “Didn’t I tell you it was good?”

“You did—I should have trusted you.”

“I guess that admission earns you another, but it’ll cost you . . .”

He brightened. “Personal favors? I’m up for that.”

“Rain check,” I said. “Tonight I just want information.”

“Franco and Joy?”

I nodded. “I’ll start cooking and you start talking . . .”