Free Decaffeinated Corpse by Cleo Coyle Page B

day, adjustments needed to be made. Even the weather was a factor. High humidity meant the espressos could run slower, and the beans would have to be ground somewhat coarser. Lower humidity meant the espressos could run faster, so a finer grind was required.

    I didn’t want one single inferior demitasse served under my watch, which was why I insisted Dante make some test shots. As I supervised, he ran through the process.

    Initially, I’d been wary of Dante. When he’d approached me three weeks earlier, asking after employment, the guy’s tattoos made me wonder just how fringe he was. I’d already lost two part-timers in two months, and I didn’t want to spend time training someone who would start bugging out on shifts. But then he began talking, and I could see he was articulate, intelligent, and (this capped it) he’d already been trained. In his teen years, he’d worked at a coffeehouse in Providence, so he was an old hand at making Italian coffee drinks, not to mention handling thirsty urbanites with caffeine deficits.

    During his first week, he was a little rusty at applying even pressure at the tamping stage. At least thirty pounds of pressure is needed when tamping down the freshly ground coffee beans into the portafilter—and if the cake of grounds is uneven when steaming water is forced through it, you’re in for some nasty business. Water takes the path of least resistance, so the lower side of an uneven cake would end up over-extracted (too much water passing through), the higher side under-extracted (not enough water), and the result is a vile little schizoid cup I’d be embarrassed to serve to a paying customer.

    Today there were no such problems. I sampled both of Dante’s shots. The first was the tiniest bit over-extracted, but the second was perfect—from the viscosity to the roasty, caramelly flavor of the crema (that beautiful, nut brown liquid that separates from the ebony espresso like the head of a freshly tapped Guinness).

    We worked in tandem after that. I greeted customers, manned the register, watched the levels on the Breakfast Blend urns. Dante pulled espressos and kept the stainless steel pitchers of milk steamed and frothed. Then we switched positions.

    “I’m glad you came by, Dante.”

    “No problem.”

    “I still need two, even three more part-timers for coverage.I ended up closing last night, and I’m still dragging this morning.”

    “Why did you close? Wasn’t Tucker scheduled for that?”

    “Yes, but . . .” I stopped my running mouth. After letting my guard down with Matt, I wasn’t about to start spewing last evening’s details to my newest barista. “A friend of mine dropped by and our chatting ran late, so I just let Tucker go early.”

    “A friend? You mean that cop, don’t you?”

    “Detective Quinn. Yes.”

    Dante nodded. “Well, I guess you’re right then. It’s a good thing I came by . . .”

    When Tucker arrived at seven fifty, the real morning crush began. We were soon swamped, with a line out the door until ten thirty. As the crowd finally thinned, I left the two of them alone with a vague excuse about needing to complete some paperwork. Then I headed upstairs with a basket of freshly baked muffins.

     

FEDERICO Gostwick hadn’t been up long when I entered the duplex. He’d just showered, and I called upstairs, inviting him down for breakfast. His clothes were still at his hotel, so he threw on Matt’s long terrycloth bathrobe and slippers. Then he shuffled into the kitchen, dropped down at the table, and sampled a warm cappuccino muffin— made for the Blend by a local bakery from one of my old “In the Kitchen with Clare” column recipes.

    “Mmmm . . .” Ric murmured as he chewed and swallowed. “What nut am I tasting here? Wait. I can tell you . . .” He took another bite, closed his eyes. “Hazelnut?”

    “That’s right.”

    “Quite delightful, Clare . . . very rich texture.”

    “Sour cream. That’s the