Free Holiday Grind by Cleo Coyle Page B

espresso bar. I was a little surprised to see him dressed like the old days (before fashionista Breanne’s influence) in paint-stained jeans and a battered old parka. As he pulled off his coat and settled onto the bar stool, I took a moment to thank him for his help the previous night—and not just for coming to the crime scene.
    I’d been so distraught after finding Alf that I didn’t think I could tell my staff about the murder without breaking down. Matt had understood. While I’d gone up the back stairs to collapse in bed, he agreed to return to the tasting party, break the news to my baristas, and handle locking up.
    “Tucker didn’t say much about Alf’s death this morning,” I told Matt. “Just that it was too depressing. How did everyone else take it?”
    “They were upset, of course,” he said. “But I didn’t tell them right away. I let the tasting go on as planned—”
    “You what ?” That decision stunned me.
    “I broke the news near the end of the party. You wanted the tasting info, didn’t you? Oh, that reminds me—”
    He shifted on the bar stool and pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his back pocket. “Here are last night’s reactions to the latte flavors. It went pretty well overall. There were only a few duds and a couple of suggestions for tweaking the recipes.”
    I ignored the folded paper. “I can’t believe you let that tasting party go on! What were you thinking?! What about Vicki—”
    “Vicki Glockner never showed, Clare. If she had, I would have told her about her father right away. Give me a little credit.”
    “Oh.” I frowned, processing that. “Why didn’t Vicki show? Do you think the police got to her first? Called her to give her the news?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Didn’t Esther try to reach her? Call her cell?”
    “Yeah, sure, but she just got Vicki’s voice mail, and—” Matt shrugged. “Esther wasn’t about to inform her friend that her father was murdered on a recorded message.”
    I closed my eyes. “Of course not.” My heart really went out to Vicki—especially after I saw the morning papers. The death of her dad wasn’t just news. It was a tabloid bonanza.
    Ho-Ho-Homicide , screamed one front page in red and green letters. Santa’s Final Sleigh Ride , declared its rival. Randy Knox’s scandal sheet wasn’t about to miss the fun. The Grinch Who Plugged Santa Claus was the lead story for the New York Journal , complete with the head of Dr. Seuss’s Grinch Photo-shopped over the body of a gun-waving street punk.
    All over the Five Boroughs, beleaguered parents now had to explain the news to distraught youngsters who’d heard on television that jolly old St. Nick would no longer be riding his sleigh—or pushing it, in Alf’s case.
    “Clare?”
    I opened my eyes.
    “You okay?” Matt asked.
    I nodded.
    “Espresso then,” he said, “if you don’t mind.”
    “No problem.”
    I was relieved to turn my attention to something so familiar, not to mention fundamental—the espresso being the basis for most Italian coffee drinks. After burring the beans, dosing the proper amount of grounds into the portafilter, and tamping them in for perfect distribution, I locked the handle into place and sent a small amount of hot water under high pressure through the puck. In less than thirty seconds, the water extracted the flavor from the freshly roasted beans, producing that quintessential full-bodied, aromatic liquor topped with crema —the term for that dark golden foam that defines a correctly drawn espresso shot.
    After finishing the pull, I set the white porcelain cup on its saucer and slid Matt’s shot across the blueberry marble counter.
    Customers sometimes ask me if I ever grow tired of smelling coffee. I never do. Unlike perfume or incense, the caramel-sweet aroma of a perfectly pulled espresso is neither overbearing nor monotonous. To me, it’s a living scent, rising and falling with the life of the cup. Intoxicating yet