Read Online Murder by Mocha by Cleo Coyle - Free Book Online

should answer.”
    I extended my hand. “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Clare.”
    “Clare,” he said in a gruff tenor. “I’ve always loved that name. I had a sister named Clare . . .”
    His accent was stronger now, Brooklyn—but not Yuppie Brooklyn where Manhattanites flocked to buy artisan pickles and microbrewed beers. Working-stiff Brooklyn, areas like Coney Island and Bensonhurst. On the other hand, his camel hair jacket, finely woven shirt, and high-end watch implied an address other than those immigrant-packed ’hoods.
    “I haven’t been here for twenty years or more,” he said, “but I remember this place well. I was wondering if it’s still a family-owned business.”
    “The Allegro family still owns the Blend, and if I can help it, someone from the family always will.”
    His eyes sparkled. “I take it you’re a member of the family?”
    Was. Past tense. By marriage. I could have said as much, but the man’s continued scrutiny was making me uncomfortable.
    “Did you know Antonio?” I asked. “Or Madame?”
    “Madame?”
    “Madame Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois,” I said.
    The sparkle faded, the lines returned. “So, she’s married again.”
    “Widowed, for a second time, I’m sorry to say.” I leaned closer. “Listen, I’m sure Mrs. Dubois would love to speak with you. Why don’t you tell me your last name. Bob—”
    “Clare!” Tuck was calling me again. I hadn’t noticed he’d stepped away. “Sorry, but our Chocolate Nun is on the phone. She has a delivery issue.”
    “Excuse me,” I told Bob.
    “Chocolate Nun” was the nickname for Gudrun Voss, the young proprietress of Voss Chocolate. New York magazine gave her the moniker in a piece it had done a few months back. While “chef’s whites” were traditional, Gudrun’s daily uniform consisted of a black chef’s jacket and chocolate-colored Kabuki pants. The black garb combined with her austere personality and zealous focus on bean-to-bar quality had inspired the reporter to come up with the Homeric epithet.
    I’d never met the “Chocolate Nun” face-to-face and still didn’t know much about her. Even the magazine piece included little about Gudrun Voss’s background, focusing instead on her Williamsburg factory as part of Brooklyn’s artisanal food movement.
    Picking up the phone, I was relieved to hear Gudrun had no problem getting the pastries and chocolates to the party tonight. All she needed from me was the direct phone number of the catering kitchen at the Rock Center event space.
    By the time I finished the conversation, I was even more curious about Bob’s questions. But when I moved back to the counter, Mike’s favorite barstool was empty, the elderly stranger gone.
    I checked my watch. It was time for me to go, too. I needed to shower and change. Even more pressing was that important meeting Mike had mentioned at the break of dawn. I’d promised to caffeinate him up for it.
    Moving to my espresso machine, I went to work.

EIGHT
    G IVEN the events of my morning, I couldn’t wait to see a male body lying on sheets that were not covered in fake blood. When I walked into my bedroom, however, I found the four-poster empty.
    Like silver-haired Bob downstairs, Mike Quinn had gone missing. His clothes and shoes were still here. So was his weapon. I could see it peeking out of his shoulder holster, which was still hanging from the back of Madame’s Duncan Phyfe chair.
    “Mike?” I called, stepping into the hallway.
    Before I could tap on the bathroom door, it swung open. The man himself filled the frame. His hair was damp and slicked back, his skin shimmering with shower dew. Around his hips, he’d tucked one of my fluffy white bath towels.
    Forcing my attention away from the glistening slab of naked cop, I focused instead on King Kong (what my staff called the largest cup we stocked).
    “Here you go,” I said, lifting the twenty-ounce behemoth. “The Blend’s Depth Charge for your eye-opening