I never, not in a million years, expected an answer like that from the grand bitch of fashion. It was exactly how Mike Quinn made me feel; and in that moment I realized, beneath all of her Machiavellian scheming and bridezilla-on-steroids demands, Breanne Summour really did love her groom.
“Thank you for being honest with me,” I said.
Breanne nodded, then her gaze fell on the piece of paper on her desk, the one with her sister’s contact information.
“She misses you,” I said. “And she still admires and loves you.”
“She said that?”
“She didn’t have to. The way she talked about you—it was clear as sunlight through plate glass.”
Breanne sighed. “I know what you must be thinking, Clare, but seeing my sister again, making contact... I don’t know if I can do it.” She shook her head. “When you travel so far from who you were, it’s like living in a new world. You can’t go back again. I decided that long ago. My family would never understand my life, my choices.”
“Maybe... or maybe you just never gave them a chance to understand.”
Breanne picked up the piece of paper. “Maybe. I’ll think about it...”
I nodded and turned, heading for the door. Before throwing the lock and departing, however, I turned back to say one last thing.
“Breanne, I really will keep your past a secret, but only on one condition. You have to tell Matt the whole truth about your life before you take your vows.”
“I can’t do that,” she whispered. “He’ll never want me then ...”
“If that’s how little you think of Matteo Allegro, then you really should call the wedding off.”
Thirty-Four
“Okay, guys, what’s the verdict?”
“Pretty amazing, Clare,” Gardner said, paper cup in hand.
Dante nodded. “Good job on the roast!”
“Superb,” Tucker said.
“Thanks.” Three down one to go. “What do you think, Esther?”
Esther Best pushed up her black rectangular glasses and peered at me with her big, brown, hypercritical eyes. “I think I can’t get my mind around where these beans have been.”
It was eight o’clock in the evening. Matt, Joy, and Madame were all at the wedding rehearsal dinner. Here at the Blend, I’d just finished roasting the final batch of green beans for tomorrow’s reception. My top baristas and I were now sampling the freshly roasted Kopi Luwak.
Mike elbowed me. “What does she mean by that? Where have the coffee beans been?”
“You can ask me directly, you know?” Esther told Mike flatly. “I won’t bite your head off. I generally don’t bite people’s heads off unless the moon is full.”
Mike raised a sandy eyebrow. “Okay, Esther. What do you mean by that?”
I stifled a smile as she explained that kopi was the Indonesian word for “coffee,” and luwak referred to the small catlike animal from which the coffee beans were collected.
“I don’t understand,” Mike said, taking another hearty quaff from his paper cup. He looked down at me. “Coffee beans come from trees, don’t they?”
I bit my lip, met Esther’s eyes.
“He has no idea, does he?” Esther asked.
I shook my head, and she looked about ready to lose it. Then she did, literally doubling over with laughter.
“What?” Now Mike’s blue gaze was spearing me.
“The luwak is a feral, forest animal,” I explained. “It eats coffee cherries and voids them whole. The Indonesian farmers collect them, process them, and sell them as the most expensive coffee on earth: Kopi Luwak.”
Mike stared into the ten-dollar cup he’d previously been enjoying and blanched. But there was nothing wrong with the coffee! Kopi Luwak had the cup characteristics of a really good Sumatran, heavy and earthy with hints of caramel and chocolate, as well as a superlative smoothness and a unique, lingering mustiness.
His eyes met mine again. “You’re telling me this coffee came out of a cat’s—”
“The digestive tract changes the chemical composition of the bean,” I said. “See, a coffee bean’s proteins contribute to its bitterness. The luwak’s digestive process breaks down some of the proteins, making the coffee extremely smooth.”
“Kopi Luwak is its official name,” Esther said, “but some people refer to it as something else.”
“Don’t tell me,” Mike muttered.
“Cat-poop coffee!” Esther cried then cracked up again.
Now Dante, Gardner, and Tucker were laughing, too.
Mike put down his cup.
Oh, God. I should have warned him.
“You look a little green, Detective,” Dante said. “What’s wrong?”
He glanced back at me. “Too much information.”
I bit my cheek. “Didn’t you once tell me that you can never give a detective too much information?”
“Yeah, but in this one case, I would have made an exception.”
“Its okay, Mike.” I patted his shoulder. “I’ll get your usual.”
As I prepared an extra special make-it-up-to-him latte, the bell over our door jangled. A few minutes later, Mike was introducing me to the customer who’d walked in. He was a cerebral-looking, middle-aged man with a receding blond hairline, fair complexion, and a bit of a paunch under a tweedy blazer.
“This is Dr. Mel Billings, Clare. He’s a pathologist who works with the OD Squad.”
I greeted the man, made him a cappuccino, and joined both men at a café table. Mike turned to me. “Dr. Billings is the man who performed the autopsy on Monica Purcell.”
“Oh?”
Billings nodded, took off the half-glasses he wore on a black cord around his neck. “Mike asked me to drop by and speak with you. He thought maybe you’d have some ideas for us.”
“Okay, I’ll do my best.”
“The victim I examined didn’t die of an overdose of conventional medication. She was poisoned—and not by anything usual. An exotic batrachotoxin was used to kill her. It’s perplexed us all.”
“Me included,” Mike said. “I thought maybe you’d have a theory, Clare.”
“Me? On what? What exactly is batrachotoxin?”
“It’s a poison extracted from the skin of toxic frogs,” Billings said. “Very rare. In Colombia, natives use it against predators. An expert I spoke to in Colombia tells me that many rural farmers dose thorny trees around their land with the batrachotoxin to scare away marauding bands of FARC.”
“FARC,” I repeated. “That definitely rings a bell. Matt’s mentioned FARC to me, usually with an expletive attached. As far as I know, they’re a revolutionary group that stands opposed to Colombia’s current government. They terrorize farmers and land owners.”
“You should also know that the items in Ms. Purcell’s stomach were barely digested,” Billings said. “There was some kind of bread or muffin product made primarily of soy protein and a pulpy beverage made of wheatgrass.”
“I’m thinking Monica Purcell saw Winslow that morning,” Mike said. “The robbery went bad the night before. I’m thinking he poisoned her breakfast.”
“Her breakfast... soy and wheatgrass...”
My mind went back to the morning that Monica was poisoned. I’d been sitting in the reception area when the intern came out in a panic, telling us about finding Monica’s body. But shortly before that, Breanne’s breakfast was taken from the front desk to the company’s break room.
“Mike, the food items you’re describing in her stomach are exactly the breakfast I turned down the day Monica was found dead: a soy-protein muffin and a wheatgrass shake. The receptionist couldn’t give those items away, so she had them moved to the company’s break room. She said the breakfast was a regular daily delivery to Trend ’s offices.”