Sighing, I took in the room. “It is something, isn’t it, Java?”
Madame had decorated the place with her romantic setting on high. The main room—with its carved rosewood and silk sofa and chairs; its Persian prayer rug in muted shades of blue, green, and coral; its cream-marble fireplace, and its French doors opening to a narrow wrought-iron balcony of flower boxes—felt more like something you’d find in a Montmartre courtyard than a Federal-style walk-up.
The walls were muted peach, the draperies ivory silk, and from the fleur-de-lys molding in the center of the ceiling hung a charming bronze pulley chandelier holding six peach-tinted globes of faceted crystal. A lyre-back antique chair stood against one wall, and in a nod to the Colonial, the cozy dining room, adjacent to the living area, had a Chippendale table with four claw-footed chairs and a mahogany and satinwood English sideboard. The upstairs had a bedroom even more worthy of sighs, along with a large luxurious marble bath and a spacious dressing room.
“Now remember, Java, no using the Persian to sharpen your claws.”
“Mrrrow!”
Tail held high, she turned her back, seemingly offended—but then she always did like to pour on the guilt. Just her way of controlling her hapless owner.
I wasn’t really worried about the rug. I kept Java’s claws pretty well trimmed as a rule, and I’d already brought over her favorite catnip-laced scratching post, which stood at the edge of the Persian to lure her away like a kitty beacon.
With lures on my mind, I headed for the kitchen to prepare the pot of coffee for Lieutenant Quinn. There were several methods to choose from. I narrowed them down to percolator, electric drip, or Melitta.
If the man was used to that awful bodega coffee, then I didn’t want to choose a method too foreign. It might turn him off. My eye caught sight of the French press on an open shelf, and I inhaled, almost painfully. Unbidden, an image came to mind of serving Quinn’s lanky form fresh-pressed Kona first thing in the morning.
“Geez, Clare, get a grip.”
Quinn was an appealing man, but he was also married, with children. And I was an absolute philistine for thinking of such a thing when Anabelle was lying in a hospital bed.
“That’s what I get for living like a nun in suburban couple-land for a decade,” I mumbled to Java, disgusted with myself. “First intriguing man near my age who gives me a compliment and I’m spinning French press bedroom scenarios. Bean choice, Clare, focus on the java—”
“Mrrrrow?”
“No, no, not you.”
“Mrrrow!”
Java didn’t give a fig about bean choice, I realized, she just wanted to be fed. I opened a box of Cat Chow, and she crunched happily as I continued my work.
“Light, medium, or dark roast?” I wondered aloud, surveying the array of tightly sealed ceramic containers on my cupboard shelf. Properly storing coffee was serious business in my house—integral to maintaining any coffee’s freshness and flavor.
Whenever I walk into a kitchen and see beans stored in a clear glass jar on the countertop, I shudder. Exposure to light will affect the beans’ freshness and the coffee will lose its flavor.
I shudder twice as violently when I see storage directions on some of those inferior grocery store coffee brands. They actually tell you to “Store your coffee in the refrigerator,” implying you should simply take the bag you just bought at the grocery, open it, and put it in the fridge to be retrieved daily. Big mistake!
When the storage bag or container is removed from a refrigerator or freezer for daily use, it exposes the coffee to moisture in the air. The container then goes back in the freezer or fridge, and the moisture condenses and ruins the coffee.
A refrigerator or freezer should be used for long-term storage only. A vacuum-sealed bag, for example, can be placed in the fridge or freezer and opened only when ready to be used. But once the bag is opened, the beans should be transferred to a proper container, and not returned to the fridge or freezer.
My customers always ask me the best storage method. I’ll tell you what I tell them—
When it comes to storing coffee, just remember these four basic points:
Do keep your beans away from excessive air, moisture, heat, and light.Do not freeze or refrigerate your daily supply of coffee!Do store your coffee in an air-tight container and keep it in a dark and cool location.Do buy freshly roasted coffee often and buy only what you will use in the next one or two weeks since the fresh smell and taste of coffee begin to decline almost immediately after roasting.
So, anyway, there I was, surveying my tightly sealed ceramic coffee containers (color-coded by blend) and thinking about Quinn. How would I impress him, surprise him, yet not turn him off with an experience that was too exotic?
“That’s easy,” I murmured, reaching for the Village Blend’s House Blend, a complex mixture of imported Central and South American beans roasted dark yet with a mellow, nutty finish and rich, earthy overtones. It didn’t have the caffeine of a lighter roast but neither would it have the awful acidity of that stale crap Quinn was used to downing daily. Our house blend made fresh was a beautifully smooth cup.
“Perfect.” If I could hook Quinn on that, then he’d be back for more. And if he came back for more, then no matter what the official ruling was on Anabelle’s fall, he might be willing to help me get to the bottom of what really happened.
I ground the beans fresh, filled the water reservoir of the electric drip coffee maker, dumped the fresh-smelling roast into the gold filter basket, and hit the START button.
While the coffee brewed, I prepared a tray with sugar, fresh cream, and six cups, making the assumption that the people in this “Crime Scene Unit” that Quinn was waiting for might want some, too.
I was just reaching for the vacuum thermos to transport the coffee when I heard something—
A thud. Right above my head.
Next came a thump.
Then the upstairs floorboards began to creak.
I froze, cocked an ear, listened as hard as I could.
Clomp, clomp, clomp…
No doubt about it. Someone with heavy feet was walking around upstairs, from the master bedroom to the bath.
How the person had gotten into my duplex I didn’t know, and at the moment, I didn’t care. All I knew was that heavy feet were walking around and then—“Ohmygod!”—it hit me.
If Annabelle had been the victim of foul play, then the perpetrator could be some psycho who’d stuck around for more victims.
The sound of the shower turning on full blast was enough to send me out the door. I pushed the protesting Java back into her carrier and flew down the service staircase, returning to the first floor of the coffeehouse.
“I need your help.”
Quinn was sitting where I’d left him, chatting with Langley and Demetrios. One look at my face and they stopped their conversation cold.
“There’s an intruder in my apartment—”
Quinn got to his feet, the drooping lids of his tired blue eyes lifting fast.
“Are you sure it’s an intruder?” he asked.
“Yes. I don’t have any roommates or guests. My daughter doesn’t even have a key yet.”
“Okay,” said Quinn, removing his trenchcoat and tweedy brown jacket and throwing them over the back of a chair. The discarded layers revealed a dark brown leather holster strapped over a white dress shirt. Quinn unsnapped the small leather strip holding the gun in place under his left arm, then he turned to Demetrios.
“Watch the back alley.”