Grounds for Murder (11 page)

‘Remember,’ I went on, ‘this barista is not only responsible for creating twelve exquisite drinks, but also for the table-setting and presentation to the judges. All this, while keeping his workstation perfectly orderly and clean. And all,’ I paused for effect, ‘in just fifteen minutes.’

I turned dramatically to the camera. ‘Will this barista stand the test?’ I boomed in my best reality-show voice.

There was a thud behind me, accompanied by the sound of breaking china.

‘He’s dead,’ Sophie screamed.

I looked at her.

Henry applauded.

Poor Mitchell opted out, even after we’d revived him.

‘Maybe I shouldn’t have been so dramatic,’ I moaned to Kate as we took the equivalent of a TV time-out.

‘Are you kidding?’ Kate had a huge grin on her face. ‘You were perfect. He was perfect.’

‘He was unconscious, Kate.’

‘Yes, and even before that. The sweat. The deer-in-the-headlights look when he forgot the ice. Great TV.’ She pumped her fist in the air.

She was right, it was great TV. It was also the humiliation of a human being. I pointed that out.

‘I know,’ she said delightedly. ‘Thank God we got releases.’

‘We will not use that footage if he objects,’ I said.

‘Says who?’ Kate demanded.

‘Says me.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Or what?’

‘I’ll tell you what—’

This mature exchange was interrupted by Jill. ‘They’ve cleaned up the stage. Do you want us to start taping again?’

‘Start taping?’ Kate squawked. ‘You mean you didn’t tape the whole―’

I didn’t wait to hear any more.

‘OK,’ I said, picking up my microphone. ‘Let’s get this show back on the road.’

I stepped out on stage. ‘First, let me give you an update. Mitchell is going to be just fine,’ I said. ‘He passed out―’

‘Probably low blood sugar,’ Sophie offered up from the front row.

‘More likely too much coffee,’ Henry countered.

‘Whatever it was,’ I said pointedly, ‘Mitchell is OK now. And the show must go on. Please help me welcome our next contestant: Janalee LaRoche of HotWired.’

Despite the fact she was married to LaRoche – or maybe in sympathy for the fact – Janalee got a big hand. Amy was watching from the audience with Davy on her lap. I assumed she and Janalee would change custody when Amy competed.

Even with the shock of recently finding out her store had been torched, not to mention having the barista before her hit the floor, Janalee was the consummate professional.

‘As you see,’ she told the crowd twenty-eight minutes later, as she spooned froth on the top of her final specialty drink, ‘I’ve used fresh orange zest and that, combined with the espresso and heavy cream of my drink, brings back memories of the ice cream pops of our youth. I’ve taken great pains to make sure that while the espresso is the base of the drink, it doesn’t overpower the more delicate cream and orange flavors.’

‘I see you’ve chosen a mug rather than the more delicate bone china for your presentation,’ I said, doing my part as both emcee and interviewer. ‘Is there a reason for that?’

‘This is not a delicate drink,’ she said, placing a curl of orange peel on the top of the froth. ‘It’s a playful drink and that’s the way I wanted to display it. Hence –’ she placed a Popsicle stick in the cup as a stirrer and moved the drink to the presentation table with a flourish – ‘voila.’

The crowd applauded wildly.

Even without my looking at Henry and Sophie.

It was half-time of the competition and things were going smoothly. Better than smoothly.

‘Wow,’ I said, as Antonio re-supplied the competitors for the second half, ‘people are really into this. I thought they were going to take my head off when I said we were going to break.’

‘Everyone certainly needed it,’ Antonio said, looking up from his clipboard. ‘The refrigerators had to be restocked, and the judges also seemed to need to rest.’

‘More restroom than rest,’ I told him with a grin. ‘They’ve drunk a lot of coffee.’

‘They do seem a little . . . how you say? Grumpy?’

While communication between judges is expressly forbidden by the rules, that certainly wasn’t a hardship for this group. Between competitors, Barbara sat with her head in her hands, obviously nursing a bad hangover. Priscilla and her tech judge, whose face was as forgettable as his name, weren’t so much as looking at each other. If they were trying to be discreet, it was having just the opposite effect. And if they’d had a lovers’ quarrel, it must have been a humdinger.

‘But you, Maggy?’ Antonio said, standing up. ‘You should be a TV persona. You have the audience captive.’

That certainly was true. The convention attendees seemed to be here for the duration. And who could blame them? If you had your choice between walking the exhibition floor or sitting and watching what was turning out to be a great competition, which would you choose?

‘I believe you mean “captivated”,’ Marvin LaRoche said from behind me. ‘For future reference.’

I rolled my eyes to let Antonio know LaRoche was an idiot and then turned to the man who would be coffee king. ‘It’s nearly three thirty, where have you been?’

‘My apologies, Maggy,’ he said, helping himself to a chocolate kiss undoubtedly meant for one of the specialty drinks. ‘The reaction to my speech of last night was enormous. I just finished doing the last in a series of media interviews. It seems everyone wants to talk to me.’

Everyone outside the coffee community. Even Antonio, who had impeccable manners, was ignoring him now. I wondered how The Milkman had felt when his largest customer stood up on a podium and not only said he was going to buy his own dairies, but suggested everyone else do likewise.

Good thing LaRoche had Janalee and reporters or he’d be a mighty lonely man. Not that he’d notice.

‘And the competition?’ he was asking. ‘I take it it’s going well?’

‘Perfectly, but then if the head judge had been there, the head judge would know that,’ I said.

I knew I was being bitchy, but somehow I wanted to make him pay for being such a self-important jerk. If LaRoche was going to take the title of head judge, then he needed to fulfill the responsibilities. Even if I really hadn’t wanted him there to horn in.

‘You’ll pardon me,’ Antonio said, as petulance and self-interest duked it out in my head. ‘I must make sure my people have taken care of everyone’s needs.’

LaRoche waved him off like a house fly and turned to me. ‘Now Maggy, I thought I explained―’

‘Explained what? That your fifteen minutes of fame was more important than the competition.’ Where I was getting my fifteen minutes of fame. ‘The head judge is responsible for supervising the other six judges. If this was a sanctioned competition―’

LaRoche held up his hands. ‘You’re right, you’re right – I surrender. I should have been here and I appreciate your leading the troops in my stead.’

Interesting that LaRoche reverted to military terms when attacked. Also interesting that even when he was apologizing, he could make me feel like a one-year-old. Even worse. At least Davy could pee on him.

Kate popped her head backstage. ‘Jerome says it’s time.’

Jerome apparently had Kate doing his errands. I was impressed.

‘Be right there, thanks.’ I turned back to LaRoche. ‘Just to catch you up: the judges are doing fine. Two of them are sleeping together and one is hungover. The first-place trophy has boobs.’

I was walking as I was talking and LaRoche was scurrying after me.

‘Oh, and your wife did a great job in her segment and is leading. Amy is with the next group. If one or both of them get into the finals, we’ll have to talk about your recusing yourself.’

‘Well, umm, I’m sure . . .’

‘You’ll find a seat next to the other judges.’ As I stepped on stage and picked up my microphone, the crowd broke into applause.

God, I loved show business.

If Janalee was good, Amy was stellar.

From the very start, she had the audience in the palm of her gauze-wrapped hand.

Maybe it was the rock music, a contrast to the jazz – smooth and otherwise – chosen by the other contestants. Or maybe it was her piercings, or her hair color, or her explosive specialty drink, complete with a depth charge in the bottom of the cup.

I prefer, though, to think it was her heart that won her the big points. Hand bandaged and covered by a plastic glove, she brewed and frothed, poured and presented with the best of them.

When the steam settled, Amy was standing on stage with Janalee and the rest of the finalists. ‘And those are our six finalists,’ I announced over the cheers of the crowd. ‘We’ll see them – and you – back here tomorrow at ten a.m. sharp for the finals. Good night, Java Ho!’

Another roar and I was off-stage.

When I told the crowd good night, I wasn’t kidding. It was nearly eight o’clock. Seven hours of barista competition and I was exhausted. And exhilarated. And starving.

‘Bar?’ Kate suggested in a rare moment of camaraderie.

‘They have food there?’

‘I think I saw some chips and salsa.’

‘Sold.’

Jerome was coiling up the camera cable. ‘Can I come?’

‘We’d love to have you,’ I said, ‘but are you old enough?’ Jerome looked twelve, but he acted thirty. It made judging his age tough.

‘I’m twenty-one,’ Jerome said.

Ahh, add the twelve and thirty, divide by two and you get twenty-one. I should be on TV.

‘Why don’t you two go on, and I’ll be there in a minute,’ I said.

I wanted to catch LaRoche before he left. I found him backstage, engaged in conversation with Antonio. LaRoche was waving a folder in Antonio’s face. To The Milkman’s credit, he was staying calm. If Antonio and his biceps wanted to, he could level LaRoche.

But to my astonishment, it was LaRoche who reached out and shoved Antonio. Antonio started toward him and I moved, intending to get between them. Just as I got there, though, The Milkman raised both hands in a sign of surrender – or maybe hands-off – and walked away.

‘What was that all about?’ I asked LaRoche.

‘Not a thing,’ he said, but his blue eyes looked moist.

He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘Sorry, allergies. Now what can I do for you?’

I wasn’t sure if I was buying the allergy story, but either way, it was none of my business. ‘I wanted to talk to you about recusing yourself as judge tomorrow.’

‘And why would I do that?’ He tucked his hankie in his pocket.

‘Because your wife and your star barista are finalists in the competition,’ I said reasonably. ‘I thought we had an understanding.’

‘We had nothing of the sort. First of all, I’m the head judge.’ He was holding up a finger to tick off points. At least that meant he’d be limited to ten. Unless he took his shoes off. ‘The head judge doesn’t vote.’

‘Unless there’s a tie.’

He ignored that and held up another finger. ‘Second, Janalee is her own woman and to imply that she needs my help to win is a slap in the face to her.’

Obfuscation. I didn’t bother to reply. We both knew he was using Janalee as a smokescreen to dodge the main question.

‘And third.’ He held up the appropriate finger. ‘I understand Amy is going to work for you, so if anyone should recuse themselves, it’s you.’

My mouth must have dropped open.

‘There are secrets everywhere in this business, Maggy,’ LaRoche continued, straightening his tie. ‘The worst mistake you – or anyone else here can make – is to assume I don’t know where they’re buried.’

Chapter Twelve

Just what did LaRoche know?

Or think he knew?

I had to assume that Amy had told him she was leaving, despite the fact she and I hadn’t talked details. Then again, maybe Caron or Sarah had blabbed, or maybe someone who overheard our conversation in the bar last night had snitched. Like the two old ladies.

I gave it more thought as I made my way to the bar. Besides LaRoche’s insinuations, I was worried about Janalee and her reaction to Amy’s leaving. And the gossip, of course. News travels like wildfire at conventions. And while we were on the subject of fires, people wouldn’t really believe I set the one at Janalee’s in order to steal Amy, would they?

It was ridiculous, but since when . . .

‘Maggy! We’re here.’ Kate and Jerome were waving me over.

‘Don’t worry,’ Kate said as I joined them at the bar. ‘Jack’s legal. The bartender checked his ID.’

‘No judge of age apparently,’ I said, shooting a smile at Jerome.

The bartender – the same one who had waited on us the night before – came over. ‘Pinot Noir?’

‘Good memory,’ I said. ‘But I think I need something stronger.’

‘Cabernet?’

‘Perfect.’ I slid on to the barstool next to Kate.

‘Much as I hate to admit it,’ she said, ‘you did a spectacular job today.’

‘Thanks.’ The bartender slid over my glass and I took a slug. ‘You’re not going to edit me out of the finished program, are you?’

Kate blushed under the freckles. ‘To be honest, I had every intention of leaving you on the cutting-room floor.’

Jerome leaned forward so he could see past Kate to me. ‘Why?’

‘I ruined her on-camera career,’ I said mildly.

‘You overestimate yourself,’ Kate said, gesturing for a menu. ‘If I had wanted a career in TV, I would have stayed in TV.’

‘I’ll have a 7-Up,’ Jerome said to the bartender before turning to us. ‘So why were you going to cut her out of the show?’ he asked curiously.

Kate looked up from her perusal of the menu. ‘To torture her.’ She held up the menu to the bartender. ‘Can we have an order of nachos, pizza bread and some pot stickers?’

‘Slumming, Kate?’ I asked mildly.

She shrugged. ‘I didn’t see bruschetta on the menu.’

The bartender looked at me. ‘With that varied menu, sure you don’t want a beer?’

‘True,’ I said. ‘It is the universal donor of beverages.’

Jerome laughed at that. ‘A blood type joke – I like it.’

Yet more proof the kid had medical problems, either now or in the past. Or he hung around blood banks. I opened my mouth to ask, but Kate interrupted.

‘So, rumor has it you burned down LaRoche’s place.’