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The victim’s skin has a distinctive pink hue, so if it isn’t Amaretto in the latte your barista here has been serving up, then it’s prussic acid—that’s cyanide.”
    Moira and Esther paled. I felt sick. Tucker stumbled and nearly fainted. Detective Starkey clutched his arm to steady him. When she spoke, her tone was calm but firm. “Mr. Burton, I’m going to have to ask you to accompany me back to the station—”
    “No…I won’t go,” Tucker cried, his eyes like a wounded animal’s. Two uniformed officers I didn’t know, a young one and an older one, stepped up to Tucker’s side, took hold of his wrists. “Don’t resist, son,” warned the older one.
    “But I didn’t do anything,” Tucker protested, struggling. “Please, let me go….”
    “Look at me, Mr. Burton,” Detective Hutawa demanded, stepping right in front of him. Tucker stopped squirming to stare at the stout detective.
    “Can you hear me?”
    Tucker nodded.
    “I asked if you can hear me, Mr. Burton?”
    “Yes, yes, I can hear you.”
    Hutawa’s face was grim as he began to intone, “You have the right to remain silent…”
    “Oh, god, no.” Tucker closed his eyes.
    “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”
    “No. Please,” Tucker begged.
    “This is wrong!” I insisted.
    “You can’t do this,” Moira sobbed. She pushed forward, trying to get to Tucker. Esther Best restrained her.
    Detective Hutawa’s gravelly voice rumbled on. “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one…”
    “Clare! Do something,” Esther Best cried as she held Moira.
    I searched the crowded room for Matteo. He stood rigidly watching the arrest, frowning in fury, and it seemed to me he was about to barrel across the floor to raise living hell—but the light grip of Breanne Summour was apparently enough to hold him. Her French manicured fingers looked bone white against the fine black material of his Armani-clad arm, restraining him with bloodless insistence. Her glossy lips vigorously formed words, gripping his ear in a rapid whisper.
    I turned my gaze from my ex and squared my shoulders. “Tuck,” I said in a voice I hoped was calm and reassuring. “I’ll bail you out. I’ll find you a lawyer. Don’t worry, I promise I’ll do everything I can.”
    Which was, at that moment, not a thing. For now, I was forced to stand by and watch as the detectives placed handcuffs on Tucker’s wrists and led him through the doors to a parked squad car.
    As the police vehicle drove away, two detectives commanded me and my staff to step away from the counter. Then I helplessly watched as they wrapped my espresso machine, sink, and pastry case with fat rolls of police tape—the bright yellow color providing an incongruously sunny backdrop to the death black words that gave my coffee bar its new name: CRIME SCENE.

F IVE
    O NE by one, the police questioned the partygoers. Most were sent on their way, but others who’d been standing near Ricky Flatt were forced to stay behind to sign written statements attesting to what they’d witnessed.
    Evicted from the coffee bar, my staff and I huddled near the fireplace. Esther Best settled into a morose funk while Moira tearfully wrung her hands. I turned from trying to comfort the sobbing girl and saw the sour-faced Detective Hutawa walking my way.
    “Do you have somewhere we can talk in privacy, Ma’am?” he asked.
    I nodded. “My office.”
    I led the detective up the staircase and through the coffee lounge on the second floor to my small, brick-walled office tucked away in a corner. My battered desk chair creaked as he settled himself into it. I pulled up a second chair and tightly crossed my legs and arms.
    Hutawa focused weary eyes on me. “Officer Demetrios tells me you’re a friend of Mike Quinn’s. Met him through another case connected with this establishment.”
    I blinked in surprise. “Detective Quinn is a regular customer,” I said