Decaffeinated Corpse by Cleo Coyle Page B

entered my duplex to find my ex-husband pacing the living room like a recently caged tiger. His expensive duds were gone. He was back to the sort of clothes I was used to him wearing—an old, knobby fisherman’s sweater and well worn blue jeans.

    “Yes, Mike’s gone,” I said, tossing my keys onto the Chippendale end table. I was grubby and hungry, feeling the need for a jasmine bath and a PB and Nutella sandwich, if possible simultaneously. “Since our talk went on for a while, I sent Tucker home and closed myself. Unfortunately, two NYU Law study groups swung in around ten and nearly drank us dry. I had to kick the last of them out to lock up.”

    Matt seemed ready to retort with something snippy but stopped himself. After a few seconds of silence, he said, “You look tired . . .”

    “I am.”

    “Are you hungry? I warmed up some of my stew for Ric. There’s some left on the stove.”

    “Great . . .” I turned to head into the kitchen. Matt stepped by me, touching my arm. “Take a load off. I’ll get it.”

    I wasn’t going to argue. I’d set the bar low with the PB and Nutella simply because I was too tired to do anything more than slather my plain peanut butter sandwich with hazelnut-chocolate spread. I much preferred a hot, meaty snack—as long as I didn’t have to cook it myself. And, it appeared, I didn’t.

    I dropped into a rosewood armchair, pulled off my low-heeled boots, and wiggled my sore toes inside my forest green socks. They seemed to disappear against the jewel-toned colors of the Persian area rug.

    Madame had done an amazing job decorating this duplex. The richly patterned carpet provided a lovely counterpoint to the lighter motifs in the room’s color scheme. The walls were pale peach, the marble fireplace and sheer draperies a creamy white. The chairs and sofa were upholstered in a finely striped pattern of mandarin silk. Anchored above my head, in the fleur-de-lys ceiling molding, was a pulley chandelier of polished bronze and six blushing globes of faceted crystal.

    Whenever Matt was in town, which was rarely more than one week a month, he had the legal right to use this apartment, too. Neither of us owned it outright. Madame had merely granted us equal rights to use this antique-filled West Village duplex rent free.

    I’d tried arguing with Matt, but he wasn’t willing to give up his rights to the tasty piece of real estate with two working fireplaces and a newly renovated bath of Italian marble—and neither was I. Given the high cost of living in this neighborhood, and our own anemic savings accounts, we’d agreed on an uneasy truce.

    Matt approached me with a warm bowl of his carne con café , a coffee-infused beef stew. He’d adapted the recipe from a traditional Mayan dish, which he’d enjoyed on one of his trips to El Salvador.

    “Mmmmm . . .” I murmured, “smells like sustenance.”

    I dug in with gusto, appreciating the tang of the garlicky tomatoes and the brightness of the poblanos against the earthy combination of beef and coffee. Matt had placed a hunk of crusty French bread on top of the bowl. I dipped the bread in the thick, meaty gravy, and tore off a sloppy mouthful.

    “How long have you been back?” I mumbled through my less-than-ladylike chomping.

    “A little over an hour,” Matt said. “I saw your cop boyfriend through the Blend’s windows, so we came up through the alley entrance.”

    “He’s not my boyfriend . . . and did you just say we ?”

    “Ric and I.”

    “Ric’s here?”

    “He’s upstairs, in my bedroom.”

    “They didn’t admit him at the hospital?”

    “His scan checked out okay. No hemorrhaging. They wanted to admit him for observation, but he refused, and I wouldn’t let him go back to his hotel.”

    “So we can keep an eye on him? Or because of the stolen keycard?” I asked.

    “Both.”

    “Keeping an eye on him is easy. What about the keycard? Can the hotel change the locks?”

    “They already