Decaffeinated Corpse cm-5

by Клео Коул

  Esther narrowed her eyes as she adjusted her black glasses. “Actually, Lynch is an acceptable postmodern filmmaker. His short films are particularly effective.”

  Tucker threw up his hands. “Well, I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear you approve.”

  Gardner stroked his goatee. “Lynch also uses coffee as an image system. You can see it in Twin Peaks and especially Mulholland Drive.”

  Esther, Tucker, Dante, and even I stared for a moment in dumbfounded silence.

  We were used to hearing Gardner discuss music theory or bebop versus West Coast jazz, but we’d never heard him wax philosophical about “image systems” in film before.

  “What gives?” Tucker asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Gardner shrugged. “My new girlfriend works at the Museum of the Moving Image, and she likes Lynch. Anyway, she’s right. If you watch his movies, you’ll see the guy’s seriously into coffee.”

  “I wish my new boyfriend were as well connected as your new girlfriend,” Tucker said with a sigh. “If she hears about any new TV series in pre-production over at Astoria Studios let me know, okay? Off-Broadway’s good for the artistic soul, but I need a paycheck like my last one.”

  I cleared my throat and gestured in the direction of the two elevators, where a group of men and women were waving their invitations.

  “Speaking of paychecks,” I told my staff, “it’s time we earned ours.”

  The space filled steadily after that. I acted as the hostess, greeting each new elevator full of people as it arrived. Matt should have been doing this, but although he’d arrived looking gorgeous in a sharply tailored black dinner jacket, he was now talking constantly on his cell phone.

  Tonight’s guests were culled from a list that included trade magazine writers and food critics from many nations, all of them looking for a brand new angle or a breakout product while they covered the International Coffee Growers Exhibition. These men wore jackets and ties, the women tailored business suits.

  Convention attendees and members of international coffee cartels were far more affluent, and generally arrived in evening clothes, their escorts or obscenely young trophy wives resplendent in shimmering gowns—an indication they had more elegant parties to attend after the tasting ended.

  Local chefs had been invited as well. I spotted celebrity chef Robbie Gray. His famous restaurant, Anatomy, featured delicacies made of organ bits. Basically, the man had become famous serving animal parts most American housewives wouldn’t be caught dead feeding to anything but the garbage disposal, but his three-star rating was no joke, and if he liked what he tasted tonight, the Blend could land a lucrative contract to provide him with our micro-roasted Gostwick Estate Reserve Decaf.

  To keep Robbie and the rest of the arriving guests in a jovial mood, we began to serve brie, a variety of wines, and Italian sesame cookies—delicate nibbles that wouldn’t hijack anyone’s taste buds. Before the actual tasting of the Gostwick Decaf, we would serve glasses of sparkling water so guests could clear their palate.

  After about twenty minutes of greeting guests, I was becoming annoyed. I was supposed to be helping Matt and Ric throw this press tasting, not running the show solo. But Matt continued to keep his ear glued to his phone. Finally, as I moved to greet yet another batch of arrivals, Ric stepped up to take over. With a nod, I returned to the bar.

  A few minutes later, I noticed Matt’s mother exiting the elevator. Madame’s escort this evening was her longtime beau, Gary McTavish. The good doctor looked quite dashing in a dark suit and Scottish plaid waistcoat. Madame was dressed stylishly, as well, in a charcoal cocktail dress trimmed in silver, her necklace and earrings simple delicate twists of platinum. Instead of her usual relaxed, confident self, however, she appeared agitated.

  Ric was busy with a small crowd, and Matt was still doing some sort of business. He’d failed to greet her with even a wave, his ear still plastered to that damn cell phone. I quickly moved from behind the bar to welcome the senior pair. To my surprise, the usually friendly Dr. McTavish barely acknowledged my presence with a nod.

  “Some wine?” he tightly asked Madame.

  “Perhaps later,” she replied.

  McTavish raised a gray-white eyebrow. “Another pleasure postponed?” he tossed off before heading for the bar.

  The two were obviously fighting about something. “What’s the good doctor peeved about?” I whispered.

  “Never mind,” said Madame. “Tell me what’s happening with your friend, Ellie. Has she called you back yet?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve left messages for two days now. She hasn’t returned one call.”

  “Did your messages include the fact that you think her husband is having her followed?”

  “Yes. At first, I didn’t want to drop a bombshell like that on a voicemail message, but I had no choice. I felt she needed to know...”

  “I agree. From what we witnessed at the hotel, Ellie and Ric aren’t fooling anyone, and we don’t know what sort of man her husband really is.”

  “I’m worried about her.”

  “Do you think her husband would turn violent?”

  “That’s the problem. I need to speak with Ellie to find out more. And after that, I plan on speaking with Ric, too. Matt doesn’t want me to upset him, and I’ll be as polite as I can, but I’d honestly like to know what Ric’s intentions are towards Ellie. He’s either planning to leave her again. Or...”

  “Or what?”

  “He’s making plans for their future together.”

  “What do you mean plans? Plans of marriage?”

  “Maybe.”

  Madame groaned. “If that’s true, there must be something in the air.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shook her head. “Gary asked me to marry him. That’s why he’s in a foul mood.”

  “But that’s wonderful news. Why would he be in a— wait, what did you tell him? Did you turn him down?”

  “I’m thinking it over.”

  “You’ve been dating the man for more than a year. He’s an intelligent, accomplished, respected oncologist with the sex appeal of Sean Connery. He’s got a romantic Scottish lilt and actually looks good in a ceremonial kilt—what’s to think about?”

  “You don’t understand. Gary’s giving up his position at the hospital in a few months. He wants to move to an exclusive community in Albuquerque. Can you believe it?”

  “I hear New Mexico’s beautiful.”

  “It’s the desert. What will I do with myself? Listen to coyotes bay all night? Head out to the chuck wagon in the morning to rustle up chicken fried steak?”

  I began to laugh, and then realized Madame wasn’t joking. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why Albuquerque?”

  “Gary has some friends who’ve retired there and say they love it. He wants to take up golf and the community has a golf course.”

  “And you don’t want to golf?”

  “I see no point in spending hours hitting a tiny white ball with a stick.”

  “I’m sure he has other plans for his retirement.”

  “He wants to try camping, too.”

  “That sounds interesting.”

  “It sounds dreadful.”

  “But what about all those trips to the bush you took with Matt’s father? You loved those adventures.”

  “I trekked the wilderness—in my youth. I have no desire to sleep among cacti on a cold desert rock at this age. I want to die from dancing the Argentine tango, Clare, not a rattlesnake bite.”

  “Oh, come on. You know there’s plenty of culture in a city the size of Albuquerque. Art galleries, concerts, even Broadway shows—”

  “But not the original casts. The only show out of New York that doesn’t use a touring company is the Big Apple Circus.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet.” She began rubbing her temples. “I was ambushed. The man didn’t even have the decency to hint at what was coming, so I told him I had to think it ove
r.”

  I tipped a glance at the bar. The good doctor was knocking back his wine rather quickly. “I can see how well that went over.”

  She pulled me closer and lowered her voice. “To be perfectly honest, I think it’s unwise to settle down so soon. I’d really like to start playing the field.”

  Playing the field at eighty? I thought. Coming from anyone else, I might have doubled over with laughter, but the woman just had a summer fling in the Hamptons with an elderly artist. She wasn’t kidding.

  Madame’s gaze shifted to Matt. “Has my son had that phone surgically grafted to his ear?”

  I shrugged. “I’m sure it’s important business.”

  “So he’s not talking to that woman.”

  “No. She’s already here.” I gestured to Breanne Summour. She was standing alone, near the enormous windows, gazing out at the view, the crystal stem of a wine glass pinched in her French-tipped fingers.

  Gary McTavish returned; each hand held a glass—one a German Riesling and the other a California Pinot Noir. “Are you sure you wouldn’t care to indulge?” he asked Madame, offering her either.

  Madame shook her head. Gary downed the Pinot Noir in a single gulp and started sipping the Riesling.

  Madame exhaled in disgust.

  “I’ve got to go,” I chirped uneasily, relieved to be escaping the immediate vicinity of the not-so-happy couple.

  I circulated for a few minutes and noticed Dante Silva was the only barista who didn’t seem to be busy. He stood with a tray of empty glasses in his hand, watching a new group of people arrive on one of the elevators.

  “Dante?”

  He jerked, startled. The glasses clinked together on the tray and he reached out with one hand to steady them.

  “Sorry, Ms. Cosi—”

  “Why are you so jumpy?”

  Dante shrugged. “Just nerves, I guess.”

  I studied his expression. Dante seemed as uneasy as Madame. “Did somebody ask to marry you?”

  “What?”

  “Forget it. Could you grab another tray of brie and sesame cookies from the kitchen, and make another round?”

  Dante did a bobblehead impression. “Will do.”

  I relieved him of his burden and carried the spent glasses to the bar. Tucker was standing behind it, opening bottles of sparkling water and pouring them into crystal tumblers.

  Ric Gostwick approached me from across the room. He glanced at his watch. “Have you seen Ellie?” he whispered.

  “I haven’t, and I’m looking for her, too. Hasn’t she been staying with you at the V Hotel?”

  Ric frowned. “No, of course not. She’s married.”

  “Yes, but... didn’t Matt talk to you? About the private investigator...”

  Ric turned his frown into a smile, but his eyes narrowed and his body appeared to tense. He touched my arm and leaned closer. “Matt spoke to me, Clare, but I’d appreciate it if you’d drop all of that tonight. This isn’t the time or place... and, just so you know, Ellie and I are affectionate. We hug and kiss... but we’re not sleeping together.” He held my eyes, shook his handsome dark head. “The day you saw us, she merely came to the hotel to update me on our work; but, of course, I can see how you might have misunderstood.”

  It was my turn to tense. Misunderstanding was one thing, but Ric was trying to sell me on the idea that two plus two equaled five. “It’s just that Ellie never returned my calls,” I said carefully, “and I wanted to make sure she got my messages.”

  “She got them, Clare. I saw her a short time ago.”

  “You did? Where?”

  Ric looked away. He shrugged. “Just on the street. She was in Manhattan already, but she had some errands to run before coming to our tasting.”

  “What sort of errands? What part of Manhattan?”

  Ric didn’t answer, not directly. Instead, he checked his watch again. “She should have been here by now. I tried calling her mobile phone, but her voicemail answered. I can’t imagine what’s keeping her.”

  “Well, I did spot her assistant, Norbert,” I said. “He arrived about ten minutes ago. Maybe you can ask him if he knows where she is?”

  Ric made a face at the mention of Norbert’s name. He scanned the room, rubbed his closely-shaved chin. “Let’s just hold off the tasting, give her another fifteen minutes.”

  “Of course.”

  Ric gently squeezed my upper arm. “Thank you, Clare. I’m very lucky to have your help tonight. Would you mind very much asking your staff to open more bottles of wine? And maybe serve more of those delightful little cookies. I’ll—”

  “Darling, there you are...”

  A woman’s voice interrupted us, the word “darling” stretched out in an accent that sounded something like Marlene Dietrich’s, without the Old World charm.

  The moment he heard it, Ric’s tense expression morphed. He smoothly removed his hand from my arm. Like an actor slipping into the role of his career, he transformed his entire demeanor from anxious host to easygoing charmer.

  “Ah, Monika, my love...”

  I studied the arriving woman. I’d never seen her before. She was fashion-model tall with high cheekbones, full lips, and narrow, catlike eyes of ice blue. Her golden hair was elegantly styled into a neat chignon and her milky complexion wouldn’t have needed much airbrushing for a magazine cover. But she was a bit too heavy and a decade too old to be a working model now. Hands on hips, she cocked her head and offered Ric a coy half-smile.

  “Federico,” she sang, glancing briefly at me with undisguised disdain. “What are you up to? Flirting with the help?”

  I was a business partner here, not “the help.” Unfortunately, Ric didn’t bother correcting the woman. Instead, he turned his back on me, took one of the woman’s hands in his and placed it to his lips—just as I’d seen him do with Ellie two days ago.

  “I wasn’t sure you were coming,” he said.

  “What do you mean? How could I miss tonight?” She looped her arm around his bicep.

  “May I get you some wine?” Ric asked.

  The woman tightened her grip, pulling his body closer. “And let you out of my sight? Never.”

  They toddled off like Siamese twins, moving across the crowded room. I might have dismissed the woman as an old friend or past lover, but the way she was pawing him up, it certainly looked as though the relationship hadn’t been left in the past.

  I returned to the bar and spoke to my staff, asking them to make another round or two with the wine. Then I sought out Madame again.

  “Do you see that woman?” I whispered. “The one with Ric? Do you know her?”

  “That’s Monika Van Doorn,” Madame informed me. “I knew her late father quite well.”

  “And he is?”

  “Joren Riij.”

  “Sorry, should I know that name?”

  “Joren was the founder and CEO of Dutch Coffee International, a distributor based in Amsterdam.”

  “You said ‘was.’ Did he retire?”

  “He passed away about a year ago, left the controlling interest in his company to his only child—that woman you pointed out, Mrs. Van Doorn. She’s the daughter of his second wife, Rachel... or was it his third? You know, I’m not sure who her mother—”

  “So Monika Van Doorn distributes coffee?”

  “Oh, yes. Dutch International is a major distributor in the Central European and Eastern European markets. They haven’t had as much success in the European Union.” Madame leaned close to my ear. “Inferior beans,” she whispered. “For years, they’ve sacrificed quality for a higher profit margin. And their buyer has a less than brilliant palate.”

  Madame and I continued to watch Monika. Now she was whispering in Ric’s ear, and when she finished, the tip of her pink tongue flicked out to touch his earlobe.

  “You referred to her as ‘Mrs.,’ ” I whispered. “Is she married or divorced?”

  “She’s married,” Madame replied, arching an eyebrow, “but she cert
ainly doesn’t behave that way, does she?” Squinting a little, she searched the room. “That’s her husband, over there: Neils Van Doorn. He’s the handsome blond chatting with that young woman.”

  I followed Madame’s gaze to an attractive man with Nordic features and light blond hair hanging down rakishly past the collar of his Egyptian cotton shirt. He had a lean build, a striking smile, and his clothes screamed fashion house. The tailored suit of dark bronze with that Japanese silk print tie probably cost more than the Blend took in on an average day. Tucker would have pegged him “GQ Man,” for sure.

  Neils didn’t appear to mind his wife’s aggressive flirtation with Ric. Either that, or he was so busy showering attention on the lovely young reporter from Taiwan that he hadn’t noticed.

  “So the Van Doorns are here for the coffee exhibition?” I asked Madame.

  “Yes, of course. You know, I was a friend of Monika’s father for so many years, I’m still on Dutch International’s guest list for their big costume party tomorrow night. The Village will be a madhouse, of course.”

  “Oh, right... Halloween...”

  I’d been so busy, I’d almost forgotten the date, but Madame was right. Thousands of people would be pouring into Greenwich Village on October 31st for the annual Halloween Parade. If you were a resident, you either joined in the fun or got out of Dodge because there was no escaping the wall-to-wall throng of costumed revelers.

  “If it were any other ICGE party, I’d skip it,” said Madame. “But there are a few old friends of Joren I’m hoping to see there.”

  “Getting back to what you said about the buyer... that he has an inferior palate—”

  “No, no. I said their problem was inferior beans and a buyer who has a less than brilliant palate. He’s competent, of course, but nowhere near as sharp as you and Matt.”

  “Is Monika’s husband over there... Neils? Is he their buyer?”

  Madame laughed. “Neils has nothing to do with our industry. Or any industry, as far as I know.”

  “He’s a playboy?”

  “I believe he raced cars once and skied in the Olympics two decades ago.” Madame shrugged. “Joren was dismissive of his son-in-law. He referred to him once as Monika’s toy. The pair of them live on Aruba. It’s Dutch controlled, as you know, although too dry and flat to grow coffee. I understand they enjoy the Caribbean lifestyle, and when they grow bored of the beach and casinos, they either come to New York or fly to Rio.”