Dead Cold Brew
Page 6
When I showed them to Gus, he pretended to swoon.
“Bella Clare, you have brought me edible treasures!” He hugged me again and kissed my cheeks. “Grazie!”
“You are more than welcome . . .”
Then Matt presented him with three bags of our newest single-origin beans, and Gus looked genuinely overjoyed.
“Okay, you two,” I said. “Sit down and catch up on family business, and I’ll make us coffee . . .”
* * *
GUS’S modern kitchen was spotless. Mason jars of cold brew were steeping in his fridge, each with a label marking their “ready” times, and bags of Village Blend roasts were lined up on a shelf.
I added Matt’s premium offerings to the stash, found the burr grinder, and got to work.
Gus had several sizes of the famous Alfonso Bialetti stovetop espresso pot—an eight-sided marvel with the clean, faceted lines of a perfectly cut gemstone.
I put the largest one to use.
Ten minutes later, the glorious scent of strong coffee was drifting through the courtyard, and I was filling tre demitasses for our little party of three.
Settling in with the men, I caught my ex-husband’s eye.
Okay, Matt, time to steer this conversation toward our reason for this visit . . .
“I’m sorry, Godfather . . .” he said, shifting uneasily. “I know you don’t like to talk about the shipwreck, but—”
“But it would help our research”—I quickly jumped in—“if you could talk to us a bit about your memories. Maybe you can start with the reason you made the crossing. I know it was soon after World War Two, and Italy was still struggling to get back on its feet, is that right?”
Gus nodded, sitting back in his chair. “You are very right about the war, Clare. It destroyed so much. Angelica and I were sent to America to relocate the family business.”
“Your jewelry business?” I assumed.
“The Campanas worked as goldsmiths and jewelers for generations in Florence, but the war was devastating, and moving to New York seemed like a good idea. So Angelica and I left Italy with a handsome young apprentice named Silvio . . . ah, I forgot his last name. I’m so old . . .” Gus smiled weakly.
“We three were supposed to get things settled before helping the rest of the family come over. But . . .” He paused, voice catching. “When the ship sank, poor Silvio drowned, and Angelica and I lost everything—everything but the clothes on our backs and our little Perla.”
As a shadow crossed the old man’s face, I spoke up again.
“I’ve seen photos of the Andrea Doria, but was the ship really as beautiful as they say?”
“Oh, yes . . . sì, sì, sì!” Gus smiled, this time more cheerfully. “We boarded in Genoa, and the city was still scarred by the bombs and fires of the war. But not the Andrea Doria. I still remember the first moment I saw her. She gleamed like a flawless diamond above the sad ruins of that port. So white and clean and pure, it made me proud again to be Italian.”
“What was it like to walk the decks?”
“Mamma mia! Polished wood, marble, crystal in the bar, sterling silver in the dining rooms. And the public spaces were decorated with a fortune in art and sculpture.”
Gus laughed. “There was fun, too. The Andrea Doria, she was the first ocean liner to have swimming on her outside decks—three different pools! For an Italian bumpkin like me, it was like life in an American magazine, or some glamorous pool party with the Beach Bums—”
“Beach Boys,” Matt corrected.
“Yeah, them. It was a beach party every day, a nightclub every night. Entertainment. Fine dining. Eccellente! Superb service, notte e giorno—night and day.”
“Night and day,” I echoed, suddenly getting a bright idea—one that just might win us this coffee competition.
“I remember a gala dinner party,” Gus went on. “The ship glowed on the black ocean like a golden city floating in space. Elegant women danced with dashing men. At midnight everyone gathered on deck to watch the lights of Gibraltar fade from view. We were on our way to a new life, a new world . . .”
Matt refilled his godfather’s cup. “I’m surprised you remember so much after all these years.”
“You mistake silence for forgetfulness, Matteo. What happened on that ship is burned in my memory . . .”
With eyes misting, Gus gazed at a picture on the white marble mantel of his cold fireplace, where an image of a woman stood frozen for all time.
“No, I could never forget . . .”
When Gus rose and moved to the mantel, I joined him.
The picture he picked up was extravagantly framed in yellow gold. Inside that frame, a sad-faced woman wore an elegant evening gown. She was a dark-haired beauty, lovely and delicate, and so very young, yet with an expression of hardship that seemed to age her beyond her years.
“Is that your late wife?” I asked gently.
He nodded as I took a closer look—and blinked in surprise.
“That necklace she’s wearing, is it a replica of the Occhio del Gatto?”
I’d first admired the legendary “Eye of the Cat” when I was a teenager, poring over art books in our small town’s library. I saw it again in an Italian textbook when studying in Rome, and a few months ago on the Internet.
The huge, near-flawless ice blue diamond had been cut and set in Italy with a design that mimicked a cat’s eye. It was one of the world’s most famous lost gems. And I expected Gus to tell me about the replication process.
But my surprise turned to shock when he spoke again.
“That is no replica, Clare. That is the lost diamond.”
SIXTEEN
TAKING the photo from his hands, I studied the jewel with renewed fascination. The blue diamond was surrounded in the unique setting by dozens of smaller, darker stones—“coffee diamonds,” Gus called them.
“The piece is absolutely stunning,” I said, “but I never knew the Campana family owned it.”
“Very few knew,” Gus revealed. “This picture was taken in Italy before we set out on that final, fateful voyage. It was taken as prova—proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That the Occhio del Gatto was personal property, not something to be declared at customs and sold in America.”
“You mean you were smuggling the piece? You wanted to sell it and avoid the taxes?”
His smile returned, but this time his dark eyes carried a cunning gleam.
“As I told you, we left Florence with the means to start a new life, and bring the family business to America. The family loaned the heirloom to us. They expected me to sell it and use the money to bring them over. When the jewel was lost, that means went away.”
Matt snorted. “I guess it’s water under the bridge. Or more like a giant diamond under two hundred feet of seawater.”
I sighed. “It was such an exquisite gem. The shade of blue so sharply striking. It reminds me of Quinn’s eyes.”
“Oh, please.” Matt groaned. “Where’s a locked and loaded Panther Man when you need him?”
“Matt!” I cried, horrified. “That’s a terrible thing to say!”
Gus stifled a laugh. “He says it because he still loves you. La torcia. His heart still carries the flame.”
Matt waved his hands. “Don’t go there, Gus. It’s a lost cause.”
“More like ancient history,” I corrected. “And I wish Panther Man was, too.”
“You are talking about that crazy man from the news? Or maybe not so crazy . . .”
“What do you mean?” I looked at Gus. “Do you know something? It could help me—and my boyfriend—a great deal.”
He shrugged. “I know when someone acts crazy, sometimes they’re actually smart. Like Mussolini, maybe crazy is part of their act.”
Gus saw my disappointment.
He paused to dab his mouth with a napkin. “I don’t ask questions. If they pay me—” He shrugged. “I do the work. As for this Panther Man? Maybe I can ask around. You’d be surprised who this old man knows, and what he can find out. Like the Occhio del Gatto, eh?”
“Like the diamond?” I met Gus’s gaze. “What do you mean?”
“The diamond was cut and set to honor the spirit of the bridge cat.”
“Bridge cat?”
“You don’t know about the guardian spirit of the Ponte Vecchio?”
“I know about the Ponte Vecchio . . .”
For centuries, the medieval covered bridge provided a home to the goldsmiths of Florence. I’d even visited the famous “Old Bridge” during my summer in Italy—and spent far too many lire on a twenty-two-karat-gold bracelet.
“According to legend,” Gus went on, “a mystical cat prowls the bridge as a guard on dark and foggy nights.”
“A guard against burglars?”
“Burglars, intruders . . .” He shrugged. “Any troublemaker to the merchants of the bridge.”
“But what can a little cat do?”
“A little cat?” He laughed. “This is no ordinary animal. Inside, a protective spirit lives that transforms and attacks when threatened, killing if necessary.”
He paused, dark eyes narrowing. “Heaven help the mortal who crosses it.”
SEVENTEEN
“DO you really think Gus can find something out?” I quietly asked Matt after our visit.
“About Panther Man? I doubt it. Gus is my godfather, not the Godfather. I think he was just humoring you. You heard him: he likes you, Clare—and your cupcakes.”
As Matt and I left Gus’s house and crossed the tranquil hidden courtyard, the shadows grew longer, and I slowed my steps to enjoy the coo of the mourning doves.
“Did you ask Gus about that tiff we overheard between Sophia and her husband?”
“Of course not. Sophia’s marital problems are none of our business.”
“I’m not looking for idle gossip. I’m worried about her. Did you at least ask how she’s doing?”
“Sure, and her older sister, too.”
“How is Perla? She must be in her sixties by now? You know I always wondered about that huge age difference between the sisters.”
Matt nodded. “My mother said Gus and Angelica tried to have children for many years, but Angelica had health problems. Apparently, the years in Italy were really hard on her—and she had some miscarriages. When they finally had Sophia, it was a happy surprise for them both. I remember Gus calling her his piccolo miracolo.”
“Little miracle?” I smiled. “That’s sweet. But all the fuss must have been hard for Perla. What’s she up to these days?”
Matt shrugged. “Gus says he doesn’t see her much. She’s too busy with her business. And before you ask, he thinks Sophia made a bad match in Hunter—that’s her husband’s name, Hunter Rolf. Apparently, their union was hasty. They hooked up last year on Aeroe.”
“Aeroe? What is that, some kind of drug?”
“Aeroe is an island off the coast of Denmark. It’s the quickie wedding capital of Europe. Like Las Vegas, only without slot machines or Elvis impersonators. And, actually, it’s a very picturesque place.”
“Hunter must have really swept Sophia off her feet.”
“Hum,” Matt said.
“Hum?” I echoed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Why is it women always want to pretty things up with phrases like ‘he swept her off her feet’ when it was probably nothing more than animal attraction?”
“When did you get so cynical? If it was nothing more than animal attraction, then why would they get married?”
“Wild guess? Failed birth control.”
I stopped dead and faced him. “What an awful thing to say. What is with you lately—” I was ready to say more, but clenched my fists instead.
Matt’s mother had warned me there was something wrong with her son, and I agreed, but this was hardly the place to drill down on my ex-husband’s latent bitterness.
“Forget it,” I said instead and walked briskly ahead.
At the end of the alley, I popped the one-way lock on the iron gate, and tugged the heavy door.
“You, there! Hold that for me!”
The blunt command, in English but with an Italian accent, came from a fit-looking forty-something in a flowing black Valentino trench. The woman stood in the middle of Perry Street, speaking with her driver, a swarthy man in black with a U-shaped scar on his cheek, who cared not in the least that the vintage black Jaguar he drove was blocking traffic.
Impatient honks came from a taxi and delivery van stuck behind her car, which the woman completely ignored as she continued issuing instructions to her driver—or was it her bodyguard? He looked big enough.
Matt noticed this scene as he stepped through the gate behind me.
“Hold it open!” she commanded again, one leather-gloved hand hailing us as her sharp heels clicked across the West Village pavement.
Bright turquoise cat glasses exactly matched her thigh-high stiletto boots in a statement of high-fashion confidence that extended to her dramatic long hair, dyed with salon-ombre shading that moved from beetle brown to volcano ash. Her expertly made-up face displayed cover-girl cheekbones. But overly plumped lips and tightness around the eyes suggested some recent “work”—and not the kind you do with an apron or shovel.
Matt gently nudged me forward and pointedly released the gate, letting it loudly clang shut and lock tight.
“Mannaggia! Are you deaf?” The woman faced off with me and Matt. “I told you to hold it! I must see Mr. Campana!”
Matt gestured to the store’s front door. “Then I suggest you ask his staff for an appointment—like everybody else.”
Before the furious, sputtering fashionista could respond, Matt gripped my elbow and urged me toward Hudson.
“Did you know that woman?” I asked, glancing back over my shoulder.
“I know the type well enough from Breanne’s circle. They’re a soulless, self-centered, eternally entitled lot. This one probably has a complaint about an exquisite piece of jewelry that he’s worked on tirelessly to her specification, yet it ‘still isn’t quite right.’ Let her go through Gus’s staff. That’s what he pays them for.”
* * *
MATT stewed in silence for the rest of our walk. At the door to our coffeehouse, he checked his watch and sighed.
“It was nice to see Gus, but that visit was a waste of time. You didn’t even ask him about cold brew.”
“I didn’t have to. Gus gave me the inspiration I needed. I know exactly what I’m going to create for the Andrea Doria competition.”
“Great!” For the first time this afternoon, Matt looked happy. “Hit me with it. What’s your idea?”
“Remember when Gus told us about the ‘superb service’ from the Andrea Doria? “Notte e giorno,” he said, night and day. It made me think dark and light. And then you mentioned that island off the coast of Denmark, and that sealed it. I’ll do a Danish blend.”
Matt clapped his hands. “Clare, that’s perfect!”
A mix of dark and light roasted beans, Danish blend, when done right, gave consumers a superb coffee-drinking experience—beautiful smoothness with well-rounded body at any brewed strength. But balance was key, and the beans I selected had to bring enough richness, as “superb” as the luxury liner on which it would be served.
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br /> Matt knew it, too, and his joy quickly gave way to concern. “Do you know the coffees you’re going to use?”
“I’m leaning toward your latest from Sumatra for the dark and that sweet honey-processed Costa Rican you found us for the light—”
“Brilliant! You’ll get lots of wild complexity and sweet flavor from those honey-processed beans and the Sumatra will anchor it with richness, body, and depth.”
“Sure, theoretically, if I don’t blow the balance. So before I start testing roast times and ratios, I’ll need one more thing.”
“Name it.”
“The phone number of the company that equipped the galleys on the ship. Can you get it for me?”
“You want to talk to the ship’s contractors? Why?”
“Just get me that number, and I’ll make your winning blend.”
EIGHTEEN
AFTER Matt departed, I checked in with my staff, and all was well, apart from more rabid Panther Man fans lining up to take selfies.
At least they’re lining up for lattes, too, I thought. Matt’s “silver lining.” But then business was business, as Gus said, even when your customers gave you the willies.
With Tucker overseeing the shop, I went to the basement to roast a few batches of green coffee. Then I finally knocked off for the day, climbing the back staircase to my apartment.
* * *
THE furnished duplex above the coffeehouse was part of my compensation. I resided here rent free for as long as I managed the shop below.
Madame had lived here for years while running the place, and when her business finally took off, she splurged on her living quarters, decorating with a romantic’s eye.
The main floor’s cream marble fireplace, tall French doors, balcony with flower boxes, and fleur-de-lis ceiling molding had more in common with her Parisian roots than the building’s Federal-style exterior. But I loved her choices nonetheless—the muted peach walls, ivory silk draperies, gleaming parquet floors with lush area rugs that perfectly complemented the carved rosewood and silk furnishings.