Murder Most Frothy cm-4

by Клео Коул

  “Very nice selection, my dear,” she said after a minute.

  “Thank you.” I replied, trying not to blush. A “very nice” from Madame regarding coffee was akin to a grad student finally earning that Ph.D. The woman knew more about beans, blends, microclimates, harvests, processing, roasting, brewing, and serving than any professional I’d ever met in the food and beverage trade.

  Edward glanced over Cuppa J’s coffee selections, as well. “Estate Java, Costa Rican Tres Rios, Kona, Ethiopian Harrar, Kenya AA, Sumatra,” he recited. “My goodness how do we choose what coffee?”

  Madame and I exchanged little smiles. “Well, lucky for you my daughter-in-law here is Cuppa J’s coffee steward.”

  “Excuse my hearing,” said Edward, “did you say coffee steward?”

  “Indeed I did. It’s a delightful notion of Clare’s that every fine restaurant should have someone on staff who knows how to buy, store, and properly serve a large variety of coffees and can knowledgeably recommend them to customers.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Edward, “like a sommelier only with coffee?”

  Madame nodded. “Turn the page on your menu and you’ll see that she’s suggested pairings with tonight’s dessert selections.”

  Edward turned the page. “Ah! Yes, yes…and you give a little description of how each coffee tastes—”

  “The flavor profile,” Madame informed him, with a wink for me.

  Edward stroked his gray beard. “Well, I must say, it’s still difficult to decide.”

  “Do you enjoy chocolate?” I asked, trying to help.

  “Not really,” said Edward.

  “Why don’t we go for something a little more subtle,” Madame suggested. “Edward, I wonder, do you still have a passion for…figs and almonds?”

  Still looking down at the menu, Edward smiled. “Oh, yes, Blanche,” he replied, covering Madame’s hand with his own. “That afternoon on my porch? Indeed I do.”

  Madame looked up at me, but I’d already guessed their order.

  “Spanish fig cake,” I said. “And the almond torte. Both pair nicely with the Sul de Minas.”

  Customers who knew a little about coffee sometimes raised an eyebrow at putting a Brazilian on the menu. But a little knowledge sometimes can be as worthless as none at all.

  Yes, Brazil is the largest coffee producer in the world, and much of it comes from lower-grade Arabicas and Robustas grown on massive plantations. And, yes, these coffees are flat and average, many of them ending up in mass-marketed blends—the kind you find canned on grocery store shelves. But Brazil is a huge country with a wide spectrum of conditions and quality. In recent years, its growing associations have been working to recreate the image of its coffees. Small farms, like the one Matteo found in the south of Minas Gerais, use higher quality harvesting and processing methods to produce specialty-level coffees that really sing in lighter and medium roasts.

  I was surprised to see Madame, of all people, raising an eyebrow at my recommendation. But then she smiled and said—

  “The Brazilian is the ideal choice for passion, isn’t it?”

  “Passion,” Edward said, seeing Madame’s little smile. “Let me guess why? It reminds you of an old Brazilian beau?”

  “Oh, yes, he was Brazilian, but he wasn’t my beau,” said Madame. “He was the lover of the French governor’s wife.”

  Edward’s look of curiosity turned into one of confusion.

  Madame laughed. “It’s a very old story.”

  “Go on,” Edward said.

  “Well, you see, ages ago, when coffee plants first came to the New World, they were limited to certain regions. French Guiana and Dutch Guiana both grew coffee, but they jealously guarded the export of their seeds. Then, during a border dispute between the two colonies, Brazil sent a diplomat to help settle it…now what was his name? Clare, help me?”

  “Francisco De Mello Peheta.”

  “Oh, yes! That’s right. Francisco was a dashing Brazilian, you see, and the wife of the French governor fell for him. They had a passionate affair, and afterward, she sent him back to Brazil with a bouquet of flowers. Buried inside was her real gift to him—clippings from a coffee tree, including fertile coffee cherries. Voila! The Brazilian coffee industry was born.”

  Brazilians in the coffee trade loved to repeat the story Madame had just told, which claimed their entire billion-dollar coffee industry had emerged from a love affair. I knew the legend had very little credibility. Madame knew it, too. But, clearly, tonight she was having too much fun seeing the world through her rose-colored reading glasses.

  “Shall I bring separate presses?” I asked flatly. “Or just the one pot for the two of you?”

  “Make it for two, dear. We’ll share,” she replied.

  Of course, they’ll share, I thought, heading back to the coffee bar to prepare their order. They’re sitting so close to each other, they’re practically sharing each other’s laps!

  Needless to say, I was less than thrilled to see Madame with a new man. Dr. MacTavish had been her steady beau for over a year, and I had become used to that…comfortable with that. She hadn’t broken up with the good doctor, of that I was sure. Yet here she was tonight practically giddy over Edward.

  Part of me knew I was being way too harsh. At her age, Madame had a right to enjoy happiness wherever she found it, whenever she found it, with whomever she found it. But another part of me felt she was betraying her friendship back in the city.

  As I told myself (or at least tried to) that it was really none of my business, I began to prepare their order at the coffee bar.

  “Who’s that man with Grandmother?” Joy whispered.

  It was the first time Joy had spoken to me in six hours, ever since we’d had that fight at the start of dinner service.

  “He’s her date,” I replied. “His name’s Edward Myers Wilson. That’s all I know.”

  “What do you mean that’s all you know?” Joy hissed. “They’re all over each other. Where did she meet him? Does he live around here? Don’t you know anything else?”

  I put my hands on my hips and stared at my daughter. “No, I do not know anything else,” I told her. “In fact, I know as little about Mr. Wilson as I do about Graydon Faas.”

  “That’s not fair,” Joy snapped. “You’ve been working with Graydon for over a month—”

  “I could say the same about Treat.”

  “Graydon’s not like Treat. And, anyway, it’s my private business whom I see.”

  I folded my arms. “Just like it’s your grandmother’s private business whom she sees.”

  Joy’s mouth moved but no words came out. Knowing she was trumped, she frowned, wheeled, and slammed through the leather padded doors to the kitchen.

  Nine

  After checking my other tables, I returned to Madame’s and found the happy couple had moved off the topic of romantic coffee legends and onto a discussion about the restaurant’s decor.

  “Quite a delight,” said Edward, gesturing to the mosaic clock at the top of the staircase. “I mean, just look at that surrealist piece up there. It gives the impression of an actual timepiece, yet its arms are turning, turning, turning, so quickly, as if its gears were caffeinated. Perfect!”

  Okay, I thought, begrudgingly impressed, give the man points for noticing.

  I transferred the contents of my silver tray onto the marble-topped cafe table: the four-cup French press, the Waterford crystal timer for the brewing process, and the slices of fig cake and almond torte on hand-painted plates.

  Edward shook his head as he continued. “Touches of artistic whimsy like that timepiece…you just don’t see much out here anymore. It’s all gone vague and predictable. They’re razing our brilliant, off-beat architectural history like Motherwell’s Quonset hut, and replacing it with mock shingle-style cottages, for god’s sake.”

  Despite my determination to find fault with Mr. Wilson, I couldn’t help seriously considering his observation. The Quonset hut h
e’d mentioned was one I remembered from my architectural history classes.

  “Did you actually see it?” I asked Edward, unable to curb my curiosity. “The Quonset hut.”

  Madame chuckled softly.

  “Yes, my dear,” Edward answered. “I’ve seen it.”

  The Quonset hut represented an important era of Hamptons’ history. If this man had taken the trouble to see it, I knew he at least cared about that history.

  The avant-garde structure had been built in the 1940s as an East Hampton home and studio for the artist Robert Motherwell. Motherwell had come out to this area with the wave of artists who’d followed the world-renowned Abstract Expressionist painter Jackson Pollack. He needed a place to live and work, so he hired the modernist architect Pierre Chareau to design it. Chareau had been an accomplished architect in France until Hitler’s forces invaded and he’d fled to America. Just like Madame, who’d fled occupied Paris with her family when she was just a young girl, Chareau had left in a hurry, carrying no possessions and hardly any money.

  Motherwell didn’t have much money either, so for cheap building materials they purchased two war surplus Quonset kits. Then they scrounged, adapted, or invented features to complete the structure. I still remember the photos of the home’s exterior in my college textbook: the long curving roof of the half-cylindrical building, the wall of windows.

  “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to live in a house like that,” I mused.

  Edward took it as a question.

  “It was an open and free-flowing space,” he informed me, his bright blue eyes animated. “It was futuristic, a subversive challenge to conventional floor plans. There was a wonderful freestanding brick fireplace at one end of the living room and a small open kitchen at the other. Above you, the ribs of the building were exposed, those wonderful curving steel crossbeams that supported the roof, and Motherwell had painted them with a bright red lacquer so you felt as if a giant mobile was dangling high above you. The natural light was marvelous. Thirty-six feet of windows, salvaged from a commercial greenhouse. In the dead of winter, there was enough heat from the sunlight to keep the space fairly warm—they’d actually created solar heating without intending to. And when it rained, the water would flow over those overlapping panes of glass in a mesmerizing waterfall.”

  The way Edward spoke, with such deeply felt passion, I could see how easily a woman might find herself swept away. Even now, Madame was gazing at him with what appeared to be her own deeply felt passion—which, I had a hunch, had very little to do with Motherwell’s Quonset hut.

  “It sounds amazing,” I told Edward sincerely. “I had wanted to see it with my own eyes when I came out here. But when I asked around—”

  “You found out it was bulldozed in 1985,” Edward finished for me. “You know why? The new, wealthy owner wanted a more conventional structure for his summer weekends.”

  “It’s so strange what’s happened out here,” I said, thinking of what my dear old bookie dad might have said. “It’s money laundering in reverse. The new money is attempting to look old.”

  “It’s a bankruptcy of creative design is what it is,” said Edward in disgust. “Most architects are sick about it, but they want to be successful, and these people with money don’t have the sense of adventure the modernists did. They’re simply desperate to fit in. ‘Build me something that looks like it’s been around for one hundred years. And make it really, really big.’”

  “This generation supersizes everything, darling,” Madame replied with a dismissive shrug. “Get used to it.”

  “Ah, but that’s the beauty of old age,” Edward countered. “I don’t have to get used to anything. I’ll be checking out of this daft hotel soon enough.”

  “Don’t be morbid,” Madame scolded, then she smiled up at me. “Clare, I think my friend needs a jolt of caffeine. What do you think?”

  I nodded and checked the crystal timer. The last grains of sand were just running out. I gently pushed down the plunger on the French press, forcing the coarsely ground Sul de Minas to the bottom of the glass cylinder.

  “There, you see, pointless ends are everywhere,” said Edward. He gestured to my press with a grave little sigh, his elderly frame sagging a bit, as if the draining sand of the timer had just defeated everything he held dear. “Those beans have just gone the way of Motherwell’s Quonset hut.”

  “On the contrary,” I replied, pouring out their cups, a little in Edward’s, a little in Madame’s, until both were equally filled. “Those Brazilian cherries have just spent the last fraction of their lives infusing the hot water around them with their essence, a memorable burst of flavor that will bring joy and energy to those who drink it. In the scheme of things, I’d say that’s not a pointless end at all.”

  Edward’s face slowly brightened. He turned to Madame. “My goodness, you didn’t tell me I’d get philosophy with my coffee service.”

  “We aim to please,” I said.

  “You did, my dear.” Edward clapped his hands. “Very good.”

  “Didn’t I tell you my daughter-in-law was something?” said Madame with a wink for me. “Well, she isn’t finished yet, so settle down, Edward.”

  As the couple picked up their cups and sipped, I continued. “This Sul de Minas comes from a family-owned farm. In this medium roast, you have a flavor profile of a mellow, low-toned coffee with dry-yet-sweet, almost sugary figlike characteristics. The finish is sweet, rich, and long with a hint of cocoa and dry fruit notes.”

  Edward smiled as he sipped. “That’s the finish I’d like, come to think of it. Sweet, rich, and long.”

  Madame laughed. She dug into the Spanish fig cake and presented a forkful to Edward. “Taste a bit of this, then sip again.”

  Edward’s eyes widened as he obeyed. “Fig! I taste it in the dessert, of course. But now I can really taste it in the coffee.”

  I politely stated the obvious. “That’s why they’re paired.”

  “Oh, but, Clare,” said Madame, “you have them paired with the almond torte as well, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said slowly, worried she was about to disagree with the combination. “And? What are you getting at?”

  “Just this: one coffee can be paired quite naturally with two sweet things, depending on the situation.”

  She glanced at Edward, then back at me, as if I were so very thick-headed I’d need help figuring out her analogy. Don’t worry, I got it. Loud and clear.

  After excusing myself, I went to check on my other customers, then returned to Madame’s table to see if they needed anything more.

  “Clare, didn’t I ever tell you how Edward and I met?” asked Madame. “I’m sure that I did.”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “We met in Greenwich Village, at the Village Blend…a very long time ago.”

  Edward sighed. “A lifetime ago.”

  “Edward used to come in with a few friends of his,” Madame went on. “There was Alfonso Ossorio, Willem de Kooning, Lee Krasner, Truman Capote, Jasper Johns, Robert Motherwell, and, of course, Pollack.”

  My mouth went dry. Good god, no wonder he knew what the inside of Motherwell’s Quonset hut looked like! “So, Mr. Wilson…” I said after clearing my throat and regaining my equilibrium, “you’re a painter too?”

  “Not like Pollack, not in the same league,” Edward replied. “Pollack was a genius. He was also a degenerate drunk. Then, Lee—Lee Krasner, who ended up marrying him—dragged him out here to East Hampton, got him away from the demons of the city. It sobered him up being out here. Of course, back then East Hampton was a lot different. Untouched by time, quiet, pastoral…sane. Now Pollack’s buried in Green River Cemetery over in Springs. Can’t miss his grave. It’s marked by a fifty-ton boulder.”

  “But you still paint?” I asked.

  “Just for myself now. It’s something I thoroughly enjoy. Of course, back then I was completely consumed by it. And, oh, I thought I was hot stuff.”

&nb
sp; Madame laughed. “You did indeed.”

  “We all did. There were hundreds of artists who moved out here after Pollack in the forties and fifties. Prices for land were dirt cheap then. And we were all rivals of Pollack’s, secretly seething with jealousy over his success and fame. But, after he flipped his car at ninety on Fireplace Road and died at forty-four, I found that though I still loved the art, I’d lost my taste for the competition.”

  “Edward became a professor,” Madame informed me.

  “I started writing first,” Edward corrected. “Then teaching—art history, criticism. Of course, the others I knew continued to stay in the game. There’s an old joke about de Kooning looking out his window every morning at the Green River Cemetery, just to make sure Pollack was still under that fifty-ton boulder!”

  “You see, Clare,” said Madame. “Edward’s been around here forever.”

  “Nearly,” said Edward, interlacing his fingers with Madame’s and bringing her hand to his lips.

  “That’s why I thought he could help us with David’s little, shall we say—” Madame glanced to the full tables to her left and right—“problem.”

  Problem, I thought. Yes, I’d definitely characterize a sharpshooter trying to turn you into a live target at your own party as a ‘problem.’

  Madame turned to Edward. “Tell Clare what you told me…about the foreclosure and the town trustees.”

  Edward nodded, leaned close and motioned me to bend toward him. “This place wasn’t sold in the regular manner.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “What Edward means is the previous owner closed the place last summer during a messy divorce,” Madame quietly informed me. “Because of tax delinquencies, this property ended up in the hands of the town itself.”

  “O-kay,” I said slowly. “So how is that important?”

  “How much did you tell me a single chair in a Hamptons’ restaurant makes in one season?” Madame asked.