by Cleo Coyle
“Don’t give up yet,” Matt said, resting his hand on my bare shoulder. “You’ve only been an amateur sleuth for a couple of days. I’ll bet Miss Marple took more time than that to learn her trade.”
“You’re right,” I said with another sigh. “Why stop now when I’ve got only two people threatening to sue us.”
“You know, Clare, Dartmouth isn’t that far from New York.”
“What do you mean? It’s way up in New England, isn’t it?”
“New Hampshire. The drive is under six hours.”
“That’s enough time to drive all night and still have people see him at the dorm in the morning, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“So he might have done it after all?”
“The Dick’s not clean by a long shot.”
“And you know,” I said, “Anabelle could wake up tomorrow and remember everything.”
Matteo tapped the bar. “Knock on wood.”
“Let’s get back to our table,” I said, pushing away from the bar. “Your mother is probably wondering what the heck happened to us.”
To my relief, I managed to walk a straight line across the huge room. But it wasn’t easy. A lot of guests had risen from their tables, and I had to rely on Captain Matt to take my hand and navigate us through the sea of milling formal wear.
By this time, sequined couture and vintage black ties were packing the dance floor and conductor George Gee (probably the only Chinese-American big band leader in North American) was directing his seventeen-piece swing orchestra to pay tribute to Glenn Miller by intermittently pausing their side-to-side waving of trombones, trumpets, and clarinets to shout, “Pennsylvania Six Five Thousand!”
“Good job, Mother,” Matt told Madame when we arrived back at table five. “You’ve really got the place hopping.”
“Well, now!” Madame exclaimed as he planted a kiss on her cheek. “Look who came back from their short trip upstairs. Matt and Clare, back so soon?”
“What’d we miss?” asked Matt.
“Oh, just four courses,” said Madame with a wave of her hand. “But coffee and dessert are on their way.”
“Sorry it took so long,” said Matt, waving his Palm Pilot. “I, uh, had some trouble finding my little tool.”
“Oh, I’m sure you did!” cried Madame with glee. “But I’ll just bet Clare was a big help in that department!” A bawdy wink set the entire table chuckling.
“Matt really did need it,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I mean, I couldn’t very well shout, Uh, people! Contrary to how this appears, Matt and I were not tossing in the sheets—we were tossing a suspect’s room.
“What was so important on that Palm Pilot, then?” asked Madame.
“I, uh, had to confirm the size of an order with one of my growers—” said Matt.
“Oh, really?” asked Eduardo Lebreux, suddenly interested. “Who?”
“Peruvian.”
“What plantation?”
Matt smiled briefly. “Sorry, friend, trade secret.”
“Matt’s been the Blend’s coffee buyer for two decades,” Madame proudly announced to the table of ten. “Brokers for futures, as well. Learned the business from his father—who learned it from his. Of course, they always needed the steady hand of a dedicated woman to keep the place running like clockwork,” she added with a pointed look at her son.
“Interesting. And how does one ‘broker’ for coffee futures?” asked Deputy Commissioner Marjorie Greenberg.
“Buy low and sell high,” said Matt with a charming smile. “Actually coffee’s a world commodity second only to oil.”
“It’s also the world’s most popular beverage,” I added by rote. “Four hundred billion cups a year.”
“Yes,” said Matt, “and we’re attempting to sell every last one through the Village Blend.”
The table of ten laughed.
“Well, I for one think the Village Blend is more than just a place to drink coffee,” Dr. McTavish announced to the rest of the table. “It’s practically an institution.”
“We love the place,” agreed McTavish’s African-American colleague, Dr. Frankel. His corporate lawyer wife, Harriet, nodded enthusiastically in agreement.
“So do we,” said Marjorie Greenberg. Her psychologist husband seconded, “It’s a legend, all right.”
“My out-of-town friends love it, too,” said Harriet Frankel. “And my clients. All of them have heard of it over the years. All those wonderful old knickknacks and mismatched furniture on the second floor. It’s so…so bohemian. It’s wonderful!”
“I certainly hope it doesn’t go the way of the other Village institutions,” said Deputy Commissioner Marjorie. “Like the Pageant Book Shop and St. Mark’s Theater.”
“That theater’s now a Gap store, isn’t it?” asked Lawyer Harriet.
“The Village Blend will stand long after I’m gone,” said Madame firmly. “I’m seeing to that.” She threw me and Matt a pointed look.
“And reputation is the thing in this country, is it not?” said Eduardo.
“What thing?” I asked.
“I mean to your American buying public. You buy and sell things here under names—brands, no? And the most valuable of these brand names are the ones that have been around for many decades.”
“Oh, right,” said the psychologist. “You mean like Campbell’s Soup and Ivory Soap?”
“Yes, yes,” said Eduardo. “Now look at that Stewart woman’s problems—”
“Oh, yes, Martha Stewart,” said Harriet. “Bad bit of luck, getting caught in an insider trader scandal like that.”
“She was seen as…how you say…tainted,” said Eduardo, “so her company’s stock falls.”
“What’s your point?” I asked.
“My point is that she was a new brand, not an old and trusted one in this country. Not yet. Not like Ivory Soap or Campbell’s Soup, or the Village Blend. You see?”
“No,” I said.
“Oh, I do,” said Madame with a little laugh. “Eduardo has been after me to sell him the Blend. He had his heart set on making it a franchise.”
“What?” I asked. “Like McDonald’s?”
“Like Starbucks,” he said sharply. Then seemed to catch himself and soften the harsh tone with a forced chuckle.
“There will only ever be one Village Blend,” said Madame. “As long as I own the place—and my intentions are respected by those who own it in the future. And I’ve made sure that it will be Matt and Clare here.”
“Oh, fabulous!” “How wonderful!” “Here’s to the ongoing legacy!” cried voices around the table.
Matt and I glanced at each other. Everyone seemed genuinely happy at this news. Except Eduardo, whose smile was as plastic as they come.
Well, I thought realistically, he’s lost the Blend for good. Why should he be happy for us?
Dessert and coffee were served about then. Madame had ordered coffee for both Matt and me since we’d been away from the table when the orders were taken.
I myself, having missed dinner, was overjoyed to see the steaming cup of coffee sitting next to a slice of flourless chocolate cake garnished with mint leaves and raspberries. I practically inhaled it. Matt, on the other hand, simply frowned and grunted.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“I’m desperate for a hit of caffeine,” he said, “but I can’t abide the coffee at these things. Dishwater and cream.”
“Not tonight,” I said. “The Village Blend provided the beans a few days ago, isn’t that right, Madame?”
“It is,” she said. “Clare roasted the beans over the weekend and shipped the bags up Monday.”
“That’s a lot of extra work, Clare,” said Matt, sniffing the cup and taking a cautionary sip. “Not bad. I hope you charged the Waldorf a pretty penny.”
“It’s a charity benefit, Matt. I discounted the rate.”
Matt let out a frustrated sigh at this news.
Eduardo Lebr
eux, on the other hand, let out a hearty laugh.
“Something funny?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Eduardo. “The small business owner has to play whatever angles he can. The big pockets will take the tax write-offs anyway. You should have listened to your husband.”
“Matt is not—” I stopped short of adding my husband.
(I did plan to make clear to Madame that Matt and I would never again be man and wife—no matter how many times she introduced us the other way—but I wouldn’t do that to her in public. I had no interest in embarrassing her here so…)
Instead, I said, “Matt is not—correct,” and added, “There’s no need to take a profit at the expense of a fund-raiser for a good cause.”
“Even so,” said Eduardo, “this is America. Whether the coffee tastes good or not is beside the point.”
“Excuse me,” said Matt. “But that’s my entire point.”
“Maybe for you,” said Eduardo, “but you are not common. Most of the people here would drink down whatever came to them at the table, even if it tasted like, as you say, dishwater. They would drink it down and think it was good because it was being served to them in a Waldorf-Astoria cup, you see?”
“No,” I said, getting slowly annoyed.
“Most people in America decide what they like by the brand name,” said Eduardo. “It is the package they buy, not the contents. You see?”
“No,” I said. “We Americans might buy something once or twice because of an advertisement or marketing campaign or even brand loyalty, but if the quality goes bad on us, we’re gone. You’ll lose us forever. Haven’t you ever heard of the expression ‘Where’s the beef?’”
“No.”
“Trust me,” I said. “It’s red-white-and-blue. And there’s nothing as American as the pragmatic expectation of getting what you pay for. Perhaps it’s the Europeans with whom you’re confusing us—the Old World idea of believing aristocrats or royalty at face value.”
“We shall have to agree to disagree,” said Eduardo with an unqualified sneer.
“Yes, we shall,” I said then took a long, satisfying quaff from my steaming cup.
It was Friday night, one of the busiest for the Village Blend, and in another hour Tucker would be expecting barista backup from me.
For a moment, I closed my eyes and simply savored the rich, nutty aroma of the house blend. In no time, the earthy warmth seeped into my every molecule, recharging my weary bones with a splendid jolt of renewed energy.
Thank goodness, I thought. With miles to go before I slept, I was going to need it.
T WENTY-SIX
“F RANCHISE my ass,” I told Matteo as we climbed up the Blend’s back staircase. We were heading for the duplex apartment to change out of our evening clothes. I was still stewing over the insulting comments of Eduardo Lebreux at dinner.
“Hmmm. Now there’s an interesting idea—”
“What?”
“Your ass. You have a nice one. I just don’t think franchising it would be remotely legal.”
“Matt! I’m serious!”
“So am I.”
The Blend was hopping tonight as our taxi pulled up out front, but Tucker and his two part-timers had it under control. Tucker even told me I didn’t need to come down until closing, and that was fine with me. An hour or so off was just what the doctor ordered.
Matt pulled out his key and unlocked the apartment’s front door. Java greeted me with an ear-piercing mrrrooooow.
“What was that? A jaguar?”
“That means, I’m hungry,” I translated for Matt.
“Big sound from a little cat.”
“She’s got a mind of her own,” I said.
“Just like her owner,” Matt said.
“Why, thank you.” I scratched her ears and poured her some chow. Then I filled the bottom half of my three-cup stovetop espresso pot with water, quickly ground a dark-roasted Arabica blend, packed the grinds into the basket, dropped the packed basket on top of the water, screwed the empty top onto the water-filled bottom, and put the reconnected little silver pot onto the burner.
“I just can’t believe Lebreux would even think of that plan,” I said, continuing my rant.
“Franchising the Village Blend? Why not?” said Matt, pulling loose his black tie and undoing the top buttons of his white dress shirt. “C’mon, it’s not a bad idea.”
“I can’t believe you said that!” I cried, pulling two cream-colored demitasse cups from the cupboard. “The man wanted to take the Village Blend to new lows. Use the Blend name to package up cheap products at premium prices. That was more than obvious from his stated philosophy. Sounds an awful lot like that Kona scandal to me. Need I remind you of those details?”
“No,” said Matt dryly, “but I’m sure you will.”
As he’d already heard his mother repeat countless times, Matt knew very well the tale of how a ring of coffee-broking con artists had been caught transshipping inferior beans through Hawaii, then rebagging and reselling them as the one-of-a-kind Hawaiian-grown Kona.
“In Eduardo’s view,” I said, “that Kona con would have been a keen little trick to play on the American public. Maybe I should have reminded him that the Kona scheme also landed the perpetrators in federal prison.”
“Calm down, Clare. I’m not Lebreux. If I wanted to franchise this place, I’d do it the right way.”
“I don’t want to hear the word franchise out of your mouth ever again, do you understand?”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Matt said, shedding his jacket and cufflinks and rolling up his sleeves. “You tell me what I want to know, and I’ll nix the word from my vocabulary.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Don’t laugh—”
“What?”
“The cup. You saw something in that cup.”
“What cup?”
“That kid Mario Forte’s espresso cup. After dinner, when I brought it down to you in the Blend’s basement. You saw something. I could see it in your face.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake—”
I couldn’t believe Matt was still thinking about that twenty-four hours later!
“Come on,” he said. “Tell me.”
“Matt, conditions weren’t even right for an accurate reading! The coffee that was in that cup didn’t produce enough residue,” I lied. “And I was really distracted at the time you showed it to me. I barely glanced at it.”
Okay, so I didn’t want to tell Matt the truth. In the split second I gazed into that cup, I did indeed get a clear and certain picture in my mind of Mario’s character, personality, and path in life—
The image I saw in the residue was called The Hammer, the sign of a forceful, strong, and independent spirit, a leader who turns dreams into achievements. That was very good. Unfortunately, for Mario, his “Hammer” was surrounded by dried grounds in the shape of barbs or licks of fire. That meant that his life would be fraught with peril—and much of it would be of his own making.
Those with the Hammer sign seldom choose an easy path in life, and that hammer would have to pound a lot of nails before any true happiness would be possible.
Seeing that in the grounds actually made me sad, because I knew if Joy was serious about Mario, then she had a long, hard road ahead of her.
Why did I know this? Because the first time I read my ex-husband Matteo’s grounds, I saw the exact same thing. So I gave my ex-husband the only answer I could.
“There was nothing there,” I told him. “I didn’t see a thing.”
Matt stared at me for a moment. He didn’t want to believe me. But I wasn’t giving him any choice.
“Guess the word franchise is still in my vocab, then,” he said, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.
“I can live with that,” I said.
“And me?” he asked. “Can you live with me?”
“We’ll see,” I said.
“You were stunning tonight, you know,” he said, moving toward me.
“Stop it.”
“No really. You were really brave. And you looked stunning, too, by the way, but you already knew that.”
The espresso water was boiling and the moment had come for the water to be forced up through the grounds and into the top of the pot. This was my favorite moment, when the entire kitchen was about to become saturated with an intoxicating aroma.
Matt moved in close and his liquid brown eyes seemed to drink me in. I had returned the expensive rosebud-jeweled necklace to Madame in her suite, but I was still wearing the off-the-shoulder Valentino gown. My neck and shoulders felt very exposed, very vulnerable, and his hands slowly lifted to touch that part of me.
His fingers were strong and rough but surprisingly gentle as he slowly and sweetly massaged my tense muscles. The slightly coarse skin of his fingers tickled…it had been a long time since he’d touched me like this, his dark gaze holding fast.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, then his head dipped down and his lips brushed mine.
I closed my eyes, wanting him, not wanting him…he pulled me into his arms. The earthy mix of steaming espresso and the sweet warmth of male cologne sent my head spinning. He brought his hand to the back of my head, opened his mouth, insisted we deepen the kiss.
Oh, yes…the man could kiss. There was never any debate about that. Tender and aggressive at the very same time. Relaxing yet inflaming.
I let go, wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders, held on, and kissed back. He tasted as good as I remembered, the chocolate and Kaluha still lingering on his tongue.
The aroma of coffee completely enveloped us now as the heated water shot up through the grounds and settled in the top of the pot as finished espresso.
“It’s ready,” I murmured, pulling away.
“Let it boil,” said Matt, capturing my lips again.
Given my happy position in Matt’s arms, not to mention my level of almost-forgotten arousal, I didn’t have it in me to protest. Sure, my logical, pragmatic self knew this was really, really stupid. But I wasn’t listening to that self at this moment.
“Let’s go upstairs,” whispered Matt.
