by Клео Коул
I approached my ex-husband and the elegant, fortyish woman with whom he was now deep in conversation. She was a sleek New York sophisticate type, tall and Waspish with salon-highlighted blond hair smoothed into a perfect french twist and a sexy suit with a plunging neckline and fabric the color of a mochaccino (not surprising since Fen had made brown the new black this season). Earlier in the evening, Matt had cornered a young pixie-haired bubble-head in a spandex minidress. I hadn’t felt a thing when I saw him speaking with that type—it was just Matteo being Matteo. But, for some reason, seeing him with this woman closer to my own age sent an annoying and totally unwanted twinge of jealousy through me.
I, of course, instantly repressed it.
“Excuse me,” I said through a smile of gritted teeth.
“Clare!” said Matteo, snaking an arm around my waist. He flashed an easy smile at the elegant woman. “This is my business partner in the Blend,” he informed her, then turned his big, brown innocent eyes back on me. “What’s up?”
“Well, partner, you’re supposed to be stationed at the door.”
“I asked Esther to cover for me.”
“Ah, but you see,” I told him, “that’s problematic.”
“Problematic?”
“You appointed an openly hostile anti-fashion activist to meet and greet a crowd of people who mainline designer labels.”
Matt laughed nervously and shot a glance at Miss Elegant, who sipped her latte and looked away as if bored. Then he leaned close to me.
“I’ll be there shortly,” he whispered into my ear, “and if Esther turns out to be a problem, then you can always look after the door until then.”
With that, I felt his muscular arm spin me at my waist. Then his hand dropped to my lower back and pressed me back toward the front door in a gentle but infuriating send-off. Capping more steam than a two-boiler espresso machine, I marched away—but not to the front door. Instead, I returned to the coffee bar for a much-needed shot to calm my nerves. In the words of Moe Howard, “I wanted to brain him.”
Back at the bar, I found Tucker pulling espressos and chatting with Lottie’s two business partners, Tad Benedict and Rena Garcia.
“How’s Tuck doing?” I whispered to Moira.
The girl shrugged. “He won’t talk about it. Just said, ‘Men are pigs, and they should die’ again and left it at that.”
Well, whatever happened, Tucker seems over it now, I thought with relief.
Just then, Esther Best appeared at the bar. I blinked in surprise. “Shouldn’t you be at the door?” I said.
Esther shrugged. “The frou-frou train has slowed considerably. I left one of those walking brown string beans to guard the entrance since it sure looks like Matt is too busy hitting on Breanne Summour to relieve me anytime soon.”
“What’s her name again?” I asked, since Matt hadn’t bothered to mention Miss Elegant’s name.
Rena Garcia, Lottie’s business partner, overheard me and replied, “Breanne Summour is the editor-in-chief of Trend magazine. And Trend is very influential with the upscale crowd. Vogue and Women’s Wear Daily are Seventh Avenue staples, but Trend covers more than fashion…it follows whatever is on the cutting edge for a wide range of…well…trends.”
I thanked Rena, then turned back to Esther. “For someone who doesn’t care about fashion, you certainly seem to know your fashionistas.”
“New York One’s running their annual Fall Fashion Week Is Here Again! story,” Esther replied with a shrug. “They interviewed her in the piece and ran it every hour over the weekend. It was hard not to recognize her when she walked in tonight.”
My disturbed state must have been more than a little obvious because Lottie’s other business partner, Tad Benedict, sidled up to me. “So how are you holding up, Clare?” he asked, genuine concern in his voice.
“Fine. I just desperately need an espresso,” I said.
“Coming up,” said Moira, overhearing.
“Well, you’re doing a great job,” said Tad. “The drinks are delicious—and so are the pastries. Lottie’s very pleased. She said she only wished she could have gotten another of those little white diamonds before they all disappeared!” He smiled and patted his chubby stomach. “What were those anyway?”
I smiled. “Ricciarelli. They’ve been a popular celebration cookie for a long time—a really long time, actually. Documents from the Renaissance describe the cookie as being served in Italy and France during lavish, important banquets—”
Tad’s eyebrows rose and I realized I was lapsing into “too much information” again. But for years, while I was raising my daughter in New Jersey, I’d written a cooking column for a local paper, and ever since obscure details about food and drink had looped themselves into my everyday conversations. So sue me.
“Well, everything’s just delicious,” Tad replied.
I was grateful for the positive word. Tad was a good guy. A thirty-something, self-employed investment banker who lived in the neighborhood, his receding hairline and paunchy physique presented a stark contrast to the chiseled male models packed into the coffeehouse, but the leprechaun-like sparkle in his eyes, along with his gregarious nature, made him instantly likeable.
At his side, Rena Garcia—clad in a Fen caramel silk blouse with cream collar and cuffs and a long, brown leather skirt—smiled and sipped a latte. A pretty, vivacious Latina with a savvy head for marketing and publicity, she’d become Lottie’s other business partner after losing her job at Satay and Satay, an advertising and marketing firm just a few blocks away.
“So, you must be excited with what Matt’s up to,” said Tad, gesturing to the private conversation I’d interrupted by the fireplace.
“Excuse me?” I could think of a lot of words to describe what I felt about Matt’s behavior and “excited” was not one of them.
“Matt’s just being smart,” he said with a reassuring look.
“Smart?”
“Chatting up his kiosk idea with some key players.”
Before I could ask Tad what the hell he was talking about a familiar voice interrupted.
“Pardon me, but can I get a latte with soy milk?”
It was Lloyd Newhaven, the stylist, sans his two beautiful companions. He was suddenly hovering near Moira, who was lining up more tall glass mugs for Tucker.
“Of course,” said Moira. “But we’ve really backed up so it will take a few minutes.”
“I’ll wait,” he said with a sigh.
Soy milk was a fairly common request, and the Blend had an ample supply. As Moira went back to her work, Lloyd glanced our way. “I’m just dying for one, but, you know, I’m lactose intolerant.”
Tad, Rena, and I nodded. That’s when I noticed Tucker hoisting a tray of drinks and scanning the crowded room to find one of the model waitresses to deliver it. I was about to grab the tray from him to help out when a model swept in and whisked the tray off. But she hadn’t gone four feet before a crowd swarmed her and snagged every last latte.
“Is my soy latte coming?” Lloyd Newhaven prompted, impatient after barely a minute. Moira glanced up with annoyance on her face. Before she could say a word, I decided my short break was over.
“I’ve got it,” I declared, then moved around the coffee bar to search the fridge beneath the counter. “Figures,” I muttered when I realized we were out of soy milk up front. I ducked downstairs to retrieve a fresh container from one of our two large storage refrigerators in the basement.
“Hey, Tucker…I can do that,” I heard Moira insisting as I returned to the coffee bar. A tray with a single glass latte mug was sitting on the blue marble counter.
“Nonsense, dear,” Tucker told Moira. “You volunteered to help me behind the coffee bar, not hustle drinks to this monstrously catty cartel, and you’re doing great.”
With that, Tucker swept up the tray and headed across the crowded room.
At some point after I’d gone downstairs, Esther had stepped away from the counter to gather u
sed mugs. She passed Tucker on her way back. “Uh-oh,” said Esther when she saw where Tucker was headed. “Watch out for fireworks.”
“Excuse me?” I said, preparing Lloyd Newhaven’s soy milk latte. “Where’s Tucker going with that drink?”
“After you went downstairs, Tucker made Lottie a latte. That’s where Tucker’s headed, to give it to her—only Ricky Flatt’s in his way.”
“Who?” I asked.
“He’s the fashion writer for Metropolitan magazine,” Rena informed me.
Esther pointed. “He’s standing in the group next to Lottie’s. And before you ask how I know, it’s because Tucker used to date him. He’s stopped in the Blend a few times.”
“He has?” I murmured, handing the finished soy milk latte to Lloyd Newhaven. I followed Esther’s pointing finger, but I didn’t recognize anyone.
“John Waters-esque mustache,” said Esther by way of description.
I nodded, spying the tall, lean, thirtyish man with a pencil-thin moustache and long black hair that fell down his back in oiled ringlets. He wore a brown silk jacket and a canary yellow shirt opened practically to his navel. At his side stood a blond young man in tight jeans and a V-neck cream sweater, his teeth bone white behind a Miami Beach tan on a hard-muscled frame.
“I’ve never seen him in the Blend before,” I said.
“You were probably off roasting beans or dealing with a delivery or something whenever he passed through. Ricky burned Tucker about two weeks ago—romantically, I mean. They had some kind of quarrel and Ricky totally dumped him. And not in a nice way. Now the jerk’s obviously here flaunting his newest boy toy. If you’re Tucker, that’s gotta hurt.”
As Tucker approached Lottie, Ricky Flatt stepped out to block his path. Esther crossed her arms and cocked her head, as if she’d just taken her seat at a WWF event. “Check it out, boss, this is going to be interesting. Five dollars says that latte Tucker’s carrying ends up in Ricky’s face.”
But it didn’t. Before Tucker could stop him, Ricky snatched the latte off Tucker’s tray as if the drink was meant for him. Then he gestured to the hard-muscled young man seated next to him as if he were ordering Tucker to bring him another for his date. Tucker snapped something at Ricky—and Ricky snapped his fingers in Tucker’s face. Of course, I couldn’t hear either man’s conversation over the loud music, but it was easy to see Ricky was baiting poor Tucker.
Finally, Tucker turned his back on the two men and returned to the coffee bar. I’d never seen him so upset. “Someone…someone took the latte I made for Lottie,” he managed. “I need another.”
For a long moment, we all just stared at Tucker.
“Clare,” Tuck said loudly. “I need another latte for Lottie!”
I turned quickly, loaded the espresso machine and pulled another shot, then prepared the latte and set it directly on the tray in Tucker’s hands.
“Thanks,” said Tucker. He lifted the tray and made a wide detour to avoid Ricky Flatt’s spot. After he handed Lottie her drink, Tuck crossed the center of the room, strolling past Ricky’s group. The fashion writer lifted his latte, saluted Tucker. After swallowing a huge gulp, he passed the glass mug to his partner, who drained it dry.
Tucker shook his head in obvious disgust, then returned to the coffee bar. Just then, a commotion broke out among the audience. A woman cried out, “Are you all right?” Then a man shouted, “Someone help!”
I looked up, saw Ricky Flatt grimace as he clutched his throat. His mouth opened and closed like a fish on a dry dock.
“Oh god, I think he’s choking,” cried Esther.
My pulse racing, I pushed through the crowd toward Ricky. When I reached him, however, I saw Ricky Flat’s face wasn’t turning blue from lack of air, but a bright shade of pink! Then he slumped over his table and slid to the wood plank floor.
“Ricky! Ricky!” keened a hysterical voice. Ricky Flatt’s muscular date knelt at the man’s side and shook him.
“Get away from him,” a short, older man in a Truman-Capote-wannabe white fedora said. “Give him some air.”
Suddenly, Ricky’s boyfriend also turned a bright shade of pink and clutched his stomach.
Standing over the pair, I felt someone at my shoulder—Tucker. The kneeling boyfriend looked up, his eyes wide. He raised his hand and pointed an accusing finger at my barista.
“That…that bastard poisoned me and Ricky!” he cried, then collapsed across the inert form of Ricky Flatt.
Three
To say a hush fell over the crowd would be a cliché. What really happened was this.
First every human noise fell silent—no more uproarious laughter, catty banter, or jostling for position around a B-list celebrity. Every fashionable body in the room was suddenly doing an impersonation of a dummy in a Bloomingdale’s window. The only sound remaining was the relentlessly throbbing electronic dance music, which seemed to swell until it filled every corner of the place. Behind trendy glasses and black liner, wide eyes stared at the two young men sprawled, one atop the other, on the polished hardwood planks.
Ricky Flatt, the unfortunate victim on the bottom of the two-person pile, remained motionless. The unconscious boyfriend was still gasping for air, his labored rattle barely audible against the pounding, insistent rhythm of the synth-pop beat.
Someone bumped past my shoulder, suddenly shaking me from my paralyzed stupor. It was Esther, the house emergency First Aid kit clutched in her hands. But she was beaten to the stricken men by a tall figure in black Armani—my ex-husband.
Matt rolled the gasping man off his still partner, opened his gaping jaw even wider to peer inside, then carefully probed the victim’s mouth with two fingers.
“No obstructions,” he announced.
Esther was still holding the First Aid kit, unsure what to do next. It was Tucker who snatched the kit and dropped to his knees beside Ricky, checked his ex-boyfriend’s mouth and throat, tilted his head back to open the airway, then unwrapped a plastic CPR mask, placed it over Ricky’s bright pink face, and began the first stages of cardiopulmonary resuscitation.
So what was I doing during all this? You would think after everything I’d been through—enduring a harrowing attack on a Greenwich Village rooftop, braving the business end of a loaded gun in this very coffeehouse, raising a teenaged daughter at the dawn of the twenty-first century—that I would instantly spring into some sort of competent action.
But you’d be wrong.
Like an idiot, I stood there, silently gawking, along with everyone else in the room. That is, until I heard someone urge—
“Clare? Clare? Shouldn’t you do something?”
It was Esther, and she was addressing me as Clare. Not “boss” in that urbane, near-sarcastic tone she typically used. She called me “Clare”—a word that only came out of Esther’s mouth when things were bad.
“Call 911,” I heard myself say.
Esther pointed to the crowd around us. “I think that ship’s already sailed.” Dozens of beautiful people were whipping out color-coordinated cell phones from designer bags or secret hidden pockets in their skin-tight rags. A few standing close to us were definitely talking to 911 operators—others, unfortunately, were calling their limo drivers and car services to arrange hasty retreats.
Within minutes, the front door opened and two NYPD officers came through, dark blue uniforms, nickel-plated badges, squawking radios. I recognized the pair at once—Officers Demetrios and Langley from the nearby Sixth Precinct. The Village Blend wasn’t just part of their regular beat, they were also regular customers (Turkish coffee and House Blend drinkers, respectively.)
Tucker was still giving CPR to Ricky. Matteo looked up at the two policemen. “We have a medical emergency here,” he informed them.
“Help’s coming,” said Langley, raising his radio.
And it arrived soon after. An ambulance pulled up to the curb, siren’s blaring, red lights rippling through our tall front windows. Two paramedics hurried into the
coffeehouse, both laden with medical equipment.
Officer Demetrios touched my arm. I jumped, startled out of my entranced disbelief that something like this could have happened tonight of all nights. “Choking victim, Ms. Cosi?” asked the young, raven-haired Greek cop.
I stammered an unintelligible reply.
Esther quickly translated. “Choking seems really unlikely. The odds against two people choking at the same table are phenomenal—and I’d say the odds are just as high against double heart attacks…unless of course they were both smoking crack cocaine and simultaneously OD’d or something like that.”
Demetrios frowned. He turned from Esther to face me. “I’m sorry, Ms. Cosi, but if this was the result of a crime, or criminal activity was involved, we’re going to have to secure the area.”
“What do you mean exactly by ‘secure the area’?” I asked. “Does everyone have to clear out?”
“No. The reverse. They can’t leave. They’re all suspects.”
I closed my eyes, not entirely surprised but sick to my stomach nonetheless. “My god, this is a private party…all these people are here by invitation. What will they think?”
Demetrios glanced around. “They’ll probably think they’ll have another story to tell at their next party.” The Greek officer turned, waved to his tall Irish partner, gestured with his chin toward the front entrance. Already some of the partygoers were attempting to slip out the door. Langley jumped to the exit before a pair of young women could flee the scene.
“Just hang out awhile, ladies,” Langley told them. “Once we get names, addresses, and statements, everyone can go home.”
“Statements? Why in the world do you need statements?” whined the short, white fedora-wearing, Truman Capote wannabe, standing near me. “Those young men were poisoned. Surely you can see that for yourself.”
