by Клео Коул
I wanted to ask Lottie many more questions. How often did she eat or drink with Rena and Tad? Had she narrowly avoided an accident of late, or had a close brush with death? But for the life of me, I just couldn’t think of a tactful way to do it.
“You do know all the details about what happened in my coffeehouse last night?” I asked. “Someone was poisoned. Died. My barista was arrested for the crime. I believe he’ll be charged today with murder.”
Lottie frowned. “It’s so terrible. You must feel awful.”
I met Lottie’s gaze. “Tucker, my barista, said something before the police arrested him. He told me that the latte he had on that tray was supposed to be for you.”
Lottie seemed genuinely surprised. “Are…are you sure?”
“Tucker told me Tad asked him to make one for you, specifically. The victim snatched the cup off the tray while Tucker was carrying it to you.”
Lottie’s expression darkened. She brushed an errant strand of scarlet hair away from her face and stared at me. “Are you saying someone tried to kill me?”
“I can’t say that,” I replied. “Not honestly. The poisoning could have been random. Or—”
“Or your barista could be lying. Trying to hide the fact that he’s guilty.”
I shook my head. “That’s not possible.”
Lottie reddened. “No, you’re right. I shouldn’t have said that, Clare, and I’m sorry. But really, think about it. Who would want to get rid of me?”
I shrugged, not wanting to reveal my suspicions just yet because they could possibly hurt Lottie in the same way her remark about Tucker wounded me. In any case, accusing Lottie’s business partners of trying to murder her without a shred of evidence to prove it would not convince her—I wasn’t even sure I was convinced myself.
“Maybe a business rival?” I suggested after a pause.
Lottie tossed her head back and laughed that strained laugh of hers. “I’ve been out of the fashion scene for twenty years, Clare, and only back into the muck for a year. Believe me, it takes a little longer for your rivals to want to kill you in this business—though not much longer, I grant you that.”
“Maybe a crazy stalker? Or someone from your past?”
Lottie smiled sympathetically. “Look, Clare. I understand why you’re searching for answers, for someone to blame. Something terrible happened in your coffeehouse, and one of your employees was arrested. I can see why you’d want to get to the truth, and you probably will, eventually. But I can’t think of anyone who would want me out of the picture for any reason.”
Then Lottie grinned, rose, and pulled herself together.
“I feel much better now,” she said. “The cramps have subsided and my ears aren’t ringing anymore. I’m sure this episode was just a bout of nervous tension, just like my doctor told me.”
Eleven
After saying goodbye to Lottie, I hopped into a cab going west on Forty-second Street. Traffic was not as light as it had been on my way up and it took nearly forty minutes to drive less than two miles.
As I exited the cab one block from the Blend, I noticed two things. The first was a television crew doing a live interview on Hudson. The subject was a twenty-something woman with so many tattoos and pierced body parts that her round, pretty face resembled a pin cushion, her neck a brightly colored tapestry. In her hand, she clutched a Village Blend take-out cup. The interviewer’s earnest face and photogenic smile looked vaguely familiar and I assumed it was because I’d seen her on one of the local channels.
The second thing I noticed was a crowd loitering on the sidewalk in front of my coffeehouse, and I simply assumed Esther’s guess had been correct, when we’d spoken on the phone earlier, that some special event was taking place in the neighborhood.
I jostled my way through groups of people and clouds of tobacco smoke to the front door of the Blend. Inside, customers packed the main floor. It was so crowded, in fact, that some of the people had taken it upon themselves to open a few of our French doors for air and space, and they were flung wide despite the autumn chill.
At the bar alone, a line of at least twenty men and women were waiting for coffee drinks. As I threaded my way to the counter, Esther spied me, relief evident on her tired face.
Moira was behind the counter, too, along with Matteo. With his sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms, he looked to be pulling espressos as fast as the Blend’s exacting standards would allow (because, if you pull an espresso too fast, i.e., if the liquid does not flow slowly out of the spout like syrup, what you’ve made isn’t espresso but brewed coffee).
“I thought Gardner was here,” I cried over the noise.
Matteo looked up, face sour. “He had a dentist appointment. Left a half hour ago. I had to take over for him.”
It was obviously not something my ex wanted to do.
“Nice of you to pitch in,” I said without a trace of sarcasm (for once). Then I slipped behind the counter, donned an apron, washed up, and replaced Moira at the espresso machine.
“What’s with the mob scene?” I asked. “Is there some event going on? A new tourist attraction?”
Matteo stared at me as if I’d cluelessly suggested we start serving instant coffee crystals. “Don’t you get it? We’re the attraction, Clare.”
I blinked. Still clueless.
“Just look around, take a look at the customers…especially the ones who’ve just been served their drinks.”
I watched a young man collect two take-out cups, slip one to a young woman hovering over an occupied table. The man opened the top of his cup, sipped his first taste, then he grimaced and made a face as if he were in his death throes. The woman slapped his arm playfully.
“I see,” I muttered.
Matteo shrugged. “I suppose it’s better than being shunned.”
Realization dawned. “That reporter…out on the sidewalk…”
“She’s from New York One,” said Esther Best, bringing more cups in from the pantry.
“Yeah, I ran the camera crew out of here a half hour ago,” Matteo said, fuming. “I can’t believe they’re still stalking our customers.”
“Have you heard anything about Tucker?” I asked.
Matt glanced at the Breitling on his wrist. “We should hear something in the next two hours. Breanne promised she’d call as soon as she spoke with her lawyer about the case.”
“So Breanne hears everything first.”
Matteo ignored me as he finished pulling another espresso, dumped the caked grounds, and reached for the coffee bin only to find it empty. “Hey, we’re out of our house espresso blend,” he complained.
“I haven’t had time to prepare any this week,” I told him. “You took over the roasting room, remember?”
Matt grunted. Which I still didn’t consider a reasonable explanation. When he’d first arrived back home from Ethiopia, he’d hardly said two words to me before vanishing into the Blend’s basement roasting room for hours. Holed up with three fifty-pound canvas bags of green coffee beans delivered from Kennedy International Airport customs, he interrupted the store’s roasting schedule in order to roast those beans. When he was finished, he divided up the entire batch into twenty-five pound, vacuum-sealed bags, carried all the bags up to his room, and locked them inside—singularly odd behavior, even by Matteo’s diminished standards. I’d pressed him for an explanation but he’d refused to answer.
“Use the French roast Mocha Java,” I advised him.
For the next two hours the flow of customers was practically nonstop. Then, around four thirty, a semblance of calm descended. We still had a big crowd—bigger than normal—but it was manageable. Matteo was taking a caffeine break himself when the cell phone in his pocket rang.
He checked the display, then, turning on the charm in his voice, said “Hello, Breanne.” I figured the call was about Tucker, and intended to stay close and eavesdrop, but their conversation seemed to steer dangerously toward the intimate and Matteo turned his back to me and crossed th
e room to an empty table a discrete distance away.
They talked awhile, and it was clear from his smiles that Tucker’s fate wasn’t the only topic of conversation. Finally, about the moment when I was ready to scream with impatience, Matteo closed the phone and caught my eye. I hurried to his side with Esther at mine.
“Tucker’s lawyer postponed the arraignment another twenty-four hours,” Matt announced.
“Why?” I asked, outraged. “Detective Hutawa told me Tucker can’t be bailed out until he’s arraigned.”
Matteo frowned. “Clare, you better wake up and smell the java. The judge isn’t going to set bail on a case like this.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because it’s poisoning, and we don’t exactly keep cyanide in a canister next to the sugar, so it wasn’t in any way an accident, which means it was premeditated, which means Tucker is a danger to the public and will be kept off the street until his trial.”
“But that could be months!”
“The lawyer’s doing his best. He got the case postponed as a procedural tactic. He told the judge he’d just joined the case and didn’t have adequate time to interview his client. He actually asked for a seven-day adjournment, but the judge refused.” He sighed. “At least Tucker’s name hasn’t been leaked to the press—not yet, anyway.”
I shot Esther a not-so-subtle look. She got the message and obediently returned to her duties. I sat down across from Matteo at the coral-colored, marble-topped café table.
“This is so terrible,” I sighed.
“Bad for Tucker. Fortunately not bad for the Blend, which seems to be more popular than ever.”
“And what’s that about?” I cried, rather too loudly. Matt raised an eyebrow and I lowered my voice considerably. “Someone was poisoned here. We’re lucky the health department hasn’t shut us down. Instead we have more customers than ever before. I know this city drives people crazy on a daily basis—but have they completely lost their minds?”
Matteo shrugged. “I suspect it’s the fugu effect.”
“The what effect?”
“Fugu. Japanese blowfish. It contains deadly poison in its organs, a tiny, near-microscopic sliver can be fatal if ingested. Preparing it is so dangerous the chefs have to have a special license to serve fugu in Japan. Yet despite the risk, fugu dishes—especially blowfish soup—are considered great delicacies.”
“Are you feeling all right? We’re talking about coffee here.”
“No, we’re talking about human nature. The sudden appeal of our coffee has nothing to do with the coffee. With fugu, it isn’t the taste, either. It’s so delicate it borders on nonexistent—yet it cost over two hundred dollars for a single dish the last time I was in Shimonoseki, which is the fugu capital of Japan.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
Matteo shook his head. “All those years you were married to me and you still don’t understand, do you Clare?”
“Do tell. What don’t I understand?” I was in no mood for one of Matteo’s “my wife never understood me” lectures—that act might get him a night of casual sex from some impressionable bimbo, but it made me want to run screaming from the room (which, given the past twenty-four hours, was highly likely at this juncture).
“There’s an expression in Japan that translates, ‘I want to eat fugu but I don’t want to die.’ We don’t have that exact sentiment in America, but think of that saying as a combination of our ‘wanting our cake and eating it too,’ and ‘you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.’”
“Are you speaking Japanese?” I was so tired from my lack of sleep and the events of the last twenty-four hours that nothing was making sense to me anymore.
“Clare, the attraction of fugu doesn’t have anything to do with eating the stuff. True connoisseurs will tell you it’s surviving the meal that gives you the thrill. What could be more intense? You and your companions sit down to a perfectly prepared meal that tastes delicious and just might result in a slow and agonizing doom…It’s aesthetics and death combined like, bungee jumping or mountain climbing—”
“Or casual sex with strangers? Maybe a cocaine overdose? Are you talking about anyone I know?” I’d had enough of Matteo’s condescending tone.
Matt threw up his hands. “Okay. You win. Let’s drop the subject.”
We sat in fuming silence for a moment. “You’re right. Let’s drop the subject,” I said at last. “I have something else I want to talk to you about anyway.”
I told him my theory that Tad or Rena, or maybe Tad and Rena, might be responsible for the poisoning, and the real target may have been Lottie herself. To my annoyance, my ex-husband didn’t even pretend to entertain the possibility that my theory might be correct.
“Oh,” I cried. “So you’re so certain two complete strangers are innocent and Tucker is guilty?”
“I’m not saying that,” he replied.
“But that’s what you think.”
“Never mind what I think.”
“Listen, Matt—and try to keep an open mind—I sense Lottie herself has doubts. I could hear it in her tone. Even Lottie is a little suspicious of those two for some reason.”
Matteo scratched his chin. “If she’s suspicious, what exactly does Lottie think is going on with her partners?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, if Tad’s gone missing today, I can explain that myself,” said Matt. “Tad’s working on his second business—”
“Second business?”
“Tad’s still an investment counselor. He’s sponsoring an investment seminar tonight and tomorrow. When I told Tad about my kiosk idea, he suggested that something called quick-turnover investing might be a way to raise capital fast—”
“Wait just a minute. Back up. What kiosk idea?” Then I remembered. Tad had mentioned something about kiosks during Lottie’s party—he’d even claimed it was the reason Matt had been chatting up Trend magazine editor Breanne Summour.
“I didn’t want to get into this with you until it was off the ground,” Matt warned.
“Into what with me?”
“Any potential arguments.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Spill.”
“Okay, but don’t discuss it with my mother. When you two start talking, I’m always the odd man out.”
I crossed my arms and sighed with theatrical patience. “Fine.”
“Good.” Matt leaned forward and lowered his already low voice. “My goal is very simple. I want to duplicate the success that Starbucks has had in placing cafes in Barnes & Noble by opening Village Blend coffee bars—or kiosks, if the venue is large enough—in exclusive clothing boutiques and department stores. New York, L.A., London, Paris, Rome, Rio, and Tokyo are my ‘wave one’ rollout cities. Tad suggested to me that some of his potential clients might want to invest in my kiosk start-up. I’m going to his seminar tonight to pitch my plans to a small select group.”
Matt fished around in his wallet and pulled out a card printed on silver-gray parchment paper. He handed it to me and I read:
Investment Opportunities
A three-hour seminar sponsored by renowned
Wall Street investor Thaddeus P. Benedict,
formerly of Pope, Richards, and Snyder.
Learn about young, fast-growing companies
and exciting start-ups. A rare opportunity to meet visionary
entrepreneurs. Potentially double, even triple your assets.
Join us aboard the Fortune,
Pier 16 at Forty-ninth Street, 8:00 P.M.
The dates on the card—tonight and tomorrow night, as Matt had said—placed Tad’s seminars right in the middle of Fashion Week, one of the busiest and most stressful weeks of the year for Lottie.
“Don’t you find the timing odd?” I asked.
Matt gave me one of those looks that I translated to mean, “Uh, no.”
“Look,” I pleaded. “I’m a bit suspicious of Tad. And Rena, too. Even if you don’
t believe me, we owe it to Tucker to try to find the real culprit—you know we can’t rely on those Starkey and Hut characters to do that. And besides, you said it yourself, this morning. Tucker Burton works for this business. He’s like family, Matt.”
Despite my ex’s flaws—which had more permutations than the coffee drinks on our menu—Matt did have a conscience, and he hated when I appealed to his better angels, mostly because he usually relented. His expression appeared pained. He sighed and looked down.
“Clare, you’ve got to understand how important it is to me to get this kiosk idea off the ground. I…I’m…getting older…”
My god, I thought, he’s actually admitting it.
“I can’t be trekking around the world looking for coffee forever…I’ve been planning this for a year now…and no matter what you suspect him of, Tad is helping me approach investors this week. I did what I could to help Tucker. Now it’s up to his lawyer, Clare. Not me…and not you.”
I let Matt see the hurt and disappointment on my face.
“Oh, all right,” he said at last. “You can come with me if you want to. Snoop around, find out all you can. Just don’t mess up my presentation, okay? Or my relationship with Tad.”
“But if I start snooping around Tad’s investment seminar, asking all kinds of questions, then Tad’s bound to get suspicious—especially if he really is guilty of something.” I shook my head. “No, I can’t do this myself. What I need is a potential investor. A complete stranger who won’t arouse any suspicion….”
Matteo snorted. “Maybe you should wear a disguise then. Sounds like the perfect Nancy Drew move.”
“Maybe I will. But even then, I won’t go alone. I’m going to bring the perfect candidate along with me. Someone who obviously looks like she’s made of money—old money—and is itching to throw it into risky ventures, win or lose. The last sort of individual Tad Benedict would suspect…”
Matteo sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. Now it was his turn to sigh with theatrical patience. “And who might this perfect candidate be?”
“Why, Matt. I’m surprised. Have you forgotten your own mother?”
