Latte Trouble cm-3

by Клео Коул

  Twelve

  I phoned Madame from the coffeehouse and told her I was on my way over to see her.

  “I hope this is a social call,” she replied. “My maid told me you rang me up last night.”

  “It’s business, I’m afraid.”

  I could almost feel Madame tensing on the other end of the line. “Well, let me warn you, dear,” she said after a pause. “If it concerns those monthly financial reports you insist on sending me, I haven’t read a one of them.”

  “We’ll talk when I get there.”

  A brief, brisk walk brought me to Washington Square Park. The large square appeared luminous in the long, golden rays of the waning September day. Students from the surrounding New York University occupied the benches or sat in clusters in the grassy areas, with dogs, squirrels, and children romping around them. I circled the fountain and followed the paved paths.

  Finally I passed under the seventy-seven-foot marble arch that dominated the northern end. Built in 1895 to replace a wooden structure that had been erected by architect Stanford White for the Centennial celebration of George Washington’s inauguration, the white marble arch has served as a rallying point for labor unrest, civil rights marches, antiwar protests, feminist bra-burnings, socialist gatherings, and anarchists riots for generations. The irony is that Fifth Avenue, a central Manhattan artery running north from the arch, where the most affluent of the New York City old guard resides, geographically begins at this site of repeated antiestablishment rebellion.

  Madame occupied an opulent penthouse capping one of Fifth Avenue’s exclusive residential buildings near the arch. The imposing structure boasts a concrete moat, a spectacular view of the city, and a doorman dressed like an eighteenth-century European naval officer. My mother-in-law had moved into that building when her late second husband, Pierre Dubois, insisted she give up what he felt was Madame’s “rather small” West Village duplex above the coffeehouse—the elegantly furnished space where I now live.

  Of course, Madame’s world was not mine. She’d been raised an aristocrat before being forced to flee Europe during the Second World War, finding herself in America with very little to her name. After her first husband—Matteo’s father—died, a life of great wealth followed through her second marriage to the late Pierre. Even though the bulk of his assets had been willed to the children from his first marriage, Madame retained ownership of the fabulous penthouse where she now lived, as well as a modest trust fund for her living expenses.

  Coming from solidly working-class roots, I was admitted to Madame’s world through marriage to her son. And through the rocky marriage and divorce, the birth of my daughter Joy, and the move to the New Jersey suburbs and back again, Madame and I had only grown closer. Part of our bond was having more in common than superficially appeared—my own immigrant grandmother had raised me with the same values Madame had come to embrace through the hardships that Nazi-occupied Europe had inflicted on her and her family. The other part was our mutual love of Joy. And, if questioned under torture, I suppose I’d admit that sprinkled in there somewhere was our common affection for Matteo.

  When I arrived at the front door, Madame’s personal maid ushered me into the matriarch’s dark, brocaded sitting room, rich with a heady aroma. Coffee had been freshly pressed, and the scent of it nearly knocked me over. I had recently smelled something vaguely similar.

  A filigreed tray containing a silver coffee service and petit fours had been laid out on a table of Italian marble, beside an original Tiffany lamp. I no sooner dropped into one of the leather chairs than Madame appeared. Today she was clad in a white silk pantsuit, her silver hair in a French twist, held by an ivory comb.

  Madame poured the coffee into delicate china cups. Normally, I would stain the black with a bit of cream, but the scent of this offering was too intriguing. I sipped the rich, hot brew, and looked up, astounded and amazed. I didn’t know exactly what it was—I only knew what it wasn’t.

  “This isn’t your usual Jamaica Blue Mountain.”

  Madame smiled. “No.” She raised an eyebrow in challenge. “Can you guess?”

  For a moment, neither of us spoke as we continued to savor the flavor of this absolutely remarkable coffee, brimming with kaleidoscopic nuances of fruit. The taste was clean and sweet, yet densely rich with hints of blueberry, wine, and spice. It was bright and spirited yet at the same time deeply resonant and balanced. A coffee this complex and alive with fruit almost had to carry a very slight fermented tinge, and it did, but to care would have been like criticizing Da Vinci because he left a stray stroke of paint on the Mona Lisa’s frame.

  “Is it Ethiopian?” I asked.

  “You’re guessing?”

  “To be perfectly honest, the aroma is familiar only because Matt roasted a top secret batch of whatever this is after he came back from Ethiopia, but I’m still not sure what it is. Of course, your son wouldn’t tell me squat.”

  “It’s Harrar. Wet-processed.”

  “It can’t be.”

  “Oh, but it is.”

  Grown on small farms in the eastern part of Ethiopia, Harrar was one of the world’s oldest and most traditional coffees. Unlike its more elegant and high-toned wet-processed cousins in other regions of the country—Ghimbi and Yirgacheffe (a.k.a. Sidamo)—Harrar was traditionally a dry-processed coffee, meaning the coffee cherries were picked and put out in the sun to dry, fruit and all, as they had been for centuries.

  Such simple dry-processing (or “natural”) methods emphasized bold fruit notes. But the fruit taste could come off as overly wild and fermented. Here, however, the wild fruit character had been tamed. The taste was more balanced, with a longer lasting body than a typical Harrar. And it was far more aromatic. The floral and fruit notes remained intact from the first sip through the last (a real trick in a dark roast). And, as the cup cooled, these flavors assembled themselves differently with each taste. It was a complex and beautifully structured cup, a coffee for those who wished to sip rather than gulp. A coffee worthy of contemplation.

  “A coffee like this,” I mused, “used in our espresso blend, would be spectacular.”

  “Yes, my dear, just imagine the fine aromatics in the crema.”

  I nearly swooned. “More, please.”

  As Madame poured, she explained to me that Matteo had personally presented her with five pounds of these beans so that he could explain what he’d secretly been working toward. He and a small Ethiopian farmer he’d befriended had together attempted to experiment with processing methods other than the traditional dry method the farmers of Harrar had used for hundreds of years. No easy feat.

  The Ethiopian coffee industry, like many others in the Third World, depends mainly on the work of small-holding farmers with virtually no access to technology and a limited infrastructure. Most Ethiopian farmers still carry their coffee to the mill on their heads. Dry-processing is used in regions where rainfall is scarce and there are long periods of sunshine.

  In wet-processing, water is used to remove the four layers surrounding what we know as the “green” coffee bean—the part of the cherry that we roast, then grind and brew. There are other methods, like natural pulping and an experimental process called “repassed” or “raisins,” where the cherries float because they have dried too long on the tree before being collected; then those floaters are removed from the rest and then “repassed” and pulped.

  The bottom line, however, is this: while microclimate and soil are contributing factors to the profile of any coffee, processing is usually the single largest contributor to the coffee’s flavor characteristics. The differences between a washed and dry-processed coffee from the same region can be more distinct than two wet-processed coffees from different regions.

  Madame spoke up again. “Matt would like to call this the Village Blend Special Reserve.”

  I nodded. “And did Matt tell you what his plan was for this Special Reserve?” I asked carefully, thinking this had to be part of Matt’s big kiosk p
lan: an exclusive coffee for his exclusive settings. Not bad, Matt. Not bad at all.

  “Plan?” said Madame, perplexed. “What sort of plan? He plans to sell it at the Blend, of course, what else?”

  Again I nodded, this time with nervous indulgence. Obviously, Matt hadn’t told her the rest of his tale—only the “Once Upon a Time” part. I didn’t blame him for breaking the kiosk plan to her slowly, getting her on board with the Special Reserve idea first. Madame had never expressed anything but loathing for the idea of franchising the Village Blend or commercializing its name—the most recent attempt being the rather shady business deal proposed by Eduardo Lebreaux, the Eurotrash importer who had tried to sabotage the landmark coffeehouse after Madame had rejected his offers to purchase it. Madame always believed there should be one Village Blend and only one—or, as she’s been known to say, “There’s only one Eiffel Tower, dear, only one Big Ben, only one Statue of Liberty….”

  Although Madame’s employment contracts with Matt and I gave us increasing equity in the business over time, she was presently still the owner. She could shut Matt down with one simple syllable, which was why I wasn’t about to say another thing about it. Frankly, it was up to Matt to inform his mother of his plans, not me.

  As our conversation continued, Madame got around to telling me about her date to a major charity function the previous night (lucky her, she was still seeing Dr. McTavish, an oncologist at St. Vincent with the sex appeal of Sean Connery), and I slowly realized Madame wasn’t bringing up the subject of Tucker and the Blend because she hadn’t yet heard about it.

  I broke the news as delicately as I could, telling Madame about the Lottie Harmon party which she’d missed, the murder of Ricky Flatt at the coffeehouse, and Tucker Burton’s arrest.

  “A flagrant miscarriage of justice,” Madame declared. “We both know Tucker is innocent of this terrible crime.”

  Her faith in the Blend’s barista cheered me considerably. Before her comment, I’d felt pretty much alone in my crusade to free Tucker. Madame’s next words did more than cheer me up. They gave me hope.

  “What can I do to help?” she asked.

  I told her about Lottie’s partner Tad Benedict. Although I hadn’t discussed motive with Matt, I now voiced my suspicion that Tad was maneuvering to take control of the label—a strategy that might just involve murder. I mentioned Tad’s seminar on investing—a suspicious action, coming on the heels of the attempt on Lottie’s life. Then I dropped the other shoe.

  “I was hoping you would attend that seminar tonight, try to find out what Tad Benedict’s up to, whether the business ventures he’s representing are legitimate or not. Snoop around, find out what you can.”

  Madame’s eyes lit up brighter than Radio City. “How exciting!” she exclaimed. “What time do we leave?”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t go. Tad knows me and might get suspicious if I show up. But Matteo will attend. He’s pitching…a…um, a new business venture.”

  “Then perhaps Matteo can do the snooping,” suggested Madame.

  “That would be helpful. But he says he can’t. He’s determined to find funding for his business, and that’s his priority—he claims Tad promised him results.”

  “What is Matteo so fired up about?”

  I shrugged.

  “Perhaps he’s looking for more monetary backing for the Ethiopian wet-processing?” Madame fished.

  I smiled. “I’ll let him tell you about it.”

  I could see she was quite curious now, but she didn’t force the issue. “I want to help,” she said. “But I wouldn’t know how to snoop around, or what to look for. Clare, I think you’d better come along, too.”

  I sighed. “Matteo actually suggested I wear a disguise, but I’m sure he was being snide.”

  Madame clapped her slender, graceful hands. “A disguise! What a perfectly marvelous idea.”

  “But that’s crazy! I’m no undercover cop. An d…I’m not very good at deception.”

  “As I recall, you did a pretty good job of bluffing your way into that Meat No More fundraiser a few months ago.”

  “That was a desperate situation. I thought my daughter was in danger.”

  “Don’t you see? This is a desperate situation, too. Think about Tucker, what that poor man is going through. Sitting in a jail cell, accused of a crime he didn’t commit.”

  “Look, I’m doing all I can. But in this instance what can I do? Wear a wig? Dark glasses? It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t have the poise or the attire to trick anyone into believing I’m a wealth investor.”

  “Bah,” she cried. “Poise comes with the proper attire, and that’s a problem easily solved.”

  She set down her china cup and stood. “Come with me. I’m sure we can find something suitable from my own wardrobe.”

  Madame led me down a long hallway lined with statuary and through the door to her boudoir. The corner room was bright and spacious, with ivory lace curtains pulled back to admit the afternoon sun. Passing the mirrored dressing table, Madame flung open the cream-colored doors to her walk-in closet and stepped inside.

  She stared, clucking at the array of fine clothing hanging there, then shook her head. “No, no, no…these clothes just won’t do.”

  Madame moved deeper into the closet, to an ornate armoire made of dark teakwood. When she opened its doors, my eyes widened. The armoire was packed with vintage clothing sealed in clear plastic—a fabulous array of textures, a cascading rainbow of colors. An Oleg Cassini evening dress in shell pink, silk-georgette chiffon beside a Givenchy dress and jacket in deep-pink wool bouclé. An elegant two-piece linen suit in blazing red, a la Chez Ninon. A pale blue Herbert Sondheim sundress. Black cigarette pants with matching black-and-white striped jacket. Pillbox hats. Capri pants. A-line skirts. And there were vintage accessories, too. A Gucci hobo bag. Real crocodile shoes. Belts. Handbags. Gloves. Jewelry. Even several pairs of oversized tortoise-shell sunglasses.

  “When I was your age, these were the clothes I wore,” Madame said with a note of pride, as she pulled out piece after piece.

  “They’re…marvelous. Simply spectacular. These clothes are thirty years old, yet they seem so contemporary.”

  “More like forty years old, my dear. But it does not matter one whit. Elegance is timeless.”

  “And your taste is impeccable. I like this black number….”

  “The crepe minidress with the pleated hem ruffle? It’s Mary Quant. A lovely dress, but all wrong for this occasion. You must wear light colors to blend in with the rich and powerful….”

  “Light colors?”

  “If for no other reason than to demonstrate to the world that you can afford the dry cleaning bills.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “That’s the rich. Ah, let’s try this Christian Dior skirt and jacket, perhaps with this white cashmere sweater. Or would this Andre Courreges A-line shift dress be more appropriate? No, no, the hemline is much too short….”

  I soon realized that much of Madame’s wardrobe mimicked the style of a highly public figure of that era, a woman known for her impeccable taste in fashion—an arguably effortless feat with all the top-tier designers of her day scrambling to dress her. Well, who could fault Madame for that? After all, what woman of Madame’s generation didn’t try to dress like Jackie O?

  We decided on a Coco Chanel wool suit in a creamy beige—jacket, skirt, and coordinating blouse. The fit was pretty good. The overall ensemble elegant and flattering. Unfortunately, at five-two, the skirt’s hemline hung too far below my knees, but Madame called in her maid and the two women were soon fussing and pinning and promising to have the hemline lifted up for the event.

  “When that suit was new, I would wear it with a pair of high-heeled pumps and this hat,” said Madame, holding up the hat.

  Uh-oh, I thought, seeing the signature Jackie pillbox with the lacy veil. I think we’re going a little too far on the time warp. “I’ll lose the hat and go with calf-high boot
s,” I told her gently. “It’s a more contemporary look.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” She tapped her chin. “I suppose the white gloves are out too?”

  I smiled indulgently and nodded. Then I gazed at my reflection in the floor-length mirror, amazed at the transformation. Even without the hat, I looked like a different woman—elegant, ageless, timelessly fashionable. I also appeared affluent, wildly so. In these clothes, even my personal style changed from practical to poised. I stood straighter, my movements seemed graceful. I felt nearly as confident as I looked. But there was one problem—my head. My face and hair still gave away my identity.

  “Try this.” Madame handed me a hat box containing a shoulder-length, straight-styled natural hair wig in a color at least three shades darker than my own natural chestnut brown. The wig, and a pair of oversized Oleg Cassini tinted glasses, completed the ensemble.

  We fumbled with my hair for a good ten minutes before we got it bundled tightly enough to place the wig on my head, but with the addition of the dark hair and bangs and the glasses, the illusion was complete.

  “My god!” I cried. “I…I look just like…”

  Madame smiled, patted my hand. “I know, dear.”

  Thirteen

  As I followed Madame out of the cab in front of Pier 18, Matteo was waiting on the sidewalk. He spied his mother, then did a double-take.

  “It’s Jackie O!” he cried.

  “We’re calling her Margot Gray, this evening,” Madame whispered. “You remember Margot and her husband Rexler, from Scarsdale? We saw a lot of them when you were a teenager.”

  Matteo grinned. “I remember their daughter much better.”

  “You are incorrigible,” his mother replied. She took her son’s arm. As darkly handsome as ever, he had abandoned the black Armani tonight for a more approachable look—a cream V-neck sweater outlined his athletic, broad-shouldered torso beneath a caramel-colored camel-hair jacket and chocolate brown pants.