by Клео Коул
“Clare, this Brita pitcher needs refilling. And the filter needs to be changed.” He shook his head at the spilled water on the counter. “How could you not notice?”
“I’ll give you something not to notice!” I took off my shoe and hurled it at him.
“Hey!” Matt lifted his cast to fend off my flying pump. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Matt, why are you here? Four weeks ago, you moved in with Breanne!”
Breanne Summour to be exact, editor-in-chief of Trend magazine, aka Snarks ’r’ Us, as the blogging chef of one snidely reviewed restaurant famously tagged it.
Breanne and Matt had been dating for about a year now. Given my ex’s desire for publicity and Breanne’s need for a hunky escort to fashionable events, they were a match made in Manhattan, or at the very least the New York tabloids. Every so often, I’d notice their picture in the Post’s Page Six or one of the tony glossies at my hair salon: “Trend’s top editor is looking especially perky tonight on the arm of international coffee broker Matteo Allegro.”
Matt continually claimed his “friendship” with Breanne was just “casual,” which in Matt-speak naturally included casual sex. But then Matt broke his arm, and Breanne turned into Florence Nightingale. This was perfectly fine with me, since the trashionista’s new desire to nest with my ex got him the heck out of my hair for almost a month. So why was he back now?
“You can’t tell me you got tired of five-hundred-dollar Egyptian cotton sheets and a penthouse view!”
Matt shrugged. “Breanne flew to Milan a few days ago for a trade show. I got lonely.”
“You did not. I know when you’re lying, Matt. Your eyes go wide, like a begging puppy dog, and you forget how to blink.”
“Okay, okay…” Matt held up the hand of his good arm. “The truth is…ever since Breanne left for Europe, her housekeeper has been hitting on me.”
“What?!”
“It was subtle at first, but tonight it got weird. And the housekeeper’s a live-in, so there’s no escaping it.”
“Since when can’t you handle a woman making a pass at you?”
“The housekeeper’s not a woman, Clare. His name’s Maurice.”
“Of course!” I threw up my hands. “If it was a woman, it wouldn’t have been a problem. You simply would have slept with her until Breanne came back. Problem solved.”
Matt’s face fell into an “I’m wounded” pout. “That’s just not true, Clare. And it’s not fair.”
“The person it wouldn’t have been fair to is Breanne!”
“Let’s drop it, okay?” he said and pointed to the half-spilled pitcher we used to filter our coffee-making water. “Are you going to help me with this or not?”
“Not!”
I wheeled and limped angrily out of the kitchen, one foot now shoeless, the other clomping loudly along, since I was unwilling to give up a second possible projectile.
Matt followed, his tone more contrite. “I didn’t mean to butt in on you, but a decent hotel room in this town is four hundred a night. Breanne’s not coming back for a few more days, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been footing the tuition bills for Joy’s culinary school. I don’t have much extra cash to throw around. Do you?”
“What are you implying? That I should pay for your hotel room because you can’t tell Maurice the housekeeper to keep his hands to himself?”
“There’s no lock on Breanne’s bedroom door. It was creeping me out. You have to believe me.”
“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation!” I checked my watch. “And at nearly one in the morning!”
Matt rubbed the back of his neck. “You mind giving me a massage? My muscles are really stiff.”
“You really want the other shoe, don’t you?”
“What did I do now?”
“God, Matt, you haven’t acted like this much of a jerk since we were married. What’s happened to you anyway? Did a month of having your every whim fulfilled regress you back to a spoiled childhood?”
“My childhood was anything but spoiled, Clare, and why are you so bent out of shape? Because I walked in on your big good-bye scene with the flatfoot? Well, big deal! So what? He was leaving anyway!”
“He was supposed to come back. Now he’s not.”
“You’re better off. You can’t trust cops. Especially that one.”
“Oh, is that right? And who am I supposed to trust? You?”
“I’m not your problem. He is.”
“The problem is you, Matt. He won’t come back with you here.”
“Then he’s gay.”
“Mike Quinn is not gay.”
“Oh, yeah? Then why didn’t he just take you with him back to his place?”
“Because he’s not going back to his place. He’s going back on duty!” I threw up my hands. “I can’t expect you to understand. And I shouldn’t have to explain myself, either. We’re divorced, Matt. We share a daughter and a business; and because of Madame’s bizarre sense of humor—not to mention her delusion that one day we’re going to reconcile—we both have a legal right to use this apartment. But we’re never again sharing the matrimonial bed, and I’d like to find someone who will.”
“Oh? So now the flatfoot is more than a passing law enforcement fetish? He’s potential husband material? And this happened after a month of his not sleeping with you?”
I threw the second shoe.
“Hey!” Matt lifted his cast again, and it bounced off. Then he actually had the nerve to grin at me. “Looks like you’re out of ammo!”
“Arrrrrggggh!”
“Come on, Clare. Truce? How about we for call for pizza? Sal’s delivers all night.”
“I’d rather reload with a closet full of shoes!”
I wheeled and stormed out of the living room. My adrenaline had been pumping, and I had no interest in going to bed, but I had to get away from Matt. Unfortunately, he didn’t get the hint. Matt’s footsteps followed mine right up the duplex’s short staircase and into the master bedroom.
Madame had decorated this duplex years ago, when she’d lived here with Matt’s father. Not only had she filled the place with amazing antiques, she’d lined the walls—bedroom and marble bath included—with lovingly framed sketches, doodles, watercolors, and oils that had been created over the decades by artists who’d frequented the Village Blend, from Edward Hopper and Jackson Pollack to Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat.
The four-poster bed of carved mahogany was one of my favorite pieces in the master bedroom, and it didn’t even completely dominate the space. Commanding just as much attention on the opposite wall was a carved hearth of ivory-colored marble. A century-old, gilt-edged French mirror hung above the fireplace, and a chandelier of pale rose Venetian glass hung from a fleur-de-lis medallion in the center of the ceiling.
The walls had been painted the same pale rose as the imported chandelier, while the door and window frames echoed the same shade of ivory as the marble fireplace and silk sheers covering the floor-to-ceiling casement windows.
It was a stunning room in a spectacular apartment, which was unbelievably convenient for me, since the Blend was just two flights down. And, until this evening, I hadn’t seriously considered giving up the use of it. Affordable apartments were scarce in Manhattan and rent-free, fully furnished duplexes in the West Village weren’t just unheard of, they were a fairy tale come true.
Unfortunately for me, this fairy tale came with a troll—one who seemed to take delight in popping up at the worst possible times. Matt’s constant world traveling usually kept him out of the picture. A few days a month, tops, he’d need to crash in the second bedroom. But since he’d broken his arm, Matt had grounded himself. That hadn’t been my problem until this minute.
“Come on, Clare,” Madame’s son cooed to me, “let’s not fight…There’s another reason I’m here, you know, not just Breanne’s horny housekeeper—”
“Get out of this bedroom!”
“Not until
you hear me out.”
Matt took a step closer. I folded my arms and frowned, trying not to notice how well the troll happened to be put together tonight, with black wool slacks that were perfectly creased and pleated, a pale yellow cashmere sweater that was probably softer than kitten fur, and an Italian-made bronze jacket cut from a leather so supple it looked good enough to eat.
Matt wore clothes well. No doubt about it. But for years, as the Blend’s coffee buyer, he rarely wore anything fancier than sturdy hiking boots, well-worn jeans, and fraying rock band T-shirts.
Trekking the Third World’s high-altitude coffee farms for the choicest cherries was light-years from a fashion show runway, which is why I was sure tonight’s obviously pricey outfit had been handpicked by Breanne. This was nothing new, of course. Since they’d started dating, Bree had been dolling up Matt like one of Trend’s cover models. She’d probably paid for the garments, too, or gotten them gratis from one of her designer friends.
“What is it you want to say to me, Matt? Make it quick.”
“I miss you,” he declared, his big brown bedroomy eyes wide.
“You do not.”
“Do, too.”
I folded my arms. “You’re not blinking.”
Matt pointed to his eyes and blinked. “I miss you, Clare. I miss your…down-to-earthedness—”
“My what?”
“I miss your smile, your wisecracks, your coffee—”
“You have no shame, you know that? I don’t think there’s one decent bone in your body.”
“No, Clare. There’s where you’re wrong. I have one decent bone.” Matt held up his right arm, still wrapped in the plaster cast. He shook his head. “Don’t you remember how this happened to me?”
Damn. I frowned, recalling Matt’s flying Zorro act. I’d been on the trail of a murderer, and I’d roped Matt in to helping me. But when the gun went off, it was Matt who threw himself into harm’s way, wrestling the killer to the floor. He’d gotten his arm broken for his trouble.
A wave of guilt doused some of the fury I’d been fanning. “I remember, Matt. I do,” I told him with a sigh. “And you know I’m sorry about what happened. I hated seeing you get hurt like that…”
Matt shrugged. “The cast’s coming off soon. No big deal. And it was fun letting Bree play nurse for a while. She and her people took good care of me. But you see, Clare…” He continued moving across the bedroom. “Breanne isn’t the woman I’ve been thinking about—”
“Stop it, Matt.”
“I’ve been lying in bed alone these past few nights, Clare, thinking of you—”
“Because Bree’s traveling. And you’re a child. Out of sight, out of mind.”
Matt stopped right in front of me. “Bree isn’t the woman I’ve been wanting to kiss—”
“Have you been drinking?”
“Just a bottle of Riesling.”
“An entire bottle?”
Matt grinned and nodded. “Château Bela, Slovakia 2003. Eric Ripert personally recommended it to Bree during a launch party at Le Bernardin. She scored an entire case. I’ll tell you, that woman has one impressive wine collection.”
“How long ago did you drink it? The bottle?”
Matt shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not the alcohol talking—”
“No…It’s the part of your anatomy that Bree’s momentarily neglecting.”
Matt laughed. “Say that three times fast. Anatomy, momentarily neglecting.” He laughed again.
“You are drunk.”
“Why do you think I was trying to make coffee?”
I sighed, wondering if Breanne knew this about my ex. Matteo Allegro could calmly hike through a Costa Rican mud slide or fearlessly fight his way out of a Bangkok bar brawl, but when it came to handling the minor curveballs of domestic living, he often needed a flotation device.
Well, at least this time he turned to a 2003 Château Bela instead of a line of Bolivian marching powder. For that, I have to give him credit.
“Okay, Matt, okay. Let’s go back downstairs and get you some coffee.” I moved to walk around him, but he caught my arm.
“I am sorry, Clare, about messing up your date. I really did figure you’d be at Quinn’s place. Will you forgive me?”
I took a deep breath and let it out. It wasn’t easy to let go of my righteous anger, but I did owe Matt. The cast alone was a reminder of what he’d gone through for me.
“Yes, Matt. I forgive you. All right? Let’s move on…”
“Okay,” Matt agreed, but his left hand failed to release my upper arm. The heat of his fingers penetrated the sleeve of my sheer blouse. His eyes met mine, and he leaned closer.
I leaned back. “Matt…that’s not moving on.”
“Just one kiss? I’ve been so lonely.”
“Oh, please.”
“One kiss. What’s the big deal? It’ll only take a second. Humor me…”
“You’re really trying my patience tonight. You know that?”
“I just want to know that you really forgive me. One kiss. Then we can move on.”
“And you’ll grow up?”
Matt smiled and nodded. “Close your eyes.”
With an irritated sigh, I gave in. Standing stiff and still, I closed my eyes. Matt leaned close again and brushed my lips. I figured that was it. We were done. But before I could open my eyes again, his arm was snaking around me, pressing our bodies together, trying to intensify the connection.
“I knew it! I knew I couldn’t trust you!”
“You miss me, too, honey. I can feel how much. Your body’s humming with it—”
“Your ego’s working overtime! Mike Quinn’s the one who left me humming.”
“Is that right? Well, if he left you humming, then he’s not here to close the deal, is he?”
My jaw clenched.
“Admit it, Clare. The cop’s a hard case, and you miss having fun.” Matt’s voice dropped an octave. “So have a little fun with me tonight. What’s so wrong with that?”
“Plenty. You want an alphabetized list?”
He moved to kiss me again; I stiff-armed him. Then I turned and marched out of the bedroom in my stockinged feet. Matt followed me down the stairs but not into the kitchen. He stood, leaning one broad shoulder against the doorway. For long, contemplative minutes, he watched me brew him a fresh pot of coffee in our drip maker.
As I poured him a large, black cup, he moved into the kitchen and began struggling out of his leather jacket. I helped him get the folded-up sleeve over his cast. Then I hung the expensive garment on the back of his chair for him.
“Sit,” I commanded. “Drink.”
He did. I poured him a second cup and gave him two aspirin.
“Thanks,” he murmured.
“You’re welcome.”
“So…” he said, his mind obviously becoming clearer. “You really like the cop?”
“It’s more than like, Matt.”
He rubbed his eyes and sighed. “I figured by now you would have gotten him out of your system, but I can see you need more time.” He shrugged. “So have your fling. Just don’t give up on us, Clare…not yet…”
I closed my eyes. “Please, Matt. It’s late. You’ve had too much to drink. I’ve had too much…frustration.”
I opened my eyes to find Matt leering at me. One dark eyebrow arched. “So my kiss did affect you.”
Before I could find another shoe, the phone rang.
“Saved by the bell,” I told him, picking up the extension. “Hello?”
“Mom! Thank God!”
“Joy? What’s wrong?”
Matt was on his feet before I spoke another syllable. “What’s the matter with Joy?”
“It’s Vinny!” Joy cried from the other end of the line.
“Vinny?” I repeated.
“Who’s Vinny?” Matt demanded, breathing down my neck.
“Vincent Buccelli,” I quickly whispered, covering the mouthpiece. “He’s Joy’s friend fr
om culinary school. They’re interning together at Solange this year.”
“Mom? I don’t know what to do!”
“Slow down, honey. Where are you?”
“I came out to Queens after work, to check on Vinny, see how he was doing.”
“You told me he called in sick today.”
“I found him on the floor, Mom.” Joy began to sob. “And there’s blood, so much blood!”
“Blood!” I repeated.
“Blood!” Matt shouted.
“Mom, I can’t believe it, but I think Vinny’s dead!”
Six
Our yellow taxi rolled down a dim stretch of paved avenue that ran under the elevated tracks of the Number 7 line. At one in the morning, not even the flashing red beacons of the police and FDNY vehicles could penetrate the cold shadows beneath the subway’s rusty girders.
The three-story apartment house where Vincent Buccelli lived sat between an Irish pub that advertised the best hamburgers in New York City (according to the Daily News), and a Sherwin-Williams paint store, now shuttered with a steel mesh gate. The area was a typical working-class neighborhood of Queens, filled with immigrants from an array of countries: Korea, Ireland, India, Ecuador, Colombia, and dozens of others.
Tonight, the front door of the redbrick house was open, spilling yellow light from a gold ceiling fixture in the hallway. The building had white-trimmed windows and a short set of concrete steps that led to a roofless front porch. That’s where the cop was standing, a big Irish-faced officer in his thirties. He wore a dark blue uniform and a bored expression as he guarded the building’s entrance. Younger, smaller cops were patrolling the sidewalk, keeping a curious crowd of pub crawlers behind yellow crime-scene tape that had been stretched across the pavement.
“Looks like the national doughnut convention’s in full swing,” Matt muttered next to me in the cab’s backseat.
I tensed. The last thing I needed was for my authority-loathing ex to start a fight with the investigating officers, which could land us all downtown, or crosstown, or wherever the local precinct house was in this part of Queens. As Matt fumbled for his wallet with his good arm, I gripped his shoulder.
