by Cleo Coyle
“Of course,” Tad said smoothly. “But I must warn you that this is a special offering. Shares in Lottie Harmon are in great demand.”
“I was not aware Lottie Harmon was a publicly traded label.”
Tad shifted in his seat. “TB Investments is the only firm authorized to trade Lottie Harmon shares, and only in limited amounts.”
Madame feigned excitement. “An exclusive offer! Now I am enthusiastic…I do hope the amounts are not too limited.”
“Well…”
“Oh, I don’t want to be selfish. I’m not interested in taking over controlling shares in the company. I just want to make a substantial investment in the concern—perhaps thirty percent…”
Tad didn’t even blink. “I’m sure that amount could be secured, unless some of the other investors have beaten you to the punch.”
Then Tad shifted his eyes to me.
“So, Ms. Gray? Has any facet of TB Investment’s prospectus piqued your interest?”
I adjusted my tinted, tortoiseshell, Jackie O glasses and sighed theatrically. Up to this point I’d kept my conversation to a minimum in front of Tad, fearing the sound or cadence of my voice would somehow reveal my identity. I knew my disguise had been effective so far—I didn’t even recognize myself in the reflection on the plate glass window. Behind the wig even the shape of my face was obscured, and no one could see my eyes because in anything less than a brilliantly lit room like this one, the tinted glasses rendered me nearly blind, so who could see in? But as much as I wanted to pump Tad Benedict for more information, I was forced to remain silent due to my fear of exposure. Instead, I sighed, shook my head solemnly as I waved my hand in a dismissive gesture.
Tad put his arms on the desk, leaned closer. “Surely there’s something here to entice even you, Ms. Gray?”
I felt him watching me, waiting for a reply. I cleared my throat, preparing to unleash the nasal drone I’d used on Clipboard Lady.
“Well—”
Suddenly the door burst open without a knock. Clipboard Lady was there, hair windblown, face flushed.
“You’ve got to come…” she stammered. “Trouble on the deck.”
We heard the voices a moment later. Loud, angry voices—one of them familiar—Matteo.
Tad was on his feet and out the door. This time he didn’t even excuse himself. I rose and followed him into the hall, Madame close behind. A blast of cool night air was streaming into the passageway, the dank river smell potent. I noticed another door was ajar. Through it I spied a large stateroom were several men and women milled around in various states of shock or surprise. All wore Wall Street attire, their pie charts, graphs and Power Point machines at the ready. In the middle of that room, a table had been upset. A chair, a broken laptop computer, and a shattered pitcher of water lay on the floor.
The draft was pouring in from the bulkhead door, now flung wide. From outside, on the deck, the angry voices continued.
“Don’t they teach you the alphabet in Europe?” Matteo was barking. “I thought your educational system was supposed to be better than ours. Or did they do the ABCs backwards, like everything else in the Old World?!”
As I hurried to the door, I could hear Tad Benedict trying to restore calm. “Listen, gentlemen, this can be resolved—”
“Perhaps after you toss this…this cowboy over the side.”
The voice that interrupted Tad was dripping with arrogance, sarcasm, and contempt—so much so that I recognized the speaker even before I stumbled onto the chilly deck.
Eduardo Lebreaux.
In his late fifties, Lebreaux was the kind of oily Continental who would have been at home in Casablanca, angling how to cheat at cards in Rick’s Café American. He had dark brown hair, thinning on the top and a little too long at the back, a mustache, and a pensive look to his pale green eyes. No wrinkles but the sort of blotchy skin acquired from drinking and smoking to excess. His evening clothes were well tailored, of course—what little I could see of them, because he was presently standing behind a wall of well-dressed, thick-necked flesh that was his bodyguard.
“I’d like to see you try and throw me off this boat,” replied Matt, fists balled. “With or without your rented thug.”
Matteo was referring to Thick Neck, of course, who stood impassively, eyes on Matt, hands raised but open. There were, I noted, a lot of muscles crammed into the guard’s open-necked white shirt and blue blazer. I wondered if Matteo could really take on the man standing between him and Lebreaux.
The amoral European importer-exporter used to work for Madame’s second husband, Pierre, and had been a thorn in Madame’s side since her husband’s death. Matteo had always had an instinctive negative reaction to Lebreaux, and he’d been right. Lebreaux wasn’t someone you could trust. In fact, some of his tactics bordered on the criminal.
Just then, I noticed a woman on Lebreaux’s arm—and recognized her. It was Violet Eyes, the tall, strikingly beautiful Asian woman who had accompanied Lloyd Newhaven to Lottie’s party. Her face appeared placid, impassive even in the face of this outrageous scene.
Before I had a chance even to consider the meaning of Violet Eyes’s presence, others instantly appeared on deck. Several of the presenters scrambled topside to watch the conclusion of the heated melodrama they’d seen ignited in their stateroom. To my shock, I spied another familiar face among them—the male model who’d attended Lottie’s party. His platinum blond Billy Idol crewcut was unmistakable, even through my tinted glasses.
My mind raced. While the presence of Violet Eyes might have been mere happenstance, meeting another person who’d attended that fatal party—and was near the coffee bar at the time of the poisoning—was at least one coincidence too many for me.
Matt glared at the bodyguard, then tried to step around the man and return to the stateroom. A ham-sized palm slapped the middle of Matt’s chest, stopping him. Matteo glared up at the man. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly calm: “I’m going inside to make my presentation. Look, Eduardo…tell your hired help to get out of my face and out of my way.”
Lebreaux looked around and spied Madame standing next to me. His lips twisted into a cruel smile and he bowed in her direction. “I see you are not yet untangled from your dowager mother’s skirts, Matteo. Was franchising the Village Blend’s brand name Madame Dubois’s idea? Perhaps an act of financial desperation?”
At my side, I felt Madame stiffen.
I saw Tad’s expression, too. There was surprise at hearing that Mrs. Dubois was Matt’s mother.
Matteo exploded. “You son of a—”
He launched himself at Eduardo’s throat. The European fearfully stumbled backwards, almost knocking Violet Eyes overboard in his haste to escape. Matt didn’t get far before Thick Neck stopped him cold. There was a flurry of movement, loud grunts, and the sound of fists striking flesh.
“Wait! Wait!” Tad Benedict cried.
But events had gone too far. Everyone backed away and watched helplessly as Matt and Thick Neck grappled for a moment, stumbling across the deck. The struggle continued until both men tumbled over the rail, their fiery confrontation finally getting doused in the cold, churning waters of the Hudson River.
FIFTEEN
THE Fortune received an official police and fireboat escort all the way back to Pier 18. The Coast Guard even arrived to lend a hand.
After Matteo and the bodyguard had splashed into the water, the sailors aboard the yacht went into action, fishing the two men out and depositing them back on deck in record time. Unfortunately, one of the guests on board had panicked and dialed 911 on his cell. Just about every agency responsible for river safety—with the possible exception of Homeland Security—responded with an appearance.
The excitement aboard ship interrupted the flow of presentations. The rest of the seminar was cancelled and the Fortune returned to port. Meanwhile, there were so many blinking red lights on the water that by the time we approached the pier, a crowd had gathered to see what all th
e fuss was about.
The Fortune bumped into its berth, and the crew lowered the gangplank. Like rats fleeing a sinking ship, the affluent passengers crowded the exit. Matteo, dripping wet and smelling like stagnant water, accompanied his mother as they joined the exiting throng. I hung back, however, hoping to catch a glimpse of Tad or one of his associates, even Clipboard Lady.
I slipped into the ballroom, saw the bartender tidying up while a pair of women wearing aprons collected glasses from around the room. I went back outside and circled the deck, to the other side of the ship. My booted toe bumped against a rope stand, and I nearly pitched over. With a moan of frustration, I ripped the tinted glasses off my face and stuffed them into the Gucci purse.
The view was nice from this portion of the deck. Ships were approaching Manhattan, or moving out to sea. Far in the distance, the Statue of Liberty was lit in a brilliant glow. At the rail, I gazed at the vista for a moment, then heard a door open around a corner from me. A man and woman stepped out of the light, and up to the darkened area near the rail. I recognized the man—Tad Benedict. The woman’s back was turned so I couldn’t see her features. I stepped back, against the bulkhead, not daring to breathe. They were so preoccupied with each other, they failed to notice me in the shadows, listening to their conversation.
“We didn’t sell enough,” the woman said. Her tone seemed desperate, her voice familiar. I tried to lean my head just a little bit closer.
Tad snorted. “Sell enough? We didn’t sell a damn thing.”
After a moment of silence, the woman spoke. “I just want out, Tad.”
“We’ll get out,” he said with conviction. “We’ll buy our way out if we have to. I know I can raise the money. Enough money to make the payoff, and still have something left for the both of us to make a life for ourselves, free of…you know…”
His voice trailed off and he rubbed the woman’s shoulder. She turned to caress his hand, but her face remained in shadow.
“We’re running out of time,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” came Tad’s reply. “I can fix this.”
Finally she turned to face him. As their lips met, the woman moved into the light. I recognized her instantly: Rena Garcia, Lottie Harmon’s partner and marketing and publicity manager.
The kiss broke, and Tad, escorted her back inside. When they were gone, I hurried around to the other side of the boat. At the gangplank I joined the last of the passengers disembarking. Out on the street, I found Madame standing alone on the sidewalk, looking out at the river. Matt was waiting on the taxi line by the curb.
“I’m sorry, Madame,” I said. “I probably should have told you what Matt had in mind. I know it’s not what you’d do with the business.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Perhaps you should have told me. But it really doesn’t matter now. It’s water under the bridge—” She gazed at her sopping wet son in the taxi line. “—so to speak.”
Madame faced me. I was surprised to find her eyes bright, her expression buoyant. “In any case, my dear, how I’ve done things in the past is not the point any longer. The Blend’s future belongs to you…and Matteo. In a way, I’m happy.”
“Happy?”
“My son is finally showing genuine interest. In the business. In the future.”
She touched my arm. “Perhaps he really has changed, Clare.”
Then she turned and walked to the waiting cab. She and Matteo spoke briefly as he held the door for her, then he closed it and the cab sped off. Matt immediately hailed the next car in line and we climbed inside for the silent trip back to the Blend.
WHEN we arrived, I pitched in to help Gardner, the evening shift’s barista, while Matteo ran upstairs to shower the river stench away and change into dry clothes.
Gardner Evans was an easy-going African-American composer, arranger, and jazz musician (sax, piano, guitar, bass—the guy was amazing). He’d moved to New York from the D.C. area a few years before, after finishing college, and had immediately started playing the clubs and hotel lounges with a small ensemble.
His group, Four on the Floor, had an excellent sound—I’d seen them live a few times and they’d put out two CDs, which we often played in the evenings at the Blend, along with CDs he’d bring in from his own impressive collection. For my money, however, the best thing about Gardner being a musician was his affinity for night hours. He was always alert and alive in the evenings when he arrived for barista work, which was pretty much any night his ensemble didn’t have a gig.
I hadn’t yet changed out of my Jackie O disguise, and the customers obviously found it amusing. As I served up a doppio espresso and a skinny vanilla lat with wings (i.e., a double espresso and a vanilla latte made with skim milk and extra foam) Gardner shook his head and said, “I swear, C.C., you should wear that get-up for the Village Halloween parade.”
“Don’t laugh at your boss, Gardner, it’s demoralizing. Besides, don’t you think I’m just a little bit credible as a Jackie O type?”
He responded by laughing harder.
I raised an eyebrow. “You know, mister, you’re treading a very fine line. Maybe you should start restocking the cupboards—that should dampen your levity.”
But as he turned for the pantry, his chuckles failed to fade.
Matteo returned just then, still toweling his hair dry. “My shoes are ruined. Italian leather. I could strangle Lebreaux for that alone.” He dropped into one of the tall swivel chairs at the coffee bar.
Behind the espresso machine, I dumped the cake of used grounds and rinsed the portafilter, packed more of our freshly ground Mocha Java inside it, tamped it, clamped it, and began to draw two new shots. I poured each into a cream-colored demitasse, added a twist of lemon for my ex-husband, and a bit of sugar for myself.
After a fortifying hit of caffeine, I finally asked, “Matt, what was that fight all about exactly?”
“Fight?” Gardner asked, returning to the counter with an armload of cups, lids, and heat sleeves. “Did I hear the word ‘fight’?”
Matt made a sour face. “It was just a scuffle—”
“You were trading blows with the guy,” I pointed out. “And in front of your mother, too.”
Gardner lifted his eyebrows and gave Matt a closer look. “Really?”
“Yes,” I said. “Really.”
“Cool,” said Gardner, sounding impressed.
“No. Not cool,” I said.
Gardner shrugged and went to work restocking.
“But, Clare,” said Matt. “Lebreaux insulted my mother—”
“No,” I pointed out, “he insulted you.”
“You weren’t even there for most of it.”
“That’s why I asked you to enlighten me,” I said.
“Remember when Lebreaux was pushing my mother to franchise the Blend label? Well, after she shut him down and we exposed his little scheme to take over this coffeehouse, Eduardo apparently gave up coffee and went to Asia. He hooked up with a Chinese tea concern. Now he’s importing and marketing specialty teas in partnership with a very wealthy family in Thailand.”
I took another sip of my espresso. “Nothing wrong with that. Does he want to open tea shops?”
“More like kiosks within existing businesses—specifically upscale department stores and high-fashion boutiques. Sound familiar?”
Replace tea with coffee and it was the very concept Matt was proposing. “It’s a wonder you didn’t murder Lebreaux on the spot.”
“Instead, I was very mature about the whole thing. I mean, Tad could have warned me, but when I thought it over, I realized he’d included two magazines in tonight’s investment presentation like-up and two designer labels. Each had their own business plan and unique approach, and when he first scheduled the seminar, he actually thought Lebreaux and I had distinct enough products—tea versus coffee.”
“That’s crazy,” I replied. “You’re both going after the same real estate to set up shop.”
“Yeah, well, we weren�
��t at first. Lebreaux’s initial prospectus had mentioned nothing about kiosks. He was seeking investments for straightforward importing only—to supply existing tea shops and specialty gourmet food stores with his imported Asian teas. But one week ago, he changed his business plan to include ‘tea kiosks inside high-end department stores and clothing boutiques.’”
“One week ago!”
“Clare, obviously, he stole my idea and meant to go head-to-head with me. When he started to make a stink about making his presentation first, he was told we’d go on alphabetically. That’s when he blew his top. Made threats. Accused me of stealing his idea, which I suspect was his plan all along—to discredit me in public. That’s when I had a few words for him—words, I swear, only words—and his hired thug dragged me out onto the deck…”
I sighed. “I believe you, Matt. Lebreaux is an expensively dressed snake. And his bodyguard was the one who got physical first, so I doubt he’ll try to file any charges.”
“His man wouldn’t cooperate anyway. The guy was tough, but he couldn’t swim to save his life.” Matt shook his head. “I ended up keeping him afloat until the crew dragged us aboard again.”
“You’re kidding.”
“He actually thanked me before we got ashore.”
I smiled. “Well, at least someone in this place avoided prosecution this week.” My remark began as a joke, but it reminded both of us of Tucker’s plight and brought us down again.
“Doesn’t matter,” he replied. “I saw Mother’s face before I went overboard, so maybe it’s for the best. The Blend still belongs to her.”
I was about to tell him what Madame had told me—that she was actually pleased her son was finally taking an interest in the future of the business, even taking it to a new level, though it was not where she would have chosen to go with it. But I stopped myself from saying a word. I assumed Madame herself would want to break that news to her son—and that Matt would prefer to hear it directly from his mother instead of through his ex-wife.
