by Cleo Coyle
“Just do it, Matt. Please.”
“Sorry. That I can’t promise.”
“But—”
“Tell you what,” Matt said. “Before I leave, I’ll suggest to Joy that she bring Keitel with her to our launch tasting on Friday. Then you can ‘check him out’ yourself. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now will you please just go back to the Blend. Make yourself a nice doppio espresso. I’m sure once you have a little caffeine in your veins, you’ll see the world in a whole new light.”
I did as Matt suggested. After dropping Madame off at her apartment building and leaving a third voicemail message for Ellie, I went back to my coffeehouse, downed a double espresso, and tried to focus on Friday. There was certainly plenty to do for the Beekman Hotel party, and I began to do it.
SEVENTEEN
TWO nights later, the last thing I expected to see was a body plunging from the twenty-sixth floor balcony of a New York City landmark. But that’s exactly how the “fun” ended for me that evening—not to mention the person who’d splashed onto the concrete right in front of my eyes.
Yes, I said “splash.”
Drop a water balloon on the sidewalk from twenty-plus floors, and you’ll get a pretty good approximation of what I’d heard, since I actually didn’t see the impact.
Mike Quinn told me that because people have bones and aren’t just a bag of fluid, they don’t explode so much as compress into something still recognizably human . . . but I’m getting ahead of myself . . .
THINGS started out well enough the night of the Gostwick Estate Reserve Decaf launch party at the Beekman. My baristas for the evening, Tucker, Esther, Gardner, and Dante, had all arrived at the hotel on time. They’d even dressed appropriately.
Matt had suggested long sleeve white shirts, black slacks, black shoes, and our blue Village Blend aprons. Only Dante had violated the dress code by wearing bright red Keds. I let his artistic statement pass without comment. He was a great barista, I was short staffed, and I never believed in stifling creative expression—even if it was just a pair of shoes.
The Beekman Tower Hotel was located on Forty-ninth Street and First Avenue, which was the extreme East Side of Manhattan, close to the river, and next door to the United Nations plaza. Built in 1928, the Beekman was one of the city’s true art deco masterpieces, the fawn brown stone giving it a distinctive facade amid the gray steel of the city’s more modern skyscrapers.
The Upper East Side address was in one of the city’s most exclusive neighborhoods, and because the Beekman was literally steps away from the UN, it hosted more than its share of foreign dignitaries along with upscale leisure travelers.
Two small elevators delivered us to the Top of the Tower, the hotel’s penthouse restaurant. The event space was elegantly appointed with a polished floor of forest green tile and walls of muted sandstone. A dark wood bar was located to the right, a grand piano to the left, but the dominating feature was the panoramic view. Burgundy curtains had been pulled back to reveal Midtown Manhattan’s glimmering lights beyond soaring panes of thick glass. A narrow, open-air balcony, accessed from the side of the room, jutted out just below the tall windows, allowing guests a bracing breath of fresh air.
As soon as we arrived, my baristas began unpacking the fragile French presses and the two hundred Village Blend coffee cups—not the usual paper but porcelain, which we specifically used when catering. I checked in with the kitchen manager, one floor below, then visited the ladies’ room, and when I returned to the Top of the Tower event space, I found my staff embroiled in another caf versus decaf discussion.
“I know why we’re here tonight, but this whole anti-caffeine movement offends me,” Esther grumbled. “Creative artists have thrived on the stuff for centuries.”
“Word,” said Gardner.
“I know an artist who actually paints with coffee,” Dante noted. He folded and unfolded his arms, as if he were itching to roll up his long sleeves and show off his tattoos. “But I’d say artists and coffee have gone together for a long time. Take Café Central . . .”
“What’s that?” Tucker asked. “More competition for the Blend?”
Dante laughed. “Café Central was the hangout for painters in turn-of-the-century Austria.”
I smiled, remembering my art history classes. “Klimt hung out there, right?”
“That’s right, Ms. Cosi,” Dante said.
It made sense that Dante admired Gustav Klimt. The artist created works on surfaces beyond traditional canvas. He’d also been a founding member of the Vienna Secession, a group of late nineteenth century artists who were primarily interested in exploring the possibilities of art outside the confines of academic tradition. “To every age its art and to art its freedom” was their motto.
“Lev Bronstein hung out at Café Central, too,” Dante added.
“Lev who?” Tucker asked.
Dante shifted back and forth on his red Keds. “He’s better known as Leon Trotsky.”
“Oh, Trotsky!” Tucker cried, nodding, then began to sing: “Don’t turn around . . . the Kommissar’s in town . . . and drinking lattes!”
I burst out laughing.
Esther, Gardner, and Dante just stared. Apparently, they were too young to remember “Der Kommissar.”
“It’s old New Wave,” I tried to explain. “A pop eighties send-up of cold war communism—”
Tucker waved his hand. “Don’t even try, Clare.”
Good god, I thought. Did I actually use the phrase “old” New Wave?
Folding his arms, Tucker leaned his lanky form against the bar. “Well, artists and political revolutionaries aren’t the only caffeine addicts. Did you know when David Lynch is directing a film, he downs bottomless pots of coffee and gallons of double chocolate milkshakes to maintain a constant caffeine buzz?”
“And did you know Honoré de Balzac drank forty cups a day?” Esther noted. After a rather long pause in the conversation, she felt the need to add: “Balzac was a nineteenth-century French writer.”
Tucker rolled his eyes. “You may not remember ‘Der Kommissar,’ Esther, but we know who Balzac is. . . . Now are you sure you know who David Lynch is? Or do Holly-wood movies offend your literary sensibilities?”
Esther narrowed her eyes as she adjusted her black glasses. “Actually, Lynch is an acceptable postmodern filmmaker. His short films are particularly effective.”
Tucker threw up his hands. “Well, I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear you approve.”
Gardner stroked his goatee. “Lynch also uses coffee as an image system. You can see it in Twin Peaks and especially Mulholland Drive.”
Esther, Tucker, Dante, and even I stared for a moment in dumbfounded silence.
We were used to hearing Gardner discuss music theory or bebop versus West Coast jazz, but we’d never heard him wax philosophical about “image systems” in film before.
“What gives?” Tucker asked, raising an eyebrow.
Gardner shrugged. “My new girlfriend works at the Museum of the Moving Image, and she likes Lynch. Anyway, she’s right. If you watch his movies, you’ll see the guy’s seriously into coffee.”
“I wish my new boyfriend were as well connected as your new girlfriend,” Tucker said with a sigh. “If she hears about any new TV series in pre-production over at Astoria Studios let me know, okay? Off-Broadway’s good for the artistic soul, but I need a paycheck like my last one.”
I cleared my throat and gestured in the direction of the two elevators, where a group of men and women were waving their invitations.
“Speaking of paychecks,” I told my staff, “it’s time we earned ours.”
The space filled steadily after that. I acted as the hostess, greeting each new elevator full of people as it arrived. Matt should have been doing this, but although he’d arrived looking gorgeous in a sharply tailored black dinner jacket, he was now talking constantly on his cell phone.
Tonight’s guests were culled from a list that i
ncluded trade magazine writers and food critics from many nations, all of them looking for a brand new angle or a breakout product while they covered the International Coffee Growers Exhibition. These men wore jackets and ties, the women tailored business suits.
Convention attendees and members of international coffee cartels were far more affluent, and generally arrived in evening clothes, their escorts or obscenely young trophy wives resplendent in shimmering gowns—an indication they had more elegant parties to attend after the tasting ended.
Local chefs had been invited as well. I spotted celebrity chef Robbie Gray. His famous restaurant, Anatomy, featured delicacies made of organ bits. Basically, the man had become famous serving animal parts most American housewives wouldn’t be caught dead feeding to anything but the garbage disposal, but his three-star rating was no joke, and if he liked what he tasted tonight, the Blend could land a lucrative contract to provide him with our micro-roasted Gostwick Estate Reserve Decaf.
To keep Robbie and the rest of the arriving guests in a jovial mood, we began to serve brie, a variety of wines, and Italian sesame cookies—delicate nibbles that wouldn’t hijack anyone’s taste buds. Before the actual tasting of the Gostwick Decaf, we would serve glasses of sparkling water so guests could clear their palate.
After about twenty minutes of greeting guests, I was becoming annoyed. I was supposed to be helping Matt and Ric throw this press tasting, not running the show solo. But Matt continued to keep his ear glued to his phone. Finally, as I moved to greet yet another batch of arrivals, Ric stepped up to take over. With a nod, I returned to the bar.
A few minutes later, I noticed Matt’s mother exiting the elevator. Madame’s escort this evening was her longtime beau, Gary McTavish. The good doctor looked quite dashing in a dark suit and Scottish plaid waistcoat. Madame was dressed stylishly, as well, in a charcoal cocktail dress trimmed in silver, her necklace and earrings simple delicate twists of platinum. Instead of her usual relaxed, confident self, however, she appeared agitated.
Ric was busy with a small crowd, and Matt was still doing some sort of business. He’d failed to greet her with even a wave, his ear still plastered to that damn cell phone. I quickly moved from behind the bar to welcome the senior pair. To my surprise, the usually friendly Dr. McTavish barely acknowledged my presence with a nod.
“Some wine?” he tightly asked Madame.
“Perhaps later,” she replied.
McTavish raised a gray-white eyebrow. “Another pleasure postponed?” he tossed off before heading for the bar.
The two were obviously fighting about something. “What’s the good doctor peeved about?” I whispered.
“Never mind,” said Madame. “Tell me what’s happening with your friend, Ellie. Has she called you back yet?”
I shook my head. “I’ve left messages for two days now. She hasn’t returned one call.”
“Did your messages include the fact that you think her husband is having her followed?”
“Yes. At first, I didn’t want to drop a bombshell like that on a voicemail message, but I had no choice. I felt she needed to know . . .”
“I agree. From what we witnessed at the hotel, Ellie and Ric aren’t fooling anyone, and we don’t know what sort of man her husband really is.”
“I’m worried about her.”
“Do you think her husband would turn violent?”
“That’s the problem. I need to speak with Ellie to find out more. And after that, I plan on speaking with Ric, too. Matt doesn’t want me to upset him, and I’ll be as polite as I can, but I’d honestly like to know what Ric’s intentions are towards Ellie. He’s either planning to leave her again. Or . . .”
“Or what?”
“He’s making plans for their future together.”
“What do you mean plans? Plans of marriage?”
“Maybe.”
Madame groaned. “If that’s true, there must be something in the air.”
“What do you mean?”
She shook her head. “Gary asked me to marry him. That’s why he’s in a foul mood.”
“But that’s wonderful news. Why would he be in a— wait, what did you tell him? Did you turn him down?”
“I’m thinking it over.”
“You’ve been dating the man for more than a year. He’s an intelligent, accomplished, respected oncologist with the sex appeal of Sean Connery. He’s got a romantic Scottish lilt and actually looks good in a ceremonial kilt—what’s to think about?”
“You don’t understand. Gary’s giving up his position at the hospital in a few months. He wants to move to an exclusive community in Albuquerque. Can you believe it?”
“I hear New Mexico’s beautiful.”
“It’s the desert. What will I do with myself? Listen to coyotes bay all night? Head out to the chuck wagon in the morning to rustle up chicken fried steak?”
I began to laugh, and then realized Madame wasn’t joking. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why Albuquerque?”
“Gary has some friends who’ve retired there and say they love it. He wants to take up golf and the community has a golf course.”
“And you don’t want to golf?”
“I see no point in spending hours hitting a tiny white ball with a stick.”
“I’m sure he has other plans for his retirement.”
“He wants to try camping, too.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“It sounds dreadful.”
“But what about all those trips to the bush you took with Matt’s father? You loved those adventures.”
“I trekked the wilderness—in my youth. I have no desire to sleep among cacti on a cold desert rock at this age. I want to die from dancing the Argentine tango, Clare, not a rattlesnake bite.”
“Oh, come on. You know there’s plenty of culture in a city the size of Albuquerque. Art galleries, concerts, even Broadway shows—”
“But not the original casts. The only show out of New York that doesn’t use a touring company is the Big Apple Circus.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet.” She began rubbing her temples. “I was ambushed. The man didn’t even have the decency to hint at what was coming, so I told him I had to think it over.”
I tipped a glance at the bar. The good doctor was knocking back his wine rather quickly. “I can see how well that went over.”
She pulled me closer and lowered her voice. “To be perfectly honest, I think it’s unwise to settle down so soon. I’d really like to start playing the field.”
Playing the field at eighty? I thought. Coming from anyone else, I might have doubled over with laughter, but the woman just had a summer fling in the Hamptons with an elderly artist. She wasn’t kidding.
Madame’s gaze shifted to Matt. “Has my son had that phone surgically grafted to his ear?”
I shrugged. “I’m sure it’s important business.”
“So he’s not talking to that woman.”
“No. She’s already here.” I gestured to Breanne Summour. She was standing alone, near the enormous windows, gazing out at the view, the crystal stem of a wine glass pinched in her French-tipped fingers.
Gary McTavish returned; each hand held a glass—one a German Riesling and the other a California Pinot Noir. “Are you sure you wouldn’t care to indulge?” he asked Madame, offering her either.
Madame shook her head. Gary downed the Pinot Noir in a single gulp and started sipping the Riesling.
Madame exhaled in disgust.
“I’ve got to go,” I chirped uneasily, relieved to be escaping the immediate vicinity of the not-so-happy couple.
I circulated for a few minutes and noticed Dante Silva was the only barista who didn’t seem to be busy. He stood with a tray of empty glasses in his hand, watching a new group of people arrive on one of the elevators.
“Dante?”
He jerked, startled. The glasses clinked together on the tray and he reached out with one hand to steady
them.
“Sorry, Ms. Cosi—”
“Why are you so jumpy?”
Dante shrugged. “Just nerves, I guess.”
I studied his expression. Dante seemed as uneasy as Madame. “Did somebody ask to marry you?”
“What?”
“Forget it. Could you grab another tray of brie and sesame cookies from the kitchen, and make another round?”
Dante did a bobblehead impression. “Will do.”
I relieved him of his burden and carried the spent glasses to the bar. Tucker was standing behind it, opening bottles of sparkling water and pouring them into crystal tumblers.
Ric Gostwick approached me from across the room. He glanced at his watch. “Have you seen Ellie?” he whispered.
“I haven’t, and I’m looking for her, too. Hasn’t she been staying with you at the V Hotel?”
Ric frowned. “No, of course not. She’s married.”
“Yes, but . . . didn’t Matt talk to you? About the private investigator . . .”
Ric turned his frown into a smile, but his eyes narrowed and his body appeared to tense. He touched my arm and leaned closer. “Matt spoke to me, Clare, but I’d appreciate it if you’d drop all of that tonight. This isn’t the time or place . . . and, just so you know, Ellie and I are affectionate. We hug and kiss . . . but we’re not sleeping together.” He held my eyes, shook his handsome dark head. “The day you saw us, she merely came to the hotel to update me on our work; but, of course, I can see how you might have misunderstood.”
It was my turn to tense. Misunderstanding was one thing, but Ric was trying to sell me on the idea that two plus two equaled five. “It’s just that Ellie never returned my calls,” I said carefully, “and I wanted to make sure she got my messages.”
“She got them, Clare. I saw her a short time ago.”
“You did? Where?”
Ric looked away. He shrugged. “Just on the street. She was in Manhattan already, but she had some errands to run before coming to our tasting.”
“What sort of errands? What part of Manhattan?”
