by Cleo Coyle
Ric didn’t answer, not directly. Instead, he checked his watch again. “She should have been here by now. I tried calling her mobile phone, but her voicemail answered. I can’t imagine what’s keeping her.”
“Well, I did spot her assistant, Norbert,” I said. “He arrived about ten minutes ago. Maybe you can ask him if he knows where she is?”
Ric made a face at the mention of Norbert’s name. He scanned the room, rubbed his closely-shaved chin. “Let’s just hold off the tasting, give her another fifteen minutes.”
“Of course.”
Ric gently squeezed my upper arm. “Thank you, Clare. I’m very lucky to have your help tonight. Would you mind very much asking your staff to open more bottles of wine? And maybe serve more of those delightful little cookies. I’ll—”
“Darling, there you are . . .”
A woman’s voice interrupted us, the word “darling” stretched out in an accent that sounded something like Marlene Dietrich’s, without the Old World charm.
The moment he heard it, Ric’s tense expression morphed. He smoothly removed his hand from my arm. Like an actor slipping into the role of his career, he transformed his entire demeanor from anxious host to easygoing charmer.
“Ah, Monika, my love . . .”
I studied the arriving woman. I’d never seen her before. She was fashion-model tall with high cheekbones, full lips, and narrow, catlike eyes of ice blue. Her golden hair was elegantly styled into a neat chignon and her milky complexion wouldn’t have needed much airbrushing for a magazine cover. But she was a bit too heavy and a decade too old to be a working model now. Hands on hips, she cocked her head and offered Ric a coy half-smile.
“Federico,” she sang, glancing briefly at me with undisguised disdain. “What are you up to? Flirting with the help?”
I was a business partner here, not “the help.” Unfortunately, Ric didn’t bother correcting the woman. Instead, he turned his back on me, took one of the woman’s hands in his and placed it to his lips—just as I’d seen him do with Ellie two days ago.
“I wasn’t sure you were coming,” he said.
“What do you mean? How could I miss tonight?” She looped her arm around his bicep.
“May I get you some wine?” Ric asked.
The woman tightened her grip, pulling his body closer. “And let you out of my sight? Never.”
They toddled off like Siamese twins, moving across the crowded room. I might have dismissed the woman as an old friend or past lover, but the way she was pawing him up, it certainly looked as though the relationship hadn’t been left in the past.
I returned to the bar and spoke to my staff, asking them to make another round or two with the wine. Then I sought out Madame again.
“Do you see that woman?” I whispered. “The one with Ric? Do you know her?”
“That’s Monika Van Doorn,” Madame informed me. “I knew her late father quite well.”
“And he is?”
“Joren Riij.”
“Sorry, should I know that name?”
“Joren was the founder and CEO of Dutch Coffee International, a distributor based in Amsterdam.”
“You said ‘was.’ Did he retire?”
“He passed away about a year ago, left the controlling interest in his company to his only child—that woman you pointed out, Mrs. Van Doorn. She’s the daughter of his second wife, Rachel . . . or was it his third? You know, I’m not sure who her mother—”
“So Monika Van Doorn distributes coffee?”
“Oh, yes. Dutch International is a major distributor in the Central European and Eastern European markets. They haven’t had as much success in the European Union.” Madame leaned close to my ear. “Inferior beans,” she whispered. “For years, they’ve sacrificed quality for a higher profit margin. And their buyer has a less than brilliant palate.”
Madame and I continued to watch Monika. Now she was whispering in Ric’s ear, and when she finished, the tip of her pink tongue flicked out to touch his earlobe.
“You referred to her as ‘Mrs.,’ ” I whispered. “Is she married or divorced?”
“She’s married,” Madame replied, arching an eyebrow, “but she certainly doesn’t behave that way, does she?” Squinting a little, she searched the room. “That’s her husband, over there: Neils Van Doorn. He’s the handsome blond chatting with that young woman.”
I followed Madame’s gaze to an attractive man with Nordic features and light blond hair hanging down rakishly past the collar of his Egyptian cotton shirt. He had a lean build, a striking smile, and his clothes screamed fashion house. The tailored suit of dark bronze with that Japanese silk print tie probably cost more than the Blend took in on an average day. Tucker would have pegged him “GQ Man,” for sure.
Neils didn’t appear to mind his wife’s aggressive flirtation with Ric. Either that, or he was so busy showering attention on the lovely young reporter from Taiwan that he hadn’t noticed.
“So the Van Doorns are here for the coffee exhibition?” I asked Madame.
“Yes, of course. You know, I was a friend of Monika’s father for so many years, I’m still on Dutch International’s guest list for their big costume party tomorrow night. The Village will be a madhouse, of course.”
“Oh, right . . . Halloween . . .”
I’d been so busy, I’d almost forgotten the date, but Madame was right. Thousands of people would be pouring into Greenwich Village on October 31st for the annual Halloween Parade. If you were a resident, you either joined in the fun or got out of Dodge because there was no escaping the wall-to-wall throng of costumed revelers.
“If it were any other ICGE party, I’d skip it,” said Madame. “But there are a few old friends of Joren I’m hoping to see there.”
“Getting back to what you said about the buyer . . . that he has an inferior palate—”
“No, no. I said their problem was inferior beans and a buyer who has a less than brilliant palate. He’s competent, of course, but nowhere near as sharp as you and Matt.”
“Is Monika’s husband over there . . . Neils? Is he their buyer?”
Madame laughed. “Neils has nothing to do with our industry. Or any industry, as far as I know.”
“He’s a playboy?”
“I believe he raced cars once and skied in the Olympics two decades ago.” Madame shrugged. “Joren was dismissive of his son-in-law. He referred to him once as Monika’s toy. The pair of them live on Aruba. It’s Dutch controlled, as you know, although too dry and flat to grow coffee. I understand they enjoy the Caribbean lifestyle, and when they grow bored of the beach and casinos, they either come to New York or fly to Rio.”
“But what is she doing here at this party?” I asked. “This event is supposed to be for international press or potential Blend clients, not other coffee distributors. Did you invite her, Madame?”
“Me? Good heavens, no.” She lowered her voice. “The truth is, I enjoyed the company of her father. He was a real gentleman, but Monika . . . how shall I put it? When the woman’s not acting like a total snob, she’s talking like a total—”
Madame was about to continue when we were interrupted by an explosion of activity near the elevators. We both heard a loud shout over the noise in the room.
“You can leave on your own, or I’ll gladly throw you out of this building myself!”
The voice belonged to Matt, and he sounded furious.
EIGHTEEN
“I better see what’s wrong,” I told Madame.
I tried to cross the room, but it was slow going. The guests were packing the place by now, and I was too short to see over most of them.
“Did you hear me?!” Matt shouted.
“Get your hands off me,” another man loudly replied, the accent sounding Spanish. “Or I swear to you . . . !”
“Are you threatening me?!” Matt again.
I still couldn’t see anything as I continued to squeeze through the mob. “Excuse me! Pardon me!”
Fin
ally, I broke through the human wall. I saw my ex-husband facing off with a man half his age. The stranger had a thick moustache, curly black hair that just touched his ears, and an athletic build that rivaled Matt’s. I didn’t recognize the stranger, and apparently someone behind me didn’t, either, because I heard a woman ask, “Who is that?”
“That’s Carlos Hernandez,” another woman replied.
“Who?” I turned to find two young women, one a brunette, the other a redhead, both dressed in business suits. They looked like members of the invited press. “Does one of you know that man?” I asked them.
“Not personally,” the brunette replied. “His picture was in ‘Page Six’ last week. Carlos Hernandez is the nephew of Victor Hernandez. You know, the socialist dictator of Costa Gravas?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of him,” I assured her. “So why was his picture in the paper? I didn’t see the Post last week.”
“He’s here as part of a UN delegation. He joined in a coalition with the new socialist governments in Venezuela and Bolivia to pass a resolution opposed by the United States, but the paper was more interested in covering his extracurricular activities.”
“His what?”
“He’s here on his government’s dime, but he spent two hundred thousand dollars celebrating the resolution’s passage in a New York City strip club.”
Matt’s voice was still loud and angry. And Carlos Hernandez was still refusing to leave. He tried to step around Matt, but my ex moved quickly to block the man. Hernandez muttered something under his breath. I couldn’t hear the words, but Matteo did and he became even angrier.
“You’ve got nerve showing up here!” Matt’s face was flushed, the tendons quivering on his tanned neck. “You and your uncle are nothing but glorified thugs! You stole the Gostwicks’ plantation—land that family’s farmed for generations! You took it away by force, without a penny of remuneration!”
Oh, this is peachy, I thought. My ex was about to cause an international incident within spitting distance of the UN.
I looked around for some help. Only then did I notice Tucker standing right beside me. I pleaded with my eyes for him to step in and end the stalemate, but Tuck didn’t get the message. He just kept staring at the bickering men with fascinated glee.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” he said. “A pair of fiery Latins in designer suits. It looks like an outtake from Scarface!”
“No, Tuck,” I mumbled. “It looks like we’ve got Der real Kommissar in town.”
Madame appeared just then. She was moving toward Matt from one direction. Breanne was closing in from another. The two women’s eyes met and they both stopped dead in their tracks, just short of their goal.
I guess that leaves little old me.
If I didn’t step in, Matt was going to flatten this guy— unless Hernandez flattened Matt first. Either way, it was a lose-lose situation for my ex because Hernandez would certainly have diplomatic immunity. That realization spurred me forward. If nobody else was going to stop this, then I would!
I launched myself out of the crowd—only to be jostled aside as Federico Gostwick pushed by me.
“Back away, Matteo,” Ric warned, stepping up to face Hernandez.
“Oh, god,” I whispered, and held my breath. A silence fell over the room. Everyone in the know wondered what Ric Gostwick would do to the nephew of the man who’d exiled his family and destroyed their legacy.
“Let me handle this, my friend,” Ric told Matt. His tone actually sounded calm and reasonable.
The tendons in Matt’s neck continued to twitch, but he didn’t move. A tense moment passed. Finally, Matt stepped away.
I expected him to stick around, but he didn’t. Pushing past Hernandez, he stormed towards the stairwell door, which I knew would take him directly down one flight to the restaurant’s kitchen.
“First, let me apologize for my friend’s reaction,” Ric said to Hernandez. “Matteo has only my best interests at heart.”
Ric scanned the faces in the room. When he spoke again, his voice was loud enough for everyone to hear. “Let me also say that everyone is welcome to this tasting—” He turned back to Hernandez. “Most especially a representative of the nation that was once my home, and a land I still love. In fact, Mr. Hernandez might actually benefit from witnessing the progress free men achieve when they are permitted to keep the results of their labor.”
A smattering of applause greeted Ric’s words. He nodded, accepting the support. Then he placed his hand on Carlos Hernandez’s shoulder. “Please enjoy the tasting.”
As Ric personally led Hernandez into the restaurant, I found Gardner Evans. “Do me a huge favor, Gardner?”
“What’s that, Clare?”
I took his tray from him and pointed to the grand piano at the side of the room. “Play something.”
“Sure . . . Anything in particular?”
“Upbeat.”
He smiled. “I’ve got just the tune for this crowd.” Gardner sat down and began playing jazz riffs on the song “Java Jive.”
The tension was finally broken, and the room’s buzz of conversations resumed. A few minutes later, Ric found me. “Help me out, love,” he whispered, pulling me close. “Ellie hasn’t arrived yet and we can’t wait any longer. Find Matt. Tell him I’ll need his help during the presentation.”
“All right.”
Ric released me, and I moved through the crowd, making a beeline for the door to the stairs. I found Matt in the stairwell, on the damned cell phone again. I folded my arms and waited for the conversation to end. I could tell Matt wanted privacy, but I refused to budge. After listening for a moment, he interrupted the speaker.
“Look, I have to go. I’ll call you back in twenty minutes.” Obviously still boiling with anger, he closed the phone and glared at me.
Hands on hips, I glared back. “Matt, for heaven’s sake, what’s gotten into you?”
“Not now, Clare,” he snapped. Matt tried to brush past me, but this time I was the person doing the blocking.
“Oh, no,” I said. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s wrong. This is your big night, yet you’ve been on the phone since you arrived. You hardly said hello to your mother, and you haven’t lifted a finger to help with this party. And then you instigate an international incident with a relative of a Latin American dictator? It’s crazy. Irrational.”
“Clare, I—”
“Do you want to get us all in trouble?”
“I’m brokering a big deal, Clare. The timing is bad, but it can’t be helped.”
“You’re brokering coffee now?”
Matt shrugged and looked away. “Not everyone is in the same time zone.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said. “But I don’t have time to figure out what you’ve really been up to. You’re needed upstairs. Ellie Lassiter is a no-show, and Ric wants your help to begin the presentation.”
Without another word, Matt climbed the steps. I watched his broad back rise then disappear through the heavy, metal door. With a sigh, I collapsed against the cold stone wall and massaged my throbbing head.
A young sous chef from the room service staff appeared in the hallway. Noticing my distress, she asked if I wanted something to drink.
“I could use an aspirin,” I replied.
“No problem. Come on in.”
I followed the girl into the crowded kitchen. We kept to the edges of the busy room, away from the ovens and grills.
“Here,” she said, shaking two pills into my palm. Then she poured me a cool glass of a syrupy golden beverage to take with the medicine. “Apricot nectar,” she explained.
She wasn’t much older than Joy, and she projected that same kind of sweetness I saw in my daughter, despite her pierced tongue and scarlet hair under a mesh net.
She pointed to the apricot drink. “My grandmother swears by the stuff.”
I knocked back the pills and the nectar, which actually did make me feel a little better. I thanked the girl a
nd headed back upstairs, arriving just in time to help Tucker close the burgundy curtains that framed the plate glass windows. Ric wanted to block the stunning view of midtown skyscrapers so his audience would focus solely on his presentation.
As Tucker and I brought the curtains together, I glanced outside. Rain showers were moving in over the city, and dark clouds were forming all around us. The omen wasn’t lost on me.
Between Ellie abandoning Ric at the last minute and Matt causing a scene with a visiting dignitary, I had a dreadful premonition that the gathering clouds would bring more than one storm before the night was done.
NINETEEN
“I’M sure everyone here knows that the market for decaffeinated coffee has exploded in the past few decades. One in five coffee consumers prefer it at least some of the time . . .”
While Ric spoke, I oversaw the preparation of the French presses at the bar. The Gostwick Estate beans had been burred in the kitchen to spare the guests any unpleasant noise. Now my baristas were pouring steaming water over the grounds, sending the aroma of the rich, earthy decaffeinated beans through the crowd.
“The decaffeination process was started in Germany over a century ago,” Ric continued. “Though effective, it is far from a perfect method.”
Ric was a natural salesman. He moved around the room with ease, holding the attention of a jaded audience, most of whom had heard more than their share of presentations and sales pitches.
“Refinements and new techniques have been made, but all of these technological processes—Swiss Water, Royal Select, the solvent method, or pressurized gas—rob the bean of its freshness and complexity, its pleasing gusto.” He stopped and grinned. “At my family’s estate in Brazil, I think we’ve discovered a better way.”
Matt stepped forward, holding the cutting. The sprig had been planted in a mocha-colored ceramic pot filled with topsoil. It seemed like such a small thing, yet it had the potential to transform the coffee industry, not to mention put processing plants in Switzerland and Mexico out of business.
“As you can see from this cutting, the hybrid I developed is not a typical arabica. I used another variety of the genus Coffea, crossbreeding and backcrossing with arabicas to create a wholly new, naturally decaffeinated variety of Coffea plant.”
