On What Grounds (Coffeehouse Mysteries, No. 1) (A Coffeehouse Mystery) (17 page)

“The Blend is my responsibility now,” I said as gently as I could to Madame. “Matt can go tonight—”

I noticed Quinn motioning me to come over to him. “Excuse me, Madame,” I said, then I turned to Matt. “Please make your mother that espresso.”

“What does he want now?” Matt asked quietly as I passed.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“More help slipping something into a hole, no doubt,” he muttered, disgusted.

I shot Matt the angriest look I could summon.

At the door, Quinn looked down at me. He seemed so tall now that we were standing so close to each other.

“I forgot to tell you something,” he said quietly. “Funny. It’s the reason I came by to see you in the first place.”

“What?” I asked.

He took my hand in his. My throat closed on me and my heart began pounding so hard, I was sure he’d think I was having an attack. But it wasn’t anything close to what I’d imagined was happening—

“Here,” he said.

I felt a small, hard object being placed into my palm.

“It’s caffeine,” he said.

I looked down. Cradled in my hand was Matt’s vial of white powder. The one Langley thought was cocaine—and Quinn thought could go either way.

“So there it is,” said Quinn, lifting his chin in the direction of Matt. “He was telling the truth.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

“S’okay,” he turned. “And, uh, thanks for the coffee.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, then watched his tall, trenchcoated form exit the Blend and negotiate the traffic across Hudson. I held up the vial and found myself wondering why the man almost forgot to tell me something he’d come here in the first place to tell me—unless he didn’t
want
to tell me.

“It’s at the Waldorf,” said Madame.

He didn’t want to tell me, I continued to consider, but he’d told me anyway.

“What’s that?” I asked, walking back to the coffee bar.

“I said you must come, Clare. The auction tonight. It’s at the Waldorf.”

Matt looked at me, mouthed “Anabelle’s mother is staying at the Waldorf,” and smiled. I nodded, thought of Quinn, and smiled for my own reasons.

“Okay, then,” I said. “I’ll come.”

“M
UMBLE
, mumble, mumble, LOVELY AFFAIR, mumble, mumble, BUT…”

Ah, yes, I thought with a tight smile. After the compliment, always beware the BUT.

The gaunt-cheeked Vera Wanged, second wife of a Fortune 100 executive, paused after her “BUT” and smiled. A small treasure in orthodontia now gleamed at me amid the itinerant babbling and clinking glasses of the Waldorf-Astoria’s four-story grand ballroom, site of state dinners, gala weddings, and historic press statements.

Above us, luminous chandeliers hung within a gilded balcony perimeter. Below us, the plushest burgundy carpet framed a blond wood dance floor. And on the horizon surrounding us, one hundred tables of ten were adorned in white raw silk, calla lilies, and glowing tapers.

The bartender was just finishing my Black Russian when this woman cornered me. Apparently, amid this crush of overdressed society types seeking alcoholic sus tenance, she had overheard a friend of Madame’s compliment me on my recent article on U.S. coffee consumption for the
Times Magazine,
thus, I was deemed “worth” speaking to.

I didn’t much want to speak to her, however, but I was unwilling to excuse myself (because, frankly, given what Matt and I were about to do, I
really
didn’t want to leave the bar without that black Russian!) so I found myself forced into playing Madame’s mumble game.

The mumble game was a handy little party tool Madame had taught me when I was a mere twenty-something newlywed. I was attending one of my first grand social functions and my nerves were about as steely as an underdone bread pudding.

“Listen for the HOT words,” she’d said.

“What do you mean, HOT words?” I’d asked, wringing the neck of my wine spritzer to within an inch of its life (wine spritzers and Asti Spumantis were about the extent of my cocktail repertoire back then).

“The hot words are the ones you can readily understand amid the mindless chatter and cacophony of party music,” she’d said. “They contain the actual meaning.”

“Oh, yes!” I cried with the zeal of a college sophomore. “My rhetoric professor talked about that! Isn’t that Marshall McLuhan? Hot and cold words? The medium is the message—”

“I’m not talking academic analysis, dear,” Madame had said with a dismissive wave. “I’m talking social intercourse. When you hear an annoying string of mumbles, don’t bother asking the people to repeat themselves. Mumbles are pointless parsley. Empty dressing. Listen for the meat, the heat—the words you can unequivocally hear. Respond to
that
. And don’t be excessively nice. These people are born bitchy. Show some backbone.”

So here I was almost twenty years later, continuing to practice what Madame had preached.

“Mumble mumble WOULD HAVE USED A DIFFERENT mumble,” continued the thirty-one-year-old debutante with the unused Ivy League degree and the blinding pair of Bulgari earrings that could readily have paid for my daughter’s entire culinary education. “…LIKE THE mumble mumble AT MY MOTHER’S mumble mumble. THAT WAS A SPECTACULAR mumble. UNFORGETTABLE. NOT THAT THIS ISN’T.”

“Well,” I said, “this IS a CHARITY auction, so I guess the important thing is that we REMEMBER to be GENEROUS.”

“OH, WELL, mumble, mumble. MY HUSBAND’S COMPANY mumble, mumble FORTUNE 100 AND HIS mumble is GENEROUS WHEN IT COMES TO mumble!”

“FABULOUS!” I told her. “Because, you know,
THE NEW YORK TIMES
is here.”

“Oh, really?” she said with the same level of feline disinterest my Java would show toward a thick piece of bloody prime rib. “Are they?”

Yeah, sure, the entire Sunday Arts & Leisure section. Metro is holding their coats in the lobby.

“Clare!”

The call of Madame. Thank goodness. “Will you excuse me—”

I might have gotten away if the woman hadn’t dug her French manicure into my forearm.

“Did they send a PHOTOGRAPHER, do you know?
THE TIMES
?”

Curious. No mumbles there. Every single syllable perfectly pronounced.

I gave her a wide-eyed I-just-don’t-know shrug, un-hooked myself from the white-tipped claws, and with Black Russian firmly in hand, made a beeline for Madame.

Really, since the stock market’s turn-of-the-century plunge this sort of scene felt a lot more desperate. More like verbal hockey than a mumble game. Maybe I should take my inspiration from the Pittsburgh Penguins smacking it around on the Civic Arena ice of my youth—or as my prodigal father might put it—
What I wouldn’t give to high-stick some of these people.

Don’t get me wrong. Conversations at these things weren’t always so vacuous. Ask a Cooper Union professor to name his top ten favorite buildings in the world, and you’ve got an entire course in architecture appreciation in one thirty-minute conversation.

Or ask a dignified older couple how they met and before your eyes they’ve melted into twenty-year-olds reliving a chance meeting in postwar Paris or a nervous blind date in Central Park.

Ask a heart surgeon from Cedar Sinai to name the most important medical breakthroughs over the last five years; a Chase banker which types of small businesses are applying for loans this year; or a Berk and Lee publishing executive what books are on his or her nightstand, and presto! you have a fascinating quarter hour.

All I’m after is a person who is a lively
participant
in this world. The PAP is what I can’t abide. Park Avenue Princess. (And Prince, of course; the male version is just as bad.)

This type is either (1) new money and therefore filled with a missionary’s zeal to prove they have lots of it along with the high connections and refined tastes that go with it, or (2) old money and so content with their pedigree and trust fund they feel no need to make any effort on their end of the conversation.

The number twos are pretty much self-evident: They don’t speak. They just nod.

As for the number ones, Madame advised me to watch for name dropping and carping. According to her: “These people are operating on the theory that simply criticizing is criticism. That the more books, plays, artists, clothing designers, and restaurants they simply abhor (for no thoughtfully articulated reason), the more you will see them as being hard to please and therefore having the best of taste.”

Among the PAPs, there are also those who secretly realize they’ve failed at any real-world accomplishment beyond stockpiling loot and drawing down annuities, so they’ve solved their problem of having nothing to talk about by making conspicuous consumption their profession.

The following topics tend to dominate their conversations: pursuit of the perfect fill-in-the-blank (spa, tan, resort, hotel, golf course, restaurant, clothing designer, plastic surgeon, therapist, prescription drug); the care and feeding of your fur; and who’s purchased what house in the Hamptons.

Given that set of slap-happy topics, I for one didn’t have the bank account to play anything
but
the mumble game!

As I made my way over to Madame, black Russian in hand, I admired how regal she looked tonight. Her energy level was as amazing as ever, too. Despite her condition, she had decked herself out in a floor-length Oscar de la Renta with the loveliest lacework at the neck and sleeves. The mourning black wasn’t out of place here. Most of the women had worn it tonight, including me.

I hadn’t been to a function like this in years, of course, and tried to squeeze into an old cocktail dress—as embarrassing as that was. Madame took one look at me on her doorstep and snapped her fingers. Before I knew it, her personal maid was helping me don an off-the-shoulder Valentino of gauzy silk, twisting up my hair into a neat chignon, and adorning my exposed neck with a delicate antique necklace of emeralds, diamonds, and rubies crafted to appear as tiny linked rosebuds.

Now, at least, I
looked
as if I fit into a thousand-a-plate charity gig. This was crucial, considering what Matt and I had planned.

After we’d met Madame at her Fifth Avenue penthouse—and she’d dressed me with the glee of a vintage Barbie collector—we’d rode up here together in her private car and helped her check in.

“It will be a late night,” Madame had told us. “And I’d much rather take an elevator to my room at the end of the evening than a car downtown. Besides which, brunch is always a delight in Peacock Alley.” (One of the Waldorf’s classy-as-they-come restaurants. Really, their chestnut soup is to die for.)

Madame’s decision to check in for the night was actually very good luck for Matt and me. With access to a Waldorf-Astoria room key card, our plan was now foolproof. Or so we’d hoped.

“Clare, we’re at table five,” said Madame as I approached her.

Five out of one hundred, not bad, I thought. But it made perfect sense, given Madame’s high place on the ten-member organizing committee for this benefit.

“Which zip code?” I asked. There were one thousand attendees here. I feared I’d need a road map.

She gestured toward the front of the vast room, near the high stage, on which the silent auction items were being displayed next to individual boxes where bidders would deposit their written offers by the end of the evening. All the items had been donated by patrons. The bulk of them were antiques, objets d’art, or promised services (including a famous Food Channel chef who’d agreed to cater your next dinner party, and a celebrity singer who stood ready to serenade you tonight in a carriage ride around Central Park).

The funds raised would benefit various special programs at St. Vincent’s Hospital, a charity for which Madame’s earnest efforts now made more sense to me than ever since she was being treated for cancer there. In fact, as she and I approached table five, I was surprised to see her oncologist rising to greet us.

“Clare,” said Madame. “I’d like you to meet Dr. Gary McTavish.”

It was Doctor Gray-Temples all right. I had caught only a glimpse of the sixtyish man the other day, talking with Madame in the hospital corridor, as I rode the elevator up to see Anabelle in the ICU. He still had distinguished gray temples in a head of salt-and-peppered hair, boldly chiseled facial features, and a sturdy build, but tonight he’d exchanged his white coat for a black tie, red plaid vest, and black dinner jacket.

“Charmed, my dear,” he said, the slight Scottish brogue sealing the Sean Connery impression. “I’ve heard many good things about you.”

“Nice,”
I blurted as he bent over my hand. “I mean, uh…nice to meet you.”

Gray-Temples gave me a polite smile, then quickly focused his warm brown eyes back on Madame’s now-glowing face. “She’s charming, Blanche.”

Blanche,
I thought.
Hmmmm. Doctor and patient certainly have gotten chummy.

Gray-Temples then moved to the chair next to his, gallantly pulled it out, and gave Madame a flirty wink. “May I?”

Madame practically giggled. “You certainly may, Gary.”

Gary! Not even
Doctor
Gary.
Another
Hmmmmm
on my part.

The good doctor pulled out my chair next, but his eyes never left Madame’s.

I nervously glanced about, making sure Matt hadn’t arrived yet. He had a short fuse and a terribly protective streak with every woman in his life. Who knew what he’d do if he suspected his mother’s oncologist was trying to make time with her.

“Greetings, all,” said Matt about ten seconds later. He plopped into the empty seat between me and his mother. “Ready?” he whispered to me.

I took a fortifying sip of my black Russian.

“Now we’re all present and accounted for!” exclaimed Madame. “Everyone, this is my son Matt, and his wife, Clare—”

EX-wife, EX-wife, EX-wife!

No, I didn’t actually shout this over the tinkling piano music, burbling conversations, and discordant rhythmic bleepings of cell phones. Maintaining my composure, I tried instead to refocus my attention on sending another hit of coffee-flavored alcohol down my esophagus. Loving Madame as much as I did, I figured what the heck else could I do?

“—and let me introduce everyone else—”

There were seven other people at the table besides me, Matt, and Madame: Dr. Gray-Temples; Dr. Frankel, a middle-aged African-American doctor, and his corporate lawyer wife, Harriet; a St. Vincent’s administrative director named Mrs. O’Brien; a deputy city commissioner from the New York City Department of Health and Mental Hygiene named Marjorie Greenberg and her psychologist husband; and finally—

“Eduardo,” said Madame, gesturing to the man on my left. “Eduardo Lebreux.”

Why did the name sound familiar? I asked myself.

“Eduardo worked for my late husband,” Madame answered before I could ask.

Now I remembered! Eduardo was also the man Madame had said “highly recommended” that idiot Moffat Flaste, undeniably the worst manager in Blend history.

“And now that we’ve all been introduced,” continued Madame, “I see our first course coming. Waldorf salad.
Bon appetit!
”

I haven’t met a lot of fans of the mayonnaise-covered apples and celery salad, which is the original version of the Waldorf (the recipe now includes chopped walnuts), but it was a nostalgic choice for the evening, considering the salad was created at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel back in the 1890s. Of course, back then, the hotel was located over on Fifth and Thirty-fourth, the very spot where the Empire State Building is now located.

As the salads were being served, I turned to the man on my left. Middle-aged, but how old was hard to tell. Fifty? Sixty? Short of stature, like Pierre, but not nearly as handsome. He had dark hair, thinning on the top and a little too long at the back, a mustache that needed trimming, and a pensive look to his pale green eyes. No wrinkles but the sort of blotchy skin acquired from drinking and smoking to excess since nursery school. He was the sort who could easily appear aged beyond his years. Yet his evening clothes were gorgeous. Possibly Italian. Definitely expensive.

“Excuse me, Mr. Lebreux,” I said, “but what did you do for Pierre Dubois?”