On What Grounds (Coffeehouse Mysteries, No. 1) (A Coffeehouse Mystery) (20 page)

Fiona Engstrum looked stricken, stunned, pale as a ghost. Her eyes dampened with unshed tears.

“You’re wrong,” she rasped. “You’re wrong. I called Richard Thursday morning. He was in his fraternity at Dartmouth. He was there the whole night, and I’m sure he can find witnesses to that fact…I’m sure he can…”

Something inside me twisted. How could any mother face hearing this about her child? And what if I was wrong? What if Richard didn’t do a damn thing?

I couldn’t even imagine what I’d do if someone accused my own child of such a thing. But then Joy would never in a million years do what Richard Engstrum, Junior, had done. Even if he hadn’t caused Anabelle’s accident, he’d clearly abandoned her. Maybe a night of tossing and turning was something he deserved even if he wasn’t guilty. Anabelle didn’t have that luxury. She was flat on her back in St. Vincent’s ICU.

My resolve hardened.

“Remember. Noon tomorrow,” I said coldly and walked away.

I could feel the woman’s eyes burning a hole in the back of my Valentino. It took all my self-control not to steal a look at her as I strode back toward the ballroom doors, but to my credit I made it to the bar, where Matteo stood, without once turning around.

“I
need a drink,” I announced to my ex-husband, my knees suddenly weak. “Kahlua, I guess.”

The sweet, smooth, and syrupy Mexican liqueur was not that strong, but it had a flavor that comforted me—coffee.

“Here, try this,” Matt said. “It has Kahlua in it.”

I accepted the tall, frosty glass of nutty-brown, creamy liquid and took a big gulp. The concoction was smooth and delicious. It tasted like toasted almonds, coffee, and cream all at once. Then my eyes began to widen as the alcohol punch hit me.

“Ohmygod,” I gasped. “What
is
that?”

“It’s called a Screaming Orgasm.”

I frowned at Matt. “I’m not in the mood.”

“No, really,” he insisted. “That’s what it’s called. Kahlua, amaretto, vodka, ice, and cream.”

By the time he’d recited the ingredients, the vodka had kicked in and I didn’t care what the hell the drink was called. I just wanted more of the same.

“We hit another wall,” I announced dismally. I swirled the glass in my hand and leaned against the bar.

“I tried the mother-to-mother thing, then I strong-armed the woman.” I sighed and rubbed my arm where Mrs. Engstrum had grabbed it.
That’s gonna leave a mark.

“She came back at me like a cornered panther protecting her cub. And then she got pretty emotional. She claims her cub was at his Dartmouth fraternity with witnesses the night Anabelle was hurt.”

Matteo arched his eyebrow. “Too bad I missed the cat fight.”

“You know what,” I said miserably. “Maybe Anabelle had an accident, after all. Maybe she just tripped over her dainty little feet and plunged down those steps all by her clumsy self—”

I took another gulp of Orgasm and brother did I want to scream.

“Maybe we’re ruined,” I said, “because we have no insurance and Darla Hart is about to sic the best ambulance-chasing lawyer in New York City on us.”

My voice must have been embarrassingly loud because at several nearby tables, heads turned. Matt diplomatically took the Screaming Orgasm out of my hand.

“What about your instincts?” Matt said softly. “What about your gut feelings?”

“My guts have been wrong before,” I replied. “I married you, didn’t I.”

Matt didn’t even blink. But he didn’t deserve the remark.

Not tonight anyway.

“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I shouldn’t have said that. After all, we wouldn’t have Joy if we hadn’t…anyway…I’m sorry I’m just so damned upset. Madame bequeaths me part of her legacy, the Village Blend, and I screw it up in record time.”

“You didn’t screw it up,” Matt said. “Flaste did. My mother did. I did. You were in New Jersey, raising our daughter, and I was off buying coffee in every country in the world except the one my wife and daughter were living in.”

My fist struck the bar. Not hard, but a few people noticed.

“I’m sure Anabelle was a victim of foul play,” I said. “It
can’t
be an accident.”

Matteo smiled. “That’s the spirit.”

I put my elbows on the bar and rested my chin on my hands. “But we’re back to square one.” I sighed. “Mrs. Engstrum is so certain of her son’s innocence that she threatened me with a lawsuit if I told anyone of my suspicions. And it’s quite possible Richard, The Junior Dick, is not guilty of anything more than being a complete shithead cad.”

“Don’t give up yet,” Matt said, resting his hand on my bare shoulder. “You’ve only been an amateur sleuth for a couple of days. I’ll bet Miss Marple took more time than that to learn her trade.”

“You’re right,” I said with another sigh. “Why stop now when I’ve got only two people threatening to sue us.”

“You know, Clare, Dartmouth isn’t that far from New York.”

“What do you mean? It’s way up in New England, isn’t it?”

“New Hampshire. The drive is under six hours.”

“That’s enough time to drive all night and still have people see him at the dorm in the morning, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“So he might have done it after all?”

“The Dick’s not clean by a long shot.”

“And you know,” I said, “Anabelle
could
wake up tomorrow and remember everything.”

Matteo tapped the bar. “Knock on wood.”

“Let’s get back to our table,” I said, pushing away from the bar. “Your mother is probably wondering what the heck happened to us.”

To my relief, I managed to walk a straight line across the huge room. But it wasn’t easy. A lot of guests had risen from their tables, and I had to rely on Captain Matt to take my hand and navigate us through the sea of milling formal wear.

By this time, sequined couture and vintage black ties were packing the dance floor and conductor George Gee (probably the only Chinese-American big band leader in North American) was directing his seventeen-piece swing orchestra to pay tribute to Glenn Miller by intermittently pausing their side-to-side waving of trombones, trumpets, and clarinets to shout, “Pennsylvania Six Five Thousand!”

“Good job, Mother,” Matt told Madame when we arrived back at table five. “You’ve really got the place hopping.”

“Well, now!” Madame exclaimed as he planted a kiss on her cheek. “Look who came back from their short trip upstairs. Matt and Clare, back so soon?”

“What’d we miss?” asked Matt.

“Oh, just four courses,” said Madame with a wave of her hand. “But coffee and dessert are on their way.”

“Sorry it took so long,” said Matt, waving his Palm Pilot. “I, uh, had some trouble finding my little tool.”

“Oh, I’m sure you did!” cried Madame with glee. “But I’ll just bet Clare was a big help in that department!” A bawdy wink set the entire table chuckling.

“Matt really did need it,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I mean, I couldn’t very well shout,
Uh, people! Contrary to how this appears, Matt and I were
not
tossing in the sheets—we were tossing a suspect’s room.

“What was so important on that Palm Pilot, then?” asked Madame.

“I, uh, had to confirm the size of an order with one of my growers—” said Matt.

“Oh, really?” asked Eduardo Lebreux, suddenly interested. “Who?”

“Peruvian.”

“What plantation?”

Matt smiled briefly. “Sorry, friend, trade secret.”

“Matt’s been the Blend’s coffee buyer for two decades,” Madame proudly announced to the table of ten. “Brokers for futures, as well. Learned the business from his father—who learned it from his. Of course, they always needed the steady hand of a dedicated woman to keep the place running like clockwork,” she added with a pointed look at her son.

“Interesting. And how does one ‘broker’ for coffee futures?” asked Deputy Commissioner Marjorie Greenberg.

“Buy low and sell high,” said Matt with a charming smile. “Actually coffee’s a world commodity second only to oil.”

“It’s also the world’s most popular beverage,” I added by rote. “Four hundred billion cups a year.”

“Yes,” said Matt, “and we’re attempting to sell every last one through the Village Blend.”

The table of ten laughed.

“Well, I for one think the Village Blend is more than just a place to drink coffee,” Dr. McTavish announced to the rest of the table. “It’s practically an institution.”

“We love the place,” agreed McTavish’s African-American colleague, Dr. Frankel. His corporate lawyer wife, Harriet, nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

“So do we,” said Marjorie Greenberg. Her psychologist husband seconded, “It’s a legend, all right.”

“My out-of-town friends love it, too,” said Harriet Frankel. “And my clients. All of them have heard of it over the years. All those wonderful old knickknacks and mismatched furniture on the second floor. It’s so…so
bohemian.
It’s wonderful!”

“I certainly hope it doesn’t go the way of the other Village institutions,” said Deputy Commissioner Marjorie. “Like the Pageant Book Shop and St. Mark’s Theater.”

“That theater’s now a Gap store, isn’t it?” asked Lawyer Harriet.

“The Village Blend will stand long after I’m gone,” said Madame firmly. “I’m seeing to that.” She threw me and Matt a pointed look.

“And reputation is the thing in this country, is it not?” said Eduardo.

“What thing?” I asked.

“I mean to your American buying public. You buy and sell things here under names—brands, no? And the most valuable of these brand names are the ones that have been around for many decades.”

“Oh, right,” said the psychologist. “You mean like Campbell’s Soup and Ivory Soap?”

“Yes, yes,” said Eduardo. “Now look at that Stewart woman’s problems—”

“Oh, yes, Martha Stewart,” said Harriet. “Bad bit of luck, getting caught in an insider trader scandal like that.”

“She was seen as…how you say…tainted,” said Eduardo, “so her company’s stock falls.”

“What’s your point?” I asked.

“My point is that she was a
new
brand, not an old and trusted one in this country. Not yet. Not like Ivory Soap or Campbell’s Soup, or the Village Blend. You see?”

“No,” I said.

“Oh, I do,” said Madame with a little laugh. “Eduardo has been after me to sell him the Blend. He had his heart set on making it a franchise.”

“What?” I asked. “Like McDonald’s?”

“Like Starbucks,” he said sharply. Then seemed to catch himself and soften the harsh tone with a forced chuckle.

“There will only ever be
one
Village Blend,” said Madame. “As long as I own the place—and my intentions are respected by those who own it in the future. And I’ve made sure that it will be Matt and Clare here.”

“Oh, fabulous!” “How wonderful!” “Here’s to the ongoing legacy!” cried voices around the table.

Matt and I glanced at each other. Everyone seemed genuinely happy at this news. Except Eduardo, whose smile was as plastic as they come.

Well, I thought realistically, he’s lost the Blend for good. Why should he be happy for us?

Dessert and coffee were served about then. Madame had ordered coffee for both Matt and me since we’d been away from the table when the orders were taken.

I myself, having missed dinner, was overjoyed to see the steaming cup of coffee sitting next to a slice of flourless chocolate cake garnished with mint leaves and raspberries. I practically inhaled it. Matt, on the other hand, simply frowned and grunted.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“I’m desperate for a hit of caffeine,” he said, “but I can’t abide the coffee at these things. Dishwater and cream.”

“Not tonight,” I said. “The Village Blend provided the beans a few days ago, isn’t that right, Madame?”

“It is,” she said. “Clare roasted the beans over the weekend and shipped the bags up Monday.”

“That’s a lot of extra work, Clare,” said Matt, sniffing the cup and taking a cautionary sip. “Not bad. I hope you charged the Waldorf a pretty penny.”

“It’s a charity benefit, Matt. I
discounted
the rate.”

Matt let out a frustrated sigh at this news.

Eduardo Lebreux, on the other hand, let out a hearty laugh.

“Something funny?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Eduardo. “The small business owner has to play whatever angles he can. The big pockets will take the tax write-offs anyway. You should have listened to your husband.”

“Matt is not—” I stopped short of adding
my husband.

(I did plan to make clear to Madame that Matt and I would never again be man and wife—no matter how many times she introduced us the other way—but I wouldn’t do that to her in public. I had no interest in embarrassing her here so…)

Instead, I said, “Matt is not—
correct,
” and added, “There’s no need to take a profit at the expense of a fund-raiser for a good cause.”

“Even so,” said Eduardo, “this is America. Whether the coffee tastes good or not is beside the point.”

“Excuse me,” said Matt. “But that’s my
entire
point.”

“Maybe for you,” said Eduardo, “but you are not common. Most of the people here would drink down whatever came to them at the table, even if it tasted like, as you say, dishwater. They would drink it down and think it was good because it was being served to them in a Waldorf-Astoria cup, you see?”

“No,” I said, getting slowly annoyed.

“Most people in America decide what they like by the brand name,” said Eduardo. “It is the
package
they buy, not the contents. You see?”

“No,” I said. “We Americans might buy something once or twice because of an advertisement or marketing campaign or even brand loyalty, but if the quality goes bad on us, we’re gone. You’ll lose us forever. Haven’t you ever heard of the expression ‘Where’s the beef?’”

“No.”

“Trust me,” I said. “It’s red-white-and-blue. And there’s nothing as American as the pragmatic expectation of getting what you pay for. Perhaps it’s the
Europeans
with whom you’re confusing us—the Old World idea of believing aristocrats or royalty at face value.”

“We shall have to agree to disagree,” said Eduardo with an unqualified sneer.

“Yes, we shall,” I said then took a long, satisfying quaff from my steaming cup.

It was Friday night, one of the busiest for the Village Blend, and in another hour Tucker would be expecting barista backup from me.

For a moment, I closed my eyes and simply savored the rich, nutty aroma of the house blend. In no time, the earthy warmth seeped into my every molecule, recharging my weary bones with a splendid jolt of renewed energy.

Thank goodness, I thought. With miles to go before I slept, I was going to need it.