On What Grounds (Coffeehouse Mysteries, No. 1) (A Coffeehouse Mystery) (22 page)

T
HE
chilly autumn air felt damp. Neither of us had jackets, but at least we were both wearing sweaters as we hurried through the light gray mist rolling in from the nearby river. It was past midnight, and a typical Friday for the Village. Raucous crowds of men and women were still reveling on the narrow cobblestone streets, leaving movie theaters and gathering around the area’s clubs, bars, cabarets, and late-night eateries tucked among the darkened shops, art galleries, and apartments that occupied the Federal-style red brick townhouses.

“There he goes,” I said. We were closing in fast on the intruder. As he crossed Grove, my eyes locked on to his blond crew-cut and shiny leather jacket. He was still clutching the book under one arm and he had something else, something bulky, under his coat.

“Look, Matt, I think he stole the Blend plaque, too!”

I rushed forward, impatient to confront the guy, but Matt’s large hand clamped on my small shoulder.

“What are you doing?” I demanded.

“Don’t get too close, not yet,” said Matt. “And let me see that key.”

I handed Matt the key. He examined it as we walked, using the light from the streetlamps.

“This duplicate was made at Pete’s Paint and Hardware over on Perry Street,” Matt said. “Here’s their logo. The Blend has an account with Pete’s.”

“So—”

“So, this duplicate key was made by someone who used to work at the Blend,” said Matt. “And you know who comes to mind immediately?”

“Flaste,” I said. “Moffat Flaste.”

“And he probably charged the Blend to copy the key, to boot,” said Matt, disgusted.

“Yes, it
has
to be Flaste,” I said. “The thief not only had a duplicate key, he knew exactly where to find the book in the manager’s office. And Flaste tried and failed to steal the Village Blend’s plaque before, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did,” said Matt. “The truth is, I suspected him of something the moment I heard he’d intentionally let the Blend’s insurance lapse.”

“And don’t forget he once worked for Eduardo Lebreux, who told us he wanted to franchise the Blend but couldn’t get Madame to sell,” I pointed out.

“You’re right. Flaste was an off-the-charts bad manager,” said Matt. “With Pierre dead, Lebreux must have paid off Flaste to run the business into the ground so Mother would sell—and when that didn’t work, and Mother got you to manage it again, Flaste must have decided to get even with this burglary.”

“It all fits, but still…what good is that book of coffee recipes without the Blend name?”

“Not much,” said Matt. “And Lebreux would know that. That’s why I doubt he’s involved here. Flaste probably arranged the theft under the assumption that the book would be worth something to Lebreux.”

“And how do we prove all this?” I asked.

“It won’t be easy. We have to hope this burglar we’re trailing is going to meet up with Moffat Flaste. If not, we’ll have the guy arrested and hope he spills his guts. And if he admits he tried and failed to burglarize us the other night, killing Anabelle in the process, that means Flaste is behind what happened to poor Anabelle. And, Clare, if that’s true, I’m going to break that fat man’s—”

“Matt, calm down. First things first. Let’s not lose Mr. Crewcut.”

We continued to follow the burglar up Hudson. At Christopher Street, he turned right.

Now keeping him in sight grew difficult. Christopher Street was always hopping on the weekend, and tonight was no exception. Crowds of mostly men packed the sidewalks, spilling out of the lively pubs, most of which, on this small stretch, were gay bars.

Music flooded the street, everything from techno dance and disco to Judy Garland. As the intruder hurried through the crowd, two men walking arm and arm whistled at him—we were on Christopher Street all right.

Passing one of those all-night T-shirt, tobacco, and magazine shops that still thrive in the Village, the burglar ducked into a glass-fronted bar called Oscar’s Wiles.

Through the window, I could see that the clientele was all male and mostly young. Men in tight pants, leather vests, and sweaters, all buffed and pecked and tanned. I thought of the single women I knew in New York and momentarily sighed.

We watched as the crewcut youth ordered a beer then hunkered down in his seat and peered at the door, as if he was waiting for someone. A customer swung the door wide, releasing a burst of throbbing disco beat, and Matt and I ducked back, away from the front of the place.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

“You’re going to have to go in there,” Matt replied.

“What?” I cried. “Why
me
?”

“Because if he is meeting Flaste,” said Matt, “then Flaste will recognize me the moment he steps through the door!”

“But Flaste will recognize me, too,” I argued. “And don’t you think I would stick out like a sore thumb in a gay bar full of
men
?”

“You might have a point,” Matt said. He took my elbow and led me back to the all-night store.

“Wait!” I cried, halting in front of a pay phone. “I’m going to call Quinn. He’ll know what to do.”

Matt rolled his eyes but didn’t protest. “I’ll be right back,” he told me.

I dialed the precinct, but Quinn was unavailable. I told the desk sergeant who I was, and that I needed to meet Detective Quinn at Oscar’s Wiles off Christopher Street just as soon as he could get there, and that it was an emergency. The sergeant sounded dubious, but he took down the information.

Then I called Quinn’s cell phone number. I got his voice mail, so I left a message and prayed that Quinn would get it in time.

Just as I hung up, Matt exited the store with a big plastic
I LOVE NY
bag in his hand. Inside were two T-shirts, a FDNY baseball cap, a navy hooded sweatshirt with the word
YANKEES
emblazoned across the chest, and three bottles of water. Matt led me to a shadowy corner across from Oscar’s Wiles.

“Can you see him?” Matt asked as he fished inside the plastic bag.

“He’s still there and still alone.”

Matt opened a bottle of water and poured some of the contents into a T-shirt. Before I could stop him, he scoured my face with the sopping wet material. I howled.

“Hold still,” Matt said. “I have to get this makeup off.”

“Well, leave the skin in place,” I shot back, shivering as a trickle of icy water ran down my neck.

“Put this on,” Matt said, pushing the hooded sweatshirt into my hand. While I pulled it over my head, he studied me.

“Your jeans will do,” he said.

“Gee, thanks,” I muttered. I straightened the sweatshirt while Matt tucked my hair up inside the baseball cap. He tamped the hat down until the brim was touching my ears. Then he eyed me critically.

“You almost look like a boy, but we’ve got one big problem,” Matt said, scratching his chin. “Well, actually
two
to be exact.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your bust,” Matt said. “You’ll have to take off your bra.”

I reached under my shirt, unbuckled my Victoria Secret underwire, then slipped my arms out of the sweatshirt and removed it.

“Nope,” Matt said. “Still too big.”

Before I could protest, he reached up under the hooded sweatshirt and grabbed the shirt I wore under it. He pulled the material tight over my chest, flattening my breasts. Then he tied the excess cloth behind my back.

“I can’t breathe,” I complained.

“Voilà,”
Matt said, taking my shoulders and turning me around. I gazed at my reflection in the window of a parked car. It was scary. I
did
look like a young man.

“This is creepy,” I moaned.

“Go,” Matt said, thrusting me forward. “Get as close as you can and watch what happens.”

I crossed the street, trying to imitate a man’s walk. I wasn’t sure if I was pulling it off, but I must have been doing something right. As I entered Oscar’s Wiles, a passerby whistled. I almost smiled back. He was kind of cute.

Because of the smoking ban in public places, Oscar’s Wiles was thankfully free of tobacco smoke. Here the odor of burning leaf was replaced by the smells of beer, men’s cologne, and leather—lots and lots of leather.

The style of the interior was vaguely Tudor, with white stucco walls trimmed with some dark wood. A large stone fireplace dominated one wall, but the hearth was cold. The tables and chairs were made of heavy dark wood that matched the trim on the walls. Hanging all around were framed lithographs of country squires and gentlemen posing in tight-fitting hunting attire, which I thought appropriate given the sport at hand.

I swaggered up to the bar.

“Gimme a brewski,” I said with a testosterone sneer, tossing a bill on the counter. “An’ keep da’ change.”

To my surprise, the bartender didn’t give me a second look. I took the mug in my hand, blew off some foam, and made a show of gulping from it. But instead of drinking, I stole a peek at my prey through the amber liquid.

Suddenly a thick, hairy arm fell across my shoulders. It was so heavy I was almost pushed to my knees.

“You look lonely, boycheeks,” a husky voice rasped in my ear. “Need a place to stay for the night?”

Oh, crap. It’s Ron.

Ron Gersun, to be exact, the local butcher, and I didn’t want him to recognize me. Ron had a shop in the meatpacking district and was famed for his prime rib. I was used to seeing him in a bloodstained apron and hair net. Tonight he was quite fetching in a leather vest and no shirt, his sweaty pecks, anchor tattoo (who knew?), and tangled chest hair visible for all to see.

Well, well, Ron,
I could just hear Tucker saying.
It appears you don’t do
all
of your meatpacking in the butcher shop!

“Uh, no offense, pal, but not tonight,” I huffed in a voice so gruff it tickled my throat. Then I ducked under Ron Gersun’s beefy arm and slipped away.

I made my way across the bar and grabbed a seat closer to the crewcut burglar. He didn’t even glance in my direction, just kept staring at the front door. Outside the tall windows, I could see no sign of Matt. I figured he was still lurking nearby. Otherwise I’d kill him.

The door opened and a short, round figure waddled in. From across the room I recognized the man—

Moffat Flaste.

The man’s beady pig-like eyes scanned the room. He seemed nervous, and there was a patina of sweat on his fleshy cheeks and over his upper lip. He scanned the bar until he saw the burglar. Their eyes met and the youth nodded.

Flaste seemed to get even more tense. He didn’t approach the youth right away. Instead he ordered a drink and lingered at the bar, taking a few sips. Finally the youth got impatient and motioned him over.

Flaste walked right past me, sat down across from the crewcut, and began to talk to him. But I couldn’t hear a damn thing!

They were sitting no more than seven feet from me, but the music was so loud I couldn’t hear a word. I had to get closer.

I rose and lifted my glass, taking a sip of the bitter brew as I moved toward their table. Flaste and the youth were locked in conversation. Finally the young man reached under his jacket and pulled something out. He placed the Allegro family recipe book on the table and slid it toward Flaste, who grabbed the book and tucked it under his own jacket.

What about the plaque? You took the plaque, too, you bastard. Where is it?

“We meet again,” a voice said in my ear. I felt the tickle of a stubbly chin as, once again, a crushing arm fell across my shoulders. This time Ron Gersun pulled me close to his chest and shook me like a doll.

“Ain’t it a small world,” he said in a tone I am sure he thought was seductive. I tried to pull away, but Ron held me tight. He reached up and tickled my chin with a sausage-thick finger.

“Smooth as a baby’s behind,” he purred. I tried to duck under his arm again, but he’d figured out a way to counter that trick.

Great. After a parched decade of living like a nun, I’m finally awash in persistent male suitors, and I can’t do a thing with them!

“Give us a kiss,” Ron said. His lips smacked and I felt his stubbly chin scrape my neck.

Meanwhile, Flaste drew an envelope out of his pocket and pushed it across the table to the youth. The burglar pocketed the envelope and smiled. Flaste stood up. He was going to leave. I moved to follow.

“Where ya’ goin’?” Ron asked, almost hurt. “Give me a chance.”

Stretching his long arm, he reached out to pull me back. The movement caught the bill of my baseball cap and knocked it from my head. My wavy chestnut hair tumbled down to my shoulders.

“Hey! What’s this?” Ron backed up in confusion. “Wait a second. I know you! You’re the
coffee
lady!”

The entire room full of men turned my way, including Flaste and the crewcut. The flash of recognition crossed their faces.

Crap!

Flaste let out a squeal and bolted for the exit. The blond crewcut was faster and got there ahead of him. But as he yanked the front door open, a tall, broad-shouldered figure draped in a beige trenchcoat appeared on the threshold and blocked the burglar’s escape.

Detective Quinn!

And right behind him came Matteo. Fists clenched, eyes flashing, he was spoiling for a fight.

The burglar pushed at Quinn, but he would have had better luck trying to move the Empire State Building. Quinn slammed the youth against the nearest table, doubled him over, pulled his arms behind his back, and cuffed him in one continuous, seemingly effortless motion.

Flaste, however, was inching toward the door, clearly hoping to escape while Quinn’s attention was elsewhere.

“Stop Flaste!” I cried. “He’s got the book.”

The fat man paled. Then Flaste squealed again and ran right at Matteo in an attempt to bowl him over. Big mistake. A loud, meaty thwack made every patron in the bar wince. Moffat Flaste exhaled loudly and doubled over. Matteo had sunk a right hook into the man’s prodigious gut. Now Matt stood over him, fist raised for a second strike.

Quinn reached up and seized my ex-husband’s arm.