have it?”
I touched my fingers to my forehead, where a migraine was about to set up shop. I knew how hard it was for Matt to confess this. He’d been trying to strike out on his own, to make his mark and probably prove to me, to Joy, to his mother that he could make up for lost time.
“Okay,” I said. “You have my support.”
“Then you’ll suspend this... this investigation of yours, at least until after the launch of the Gostwick Decaf on Friday?”
I sighed. “All right. On one condition.”
“What?”
“That nothing bad happens—to Ric or anyone else we know.”
“We’re not in an Alfred Hitchcock movie, Clare. I’m sure everyone is safe and sound.”
“Well, I’m not so sure. And, just so you know, I plan to keep calling Ellie until I reach her. I want her to know what I uncovered today—that she’s being followed by a private investigator or a team of them. And I still want you to talk to Ric. Tell him Ellie’s husband probably knows about their affair. Ric needs to keep his eyes open and watch his back—and so do you for that matter.”
“I will, Clare. I’ll tell him, and I’ll be careful.”
“And one more thing... since you happen to be at Solange, would you mind checking out this hot young chef Joy is working for?”
“Tommy Keitel? What do you mean check him out?” Matt asked. “I’m already eating here, and the food’s outstanding.”
“I’m not interested in his cooking. I want to know what sort of person he’s like. He’s Joy’s new boyfriend, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then just make up some stupid excuse to barge into the kitchen. I told you, Joy has yet to bring the young man around the Blend.”
“But that’s Joy’s business. We’ll meet Keitel when she wants us to. She won’t like my invading her—”
“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
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...
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.”
