Decaffeinated Corpse

“It sounds dreadful.”

“But what about all those trips to the bush you took with Matt’s father? You loved those adventures.”

“I trekked the wilderness—in my youth. I have no desire to sleep among cacti on a cold desert rock at this age. I want to die from dancing the Argentine tango, Clare, not a rattlesnake bite.”

“Oh, come on. You know there’s plenty of culture in a city the size of Albuquerque. Art galleries, concerts, even Broadway shows—”

“But not the original casts. The only show out of New York that doesn’t use a touring company is the Big Apple Circus.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet.” She began rubbing her temples. “I was ambushed. The man didn’t even have the decency to hint at what was coming, so I told him I had to think it over.”

I tipped a glance at the bar. The good doctor was knocking back his wine rather quickly. “I can see how well that went over.”

She pulled me closer and lowered her voice. “To be perfectly honest, I think it’s unwise to settle down so soon. I’d really like to start playing the field.”

Playing the field at eighty? I thought. Coming from anyone else, I might have doubled over with laughter, but the woman just had a summer fling in the Hamptons with an elderly artist. She wasn’t kidding.

Madame’s gaze shifted to Matt. “Has my son had that phone surgically grafted to his ear?”

I shrugged. “I’m sure it’s important business.”

“So he’s not talking to that woman.”

“No. She’s already here.” I gestured to Breanne Summour. She was standing alone, near the enormous windows, gazing out at the view, the crystal stem of a wine glass pinched in her French-tipped fingers.

Gary McTavish returned; each hand held a glass—one a German Riesling and the other a California Pinot Noir. “Are you sure you wouldn’t care to indulge?” he asked Madame, offering her either.

Madame shook her head. Gary downed the Pinot Noir in a single gulp and started sipping the Riesling.

Madame exhaled in disgust.

“I’ve got to go,” I chirped uneasily, relieved to be escaping the immediate vicinity of the not-so-happy couple.

I circulated for a few minutes and noticed Dante Silva was the only barista who didn’t seem to be busy. He stood with a tray of empty glasses in his hand, watching a new group of people arrive on one of the elevators.

“Dante?”

He jerked, startled. The glasses clinked together on the tray and he reached out with one hand to steady them.

“Sorry, Ms. Cosi—”

“Why are you so jumpy?”

Dante shrugged. “Just nerves, I guess.”

I studied his expression. Dante seemed as uneasy as Madame. “Did somebody ask to marry you?”

“What?”

“Forget it. Could you grab another tray of brie and sesame cookies from the kitchen, and make another round?”

Dante did a bobblehead impression. “Will do.”

I relieved him of his burden and carried the spent glasses to the bar. Tucker was standing behind it, opening bottles of sparkling water and pouring them into crystal tumblers.

Ric Gostwick approached me from across the room. He glanced at his watch. “Have you seen Ellie?” he whispered.

“I haven’t, and I’m looking for her, too. Hasn’t she been staying with you at the V Hotel?”

Ric frowned. “No, of course not. She’s married.”

“Yes, but... didn’t Matt talk to you? About the private investigator...”

Ric turned his frown into a smile, but his eyes narrowed and his body appeared to tense. He touched my arm and leaned closer. “Matt spoke to me, Clare, but I’d appreciate it if you’d drop all of that tonight. This isn’t the time or place... and, just so you know, Ellie and I are affectionate. We hug and kiss... but we’re not sleeping together.” He held my eyes, shook his handsome dark head. “The day you saw us, she merely came to the hotel to update me on our work; but, of course, I can see how you might have misunderstood.”

It was my turn to tense. Misunderstanding was one thing, but Ric was trying to sell me on the idea that two plus two equaled five. “It’s just that Ellie never returned my calls,” I said carefully, “and I wanted to make sure she got my messages.”

“She got them, Clare. I saw her a short time ago.”

“You did? Where?”

Ric looked away. He shrugged. “Just on the street. She was in Manhattan already, but she had some errands to run before coming to our tasting.”

“What sort of errands? What part of Manhattan?”

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?”