“That’s Monika Van Doorn,” Madame informed me. “I knew her late father quite well.”
“And he is?”
“Joren Riij.”
“Sorry, should I know that name?”
“Joren was the founder and CEO of Dutch Coffee International, a distributor based in Amsterdam.”
“You said ‘was.’ Did he retire?”
“He passed away about a year ago, left the controlling interest in his company to his only child—that woman you pointed out, Mrs. Van Doorn. She’s the daughter of his second wife, Rachel... or was it his third? You know, I’m not sure who her mother—”
“So Monika Van Doorn
“Oh, yes. Dutch International is a major distributor in the Central European and Eastern European markets. They haven’t had as much success in the European Union.” Madame leaned close to my ear. “Inferior beans,” she whispered. “For years, they’ve sacrificed quality for a higher profit margin. And their buyer has a less than brilliant palate.”
Madame and I continued to watch Monika. Now she was whispering in Ric’s ear, and when she finished, the tip of her pink tongue flicked out to touch his earlobe.
“You referred to her as ‘Mrs.,’ ” I whispered. “Is she married or divorced?”
“She’s married,” Madame replied, arching an eyebrow, “but she certainly doesn’t behave that way, does she?” Squinting a little, she searched the room. “That’s her husband, over there: Neils Van Doorn. He’s the handsome blond chatting with that young woman.”
I followed Madame’s gaze to an attractive man with Nordic features and light blond hair hanging down rakishly past the collar of his Egyptian cotton shirt. He had a lean build, a striking smile, and his clothes screamed fashion house. The tailored suit of dark bronze with that Japanese silk print tie probably cost more than the Blend took in on an average day. Tucker would have pegged him “
Neils didn’t appear to mind his wife’s aggressive flirtation with Ric. Either that, or he was so busy showering attention on the lovely young reporter from Taiwan that he hadn’t noticed.
“So the Van Doorns are here for the coffee exhibition?” I asked Madame.
“Yes, of course. You know, I was a friend of Monika’s father for so many years, I’m still on Dutch International’s guest list for their big costume party tomorrow night. The Village will be a madhouse, of course.”
“Oh, right... Halloween...”
I’d been so busy, I’d almost forgotten the date, but Madame was right. Thousands of people would be pouring into Greenwich Village on October 31st for the annual Halloween Parade. If you were a resident, you either joined in the fun or got out of Dodge because there was no escaping the wall-to-wall throng of costumed revelers.
“If it were any other ICGE party, I’d skip it,” said Madame. “But there are a few old friends of Joren I’m hoping to see there.”
“Getting back to what you said about the buyer... that he has an inferior palate—”
“No, no. I said their problem was inferior
“Is Monika’s husband over there... Neils? Is he their buyer?”
Madame laughed. “Neils has nothing to do with our industry. Or any industry, as far as I know.”
“He’s a playboy?”
“I believe he raced cars once and skied in the Olympics two decades ago.” Madame shrugged. “Joren was dismissive of his son-in-law. He referred to him once as Monika’s toy. The pair of them live on Aruba. It’s Dutch controlled, as you know, although too dry and flat to grow coffee. I understand they enjoy the Caribbean lifestyle, and when they grow bored of the beach and casinos, they either come to New York or fly to Rio.”
“But what is she doing here at this party?” I asked. “This event is supposed to be for international press or potential Blend clients, not other coffee distributors. Did you invite her, Madame?”
“Me? Good heavens, no.” She lowered her voice. “The truth is, I enjoyed the company of her father. He was a real gentleman, but Monika... how shall I put it? When the woman’s not acting like a total snob, she’s talking like a total—”
Madame was about to continue when we were interrupted by an explosion of activity near the elevators. We both heard a loud shout over the noise in the room.
“You can leave on your own, or I’ll gladly
The voice belonged to Matt, and he sounded furious.
Eighteen
“I better see what’s wrong,” I told Madame.
I tried to cross the room, but it was slow going. The guests were packing the place by now, and I was too short to see over most of them.
“Did you hear me?!” Matt shouted.
“Get your hands off me,” another man loudly replied, the accent sounding Spanish. “Or I swear to you... !”
“Are you threatening me?!” Matt again.
I still couldn’t see anything as I continued to squeeze through the mob. “Excuse me! Pardon me!”
Finally, I broke through the human wall. I saw my ex-husband facing off with a man half his age. The stranger had a thick moustache, curly black hair that just touched his ears, and an athletic build that rivaled Matt’s. I didn’t recognize the stranger, and apparently someone behind me didn’t, either, because I heard a woman ask, “Who is that?”
“That’s Carlos Hernandez,” another woman replied.
“Who?” I turned to find two young women, one a brunette, the other a redhead, both dressed in business suits. They looked like members of the invited press. “Does one of you know that man?” I asked them.
“Not personally,” the brunette replied. “His picture was in ‘Page Six’ last week. Carlos Hernandez is the nephew of Victor Hernandez. You know, the socialist dictator of Costa Gravas?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of him,” I assured her. “So why was his picture in the paper? I didn’t see the
“He’s here as part of a UN delegation. He joined in a coalition with the new socialist governments in Venezuela and Bolivia to pass a resolution opposed by the United States, but the paper was more interested in covering his extracurricular activities.”
“His what?”
“He’s here on his government’s dime, but he spent two hundred thousand dollars celebrating the resolution’s passage in a New York City strip club.”
Matt’s voice was still loud and angry. And Carlos Hernandez was still refusing to leave. He tried to step around Matt, but my ex moved quickly to block the man. Hernandez muttered something under his breath. I couldn’t hear the words, but Matteo did and he became even angrier.
“You’ve got nerve showing up here!” Matt’s face was flushed, the tendons quivering on his tanned neck. “You and your uncle are nothing but glorified thugs! You stole the Gostwicks’ plantation—land that family’s farmed for generations! You took it away by force, without a penny of remuneration!”
I looked around for some help. Only then did I notice Tucker standing right beside me. I pleaded with my eyes for him to step in and end the stalemate, but Tuck didn’t get the message. He just kept staring at the bickering men with fascinated glee.
