French Pressed

“Matt, please! This isn’t about you. This is about me.”

“You’re using coke?”

“No! You were my drug, okay? It was a high, loving you, a fantastic high, but down the line, there was always the crash—the terrible, devastating, heartbreaking crash. You let me down too often, Matt. It was a terrible way to live.”

“Please, Clare. One more chance?” Matt’s brown eyes were actually blinking hard.

Why are you making this so difficult?!

“Listen, Matt, I care for you. I do. And I always will. If you need me, I’ll be there—as a friend. But I can’t love you anymore. Not like I used to. You may have changed. I’ll give you that. But I need you to get this, okay? I’ve changed, too. I want something more. Someone who can give me more. I want Mike Quinn.”

Matt was silent for a long moment, his expression studying my own. Finally, I asked my ex-husband something that I knew would make him understand: “If someone wanted you to become an addict again, would you?”

“No. I wouldn’t.” Matt looked away. “But do you really think it’s fair to compare a destructive, addictive drug to me? I’m the father of your child.”

“She’s not a child anymore. She’s grown. She’s an adult. These terrible decisions of Joy’s have driven that point home to me like never before. She’s going to fly, and she’s going to fall. But I want her to be free…and I need to be free, too…”

“You’re leaving the coffeehouse business?”

“No! I love managing this coffeehouse. I love working for your mother. She’s like a mother to me, too, and always has been. I don’t see any problem with us continuing to work together. I’m not quitting the Blend, Matt. I’m just quitting you.”

Matt’s head jerked back, as if I’d physically slapped him.

I tensed, still stunned that he was taking this so hard. This is ludicrous! There is no reason for him to act like this, to cling so tightly, especially given his address for the last solid month!

“I don’t want to hurt you, Matt,” I quickly added. “I honestly didn’t think I could. You’ve been intimately involved with Breanne for almost a year, haven’t you?”

Matt looked away again. He was quiet a long moment. Then, finally, he sighed and gazed back down at the stack of papers in front of him. “I have some things to do, Clare.” His voice had gone cold. He ran a hand over his face, pushed back from the table. “I’ll see you later.”

“Okay…” I said. My grip tightened on the coffee cup. This had gone badly. I could tell. And I wasn’t happy about that. Matt wasn’t just my ex-husband; he was also my business partner. I did have a future with him, too—just not a sexual one. Oh, Lord. Did I just mishandle this whole thing?

“No hard feelings?” I called to his retreating back.

He said nothing in reply, unless you wanted to count the slamming of the apartment’s front door on his way out. I took a breath, drank more coffee—and my gaze fell on the pile of papers across the table.

I got up, moved over to Matt’s seat, and began rifling the pile for the Sunday Times real estate section. That’s when I noticed something on the top of the pile. One of New York’s tabloids was open to a Gotham Gossip column.

I saw that Matt had made a number of doodlelike circles and triangles next to a small article, as if he’d been contemplating something for a long time after reading it.

My eyes scanned the newsprint.

…and an arrest has been made in the murder of Tommy Keitel, executive chef of acclaimed Upper East Side restaurant Solange. The young woman taken into custody late Friday was an intern in Keitel’s kitchen and has been identified as Joy Allegro, daughter of Trend magazine editor Breanne Summour’s hunky flavor of the month, Matteo Allegro, a fixture on the local club scene…

Crap.

I wasn’t surprised to see the news about Joy. Keitel was a noted chef, and Solange was a popular restaurant. I’d already braced myself for some bad publicity for my daughter and our family, but I was stunned that the New York Journal chose to link Joy with Breanne through Matt. And the way they referred to my ex-husband was downright emasculating. The trashy gossip column loosely implied that Matt was one notch above Breanne’s gigolo.

That “flavor of the month” jibe must have really irked Matt for him to suggest getting back together with me…

But then the media-celebrity culture did expect a certain progression in relationships. Breanne and Matt had been seen around town for a long time; and when that happens, people naturally anticipate wedding bells. When they don’t get them, they start speculating—and speculation in a New York tabloid is never a pretty thing.

Just then, the phone rang, halting any further conjectures on my part about Matt, Breanne, and their publicity problems.

“Hello?” I said, picking up the kitchen extension.

“Hello? Is this Clare?” said a vaguely familiar female voice.

“Yes.”

“It’s Janelle. Janelle Babcock from—”

“Solange, of course! My favorite pastry chef.”

“I heard about Joy, Clare,” Janelle said, “and I was wondering how she was doing.”

I gave Janelle a quick update. “…and she should be out on bail tomorrow. At least I’m praying she will. I could use the help in that department, if you’re so inclined.”

“She’s already in my prayers. Tommy and Vincent are, too,” Janelle replied. “Of course, I don’t believe for a second that Joy killed anyone. Not Joy. No way, nohow.”

“Thank you, Janelle.” I rubbed my chin. “You wouldn’t by any chance have any idea who did kill Tommy and Vinny?”

“I wish I did. Honest to God. I didn’t know a lot about the man’s personal life. But…now that you bring it up…”

“What?”

“Well…if you want to know more about Chef Keitel, maybe you should come with me this evening. I’m going over to the Kingston Funeral Home with the other line cooks. We’re going as a group to pay our respects.”

“I see…” I thought it over a moment. “Do you think I should talk to the other cooks?”

“I think you should speak to Chef Keitel’s wife. If she’s not too broken up, maybe you two can discuss things, figure out who the man’s enemies were. Who may have wanted to…you know…do what they did.”

I nodded, checking my watch. “What time are you going?”

“You’re coming?”

“I’m coming,” I said, making the decision on the spot, and we quickly made plans to meet.

I still had Madame’s green Valentino suit and her exquisite emerald necklace and earrings. It wasn’t the traditional black, but then this wasn’t a funeral; it was just a viewing. Madame’s clothes were conservative, tasteful, and dripping with class; they’d be my perfect camouflage for the Upper East Side crowd.

Okay, so the designer suit didn’t fit me perfectly, but with a pin here and there, I knew it would get the job done, just as it had the day before, when I’d pitched Dornier and Keitel on my Village Blend beans.

My God. It seems like a lifetime ago…I froze and closed my eyes, realizing: It really was a lifetime ago for Tommy Keitel.

With a sigh, I reached for the coffee carafe to pour myself another. Chef Keitel’s viewing was bound to have some uncomfortable moments, but it was likely to have some good leads, too. Either way, I was definitely going to need another big cup of nerve.