On What Grounds

My voice must have been embarrassingly loud because at several nearby tables, heads turned. Matt diplomatically took the Screaming Orgasm out of my hand.

“What about your instincts?” Matt said softly. “What about your gut feelings?”

“My guts have been wrong before,” I replied. “I married you, didn’t I.”

Matt didn’t even blink. But he didn’t deserve the remark.

Not tonight anyway.

“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I shouldn’t have said that. After all, we wouldn’t have Joy if we hadn’t…anyway…I’m sorry I’m just so damned upset. Madame bequeaths me part of her legacy, the Village Blend, and I screw it up in record time.”

“You didn’t screw it up,” Matt said. “Flaste did. My mother did. I did. You were in New Jersey, raising our daughter, and I was off buying coffee in every country in the world except the one my wife and daughter were living in.”

My fist struck the bar. Not hard, but a few people noticed.

“I’m sure Anabelle was a victim of foul play,” I said. “It can’t be an accident.”

Matteo smiled. “That’s the spirit.”

I put my elbows on the bar and rested my chin on my hands. “But we’re back to square one.” I sighed. “Mrs. Engstrum is so certain of her son’s innocence that she threatened me with a lawsuit if I told anyone of my suspicions. And it’s quite possible Richard, The Junior Dick, is not guilty of anything more than being a complete shithead cad.”

“Don’t give up yet,” Matt said, resting his hand on my bare shoulder. “You’ve only been an amateur sleuth for a couple of days. I’ll bet Miss Marple took more time than that to learn her trade.”

“You’re right,” I said with another sigh. “Why stop now when I’ve got only two people threatening to sue us.”

“You know, Clare, Dartmouth isn’t that far from New York.”

“What do you mean? It’s way up in New England, isn’t it?”

“New Hampshire. The drive is under six hours.”

“That’s enough time to drive all night and still have people see him at the dorm in the morning, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“So he might have done it after all?”

“The Dick’s not clean by a long shot.”

“And you know,” I said, “Anabelle could wake up tomorrow and remember everything.”

Matteo tapped the bar. “Knock on wood.”

“Let’s get back to our table,” I said, pushing away from the bar. “Your mother is probably wondering what the heck happened to us.”

To my relief, I managed to walk a straight line across the huge room. But it wasn’t easy. A lot of guests had risen from their tables, and I had to rely on Captain Matt to take my hand and navigate us through the sea of milling formal wear.

By this time, sequined couture and vintage black ties were packing the dance floor and conductor George Gee (probably the only Chinese-American big band leader in North American) was directing his seventeen-piece swing orchestra to pay tribute to Glenn Miller by intermittently pausing their side-to-side waving of trombones, trumpets, and clarinets to shout, “Pennsylvania Six Five Thousand!”

“Good job, Mother,” Matt told Madame when we arrived back at table five. “You’ve really got the place hopping.”

“Well, now!” Madame exclaimed as he planted a kiss on her cheek. “Look who came back from their short trip upstairs. Matt and Clare, back so soon?”

“What’d we miss?” asked Matt.

“Oh, just four courses,” said Madame with a wave of her hand. “But coffee and dessert are on their way.”

“Sorry it took so long,” said Matt, waving his Palm Pilot. “I, uh, had some trouble finding my little tool.”

“Oh, I’m sure you did!” cried Madame with glee. “But I’ll just bet Clare was a big help in that department!” A bawdy wink set the entire table chuckling.

“Matt really did need it,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I mean, I couldn’t very well shout, Uh, people! Contrary to how this appears, Matt and I were not tossing in the sheets—we were tossing a suspect’s room.

“What was so important on that Palm Pilot, then?” asked Madame.

“I, uh, had to confirm the size of an order with one of my growers—” said Matt.

“Oh, really?” asked Eduardo Lebreux, suddenly interested. “Who?”

“Peruvian.”

“What plantation?”

Matt smiled briefly. “Sorry, friend, trade secret.”

“Matt’s been the Blend’s coffee buyer for two decades,” Madame proudly announced to the table of ten. “Brokers for futures, as well. Learned the business from his father—who learned it from his. Of course, they always needed the steady hand of a dedicated woman to keep the place running like clockwork,” she added with a pointed look at her son.

“Interesting. And how does one ‘broker’ for coffee futures?” asked Deputy Commissioner Marjorie Greenberg.

“Buy low and sell high,” said Matt with a charming smile. “Actually coffee’s a world commodity second only to oil.”

“It’s also the world’s most popular beverage,” I added by rote. “Four hundred billion cups a year.”

“Yes,” said Matt, “and we’re attempting to sell every last one through the Village Blend.”

The table of ten laughed.

“Well, I for one think the Village Blend is more than just a place to drink coffee,” Dr. McTavish announced to the rest of the table. “It’s practically an institution.”

“We love the place,” agreed McTavish’s African-American colleague, Dr. Frankel. His corporate lawyer wife, Harriet, nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

“So do we,” said Marjorie Greenberg. Her psychologist husband seconded, “It’s a legend, all right.”

“My out-of-town friends love it, too,” said Harriet Frankel. “And my clients. All of them have heard of it over the years. All those wonderful old knickknacks and mismatched furniture on the second floor. It’s so…so bohemian. It’s wonderful!”

“I certainly hope it doesn’t go the way of the other Village institutions,” said Deputy Commissioner Marjorie. “Like the Pageant Book Shop and St. Mark’s Theater.”

“That theater’s now a Gap store, isn’t it?” asked Lawyer Harriet.

“The Village Blend will stand long after I’m gone,” said Madame firmly. “I’m seeing to that.” She threw me and Matt a pointed look.

“And reputation is the thing in this country, is it not?” said Eduardo.

“What thing?” I asked.

“I mean to your American buying public. You buy and sell things here under names—brands, no? And the most valuable of these brand names are the ones that have been around for many decades.”

“Oh, right,” said the psychologist. “You mean like Campbell’s Soup and Ivory Soap?”

“Yes, yes,” said Eduardo. “Now look at that Stewart woman’s problems—”

“Oh, yes, Martha Stewart,” said Harriet. “Bad bit of luck, getting caught in an insider trader scandal like that.”

“She was seen as…how you say…tainted,” said Eduardo, “so her company’s stock falls.”

“What’s your point?” I asked.

“My point is that she was a new brand, not an old and trusted one in this country. Not yet. Not like Ivory Soap or Campbell’s Soup, or the Village Blend. You see?”

“No,” I said.

“Oh, I do,” said Madame with a little laugh. “Eduardo has been after me to sell him the Blend. He had his