On What Grounds

Madame was certainly doing her best to make it so. And judging from his actions tonight, so was Matteo.

Shaking off these thoughts, I opened the safe, stuffed the day’s receipts into it, closed it again, and spun the tumbler. I was exhausted and ready for bed—alone. I’d made that conviction clear to Matt after I’d finished crying about Anabelle…

The news of her death shocked me to my senses, and though Matt had been upset, too, he saw no reason why we couldn’t find comfort in each other’s arms, between a clean set of sheets.

I gently reminded him of our divorce. And the reasons for our divorce.

This led to his accusing me of being scared to give him another chance, which I didn’t dispute.

The fact that I didn’t dispute it set him to stewing, but I got the impression he hadn’t given up quite yet. He still had a few days to work on me after all, before he’d be flying off to South America, or Africa, or Asia, or god knows where his next plantation appointment was.

I tearfully made the point that his coffee brokering might be the best thing for him to concentrate on right now since the Blend could very well be lost forever.

Anabelle was dead. That was awful enough in itself. But there were undeniable repercussions—

She’d never be able to tell us who, if anyone, had pushed her down the stairs. There would be an autopsy, but Dr. Foo didn’t think it would prove anything. The hospital had already done a thorough exam, blood tests, everything. Beyond bruises that could be attributed to her fall, what more could be learned?

No, Anabelle’s stepmother would be swooping in with a vulture of a lawyer in no time. We were ripe for the picking, that was certain.

I sighed. Regardless of this legendary coffeehouse’s future, the Blend was still my responsibility tonight, and I had one more thing to check on before I could finally crawl into bed and cry some more.

Earlier I had asked Tucker to clear some space near the roasters if he found the time. Matteo’s first shipment of Peruvian coffee was due to arrive early tomorrow morning. (That little announcement at dinner about greenlighting the shipment with his Palm Pilot was just a ploy; he’d greenlighted the order weeks ago.) Now bags and bags of raw beans would have to be stored in the cellar until they were roasted.

Unfortunately, I forgot to ask Tucker if he’d got the job done. Now I would have to go down into that dark, scary basement and check for myself.

I closed the office, crossed the length of the Blend’s darkened second floor, weaving through the bohemian clutter of mismatched sofas, chairs, and lamps, and descended the stairs to the first floor.

On the landing above the basement steps, I hit the light switch. Down in the cellar, there was a bright flash, then a loud pop—damn, the stairway’s bulb had blown.

A whole bank of fluorescent lights had been installed to illuminate the basement roasting area, but the switch that controlled them was down there in the darkness.

I almost threw up my hands right then, but I suddenly got worried there might be a short circuit or something. I didn’t want to top off this perfect week by burning the whole place down, so I grabbed a flashlight and a new bulb from the pantry area just off the landing.

With one hand on the wooden rail, I carefully walked down the stairs, acutely aware that Anabelle had taken her fatal plunge right here. My footsteps echoed in the stairwell as I moved, and I breathed a whole lot easier once my foot touched the concrete basement floor.

The area was pitch black, but the light socket was just at the bottom of the steps. As I fumbled to find it with the flashlight, I heard a sound. The hardwood creaked above my head. It creaked again. Footsteps.

Someone was walking across the floor inside the Blend.

Matt? I thought. But that was highly unlikely. Although he’d offered to help me close tonight, I made it clear I wanted some space from him to think. He’d announced that he, therefore, had no choice but to sulk.

I froze, hearing the steps again. They were very tentative, which told me it most certainly wasn’t Matt. If my headstrong ex-husband was anything, it was not tentative.

Who could it be then?

I held my breath, trying to remember if I’d locked the shop’s front and back doors. I had. I was sure of it. But I hadn’t set the burglar alarm.

I tried not to panic. I knew I was trapped. There was no telephone down here, no way to call the police and the only other way out was the trapdoor to the sidewalk, which was bolted from the outside as well as the inside. If there was an intruder up there, the only thing I could do was stay down here until he was gone and hope he didn’t find me.

Heart loudly beating, I listened to the person finish stepping across the room. A minute later, the footsteps sounded on the staircase.

Ohmygod, ohmygod, he’s coming for me!

I found a hiding place behind the roaster, turned off the flashlight, crouched into a ball, and listened.

The steps continued on the stairs, but the sound grew softer, not louder. The intruder was heading up the stairs. Not down. He was heading to the office.

The safe! We were being robbed!

I strained my ears, but could hear no more.

I couldn’t just hide here, I decided. I had to try to get to a first-floor phone at least. I climbed the stairs. Near the top, I heard the sound of glass shattering inside my office, and without thinking, I screamed at the top of my lungs.

My Java-like jaguar yowl echoed off the windows. Whoever the hell was in my office had heard it because I heard the crash of my halogen lamp come next.

Within seconds I saw a black leather–clad figure charging down the stairs with a book under his arm.

A book!

I remembered the shattering glass, and I knew. Oh, god. The glass case beside the safe! This intruder hadn’t come for money, he’d come to steal the Allegros’ legendary book. Bastard, bastard, bastard!

As he flew toward me, I saw he was a younger man with a short blond crewcut. I didn’t recognize him, but I saw a flash of eyes—bright blue. He extended his arm like a football player, and the force of it plowed into me hard.

“Hey!” I howled.

I was a split-second from tumbling down the basement steps when I grabbed at the wooden handrail. Miracle of miracles, my fingers closed on it in time.

Good god! I thought. This is what happened to Anabelle! He didn’t get the book two nights ago. She must have surprised him, and he fled!

I dragged myself up in time to see the stranger running toward the front entrance. He leaned quickly toward the front window, and he still had the book under his arm. Now he was fumbling at the door. What the hell was he doing?

“Matt! Matt!” I screamed as loud as I could.

Luckily, Matt must have heard the crashing, and he was by my side almost as soon as I started yelling.

“Clare!” Matt cried, flying down the stairs and flipping on the bank of first-floor lights. “What the hell—”

“Burglar!” I screamed, pointing toward the front door.

The flash of bright lights had already spooked the intruder. He had given up his struggle at the door, pulled it open, and ran off.

I raced to the front door. “He had a key!” I cried, seeing it in the keyhole. I pulled it out and held it up. “That’s why he’d been fumbling. He’d left it in the door for a quick getaway but couldn’t get it out quick enough.”

“I’ll call the police—”

“No time!” I said. “We can’t risk him getting away…He has the coffee book.”

“Do you think you can recognize him?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Let’s go,” said Matt. “Looks like he ran up Hudson.”