On What Grounds

We locked the door behind us and raced off.

Twenty-Eight

The chilly autumn air felt damp. Neither of us had jackets, but at least we were both wearing sweaters as we hurried through the light gray mist rolling in from the nearby river. It was past midnight, and a typical Friday for the Village. Raucous crowds of men and women were still reveling on the narrow cobblestone streets, leaving movie theaters and gathering around the area’s clubs, bars, cabarets, and late-night eateries tucked among the darkened shops, art galleries, and apartments that occupied the Federal-style red brick townhouses.

“There he goes,” I said. We were closing in fast on the intruder. As he crossed Grove, my eyes locked on to his blond crew-cut and shiny leather jacket. He was still clutching the book under one arm and he had something else, something bulky, under his coat.

“Look, Matt, I think he stole the Blend plaque, too!”

I rushed forward, impatient to confront the guy, but Matt’s large hand clamped on my small shoulder.

“What are you doing?” I demanded.

“Don’t get too close, not yet,” said Matt. “And let me see that key.”

I handed Matt the key. He examined it as we walked, using the light from the streetlamps.

“This duplicate was made at Pete’s Paint and Hardware over on Perry Street,” Matt said. “Here’s their logo. The Blend has an account with Pete’s.”

“So—”

“So, this duplicate key was made by someone who used to work at the Blend,” said Matt. “And you know who comes to mind immediately?”

“Flaste,” I said. “Moffat Flaste.”

“And he probably charged the Blend to copy the key, to boot,” said Matt, disgusted.

“Yes, it has to be Flaste,” I said. “The thief not only had a duplicate key, he knew exactly where to find the book in the manager’s office. And Flaste tried and failed to steal the Village Blend’s plaque before, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did,” said Matt. “The truth is, I suspected him of something the moment I heard he’d intentionally let the Blend’s insurance lapse.”

“And don’t forget he once worked for Eduardo Lebreux, who told us he wanted to franchise the Blend but couldn’t get Madame to sell,” I pointed out.

“You’re right. Flaste was an off-the-charts bad manager,” said Matt. “With Pierre dead, Lebreux must have paid off Flaste to run the business into the ground so Mother would sell—and when that didn’t work, and Mother got you to manage it again, Flaste must have decided to get even with this burglary.”

“It all fits, but still…what good is that book of coffee recipes without the Blend name?”

“Not much,” said Matt. “And Lebreux would know that. That’s why I doubt he’s involved here. Flaste probably arranged the theft under the assumption that the book would be worth something to Lebreux.”

“And how do we prove all this?” I asked.

“It won’t be easy. We have to hope this burglar we’re trailing is going to meet up with Moffat Flaste. If not, we’ll have the guy arrested and hope he spills his guts. And if he admits he tried and failed to burglarize us the other night, killing Anabelle in the process, that means Flaste is behind what happened to poor Anabelle. And, Clare, if that’s true, I’m going to break that fat man’s—”

“Matt, calm down. First things first. Let’s not lose Mr. Crewcut.”

We continued to follow the burglar up Hudson. At Christopher Street, he turned right.

Now keeping him in sight grew difficult. Christopher Street was always hopping on the weekend, and tonight was no exception. Crowds of mostly men packed the sidewalks, spilling out of the lively pubs, most of which, on this small stretch, were gay bars.

Music flooded the street, everything from techno dance and disco to Judy Garland. As the intruder hurried through the crowd, two men walking arm and arm whistled at him—we were on Christopher Street all right.

Passing one of those all-night T-shirt, tobacco, and magazine shops that still thrive in the Village, the burglar ducked into a glass-fronted bar called Oscar’s Wiles.

Through the window, I could see that the clientele was all male and mostly young. Men in tight pants, leather vests, and sweaters, all buffed and pecked and tanned. I thought of the single women I knew in New York and momentarily sighed.

We watched as the crewcut youth ordered a beer then hunkered down in his seat and peered at the door, as if he was waiting for someone. A customer swung the door wide, releasing a burst of throbbing disco beat, and Matt and I ducked back, away from the front of the place.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

“You’re going to have to go in there,” Matt replied.

“What?” I cried. “Why me?”

“Because if he is meeting Flaste,” said Matt, “then Flaste will recognize me the moment he steps through the door!”

“But Flaste will recognize me, too,” I argued. “And don’t you think I would stick out like a sore thumb in a gay bar full of men?”

“You might have a point,” Matt said. He took my elbow and led me back to the all-night store.

“Wait!” I cried, halting in front of a pay phone. “I’m going to call Quinn. He’ll know what to do.”

Matt rolled his eyes but didn’t protest. “I’ll be right back,” he told me.

I dialed the precinct, but Quinn was unavailable. I told the desk sergeant who I was, and that I needed to meet Detective Quinn at Oscar’s Wiles off Christopher Street just as soon as he could get there, and that it was an emergency. The sergeant sounded dubious, but he took down the information.

Then I called Quinn’s cell phone number. I got his voice mail, so I left a message and prayed that Quinn would get it in time.

Just as I hung up, Matt exited the store with a big plastic I LOVE NY bag in his hand. Inside were two T- shirts, a FDNY baseball cap, a navy hooded sweatshirt with the word YANKEES emblazoned across the chest, and three bottles of water. Matt led me to a shadowy corner across from Oscar’s Wiles.

“Can you see him?” Matt asked as he fished inside the plastic bag.

“He’s still there and still alone.”

Matt opened a bottle of water and poured some of the contents into a T-shirt. Before I could stop him, he scoured my face with the sopping wet material. I howled.

“Hold still,” Matt said. “I have to get this makeup off.”

“Well, leave the skin in place,” I shot back, shivering as a trickle of icy water ran down my neck.

“Put this on,” Matt said, pushing the hooded sweatshirt into my hand. While I pulled it over my head, he studied me.

“Your jeans will do,” he said.

“Gee, thanks,” I muttered. I straightened the sweatshirt while Matt tucked my hair up inside the baseball cap. He tamped the hat down until the brim was touching my ears. Then he eyed me critically.

“You almost look like a boy, but we’ve got one big problem,” Matt said, scratching his chin. “Well, actually two to be exact.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your bust,” Matt said. “You’ll have to take off your bra.”

I reached under my shirt, unbuckled my Victoria Secret underwire, then slipped my arms out of the sweatshirt and removed it.

“Nope,” Matt said. “Still too big.”

Before I could protest, he reached up under the hooded sweatshirt and grabbed the shirt I wore under it. He pulled the material tight over my chest, flattening my breasts. Then he tied the excess cloth behind my back.

“I can’t breathe,” I complained.

“Voilà,” Matt said, taking my shoulders and turning me around. I gazed at my