On What Grounds

normal at the Blend. Madame stopped by for a visit—no longer in mourning black, thank goodness, but in a cherry red pantsuit.

With all the publicity, Matt and I finally told her all about what had transpired. She didn’t understand why we’d kept it from her. That was when Matt and I agreed to come clean with what we knew about her condition.

With a French-pressed pot of Kona, Matt and I took her up to the second floor to finally discuss it.

Madame refused to admit a thing to us about her cancer, and I was growing alarmed. She seemed to be in outright denial.

“Madame, Matt and I love you,” I said. “Don’t you want us to know?”

“Know. Know what?”

“There’s no use pretending,” I told her at last. “I saw you at St. Vincent’s with Dr. McTavish.”

Madame’s face actually paled.

“There, you see? We know,” said Matt. “So there’s no need for your pretense any longer.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” she said. “But I didn’t know where it was going. Now I do.”

“And?” I asked, afraid to hear the worst.

“And…We’re dating. I admit it,” said Madame.

“You’re dating your oncologist?” I said.

“My oncologist? Well, I suppose he’s mine. That’s the way we put it on Valentine’s Day, don’t we? Although that’s quite a few months away yet.”

“Wait a second,” said Matt. “Mother, do you have cancer or not?”

“Cancer? No, for heaven’s sake, I just had a spectacular physical. My doctor tells me I’ll live another twenty years. Maybe more. Why ever would you think I had cancer?”

“Because you were seeing an oncologist!” I cried.

“My dear, I was—and am—seeing a man with as much sex appeal as Sean Connery. The fact that he’s an oncologist is beside the point—”

“B-but you were sitting in a wheelchair,” I said. “Last week. On the cancer treatment floor—”

“Oh, my goodness! You must have seen me the day I’d finished passing out silent auction booklets at the hospital. I was wearing new shoes that day, and my feet hurt, so as a joke, Gary wheeled me around to deliver the last few booklets.”

“Ohmygod, and all this time we thought—”

“What? That I was dying of cancer?”

“Yes!” Matt and I said together.

Madame laughed. “That’s so ludicrous.”

“I don’t know,” I said, becoming slowly irritated. “Why else would you have gotten each of us to sign those contracts—without once mentioning the fact that you were making us de facto partners.”

“Why else indeed?” said Madame.

“This opens another whole line of discussion,” I said. “And since you’re not, in fact, dying of cancer, I’d like to point out that—”

Madame looked at her watch.

“—Matt and I cannot share the duplex apartment,” I continued. “It’s crazy.”

“You know, I just remembered something!” Madame announced, rising. “I’m running late! Gary is picking me up for an early dinner then we’re going to the new Albee play. We’ll have to discuss this another time!”

And with that pronouncement, Madame swept out of the Blend, leaving me and Matt to, as she put it, “work it out” between us.

Of course. As usual.

We’re still working it out, that’s all I’ll say for now. As for Flaste and Crewcut (who turned out to be a delinquent with an outstanding warrant named Billy Schiffer), here’s the scoop—

Flaste admitted Eduardo Lebreux had hired him to ruin the Blend. But when the plan failed, that was the end of Lebreux’s involvement. As we suspected, Flaste hatched the little burglary plan all by himself, hoping to make a tidy profit selling the secret Allegro book of recipes to Lebreux.

Since Lebreux’s involvement was underhanded but not illegal, we couldn’t do much more to him than chew him out verbally—which Matteo did admirably—ruin his reputation in the business, and shun him socially, which Madame is seeing to with her characteristic marble-fisted determination.

As for Flaste and Schiffer, they’re drinking jailhouse coffee now, which is probably punishment enough, even without their sentences.

And what ever happened to the Village Blend plaque?

Well, my old friend the butcher, Ron Gersun, walked in with it the day after the burglary.

“Ron!” I cried, seeing the plaque tucked under his beefy arm. “Where did you find it?”

“It was there…you know…. in Oscar’s Wiles.”

“Where? Matt said he looked all over that bar.”

Ron’s expression turned sheepish. “It was in the men’s room.”

I pictured my ex-husband in his search high and low, but then coming up against the men’s room door and stopping short. Matteo Allegro would fearlessly trek anywhere in the world—Central America, Africa, Asia. Anywhere but a Christopher Street men’s room. What a chicken.

“I guess Schiffer must have stashed it in there when I was around the corner stuffing my hair into a baseball cap,” I told Ron.

“You know, you looked kind of cute,” he said. Then he scratched the back of his head. “I mean as a guy.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said. “I think.”

I wanted to tell him that he looked pretty good, too, in his leather vest with his tangled chest hair and anchor tattoo, but I thought it best to derail that train of thought fast. My god, this was one weird world we lived in. Maybe Eduardo Lebreux was right after all—sometimes it all came down to the packaging.

“Well, see ya around, there, Coffee Lady.”

“Have a cup?” I offered. “On the house?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

“Latte?”

“Hell no! Lattes are for girly men. Make mine a doppio espresso!”

“One double espresso coming up!” I said, praying all the while that Ron Gersun never ever discussed his coffee bar preferences with Detective Quinn.

Quinn himself is a regular now. Double tall lattes are still his favorite.

I keep pressing the detective to let me help him solve another crime, but after I almost got myself shot, he warned me to stick with coffee from now on and leave murder to the professionals.

Which brings me to the case at hand—

Unlike Anabelle Hart, Richard Engstrum, Senior, survived his fall down the Blend steps. He was hospitalized for a few weeks, but that didn’t deter the District Attorney’s Office from charging him with murder, attempted murder, aggravated assault, and a host of lesser charges including unlawful entry. (It turned out Engstrum had taken the front door key right off Anabelle’s ballet-charm key ring the night he assaulted her. When Quinn and I found the key ring in her purse the next day, it appeared untouched, so we never checked each and every Blend key to see if one was missing.)

“The Manhattan DA is piling it on Engstrum,” was how Quinn characterized the many charges.

Engstrum’s lawyers took one look at the photograph of the victim—pretty, young, talented, pregnant, and dead Anabelle Hart—and their client—a businessman with a bubble-like IPO that made him rich while taking his investors on a one-way ride to Suckersville—and urged Richard Engstrum to accept a plea bargain.

Given the fact that my testimony combined with the DNA testing on Anabelle’s fetus would have sunk him in front of a jury, he did the wise thing and agreed. Though his sentence is still pending, Quinn tells me he will probably get twelve years of hard time for assault and criminally negligent homicide, and attempted murder. But that’s not all he was in for…