Murder by Mocha

cutthroat commerce known as Midtown. We zigged, we zagged, and finally we headed east, toward Lexington.

A less glamorous avenue than majestic Fifth or stately Park, Lex made economic sense for the Topaz, a tasteful enough inn (only a few minutes walk from the Waldorf = Astoria, the UN, and Rock Center) with more reasonable rates for lengthy stays.

At this early hour, the lobby was practically empty, save one distracted clerk who barely looked up from his desk as I rushed the elevator and ascended ten floors. Racing down the hall, I found the shellacked slab of wood marked 1015, lifted my knuckles, and—

The door jerked open so fast I nearly pounded Madame’s forehead.

“Clare! Thank goodness . . .”

It was just after 7 AM, the sun was barely up, yet my former mother-in-law was already smartly shining; her silver-white hair smoothed into a glossy pageboy; her high cheekbones lightly brushed the pale terra-cotta of Village flower pots. Even the hint of lavender on her eyelids perfectly matched the orchids printed on her silk, kimono-style robe, making her vivid blue irises appear their own mercurial shade of violet.

Clearly, this “matter of life and death” (whatever it was) had failed to rattle her. But I wasn’t surprised.

“Survive everything,” she once told me, “and do it with style.”

The woman’s fashionable aplomb was more than the product of a Parisian upbringing—or even the gently wrinkled chic of older New York ladies. All her life, Blanche Dreyfus had weathered countless personal storms, not the least of which was her family’s escape from Nazi-occupied Paris. The harrowing flight had robbed the little girl of mother and sister, but she’d soldiered on.

Coming of age in New York, she found her bliss in the arms of Antonio Allegro, whose family had owned the Blend for a half century. Then Antonio died, tragically young, and Madame was left utterly alone with a boy to raise and a business to run (a clue to why she’d always treated the Blend’s bohemian staff, and its motley bunch of customers, as family).

Later in life, she found a new mate in the wealthy French importer Pierre Dubois. She lost him, too, but not her sturdy resilience—or her steadfast support of my beloved Village Blend, one of the oldest-remaining family- owned businesses in Greenwich Village.

For that, and many other reasons (especially her indefatigable support of my daughter), I loved her. Like the struggling actors, painters, playwrights, and musicians whom this woman had propped up or rescued over the years, I’d do almost anything for her, too, which was why I tried very hard not to be annoyed by her cryptic summoning.

“Alicia’s inside,” she told me. Stepping into the quiet hotel hallway, she pulled her room’s door closed and leaned against it. “I thought it would be best if she stayed with me.”

“This is about Alicia?”

“Yes.”

“But this isn’t her room?”

“No. This is my room. Alicia’s room is down the hall. I didn’t want her returning to it.”

“Why not?”

“Alicia should tell you—in her own words.”

I reached for the door handle.

“Wait, dear. I’ll lead the way. She may need an interpreter.”

“A what?”

“An interpreter. She’s very upset.”

“About?”

Madame took a deep breath, let it out. “She’s innocent. Let me make that abundantly clear. Alicia simply is not capable of . . .” She closed her eyes, shook her silver pageboy.

“Of?”

“Murder,” she whispered.

“Murder?”

Madame’s eyes reopened and she grabbed my arm. “Let’s take this inside, shall we?”

I nodded. (Finally, my curiosity trumped my annoyance.)

The room was standard-issue modern shoe box: Lilliputian bathroom off a truncated entrance hallway, double bed, dresser, flimsy desk, and an armoire holding a television. The color scheme was aquamarine, the kind of tranquil island shade that a Manhattan designer selects to help guests feel “cool and calm” (especially after they get a look at their bill—and the whopping hotel-room occupancy tax).

“Alicia?” Madame called in a soft singsong, as if addressing a nervous child (or excitable lunatic).

Draped in a loosely tied terry robe, Alicia’s petite form was perched on the edge of the bed, facing a limited view (in more ways than one). The window was large, but only ten floors above Manhattan concrete it didn’t frame much beyond the reflective glass of a modern office building.

“Clare is here,” Madame crooned.

“Clare?” Alicia burbled. She turned, dabbed her eyes. “Thank g-goodness you’ve arrived. Come, my friend, sit down . . .”

My friend? I stiffened.

Over the past six weeks, this woman had been civil to me but far from warm—and she’d never, ever addressed me as friend. Before this moment, her treatment of me, a lowly shop manager (in her eyes), could best be described as mild condescension.

“Sit beside me, Clare, right here . . .”

Alicia patted the mattress. I ignored her direction and instead pulled over an armchair and positioned the seat opposite her—the better to see (and read) her face.

Although Madame claimed this woman was an old friend, even she wasn’t sure of Alicia’s age. (Fifties? Early sixties? I wasn’t sure, either.) “Tasteful” plastic surgery was apparently involved, but whatever the contributing factors, Alicia Bower cultivated the sort of highly polished “urban executive” look that Esther, my most acerbic barista, referred to as severely attractive.

Favoring dark pin-striped suits, she typically wore her cocoa-colored hair in an angular flapper cut. Her flawless skin, pale enough for the undead to covet, appeared all the more milky with fresh-blood lipstick (vampiric overkill, if you asked me, but then I seldom wore any lipstick, so who was I to judge?).

A world traveler, Alicia lately resided in London, but I’d seen her type countless times in Manhattan. Her hyperpolish came off as intimidating, and she very well meant it to be.

On this particular morning, however, the soufflé had fallen.

Dried tears mottled sunken cheeks; her Dresden doll complexion had gone from cappuccino cream to sickbed blanched; and her usually perfect-as-plastic coiffure looked like a tangled crow’s nest. What shocked me the most was her mental condition. Shaken and fragile, she had all the composure of a trapped chinchilla.

“Tell me, Clare . . .” She leaned closer, markedly widened her glistening eyes (to appear innocent?). “Madame mentioned you have close friends on the police force?”

I glanced at Madame. You’re kidding, right?

Anyone who ran a business in Manhattan knew the entire town ran on favors. But no amount of tucking in an NYPD lieutenant (even a decorated leader of a task force) was going to get a suspect off a murder rap—and my former mother-in-law should have known that.

“Clare can advise us,” Madame quickly interjected. “That’s what I meant, dear.”

“Well, before I can do any advising,” I said, “I need to know exactly what we’re dealing with. What in the world happened?”

“Tell Clare,” Madame prompted.

“But that’s the problem, isn’t it!” Alicia blurted then her lower lip began to quiver. “I don’t know what happened! That’s the reason I need Clare’s help!” With a mournful wail, she ripped a succession of tissues out of the box by her side and buried her face in the paper pillow.

I turned to Madame. Okay, Ms. Interpreter—interpret!

“The pertinent events began last night,” Madame explained. “After our little brainstorming dinner . . .”

I remembered the meal well enough. Three of us, downstairs, enjoying coq au vin and pot-au-feu in a little