Espresso Shot

“Certainly,” he said. “I don’t envy the job ahead of you. Breanne makes enemies on a daily basis.”

“That’s what Matt’s mother said.”

“Are you sure she didn’t pull that trigger last night?”

“Almost positive.”

Just then, I noticed Matt already striding back to the boutique’s lobby. He was rubbing his forehead, his features displaying a look of exasperation.

“What’s wrong?” I asked as he approached the couch.

“Breanne won’t let me into her fitting room. I told her it was important, but she barred the door.” Matt shook his head. “She just kept shouting that it’s terrible luck for the groom to see the bride in her gown before the wedding day.”

“It is,” Roman said flatly.

“It’s a long-standing superstition,” I agreed.

Matt frowned and met my eyes. “It wasn’t with you.”

Oh, for pity’s sake. “I didn’t have a wedding gown, just a white sundress. Don’t you remember? We were married at City Hall.”

With a male grunt of exasperation, Matt whipped out his cell phone and called Bree. I could hear her ringtone jingling somewhere in the back. Tensely pacing the ocher marble, Matt spilled everything to Breanne about the shooting the night before, about his worries, about Detective Mike Quinn’s support of his theory that she could be in danger.

I could tell by Matt’s end of the conversation that Breanne was not amused, especially when she heard about the stripper at the surprise bachelor party.

“Calm down, honey,” Matt cooed into the phone. “Yes, I know what we discussed, but it was a surprise bachelor party…”

Roman glanced at me. “A look-alike stripper?” His impish eyes danced. “Soooo tacky.”

I leaned toward Roman, lowered my voice. “Listen, would you mind going back there and reasoning with her?”

“Sorry, Clare. I don’t see what I can do. The poor woman’s been in a state for days. Bride’s nerves.” He shrugged.

“Just talk to her? In the interest of premarital peace? Matt’s not going to give in on this. And he’s not going away until she does give in. Try telling her that.”

Roman sighed. “All right, I’ll give it a shot-” He froze. “Ooooh, bad choice of words.”

“Good God, yes.”

With a grimace, he headed off. I waited for him to move through one of four archways off the lobby, then I covertly followed.

Once out of the front showroom, the ochre marble gave way to a wide corridor holding more display cases. A thirty-ish, elegantly dressed boutique employee noticed me and asked, with a trenchant scan of my clothes, if I had an appointment.

I replied that I was a close personal friend of Ms. Summour, who was now being fitted.

“Oh, of course,” the woman said, her censuring tone immediately turning ingratiating. “Is there anything Ms. Summour needs?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course!” The woman instantly backed off.

It’s a doggone shame, I thought, picking up Roman’s trail again, how well naked condescension works in some corners of this city…

The fitting rooms weren’t far from the lobby. The corridor opened up into a spacious area, including the largest three-way mirror I’d ever seen-it practically took up an entire wall.

There were lots of closed white doors flanking the mirror. Roman had approached one. He announced himself. The door opened for him, and he disappeared inside.

I stepped up to the door, pressing my ear to the thin, lacquered wood.

“I spoke with Matteo outside,” Roman began. “Your groom is very worried about you. It’s sweet that he wants Clare to look out for you. Why don’t you let her?”

“Sweet? Ha! Is that what you call it?” Breanne replied in tones of cultured acid. “Well, I don’t think so. And I don’t buy this ‘danger’ garbage. It sounds to me like Matt doesn’t trust me, which is rich, given his reputation. How do I know he isn’t boffing that little coffee-making ex-wife of his? The one he wants to sic on me for the day like a badly dressed Chihuahua?”

Chihuahua? I thought. That’s insulting. I’ve always thought of myself as a Jack Russell terrier.

“Listen, honey-” (Roman again.) “Weren’t you the one who kicked him out of your apartment for the week?”

“For his own comfort! I’m having the bedroom redone as part of an upcoming Trend design feature. The place is a complete mess.”

“And you’re having a few little things ‘done’ this week on yourself as well, right?”

“Well… that’s true, too. The treatments do leave me rather puffy in the mornings.”

“Translation: the man loves your sausage, but you’d rather he not see how it’s made.”

“It’s not just that. This wedding has a thousand details to be overseen. The last thing I need this week is Clare Cosi pretending to be a sleuth.”

“She doesn’t have to pretend, honey. She’s already solved more than one homicide.”

“If you ask me, this is simply a ploy to ruin the wedding. That wannabe Bratz doll is not over Matt. I’ll bet she’s doing everything she can to seduce him back into her bed.”

“I don’t think that’s true at all. But if you think it is, then why not make use of the situation.”

“Excuse me?”

“What better way to find out how Clare Cosi really feels about her ex-husband than right now? This is your chance to spend a little time with the woman; find out the truth before you tie the proverbial knot with her ex.”

Breanne huffed for a moment.

“Well?” Roman prompted.

“Fine. All right. Clare Cosi can ‘investigate’ this apparent threat to me. But you’re the one who’s going to spend time with her.”

“I am?”

“Yes. I insist. You find out how she really feels about Matteo. Talk her up and get back to me. I can barely stand to be in the same room with that moppet.”

The feeling is mutual, I assure you, I thought. But I wasn’t all that annoyed. Nothing Bree said was a surprise to me-except the notion of having Roman put up to the task of “handling” me for the day, which I considered a triumph. If Bree really did have an enemy desperate enough to murder her, Roman probably had a few clues about it.

Inside of ten minutes, the bulky food writer emerged from the fitting room again. By the time he opened the door, I’d quickly slipped back to the lobby, looking expectant and clueless as he approached Matt.

“Clare can stay,” he said flatly. “And you must leave.”

“Okay. I’m going.” Matt’s puppy-dog-worried eyes met mine.

“It’ll be fine,” I told him. Then I gritted my teeth and added, “I’ll watch out for her. I promise.”

Matt nodded. “See you later, Clare. Call if you need me, okay?”

“Believe me. I will.”

As I watched Matt stride through the boutique’s front archway, I girded myself for an exceedingly long, excruciatingly boring day-and then my peripheral vision snagged on something. Or rather someone.

A Caucasian man was pacing the store’s front windows. He was big, like a heavyweight boxer, but out of shape, like some of those ex-jocks and trainers my dad used to drink with-the ones who made illegal bets with insider tips.

In his midfifties at least, the man’s buzz-cut hair was the color of bread crust. His prominent nose took a slight left turn as if it had been broken once and set wrong. His cheeks were florid, like he’d had one too many at lunch, yet his eyes appeared switchblade sharp as they continually peered into the showroom window.

On any given sunny day, Fifth Avenue ’s sidewalks were jammed with all sorts of people. Today was no different. And while there was nothing unusual about a passerby gawking at something through a store window, this guy just “looked wrong,” as Mike might say.

His brown off-the-rack suit was snug around the belly and wincing against large shoulders. His tie was too wide and loud to be fashionable. With his military-short haircut and worn, unpolished shoes, he certainly didn’t strike me as your typical customer for the steeply priced froufrou in the House of Fen.

I watched the guy for a full minute, lumbering back and forth, glancing into the exclusive boutique, then into the street, and back into the store again.

Anticipating a mug shot book, I took a step closer to the window. I wanted to see his eye color, note any scars, birth-marks, or other telling characteristics besides the ruddy cheeks and off-track nose.

But the man made me before I took a second step. He and I locked eyes for a frozen moment. His eye twitched as he looked me up and down, then he turned away, showing me his back.

I started moving toward the front door, prepared to confront him, ask if he was waiting for someone (and who that someone might be), when I heard a woman scream-and the voice sounded like Breanne’s.

“Noooooooo!”

As the blood-chilling wail echoed off the House of Fen’s vaulted ceiling, I raced for its fitting rooms.

TWELVE

“ SHE’S fine! She’s fine!”

Roman stood in the wide-open doorway of Breanne’s fitting room, his substantial waistline blocking all access.