by Cleo Coyle
Franco was frantically signaling Sue Ellen to stop talking when a uniformed officer called his name.
“Yo, Manny. They need us outside.”
Before he left, Franco leaned close. “Sorry for keeping it from you, Coffee Lady. Lieutenant Quinn asked me not to tell you and Joy. He didn’t want either of you worrying.”
“I see.”
As Franco left, I faced down Sue Ellen.
“And I suppose half the cast in this production is outside, in cars or on roofs. I hope they get a chance to sample the pastries and coffee, too.”
Sue Ellen didn’t even try to play dumb. “I wasn’t aware you knew.”
“I didn’t. But all this Kevlar makes it pretty obvious.”
“You’ve got a cop’s eye, Clare, and you’re a good sport,” she said with a measure of respect. “I don’t know how I’d feel if my big day was doubling for a perp trap.”
I blew out air, but steam was slowly building. “Dangling a party of blue uniforms and hoping the shooter will take the bait? Seems like an awfully risky way to catch a potential cop killer.”
Sue Ellen’s lips tightened. “Guess you’re not so happy, after all.”
As I confirmed that observation, her smartphone buzzed.
She glanced at the screen. “Sorry, I have to get back to work. Like I said, this may look like a party, but it’s also a police operation, and I’m on duty.”
“Of course.” I turned and headed for the coffee bar.
“Oh, Clare,” Sue Ellen called. “Congratulations, you know, on the whole official engagement thing.”
It was soon apparent that the same call Sue Ellen answered was simultaneously received by every law enforcement officer in the coffeehouse.
Almost immediately, the police began to leave, singly or in pairs. When Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass hurried out the front door and ran to a sector car, the exodus became a stampede.
As the coffeehouse emptied, a frowning Quinn touched my shoulder.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I have to go. Something’s come up. A police emergency. We’ll have a long talk when I get back.”
You bet we will, I thought.
But what I said was—“Be safe!”—and meant it.
TWENTY-SEVEN
WITHIN two minutes you could hear a cricket chirp in my coffeehouse. A dozen local customers remained, but there was nary a blue uniform (with secret Kevlar Skivvies) in sight.
“Talk about rude,” Esther declared.
“What’s rude?” I asked.
“Gulp, dunk, thanks a bunch?”
“They had police business.”
“Man, I am never dating a cop.”
“Since you’re already engaged to a Russian baker with dreams of being the next Eminem, I don’t see that as a problem.”
“Sorry for the knock, boss. Some days I can’t stop the ‘stupid’ that flows out of my mouth amidst all the wisdom I impart.”
“No offense, but your ‘wisdom’ could do with a little more filtering, as well.”
“Excuse me,” Nancy interrupted. “There’s a Mr. Arnold waiting by the hearth. He’s here to see Mr. Allegro. He says he can’t locate him, and it’s important.”
I sighed, hoping it wasn’t that Andrea Doria competition. That is the last thing I want to deal with right now!
“Goodness, what happened to the party?” Madame cried. “One minute I was reminiscing about an old television program with a pair of very charming vice detectives, and suddenly all the policemen were called away.”
“You were discussing television?” Esther asked, astonished.
Madame patted her hand. “My dear, one cannot survive on the rarefied air of high art alone. Why, there was a time—well before you were born, of course—when I never missed an episode of Mannix.”
“What was Mannix? Sounds like one of those humdrum reality shows. You know, women of a certain age trying to nix men from their lives.”
“Not quite,” Madame replied. “More like women of a certain age nixing humdrum reality to spend time with a Los Angeles hottie.”
“Forget Mannix!” I cried. “We’ve got another issue to deal with.”
As Nancy and Esther returned to the coffee bar, I told Madame about Mr. Arnold.
“He can’t locate my son?” Madame’s hands found her hips. “That’s preposterous. Perhaps he went to the wrong address—”
“No. I did not.”
In a tone of barely contained impatience, Sal Arnold, attorney-at-law, introduced himself, holding my gaze with disturbing intensity.
“I didn’t wish to interrupt your celebration, Ms. Cosi, although it appears someone beat me to it.”
Not the most politic opening line, but Sal Arnold seemed a direct man. The diminutive, forty-something lawyer sported a full, bronze beard, which seemed to stand on end as he spoke, and his jaw jutted as aggressively as his considerable midriff.
“This is about Matt?” I asked.
“It is. I visited Mr. Allegro’s Sutton Place address this afternoon, to deliver a time-sensitive legal document. I was told by his wife’s personal secretary that he no longer resides there, and that they had no forwarding address other than this place of business.”
Madame and I exchanged shocked glances.
He no longer resides there! What happened? Did Breanne throw him out? Or was Matt the one who left?
Whichever it was, my ex-husband’s second marriage appeared to be in trouble.
“I told you something was wrong with Matteo,” Madame whispered.
I turned to Mr. Arnold. “I’m Mr. Allegro’s business partner. I don’t know where he is this evening, but this is his place of business, and I can contact him.”
“Good. Then I can legally turn this over to you.”
He handed me a large white legal-sized envelope.
“See that Mr. Allegro gets this, and follows the instructions to the letter. If he has any questions, my card is inside.”
“Is this about the competition?” I asked. “For the Andrea Doria coffee blend?”
Sal Arnold blinked. “Goodness no—” He tapped the envelope. “This letter relates to a legacy left in the trust of Matteo Allegro and his offspring, by his late father, Antonio Allegro. It’s a dual trust situation that also involves the family of Gustavo Campana, so the matter is rather complicated.”
“Gus?” Madame and I said in unison.
“Good evening, ladies. I’m off.”
“Wait!” I cried as he headed for the door. “We have more questions!”
“The answers are in the letter, Ms. Cosi,” he called over his shoulder. “See that Mr. Allegro opens it as soon as possible.” Then Sal Arnold paused at the door and said something even more mysterious—
“Tell him I look forward to our meeting, which will be quite soon.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
“I don’t understand any of this,” Madame said with a baffled frown. “The only legacy Antonio left me was this building, and the mortgage that went with it.”
We sat near the brick hearth. While Madame pondered these questions in the crackling flames, Esther served us a second round of espressos. The unopened envelope lay on the marble tabletop between us.
“I knew your husband didn’t die wealthy,” I said.
“To put it bluntly, we were flat broke. His family left him this building free and clear, but to grow our business, we took out a mortgage on it. You do know the origin of the word mortgage? In Latin it means—”
“Death pledge.”
“Precisely. And after Antonio died, it nearly choked the life out of me. If not for Gus—and other good friends—helping me out financially, this coffeehouse would be a mobile phone store.”
I rubbed my brow, perplexed. “I don’t understand. If Antonio had something of value, why not leav
e it to you immediately? Why delay it all these years? And why is Gus involved?”
“I have no idea. When Matt’s father passed away, Gus was already a wealthy man. But you know . . .” Madame glanced my way. “I still remember when Gus didn’t have a pair of shoes to call his own.”
“Was that after the Andrea Doria disaster?”
She nodded. “Just days after the ship sank, Matt’s father and I went to Pier 88, where the Ile de France was scheduled to arrive with a group of Andrea Doria survivors on board. We hoped his cousin was among them, but we didn’t know . . .
Madame’s gaze grew glassy as she looked back in time, describing the tense mood among the families as they watched the ship approach. Many survivors were standing at the rail as the ocean liner docked. They wore only pajamas or bathrobes—and there were several rescued women wearing nothing but bathing suits . . .
* * *
WITH one white-gloved hand, Blanche Dreyfus-Allegro held her hat against the wind whistling through the terminal while she used the other to turn her husband’s young handsome head. Slim, stylish, and attractive, Blanche’s striking violet eyes met his espresso-dark gaze.
“We’re married now, Antonio. So no ogling. We’re here to find your cousin, remember?”
Antonio laughed. “I’m not looking at the bathing beauties, my Bella Blanca. I’m trying to spot Silvio.”
“You haven’t seen him in years. How can you ‘spot’ him?”
“I got his picture. And he will know me by this.” He tapped his lapel, where a red carnation was pinned.
She tweaked his cheek. “You get so many letters from Italy I don’t know how you tell all your relatives apart.”
“It’s not easy.” With a smile, he moved his warm lips to her ear. “They multiply like the rabbits.”
Outside the terminal, past the ambulances waiting to receive the injured, thousands pushed against a police barricade. Many were women from New York’s Italian communities—some clutching babies and children. Their husbands were aboard the doomed ship, and they had no word of their fates.
Anticipating this ugly circus, Antonio had greased the palm of a longshoreman, who escorted them through a cargo entrance—with a wink for Blanche.
As the liner floated up to the pier, the hundred policemen could no longer hold the line. Soon a mob of three thousand filled the terminal. Desperate shouts and children’s cries mingled with the hollow boom of the ship bumping the dock, and the chugging engines of trucks unloading clothing donated by area stores.
When the Ile de France finally offloaded its passengers, it was the Andrea Doria’s survivors who came out first. Joyous men and women immediately rushed forward to embrace loved ones. For the survivors, there were expressions of joy or relief—but just as many had dead eyes, the shock still etched on their faces.
The hugs lingered, and tears of gratitude were shed. Others clung only to one another, wailing inconsolably as a stranger delivered terrible news.
Blanche spied one of her favorite movie stars. Distraught and harried by the press, the actress hurried to another pier in search of her missing son. Meanwhile, the other survivors were led to tables piled with the donated clothing, where they took what they needed.
“There he is!”
Like Antonio, this young cousin had a beautiful head of thick black hair, now disheveled. He wore a once-fine, now ruined suit that somehow seemed too big for his lean, strong build. His silk tie was askew, and he wore no shoes.
A hollow-eyed woman in a ruined party dress and bedroom slippers clung to him. Beside her, a girl no more than four years old stoically looked on as she clung to her mother’s hand.
Blanche halted, confused. But Silvio Allegro is a bachelor. Antonio mentioned no wife, no child.
Meanwhile, she watched her husband push through the crowd until the men embraced. Then Blanche saw Silvio whisper into her husband’s ear, and Antonio react with surprise.
Suddenly, she was warned back by a nurse leading a parade of stretchers. When Blanche finally reached her husband, he and the other man had finished a serious discussion in Italian.
“Silvio died in the crash,” Antonio proclaimed as he made the sign of the cross. “This man is Gustavo Campana, and this is his wife, Angelica. Silvio worked for their family business . . .”
Confused by the mix-up, Blanche forced a smile and nodded a sincere greeting. The woman timidly nodded back.
“We’ll have to find a place for them to stay,” Blanche declared, and Antonio nodded quickly, looking instantly relieved by his wife’s quick and generous acceptance of the situation.
As the two couples left the terminal, a man cried out.
“Hey, wait a minute, pal!”
Gustavo appeared stricken with fear, until the man shoved a Florsheim shoe box into his arms.
“These should fit nicely,” he told Gus with a grin, adding, “Welcome to America!”
* * *
AS Madame finished her reminiscence, I leaned forward with more than a few questions.
“Are you sure Silvio Allegro died in that shipwreck? The way you tell the story, it sounds like he may have taken Gus Campana’s identity.”
“It may sound that way, but . . . I have no proof. And you have to remember that things were very different back then. We’d all endured a terrible war. We accepted without question that one did what one had to do . . . you understand?”
“I think so. Whatever you did, you did—”
“To survive, dear.”
I had more questions, but Madame waved them away with a yawn. “Let’s focus on the present, not the past. What time is it now?”
“Nearly eleven.”
“And still no call back from my son?”
“I phoned him three times and sent several text messages. I could try again, but I doubt we’ll hear from him until morning.”
Madame sighed. “Why didn’t he come to me if he was having marital problems? I’m his mother!”
“That’s why he didn’t come to you. Or mention it to me. I’m sure he’s embarrassed. He probably feels like a failure, and that’s the last thing he wants to be in your eyes—and mine. Or maybe it’s a lot simpler than that.”
“Simpler?”
“Maybe Matt and Breanne didn’t break up for good. Maybe they had a fight and have separated temporarily with intentions to try again.”
“But in the meantime, the poor boy has nowhere to live. He could have stayed with me. I have plenty of room.”
Playboy Matt? Moving in with his mother? I nearly choked on my espresso.
“He’s not in Manhattan very often,” I tactfully replied. “He’s probably keeping odd hours. He wouldn’t want to trouble you with all his comings and goings . . .” (Not to mention his X-rated, X-tracurricular activities.)
“You’re right, Clare. But where could he be?”
“I have a clue.”
TWENTY-NINE
FIFTEEN minutes later, I was behind the wheel of the Village Blend’s delivery van, giving Madame a ride home. The night was crisp and clear, the arch in Washington Square Park glowing whitely against the Lower Manhattan skyline as we rolled up to her Fifth Avenue apartment building.
“Perhaps I should go with you,” Madame said. “At times like this, men’s fragile egos need mothering . . .”
I assured her the trip wasn’t worth her time. “What if I’m wrong and Matt’s not there? It’s close to midnight now. You wouldn’t be back here until two AM.”
“Well, if you think it’s best. But please, Clare, if you do find my son, remind him that my door is always open.”
I squeezed her hand. “I will.”
* * *
MATT’S warehouse sat near the Red Hook piers, where the briny smell of the churning sea permeated the air. As I exited the van to open the security gate, a salty wind blew in from the dar
k, cold deep.
It chilled me to the bone—and so did my surroundings.
This industrial area of Brooklyn spooked me at night. The black silhouette of the warehouse looked more like an ominous prison than a state-of-the-art holding facility for green coffee beans.
Shaking off my shivers, I locked the gate behind me, parked the van outside, and entered the building through the office door.
As soon as I stepped inside, I detected signs of recent habitation.
An empty pizza box sat on the desk beside the remains of Italian seafood salad in a plastic tray. The French press pot was still warm, and there were wine bottles scattered about (way too many and all of them empty).
The big office couch was made up like a bed, and a brand-new flat-screen TV, sound muted, was playing an HD version of Kramer vs. Kramer. On a folding table I found a half bottle of tepid Chianti beside a wine-stained water glass.
This isn’t good.
Leaving the office, I moved to the coffee storage chamber.
The door was hermetically sealed, the climate control system pinging happily. I peeked through the window at hundreds of agricultural sacks filled with green gold—freshly picked and processed beans from around the planet, waiting to be roasted.
Yet still no sign of Matt.
That’s when I noticed the door to the warehouse garage stood open, the lights inside blazing. As I approached, I heard noises—a water hose gushing, followed by a loud and continuous burst of angry expletives.
“Matt! What’s wrong?! Are you okay?!”
On the loading dock in back of the building, I found my ex-husband dripping wet, wearing nothing more than the briefest of briefs.
“Oh, God!” I turned away. “Where are your clothes? What are you doing?”
“Rinsing off from my shower,” Matt replied, turning off the spigot. “A very, v-very cold shower.”
“You’re right. It’s freezing in here.”
“The central heating doesn’t extend to the garage. Anyway, I was working late and I got sweaty. Sometimes the bathroom sink just won’t do—”