Espresso Shot

by Cleo Coyle

  “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.

  “Show’s over, folks. Move along! Move along!”

  The gaggle of employees and plainclothes security guards who’d come running up behind me went back to their posts. I stayed at mine, which is to say, I didn’t move a muscle.

  “Okay, Roman, what’s going on?”

  He waved me closer, dropped his voice. “Breanne’s couture gown doesn’t fit any longer. The bodice is too tight.”

  “Twiggy gained weight?”

  Okay, that sounded so wrong I didn’t know where to begin. Breanne had a vanity streak wider than Park Avenue and maintained her model thinness with a near-fascistic schedule of daily workouts. Every woman I’d ever known had tried to lose weight before her wedding pictures (except me, but I was pregnant at the time). So why would Breanne allow herself to gain—Oh, my God.

  “She’s not pregnant, is she?”

  “Good Lord, no. And she’s the same perfect size 0 she always was.”

  “I don’t understand then. What’s with the too-tight waistline? Has the seamstress been hitting the bottle?”

  “The boutique manager just showed Breanne an e-mail message from a few days ago. The thing sure looks like it came from Breanne’s personal mailbox at Trend, but she didn’t send it.”

  “What did the e-mail say exactly?”

  “That she lost a great deal of weight all of a sudden and wanted her waistline taken in a full inch before her final fitting today.”

  “I am not a size 00!” Breanne shrieked somewhere behind Roman’s well-dressed girth, “and I did not send this e-mail!”

  “But it’s from your box,” the boutique manager insisted. “Look!”

  I stepped closer to Roman, put my hands on my hips, and glared. “Let me in.”

  With a sigh of surrender, the big man stepped aside.

  The fitting room was a large, plush space of white carpet, white chairs, and floor-to-ceiling mirrors. My focus immediately went to Her Royal Haughtiness, the soon-to-be Mrs. Matteo Allegro Numero Two.

  Breanne looked as swanlike as ever with flawless, well-maintained, over-forty skin, annoyingly high cheekbones, and salon sun-streaked hair weaved into a precise French braid. By now, she was back out of her bridal gown, which hung from a padded hanger on a high wall hook.

  The custom-made garment was absolutely gorgeous. Pure 100 percent Italian silk was my guess, with a simple, classic cut: a fitted bodice, full-length skirt, and tiny spaghetti straps. Draped next to it was an amazing-looking bridal wrap of handmade lace that displayed an intricate pattern echoed in both her elegant gown’s short train and her opera-length gloves. The veil was here, too, a gorgeous piece of fine tulle dappled with tiny, hand-sewn pearls.

  “Look at the printout,” the boutique manager was saying to Bree. She handed over the paper. “This came from your mailbox—the same e-mail box you’ve used to correspond with me for years.”

  Wearing only a short satin robe, nude stockings on her endless legs, and white silk bridal heels, Breanne studied the printed e-mail. Beneath her smoother-than-could-possibly-be-natural forehead, her eyebrows came together in clear distress.

  “I did not send this. Someone else did. Some despicable individual is obviously trying to sabotage me—”

  Just then, Breanne glanced up and in a moment of monumental bad timing noticed me. Her sapphire-blue eyes narrowed, and I suddenly felt as if she were going to accuse me of coming all the way from Kansas to drop a flying house on her sister.

  Everyone in the room—Roman, the boutique manager, the head seamstress, and her two young assistants—turned and stared stiffly at me like a tableau of dummies at Madame Tussauds. The House of Fen had just turned into the House of Wax.

 
Say something, I told myself, but I wasn’t sure what, until my mind flashed on an image of Matt’s frightened-to-death face in Interview Room B.

  “Breanne, listen to me,” I said. “I’m here to help.”

  The wax dummies moved. Every last head turned from me to Breanne.

  She glanced at them. “Leave us, please.”

  Just like that, the entourage flowed out the door.

  Now her eyes were back on me. “Close it, Clare.”

  With a deep breath I shut the door, and we faced each other.

  One hundred years ago, when Versace’s boutique was still a town house and Teddy Roosevelt was dedicating the old police station down on Charles Street, the residents of Fifth Avenue didn’t think much about Greenwich Village. When they thought of it at all, it was a distant outpost, where servants lived and the lower classes did their shopping. The Village was quite the opposite these days, with its high-end real estate and chic eateries, but you wouldn’t think so the way Breanne was looking me up and down.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Cut the crap, Breanne. I didn’t come to Fifth Avenue for a runway cat walk. I’m here because Matt’s worried to death about your safety. I thought he was going to stroke out last night. When that girl was shot, he thought it was meant for you. He believes someone wants to—”

  “Stop.” She held up her hand. “I know what Matt believes.”

  “From your tone, I’m guessing you think he’s overreacting?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well then . . .” I crossed my arms. “I guess we’re both humoring him today.”

  Breanne fell silent. One expensively waxed-and-plucked eyebrow arched as she considered my words. “I suppose you’re right then, Clare, if that’s how you feel.”

  “It’s not that I think Matt’s completely crazy,” I clarified. “There might be something to his worries. But mostly I think he’s overwrought. So why don’t you and I just make the best of it? I’ll hang out with you today, and you let me know if you see or hear anything suspicious. Deal?”

  Breanne pursed her bee-stung lips. “All right. I suppose we could try to get along. I mean, seeing as you’re Joy’s mother.”

  “Brilliant, Breanne. Good attitude.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Look. I’m under a great deal of stress this week. I really don’t need your attitude, either.”

  Touché. “You’re right . . . I’m sorry.”

  Breanne appeared to be readying for a retort, but my apology seemed to disarm her. She regarded me again with a puzzled face. “You really are here to help?”

  “Yes. I really am. For instance . . .” I took a step closer, pointed to the printout in her hand. “Who do you know that would be so nasty as to send a fake e-mail to ruin your final fitting?”

  Breanne shook her head. “My e-mail box is password-protected. No one has access, not even my assistant.”

  “Do you trust your assistant?”

  “Yes, of course. Terri’s been with me four years. She has a bright future at Trend and knows it. I’m promoting her in a few months—after things settle down and I can start interviewing for a new girl.”

  “Any rivalries in your office that have turned ugly lately?”

  “My people are trustworthy, Clare.”

  She dismissively waved her French-tipped fingers. But I found the answer far too pat. I could also see that she was getting uncomfortable.

  “Let me ask you something else then. I noticed a man in front of the boutique. He’s a big guy, probably in his fifties, has an ex-boxer’s sort of build. Short brown crew cut, crooked nose, wears off-the-rack suits. Do you know anyone with that description?”

  “Clare, really.” Breanne folded her arms. “Does that sound like someone I would know?”

  “Well, do yourself a favor, okay? Keep an eye out for a man like that. If you see him loitering around your apartment building, for instance, or shadowing your movements, please let Matt or me know, all right?”

  Breanne shifted her gaze, appearing impatient, but at least she didn’t argue. “Yes. Fine. Anything else?”

  “What’s your schedule today?”

  She checked her slim, jeweled timepiece. “Roman and I already ate a bite of lunch. We’ll be going back to the office after I’m done here. I’ve got meetings all afternoon. Matt’s picking me up for cocktails and dinner around seven, right after my six o’clock meeting with Nunzio. He’s my last appointment at the office today.”

  “Nunzio? The Italian sculptor?”

  “Yes, he’s flying in from Rome, staying at the Mandarin.” She checked her watch again. “He should have arrived last night, although I haven’t heard from him yet.”

  “He’s designing your rings, isn’t he? Matt mentioned it.”

  Nunzio was also lending Breanne Lover’s Spring, a gold-plated metal sculpture that actually functioned as a tiered tabletop champagne fountain. The one-of-a-kind piece had been famously lent to two royal couples for their weddings. After that, aristocrats all over Europe clamored to borrow it. As far as I knew, it had never been displayed in the United States.

  I still didn’t know how Breanne managed to convince Nunzio to lend it to her, but it was going to be a spectacular centerpiece for my coffee and dessert station. Chills ran though me when I thought of the presentation Janelle and I had planned around that amazing piece of art.

  It was also an extremely valuable opportunity for publicity, not only for the Village Blend but for my friend Janelle Babcock, a gifted pastry chef who was just launching her new catering business. The entire tablescape was going to be photographed and appear in a splashy Trend spread—apparently as part of a bigger profile on Nunzio—and both Janelle and I were going be credited in the caption along with our businesses.

  “Yes, Nunzio is a genius,” Bree said. “I couldn’t be more pleased with his wedding ring design. I’ve only seen sketches and a digital photo, but he’ll be bringing the actual rings to our meeting at six today. We’re featuring them in the magazine.”

  I tapped my chin, thinking Bree’s day over. “If Matt’s going to be picking you up at your office, then I’ll stay with you till he comes. That’ll make him happy,” I added quickly before Breanne could protest. “We’re humoring your groom, remember?”

  Breanne sighed, her expression close to an aggrieved grimace. “So you’re coming back to the office with me?”

  “Yes.”

  Another sigh. Then she looked me up and down again. “You can’t wear that to my office, Clare. We have advertisers and VIPs coming through all the time. We have an image, you understand?”

  “But I’m not part of your staff, so why would—”

  Breanne wasn’t listening. In three long strides, she moved around me, opened the fitting room door. “Adele! Would you come in here?”

  The boutique manager was a small-boned, stylish woman, a head shorter than Bree and probably ten years older. Her short, cinnamon-brown hair was cut into a meticulously layered style, and her pinstriped suit, the color of raw salmon, was accessorized with a shimmering opalescent scarf that perfectly matched her sheer blouse and designer eyewear.

  “Please find this woman something to wear,” Bree said, then lowered her voice. “Keep it under seven.”

  “Thousand?” Adele asked quietly.

  “Hundred,” Breanne whispered.

  “I can’t afford that!” I interjected (neglecting to keep my voice down).

  Breanne shrugged. “If you can give up a day for Matt. I can give up some petty cash.”

  I tried not to choke on that one. Seven hundred had been my monthly mortgage payment back in New Jersey. But if Her Highness was paying, I figured what the heck. At least I could boast to Mike Quinn that someone actually compensated me for my investigative services.

  “Okay,” I said, effectively green-lighting the assault on my dignity.

  THIRTEEN

  THE humiliation began immediately. Adele looked my body up and down with a critical eye,
which included an exceedingly uncomfortable few moments puzzling over my hips and buttocks. Finally, she gave me a plastic, slightly pained smile.

  “Let’s get you measured, shall we?”

  “Fine,” I said, “just give me a minute.”

  Skirting two tailoring dummies, I headed back down the hall to the boutique’s main floor. My gaze immediately searched the front windows for any sign of Pacing Man. But he was no longer on the sidewalk.

  I approached Roman, who’d returned to reading Gourmet on the white leather couch.

  “Would you do me a favor?” I asked.

  “Sure, sweetie.”

  I explained how Breanne wanted to dress me in appropriate attire for her office. Then I gave Roman a description of the man I’d seen earlier. “If he comes back, I want you to let me know right away, okay?”

  Roman scratched his head. “Whatever for?”

  “I want to question him.”

  Roman’s eyes widened a bit, as if I’d piqued his interest. “Okay, Shirley Holmes,” he said. “Consider me your Watson.”

  Ten minutes later, I was back in the fitting room. As I stood there in nothing but my bra and panties, a dozen outfits were brought in for Breanne’s approval (now who was the dummy?).

  “She’s got issues,” Breanne said, shaking her head as she held hanger after hanger of beautifully cut cloth against my scantily clad five-two frame.

  “Yes, many,” Adele said. “She’s a petite, her legs are good, her waist is fine, but those hips.” She shook her head, practically tisking aloud. “A real problem area. And she’s far too big on top.”

  I am?

  “We could put her in a wrap dress, even an empire waist,” Breanne mused, “but we’re going to my offices, not a tea party. And the fitted suits won’t work without alterations. We have no time for that. Let’s try some separates.”

  Adele nodded. Then she regarded me again. “Who did your work, by the way?”

  “My work?”

  She tipped her head toward my chest. “Your augmentation?”

  Oh, for pity’s sake. “These are real.”