On What Grounds

by Cleo Coyle

I nodded.

  He reached over and turned off the burner, took my hand, and led me through the living room. Maybe, if the phone hadn’t rung, things would have turned out differently that evening. But the phone did ring.

  “Let it go,” said Matt.

  “It could be Joy,” I said, and he nodded, picking it up himself.

  “Hello?” he said. He listened for a minute, then his face fell. His eyes met mine. “It’s Dr. Foo,” he said. “Anabelle didn’t make it, Clare. She just died.”

  T WENTY-SEVEN

  “G OOD night, Tucker,” I said an hour later. “Go home and get some sleep. The Sunday morning shift is a busy one.”

  “No way, Sugar,” Tucker replied. “You went to the ball, now it’s this Cinderella’s turn to par-tee.”

  With a wave, Tucker disappeared into the night.

  I locked the front door and made myself one last espresso shot. I was so tired, I actually left the grounds in the portafilter, telling myself I’d clean it properly and take the last bag of garbage out in the morning. This was a real breach for me, but hey, I was the boss and it had been one rough night.

  I stirred a bit of sugar into the demitasse cup, drank it down, then headed up the stairs to the small office on the second floor, the day’s receipts tucked under my arm. I switched on the halogen lamp above my desk, then stepped up to the small black safe set in the stone wall. The safe had a brass dial, handle, and trim and had served as the sole vault for the Blend’s valuables for over one hundred years.

  On the right side of the safe hung a sepia-tinted photograph of a man with dark, intense eyes and a rakish mustache—a turn-of-the-century portrait of the Allegro family patriarch, Antonio Vespasian Allegro.

  On the left side of the safe hung a glass display case that held a worn, stained, century-old ledger book that was said to contain the secret Allegro family coffee recipes—painstakingly recorded by the hand of Antonio Vespasian and entrusted to succeeding generations of Allegros.

  I paused, staring intently at the photograph of Matteo’s great grandfather. I recognized the strong chin, the hint of arrogance, and the undeniable intelligence in the man’s eyes—they belonged to Matteo, too.

  In many ways, marrying into the Allegro family was akin to entering a secret society, like the Freemasons, the Illuminati—or the Mafia. Secrets, secrets, and more secrets…about the family business, the specialty beans, the roasting process, the one-of-a-kind blends.

  Short of taking a blood-oath of omerta, I was beginning to suspect I was in for life. Madame was certainly doing her best to make it so. And judging from his actions tonight, so was Matteo.

  Shaking off these thoughts, I opened the safe, stuffed the day’s receipts into it, closed it again, and spun the tumbler. I was exhausted and ready for bed—alone. I’d made that conviction clear to Matt after I’d finished crying about Anabelle…

  The news of her death shocked me to my senses, and though Matt had been upset, too, he saw no reason why we couldn’t find comfort in each other’s arms, between a clean set of sheets.

  I gently reminded him of our divorce. And the reasons for our divorce.

  This led to his accusing me of being scared to give him another chance, which I didn’t dispute.

  The fact that I didn’t dispute it set him to stewing, but I got the impression he hadn’t given up quite yet. He still had a few days to work on me after all, before he’d be flying off to South America, or Africa, or Asia, or god knows where his next plantation appointment was.

  I tearfully made the point that his coffee brokering might be the best thing for him to concentrate on right now since the Blend could very well be lost forever.

  Anabelle was dead. That was awful enough in itself. But there were undeniable repercussions—

  She’d never be able to tell us who, if anyone, had pushed her down the stairs. There would be an autopsy, but Dr. Foo didn’t think it would prove anything. The hospital had already done a thorough exam, blood tests, everything. Beyond bruises that could be attributed to her fall, what more could be learned?

  No, Anabelle’s stepmother would be swooping in with a vulture of a lawyer in no time. We were ripe for the picking, that was certain.

  I sighed. Regardless of this legendary coffeehouse’s future, the Blend was still my responsibility tonight, and I had one more thing to check on before I could finally crawl into bed and cry some more.

  Earlier I had asked Tucker to clear some space near the roasters if he found the time. Matteo’s first shipment of Peruvian coffee was due to arrive early tomorrow morning. (That little announcement at dinner about greenlighting the shipment with his Palm Pilot was just a ploy; he’d greenlighted the order weeks ago.) Now bags and bags of raw beans would have to be stored in the cellar until they were roasted.

  Unfortunately, I forgot to ask Tucker if he’d got the job done. Now I would have to go down into that dark, scary basement and check for myself.

  I closed the office, crossed the length of the Blend’s darkened second floor, weaving through the bohemian clutter of mismatched sofas, chairs, and lamps, and descended the stairs to the first floor.

  On the landing above the basement steps, I hit the light switch. Down in the cellar, there was a bright flash, then a loud pop—damn, the stairway’s bulb had blown.

  A whole bank of fluorescent lights had been installed to illuminate the basement roasting area, but the switch that controlled them was down there in the darkness.

  I almost threw up my hands right then, but I suddenly got worried there might be a short circuit or something. I didn’t want to top off this perfect week by burning the whole place down, so I grabbed a flashlight and a new bulb from the pantry area just off the landing.

  With one hand on the wooden rail, I carefully walked down the stairs, acutely aware that Anabelle had taken her fatal plunge right here. My footsteps echoed in the stairwell as I moved, and I breathed a whole lot easier once my foot touched the concrete basement floor.

  The area was pitch black, but the light socket was just at the bottom of the steps. As I fumbled to find it with the flashlight, I heard a sound. The hardwood creaked above my head. It creaked again. Footsteps.

  Someone was walking across the floor inside the Blend.

  Matt? I thought. But that was highly unlikely. Although he’d offered to help me close tonight, I made it clear I wanted some space from him to think. He’d announced that he, therefore, had no choice but to sulk.

  I froze, hearing the steps again. They were very tentative, which told me it most certainly wasn’t Matt. If my headstrong ex-husband was anything, it was not tentative.

  Who could it be then?

  I held my breath, trying to remember if I’d locked the shop’s front and back doors. I had. I was sure of it. But I hadn’t set the burglar alarm.

  I tried not to panic. I knew I was trapped. There was no telephone down here, no way to call the police and the only other way out was the trapdoor to the sidewalk, which was bolted from the outside as well as the inside. If there was an intruder up there, the only thing I could do was stay down here until he was gone and hope he didn’t find me.

  Heart loudly beating, I listened to the person finish stepping across the room. A minute later, the footsteps sounded on the staircase.

  Ohmygod, ohmygod, he’s coming for me!

  I found a hiding place behind the roaster, turned off the flashlight, crouched into a ball, and listened.

  The steps continued on the stairs, but the sound grew softer, not louder. The intruder was heading up the stairs. Not down. He was heading to the office.

  The safe! We were being robbed!

  I strained my ears, but could hear no more.

  I couldn’t just hide here, I decided. I had to try to get to a first-floor phone at least. I climbed the stairs. Near the top, I heard the sound of glass shattering inside my office, and without thinking, I screamed at the top of my lungs.

  My Java-like jaguar yowl echoed off the windows. Whoever
the hell was in my office had heard it because I heard the crash of my halogen lamp come next.

  Within seconds I saw a black leather–clad figure charging down the stairs with a book under his arm.

  A book!

  I remembered the shattering glass, and I knew. Oh, god. The glass case beside the safe! This intruder hadn’t come for money, he’d come to steal the Allegros’ legendary book. Bastard, bastard, bastard!

  As he flew toward me, I saw he was a younger man with a short blond crewcut. I didn’t recognize him, but I saw a flash of eyes—bright blue. He extended his arm like a football player, and the force of it plowed into me hard.

  “Hey!” I howled.

  I was a split-second from tumbling down the basement steps when I grabbed at the wooden handrail. Miracle of miracles, my fingers closed on it in time.

  Good god! I thought. This is what happened to Anabelle! He didn’t get the book two nights ago. She must have surprised him, and he fled!

  I dragged myself up in time to see the stranger running toward the front entrance. He leaned quickly toward the front window, and he still had the book under his arm. Now he was fumbling at the door. What the hell was he doing?

  “Matt! Matt!” I screamed as loud as I could.

  Luckily, Matt must have heard the crashing, and he was by my side almost as soon as I started yelling.

  “Clare!” Matt cried, flying down the stairs and flipping on the bank of first-floor lights. “What the hell—”

  “Burglar!” I screamed, pointing toward the front door.

  The flash of bright lights had already spooked the intruder. He had given up his struggle at the door, pulled it open, and ran off.

  I raced to the front door. “He had a key!” I cried, seeing it in the keyhole. I pulled it out and held it up. “That’s why he’d been fumbling. He’d left it in the door for a quick getaway but couldn’t get it out quick enough.”

  “I’ll call the police—”

  “No time!” I said. “We can’t risk him getting away…He has the coffee book.”

  “Do you think you can recognize him?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Let’s go,” said Matt. “Looks like he ran up Hudson.”

  We locked the door behind us and raced off.

  T WENTY-EIGHT

  T HE chilly autumn air felt damp. Neither of us had jackets, but at least we were both wearing sweaters as we hurried through the light gray mist rolling in from the nearby river. It was past midnight, and a typical Friday for the Village. Raucous crowds of men and women were still reveling on the narrow cobblestone streets, leaving movie theaters and gathering around the area’s clubs, bars, cabarets, and late-night eateries tucked among the darkened shops, art galleries, and apartments that occupied the Federal-style red brick townhouses.

  “There he goes,” I said. We were closing in fast on the intruder. As he crossed Grove, my eyes locked on to his blond crew-cut and shiny leather jacket. He was still clutching the book under one arm and he had something else, something bulky, under his coat.

  “Look, Matt, I think he stole the Blend plaque, too!”

  I rushed forward, impatient to confront the guy, but Matt’s large hand clamped on my small shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded.

  “Don’t get too close, not yet,” said Matt. “And let me see that key.”

  I handed Matt the key. He examined it as we walked, using the light from the streetlamps.

  “This duplicate was made at Pete’s Paint and Hardware over on Perry Street,” Matt said. “Here’s their logo. The Blend has an account with Pete’s.”

  “So—”

  “So, this duplicate key was made by someone who used to work at the Blend,” said Matt. “And you know who comes to mind immediately?”

  “Flaste,” I said. “Moffat Flaste.”

  “And he probably charged the Blend to copy the key, to boot,” said Matt, disgusted.

  “Yes, it has to be Flaste,” I said. “The thief not only had a duplicate key, he knew exactly where to find the book in the manager’s office. And Flaste tried and failed to steal the Village Blend’s plaque before, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did,” said Matt. “The truth is, I suspected him of something the moment I heard he’d intentionally let the Blend’s insurance lapse.”

  “And don’t forget he once worked for Eduardo Lebreux, who told us he wanted to franchise the Blend but couldn’t get Madame to sell,” I pointed out.

  “You’re right. Flaste was an off-the-charts bad manager,” said Matt. “With Pierre dead, Lebreux must have paid off Flaste to run the business into the ground so Mother would sell—and when that didn’t work, and Mother got you to manage it again, Flaste must have decided to get even with this burglary.”

  “It all fits, but still…what good is that book of coffee recipes without the Blend name?”

  “Not much,” said Matt. “And Lebreux would know that. That’s why I doubt he’s involved here. Flaste probably arranged the theft under the assumption that the book would be worth something to Lebreux.”

  “And how do we prove all this?” I asked.

  “It won’t be easy. We have to hope this burglar we’re trailing is going to meet up with Moffat Flaste. If not, we’ll have the guy arrested and hope he spills his guts. And if he admits he tried and failed to burglarize us the other night, killing Anabelle in the process, that means Flaste is behind what happened to poor Anabelle. And, Clare, if that’s true, I’m going to break that fat man’s—”

  “Matt, calm down. First things first. Let’s not lose Mr. Crewcut.”

  We continued to follow the burglar up Hudson. At Christopher Street, he turned right.

  Now keeping him in sight grew difficult. Christopher Street was always hopping on the weekend, and tonight was no exception. Crowds of mostly men packed the sidewalks, spilling out of the lively pubs, most of which, on this small stretch, were gay bars.

  Music flooded the street, everything from techno dance and disco to Judy Garland. As the intruder hurried through the crowd, two men walking arm and arm whistled at him—we were on Christopher Street all right.

  Passing one of those all-night T-shirt, tobacco, and magazine shops that still thrive in the Village, the burglar ducked into a glass-fronted bar called Oscar’s Wiles.

  Through the window, I could see that the clientele was all male and mostly young. Men in tight pants, leather vests, and sweaters, all buffed and pecked and tanned. I thought of the single women I knew in New York and momentarily sighed.

  We watched as the crewcut youth ordered a beer then hunkered down in his seat and peered at the door, as if he was waiting for someone. A customer swung the door wide, releasing a burst of throbbing disco beat, and Matt and I ducked back, away from the front of the place.

  “What do we do now?” I asked.

  “You’re going to have to go in there,” Matt replied.

  “What?” I cried. “Why me?”

  “Because if he is meeting Flaste,” said Matt, “then Flaste will recognize me the moment he steps through the door!”

  “But Flaste will recognize me, too,” I argued. “And don’t you think I would stick out like a sore thumb in a gay bar full of men?”

  “You might have a point,” Matt said. He took my elbow and led me back to the all-night store.

  “Wait!” I cried, halting in front of a pay phone. “I’m going to call Quinn. He’ll know what to do.”

  Matt rolled his eyes but didn’t protest. “I’ll be right back,” he told me.

  I dialed the precinct, but Quinn was unavailable. I told the desk sergeant who I was, and that I needed to meet Detective Quinn at Oscar’s Wiles off Christopher Street just as soon as he could get there, and that it was an emergency. The sergeant sounded dubious, but he took down the information.

  Then I called Quinn’s cell phone number. I got his voice mail, so I left a message and prayed that Quinn would get it in time.

  Just as I
hung up, Matt exited the store with a big plastic I LOVE NY bag in his hand. Inside were two T-shirts, a FDNY baseball cap, a navy hooded sweatshirt with the word YANKEES emblazoned across the chest, and three bottles of water. Matt led me to a shadowy corner across from Oscar’s Wiles.

  “Can you see him?” Matt asked as he fished inside the plastic bag.

  “He’s still there and still alone.”

  Matt opened a bottle of water and poured some of the contents into a T-shirt. Before I could stop him, he scoured my face with the sopping wet material. I howled.

  “Hold still,” Matt said. “I have to get this makeup off.”

  “Well, leave the skin in place,” I shot back, shivering as a trickle of icy water ran down my neck.

  “Put this on,” Matt said, pushing the hooded sweatshirt into my hand. While I pulled it over my head, he studied me.

  “Your jeans will do,” he said.

  “Gee, thanks,” I muttered. I straightened the sweatshirt while Matt tucked my hair up inside the baseball cap. He tamped the hat down until the brim was touching my ears. Then he eyed me critically.

  “You almost look like a boy, but we’ve got one big problem,” Matt said, scratching his chin. “Well, actually two to be exact.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your bust,” Matt said. “You’ll have to take off your bra.”

  I reached under my shirt, unbuckled my Victoria Secret underwire, then slipped my arms out of the sweatshirt and removed it.

  “Nope,” Matt said. “Still too big.”

  Before I could protest, he reached up under the hooded sweatshirt and grabbed the shirt I wore under it. He pulled the material tight over my chest, flattening my breasts. Then he tied the excess cloth behind my back.

  “I can’t breathe,” I complained.

  “Voilà,” Matt said, taking my shoulders and turning me around. I gazed at my reflection in the window of a parked car. It was scary. I did look like a young man.

  “This is creepy,” I moaned.

  “Go,” Matt said, thrusting me forward. “Get as close as you can and watch what happens.”

  I crossed the street, trying to imitate a man’s walk. I wasn’t sure if I was pulling it off, but I must have been doing something right. As I entered Oscar’s Wiles, a passerby whistled. I almost smiled back. He was kind of cute.