by Cleo Coyle
Theater people, stock brokers, publishing professionals—everyone had their forged attitudes, jargon, and fakery, their what’s hot and what’s not lists, their correct opinions, perceived winners, losers, and arbitrary size-’em-up yardsticks. Institutions meant institutional thinking, after all, but the dirty little secret after you’ve lived in New York long enough was that the “arts” were no more immune to this than the advertising industry, and, in fact, even “rebellion” was an organized racket—with its own line of coffee mugs and T-shirts.
I pulled away from Esther to check Lime Green Kerchief man’s gold embossed invitation. “Lloyd Newhaven, Stylist, and Party,” I read, then checked the name against the guest list, greeted him with a smile, and gestured for them to join the flowing mass of hyper-dressed beautiful people.
“By the way, what are mandals?” I innocently asked Lloyd the Stylist before he and his party walked away.
“Male sandals, sweetie,” he answered with a brisk snap of his fingers. “And in my opinion the only man who ever looked good in sandals was Jesus Christ.”
“Really?” I said. “What about Russell Crowe? In Gladiator?”
Violet Eyes actually laughed. “Oh, yes,” she agreed, her words tinged with a slight exotic accent. “I did like that movie.”
I turned back to Esther and asked her to handle the door a little longer. Then I went looking for my wayward ex-husband—something I’d done far too many times in my life to count.
As I crossed the room, I nervously dodged willowy young women dressed in Fen’s new fall line—brown suede skirts, matching silk and suede blouses and mid-calf boots. All night, they’d been precariously balancing trays of lattes, biscotti, and a dozen specialty pastries while simultaneously modeling preview pieces of Lottie’s spring line—from faux roasted coffee-bean Y necklaces and frothy cappuccino scarves to caramel loop bracelets and raw sugar earrings and brooches.
Unfortunately, Lottie had hired the models for their beauty and not their ability to handle full trays of hot liquids. Thank goodness Tucker had volunteered to give them all a crash course on serving customers—including a bonus lesson on the bunny dip, made famous by a once upscale but now defunct men’s club.
Dressing them in Fen was calculated, too, of course. An internationally known clothing designer, Fen had worked with Lottie during her heyday over twenty years before, and he was now the key to her current success. He’d not only given Lottie a substantial financial investment to mass-produce her line, he’d also provided a spectacular launch pad by agreeing to pair her jewelry with his fall collection on runways around the world. Her new spring line would be showcased on Fen’s models once again—at the end of this week.
I had hoped to see what the legendary Fen thought of one of the Village Blend’s lattes, but he hadn’t attended. “Too busy finalizing the upcoming show,” Lottie had informed me.
I finished crossing the length of the packed room, squeezed around the wrought-iron spiral staircase and finally spotted my ex-husband next to the roaring fireplace, one hand casually braced against the exposed brick wall, which was adorned with coffee antiques gathered over the last century: a French lacquered urn, a cast-iron, two-wheeled grinding mill (used in the late 1800s, when the Blend was primarily a wholesale shop), copper English coffee pots, Turkish side-handled ibriks, and an array of 1920s tin signs advertising coffee brands.
Matt’s attention, however, was not on the aforementioned décor, but on (no surprise) an attractive woman.
TWO
JUST a few days ago, Matteo had returned from Ethiopia looking like something my cat Java had dragged in from the Blend’s back alley. But tonight, even I had to admit he’d cleaned up well. In fact, he looked better than a French-pressed pot of Jamaica Blue Mountain. His muscular shoulders were draped in fine Italian fabric, his chiseled jaw, usually brushed in black stubble, was closely shaved, his Caesar haircut in masculine trim.
Matteo wasn’t just my ex-husband. He was also the Blend’s coffee buyer, an astute coffee broker, and the owner’s son. Thanks to his French-born mother, Madame Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois, Matt and I had not only remained partners in the raising of our daughter, we were now partners in the running of the Blend. Madame had offered me co-ownership of the Blend’s business and the multimillion dollar Federal-style Greenwich Village townhouse to entice me back into managing the family business, only to reveal later that her pirate of a son was slated to be the other co-owner.
After a decade of divorce and my self-imposed exile to raise my daughter in New Jersey, I knew that a reconciliation with my ex-husband was, in the words of The Godfather’s Michael Corleone, “an impossibility that would never happen,” so I subsequently convinced myself that the Blend was worth the aggravation. I bit the bullet and agreed to put up with Matteo’s intermittent stays in the duplex between coffee buying expeditions.
Admittedly, it wasn’t always an aggravation. Our daughter Joy loved her father, and saw more of him now (since she’d moved to Manhattan to attend culinary school) than she ever had growing up in New Jersey. And in rare moments of truth I had to admit—to myself and myself only—that Matt had changed for the better lately. Not that he wasn’t still exasperating. But he’d been helpful and supportive in ways that actually astounded me.
I approached my ex-husband and the elegant, fortyish woman with whom he was now deep in conversation. She was a sleek New York sophisticate type, tall and Waspish with salon-highlighted blond hair smoothed into a perfect french twist and a sexy suit with a plunging neckline and fabric the color of a mochaccino (not surprising since Fen had made brown the new black this season). Earlier in the evening, Matt had cornered a young pixie-haired bubble-head in a spandex minidress. I hadn’t felt a thing when I saw him speaking with that type—it was just Matteo being Matteo. But, for some reason, seeing him with this woman closer to my own age sent an annoying and totally unwanted twinge of jealousy through me.
I, of course, instantly repressed it.
“Excuse me,” I said through a smile of gritted teeth.
“Clare!” said Matteo, snaking an arm around my waist. He flashed an easy smile at the elegant woman. “This is my business partner in the Blend,” he informed her, then turned his big, brown innocent eyes back on me. “What’s up?”
“Well, partner, you’re supposed to be stationed at the door.”
“I asked Esther to cover for me.”
“Ah, but you see,” I told him, “that’s problematic.”
“Problematic?”
“You appointed an openly hostile anti-fashion activist to meet and greet a crowd of people who mainline designer labels.”
Matt laughed nervously and shot a glance at Miss Elegant, who sipped her latte and looked away as if bored. Then he leaned close to me.
“I’ll be there shortly,” he whispered into my ear, “and if Esther turns out to be a problem, then you can always look after the door until then.”
With that, I felt his muscular arm spin me at my waist. Then his hand dropped to my lower back and pressed me back toward the front door in a gentle but infuriating send-off. Capping more steam than a two-boiler espresso machine, I marched away—but not to the front door. Instead, I returned to the coffee bar for a much-needed shot to calm my nerves. In the words of Moe Howard, “I wanted to brain him.”
Back at the bar, I found Tucker pulling espressos and chatting with Lottie’s two business partners, Tad Benedict and Rena Garcia.
“How’s Tuck doing?” I whispered to Moira.
The girl shrugged. “He won’t talk about it. Just said, ‘Men are pigs, and they should die’ again and left it at that.”
Well, whatever happened, Tucker seems over it now, I thought with relief.
Just then, Esther Best appeared at the bar. I blinked in surprise. “Shouldn’t you be at the door?” I said.
Esther shrugged. “The frou-frou train has slowed considerably. I left one of those walking brown string beans to guard the entrance since it s
ure looks like Matt is too busy hitting on Breanne Summour to relieve me anytime soon.”
“What’s her name again?” I asked, since Matt hadn’t bothered to mention Miss Elegant’s name.
Rena Garcia, Lottie’s business partner, overheard me and replied, “Breanne Summour is the editor-in-chief of Trend magazine. And Trend is very influential with the upscale crowd. Vogue and Women’s Wear Daily are Seventh Avenue staples, but Trend covers more than fashion…it follows whatever is on the cutting edge for a wide range of…well…trends.”
I thanked Rena, then turned back to Esther. “For someone who doesn’t care about fashion, you certainly seem to know your fashionistas.”
“New York One’s running their annual Fall Fashion Week Is Here Again! story,” Esther replied with a shrug. “They interviewed her in the piece and ran it every hour over the weekend. It was hard not to recognize her when she walked in tonight.”
My disturbed state must have been more than a little obvious because Lottie’s other business partner, Tad Benedict, sidled up to me. “So how are you holding up, Clare?” he asked, genuine concern in his voice.
“Fine. I just desperately need an espresso,” I said.
“Coming up,” said Moira, overhearing.
“Well, you’re doing a great job,” said Tad. “The drinks are delicious—and so are the pastries. Lottie’s very pleased. She said she only wished she could have gotten another of those little white diamonds before they all disappeared!” He smiled and patted his chubby stomach. “What were those anyway?”
I smiled. “Ricciarelli. They’ve been a popular celebration cookie for a long time—a really long time, actually. Documents from the Renaissance describe the cookie as being served in Italy and France during lavish, important banquets—”
Tad’s eyebrows rose and I realized I was lapsing into “too much information” again. But for years, while I was raising my daughter in New Jersey, I’d written a cooking column for a local paper, and ever since obscure details about food and drink had looped themselves into my everyday conversations. So sue me.
“Well, everything’s just delicious,” Tad replied.
I was grateful for the positive word. Tad was a good guy. A thirty-something, self-employed investment banker who lived in the neighborhood, his receding hairline and paunchy physique presented a stark contrast to the chiseled male models packed into the coffeehouse, but the leprechaun-like sparkle in his eyes, along with his gregarious nature, made him instantly likeable.
At his side, Rena Garcia—clad in a Fen caramel silk blouse with cream collar and cuffs and a long, brown leather skirt—smiled and sipped a latte. A pretty, vivacious Latina with a savvy head for marketing and publicity, she’d become Lottie’s other business partner after losing her job at Satay and Satay, an advertising and marketing firm just a few blocks away.
“So, you must be excited with what Matt’s up to,” said Tad, gesturing to the private conversation I’d interrupted by the fireplace.
“Excuse me?” I could think of a lot of words to describe what I felt about Matt’s behavior and “excited” was not one of them.
“Matt’s just being smart,” he said with a reassuring look.
“Smart?”
“Chatting up his kiosk idea with some key players.”
Before I could ask Tad what the hell he was talking about a familiar voice interrupted.
“Pardon me, but can I get a latte with soy milk?”
It was Lloyd Newhaven, the stylist, sans his two beautiful companions. He was suddenly hovering near Moira, who was lining up more tall glass mugs for Tucker.
“Of course,” said Moira. “But we’ve really backed up so it will take a few minutes.”
“I’ll wait,” he said with a sigh.
Soy milk was a fairly common request, and the Blend had an ample supply. As Moira went back to her work, Lloyd glanced our way. “I’m just dying for one, but, you know, I’m lactose intolerant.”
Tad, Rena, and I nodded. That’s when I noticed Tucker hoisting a tray of drinks and scanning the crowded room to find one of the model waitresses to deliver it. I was about to grab the tray from him to help out when a model swept in and whisked the tray off. But she hadn’t gone four feet before a crowd swarmed her and snagged every last latte.
“Is my soy latte coming?” Lloyd Newhaven prompted, impatient after barely a minute. Moira glanced up with annoyance on her face. Before she could say a word, I decided my short break was over.
“I’ve got it,” I declared, then moved around the coffee bar to search the fridge beneath the counter. “Figures,” I muttered when I realized we were out of soy milk up front. I ducked downstairs to retrieve a fresh container from one of our two large storage refrigerators in the basement.
“Hey, Tucker…I can do that,” I heard Moira insisting as I returned to the coffee bar. A tray with a single glass latte mug was sitting on the blue marble counter.
“Nonsense, dear,” Tucker told Moira. “You volunteered to help me behind the coffee bar, not hustle drinks to this monstrously catty cartel, and you’re doing great.”
With that, Tucker swept up the tray and headed across the crowded room.
At some point after I’d gone downstairs, Esther had stepped away from the counter to gather used mugs. She passed Tucker on her way back. “Uh-oh,” said Esther when she saw where Tucker was headed. “Watch out for fireworks.”
“Excuse me?” I said, preparing Lloyd Newhaven’s soy milk latte. “Where’s Tucker going with that drink?”
“After you went downstairs, Tucker made Lottie a latte. That’s where Tucker’s headed, to give it to her—only Ricky Flatt’s in his way.”
“Who?” I asked.
“He’s the fashion writer for Metropolitan magazine,” Rena informed me.
Esther pointed. “He’s standing in the group next to Lottie’s. And before you ask how I know, it’s because Tucker used to date him. He’s stopped in the Blend a few times.”
“He has?” I murmured, handing the finished soy milk latte to Lloyd Newhaven. I followed Esther’s pointing finger, but I didn’t recognize anyone.
“John Waters-esque mustache,” said Esther by way of description.
I nodded, spying the tall, lean, thirtyish man with a pencil-thin moustache and long black hair that fell down his back in oiled ringlets. He wore a brown silk jacket and a canary yellow shirt opened practically to his navel. At his side stood a blond young man in tight jeans and a V-neck cream sweater, his teeth bone white behind a Miami Beach tan on a hard-muscled frame.
“I’ve never seen him in the Blend before,” I said.
“You were probably off roasting beans or dealing with a delivery or something whenever he passed through. Ricky burned Tucker about two weeks ago—romantically, I mean. They had some kind of quarrel and Ricky totally dumped him. And not in a nice way. Now the jerk’s obviously here flaunting his newest boy toy. If you’re Tucker, that’s gotta hurt.”
As Tucker approached Lottie, Ricky Flatt stepped out to block his path. Esther crossed her arms and cocked her head, as if she’d just taken her seat at a WWF event. “Check it out, boss, this is going to be interesting. Five dollars says that latte Tucker’s carrying ends up in Ricky’s face.”
But it didn’t. Before Tucker could stop him, Ricky snatched the latte off Tucker’s tray as if the drink was meant for him. Then he gestured to the hard-muscled young man seated next to him as if he were ordering Tucker to bring him another for his date. Tucker snapped something at Ricky—and Ricky snapped his fingers in Tucker’s face. Of course, I couldn’t hear either man’s conversation over the loud music, but it was easy to see Ricky was baiting poor Tucker.
Finally, Tucker turned his back on the two men and returned to the coffee bar. I’d never seen him so upset. “Someone…someone took the latte I made for Lottie,” he managed. “I need another.”
For a long moment, we all just stared at Tucker.
“Clare,” Tuck said loudly. “I need a
nother latte for Lottie!”
I turned quickly, loaded the espresso machine and pulled another shot, then prepared the latte and set it directly on the tray in Tucker’s hands.
“Thanks,” said Tucker. He lifted the tray and made a wide detour to avoid Ricky Flatt’s spot. After he handed Lottie her drink, Tuck crossed the center of the room, strolling past Ricky’s group. The fashion writer lifted his latte, saluted Tucker. After swallowing a huge gulp, he passed the glass mug to his partner, who drained it dry.
Tucker shook his head in obvious disgust, then returned to the coffee bar. Just then, a commotion broke out among the audience. A woman cried out, “Are you all right?” Then a man shouted, “Someone help!”
I looked up, saw Ricky Flatt grimace as he clutched his throat. His mouth opened and closed like a fish on a dry dock.
“Oh god, I think he’s choking,” cried Esther.
My pulse racing, I pushed through the crowd toward Ricky. When I reached him, however, I saw Ricky Flat’s face wasn’t turning blue from lack of air, but a bright shade of pink! Then he slumped over his table and slid to the wood plank floor.
“Ricky! Ricky!” keened a hysterical voice. Ricky Flatt’s muscular date knelt at the man’s side and shook him.
“Get away from him,” a short, older man in a Truman-Capote-wannabe white fedora said. “Give him some air.”
Suddenly, Ricky’s boyfriend also turned a bright shade of pink and clutched his stomach.
Standing over the pair, I felt someone at my shoulder—Tucker. The kneeling boyfriend looked up, his eyes wide. He raised his hand and pointed an accusing finger at my barista.
“That…that bastard poisoned me and Ricky!” he cried, then collapsed across the inert form of Ricky Flatt.
THREE
TO say a hush fell over the crowd would be a cliché. What really happened was this.
First every human noise fell silent—no more uproarious laughter, catty banter, or jostling for position around a B-list celebrity. Every fashionable body in the room was suddenly doing an impersonation of a dummy in a Bloomingdale’s window. The only sound remaining was the relentlessly throbbing electronic dance music, which seemed to swell until it filled every corner of the place. Behind trendy glasses and black liner, wide eyes stared at the two young men sprawled, one atop the other, on the polished hardwood planks.