by Cleo Coyle
“Y-yes.”
“You’ve changed, you know…”
“Changed?”
He pressed closer, the heat of his naked chest penetrating the thin layer of sheet between us. “You were so…different last night…”.
“Different?”
“Less inhibited…more open…passionate…” He continued to nuzzle my neck, my ear, moved to brush my lips. “You even taste different…like vanilla…”
I squirmed. “Must be the new shampoo and body wash. It comes in comfort food flavors. Strawberry ice cream, butter rum, gingerbread…”
“Mmmhmm…good to know…I like variety…”
I closed my eyes at that. Matt may have changed in some ways, but I knew he would never change in others. That’s always been our problem, Matt, I thought. You like variety a little too much. I touched his chest. As gently as I could, I pushed him away. “You made me your special reserve, didn’t you? I can smell it.”
He nodded, reached for one of the mugs and handed it over. As we sipped in silence, enjoying the incredible flavors, I tried not to panic.
Giving in to Matt had been a big mistake. Huge. And I should have known better. Notwithstanding the fact that our getting back together was something his mother had wanted for years—as well as our daughter—I had been through the mill too many times with my ex to want to risk getting my heart ground up again. Besides which, our relationship was changed now. We were business partners in the Blend, and I didn’t want that disturbed. Matteo was the best coffee buyer and broker in the business as far as I was concerned, and the Blend couldn’t lose that.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, I railed at myself. My resistance to Matt’s physical charms had failed only a few times since our divorce over a decade ago. Usually, I could rely on one of my memories of Matt’s extracurricular sexual romps to break “the mood” more effectively than an icy spike through my spine. But last night I couldn’t see Matt as a betrayer, only as a father and, shockingly, as a maturing man. He’d been hurting and open and unbelievably vulnerable. I wasn’t used to seeing him like that, his cockiness stripped away, his need so raw. It got to me…that and the fact that this mattress hadn’t seen any action for quite some time.
“Might as well enjoy the Harrar while you can,” Matt said, interrupting my thoughts. “Since my kiosks are a bust.”
“Oh, god, Matt. I’m so sorry—”
“It’s not your fault, Clare. My mother’s a stubborn old bird, and I obviously screwed up the presentation by going after Lebreaux—”
“No! Listen to me,” I told him. “The reason I’m sorry…I was waiting up to tell you, but then the whole thing with Joy at that nightclub happened, and then we…you and I…”
“Wait, back up,” said Matt. “What slipped your mind?”
“Your mother confided in me last night, while you were waiting on the taxi line. She thinks the future of the Blend is ours to decide, not hers. She understands what you’re doing and why. She’s not going to stand in your way.”
“Jesus, Clare. Why didn’t you tell me that last night!”
“Because at first I thought she should be the one to tell you, in her own words, but when I saw how hard you were taking it, I knew it was something you shouldn’t have to wait to hear—and then I…I got distracted. I’m sorry. But, Matt, I know she thinks your work in Ethiopia is phenomenal. And I do, too, by the way.”
His outraged tone softened. “She told you about the Harrar wet-processing?”
“Yes, and it’s just astonishing. You know, your mother will help hook you up with investors. She’s kept in touch with all of Pierre’s old contacts. You won’t have to go it alone or trust Tad to…”
My voice trailed off. The mention of Tad brought back all the things I’d witnessed on the Fortune the night before—not to mention my dream of Tucker drowning. And I realized with a sickening stab of guilt that while I was enjoying amazing coffee in the luxury of an elegant bedroom, my good friend was alone and afraid in a Riker’s Island jail cell.
I threw off the covers and got out of bed. I was totally naked, and I felt Matt’s eyes on me as I darted around the room, dressing for the day. But I didn’t care. I didn’t have time to.
“Listen to me, Matt,” I said as I pulled on a pair of panties and hooked on a bra. I told him all about Lottie Harmon’s business arrangement with Tad Benedict and Rena Garcia, and about the intimate moment they’d shared together on the dark deck—a moment I had secretly witnessed from the shadows.
“Sounds like they’re desperate to sell,” said Matt, scratching his chin as he leaned back against the four-poster’s headboard and continued to sip his coffee. “And I doubt Lottie is in a position to buy them out.”
“Yes, but she obviously has no idea they’re selling.”
“It doesn’t matter. Together, Tad and Rena control exactly half the business and they can sell fifty percent of the stock if they want to. It’s their right, Clare.”
“Yes, but I’m sure they were trying to sell even more. Tad didn’t even blink when Madame said she wanted thirty percent. Instead, he pressed me to buy some, too.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” said Matt. “Why sell more stock than you own? You’re bound to get caught.”
I thought it over as I zipped up my jeans. “Selling more stock than you own was a great scam in The Producers. Do you remember that Mel Brooks movie?”
“I thought it was a play.”
“Only lately. It was a movie first—”
“A movie first?” said Matt. “I thought they made movies out of plays and not the other way around.”
I waved my hand as I jerked open one of the deep drawers of the mahogany dresser and rifled through my sweaters. “You’ve been out of the country too often. With the exception of Chicago and Phantom, it’s often the other way around now, which is why Tucker is always bemoaning the state of the American musical.”
“Anyway—”
“Sorry. Anyway, in The Producers the two crooks sell shares in a Broadway musical to dozens of investors, figuring on a flop, so they can secretly keep the extra capital. It would have worked, too, except the show was a hit and they get stuck owing lots of people lots of money.”
“That’s a stretch.”
“No. That’s it!” I cried. “And Tad’s plan can only work if Lottie’s line is a flop. With Lottie dead, it’s game over—no wonder he tried to kill her.”
“Clare, you are really getting carried away here,” said Matt, watching me button on a pale yellow sweater, a suggestive little smile on his lips. “You would have to be pretty desperate to do something like that.”
“But that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” I said, striding back to the closet. “They both sounded desperate. Tad and Rena talked like they were in some kind of trouble and needed a lot of money fast.”
“What kind of trouble?”
I shook my head. “No clue.”
“Well, I have a different theory about Ricky Flatt’s poisoned latte—”
I gritted my teeth. “Not that stuff about Tucker being guilty again—”
“It’s Lebreaux.”
“Oh, Matt, come on. You’re just royally pissed at the guy.”
“No, listen. Lebreaux’s idea would be even more lucrative if he served both tea and coffee. And he has a vendetta against us, don’t forget. What if he hired someone to sabotage the Blend’s reputation by making it look as though our coffee was killing people?”
“I suppose you could be on to something,” I conceded. “But who did he hire—” I stopped dead in the middle of pulling on a low-heeled half-boot. “Violet Eyes,” I murmured.
“Who?” asked Matt.
“Violet Eyes,” I repeated. “There was an Asian girl with Lebreaux,” I explained. “She was tall and—”
“Had violet eyes. Long, straight, black hair, down to her hips. Legs that went on forever.”
I raised an eyebrow. Put a gorgeous girl in a room and Matteo Allegro would have her mea
surements calculated faster than an M.I.T. mathematics professor.
“She was at Lottie’s party,” I informed him as I finished pulling on my boots. “I greeted her at the door myself. And Esther and Moira said they saw her come up to the coffee bar in that critical window of time when Lottie’s latte must have been poisoned.”
“I’d call that pretty incriminating, Clare.”
“Unless it was just a coincidence. I mean…she and Lebreaux could have met for the first time tonight on the Fortune for all we know.”
“No,” said Matt. “She was with him the entire time in the yacht’s ‘backstage’ stateroom where all of us presenters were waiting to go on. She came with Eduardo Lebreaux, Clare. And she never said two words to anyone but him.”
“Okay, but I still say Tad is acting way too suspicious not to question.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
“I think I’m right.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Not me, Matt. It’s what you’re going to do.”
“Oh, please, Clare, don’t involve me again—”
“I just want you to set up a meeting with Tad downstairs. Invite Rena over for coffee, too.” I checked my watch. “Speaking of which, I have to get my butt down there and open.”
As I grabbed the thick set of keys from the top of the dresser, Matt crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“Why? Because we’re in the business of serving coffee and it’s time to open.”
Matt smirked at me. “Clare, why do you want me to set up a meeting with Tad Benedict and Rena Garcia?”
“Because,” I replied with a smirk of my own, “that Detective Starkey isn’t the only broad around here who can weasel a confession out of a suspect.”
EIGHTEEN
AS it turned out, Tad was too busy with his second Fortune seminar to meet with Matt any sooner than Friday morning. Consequently, Thursday came and went in a blur. From dawn till dusk I served customers, then spent most of the evening in my office juggling schedules, balancing books, finalizing the payroll—and, frankly, hiding from Matt.
After helping Gardner close, I quickly slipped upstairs to the master bedroom, firmly shut the door, and prayed my ex-husband wouldn’t come barging in. He didn’t. In fact, I didn’t see my ex again until Friday morning.
I was behind the coffee bar, tidying up after the morning rush, when Matt’s strong hands came down on my shoulders and began a slow massage. I jumped under Matt’s touch, not accustomed to—and not wanting—this new round of physical intimacy.
“I looked in on you late last night,” he rasped against my ear, “but you were already sleeping so soundly, I didn’t have the heart to wake you, even though I was tempted…and, honey, was I tempted.”
I closed my eyes and silently cursed. I had no one to blame for this but myself, and it was now up to me to delicately redraw the lines that I never should have allowed to be erased in the first place. I didn’t want to hurt him, or our working partnership, but it was time I gathered my courage and opened my mouth, which I was about to do when Matt added—
“Tad’s here.”
I looked up, spied the paunchy, balding, elfin-faced man at the front door, and knew the subject of my relationship with my ex would have to be put on hold.
“Take him up to the second-floor lounge,” I told Matt. “I’ll be up in a minute with coffee.”
Matt greeted Tad and they shook hands, then my ex led our guest upstairs. I looked for Rena, too, but there was no sign of her. I put a service for four on the tray anyway, added a few muffins, a carafe of freshly brewed Breakfast Blend.
“Back in a little while,” I told Esther.
Her jaw dropped. “It’s just Moira and I as it is,” she complained.
“I’m doing this for Tucker,” I whispered over my shoulder as I hefted the tray and climbed the stairs.
I found the two men seated in the circle of overstuffed chairs situated next to the now-cold fireplace. Matt was grinning and chatting amicably. If there were any hard feelings about the overboard incident on the Fortune Wednesday night, I couldn’t see them. When I arrived, Tad rose to greet me while Matt took the tray and set it on the table. I poured and served.
“I brought Matt some good news,” said Tad, offering a self-satisfied smile. “Someone read his prospectus and expressed his wishes to invest in the kiosk idea. Apparently this individual is a real fan of the Village Blend.”
“I really appreciate this, Tad,” said Matt.
“And my way of apologizing for the…incident with Eduardo Lebreaux,” Tad replied.
“Forget it,” said Matt with a wave of his hand.
“No, really. I didn’t want you to think I was some kind of idiot,” Tad insisted. “Lebreaux’s prospectus came in two months ago and I figured one’s tea and the other is coffee so why not include them both…”.
Tad shrugged sheepishly. “Then without my knowledge, Lebreaux withdrew his old prospectus and submitted an ‘updated’ one last week to my people.”
“Oh, really?” said Matt.
“The first deal involved importing exclusive teas from an eastern producer. The second prospectus was quite similar to yours, except the retail ideas were for marketing tea instead of coffee….”
Matt shot me his didn’t I tell you look. Tad noticed the exchange. “Anyway,” he continued. “It’s obvious that you and Lebreaux have a history.”
“I’ll say,” muttered Matt.
“I should have caught the bait and switch, but between the TB Investments seminar and Fashion Week, Rena and I have been running around like crazy.”
I spied an opening and jumped in. “How is Rena?” I asked, reluctant to confront Tad without Rena present. I was hoping she might still show.
Tad glanced at his watch—a Rolex, I noted—and a shadow of concern crossed his round face. “Actually, Rena should have been here by now. I called her early this morning from my office—several times—and left messages on her answering machine and cell. She should have picked up or called back by now, but some last minute crisis with Lottie probably has her hopping. I told her to meet us here if she possibly could.”
There was a pause. Tad added cream to his coffee, tasted his cup, and gushed about the quality of the brew. He tried to appear normal, but I could tell there was an undercurrent of concern—no doubt he was wondering why we asked him here. I pressed for time, but ten more minutes passed without a sign of Rena. Tad shifted impatiently and glanced at his watch once again. I decided to pounce before he bolted.
“Matt tells me you were selling stock in a number of fashion lines,” I began.
Tad nodded. “There was an offering for a very promising start-up. Designer Wylbur Watley left Martyrdom to start his own label, Sentinel Hill. I think we got some nibbles for him.”
“I heard you were selling Lottie Harmon shares as well…a lot of shares, in fact.”
An uncomfortable silence descended. Tad looked at Matt, who shifted in his chair, suddenly fascinated by tiny dust motes floating in the late morning sunlight pouring through the windows.
Tad set his cup aside, met my gaze. “What are you trying to say, Ms. Cosi?”
I dropped all pretense. “I know for a fact that you and Rena are closer than you let on—”
“My relationship with Rena Garcia is none of your concern—”
“Except when you and she form some kind of clandestine partnership to sell Lottie Harmon’s business out from under her.”
Tad’s face flushed red, and I thought he was going to jump down my throat. Instead he slammed his fist on the table. I winced, and Matt sat up straight.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tad cried. “Lottie Harmon made Rena and me both very wealthy—and she treats Rena like the daughter she never had. We would never do anything to hurt Lottie.”
“Then why sell the stock?”
“I’m doing it to protect Lottie, Ms. Cosi,” Tad replied. He stood up to go
, but I stood right in front of him. I wasn’t letting him get away without some answers.
“I have it on good authority that you and Rena are in desperate straits. That you need money in a hurry, and have to sell your shares in Lottie Harmon to raise it. Tell me. Are you bankrupt, or is it blackmail?”
I expected more anger and outrage. Instead Tad’s shoulders sagged. He slowly sat back down.
“Why do you want to know, Ms. Cosi? Why do you care?”
“Because my employee…my friend…is sitting in jail right now, because someone tried to murder Lottie Harmon and used my coffeehouse to do it.”
Tad’s eyes were suddenly haunted. “You mean the poisoning?”
I nodded. “With Lottie out of the way, you and Rena would become the sole owners of her label.”
Tad shocked me by laughing. “You are so wrong,” he said, shaking his head. “So off the mark…”
“Enlighten me then.”
Tad took a swallow of air, then a gulp of coffee. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, guarded.
“Over a year ago, when the label was just getting launched, Lottie somehow got Fen on board. It was a real coup—a miracle, really. Fen dropped his long-standing relationship with Verona accessories to take Lottie on. Anyway, Rena had been working for months for practically no salary. Her savings were gone and she was borrowing from friends. There was no guarantee that Lottie’s label was going to catch on, and she was starting to get very nervous about her financial security. She was feeling desperate…
Tad gulped more coffee, black this time. “Anyway, Fen sent over patterns for some of his fall line, so Lottie could design the accessories….” He glanced at his watch, looked in the direction of the empty staircase. “Someone approached Rena pretending to be an international knockoff merchandiser. He offered her seventy-five thousand dollars for copies of Fen’s designs. Like I said, she was desperate, owed money. So Rena took the deal. She copied the designs and traded them for cash.” Tad snorted. “Turned out to be a set-up. Fen himself sent an employee to make the deal—”