Brewed Awakening

by Cleo Coyle

  “You didn’t. It’s not Village Blend coffee.” Madame set her own cup aside and studied me. “But your tasting displays advanced expertise. Do you know where you acquired it?”

  “Of course! I worked for you the entire decade that Matt and I were married. You mentored me, taught me everything there is to know about coffee.”

  “I taught you everything I knew, Clare. But since then, you have far surpassed me. And you proved it just now. I only tasted a flat, dull blend, but you pinpointed the precise problems.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means there’s no doubt now: We can absolutely tap into your accumulated knowledge. We’ve found a crack in the block to your memories. We’re on the right track.”

  “If you say so . . .”

  “I do.” She smiled with satisfaction. “Matt wasn’t importing the Ambrosia beans when you were married to him. His relationship with that Brazilian farm didn’t develop until years after you divorced.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” Madame nodded, and I felt hopeful as I finished the cup. I even poured myself another. Though the blend was mediocre, it was real coffee!

  “Clare’s Proustian madeleine could still be in this room,” Esther declared. “I wouldn’t recommend eating week-old wedding cake samples for Remembrance of Things Past, but maybe she should sniff a few. It might stimulate a cortex or three—”

  “I have a better idea,” Madame suggested. “After we leave, I’ll have a friend order the same samples from the chef downstairs. Clare can taste them once she’s settled—”

  A sudden shout, muffled by the closed doors, halted her words.

  “Hey!” Mr. Dante yelled from the hall. “Some guys are running this way. They’re—”

  His voice was replaced by the sound of a blow and a startled grunt.

  “Dante!” Esther cried, rushing to the double doors.

  Before she reached them, they burst open to reveal a trio of guards wearing identical blue blazers and gray slacks. The biggest one had immobilized Mr. Dante from behind, wrapping his thick left arm around the barista’s throat while using the right to pin back the young man’s hands.

  Mr. Dante and his tormentor were flanked by a stout, older guard holding a truncheon, and a skinnier, younger guard, armed with a stun gun. Fortunately, he was pointing the gun at the ceiling and not at us.

  Though these three men clearly meant business, they didn’t intimidate Madame in the least.

  “Release that boy immediately!” she demanded, her posture a tower of righteous indignation.

  Scowling, the stout, older guard spun his truncheon once and dropped it into a belt loop. When he stepped in front of the others, I noted his badge read Stevens. His bulldog face was topped by thinning red hair. A jagged scar marred his ruddy cheek.

  “You’re trespassing, lady,” he said. “All of you are trespassing—”

  Madame squared her narrow shoulders and walked right up to him.

  “We have a perfect right to be here. I’m this year’s chairwoman of the Gotham Ladies’ Charity Committee and this suite belongs to us!”

  Stevens looked over the room.

  “What the hell are you doing, having a tea party? This is a crime scene. Didn’t you notice the pretty yellow tape?” He snorted. “Are you completely batty or just senile?”

  Madame’s violet eyes flashed. “I’ll brook no ageism from anyone, least of all from an overstuffed poltroon hiding behind a badge. Now, you tell that jackbooted thug to release my barista this instant! Then I want you all to leave these premises.”

  With an arrogant frown at Madame, Stevens shook off the order. Mr. Dante made a valiant effort to break free on his own—but the guard restraining him simply tightened his grip. The barista’s complexion went from pale to purple.

  That was when Madame strode right up to Mr. Dante’s tormenter and slapped him in the face. “Release that boy, you fascist!”

  Fearing the worst, I jumped in front of Madame.

  “She’s right,” I argued. “This suite legally belongs to the Gotham Ladies. They pay good money for it. You have no right to harass us.”

  Stevens appeared to hesitate at my words—until he stared harder at me, narrowing his gaze on my blond wig and fake glasses, which didn’t do much to convince him of our veracity.

  “Step aside,” he ordered. “I’m placing the old bag under arrest.”

  “She did nothing wrong!” I cried.

  “She struck a member of my staff,” Stevens shot back.

  Now Esther stepped up. “She had good reason. Your rent-a-badge had it coming. He’s harming our friend. And if he”—Esther pointed to said rent-a-badge—“doesn’t release our friend, I am going to kick him where no man wants a boot to go—ever. Then you can arrest us all, and we’ll sue!”

  While the guard appeared distracted by Esther’s tirade, Mr. Dante made his Karate Kid move. Pulling one arm free, he elbowed the guard’s midriff hard enough to break the choke hold and escape. But the adrenaline-charged barista didn’t retreat. Spoiling for a fight, he turned to face his bigger, bulkier abuser.

  Before the guard with the stun gun could act, a woman’s outraged voice broke through the chaos.

  “Step back, Stevens! Call off your men. These people are friends!”

  TWENTY-TWO

  A woman in black hurried toward us. Statuesque and elegant, she made a sharp contrast to the bulldog guards, and she pushed through their ranks with regal determination, stepping between Mr. Dante and his uniformed foe.

  “Blanche! My goodness! Are you all right?!”

  To Madame’s obvious surprise, the woman seized her shoulders and kissed the air around her silver pageboy.

  “Victoria Holbrook?” Madame stepped back to take in the sight of the polished businesswoman in the sleek black pantsuit. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

  I tried to place the woman’s age—fifties, sixties? Even with her auburn hair slicked back into a chic chignon, her ivory skin betrayed few wrinkles.

  “It’s been years since I’ve seen you.” Madame continued to marvel. “Why, you haven’t changed a bit.”

  “We both know that’s not true,” Victoria replied, though her wide blue eyes seemed pleased by the compliment. “And I can’t apologize enough for this.” She gestured at the guards. “Stevens here noticed the private elevator had been used and informed me he was going to check it out. I had no idea it was you!”

  Victoria dismissed the security guards, but the one called Stevens took his time leaving. With a frustrated grimace, he shot Mr. Dante the kind of cold, hard stare a hungry wolf gives the lucky rabbit that got away.

  Quickly stepping between the angry guard and his prey, Victoria asked Mr. Dante if he was all right. When he grunted in the affirmative, she directed us back into the Gotham Suite.

  “What are you doing here, Blanche?” Victoria began. “You should have informed the hotel that you were coming. We could have avoided this unfortunate incident.”

  “I came to fetch our files for the Ladies’ Charity Ball,” Madame lied. “It’s that time of year again.”

  I noted that Madame was not only dishonest, but she was careful not to mention the state of the ransacked office. Now her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “What are you doing here, Victoria? Didn’t you move to Vienna?”

  “Yes, for a short time. But I came back to the States years ago—made a home on the West Coast. Lately, I missed life in Manhattan.”

  Madame shook her head. “I mean, what are you doing at the Parkview?”

  “With Annette missing, I’ve stepped in to help out,” she said. “Someone had to. Someone from the family, I mean.” She leaned close to Madame’s ear. “This place has been mismanaged for a long time. And with recent events, well . . . let’s just say it’s gotten much worse.”


  “Have you called on your niece to help?” Madame asked. “With Tessa’s own successes in the hotel business, I’m sure she’d be an asset.”

  Victoria visibly tensed. “Annette wouldn’t like that.”

  “But I thought Annette and Tessa were close?”

  “They were, but . . .” Victoria seemed reluctant to reveal more.

  “Tell me, please,” Madame urged. “I’d like to help, if I can.”

  Victoria appeared to be fighting emotion—and trying to decide how much to say. With a polite nod to Esther, me, and Mr. Dante, she pulled Madame a few feet away.

  Their backs were to us as Victoria began to talk in hushed tones. I signaled Esther and Mr. Dante to stay quiet and stepped a little closer to eavesdrop.

  “. . . and as you probably know, Blanche, my late brother’s daughter used Annette’s connections to get her hotel chain off the ground. But Annette confided in me that Tessa Simmons did something recently to upset her. I don’t know what, but something led to a bitter argument. And given what’s happened . . . well, I have a sick feeling Tessa—or perhaps someone close to her—is behind this whole ugly mess.”

  “By whole ugly mess, you mean—?”

  “My sister’s bizarre abduction, of course. I can’t bear to think that it’s anything worse than that. I’ve been waiting for a ransom note. I’m desperate for one, if you want to know the truth. I’ll pay anything to get Annette back. But we’ve had no contact from anyone. Nothing. The police still haven’t been able to trace a getaway vehicle . . .”

  Hearing that, I thought about Matt’s mobile machinations, and didn’t doubt that motivated criminals could beat almost any surveillance system.

  “The police have theories,” Victoria went on, “but no solid leads, including no proof Annette and her captor crossed state lines. So there’s no FBI, not yet, anyway. The case is still under local jurisdiction. And the NYPD detectives tell me your former daughter-in-law can’t tell them anything, either.”

  “That’s right,” Madame replied. “Our Clare is back, but she was hospitalized with a damaged memory. We don’t know if she’ll ever regain it.”

  “You know what I can’t stop thinking?” Victoria said. “If anything happens to Annette, Tessa is set to inherit the Parkview. What does that tell you?”

  Madame expelled a breath. “Do you really think she’s capable of murdering her own aunt? I never knew Tessa very well. I did meet her some time ago, at the opening of her first boutique hotel in Brooklyn. She seemed like a sweet girl.”

  “She was, Blanche. It’s true, but she was barely out of her teens then. A lot has changed since she began that Gypsy hotel chain with her college friends. She’s not so sweet anymore.”

  Victoria’s voice turned anxious, almost fearful. “I admit, I have no proof. I wish I did, but I suspect Tessa wants control of the Parkview for gravitas, to prop up the reputation of those cheap, trendy lodgings she peddles. I conveyed my suspicions to the detectives on the case, but they seem convinced this is a revenge scheme on the Brewsters for past actions. I’m at my wit’s end, Blanche. If there’s anything you can think of to help—or if your daughter-in-law remembers something, anything—please let me know. I want my sister back . . .”

  Her voice broke. As she wiped away tears, Madame took her hand and squeezed.

  “I know it must be hard,” she soothed. “You’re right to step in and manage the hotel, despite the pressure on you. Someone must, until the authorities find out what really happened.”

  Victoria nodded, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket to dry her eyes. “You’ve always been so kind, Blanche. I—”

  Just then, we all heard a ding. The sound sent tense anticipation through every one of us. The elevator we rode up in was about to deliver another passenger to the foyer.

  TWENTY-THREE

  HURRIED footsteps came down the hall and a harried young man rushed into the suite. “Ms. Holbrook!” he began excitedly. “I got your emergency text in my car and drove here as fast as I could!”

  Adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses, he looked us all over. “Are these the people that violated the police quarantine?”

  Victoria looked embarrassed. “I’m afraid I overreacted, Owen. Thank you for coming, but it’s just a misunderstanding.”

  “And who is this?” Madame asked.

  “Blanche, I’d like you to meet Owen Wimmer, Esquire. He’s the Parkview’s legal representative. You can imagine he’s been busy since Annette vanished.”

  The towheaded lawyer in a buttoned-down shirt and sweater vest couldn’t have been more than thirty years old. Though small of stature, he displayed a great deal of intense energy. After barely acknowledging Madame, the lawyer faced Victoria and in one rapid-fire breath said—

  “I have one question for you. And you know why. Was Stevens involved?”

  “Yes.” Victoria frowned. “He and two members of his staff restrained this young man.”

  Owen cursed and turned to Mr. Dante. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Sure, it was nothing,” the barista replied.

  The young lawyer frowned. “We won’t stand in your way if you elect to file a complaint with the police.”

  “Forget it,” Mr. Dante insisted.

  Visibly relieved, Owen faced Victoria. “Stevens is a loose cannon. This is not the first incident. You should fire him—”

  “I don’t know if that’s necessary. He’s been at the Parkview for years. Without Annette here to agree, I don’t feel comfortable making such a drastic personnel change, but I will speak with him.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s not good enough. We cannot have the Parkview subjected to any further legal jeopardy.” The lawyer removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses with a pocket handkerchief. “I’d like to be the one to address Stevens and his staff—”

  “I said I’d take care of it.”

  “Hmm, well . . .” Owen practically pouted. “You know best. I’ll go, then.”

  Madame announced that we should be moving on, too.

  Victoria apologized again to us for our rough treatment and requested that we leave by the front entrance, since the NYPD had ordered hotel management to seal everything off, including the private elevator.

  “And because Owen is such a stickler,” she added, practically rolling her eyes.

  On our way out, I spied the young lawyer at the elevator, shaking his head as he fussily restored the crisscrossed police tape that Madame had torn off the door.

  Then we turned the corner, and Victoria Holbrook led us down a wide, carpeted hall lined with suites. An ornate flight of stairs took us to the elegant lobby.

  Before Madame exited through the bronze-and-glass doors, the woman in black rained more air-kisses down on her. “Don’t be a stranger. The next time you visit, let me know. We’ll have lunch in the Sun Court—my treat.”

  Outside, buses, cabs, and cars crowded the street. The autumn wind, whipping along Central Park South, made the colorful leaves quiver, and me shiver. I pulled my Poetry in Motion jacket closer around me, glad I had the blond wig on my head for extra warmth.

  Madame signaled for us to follow her lead. “Victoria expects us to leave so we’d better make a show of it.”

  She asked the doorman to call us a cab and, once we all piled in, informed the driver—

  “We’re only going around the block, to the hotel’s garage entrance on fifty-eighth, but I’ll be tipping you well.”

  “No problem, ma’am!”

  Turning to Mr. Dante, she instructed him to contact her son. “Tell him to sit tight. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Mr. Dante nodded and pulled out his phone. “Too bad your friend stopped the fight,” he muttered. “I know I could have taken that guy.”

  Esther shook her head. “Get over it, Rambo.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

/>   FIVE minutes later, the cab lurched to a stop, and we piled onto the sidewalk next to the Parkview’s garage.

  Beep, beep, beeeeep!

  The insistent car horn had us all turning to find a stylish woman waving at us from the window of an odd-looking SUV. Her long arm was flapping so excitedly, I thought she might actually lift the hunk of metal off the pavement.

  “Whoa!” Dante gushed. “Look at that pimped-up G-Wagen!”

  I’d never heard of the model. Heavily detailed in glittering gold, it looked more like a Vegas-ready Jeep with a shiny front grille about as subtle as the smile of a saber-toothed tiger.

  The trendy contraption, which Mr. Dante informed me was a G-Class Mercedes, squealed to a dead stop in front of us. Then another screech assaulted our ears, this one through the driver’s open window.

  “Blaaaaanche! Sweeeeeetie! What a surpriiiiise!”

  The car door flew open to reveal the driver, a striking older woman who reminded me a little of Carol Channing—with some Ethel Merman thrown in for volume.

  Wrapped in a gold lamé car coat, she sported a platinum blond bob, highlighted with bright streaks of canary yellow, adding memorable shock to her already theatrical appearance. Her enthusiasm was dampened a moment as she detached herself from a tangle of bedazzled seat belts. Then she burst out of her luxury vehicle with a Broadway grin.

  Once on her feet, her low-heeled booties—gold, of course—clicked across the sidewalk, running right up to Madame. With open arms, she lifted her friend off the ground in a big bear hug. And I do mean big. Compared to Madame (who stood taller than I did without shoes), the woman in gold was like a soaring statue in the flesh, literally enveloping Madame in her embrace.