Brewed Awakening

by Cleo Coyle

  Madame smiled at the sight of man and cat. “I’m glad we did, too.”

  “How was it done exactly? Will traffic cameras be able to trace your getaway vehicle?”

  “Only as far as New Jersey . . .” She described the license plate switch and vehicle swap once they reached a secluded area, clear of public and private cameras.

  “How is Clare? Her mood? Her memories?”

  “Her mood is good. Her memories are still blocked, but there is a glimmer of hope. She’s responding to sensory stimulation . . .” Madame described their success with a coffee tasting. “She’s not sure why she knows things, but she does. Her mind can recall recent knowledge, even though she can’t tell you how she gained it.”

  “That’s something.” Feeling encouraged, he took another hit of the coffee. Smooth and earthy, bright and balanced, perfectly roasted. It had to be Clare’s.

  “What about our acute police problem?” he asked.

  “You mean those nice lady detectives?”

  “I assume you sent them on a wild Allegro chase.”

  “Yes, of course. When Detectives Soles and Bass get to Brooklyn, my son’s warehouse manager is going to reluctantly tell them that his boss mentioned he was heading down to the Village Blend, DC, to see his daughter for the weekend.”

  “That will buy us time, but not much. Where exactly is Clare? I assume you sent Matt to Washington as a diversion and Clare in the opposite direction. Is she on a train to some friend in New England?”

  “No, Michael. Clare is not on a train. And my son is not traveling to DC tonight.”

  Watching Madame squirm, Quinn took a tense breath. “Don’t tell me—”

  “They’re together,” she blurted, pulling the tooth in one hard tug. “At the moment, Clare and Matt are on the road, just the two of them, driving to his ex-wife’s house in the Hamptons. He was given the property as part of their divorce settlement.”

  “I’ll need the address,” Quinn said, rising so rapidly that Frothy nearly rolled off the sofa.

  “Take it easy,” Madame said as he gathered up the offended cat and set her gently on the carpet, next to Java, who began licking her mroowing! head.

  “How can I take it easy? He’s alone with her!”

  “It was the only way. There’s nothing to worry about. The property where they’re headed is still listed as owned by Breanne Summour. My son’s name is not attached to it, and he left his mobile phone in Brooklyn.”

  “That’s not what worries me.”

  “I understand. But I fully assumed you would be joining them out there. I’ll give you the address, as soon as I’m finished packing Clare’s things.”

  “And how long will that take?” he asked, checking his watch.

  “Almost no time at all.” She pointed to Clare’s large gym bag. “There are clothes, shoes, and toiletries inside. Please take them to her.”

  “What else is there to pack?”

  “Only one thing. Come with me . . .”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  QUINN followed Madame up the carpeted staircase and into the master bedroom. It was Clare’s favorite room in the duplex.

  Back when Madame managed the Village Blend, she lived in this apartment. Then she married importer Pierre Dubois and moved out, but kept this duplex as a guest residence. Using a bit of Pierre’s money, she redecorated the place with (in Clare’s words) her “romantic setting” on high.

  “It’s like a little piece of Paris tucked into a West Village Federal-style walk-up . . .” What Clare loved even more than the French doors, window boxes, marble bath, and antiques were the treasures on the walls.

  Throughout the duplex, priceless original paintings, large and small, covered every inch of free space. There were sketches, too, including framed doodles on napkins and scraps of paper—all from artists who’d frequented this landmark coffeehouse.

  Most were unknown to Quinn, but a few were names he recognized: Andy Warhol, Basquiat, even Edward Hopper (one of Quinn’s favorites), who’d sketched the Village Blend at a café table three floors below.

  Given her fine-arts studies, Clare was the perfect curator of this eclectic collection. She not only chose older works to rotate into the public shop, but invited new artists to display—and, like Dante, if they wanted to sell their art to admiring customers, right off the Village Blend’s walls, even better.

  “I’ll just be a moment,” Madame promised, moving toward the dresser.

  “That’s fine,” Quinn said, lingering in the doorway.

  The hearth was dark tonight, the room drafty. The cold emptiness seemed appropriate without Clare here.

  He could almost see her stretched out between her cats on the four-poster bed. She always looked so beautiful sleeping in the firelight. As that haunting image came back to him, so did the memory of the last time they’d made love . . .

  * * *

  • • •

  “DON’T panic,” Quinn whispered into her soft chestnut hair. “It’s only your fiancé—”

  He’d been on the job downtown until the wee hours, supervising a coordinated sting operation with the DEA. Using the keys she gave him, he let himself into her apartment. Then he slipped into bed, as he often did when he worked this late.

  Brushing aside her hair, he planted kisses on her neck while his strong hands gently caressed her body. She moaned, still groggy, then turned, surprising him by hungrily fastening her mouth to his, uncaring that his five-o’clock stubble sanded her cheeks and chin.

  She once said of all the tastes she’d savored and defined in her life, his was still the most powerfully unique. Words failed her in describing the “mysterious sensory chemistry” of his kiss—

  “There is nothing like the taste of you, Mike Quinn.”

  * * *

  • • •

  UNLIKE Clare, he couldn’t stop remembering their time together. If her condition didn’t change, those sweet memories would become a bitter curse. He’d feel more alone than ever.

  “Here it is . . .” Madame moved toward him with a familiar white box.

  He knew what was inside. Opening the lid, he lifted out the perfect ice-blue diamond. “I love the color,” Clare had told him. “It reminds me of your eyes, and all the goodness I see there.”

  Around the center, a circle of smaller coffee diamonds glowed with warmth, despite the shadowy chill in the room. These little gems, she said, were like all the special people in her life. She said she loved Quinn all the more because he understood and honored the relationships she treasured. They’re part of who I am.

  “The ring is hers, of course,” Madame said. “But I don’t think you should give it back until she’s ready.”

  Quinn forced the question. “Do you think she’ll ever be ready?”

  Lifting her wrinkled hand, she touched his cheek. “We have to think so, don’t we, Michael? Now, go find the woman you love, and do all you can to bring our Clare back to us.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  CLARE

  THE world around me looked dark, but it smelled like heaven—

  Coffee! Oh, coffee!

  Eyes closed, I inhaled deeply.

  Earthy. Nutty. Sweetly roasted.

  “Nice way to wake up, right?” It was Matt’s voice.

  Opening my eyes, I realized I was still in the getaway van. The air was freezing, my neck was sore, but a hot cup of bliss was literally under my nose. Matt was in the driver’s seat. His strong hand was holding the cup. After ten years of marriage, he knew what would rouse me—and arouse me. (The latter was what worried me.)

  I took the cup and thirstily drank.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “I had the strangest dream.”

  “Good dream or bad dream?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Was I in it?�
� he asked.

  “No.” I rubbed my sore neck. “Where are we? I remember Queens. Then we took the Long Island Expressway. I must have nodded off for a few minutes.”

  Matt snorted. “More like ninety.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. After all you’ve been through, you needed the rest.”

  “And this miraculous coffee? Where did it come from? Don’t tell me you bought it at a gas station.”

  “Close—it’s a converted one. Look behind us.”

  I did and saw a brightly lit building a short distance away. “What is that?”

  “Hampton Coffee Company. They have a few locations out here. That’s the Water Mill store. I’m one of their green bean suppliers. They roast their own, like we do. What do you think?”

  “Are you kidding? After the torture of decaf tea and Sanka, it’s liquid ecstasy.” I drank again. “Are your Ugandan beans in this blend?”

  He nodded.

  “I remember this coffee . . .” I closed my eyes, took another sip. “You helped the tribe get a washing station, right?”

  “That’s right, Clare. That’s good.”

  When I opened my eyes again, Matt was smiling, white teeth flashing attractively in his dark beard. He started the engine. “We’re not far from our destination, but I figured you’d appreciate a cuppa real coffee.”

  “I did, but wait!” I gripped his shoulder. “One’s not nearly enough!”

  He laughed. “You think I don’t know you? I bought two pounds of whole beans. I’ll make more at the house.”

  “How far is it?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  MATT smoothly swung the big van around. It was a deft U-turn for the narrow lane, but then his driving always did impress me.

  After years of muscling off-road vehicles around the coffee belt’s muddy mountains, treacherous rain forests, and edge-of-cliff death roads, a few dark, narrow lanes on Long Island weren’t about to faze the guy.

  Ahead of us was Montauk Highway. Cars and trucks were zooming in both directions. With no stoplight to slow traffic, it looked intimidating to me, but Matt easily got us across and onto a road called Deerfield.

  This was another lonely stretch, lined with trees and open land. The occasional high row of groomed bushes indicated estate property, and then came the thick trees again.

  “This rural run is giving me the creeps,” I said. “Whoa!”

  A Lamborghini with high beams nearly blinded us as it flew by.

  “Idiot,” Matt muttered.

  There were no streetlights along these two narrow lanes, just a yellow line to follow. Matt had to switch to high beams to illuminate the dark turns—but at least he clicked them off when another car appeared!

  I gripped my cup for caffeine courage. “Given the wealthy set’s penchant for parties, alcohol, and fast cars, I’m guessing there are a lot of accidents on these Hamptons roads during the summer season.”

  “Yes. Lots.”

  “It’s not uncommon, then,” I said. “The way Annette Brewster’s husband died out here, in an auto accident.”

  Matt gave me a funny glance. “Is that something my mother told you? I mean, about Harlan Brewster?”

  “She did mention that Annette’s husband was dead.”

  “Did she tell you how he died?”

  “No, Madame didn’t. I just know.”

  “Concentrate. Try to remember. How did you learn that? Who told you?”

  I closed my eyes, shutting out the van’s headlights while I sipped more coffee. A female voice came back to me, but it wasn’t Madame’s. It was Annette’s. I recognized the voice as Annette Brewster’s!

  “Matt, I can’t tell you when she told me, or even what she looked like at the time, but I can hear Annette’s voice. I know it’s her!”

  “That’s good, Clare. Keep going.” Matt noticed my eyes were shut. “Do you see anything?”

  “Just a table covered in white linen.”

  “Sounds like the cake tasting on the night you disappeared. Don’t stop. What else do you remember about your conversation with Annette?”

  “Coffee,” I said, eyes open again. “We talked about her hotel’s coffee. I wouldn’t call it swill or mud or anything. I mean, it was drinkable, but a place like the Parkview Palace should be offering guests something of much higher quality. Something like this . . .”

  I lifted the excellent Hampton blend and paused to enjoy more of it.

  “What else did you discuss? I’m betting you pitched Annette on our Village Blend coffee, right?”

  “Yes, I did—” Another car came rocketing toward us, high beams bleaching the dark road in a flash of blinding white. Matt cursed and I tensed, holding my breath until it zoomed past.

  “Sorry. Go on,” Matt coaxed. “Did your pitch work? Was she interested in switching coffee suppliers?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Annette said her husband, Harlan, insisted they use Driftwood Coffee because the execs of the national chain spent a fortune at the Parkview—corporate meetings, suites as perks for franchisees, that sort of thing. Harlan reciprocated with an exclusive contract for their product.”

  “So, Annette planned to continue honoring that relationship?”

  “No. She said everything changed with Harlan finally gone—and she emphasized those words, as if she were happy about it. She said, if it were up to her, she would dump Driftwood, but she wasn’t in a position to make any deals.”

  “But she’s the owner,” Matt said, puzzled.

  “She said I should talk to the new owner of the Parkview. She encouraged me to make a pitch when the time came. She thought the Village Blend could easily get the contract.”

  “New owner? Are you telling me Annette was planning to sell the Parkview?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure, Clare? Nothing like that has been in the news. My mother never mentioned it.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then who’s buying Annette’s hotel?”

  “I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. She said it was too risky to reveal the details of the deal, and she swore me to secrecy.”

  Matt went silent a moment. “She said the word risky?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it was after your conversation that she was abducted. Can you remember anything about the crime? Concentrate, think.”

  I tried once more, but there was no anchor, nothing to guide my mind, and I felt myself falling into the now-familiar shadowy wooziness that preceded a blackout. I immediately opened my eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t remember,” I said, staring at the road.

  “We know it happened. The cops have the picture of Annette and you and a ski-masked goon with a gun.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me. But I don’t recall it—though I did dream about a man with a gun.”

  “When?”

  “When I fell asleep here in the van.”

  Matt sat up straighter behind the wheel. “Clare, this could be it. Your dream could be the breakthrough you need.”

  “You think so?”

  “You just shared a recent memory of Annette.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Tell me about this man with a gun. Describe him . . .”

  I took a breath, closed my eyes.

  “He’s tall and broad-shouldered, but I can’t see his face.”

  “Because he’s wearing a mask?”

  “No. I can’t see his face because it’s deep in shadow.”

  “What’s he wearing?”

  “A blue suit. In my dream, when he took off his jacket, I saw his gun. It was in a leather shoulder holster, strapped across his white dress shirt. The man was walking along a c
ity sidewalk. He turned a corner and suddenly he was in the woods, looking for me among the dark trees. He called my name over and over. His voice was so sad. He kept begging me to answer him. I wanted to cry out . . . but I couldn’t.”

  I opened my eyes. “That’s it. What do you think?”

  Matt sat in silence, gaze fixed on the road.

  “I know it’s an odd dream.” I chewed my lip. “Do you have any idea who that man might be?”

  “No, Clare. No idea.”

  FORTY

  MIKE

  “SO, does she remember you yet?” Sergeant Franco asked.

  Quinn barely heard the question. The gas station’s pay phone was pressed to his ear, but it did little to drown out the rumble of the highway traffic. As he leaned against the warm hood of his car, the wind from a passing semi buffeted him.

  “I just told you. Clare has fled the hospital. She’s a fugitive.”

  “Yeah, and I naturally assumed you had something to do with that.”

  “So did the Fish Squad,” Quinn responded, “until they moved on to more likely suspects.”

  “More likely suspects?” Franco said. “That must mean Madame Dubois and her merry band of baristas—with some larcenous help from Joy’s father, I assume.” He paused. “Is Clare with them now?”

  Through gritted teeth, Quinn answered, “Not all of them.”

  “I take it from your constipated reply that your fiancée is alone with her ex-husband.”

  “You always were a smart detective, Franco.”

  “I also take it that you’re about to get between them—”

  “As fast as possible.”

  “So, what do you want from me, boss?”

  “Two things. First, I want you to break the news to Joy about her mother’s hospital escape. Tell her there’s no reason to be alarmed. Clare is safe, and Joy will see her soon. If she wants to help her mother, she should not come to New York. Tell her to remain in DC, and act like she knows nothing about Clare’s hospital breakout.”