Latte Trouble (15 page)

“It won’t come to that,” I said firmly. “We’ll have you out of here in no time.”

“But if we don’t manage that trick, I have a few suggestions for surviving this place unscathed,” said Madame. “I’ve learned these tricks from my own experiences.”

Both Tucker and I stared at her in amazement. “Are you telling us
you’ve
been in jail?” asked Tucker.

Madame nodded. “I was imprisoned within this very compound, many years ago,” she declared.

“Why?” I asked.

“It’s not important,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Ancient history…”

We both urged Madame to give us details, but she simply refused to elaborate, and her stern expression told us to drop the subject. Of course, we did—one does not “press” Madame.

Eventually, Tucker changed the subject, asking about the coffeehouse, about Esther and Moira. Finally, Madame faced Tucker, took his right hand in hers and looked into his eyes. “I know imprisonment feels like the end of your life, but don’t you ever give up hope. Don’t look anyone in the eye or they’ll take it as a challenge. But don’t look away, either, or they will think you are weak.”

Tucker nodded with each suggestion.

“Keep to yourself, but do not spurn friendship if it is offered. Deal
carefully
with the guards. If you get too close to them, the inmates will think you’re a stool pigeon.”

In all the years I’d known Madame, I’d never once heard the words “stool pigeon” (one of my dear old dad’s typical terms) come out of her mouth. And as shocked as I was to hear prison advice issued from a woman in floor-length Fen outerwear, I had to admit her suggestions seemed sound.

“Don’t be anyone’s fool, Tucker,” she continued. “But do not assume everyone around you is a criminal or out to harm you simply because they are locked up in here. Most of these inmates are in the same situation you find yourself—blameless, but too impoverished to get bail. They await justice with the hope the system will eventually exonerate them.”

Misty eyed, Tucker opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the heavy door swinging open.

“Time’s up,” said the guard.

We offered Tucker a final hug, and watched unhappily as the guard cuffed him and led him away. The woman who brought us to this windowless room appeared in the door a moment later, then guided us back to the Control Building where we checked out and were given back our cell phones and other personals.

Outside, Madame waved to Mr. Raj, who was parked in the visitor’s area. As the Lincoln pulled up to us, Madame sighed deeply. “Oh, Clare, I feel so badly for the boy. I do wish there was something more we could do.”

“There is,” I replied.

M
ADAME
and I were both so intimidated by the quiet, ordered oppressiveness of Rikers Island that I don’t think we dared breathe normally until we’d crossed the bridge back over the East River and merged with the normal flow of traffic on the Grand Central Parkway.

For once, I felt happy to be stuck in the noisy chaos of pre-rush hour and I gazed out the window, watching an airplane wing its way over Rikers before making a banking approach to one of LaGuardia’s runways. I wondered how it would feel to be trapped inside that prison and hear—hour after hour, day in and day out—the whine of airplanes filled with happy, free people going about their lives just over your head.

“Where would you like to go, Mrs. Dubois?” asked Mr. Raj.

Madame offered him a blank stare. “Very good question.”

I cursed. “I’m so stupid. I should have asked Tucker where Jeff Lugar is being treated. That’s the kind of information that’s difficult to pry out of hospital administrators.”

Madame leaned forward. “Just make it Manhattan, for now,” she told Mr. Raj, who nodded and continued heading for the Queensboro Bridge.

“Have you a clue where he is, Clare?” Madame asked.

“I believe at least one ambulance came from St. Vincent’s,” I said.

Madame nodded. “That’s a start, my dear.” She fumbled in her tiny purse until she located her cell. “Now relax while I make a few inquiries.”

Madame dialed her cell, then spoke. “Dr. McTavish, please. It’s Mrs. Dubois calling.”

The good doctor immediately took the call. No surprise, since Madame had been seeing the man off and on for quite some time now. Well over seventy, Dr. McTavish bore a passing resemblance to Sean Connery. Like the actor who played 007, the esteemed oncologist from St. Vincent’s cut an imposing figure even at his advanced age. Unlike Mr. Connery, however, Dr. McTavish had retained most of his iron gray hair.

Madame murmured something sweet to the doctor and the years seemed to melt away from her face as she listened to his response. A few minutes later, she was closing the cell phone and declaring, “It pays to have connections within the healthcare community.”

I would have barked, “Spill,” but because this was Madame, I politely asked, “What did you discover?”

Madame’s eyes brightened—clearly all this detective stuff was up her proverbially dark alley. “Mr. Jeffrey Lugar was brought to St. Vincent’s for triage the night of the incident. After he was diagnosed with cyanide poisoning and his condition had been stabilized, he was transferred to the poison treatment center at Bellevue Hospital for long-term care.”

Madame leaned over the front seat, touched Mr. Raj’s arm. “We’d like to go to Bellevue Hospital. That’s on—”

“First Avenue at Twenty-seventh Street. I am quite familiar with the institution, Mrs. Dubois,” he replied with a smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Raj.”

Madame faced me. “I do hope we can help poor Tucker. He must feel so alone, abandoned, and isolated.”

“He knows we’re trying to help, that he’s not
completely
alone,” I replied.

Madame nodded. “Loneliness is a terrible thing. Perhaps
the
most terrible thing. I could face poverty, illness, even death with courage. But not loneliness and isolation…I need people in my life, Clare.”

“Is that why you received Lottie Harmon so graciously when she returned to New York?”

“That’s one reason, of course. But in the past I’d always enjoyed Lottie’s company. Unfortunately, the years have changed her.”

“Changed her? How?”

“She’s just not the same carefree person anymore. Now she’s always on edge, you know?”

“What do you mean, on edge? Can you be more specific?”

“Well, let me see…” Madame pursed her lips in thought. “Her laugh, for instance. It’s so strained. It actually makes me uncomfortable, to tell you the truth. It never used to. And the sidelong glances filled with concern. She’s very fussy now…a worry wart. Yet she was once so lighthearted, so free and easy. She’s just not comfortable in her own skin anymore—it was a trait I’d always admired about her, but now it’s vanished.”

“I know what you mean. She’s too self-conscious. And her manner seems affected—not insincere, so much as strained. Like her laugh—too loud, too strident. Like she’s covering up for something.”

Madame nodded. “The poise she had. The self-assurance. It’s gone…But I suppose life can do that to a person.”

“What in life, do you think?”

Madame frowned. “A tragedy, perhaps…or a succession of romantic or other disappointments…” Madame’s voice faded. She seemed lost in thought. “I wish I could tell you more,” she finally concluded.

It was my turn to frown. “We’ve run out of clues, I think. Even this visit to Jeff Lugar—it’s an act of desperation. I couldn’t tell you what I hope to accomplish.”

“Well, don’t fret, my dear. It’s the decent thing to do,” she pointed out. “That man was poisoned in our coffeehouse. The least we could do is pay him a visit. If we don’t learn anything from Mr. Lugar, we’ll try other avenues.”

“Well, whatever happens, I want you to give the good Dr. McTavish
my
thanks.”

“He was happy to help. He wasn’t aware Jeff Lugar had even been at St. Vincent’s or he would have snooped on our behalf much sooner…He as much as said so.”

I decided to risk Madame’s disapproving stare and pry. “Now that we’ve mentioned him, how are things between the good doctor and yourself?”

It was, of course, a big mistake to bring up romance because Madame turned the question back to me so fast I actually felt a little dizzy—or maybe it was car sickness.

“We were speaking, I believe, about how Lottie Harmon has changed,” Madame said stiffly. “And since we are on the subject of
change
, what do you think of Matteo’s efforts to remake himself?”

“His newfound entrepreneurial spirit, you mean?”

“I mean the way he looks at you, Clare. Don’t you see how differently he treats you?”

“No, actually,” I replied, recalling the mysterious lipstick I found on his collar. I sighed, wondering how my relationship with my ex-husband had suddenly become the topic of conversation.

“You must admit that Matteo has taken a new interest in the business.”

I nodded, conceding to myself that he’d also taken a new interest in me, at least until something better—something named Breanne—showed up again.

Madame fixed her determined eyes on me. “And I believe he’s also shown a new deference and concern for his…family.”

I sighed. “I admit that Matteo has dropped hints that he’d like to…see more of Joy.”

“And
you
, my dear.”

“He may want that, but it’s not something I think is wise for either of us,” I replied diplomatically, hoping I’d led Madame to a soft landing.

“But you still love him,” Madame shot back—an assertion, not a question. I met Madame’s expectant gaze.

“Oh, Madame…you know love was never the problem.”

I
F
I ever write a manual on how to be an amateur detective, I will add a chapter on one of the most important assets any investigator can have—an impeccably dressed elderly woman who arouses absolutely no suspicion and can talk her way into or out of any situation. A woman whose presence is so imperious, so gracious, almost no one will question her motives or rudely ask about her business.

Even in these days of heightened security—bordering on paranoia here in New York City after the 9/11 attacks—Madame was easily able to charm herself past the nurse at Bellevue Hospital’s front desk and up to the tenth floor, where we were told Mr. Jeffery Lugar was resting comfortably in a semiprivate room.

Bellevue Hospital occupies a twenty-five-story, multimillion dollar patient-care facility in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Manhattan. Founded in the 1600s, the facility includes both adult and pediatric emergency facilities, along with the psychiatric emergency services with which most people associate the place. The entire facility became a part of the New York University School of Medicine in 1968. Currently its attending physician staff numbers twelve hundred and its house staff more than five hundred residents and interns.

Despite its impressive credentials and history, however, once you step out of the elevator and into one of the wards, Bellevue is much like any other hospital—white walls, white-clad nurses and staff, a medicinal smell that barely masks the scent of sickness, decay, and death.

Okay, maybe I’m being a bit too morbid, but aside from the time I spent in the hospital delivering my daughter, Joy, my memories of visiting such facilities are not fond. One of my employees died in such a place, barely a month after I took over management of the coffeehouse again. That was not a good memory, and as I walked the sterile halls, I vowed that I would never again visit a prison and a hospital in the same day.

At the nurses’ station, Madame inquired after Jeff Lugar. A middle-aged registered nurse checked the roster. “You’ll find Mr. Luger in room ten-fourteen. I believe he already has several visitors, but I’m sure he will be delighted to have a visit from his immediate family.”

“Nothing says loving like a visit from Grandma,” I whispered.

“Shush, Clare,” warned Madame.

But the nurse’s assumption proved my assertion—nobody suspects a well-dressed elderly woman of shady behavior. Nobody.

“You’ll find Mr. Lugar’s room all the way down at the end of the hall, the last room on the left,” said the nurse in a chipper voice.

As we proceeded down the corridor, a young man emerged from room 1014 just before we reached it. Before he noticed either of us, I clutched Madame’s arm and stopped her.

“Clare? What’s the matter?”

“That man,” I whispered. “I’ve seen him before. Twice before.”

The person who came out of Jeff Lugar’s room was the young man with the white-blond crewcut—the one Esther Best dubbed the “Billy Idol clone.” Mr. Eighties had been hovering around the coffee bar right before the poisoning—at least according to Esther—and then he had been at Tad Benedict’s investment seminar. Today the mystery man wore a black silk suit and a narrow scarlet tie; the sleeves of his jacket were rolled up his forearms 1980s style—to reveal a complex map of purple and blue tattoos. A blue and yellow badge dangled from his lapel. I’d seen plastic cards just like them—worn by the Fall Fashion Week staff at Bryant Park when I’d visited Lottie at the large central tent nicknamed the Plaza.

I watched, waiting for the man to turn and see us—and perhaps recognize Madame, too, from our evening aboard the
Fortune
. (Though I’d been in my Jackie O disguise, Madame was now dressed as elegantly as she had been on that night, and a woman of her presence was not easily forgotten.)

A voice called from the room, low and weak. I couldn’t make out the words, but I heard Mr. Eighties’s reply.

“I’m going to pop downstairs for a soda,” he said. “Be right back.”

He turned his back to us and headed down the corridor to a second bank of elevators, without noticing us.

“Curiousier and curiousier,” I muttered.

Madame lifted her eyebrow, but said nothing. When Mr. Eighties was out of sight, we knocked on the door frame. The man who looked up from the crisp white sheets was a pale ghost of the handsome, virile, tanned young man who had appeared on Ricky Flatt’s arm at Lottie’s pre-rollout party. His pale face was sunken, his eyes dull. An intravenous tube flowed into his arm and a clear plastic oxygen tube was attached to his upper lip by gauze that wrapped around his head. His flesh was sallow and pale, almost translucent, and his skin seemed as crisp and dry as old parchment paper. When he looked up, Jeff Lugar raised an arm to shield his eyes from the bright afternoon sunlight streaming through a large window. His hand quaked from the effort.

“Jeff Lugar?” I began, stepping over the threshold. “I’m Clare Cosi and this is Mrs. Dubois…”

He fixed his eyes on us. They were bright, as if with fever. “Do I know you?” he whispered hoarsely.

I shook my head. “I was at Lottie Harmon’s party…I saw what happened to you and Mr. Flatt. I just thought I’d pay you a visit…see how you’re feeling.”

Jeff Lugar laughed bitterly. “I’m fine, just fine, or so the doctors tell me.”

“Indeed? Why, that’s excellent news,” Madame said with measured enthusiasm.

“Is it?” Jeff replied. He lifted a hand to brush his shock of hair away from his face. Once again, the limb trembled so much I couldn’t look away. Jeff Lugar followed my gaze, then lowered his arm quickly.

“Neural damage caused by oxygen depravation,” he explained. “Another delightful effect of the cyanide. There’s some brain damage as well, though I’m told it’s nominal—whatever
that
means.”

Jeff Lugar tried to laugh again, but coughed instead. When the hacking intensified, I stepped forward and poured him some water. He drank with rasping gulps.

“Thanks…the oxygen makes my mouth dry.” He tried to pass me back the plastic cup, splashed water on my wrist and arm.

“I’m sorry. I’m…I’m not the man I used to be.”

I sat in silence for a moment, while Madame gently queried Jeff Lugar about his home and family, his health and situation. When I spied an opening in the conversation, I jumped in.

“Do you know why someone would want to poison Ricky Flatt?”

“Maybe because Ricky was a little bitch.”

I blinked.

“Look,” Jeff Lugar rasped. “I can hardly blame that waiter for poisoning Ricky. Flatt was such a turd sometimes, the way he was goading his ex-boyfriend…”

“Were you jealous of Ricky’s old flame?”

Jeff shook his head. “No way. I couldn’t even stand Ricky. I was only there that night because Ricky insisted I come. Said it would boost my modeling career. It would be good for me to be seen—with him…or so he claimed.”

“So you’re sure it was the waiter who’s guilty?”

Jeff shrugged. “Who else? That’s who the police say did it and I believe them. Who am I to argue with the police?”

“Maybe Ricky wasn’t the intended victim,” I prodded. “Maybe someone else was supposed to die and you and Ricky just got in the way.”

Jeff nodded. “That’s what my friend Bryan said happened. He was there, too. Saw the whole thing. I guess it’s possible.”

“Who’s Bryan?”

“Bryan Goldin. You just missed him.”

“White-blond buzz cut? Billy Idol look?”

Jeff Lugar nodded.
Mr. Eighties revealed at last
, I thought.

“Will you be getting out soon?” Madame asked.

“I’m being moved to a rehab facility upstate, a six-month stay—that’s how long the doctors say it will take for me to fully recover my…capacities…”

We conversed for a few more minutes, until I noticed Jeff Lugar getting weaker. I touched Madame’s arm and we said our good-byes.

“That poor boy,” Madame sighed. “He looks simply terrible.”

“At least he’s above ground.”

“Yes, but I fear he has a long road to recovery.”

I could see Madame’s heart ached for Jeff Lugar. I was sad for the man, too, but my mind was more focused on Bryan Goldin. In a city of ten million people and a fashion industry of thousands he’d turned up three times now. At the rollout party, Bryan Goldin had seemed unattached, yet on the yacht he appeared to be a member of Lebreaux’s entourage. Now here he was again, this time as an apparent friend of the unfortunate Jeff Lugar. Suddenly Matteo’s off-the-wall theory about Lebreaux working behind the scenes to destroy the Village Blend’s reputation sounded more plausible. Could Lebreaux actually be using Bryan like some kind of demented hit man—even if it meant spiking a latte with cyanide and committing a totally random act of murder? Was it possible that Bryan missed killing Lottie, harmed a friend instead, and now felt guilty?

Madame and I rode the elevator down to the lobby. We were about to leave the hospital when I spied Mr. Eighties on his way back up—presumably to Jeff Lugar’s room. He slipped past us without a glance, stepped into an empty elevator.

I squeezed Madame’s arm. “I’ll be right back,” I whispered. Then I stepped into the elevator next to Bryan Goldin. We were the only two occupants as the doors closed and the elevator ascended.

The button for the tenth floor was already glowing, but I tapped it anyway. The doors slid shut, I pressed my back into the corner and glanced at the young model. He glanced at me in return—just a quick look, the way people check one another out in elevators. It was clear he hadn’t recognized me, or was very good at feigning indifference if he had. Of course, I didn’t exactly stand out in a crowd—not the way Goldin did with his buffed appearance, stylish, expensive clothes, dyed hair, and outlaw tattoos.

The elevator gave a jolt, then started to rise. If I was going to pounce, it was now or never. “Excuse me, but you’re Bryan Goldin, right?”

He blinked in naked surprise. Then the curtain of cool indifference descended. “Yes,” he said.

“I saw you the other night. At Lottie Harmon’s party.”

He squinted, took a closer look. “Do you work for a designer label? Or maybe a magazine, Ms…?”

“Cosi. Clare Cosi. Actually I saw you at the party, and the other night, too. On the yacht with Mr. Lebreaux.”

Goldin shifted uncomfortably, glanced away, then poked the elevator button impatiently.

“Are you a friend of Lebreaux?” I asked, forcing a smile. “I’ve known Eduardo for years…”.

“I know Lebreaux,” Goldin said, allowing the statement to hang there.

The elevator stopped at seven. The doors slid open. I thought Bryan was going to bolt but he stayed, using the distraction as a chance to turn his back on me. Two conversing nurses stepped into the elevator. One pressed the button for eight, then someone called from the corridor and the two women hurried out of the elevator again. The doors closed and Goldin and I were alone again.

“I bet you’re a model,” I cooed.

“Sometimes,” Goldin muttered.

I wondered about his connection, if any, to Lottie’s runway show with Fen tomorrow. “Do you model for Fen?”

Bryan Goldin curled his lips in a near-perfect imitation of Billy Idol. “Of course.”

Of course?
Odd choice of words, like it was a given or something. Was it simply confidence bordering on arrogance? Or something else? I was about to ask another question when the elevator stopped on eight and the door opened. No one got on, and we waited for a moment. Then, as the doors were about to close, Bryan Goldin slipped between them and hurried down the corridor. I tried to follow but he’d timed his exit perfectly and the doors closed in my face.

On the tenth floor, I walked back to Jeff Lugar’s room and peered inside. Save for the quiet hiss of the respirator, the room was silent. Jeff Lugar was alone, sleeping soundly. I wanted to see if Bryan would return, but after fifteen minutes he still hadn’t, so I walked back to the elevator.