Decaffeinated Corpse (22 page)

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Authors: Cleo Coyle

Tags: #Mystery And Suspense Fiction, #General, #Fiction, #Detective, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Fashion, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - General, #Coffeehouses, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Cosi; Clare (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction, #Restaurants - Employees

BOOK: Decaffeinated Corpse
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Madame shook her head. Gary downed the Pinot Noir in a single gulp and started sipping the Riesling.
Madame exhaled in disgust.
“I’ve got to go,” I chirped uneasily, relieved to be escaping the immediate vicinity of the not-so-happy couple.
I circulated for a few minutes and noticed Dante Silva was the only barista who didn’t seem to be busy. He stood with a tray of empty glasses in his hand, watching a new group of people arrive on one of the elevators.
“Dante?”
He jerked, startled. The glasses clinked together on the tray and he reached out with one hand to steady them.
“Sorry, Ms. Cosi—”
“Why are you so jumpy?”
Dante shrugged. “Just nerves, I guess.”
I studied his expression. Dante seemed as uneasy as Madame. “Did somebody ask to marry
you
?”
“What?”
“Forget it. Could you grab another tray of brie and sesame cookies from the kitchen, and make another round?”
Dante did a bobblehead impression. “Will do.”
I relieved him of his burden and carried the spent glasses to the bar. Tucker was standing behind it, opening bottles of sparkling water and pouring them into crystal tumblers.
Ric Gostwick approached me from across the room. He glanced at his watch. “Have you seen Ellie?” he whispered.
“I haven’t, and I’m looking for her, too. Hasn’t she been staying with you at the V Hotel?”
Ric frowned. “No, of course not. She’s married.”
“Yes, but . . . didn’t Matt talk to you? About the private investigator . . .”
Ric turned his frown into a smile, but his eyes narrowed and his body appeared to tense. He touched my arm and leaned closer. “Matt spoke to me, Clare, but I’d appreciate it if you’d drop all of that tonight. This isn’t the time or place . . . and, just so you know, Ellie and I are affectionate. We hug and kiss . . . but we’re not sleeping together.” He held my eyes, shook his handsome dark head. “The day you saw us, she merely came to the hotel to update me on our work; but, of course, I can see how you might have misunderstood.”
It was my turn to tense. Misunderstanding was one thing, but Ric was trying to sell me on the idea that two plus two equaled five. “It’s just that Ellie never returned my calls,” I said carefully, “and I wanted to make sure she got my messages.”
“She got them, Clare. I saw her a short time ago.”
“You did? Where?”
Ric looked away. He shrugged. “Just on the street. She was in Manhattan already, but she had some errands to run before coming to our tasting.”
“What sort of errands? What part of Manhattan?”
Ric didn’t answer, not directly. Instead, he checked his watch again. “She should have been here by now. I tried calling her mobile phone, but her voicemail answered. I can’t imagine what’s keeping her.”
“Well, I did spot her assistant, Norbert,” I said. “He arrived about ten minutes ago. Maybe you can ask him if he knows where she is?”
Ric made a face at the mention of Norbert’s name. He scanned the room, rubbed his closely-shaved chin. “Let’s just hold off the tasting, give her another fifteen minutes.”
“Of course.”
Ric gently squeezed my upper arm. “Thank you, Clare. I’m very lucky to have your help tonight. Would you mind very much asking your staff to open more bottles of wine? And maybe serve more of those delightful little cookies. I’ll—”
“
Darling
, there you are . . .”
A woman’s voice interrupted us, the word “darling” stretched out in an accent that sounded something like Marlene Dietrich’s, without the Old World charm.
The moment he heard it, Ric’s tense expression morphed. He smoothly removed his hand from my arm. Like an actor slipping into the role of his career, he transformed his entire demeanor from anxious host to easygoing charmer.
“Ah, Monika, my love . . .”
I studied the arriving woman. I’d never seen her before. She was fashion-model tall with high cheekbones, full lips, and narrow, catlike eyes of ice blue. Her golden hair was elegantly styled into a neat chignon and her milky complexion wouldn’t have needed much airbrushing for a magazine cover. But she was a bit too heavy and a decade too old to be a working model now. Hands on hips, she cocked her head and offered Ric a coy half-smile.
“Federico,” she sang, glancing briefly at me with undisguised disdain. “What are you up to? Flirting with
the help
?”
I was a business partner here, not “the help.” Unfortunately, Ric didn’t bother correcting the woman. Instead, he turned his back on me, took one of the woman’s hands in his and placed it to his lips—just as I’d seen him do with Ellie two days ago.
“I wasn’t sure you were coming,” he said.
“What do you mean? How could I miss tonight?” She looped her arm around his bicep.
“May I get you some wine?” Ric asked.
The woman tightened her grip, pulling his body closer. “And let you out of my sight? Never.”
They toddled off like Siamese twins, moving across the crowded room. I might have dismissed the woman as an old friend or past lover, but the way she was pawing him up, it certainly looked as though the relationship hadn’t been left in the past.
I returned to the bar and spoke to my staff, asking them to make another round or two with the wine. Then I sought out Madame again.
“Do you see that woman?” I whispered. “The one with Ric? Do you know her?”
“That’s Monika Van Doorn,” Madame informed me. “I knew her late father quite well.”
“And he is?”
“Joren Riij.”
“Sorry, should I know that name?”
“Joren was the founder and CEO of Dutch Coffee International, a distributor based in Amsterdam.”
“You said ‘was.’ Did he retire?”
“He passed away about a year ago, left the controlling interest in his company to his only child—that woman you pointed out, Mrs. Van Doorn. She’s the daughter of his second wife, Rachel . . . or was it his third? You know, I’m not sure who her mother—”
“So Monika Van Doorn
distributes
coffee?”
“Oh, yes. Dutch International is a major distributor in the Central European and Eastern European markets. They haven’t had as much success in the European Union.” Madame leaned close to my ear. “Inferior beans,” she whispered. “For years, they’ve sacrificed quality for a higher profit margin. And their buyer has a less than brilliant palate.”
Madame and I continued to watch Monika. Now she was whispering in Ric’s ear, and when she finished, the tip of her pink tongue flicked out to touch his earlobe.
“You referred to her as ‘Mrs.,’ ” I whispered. “Is she married or divorced?”
“She’s married,” Madame replied, arching an eyebrow, “but she certainly doesn’t behave that way, does she?” Squinting a little, she searched the room. “That’s her husband, over there: Neils Van Doorn. He’s the handsome blond chatting with that young woman.”
I followed Madame’s gaze to an attractive man with Nordic features and light blond hair hanging down rakishly past the collar of his Egyptian cotton shirt. He had a lean build, a striking smile, and his clothes screamed fashion house. The tailored suit of dark bronze with that Japanese silk print tie probably cost more than the Blend took in on an average day. Tucker would have pegged him “
GQ
Man,” for sure.
Neils didn’t appear to mind his wife’s aggressive flirtation with Ric. Either that, or he was so busy showering attention on the lovely young reporter from Taiwan that he hadn’t noticed.
“So the Van Doorns are here for the coffee exhibition?” I asked Madame.
“Yes, of course. You know, I was a friend of Monika’s father for so many years, I’m still on Dutch International’s guest list for their big costume party tomorrow night. The Village will be a madhouse, of course.”
“Oh, right . . . Halloween . . .”
I’d been so busy, I’d almost forgotten the date, but Madame was right. Thousands of people would be pouring into Greenwich Village on October 31st for the annual Halloween Parade. If you were a resident, you either joined in the fun or got out of Dodge because there was no escaping the wall-to-wall throng of costumed revelers.
“If it were any other ICGE party, I’d skip it,” said Madame. “But there are a few old friends of Joren I’m hoping to see there.”
“Getting back to what you said about the buyer . . . that he has an inferior palate—”
“No, no. I said their problem was inferior
beans
and a buyer who has a
less than brilliant
palate. He’s competent, of course, but nowhere near as sharp as you and Matt.”
“Is Monika’s husband over there . . . Neils? Is he their buyer?”
Madame laughed. “Neils has nothing to do with our industry. Or any industry, as far as I know.”
“He’s a playboy?”
“I believe he raced cars once and skied in the Olympics two decades ago.” Madame shrugged. “Joren was dismissive of his son-in-law. He referred to him once as Monika’s toy. The pair of them live on Aruba. It’s Dutch controlled, as you know, although too dry and flat to grow coffee. I understand they enjoy the Caribbean lifestyle, and when they grow bored of the beach and casinos, they either come to New York or fly to Rio.”
“But what is she doing here at this party?” I asked. “This event is supposed to be for international press or potential Blend clients, not other coffee distributors. Did you invite her, Madame?”
“Me? Good heavens, no.” She lowered her voice. “The truth is, I enjoyed the company of her father. He was a real gentleman, but Monika . . . how shall I put it? When the woman’s not acting like a total snob, she’s talking like a total—”
Madame was about to continue when we were interrupted by an explosion of activity near the elevators. We both heard a loud shout over the noise in the room.
“You can leave on your own, or I’ll gladly
throw
you
out
of this building myself!”
The voice belonged to Matt, and he sounded furious.
EIGHTEEN
“I better see what’s wrong,” I told Madame.
I tried to cross the room, but it was slow going. The guests were packing the place by now, and I was too short to see over most of them.
“Did you hear me?!” Matt shouted.
“Get your hands off me,” another man loudly replied, the accent sounding Spanish. “Or I swear to you . . . !”
“Are you threatening me?!” Matt again.
I still couldn’t see anything as I continued to squeeze through the mob. “Excuse me! Pardon me!”
Finally, I broke through the human wall. I saw my ex-husband facing off with a man half his age. The stranger had a thick moustache, curly black hair that just touched his ears, and an athletic build that rivaled Matt’s. I didn’t recognize the stranger, and apparently someone behind me didn’t, either, because I heard a woman ask, “Who is that?”
“That’s Carlos Hernandez,” another woman replied.
“Who?” I turned to find two young women, one a brunette, the other a redhead, both dressed in business suits. They looked like members of the invited press. “Does one of you know that man?” I asked them.
“Not personally,” the brunette replied. “His picture was in ‘Page Six’ last week. Carlos Hernandez is the nephew of Victor Hernandez. You know, the socialist dictator of Costa Gravas?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of him,” I assured her. “So why was his picture in the paper? I didn’t see the
Post
last week.”
“He’s here as part of a UN delegation. He joined in a coalition with the new socialist governments in Venezuela and Bolivia to pass a resolution opposed by the United States, but the paper was more interested in covering his extracurricular activities.”
“His what?”
“He’s here on his government’s dime, but he spent two hundred thousand dollars celebrating the resolution’s passage in a New York City strip club.”
Matt’s voice was still loud and angry. And Carlos Hernandez was still refusing to leave. He tried to step around Matt, but my ex moved quickly to block the man. Hernandez muttered something under his breath. I couldn’t hear the words, but Matteo did and he became even angrier.
“You’ve got nerve showing up here!” Matt’s face was flushed, the tendons quivering on his tanned neck. “You and your uncle are nothing but glorified thugs! You stole the Gostwicks’ plantation—land that family’s farmed for generations! You took it away by force, without a penny of remuneration!”
Oh, this is peachy
, I thought. My ex was about to cause an international incident within spitting distance of the UN.
I looked around for some help. Only then did I notice Tucker standing right beside me. I pleaded with my eyes for him to step in and end the stalemate, but Tuck didn’t get the message. He just kept staring at the bickering men with fascinated glee.

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