On What Grounds (Coffeehouse Mysteries, No. 1) (A Coffeehouse Mystery) (8 page)

O
N
the other side of the door, two pairs of heavy-soled shoes clomped down the back steps with the conviction of people who knew exactly where they were going and why.

On
our
side of the door, it was another climate entirely.

Matt and I didn’t move.

We didn’t speak.

We didn’t breathe.

An arctic freeze had settled in to the extent that
if
we’d breathed, condensation clouds surely would have appeared.

The silence was so deafening the ringing phone felt like a World War II air-raid siren. I jumped and Matt shuddered. When it rang a second time, Matt moved toward the side table, where the cordless receiver sat nestled in its recharging unit.

But it was
my
apartment, I thought, and therefore
my
phone, so I moved, too. My hand grasped the receiver a millisecond before his.

What I hadn’t figured on was the collision.

In recent years, Matt may have shown signs of aging in the slight wrinkles around the edges of his eyes and the gray strands threading through his black hair. But his athletic body seemed to have aged very little—and our unexpected contact, unfortunately, proved it.

Receiver in hand, I glanced off his tanned torso, nearly taking a fall. But his arms were quick, wrapping around my waist in an automatic save that crushed my pillowy C-cups into the slab of granite he called a chest.

The phone rang again. I pushed the
ON-OFF
button then put it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Hello—” I managed while attempting to wriggle free of the warm, naked flesh of my ex-husband’s chest. Much to my annoyance, Matt’s muscular arms held firm.

“Mom, what’s up? Your message sounded weird.”

“Everything’s okay, honey—”

I met Matt’s eyes. “It’s Joy,” I whispered, trying to ignore the fresh, clean smell of recently showered male skin.

“Who’s there?” my daughter asked at once.

“Your father.”

“He’s back! Oh, boy! Put him on, I want to say
Hi
!”

“Uh—yeah, okay—”

Reluctantly I offered up the cordless receiver. I felt one of Matt’s arms move off my waist to reach for it. The other arm, he kept firmly around me. I could back off now, I reasoned, but if I did that, I’d be too far away to hear Joy’s end of the conversation, and I wanted to eavesdrop.

“Hi, muffin,” said Matt.

“Hi, Daddy!”

Dawn broke in Matt’s face. A grin from coast to coast.

“When did you get in?”

“The wee hours.”

“Whatcha doin’ at Mom’s?”

One of Matt’s dark eyebrows arched suggestively as he stared down at me. “Getting into trouble.”

“Like—as usual!”

“Yeah, like that.”

“Mom invited me for dinner,” Joy said, “so I’ll be coming by tonight. Tell her, okay?”

“Okay,” said Matt.

“And you come, too, Daddy. Okay?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Damn.
I thought. This was
not
a good idea—

“And, Daddy, tell Mom I’m bringing a surprise, okay?”

“Sure. She’ll like that. I have a surprise for you, too.”

“Cool!” cried Joy. “But I’m late. Gotta get to my saucier class!”

“Bye, honey.”

“Bye, Daddy, see you tonight.”

He clicked off the phone, and I exhaled. After the morning’s events, I was glad, at least, to have finally heard Joy’s voice.

“She’s coming for dinner tonight.” His free arm returned to its earlier position, locking around my waist.

“I heard.”

“Then you know I’m invited, too.”

“Yes, but do you think that’s a good idea—”

“Of course,” said Matt, obviously ignoring my conflicted tone. “And she’s bringing a surprise—”

“Matt, I don’t think it’s a good idea—”

“Wonder what she’s making?”

“—for her to see you and I here together—”

“She wrote me that she’s having a hell of a time with the French sauces. Maybe it’s a new dessert. She loves baking.”

“I’m telling you, Matt, it’s
not
a good idea. Don’t you remember that time when she was thirteen and we spent the night together—and she thought—”

“You know what, Clare?”

“What?”

“I never kissed you hello.”

I felt his muscles moving, his lower body trying to establish a more significant press between us.

“We
don’t
kiss hello,” I told him, beginning to squirm again. “Not anymore.”

“But I’d like to.”

His hand lifted off my waist and landed light as a sparrow on the back of my neck. His thumb and fingers began to move there, slowly, tenderly, breaking up the knots of stress I wasn’t even aware had formed there.

I could let him kiss me. I knew that.

And I would enjoy it. I knew that, too.

Matt’s kisses were like a late-afternoon cup of full-city roast. Warm, earthy, relaxing yet stimulating, too. And he meant them to be. Like a full-city roast, they had enough potency to wake up parts of me I didn’t want woken.

Make your decision now,
I told myself.
Because in another minute your body’s going to make it for you—

“No, Matt,” I said. “Don’t.”

It was the frosty tone. A thermostat level he knew well. Applying palm to chest, I pushed. Hard.

He broke off immediately and stepped back. “Too bad,” he said, his brown eyes registering hurt, rejection.
The Wounded.

God, he had nerve. The very idea made my blood pressure begin to rise again.

“Stale,” he said a few seconds later. His look had changed. His eyes were squinting in distaste.

“More
soured
than stale,” I said, contemplating our relationship. After all, I thought, the chemistry was still there between us, so “stale” really wasn’t the right word. The problems between us were more—

“Coffee doesn’t sour, Clare.”

“Coffee?”

“Yes, of course.” Matt sniffed the air and lifted his chin toward the kitchen. “You’ve got stale coffee in there—”

“Oh my god, Lieutenant Quinn’s coffee!”

I rushed into the kitchen and the acrid scent assaulted me at once. The coffee had been sitting on the burner for nearly forty-five minutes. What a waste! After ten minutes, fifteen to eighteen at the very most, there was no point in trying to pass off any cup of coffee as good, let alone great.

I poured the bitter brew down the drain and shut off the electric drip coffee maker. Then I took the jug of filtered water from the fridge and poured it into a kettle. The electric drip machine would take ten minutes to cool off so the Melitta method would have to do.

I pulled out the Melitta cone, cleaned my gold-plated mesh filter and placed it inside, plopped it over the mouth of the thermal carafe, and began scooping whole beans into the grinder.

“You’re not staying here, you know,” I called into the living room.

Matt sauntered over, crossed bare arms over bare chest, and leaned against the archway.

“It’s my place, too, Clare,” he said. “By contract.”

“I just sold my house, Matt, and
I’m
not about to leave.”

“So don’t.”

“And I’m not about to shack up with you—”

“Shack up?” Matt laughed. “What are you doing? Watching old Doris Day movies on the Classic Movie channel again?”

“Move into a hotel.”

“I only need to use the place, at the
most
, ten days or so out of every month. Some months you won’t even see me. I won’t get in your way.”

“You
will
get in my way, and you know it.”

“Do you know what a ten-day hotel bill comes to in Manhattan?”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, you should if you want me to continue taking care of Joy’s tuition and living expenses.”

“If money’s a problem, why don’t you ask your mother.”

Matt sighed. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“She’s got no money, Clare.”

“What are you talking about? Pierre’s penthouse alone is worth—”

“Stop right there because you’ve nailed it. The penthouse, the villa, the stocks, the holdings, all of the money, all of it was
Pierre’s
, and all of it is now controlled by his children.”

“No. It can’t be. Madame was his wife for two decades—”

“She was his
second
wife. Pierre’s late
first
wife was the one who had inherited the importing business from her father. Pierre married into most of his fortune, and it was
her
will that stipulated nothing could be left to any future wife. Everything he owned was left to their children.”

I sat down, stared a moment. The kettle’s whistle brought me back (water for the Melitta method should be heated just to boiling). I got up and poured the steaming water over the freshly ground coffee beans, piled inside the gold filter like brown earth on a miner’s treasure.

The trick with a Melitta is to pour slowly and stir, allowing the water to seep smoothly through the layers of grinds and into the carafe without channeling up. And of course, one must use a cone-shaped filter. Flat-bottom filters of any sort should be outlawed in my opinion, as they require more beans per fluid ounce of water to get the same strength of brew. Flat bottoms dissipate. Cones concentrate, saving beans and consequently costs, something I could see this family was going to have to remain vigilant about.

I never expected Madame to pay my way. But I did make an assumption—that she might leave Joy a healthy inheritance, enough so I’d never have to worry about my daughter’s financial future for the rest of my life. In one short conversation with my ex-husband, I could see that assumption had been a terrible mistake.

“So, if she’s broke,” I said softly, “why doesn’t she sell the coffeehouse?”

“You know why,” said Matt.

And I did. Madame’s bills were clearly being paid by whatever final arrangement Pierre had made with his children. Other than that, her main concern seemed to be her legacy at the Blend—
and
being able to leave something of worth to Matt and to Joy, and apparently, to me.

“So how is Anabelle doing, do you think?” asked Matt softly, changing the subject. He walked in and sat down, inhaled the aroma of the coffee slowly brewing on the table.

“I called St. Vincent’s, but they couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me. Her roommate, Esther Best, went with her to the hospital, but Anabelle was unconscious and she didn’t look good.”

Matt exhaled. “Do you want me to go over?”

“No. I’d like to do that myself if you don’t mind looking after the Blend. Tucker is our afternoon barista. I’m hoping we’ll be able to open again by then.”

“Why can’t you open now?”

“The Crime Scene people. Lieutenant Quinn’s waiting downstairs for them. If they ever get here, they’re supposed to look for physical evidence first. That’s why I’m making this coffee. It’s for them—and for Lieutenant Quinn. He’s used to the cheap stuff, and I’d like to convert him.”

“Clare, tell me something about Anabelle’s fall. What makes you think it was a
crime
?”

“My gut. The way I found her. Things don’t add up. And by the way, what do you know about Anabelle that you wouldn’t tell Quinn? I know you well enough to know when you’re holding something back.”

Matt shifted uneasily. “I knew there was something wrong between Anabelle and her boyfriend.”

“How?”

“She said so. She told me she was trying to figure out some major issues.”

“What sort of issues? Think back. Try to remember exactly.”

“It was about six weeks ago, when I was last in New York. I was having an espresso downstairs and she sat down at my table and said she and her boyfriend were having some problems and she wanted to know about men.”

“
What
about men?”

“Things like…what makes them want to get married.”

“She asked
you
for advice about marriage?” I did my best not to burst out laughing. “What did you tell her?”

“What do you think, Clare? I told her I wasn’t the best person to ask about that stuff. I barely know what makes
me
tick. But she pressed, said she heard I was a confirmed bachelor, and asked if I’d ever consider getting married, and I told her I
had
been married. So she asked what made me commit, and I told her.”

“Joy.”

“Yes.”

“Then what did she say?”

“Then she said, ‘Thanks, that helps a lot,’ and that was it.”

“That’s a pretty big deal, Matt.”

“I don’t see why.”

“It sounds like she was trying to figure out whether to get pregnant to get her boyfriend to marry her, that’s why.”

“So what if she was. That’s none of the detective’s business.”

“It is if her boyfriend is the one who pushed her down our stairs.”

“You see, that’s why I didn’t say anything to those cuff-crazed cops. One remark in a passing conversation and they’d have me incriminating some poor innocent kid.”

“But, Matt, what if he isn’t so innocent? Have you ever met him?”

“No.”

“Neither have I, but I really wish you’d said something to the lieutenant. Clearly Quinn thought you were holding something back. Officer Langley did, too.”

“Let them! I don’t like either one of them.”

“So I noticed. Why not? Other than the handcuff thing. Remember, I thought you were an intruder, and they were trying to protect me at the time.”

“They’re probably dirty cops.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“You think so? Mark my words they’ll never mention that vial of white powder again. Quinn or Langley will probably pass it around at some cop bar tonight. That or they’ll barter it on the street to some skell junkie for information to make themselves look good at the precinct. Only the joke will be on them because you can’t get a cocaine high from sniffing
caffeine.
”

“Matt, you’ve been spending too much time in banana republics. Those guys are good cops. Lieutenant Quinn especially—”

“Quinn I
especially
don’t like.”