Once Upon a Grind (4 page)

“H
AVE
you seen Mike Quinn's kids?” I asked Matt. “I told them I'd take them to see the knights.”

“The jousting started fifteen minutes ago. They probably took off because they didn't want to miss anything.”

Before Matt even finished his sentence, I was pulling out my cell phone and tapping Jeremy's number. He didn't pick up, so I left a message to call me
immediately
.

“Clare? What's wrong?”

“Mike asked me to keep tabs on his kids today. Can you help me find them?”

“Of course. Come on . . .”

*   *   *

T
HE
Fairy Tale Village was a collage of noise, color, and manic activity. While pastel Princesses strolled among their subjects with their Prince Charmings, jugglers entertained the crowd, and families swarmed in and out of rainbow tents with crafts, puppets, and carnival games.

A loud crash startled me, and I turned to find an armored knight on the Great Lawn being swept off his black mare. Atop a white steed, the victor raised his lance to loud applause.

“I didn't know they'd be jousting with
live
horses!”

“They're pros, Clare, from that ‘
Meat
-dieval' Tournament and Feast in New Jersey.” He gave me a brochure that grinning jesters were handing out. “Shows six nights a week and a matinee brunch on Saturdays.”

Hundreds of kids crammed the perimeter of the jousting field, cheering for their favorite knight. A half-dozen celebrity pro-football players were here, too, dressed in shining armor and posing for photographs.

We searched through the throng but saw no sign of Molly or Jeremy.

“They probably found their mother and went home,” Matt said.

“I hope so.”

To make sure, I called Leila. She didn't pick up so I left a voice mail message—nothing alarming, simply a request to call me back.

By the time we returned to our coffee truck, the festival was winding down. The crowd was thinning, and the park lights were flickering on.

I checked and rechecked my cell phone.

Nothing.
No messages from Leila or Jeremy.

Hoping to get my worries under control, I climbed inside our truck to find my staff reduced to one—Nancy.

“Where is everybody?”

“Dante took off for his overtime shift at the shop.”

“What about Esther?” I spied her musical harp on the counter.

“She was here a minute ago, until she saw Tucker Burton rushing toward Madame Tesla's tent. She said she wanted to know the reason Tuck was hurrying to have his fortune told—career or romance.”

As I darted for the truck's back door, Nancy frowned. “Now where are
you
going?!”

“To find out!”

But it wasn't Tuck's “career or romance” business I was interested in. It was Leila's.

T
UCK
had a chance to observe Leila this morning at the theater, where she'd rushed to go (sans kids). Now was my chance to find out why.

But when I got to the gypsy tent, I found Esther half crouched at the door flap, one ear cocked.

“What are you doing?”

“Eavesdropping, of course.”

“You should not be listening to another person's fortune-telling session. That's private business.”

“Just think of me as the NSA.”

“Esther—”

“Chill-ax, will you? I'm only trying to find out if Tucker got as lousy a fortune as I did.”

“You had a dark prediction?” Concerned, I stepped closer. “What was it?”

Esther smirked. “Didn't you just say fortune telling is private business?”

“Yes, but I do happen to care about you.”

“It's my romantic life.” She grimaced. “There's a bumpy road ahead.”

“Oh, is that all.”

“Hey, I may not be the kind of female who dots her
i
's with little hearts, but I do have one. Boris is my world.”

“Of course he is. What I meant was: When it comes to romance, there's
always
a bumpy road ahead. So don't take your reading too seriously, okay? Now go back to the truck and help Nancy close up. I have business with Tucker.”

(And yes, I conveniently left out the part about my business being even more like the NSA's than Esther's, although my surveillance scheme was a tad more serious. I was truly worried about Mike's kids.)

I drew back the flap, and stepped into the heady aromas of brewed coffee and potent incense.

“Hello!”

Laughing voices abruptly stopped. Then came whispering and silence.

A batik-draped partition divided the tent into a main room and smaller anteroom, which was where I now stood. A greeter was supposed to be here to welcome customers. But at this late hour, she was gone. The only thing here was a doily-covered table and a framed sign that read:

MAGIC COFFEE BEAN READING
$20.00 TICKET DONATION
ALL PROFITS TO THE
CENTRAL PARK CONSERVANCY FUND

“Hello?” I called again.

This time, an ominous voice boomed a reply—

“Enter, you who seek the council of Madame Tesla!”

Well
, I thought,
she certainly sounds authentic . . .

Quelling my queasiness about the whole fortune-telling thing, I moved around the fabric-covered wall and into the dimly lit tent.

A
single candle glowed on a table covered with white lace. Behind it, the old woman's violet eyes gleamed with arcane wisdom.

Swathed in multicolor robes and a pirate plunder's worth of bangles and necklaces, the gypsy's silver pageboy shined in the flickering light and her long earrings of moons and stars jangled above her narrow shoulders.

“Come, seeker of truth . . .” Madame Tesla beckoned me forward with a bejeweled hand. “The spirits have been accommodating today. Who knows what they may predict for your future?”

“Absolutely nothing,” I assured her. “Because I'm not here for a reading.”

“Oh, too bad, dear, because I've been getting raves!”

Slipping out of character, Matt's mother grinned. Today she was Madame Tesla, but every other day she was Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois, octogenarian owner of the Village Blend, and my employer.

There aren't many women who can say that the best thing about their marriage was their mother-in-law, but for me that was true.

Madame had taken me under her fiercely protective wing when I was a young, naïve,
very
pregnant small-town girl. By nineteen, I'd read through my school's entire library. I'd earned a scholarship and traveled to Italy to study art history, yet in far too many ways, I wasn't very smart.

With wisdom and patience, Madame showed this art school dropout how to survive and thrive in big, bad New York City. Along the way she taught me everything she knew about the coffee trade, shepherding me into a vocation that enriched me in countless ways.

Her own life was an inspiring story of triumph over adversity—from the loss of her family during wartime to the loss of true love in midlife, when Matt's father died. But with every setback, she rose again.

Knowing adversity had made her the perfect Mother Hen of Greenwich Village—historically a neighborhood of castoffs and outlaws; misfits and miscreants; free spirits and free thinkers.

In the years I'd known her, she'd amazed me with hundreds of tales from her eventful life, and still she managed to surprise me. For instance—

“Can you guess who I chose as the inspiration for my character?”

“No idea.”

“Alma, the wife of a former Turkish ambassador to the UN. She's the one who taught me the art of tasseography.”

“Really?”

“Alma was wise, in her own way—and she knew how to play the crowd.”

“Whatever your inspiration, I have to agree, your act was a sensation.”

“It was the talk of the festival!” a voice boomed from the shadows.

Tucker Burton burst into the light so suddenly, I nearly jumped out of my Tyrolean peasant shoes.

“And
look
at Madame Tesla's giant pickle jar!” He shook the large container. “It's packed with tickets!”

My assistant manager was still dressed in his last stage costume of the day: the Pied Piper of Hamelin—that or a very tall, floppy-haired Santa's elf.

“What in the world were you doing lurking in the corner—with a pickle jar?”

“I asked him to step back there,” Madame noted. “You see, when he stopped by to collect my tickets for the festival raffle, we got to talking, and—”

“And when she heard you coming in, she wanted you to see her fortune-telling performance without any distractions,” Tucker added.

I was dying to ask him about Leila, but—given my lecture to Esther—I felt a little self-conscious.

“Um, Tuck . . .” I began carefully, “did you happen to get my text message?”

“I got it, CC, but late in the day. Your message came during our dress rehearsal, and my phone was turned off.”

“So were you able to do
that thing
I asked?”

“Oh, yes . . . I saw
that person
you asked about. She met with
someone else
at the theater.”

“Someone else?” I prompted.

A long pause followed, but it was more than careful hesitation. Tucker actually looked
frightened
. “Can we please talk about it
later
?”

“Talk about
what
later?” Madame broke in. With a miffed tone, she turned to face me. “What is going on?”

That's what I wanted to know.
Tucker Burton loved gossip. He also trusted me and Madame.
So what could Mike's ex-wife possibly be doing that would put fear into him?

“Hel-lo-oo! Mr. Pied Piper! Are you in there?”

Before any of us could answer, Tuck's boyfriend burst in, feathers flying (literally). As one of the best drag performers in the city, Punch had been receiving raves for playing the title character of Tucker's latest cabaret show,
Goosed!

His standing-room-only act made him a natural choice for the role of “Mother Goose” in the Fairy Tale Fall week of
Storytime
kiddie shows, which kicked off today at the Delacorte. The performance involved so many pratfalls, stunts, and belt-em-out ballads that a wiry Hispanic actor in a gray wig, giant petticoat, and feather-covered French mantua was actually better suited for the role than a woman of a certain age.

“They want Madame Tesla's tickets ASAP for the raffle,” Punch informed his beau. “And a VIP is asking for you.”

“A VIP?”

“I'll explain on the way. Now come on—or do I have to blow that Pied Piper piccolo of yours to get you to follow me?”

Tuck blushed. “Sorry, CC, I've got to go . . .”

Madame pointed a beringed finger to the empty chair across from her.

“Sit down, dear. You look a bit frazzled.”

“I should be going, too—”

“But you haven't even tasted Matt's new coffee . . .” Madame poured me a cup. The earthy aroma was irresistible—and it
had
been a long day. I took the cup, but I didn't sit.

“Matt did a nice job on the roast,” I admitted as I sipped. “And he was right about these beans. The profile is nothing like the typical bright Ethiopian.”

“What notes do you taste?”

“Bittersweet chocolate, plum wine, cloves . . . and something else.” I sipped again. “Some kind of spice . . .”

As a master roaster, I prided myself on my sharp palate. It was rare for me to taste something I couldn't decipher—frankly, it bugged me, and I took more hits, trying again and again to nail down the elusive flavor.

“Matteo told me he sampled one cup of these pan-roasted beans under the African moon and bought half the harvest.”

“I know,” I said, still not certain of that strange spice. But when I reached for a second cup, Madame stopped me.

“Are you
sure
you don't want a reading?”

“Yes, I'm sure!” I grabbed the pot so fast to refill my cup, dark liquid sloshed onto the snow white lace. “Oh, no, I'm sorry . . .”

“Not at all, dear. I can see you're upset. Calm yourself. Enjoy your coffee break. I'm going to change,” she said, rising. “My clothes are in the coffee wagon. Please sit down, put your feet up . . .” She pushed two chairs together. “Close your eyes, take a little nap. You'll feel much better.”

I had no intention of taking a nap, but I did take a load off. As I finished my coffee, I even put up my peasant-soled feet. That's when I heard the young girl's voice.

“Aunt Clare? Are you in there?”

Molly?