I’d first met the man last fall, during a coffee-tasting party at the Beekman Hotel, then again during my investigation of Chef Tommy Keitel’s death. (Roman knew New York’s foodie scene better than the back of his chubby hand, so he was a valuable informant, to say the least.)
It was a stroke of luck seeing him here, since he’d been friends with Breanne Summour for years. As I understood the story, she’d been the very first editor to give Roman a restaurant review column in a national magazine. He’d always been grateful to her for that. And their friendship had grown over the years, going beyond the professional. The way he and Breanne spoke to each other and often acted was more like brother and sister than professional colleagues.
I tugged Matt’s apricot Polo shirt, or more precisely the snug-fitting sleeve above his bulging biceps. “I’m going to speak with Roman.”
“Fine. I’m going into the fitting room area to find Breanne, explain the situation.”
We parted, and I headed over to the white leather couch.
“Hello there, Roman. How’ve you been?”
The food writer glanced up from his magazine. “Why, Clare Cosi! Hello there, yourself.” He took in my worn jeans, scuffed boots, and long-sleeved cotton jersey. “Were you looking for the Gap, sweetie? It’s up the street.”
“No, Roman. I’m here on purpose to... help out Breanne today.”
Roman’s dark eyes brightened. “Do tell?”
“Matt’s going to find her and explain it all.” I pointed at the departing back of my ex-husband. Roman’s gaze followed the man’s posterior with nearly as much appreciation as Sue Ellen Bass had the night before. Then he shut his magazine and patted the empty seat next to him on the couch.
“Sit down, Clare. This I’ve got to hear.”
Roman was not unfamiliar with the history of my sleuthing, especially the cases I’d solved in the Hamptons and at the Beekman, and I knew I could trust him. I told him the basics of the situation and asked him to keep my mission to himself for now. I’d talk to Breanne after Matt came back.
“Certainly,” he said. “I don’t envy the job ahead of you. Breanne makes enemies on a daily basis.”
“That’s what Matt’s mother said.”
“Are you sure she didn’t pull that trigger last night?”
“Almost positive.”
Just then, I noticed Matt already striding back to the boutique’s lobby. He was rubbing his forehead, his features displaying a look of exasperation.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as he approached the couch.
“Breanne won’t let me into her fitting room. I told her it was important, but she barred the door.” Matt shook his head. “She just kept shouting that it’s terrible luck for the groom to see the bride in her gown before the wedding day.”
“It is,” Roman said flatly.
“It’s a long-standing superstition,” I agreed.
Matt frowned and met my eyes. “It wasn’t with you.”
Oh, for pity’s sake. “I didn’t have a wedding gown, just a white sundress. Don’t you remember? We were married at City Hall.”
With a male grunt of exasperation, Matt whipped out his cell phone and called Bree. I could hear her ringtone jingling somewhere in the back. Tensely pacing the ocher marble, Matt spilled everything to Breanne about the shooting the night before, about his worries, about Detective Mike Quinn’s support of his theory that she could be in danger.
I could tell by Matt’s end of the conversation that Breanne was not amused, especially when she heard about the stripper at the surprise bachelor party.
“Calm down, honey,” Matt cooed into the phone. “Yes, I know what we discussed, but it was a surprise bachelor party...”
Roman glanced at me. “A look-alike stripper?” His impish eyes danced. “Soooo tacky.”
I leaned toward Roman, lowered my voice. “Listen, would you mind going back there and reasoning with her?”
“Sorry, Clare. I don’t see what I can do. The poor woman’s been in a state for days. Bride’s nerves.” He shrugged.
“Just talk to her? In the interest of premarital peace? Matt’s not going to give in on this. And he’s not going away until she does give in. Try telling her that.”
Roman sighed. “All right, I’ll give it a shot—” He froze. “Ooooh, bad choice of words.”
“Good God, yes.”
With a grimace, he headed off. I waited for him to move through one of four archways off the lobby, then I covertly followed.
Once out of the front showroom, the ochre marble gave way to a wide corridor holding more display cases. A thirty-ish, elegantly dressed boutique employee noticed me and asked, with a trenchant scan of my clothes, if I had an appointment .
I replied that I was a close personal friend of Ms. Summour, who was now being fitted.
“Oh, of course,” the woman said, her censuring tone immediately turning ingratiating. “Is there anything Ms. Summour needs?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out. If you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course!” The woman instantly backed off.
It’s a doggone shame, I thought, picking up Roman’s trail again, how well naked condescension works in some corners of this city...
The fitting rooms weren’t far from the lobby. The corridor opened up into a spacious area, including the largest three-way mirror I’d ever seen—it practically took up an entire wall.
There were lots of closed white doors flanking the mirror. Roman had approached one. He announced himself. The door opened for him, and he disappeared inside.
I stepped up to the door, pressing my ear to the thin, lacquered wood.
“I spoke with Matteo outside,” Roman began. “Your groom is very worried about you. It’s sweet that he wants Clare to look out for you. Why don’t you let her?”
“Sweet? Ha! Is that what you call it?” Breanne replied in tones of cultured acid. “Well, I don’t think so. And I don’t buy this ‘danger’ garbage. It sounds to me like Matt doesn’t trust me, which is rich, given his reputation. How do I know he isn’t boffing that little coffee-making ex-wife of his? The one he wants to sic on me for the day like a badly dressed Chihuahua?”
Chihuahua? I thought. That’s insulting. I’ve always thought of myself as a Jack Russell terrier.
“Listen, honey—” (Roman again.) “Weren’t you the one who kicked him out of your apartment for the week?”
“For his own comfort! I’m having the bedroom redone as part of an upcoming Trend design feature. The place is a complete mess.”
“And you’re having a few little things ‘done’ this week on yourself as well, right?”
“Well... that’s true, too. The treatments do leave me rather puffy in the mornings.”
“Translation: the man loves your sausage, but you’d rather he not see how it’s made.”
“It’s not just that. This wedding has a thousand details to be overseen. The last thing I need this week is Clare Cosi pretending to be a sleuth.”
“She doesn’t have to pretend, honey. She’s already solved more than one homicide.”
“If you ask me, this is simply a ploy to ruin the wedding. That wannabe Bratz doll is not over Matt. I’ll bet she’s doing everything she can to seduce him back into her bed.”