I showed Janelle the heavy, sterling silver tray Madame was going to use to serve the couple the first cups of their married life.
Janelle shook her head. “I still don’t get it. Why toast with coffee when there’s all this great champagne around?”
“The guests will be drinking champagne, but not the wedding party. Toasting with coffee is a family tradition started by Matt’s great-grandfather. It’s based on an old Turkish custom. The bridegroom made a promise to always provide coffee for his wife. If he failed to deliver, it was grounds for divorce.”
“Coffee is grounds for divorce?” Janelle groaned. “There’s a joke in there somewhere.”
Another man with a camera approached our coffee and dessert display, which the Trend photographer had already snapped dozens of times.
“Clare, look at the man’s ID. That photographer’s from the New York Times!” Janelle whispered. “Come on, let’s talk our way into his pictures.”
“You go, girl.” I smiled. “It’s your night.”
I checked my watch again. Once the tidal wave hit, I wouldn’t have a moment’s peace for at least four solid hours. With my servers chatting around the coffee station, and Janelle speaking with the Times photographer, I decided to circle the vast sculpture court before the crowd came at us.
Across the expanse of white marble, a string quartet had begun tuning up. Their perfect prolonged notes rose hauntingly in the airy space, but the blush of the setting sun, suffusing everything with burnished light, was what made the vast room absolutely magical. The glowing rays streamed through the glass panels of the pitched roof, giving the fifteen-foot stone sculptures the patina of antique brass. More light streamed from the west through the transparent wall that faced Central Park. Below the endless blue of a cloudless sky, newly budding trees swayed in the mild spring breeze.
I paused inside the Sculpture Court to watch a photographer rearrange his subject under the marble likeness of Perseus. More pixielike models in designer gowns posed amid the statuary, the artfully arranged raw bar and hors d’oeuvres, and the mountain of tastefully wrapped wedding gifts piled like pirate booty.
The photographers were hustling now, trying to finish before the 350 guests descended from witnessing the wedding ceremony. As I moved to the far end of the quiet atrium to study a fifteenth-century Venetian sculpture of Adam, a tall man in a tuxedo approached me. He was clean-shaven with spiky hair and a rugged, handsome face. I didn’t realize who the man was until he stopped right in front of me.
“Good evening, Ms. Cosi. Are you prepared for the big event?”
In shock, I stared at Javier Lozado. I took a breath, glanced around. There was no one close to help. The museum guards were all clustered out of sight, at the entrance to the event. The waitstaff was busy at their stations at the other end of the vast room, and Mike and his detectives were on the roof with the bride and groom.
Fat lot of good that does me now!
“You seem surprised,” Javier said, stroking his smooth chin. “Is it my new look?”
I wanted to run, scream, call for help. But I couldn’t take the chance that Javier was armed. The police upstairs had guns, but I knew the Met security staff did not. I could stall until the police arrived, but the crowds would come with them, and all I could think about were the innocent people who might get hurt if gunfire erupted in a crowded room.
I have to talk to him, make him see that his plan won’t work...
I cleared my throat, tried to keep the nervousness out of my voice. “Pretty clever, Javier, shaving off that big mustache.”
“Clever?” Javier laughed. “I suppose so. But it wasn’t my idea.”
“I’m sure you didn’t want to. But I have to hand it to you, shaving really changed your appearance—especially since your passport was so old and you had a full beard in the photo. You got a drastically new haircut, too, I see.”
“Yes, it’s a whole new look.”
“And you checked out of your hotel room. Very smart.”
“How do you know that I—”
“But it didn’t work, Javier. The police are on to you, anyway—”
“What police? What are you talking about, Ms. Cosi?”
“The authorities know about your plan. There are police all over the museum, and a personal bodyguard with Breanne. You’ll never get close enough to the bride to kill her. You’ll only die yourself—”
“Clare! What kind of talk is this? Have you been drinking? Is Matt’s remarrying too much of a strain—”
“It was the woman, wasn’t it? Matt’s affair with Louisa hurt you terribly. I can imagine. But you’re a handsome, successful man, Javier. Surely, there were other women since her?”
“Louisa! This is about Louisa?”
“She’s the woman you planned to marry, right? Until she strayed with Matt—”
“Let me show you something.” Javier reached into his evening jacket.
I couldn’t imagine how he got a weapon past the Met’s metal detectors, but he was a former commando. Maybe he knew a few tricks. It didn’t matter, anyway. It was impossible to do anything now but fight or run.
Here it comes! The man’s hand came out clutching—a wallet? He flipped the leather folder open, displayed a photograph tucked behind plastic.
“This is Louisa.”
The woman had long black hair and laughing eyes. She was surrounded by children, and she appeared to weigh at least three hundred pounds.
“She’s married now to the manager of a neighboring plantation. We speak often. But I am most definitely over this woman.”
Javier slipped the wallet back into his tailored jacket. “And my change in appearance is easily explained. I met an American woman, Ms. Cosi.” He smiled. “I have been spending my nights with her, which is why I checked out of my hotel. Yesterday, she confessed to me that she did not like my mustache. She said it made me look like Pancho Villa.” He rolled his eyes, shrugged. “So I shaved. It was a fair exchange. She has been even more affectionate with me since.”
“You have an American girlfriend?”
“Her name is Cody. She’s gone off to find the ladies’ room. We were running late and could not make the wedding ceremony. But we are happy to be here for the reception. I’ll introduce you when she—”
“Javier, listen to me. A rare Colombian poison was used in an attempt to murder Breanne. Some kind of batrachotoxin, according to the medical examiner.”
“Batrachotoxin?” Javier’s face fell. “Made from the skin of a yellow frog, yes?”
“You know about it?”
“I use it,” he said.
“What?”
“Not me,” he quickly amended. “Hector Pena. He is my estate manager. He extracts frog poison then puts it on barbed wire surrounding our buildings. It discourages bandits and FARC. Hector learned the trick from his father.”
I thought about the quiet, sad-faced man. “Hector was with you in the Colombian army, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, but—”
“It must be him. But why would Hector want to kill Matt’s bride?!”
“Kill Breanne?” Javier shook his head. “I can’t imagine that Hector—”
“How does Hector know Matt exactly?”
“From his trips to our farm. Matteo also knew Hector’s daughter. A few years ago, she moved to Bogotá to live and work. Matt spent time with her there, whenever he passed through our country—”
“But Hector’s daughter died, didn’t she? You told us she was murdered?”
“I did not say she was murdered. Andelina died by gunshot.” He lowered his voice. “To be honest, the young woman shot herself. But we do not speak of it. Colombia is a Catholic country. Suicide is a mortal sin, so—”