“But—”
“Don’t waste your breath. I’m not leaving,” Madame pronounced with a regal wave of her hand.
“But—” I tried again.
“Drink up, Clare. You don’t want to waste your husband’s—”
“My ex-husband’s.”
“Matteo’s latest find in your latest blend, because you still don’t have your wits about you if you think I’m going back to the city and leaving you to play detective all by yourself.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a series of electronic musical tones, a snippet from Vivaldi. Madame reached into the voluminous pocket of her terrycloth spa robe and found her cell phone.
“Matteo! You’re home,” she cried upon answering.
“Speak of the devil,” I quietly muttered and gulped more coffee.
“Oh, no. Everything’s fine. Just fine,” Madame chirped, rather like her phone, before changing the subject. “How did things go in California, my boy?”
Matteo’s latest trip was not to a Third World coffee plantation, but to a series of First World shopping Meccas. David Mintzer had become one of Matt’s biggest backers in a financial plan to expand the Village Blend business via coffee kiosks in high-end clothing boutiques and department stores worldwide. This last trip of Matt’s was to the West Coast, where he was overseeing Village Blend coffee kiosk installations in Marin County, Rodeo Drive, and Palm Springs.
Madame spoke with her son for a few minutes, while I finished my first cup and poured another.
“Yes, she’s right here,” Madame finally said, passing the phone to me.
“Hello, Matt,” I said on a yawn.
These days, our relationship was actually pretty good. Like it or not, we were stuck with one another as business partners in the Blend, not to mention parental partners in the raising of Joy. Parenting, as I’d often lectured Matt, was not only a full-time job, it was a lifetime appointment, sort of like a judgeship on the Supreme Court, but with far less influence.
“What’s wrong out there?” Matt asked, his voice had gone low. “Mother sounded strained.”
“Everything’s fine. Just fine,” I chirped, rather like Madame. I could almost see Matteo’s eyes squinting with suspicion.
“Whatever,” he said at last. “I just phoned to tell you I’m at La Guardia waiting for a taxi. I’m heading over to the Blend to check things out.”
Good, I thought, Tucker can use the extra pair of helping hands.
“After that, I’m hitting the sack in the duplex, catching a few hours sleep. I’m wasted. Totally jet lagged.”
So much for the extra helping hands.
Tucker Burton was my assistant manager, an actor playwright whom I could always rely on to handle the Blend when I was absent. Tucker certainly wouldn’t require Matt’s help to keep things running, but it would have been nice.
“How’s my pride named Joy?” asked Matt, the smile evident in his voice, as it always was when it came to his little girl.
I glanced at the digital clock on the microwave: 7:02 A.M. “Still sleeping, I suspect.”
“Don’t wake her. I’ll try to see you both before I leave for Central America. Give Joy my love, tell her I’ll see her soon. Oh, and I bought her a present. Damn, my ride’s here. Gotta go.”
The line went dead. I handed Madame her phone and cradled the warm mug of coffee in my hands.
“Do you think Matteo suspects?” Madame asked.
“Suspects? Whatever is there for him to suspect?”
“That the game is afoot, of course.”
“Madame, for heaven’s sake, it’s not a game. I’m not getting involved in this murder investigation beyond what I helped to discover last night. I’m going to let the police handle it. And stop channeling Arthur Conan Doyle. I think maybe you’ve been spending too much time with Dr. MacTavish.” (Madame had been dating the distinguished St. Vincent’s oncologist for some time now, a Scottish stud on a par with Sean Connery.)
“I assure you, Clare, Gary and I are not reading Sherlock Holmes stories to one another,” she sniffed, “and don’t change the subject.”
I sighed. “Look, even if I do stick my nose in, it’ll only be to see that David gets some proper security in place around here.”
“Of course,” said Madame in a tone that sounded more like “of course not.”
“Besides,” I went on, “you’ve had your turn at playing detective. Don’t forget, you helped me clear Tucker of murder.”
“Pooh!” Madame replied. “I was so worried about our dear Tucker, I hardly enjoyed the experience. This time it’s different. I’m terribly sorry about what happened to that young man, but I hardly knew Mr. Treat Mazarrati—”
“Mazzelli. Treat Mazzelli.”
“There you are! I didn’t even know the victim’s proper name. Without a personal stake in the crime, I am free to be objective about the hunt. I’ll just put on my figurative deerstalker’s cap and—”
“Except,” I interrupted, “I don’t think Treat Mazzelli was the intended target. I believe the killer was after David.”
Madame paused, considering this. “Mistaken identity?”
I nodded. “The shooting occurred in David’s private bathroom.”
“But the men are twenty years apart. How could you mistake one for the other?”
“From a distance, do you really think that would be apparent?”
Madame tapped her chin. “Yes…yes, I see what you mean. And the two are about the same height…with the same color hair…”
“And clothing.”
Madame shook her head. “There I have to disagree with you. While they were both in khaki pants, David’s shirt was a linen Ralph Lauren. How can you compare that quality to Treat’s Cuppa J Polo?”
“No comparison for a fashion layout, I grant you. But both shirts had short sleeves and the same loose, untucked shape. And they were very close to the same color.”
“Yes, my dear, of course, you’re right. And you’re very good at this—”
“Thank you.”
“All the more reason for you to continue investigating and me to help,” Madame replied resolutely.
“Madame—”
“I may just learn a thing or two from you, and, besides, if the true target was David, the least I can do is aid our host in his time of need. I’m not the sort of person who deserts a vessel when the captain’s in need of hands!”
“You win.” I took a sip from my china cup and set it down on its matching saucer. “Stick around if you want. But in an hour or so I’m going to talk to—”
“Joy?” Madame finished for me.
“What? Are you reading my mind now?”
“She’s already gone for the day,” Madame warned. “She left exceedingly early. To catch the sunrise wind.”
“Excuse me?”
“Joy went kite surfing with that waiter from last night. Graydon is his name, I believe.”
“Graydon Faas?”
Madame nodded.
“Joy went off with Graydon this morning?” I had some trouble wrapping my mind around this development.
Madame nodded again. “She and I have connecting rooms, you know. So I heard her rising and speaking to him on her cell phone. I made her coffee before the boy beeped his horn out front. What is this world coming to when a young man simply beeps for his date?”
“It’s a date, is it? And to do what, did you say? Kite surfing? How are we supposed to know what kite surfing is?”
“Actually, Clare, it’s more defined by what it isn’t,” Madame levelly informed me. “It’s not wave surfing, you see. Nor wind surfing. And it’s not kite flying, either. It’s really a fusion of these sports. The surfer catches the wind with a kite and uses it to race across the ocean’s waves.” Madame sighed. “It sounds absolutely marvelous.”
I shook my head. “Where do you pick up this stuff?”
“Oh, I keep my mouth closed and my ears open. You can learn a lot from the leisure class—a lot about leisure, anyway. And to be perfectly frank, a percentage of them aren’t much good for anything else.”
I stood and drained my cup. “On that note, I’m heading for my swim. Now I really need it.”