Who could it be then?
I held my breath, trying to remember if I’d locked the shop’s front and back doors. I had. I was sure of it. But I hadn’t set the burglar alarm.
I tried not to panic. I knew I was trapped. There was no telephone down here, no way to call the police and the only other way out was the trapdoor to the sidewalk, which was bolted from the outside as well as the inside. If there was an intruder up there, the only thing I could do was stay down here until he was gone and hope he didn’t find me.
Heart loudly beating, I listened to the person finish stepping across the room. A minute later, the footsteps sounded on the staircase.
Ohmygod, ohmygod, he’s coming for me!
I found a hiding place behind the roaster, turned off the flashlight, crouched into a ball, and listened.
The steps continued on the stairs, but the sound grew softer, not louder. The intruder was heading up the stairs. Not down. He was heading to the office.
The safe! We were being robbed!
I strained my ears, but could hear no more.
I couldn’t just hide here, I decided. I had to try to get to a first-floor phone at least. I climbed the stairs. Near the top, I heard the sound of glass shattering inside my office, and without thinking, I screamed at the top of my lungs.
My Java-like jaguar yowl echoed off the windows. Whoever the hell was in my office had heard it because I heard the crash of my halogen lamp come next.
Within seconds I saw a black leather–clad figure charging down the stairs with a book under his arm.
A book!
I remembered the shattering glass, and I knew. Oh, god. The glass case beside the safe! This intruder hadn’t come for money, he’d come to steal the Allegros’ legendary book. Bastard, bastard, bastard!
As he flew toward me, I saw he was a younger man with a short blond crewcut. I didn’t recognize him, but I saw a flash of eyes—bright blue. He extended his arm like a football player, and the force of it plowed into me hard.
“Hey!” I howled.
I was a split-second from tumbling down the basement steps when I grabbed at the wooden handrail. Miracle of miracles, my fingers closed on it in time.
Good god! I thought. This is what happened to Anabelle! He didn’t get the book two nights ago. She must have surprised him, and he fled!
I dragged myself up in time to see the stranger running toward the front entrance. He leaned quickly toward the front window, and he still had the book under his arm. Now he was fumbling at the door. What the hell was he doing?
“Matt! Matt!” I screamed as loud as I could.
Luckily, Matt must have heard the crashing, and he was by my side almost as soon as I started yelling.
“Clare!” Matt cried, flying down the stairs and flipping on the bank of first-floor lights. “What the hell—”
“Burglar!” I screamed, pointing toward the front door.
The flash of bright lights had already spooked the intruder. He had given up his struggle at the door, pulled it open, and ran off.
I raced to the front door. “He had a key!” I cried, seeing it in the keyhole. I pulled it out and held it up. “That’s why he’d been fumbling. He’d left it in the door for a quick getaway but couldn’t get it out quick enough.”
“I’ll call the police—”
“No time!” I said. “We can’t risk him getting away…He has the coffee book.”
“Do you think you can recognize him?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Let’s go,” said Matt. “Looks like he ran up Hudson.”
We locked the door behind us and raced off.
Twenty-Eight
The chilly autumn air felt damp. Neither of us had jackets, but at least we were both wearing sweaters as we hurried through the light gray mist rolling in from the nearby river. It was past midnight, and a typical Friday for the Village. Raucous crowds of men and women were still reveling on the narrow cobblestone streets, leaving movie theaters and gathering around the area’s clubs, bars, cabarets, and late-night eateries tucked among the darkened shops, art galleries, and apartments that occupied the Federal-style red brick townhouses.
“There he goes,” I said. We were closing in fast on the intruder. As he crossed Grove, my eyes locked on to his blond crew-cut and shiny leather jacket. He was still clutching the book under one arm and he had something else, something bulky, under his coat.
“Look, Matt, I think he stole the Blend plaque, too!”
I rushed forward, impatient to confront the guy, but Matt’s large hand clamped on my small shoulder.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
“Don’t get too close, not yet,” said Matt. “And let me see that key.”
I handed Matt the key. He examined it as we walked, using the light from the streetlamps.
“This duplicate was made at Pete’s Paint and Hardware over on Perry Street,” Matt said. “Here’s their logo. The Blend has an account with Pete’s.”
“So—”
“So, this duplicate key was made by someone who used to work at the Blend,” said Matt. “And you know who comes to mind immediately?”
“Flaste,” I said. “Moffat Flaste.”
“And he probably charged the Blend to copy the key, to boot,” said Matt, disgusted.
“Yes, it has to be Flaste,” I said. “The thief not only had a duplicate key, he knew exactly where to find the book in the manager’s office. And Flaste tried and failed to steal the Village Blend’s plaque before, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did,” said Matt. “The truth is, I suspected him of something the moment I heard he’d intentionally let the Blend’s insurance lapse.”
“And don’t forget he once worked for Eduardo Lebreux, who told us he wanted to franchise the Blend but couldn’t get Madame to sell,” I pointed out.
“You’re right. Flaste was an off-the-charts bad manager,” said Matt. “With Pierre dead, Lebreux must have paid off Flaste to run the business into the ground so Mother would sell—and when that didn’t work, and Mother got you to manage it again, Flaste must have decided to get even with this burglary.”
“It all fits, but still…what good is that book of coffee recipes without the Blend name?”
“Not much,” said Matt. “And Lebreux would know that. That’s why I doubt he’s involved here. Flaste probably arranged the theft under the assumption that the book would be worth something to Lebreux.”
“And how do we prove all this?” I asked.
“It won’t be easy. We have to hope this burglar we’re trailing is going to meet up with Moffat Flaste. If not, we’ll have the guy arrested and hope he spills his guts. And if he admits he tried and failed to burglarize us the other night, killing Anabelle in the process, that means Flaste is behind what happened to poor Anabelle. And, Clare, if that’s true, I’m going to break that fat man’s—”
“Matt, calm down. First things first. Let’s not lose Mr. Crewcut.”
We continued to follow the burglar up Hudson. At Christopher Street, he turned right.
Now keeping him in sight grew difficult. Christopher Street was always hopping on the weekend, and tonight was no exception. Crowds of mostly men packed the sidewalks, spilling out of the lively pubs, most of which, on this small stretch, were gay bars.
Music flooded the street, everything from techno dance and disco to Judy Garland. As the intruder hurried through the crowd, two men walking arm and arm whistled at him—we were on Christopher Street all right.
Passing one of those all-night T-shirt, tobacco, and magazine shops that still thrive in the Village, the burglar ducked into a glass-fronted bar called Oscar’s Wiles.
Through the window, I could see that the clientele was all male and mostly young. Men in tight pants, leather vests, and sweaters, all buffed and pecked and tanned. I thought of the single women I knew in New York and momentarily sighed.