A Brew to a Kill (23 page)

“It just happened that way. I didn’t plan it.”

“Well, that’s why there are so many reporters and photographers here. They’re waiting for the fireworks.”

“I dearly hope there won’t be any. This isn’t about politics. It’s about art.”

“Everything is about politics, which is why I came looking for you. Esther’s been schmoozing Helen Bailey-Burke just fine. Mother is there for backup. But Esther’s due on stage any minute, and Mother wants you to take over, stand beside Helen and answer any questions she might have about Esther’s plans for your truck.”

Matt pointed. “They’re over by—”

I grabbed his hand and dragged my unwilling business partner along.

“You’re coming with me,” I said, “even if you have to face Countess Dracula. You have a
stake
in our success, too.”

Matt groaned, but I wasn’t sure why. It was either my lame joke or the thought of Tanya Harmon sucking the life right out of him.

“T
HERE
you are, Matteo! Wherever did you disappear to?”

I’d seen our public advocate on television and expected the woman to be much smaller. In person, there was nothing diminutive about her. Alpine tall, with a lush figure, the blond Valkyrie’s determination was as large as her stature,
which is why Matt and I didn’t get within ten feet of Esther and Helen Bailey-Burke.

Like a raptor streaking toward her prey, Tanya stepped out of the crowd to head us off. Matt told me Tanya’s modeling days were long over, but to my mind, the ice-princess was still catwalking the runway.

“That’s so like you, Matt! Here we were having a marvelous time, and you just scurry off!”

Tanya’s eager eyes were bright under makeup more suitable for a late-night rendezvous than a family-friendly afternoon bash. Her clothing choice, a shocking pink couture suit, made me fear for the redecoration plan of Gracie Mansion should she actually become our next mayor.

“Duty called, but I’m back,” Matt replied.

Though my ex wore a strained smile, at least his facial muscles functioned. Tanya’s expression—well, there wasn’t much of one, actually. Her eyes moved in their sockets, but not much else, and I feared the worst: Botox addiction.

“So, Matt, you were telling me that your wife is out of town. The way you two travel, I’ll bet you don’t sleep together more than a few weeks every year. That’s got to be
hard
, especially on a man like you…”

Oh, god. She did not just say that.
But she did, and now she was moving her hand, reaching for Matt’s—
Oh, no, lady. Not on my watch.

“Hello!” I said, stepping forcefully between them. I grabbed her wayward hand. “I’m Clare Cosi, Matt’s business partner. I’m also his ex-wife and mother to his grown daughter. I’m so glad you could come to our party.”

“Ah, the little woman…” Tanya gave my hand a quick politician’s pump. “So nice to meet you. I hope I can count on your vote.”

“Yes, well…”
(Not in this liftetime.)
“I am glad you could come today—” I began to tell her, but Tanya’s attention was gone.

“I’m going to a soiree later,” she informed Matt, “and I
heard amazing things about this fusion restaurant in Chinatown. It’s right near my acupuncture clinic—”

I threw a loaded look at Matt.
Botox? Acupuncture? Is this woman in love with needles, or what?

“So, Matt?” she prompted. “Want to share an early nosh?”

His glance at me was desperate:
Can I please tell her to go to hell? Please?!

No!

Fine!
“I’ll, uh, get back to you on that, Ms. Harmon…”

Undeterred, the Terrible Tanya took another tack—

“Wait, what am I thinking? You’re an
importer
, so this will be right up your alley. I’m going to the Atlantic-Pacific Trade Commission Ball tonight at the Pierre Hotel. Join my group, Matt! You can do a little glad-handing, make some connections. Raise your profile.” She frowned at me and lowered her voice. “This is all so low-rent. You’re above this…”

Matt shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I…”

“He can’t,” I said, moving between them again. “He’s
busy
.”

I’m quite certain Frozen Face would have raised an eyebrow at me, if she could have. In lieu of working muscles, she simply glared down as if I were an annoying little pest-bug. “Excuse me?”

“Our daughter is working in Paris right now. She’s calling us tonight, and Matt doesn’t want to miss Joy.”

“Oh, I assure you, dear, if Matt comes with me tonight, he won’t miss joy. I’ll see to that!” Tanya laughed, her gaze still fixed on my ex. “So, we’re on? Tonight at the Pierre? The APTC ball. I’ll
expect
you.”

Matt could see I wanted to get to Esther, but I was unwilling to abandon him. He cleared his throat and tried to get us both out of this: “Tanya, don’t you want to shake a few hands? Greet the people? They could be your constituents, someday.”

“This bunch? Why bother? I don’t see any deep pockets. That’s why I’m sticking close to Helen. You’re a big boy, aren’t you? You should know elections are won with dollars, not handshakes. And the big money is at the ball tonight.” She
lowered her voice. “And speaking of dollars. I have quite a lot of pull with Helen. If you want this grant, you might reconsider my invitation…”

I stared in disbelief, flashing for a moment on Buckman’s warning about people in power. To my surprise, Matteo didn’t appear fazed by the ugly proposition. In fact, the threat changed his gaze from long-suffering to cold as finished steel.

“Matt,” I whispered, “you don’t have to—”

He squeezed my arm. “Go to Esther. She needs you. I’ll take care of this.”

“A
T
its core, literature is about the sharing of experience…”

From behind a standing microphone, Esther addressed the audience. With her onstage was a group of inner-city children, trying their darndest to keep from fidgeting.

Smiling, Esther pushed up her black-framed glasses. “Here’s what I teach my kids: The subject of our poetry might be a flash of awareness, affection, even anger. It might be an epic story that retells years of pain and struggle. Whatever the form, if the poem shares a unique human experience, then it can help us better understand ourselves, our neighbors, even our enemies…”

The crowd had been restless when Esther first started, but with her last moving words, most of the packed parking lot fell as silent as a church.

“We may live in a world of divides, but there are bridges, too; and poetry is one of them. The best poetry does more than reach across; it helps us reach each other.”

“You go, Esther!” called out a fan. The crowd lightly clapped.

“With tools of language and imagery, we poets sharpen up our musings. Then we pull back the bow, open our mouths, and
let fly
, seeking to pierce the hard human shell of our audience…”

Hard human shell is right,
I thought with a glance at the brittle brunette to my left.

Our typically cynical Esther was showing us a whole new side of herself today—one of rare eloquence and sincere passion. Yet the director of special funding for the New York Art Trusts appeared unmoved.

Maybe Helen Bailey-Burke was in the habit of withholding approval, an occupational hazard from her profession as a high-powered fund-raiser. Or maybe she was just (to borrow a phrase from Allen Ginsberg’s generation)
uptight
.

Unlike her big, brassy friend Tanya (a harridan of the first order), petite Helen impressed me as a woman of patrician beauty and aristocratic grace. Just like Tanya, however, she’d come to our neighborhood block party impeccably overdressed.

Her off-white skirt rippled with knife-sharp pleats, and the sienna highlights in her cocoa-colored French twist precisely matched the piping of her tailored Fen jacket and the shiny polish on her pedicured toes. A string of black Tahitian pearls with diamond rondelles dripped from her neck, and the marquis-cut ruby on her right hand was at least the size of two Kona peaberries.

In contrast, Madame was a portrait of Hepburn simplicity. Her silver pageboy loosely framed her gently wrinkled features, which carried only a hint of silver-blue eye shadow and a light pink gloss. Under an open silk shirt the color of today’s crystalline blue sky, she wore comfortable Kabuki slacks and a colorful tee emblazoned with Roy Lichtenstein pop art. Even her jewelry was whimsical: a chunky street-fair necklace of rough-cut amethyst and a wristwatch of neon plastic.

She now stood on one side of Helen while I stood on the other. Where my ex-husband was standing, I had no idea.

After Tanya’s shocking proposition, Matt had taken her
forcefully by the elbow (a move the pink-suited Valkyrie actually appeared to enjoy) and led her somewhere private. Exactly what he was saying (or doing) to Tanya Harmon, I had no idea, but my blood was still on the boil at her arrogance.

“Okay!” Esther cried, bringing up the energy on stage. “My youngest group is up first. For today, they’ve written in the haiku form, which is three lines with each line carrying a set number of syllables: five, seven, and five. The subject of their poems is something we’ve all come here today to sample—
food
!”

Esther waved at the audio-video crew, where her boyfriend Boris, aka Russian rap artist B.B. Gunn, flipped a switch. An urban beat flowed from the speakers. The crowd responded with an excited buzzing.

“Here we go!” Esther cried. “Tag-Team Haiku, do your
thang…”

As Esther backed away, the children formed a half circle and began to clap with the beat. The first poet, an African-American girl, stepped up.

After blowing a kiss to her mother, she turned and held out her hand. A light-skinned boy with Asian features slapped it and recited:

He turned and slapped the hand of a Latino girl, who said:

She slapped the hand of a Korean-American boy, who jumped high, kicked out, and chanted:

He pumped his fist in the air then slapped the hand of an auburn-haired girl. With an Irish lilt, she softly declared:

When the kids finished, the crowd went crazy, cheering and applauding. Then Esther was back on stage, introducing the next group. A little older, a little harder edged, they performed free-form poetry as rap.

The subject was food again, but each poem was vastly different. One was funny: a Chinese-American girl’s failed attempt to make her mom’s fried rice. Another was sad: an African-American boy’s difficult memories triggered by a sweet potato pie, his dad’s favorite, served at the man’s funeral. Another was angry: a Latino girl’s fury over her “hot
dog
of a boyfriend” buying another girl a Nathan’s footlong. Yet another pulsed with love: a Pakistani boy’s appreciation for his grandmother’s “spice for life” cooking.

Madame was so moved by Esther’s work that she brushed away a tear, and when the show was over and our “big-bootied” barista joined us again, she hugged Esther’s ample form and kissed her on both full cheeks.

“Thank you, my dear, dear girl! Thank you for keeping alive the legacy of my Village Blend! Along with Dante, Gardner, and Tucker, you are bringing our link to the arts into a new century—” Her voice caught. “I only wish I could be there with you through the next four decades. I could not be more pleased, or proud.”