Billionaire Blend (A Coffeehouse Mystery) (3 page)

N
ineteen

M
ADAME
Dreyfus Allegro Dubois emerged from the yellow cab wrapped in caramel blond suede. I hurried to open the shop’s front door, but she failed to move toward it. Instead, her slender form stood stiff as an ice sculpture in front of her landmark coffeehouse.

I could almost feel her heartache as she scanned the scorched bricks, burned wood, and blistered paint; then took in the rough plywood covering the shattered French windows, the broken hinges that left our hand-crafted shutters hanging askew.

A bitter gust tried (and failed) to ruffle the firm upsweep of Madame’s French twist. She replied with a snap of her fur-lined collar before finally approaching me.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, closing the dented door behind her.

“Don’t be sorry, dear.” She waved a gloved hand. “Sorrow wastes energy.”

“What should I be then?”

“Be resolved. A little face-lift is all she needs. Rather like her owner.” She sent me a little wink. “Now, where shall we sit . . .”

It wasn’t a question. Before I could reply, my octogenarian employer was moving with regal assurance to a table beside the hearth, where she took full advantage of the crackling fire, pulling off her blond-leather gloves and rubbing her gently wrinkled hands in front of the blaze.

I set a flickering candle on the table for added light and brought over a serving tray. Then she unbelted her long, suede coat—and I could see I’d interrupted a special evening.

Beneath her fur-lined outerwear, Madame was swathed in a suit of shimmering winter white, which dramatically complemented her silver gray hair. Draped around her neck was her
Starry Night over the Rhone
scarf. The Van Gogh’s palette of sapphire, aquamarine, and purple augmented the striking hue of her blue violet eyes, but the art museum print would have been a fitting accessory for any dinner with Otto, the “younger man” in her life. (He’d been barely out of his sixties when she’d snagged his attention.)

As a gallery owner, Otto was often wining and dining clients and artists alike, and Madame’s years of nurturing the latter through the most colorful decades in Greenwich Village history made her a prized dinner companion.

The only thing about Madame’s appearance that seemed off to me was her jewelry—or more accurately, the lack of it.

My former motherin-law was exceedingly proud of her jewelry collection, which spanned decades and continents, and she seldom missed a chance to show it off. Tonight, however, she wore none of her custom-made bracelets, brooches, or rings. Her only adornment was a platinum chain dangling a single teardrop pearl, its setting delicately sculpted to resemble a plumeria, the Hawaiian flower of welcome.

The necklace was a wedding gift from the late Antonio Allegro—Matt’s father and the great love of Madame’s life. He’d given it to his young bride during their honeymoon in the Kona District on the big island. (Matt and I had spent our honeymoon there, as well.)

I was tempted to ask about her sparse accessory display, but tabled it in favor of a cheerier subject—

“Since you skipped dessert, I’m making it up to you . . .”

“Delightful,” Madame announced after a satisfying bite into my Chocolate-Dipped Crunchy Almond Biscotti. (I’d approached my biscotti-making like the gelato makers of Sicily, working on the recipe until it tasted more like a dunkable stick of chocolate-covered almonds than a cookie.)

From the coffee press, I poured her a freshly brewed cup of my new Fireside Blend. She lifted her cup to sample it, a serious expression on her face. (And I held my breath.)

“I see you’re using Matt’s new peaberries from that Thai hill tribe cooperative.”

“Yes, along with his Guatemalan and Colombian Supremo.” (I’d roasted each to bring out their respective best notes and combined them for the blend.)

“I can taste the caramel and macadamia nut . . .” she noted between appraising sips. She waited for the brew to cool a bit more. “Brown sugar . . . graham cracker, green cardamom, cinnamon . . . and chocolate. My compliments to the chef!”

For the first time since arriving, she actually smiled, and I sat back in relief. I also prayed she’d keep smiling after I made my pitch. Clearing my throat, I presented the framed photo . . .

“Madame, do you remember this?”

“Is this a memory test, dear?”

“Not exactly . . .”

I handed over the frame. The scene depicted appeared to be a Village street festival at night. The shaggy hairstyles, bell-bottom jeans, and polyester prints suggested the seventies. A guitarist played cross-legged on a blanket. Young people were gathered around him, singing and laughing.

I pointed to the edge of the photo. “Aren’t those our Village Blend’s French doors?”

“Indeed they are,” Madame said with a wistful look, then a little smile crossed her face and she moved her hand down the photo frame in an almost tender gesture. “This is one of Nathan’s—”

“Nate Sumner?” I assumed the former New York photojournalist and activist was just one of the renowned artists, actors, and writers who’d frequented our shop. Nate was a professor at the New School now, still a regular customer. But the way she said his name . . .

“Was there something between you two back then?”

“A little something, yes, you could say that. Nathan took this during the blackout of seventy-seven.”

“July nineteen seventy-seven?”

“That’s right. Everything went dark around nine thirty.” She pursed her lips. “Those were dark times for this city, as well, and I don’t just mean the blackout.”

“You’re referring to the recession?”

“And the Son of Sam murders—those insane shootings had terrorized everyone that summer, six dead and seven wounded.” She shook her head. “On top of that, corruption and incompetence were being exposed at all levels of our government. Too many people stopped believing in a civil society. What happened that night was the result.”

“What do you mean?”

“Many of the city’s neighborhoods exploded with violence. Stores were ransacked and destroyed. Buildings were set ablaze. There was so much looting and chaos that the police were helpless.”

“But there’s nothing like that in this photo,” I noted, tapping the glass. “Tell me what went on here . . .”

“After the blackout hit, I was planning to close. It was Nate who came in with this family—a mother, father, and three adolescent children. He’d found them stumbling through the streets in abject fear. They were tourists from a small town in the Midwest who’d taken the subway to the Village so the kids could see ‘where the hippies lived.’ Now they were lost, stranded, and frightened, with no train, bus, or taxi to take them back to their hotel.”

“So you stayed open for them?”

“Yes, and that’s when Nate made me realize more people were wandering around our neighborhood with no way to get home. Most of the businesses around our shop—the restaurants, delis, even the bars—had locked up shortly after they lost power.”

Madame sighed. “Our neighborhood needed us, and I couldn’t say no. Within an hour, our shop was filled to capacity. I didn’t want to turn anyone away, so I came up with a solution.”

“Your catering tent.” I pointed. “That’s it in the photo’s background, right?”

“Yes, Nate and his friends erected it over the alley beside the coffeehouse. They put Chinese lanterns on poles and our regulars showed up with folding chairs and milk crates.”

“Looks like you were the hub of the Village that night.”

“Yes; young people spread blankets, played guitars, read poetry—but the blackout made us more than an improvised party, Clare. Those who needed serious help came to us, too: victims of crimes; people with medical conditions. Police officers began stopping by every thirty minutes to pick up new cases.”

“What you did was wonderful.”

“We did it together, our staff, my Nathan, and his ‘hippie’ friends—” She gave me a little wink. “Many of the stores that closed were looted, but not ours. Instead of shutting ourselves off in fear, becoming victims—part of the problem—we became a solution.”

“A
solution
!
This is exactly”—I tapped the photo—“what we should do.”

“What do you mean?”

“This shop is blacked out again, but our staff and community need us to reopen. I say we do it, the very same way you did back then.”

“My dear, have you been drinking something
other
than coffee? This is January, not July. It’s positively freezing out there.”

“I phoned Matt already. I’m borrowing one of his emergency generators from the Red Hook warehouse. We can erect our catering tent over the alley, bring out tables and chairs, warm the space with portable heaters—”

“But how will you serve the Village Blend’s signature drinks?”

“Our coffee truck is garaged in Matt’s warehouse for the winter, but we can take it out . . .” I was so excited I jumped up and began to pace. “We can park it at the curb and use the truck’s espresso machine to bring our entire menu back to life.”

I paused. “What do you think?”

“What do I think?”

Once again I held my breath, watching Madame’s blue violet gaze grow wide then tearful. “I think you truly are the daughter I never had!”

Madame opened her arms, and I happily stepped into them. Then we hugged each other tight. But not for long—

BA-BOOM!

The violent noise wasn’t a bomb, but it may as well have been, because we both nearly jumped out of our shoes.

What was that?!

We whipped around to face the shattered French doors, where the noise had come from. Then—

BAM!

In the flickering firelight, we watched one of the long plywood planks covering the broken glass violently shudder then fall away. With a hollow
BONK,
it fell to the coffeehouse floor.

The black rectangle that appeared looked like a postal slot to the abyss.

Madame and I stared at it in dead silence. We sensed movement beyond the darkness. Suddenly the bright beam of a flashlight appeared and slowly began moving around the shop.

“It’s a looter,” Madame whispered.

I froze for a moment, but Madame was already moving toward the counter.

“Call the police, dear,” she calmly advised. “I’ll get the baseball bat.”