Read Billionaire Blend (A Coffeehouse Mystery) Online
Authors: Cleo Coyle
Billionaire Blend (A Coffeehouse Mystery) (4 page)
Anton frowned. “Eric had his reasons for allowing Ms. Hyde to insinuate herself into our lives. The end was messy, but it ended.”
“Yes, it did . . . which makes me wonder.”
“What?”
“I met Eric’s sister tonight. She warned me that bad things happen to the women around Eric. She said ‘women.’ Plural. She also mentioned something about a divorcée. Do you know what she meant?”
Anton appeared stricken for a moment, but quickly recovered.
“Eden was probably drunk. She’s very protective of her younger brother, and not very discreet when she imbibes.”
“But what she said sounded so . . . ominous. Was it a threat?”
“Pay no attention,” Anton insisted. “Bianca’s death was one thing, Charley’s quite another—”
“Charley?” I put down my coffee cup. “Are you saying that Charley, the ex-cop who died in the explosion—Eric’s dead driver—was a
woman
?”
T
hirty-six
“Y
OU
didn’t know this?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Charley was indeed a woman,” Anton confirmed. “An attractive one who intrigued Eric from the start. But Charley was not what she appeared to be . . .”
“Eric was intrigued? Then Charley and Eric really were . . .”
Anton nodded.
Well,
I thought,
at least now I understand
Braddock’s comment about Thorner sleeping with “the help”—not to mention Eric’s desperate behavior after the first explosion.
In the moment it took for me to process the fact that Charley was a woman, I almost missed the second half of Anton’s statement—almost.
“Not what she appeared?” I said after a pause. “You mean because she was an ex-cop?”
“No; Eric knew her credentials. That’s why he hired her, both to drive him and provide protection. But Charley had her own agenda, and she wanted the job for her own reasons.”
“And those reasons were . . . ?”
“Not for me to say.” Anton shrugged. “In any case, you have nothing to fear.”
“Excuse me?”
“You have no rivals for Eric’s affection, Clare. He has thought of nothing but you since he awoke from his operation.”
“But you misunderstand. I’m not interested in Eric. Not
that
way.”
Anton rolled his eyes. “Then why quiz me about his prior affairs?”
“After everything that’s happened tonight, I’m curious, that’s all. And I already
have
a boyfriend.”
Anton tapped the Omega chronometer on his own wrist. “Are you referring to the man who was supposed to call you at eleven?”
I slapped my forehead.
Not only had I forgotten Quinn’s call, I’d turned off my phone at the Source Club.
“I can’t believe I forgot. What’s Mike going to think?”
Anton mirrored his boss’s smirk. “He will suspect the worst, of course. Perhaps you should have told him you loved him before he hung up.”
I frowned. “Eavesdropping is bad form.”
“My dear lady, ears come with the job.”
“Apparently so do Ken dolls.”
“Snooping is bad form, too.”
“I’m sorry, but the door was open—and I thought you were inside.”
“Did you?”
“Okay, I was snooping. So what’s with the Ken dolls?”
He shrugged. “Understated luxury.”
“Excuse me?”
“It is my job to help Eric straddle two very different worlds. In this city run by money, the financial class dresses for success. The more tailored and elegant their attire, the more respect they garner.”
“That’s true.”
Anton paused to finish his own cup. “The situation is very different in his world of digital commerce and computer technology, where a fashion heuristic states that only two types of men wear suits and ties: funeral directors and assholes.”
I bit my cheek. “Who told you that one? Let me guess . . . Eric.”
Anton leaned across the table. “This is Eric’s world, not mine. I was born to an esteemed and aristocratic Spanish family. I attended military school and became an officer, like my father and grandfather before me. I grew to be a man around elegant things, and I understand the world of wealth and power in ways Eric cannot.”
He sat back. “So you see my dilemma. Two worlds, two cultures. But Eric must function in both of them, so I dress my man in clothes that are distinctive, casual, yet classic—and expensive enough to impress bankers and financiers, and their women.”
“Unless they
are
women.”
“Touché.”
“Those hand-sewn denims and the Florentine leather bomber jacket Eric wore when I first met him—your idea?”
“They’re all my ideas, Ms. Cosi. I order the outfits tailored in miniature, from the materials that will be used to make the finished product. I show the dolls to Eric, and he makes his selections.”
Anton owned his pride, and why not? He got to dress his own living, breathing, billionaire Ken doll.
“It’s a more efficient system than trial-and-error, Ms. Cosi, even if it’s not perfect.”
“What heuristic is perfect? A heuristic is basically just a rule of thumb, isn’t it? Helpful, maybe, but a rule of thumb is just an easy shortcut, like stereotyping. It doesn’t work all the time, does it?”
Anton smiled and nodded appreciatively. I glanced at my watch. It was after one in the morning. I thought about turning on my phone, but I knew Anton would eavesdrop on any call, and I didn’t want to deal with a concerned or angry Quinn until I had privacy.
“It’s very late, Anton. I’d better head home before the seams on this vintage dress give way.”
Anton rose. “I’ll drive you.”
“No, don’t leave Eric alone. I insist. Call me a cab and I’ll be fine.”
F
orty
“B
OOTSIE
Girl!”
Nathan Sumner’s cry interrupted the chatter of our late-morning rush. From behind our counter, I watched as the old professor, eyes only for Madame, strolled across our restored plank floor.
“Bootsie Girl?” Esther and Tucker said in unison before I shushed them.
Madame rose to greet the plus-sized man. He opened his arms wide, and they shared a lingering hug and affectionate pecks.
In his youth, Nate had been a passionate young man with a baby face, golden ponytail, and idealistic fire in his hard, brown gaze. The ponytail was still there, though shorter now, and as silver as Madame’s pageboy. He wore rimless glasses over those brown eyes, and his baby face now sported a close-trimmed white beard and more than a few creases. As for the rest of him . . .
“By God, Bootsie Girl, you never lost your figure, unlike we less fortunate ones.” Nate patted the wool vest jacketing his own impressive middle.
“You’ve gained more than a few pounds,” Madame conceded, still holding his hand. “You’ve also doubled up on the charismatic charm that bruised the hearts of so many young coeds.”
The tweedy professor was pushing seventy, but when he gazed at Madame, his dark eyes danced like a man in his lusty prime.
“Passing fancies,” Nate said with a wave of his wrinkled hand. “My heart was forever stomped by you, Bootsie Girl.”
My former motherin-law struck a coquettish pose and lifted her maxi-length lamb’s wool skirt just enough to display what I’d foolishly thought was a rare fashion faux pas—white, knee-length leather go-go boots with pointed toes and stacked heels.
From Nate’s excited reaction, however, I realized Madame was merely dressing to rekindle some provocative memories. (I also guessed it was Madame’s
boots
that had done some walking all over Nate Sumner’s heart.)
The pair returned to Madame’s quiet corner table arm in arm. I’d set a vase with a few blue roses on the table, and Nate eyed them suspiciously before slipping off his leather shoulder pack. As he pulled off his coat, he yanked a tall, brown paper bag out of one deep pocket and set it on the table.
“What’s this?” Madame pointed to the paper bag with disapproval. “Brought your own drink?”
“Oh, that’s just my favorite iced tea. I talk so much, I guzzle a dozen cans a day. Anyway, this one’s empty, and you know I’d never refuse a Village Blend espresso.”
That was my cue to enter the scene, bearing a tray with a
doppio
each for Madame and Nate—and a third for me.
“So, Blanche, what’s up?” Nate asked while I served. “We haven’t sat for coffee since we pressured the City Council to expand landmark zoning rules to the entire Village.”
“What a day,” Madame said. “The mayor was frothing at the mouth.”
“Flipping the bird to power is a blast, Bootsie. You should do it more often,” Nate said with a self-satisfied chuckle.
“Is that what you were doing in front of the Source Club last night?” I interjected. “Flipping the bird to power?”
“Oh, Nate,” Madame cooed. “Perhaps you know Clare Cosi, my manager?”
“Yes, I saw her just last night, though this is our first
formal
introduction . . .” Nate didn’t look happy to see me. I didn’t care—
“May I join you,” I said, sitting before Nate could object.
Nate sampled his espresso, drained the demitasse, and set it aside. “So, Ms. Cosi, you must have had an interesting dinner last night.”
“It’s what happened
after
dinner that concerns me.”
“Ah,” Nate said with a stubbornly proud smile. “My little protest.”
“Your mini riot, you mean.”
“Some of my followers are . . . enthusiastic. Things may have gotten out of hand.”
“Saul Alinsky tactics?” Madame asked, referring to the political anarchist’s notorious guidebook,
Rules for Radicals
(a sort of
Robert’s Rules
of
disorder)
.
Nate laughed. “They were General Patton’s tactics, Bootsie. We outflanked the enemy.”
“What were you protesting, exactly?” I asked.
The good humor drained from Nate’s bearded face. “The digital age, Ms. Cosi. The insidious use of computers to control populations. The cancer of social media in all of its forms.”
“Goodness!” Madame blinked. “And I thought you were an advocacy group for solar
power
.”
Nate patted Madame’s hand. “I chose the name
Solar Flare
because of my original concern. Our rush to computerize our infrastructure, to digitize our libraries, records, and financial transactions, ignores a hidden danger—”
“A solar flare?” I assumed.
“Precisely, Ms. Cosi. A solar eruption could potentially destroy all computers and the data they contain, obliterating two thousand years of human endeavor in an instant, should we abandon our history of traditional print and paper. Why, a solar hiccup could disrupt power grids for months, even years.”
“A terrifying possibility,” I acknowledged. “But like an asteroid striking the earth, what are the chances of it actually happening?”
“A valid point, which is why, in order to become more relevant, our group’s emphasis has shifted to the immediate and insidious threat of cyberization.”
“Cyber-
what
?”
“I coined the term to illustrate our increasing dependence on high-tech gadgets. We are becoming cyborgs, fusions of man and machine.” Nate pulled a small, thin hardcover from his shoulder bag and handed it to me. “I outline it all in my book—and I’d like you to give it to Eric Thorner.”
“
Cyberization and Control: The Totalitarianism of New Technology
,” I read.
The dust jacket art depicted a photo of a young man draped in technology. Devices covered his eyes, nose, mouth, even his arms. Wires rose from each machine, leading to crosshatched puppet master’s sticks floating under the title.
“At present, the man/machine commingling is only psychological. Separate any one of the customers around us from their smartphones and you’ll see what I mean. Within a few hours, they exhibit many of the same withdrawal symptoms as an addict deprived of heroin.”
“Heroin?” I echoed, slipping the book into my apron pocket. The statement seemed ludicrously extreme to me—although a few months ago, Matt
did
climb the walls after he’d smashed his own smartphone in a tantrum and had to live without it for all of a half day.
“The results of studies are disturbing,” Nate continued. “The Internet is turning into the new opiate of the people—especially young people. Privacy is violated, civil rights trampled upon. If we’re not careful, the digital domain is going to control our bank accounts, our thoughts, every waking moment of our lives—”
“You don’t think you’re overstating it?”
“What the future holds is terrifying. The cyber-world gives people the illusion of anonymity and power, but neither of those things is true. It takes away our power. It sells out our privacy. And as these clever devices insinuate themselves, tempting us with easy lives and glib replies, I believe we’ll become like machines ourselves. Soulless and sociopathic, if not out-and-out automatons.”
I saw the somber change in the old man’s demeanor and took a shot in the dark. “It sounds like you’re speaking from personal experience.”
“Yes, I confess: it
is
personal, Ms. Cosi. Eric Thorner, the man you dined with last night, is responsible for the death of my niece.”
F
orty-one
T
HE
statement shocked me. I assumed Nate was talking about Eric’s old girlfriend, the young actress Bianca Hyde. Before I could ask, however, Madame set me straight.
“You’re speaking about Eva, your brother’s child? I remember when she was born, but that must have been—”
“Eva would have been seventeen last month. She died almost two years ago.”
“I’m so sorry, Nate,” Madame said. “I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know because my brother’s company transferred him. He placed Eva in an exclusive private school. Eva was the new girl, and the students there were cruelly cliquish. By the end of her first semester the cyber-bullying began.”
Nate told us how one of Eva’s female tormentors secretly took a candid photo of Eva half dressed in the locker room after gym class.
“The bully used Eric’s popular
Pigeon Droppings
app to place Eva in the game without her consent, and then spent an entire weekend circulating screen grabs among her friends. By Monday, one of the little sadists posted printouts all over the school. When Eva saw the pictures of her half-naked body covered in cyber-crap, she ran home and locked herself in the bathroom.”
Nate paused. When he spoke again his voice was shaking. “By the time the school alerted my brother, it was too late. Vince found his daughter hanging dead in the shower.”
Oh my God . . .
I heard the air leave Madame’s lungs in a rush, and her violet eyes welled. I felt tears welling, too, but I had to point out the obvious.
“I’m so sorry, Nate . . . what happened was awful,
criminal
, but the bullying was the issue. Eric Thorner only created the game, not the abuse.”
“The game became a tool for abuse, Ms. Cosi. As a society, we regulate tobacco companies, gun manufacturers, and distillers of alcohol because we know their products have the potential to do harm or be abused.”
“I see your logic, but how do you propose apps be regulated? The online shops that carry them do so already, don’t they?”
“Yes, but more must be done. Solar Flare has been effective in the past. We were instrumental in the banning of those vile
Pigeon Droppings
Tshirts. We made sure Thorner took a financial hit for those!”
“I’m sorry to tell you that Eric doesn’t see what you’re trying to accomplish. He believes you simply want his business to pay for your advocacy.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Nate replied. “Tobacco companies fund lung cancer research. Gun manufacturers are the leading promoters of firearms education, and alcohol manufacturers support substance abuse programs. Why shouldn’t tech companies like Eric’s fund Solar Flare, so we can effect much-needed change from within? We’re committed to our public protests against him until he pays up.”
I nodded like a good student—even though it seemed to me that Nate Sumner was treading a fine line between activism and extortion. But now was not the time for debate. Now was the time for me to find out what Nate knew about Charley’s husband.
With care, I shifted topics and told Nate about my encounters with the man in the red Solar Flare cap.
“I need to know. Is he a member of your group?”
“Yes, Joseph Polaski is a member of Solar Flare,” Nate said, “but I don’t know where you can find him, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did. I will also add that Joe is another victim of the digital domain.”
Nate then told me all about Joe and his ex-wife, Charlene Polaski. The two were once cops; they’d met on the job. He was the veteran, she the rookie. Things were fine between them until Joe’s retirement. He started drinking, and they began to drift apart. The marriage ended when Joe discovered Charley was seeing a lover she’d met on a website that facilitated extramarital affairs.
“Joe reacted badly. He slapped Charley, and she got a restraining order against him. Joe joined Solar Flare shortly after.”
“Is he a volunteer, or is he paid?”
“Solar Flare has no paid staff, Ms. Cosi. I run the organization with a few dedicated interns and many volunteers. Joe is a responsible member of the community. He prepares food at a Bowery homeless shelter, collects clothing for the local Salvation Army, and performs maintenance work for the Friends of the High Line Committee.”
“Does he build firebombs in his spare time, too?”
“Joe had nothing whatsoever to do with the murder of his ex-wife. He still loved Charley, and they’d recently reconciled—well, after a fashion. When Charley became a licensed private investigator, she asked Joe to help with her first major undercover investigation.”
Now
I understood. Eric’s butler, Anton, said that Charley was
not what she seemed
, and that she had
personal reasons
for taking a job at THORN, Inc. After what Nate just revealed, I easily guessed the rest.
“Charley was investigating Bianca Hyde’s death, wasn’t she?”
“She was.” Nate nodded. “From what Joe told me, the girl’s family hired her. They blamed Eric Thorner for what happened to their daughter, and wanted Charley to find proof that Thorner was responsible for her death. Charley knew Joe was a member of Solar Flare so she asked him to feed her information about Thorner’s company. But from what Joe told me the last time we spoke, it was Charley who was feeding him information toward the end—and lots of it.”
I leaned forward. “What kind of information?”
“You’ll have to ask Joe.”
“But you don’t know where he is?”
Nate shrugged. “Sorry.”
I was about to suggest refills when I spied a trio of men in dark suits approaching our table. Alarmed, I slid my chair back and bumped into another man hovering behind me. More suits flowed out of the crowd, to surround our table. NYPD officers in uniform and several detectives followed. To my horror, one of them was Lieutenant Dennis DeFasio of the Bomb Squad.
The original trio displayed their FBI credentials.
“Nathan Sumner,” the one in the middle said. “You are under arrest for detonating an explosive device for terrorist purposes, and for the murder of Charlene Polaski.”
“No!” Madame cried, leaping to her feet to block the agents. “You’re making a terrible mistake. This man is innocent!”
One agent deftly pulled Madame aside while the other two cuffed Nate. The old professor seemed as stunned as the rest of us. He didn’t resist in the least, which made the regiment of FBI agents and NYPD officers there to arrest him look like ridiculous overkill.
One agent lifted Nate out of his chair; a second grabbed his shoulder bag.
On his feet, Nate quickly recovered some of his old spirit.
“Pass my book to your friend, Ms. Cosi,” the old professor told me quickly. “It has
good information
.”
The authorities who filled my coffeehouse pulled back, taking their prisoner with them. Moving toward the door, Nate cried out one last chant—
“Roses white and red are best!”
His words barely registered as my focus fixed on Lieutenant DeFasio, bringing up the rear. I rushed forward, grabbing his arm before he got out the door.
“What are you doing, Lieutenant?”
“The FBI has made an arrest,” DeFasio replied, tone stiffer than his military crew cut. Then he grabbed my arm and pulled me into a corner.
“Nate is no killer,” I hissed. “He’s an opinionated old man, that’s all—”
“An old man with a past that fits the crime.”
“What past?”
“We also have physical evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“I can’t tell you, not officially . . .” He lowered his voice and held my eyes. “I can only discuss the case with
Federal agents
.”
Quinn
, I thought.
DeFasio is telling me to talk to Mike.
The lieutenant hurried out to join the others—and I joined my own stunned customers, staring like zombies at the departing police vehicles. I noticed Tuck at the espresso bar, comforting a distraught Madame, and I wanted to do the same. For the moment, however, I couldn’t move that far. I simply sank back down at the table where they’d arrested Nate. In the process, I bumped his paper bag. It tumbled to the floor and an empty can rolled out—
Brooklyn’s Best Iced Tea.
I stared at the can.
Where have I seen that before?
At the Bomb Squad headquarters, I realized. Cases of the very same iced tea were stacked outside the kitchen where DeFasio claimed his people were
re-creating the bomb
!
Not just a bomb. A firebomb, using liquid accelerants, according to Sergeant Emmanuel Franco.
Oh my God. Whoever built that bomb used a can just like this one—Nate’s favorite brand. I just knew it wasn’t a coincidence.
Madame approached me, grasped my arms. “We have to help Nathan,” she said, drying her eyes. “He’s a good man and a gentle one. He abhors violence. You know he’s innocent, don’t you?”
“I do, Madame.”
“Then you’ll help him? You’ll find a way to clear him of these terrible false charges?”
“Yes, I promise—because I know exactly how he was framed.”
F
orty-two
“T
HEY
have Nate’s fingerprints,” Mike confirmed when I saw him that weekend. “They pulled the prints off recovered bomb fragments and singled him out as the person of interest very quickly.”
It had been less than a week since we’d last seen each other, but after Nate’s arrest, it felt more like a month, so I didn’t object when Mike asked if we could go straight back to his DC apartment.
Alone at last, Mike wanted to make love, but I was anxious to hear what he knew. “Talk,” I demanded, and he did. Unfortunately, I didn’t much like what he had to say . . .
“Enlighten me please, Mike. If the NYPD and FBI had Nate’s fingerprints so quickly, then why did they wait a week to arrest him?”
“Their theory is that Nate had an accomplice so they put surveillance on him. But after last night’s protest at the Source Club, they decided to take him into custody, try to break him in an interview.”
“This is so wrong! Nate didn’t set a car bomb to kill Eric Thorner or anyone else!”
“Getting emotional won’t help your friend.”
“I know. It’s just so frustrating.”
“Then what’s
your
theory, Detective?”
“Someone framed Nate—obviously.”
“How?”
“The killer must have watched Nate finish a can of Brooklyn’s Best Iced Tea and discard it, then recovered the can from the garbage pail. The killer then built the bomb using that can, knowing it would be linked back to Nate, who appeared to have strong motives to want to hurt Eric Thorner.”
Mike nodded. “I agree—and between you and me—DeFasio does, too.”
“What did he tell you?”
“They went back six months but found no records of the professor purchasing accelerants. They found nothing on his computer or cell phone that indicated he’d been planning a car bombing. They found no traces of bomb-building material where he lives or works or in the Solar Flare offices.”
“So why arrest him?”
“Because the agents and detectives running the investigation have enough of a case to pacify the politicians, public, and press who put the pressure on for an arrest.”
“So they’re betting on Nate confessing and naming an accomplice who built the bomb?”
“Yes.”
“He won’t, you know, because he’s innocent.”
“I’m with you, Clare, I am. But who framed him? And why?”
“That’s where your favor comes in. Did you do it for me?”
“I did. I spoke with a friend in the LAPD.”
“So you got the information?”
“It’s locked in my briefcase, but only one thing will persuade me to give up the combination.”
“Let me guess: my Triple-Chocolate Italian Cheesecake?”
“Okay, two things. Come here . . .”
*
T
H
E
next morning, I woke to the heavenly smell of buttermilk pancakes on the griddle. In a nice switch, Mike made breakfast for me. As I stuffed myself with comfort-food carbs, he retrieved his handwritten cop notes. Then I made a big pot of coffee and he sat down to give me the skinny on Bianca Hyde’s death and the police investigation that followed—straight out of the Los Angeles Police Department files.
“Okay,” he began, “Bianca Hyde died at the Beverly Palms Hotel via blunt force trauma. Officially, it was determined that Ms. Hyde was intoxicated, stumbled, or passed out; struck her head against a heavy glass table, and bled to death.”
“That much I knew from Tucker’s tabloid account.”
“Patience, Cosi . . . The investigating officer was convinced her death was foul play, and from the files he seemed eager to pin the crime on Eric Thorner.”
“His evidence?”
“They were recently estranged. He’d had enough of her drinking and insisted she check into rehab. She refused and checked into the hotel. The Beverly Palms had been sued the previous year and forced to provide camera footage for a divorce trial, so they removed most of their interior security cameras, promising discretion to future guests.”
“What about the elevators?”
“There were cameras in the elevators and in the underground parking garage. The police viewed the footage closely, but there was no visual evidence that Eric Thorner, Anton Alonzo, or any of Bianca’s other former boyfriends, who sometimes had jealousy issues, appeared on camera.”
“That’s it?”
“The police brought Thorner in for questioning. He claimed to be at his Silicon Valley residence that day, all day. It turns out that Mr. Thorner owns considerably more security cams than the Beverly Palms, and the LAPD quickly found time-stamped video images showing Thorner and his butler, Anton, at the residence in the hours leading up to Bianca’s death and many hours after.”
Mike set his notes aside to pour another cup of coffee. “That’s about as solid an alibi as you can ask for, so the LAPD had no choice but to back off.”
“Then Eric is innocent.”
“Maybe,” Mike said.
“Maybe’s pretty vague. What’s
your
theory, Detective?”
“I’ll put it to you this way: What sounds more believable to you? A chubby, out-of-shape old man like Nate Sumner constructs a bomb and finds some way to plant it in a car that’s always either in a secure garage or driven by a former NYPD cop? Or . . . a tech genius like Eric Thorner and a former member of Special Ops like his butler, Anton Alonzo, find a way to trick their own security cameras and falsify an alibi?”
I blinked. “You think Nate was framed by Eric and his butler?”
“I do.”
“You’re crazy.”
“And you’re willfully blind. Brush those dollar signs away from your eyes, Cosi, and maybe you’ll be able to see the truth.”
“Don’t be insulting. For your theory to work, that means Eric would have planned to kill Charley and almost kill himself.”
“Every insurance adjuster knows that the easiest way to appear innocent of starting a fire is to make sure you get burned in it.”
“I can’t listen to this!”
“DeFasio did.”
“You think Eric Thorner murdered Bianca Hyde and then—”
“Yes.”
“No, I can’t believe it.”
Mike exhaled. “More like you don’t want to believe it. Like that daughter of yours who broke up with Franco because of his salary.”
I held my head. “Don’t make things worse.”
“Sweetheart, listen to me. I know Nate Sumner got a raw deal, but it’s his problem now—and his attorney’s problem. I want you to stay away from Thorner.”
I swallowed hard. “I promised Madame I’d help. But even if I went back on that promise, I can’t live with the situation the way it is. I’m going into business with Eric, and I want to know the truth about him. I really don’t think he framed Nate.”
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know. We don’t have enough facts yet to conclude anything.”
“And how are you going to get your facts?”
“I’ll continue to work with Eric and keep my eyes open.”
“But I don’t want you
anywhere near
Thorner or his people. I’m worried about you.”
“Look, someone around Eric has to be guilty—someone close enough to know his schedule and get to his car without suspicion. I don’t know if the motive was personal or monetary, but I’m going to find the truth.”
“The truth? Okay, Clare, you think about this truth on your train ride home: the last person to investigate the truth around Eric Thorner was an ex-cop named Charley. And if you’re not careful, you’re going to end up where she did—on a cold, steel slab at the city morgue.”
F
orty-six
J
OY
and I did exactly as Garth suggested. We walked and walked and talked—and talked . . .
The crisp winter air felt refreshing in our lungs and on our cheeks as we traversed Montmartre’s hilltop maze of quiet cobblestone streets. Every so often, Joy would sing “
Bonjour
” to a neighborhood acquaintance while we strolled past town houses rich with the patina of age and galleries tucked into tiny storefronts.
The legendary painters who once lived in this arrondissement had different names than those of my storied New York neighborhood—Monet, Picasso, van Gogh, Dalí—but the sensibilities were the same, and (like my own Village, an ocean away) Montmartre remained a magnet for the young, the artsy, and the offbeat, be they iconoclasts or romantics.
I wasn’t surprised my daughter was having the time of her life here. Joy was a true Allegro. Though she had my green eyes, chestnut hair, and heart-shaped face, her height and gift for languages, not to mention her audaciousness, ambition, sense of adventure, and headstrong stubborn streak were totally Matt—and his intrepid, French-born mother.
But the need to climb mountains wasn’t always a blessing, and I wasn’t surprised to hear that Joy’s daily life was far from perfect.
“We’re grossly overworked,” she confessed.
“In Montmartre? In
winter
?
”
“The news is getting out. We received a Michelin Rising Star award . . .”
This was a rare honor for this district of the city, which was known for cheap eats, not fine dining. I was so proud when my daughter told me she’d made contributions to the new menu. Clearly, she’d played an important part in the brigade that was getting this coveted recognition.
But even that shining news had a dark side . . .
The Rising Star honor was really a public challenge. The Michelin guides gave such restaurants a two-year window of evaluations to bring their menu and service up to star level.
Joy’s executive chef was determined to earn that star—but the pressure was driving everyone to drink.
“And that’s really what led to his second-in-command losing it,” she told me. “The perfectionist pressure!”
Apparently all of the Paris food world had heard of the Bresse chicken-throwing incident, thanks to a television news report—and that crazy story brought even more customers to Les Deux Perroquets.
“We’re killing ourselves every night in that kitchen. Our hours are longer, we’re open seven days instead of six, but the owner refuses to bring in more help for the brigade . . .”
An hour later, Joy thanked me for listening to her vent—in English and French. (Like her father, she sometimes switched out of her native tongue without even noticing.)
Finally, she suggested we warm up at a café.
With my fingers, toes, and cheeks thoroughly chilled, I quickly agreed.
*
J
OY
chose a little café on the Place du Tertre, an open square of cobblestones where artists (good and not so good) set up chairs and easels all year long. In the rainy spring, they placed large umbrellas over their little spaces. In the dead of winter, they bundled up and drank steaming cups of coffee.
At a café table near the window, Joy ordered us our own coffees and a plate of her favorite French pastries:
canelés
, small cakes made with rich egg batter and laced with the fragrance of vanilla and rum.
Like French madeleines, our
petit
canelés
were baked in special molds. A mixture of beeswax and butter painted on the molds was the secret to the cakes caramelizing in the oven. The result was a Proustian-like treat that would forever remind me of this sweet morning with my daughter—crisp as winter on the outside with a texture that made getting to the inside even more warm and tender.
Cozy in our battered, cane-backed chairs, I finally turned our conversation to a more tender topic (or at least a more delicate one): Joy’s love life.
“So, what’s going on with Franco?” the Mother Hen in me prodded.
Joy’s mood shifted with the subject. The buoyant color that had reappeared in her cheeks began to fade, her shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what to do, Mom. I think he must hate me.”
“Hate you? Joy, Emmanuel Franco is devoted to you.”
“Oh, come on . . . how would you even know that?”
“Because two weeks ago, on Hudson Street, I watched two gorgeous, young women throw themselves at him. He couldn’t get rid of them fast enough. He wants you, Joy; he loves you.”
Joy turned down her emerald gaze, as if searching for her lost steam in the coffee cup. At last, she confessed what I already knew—
“Manny and I had a terrible fight when he was here over the holidays . . .”
I poked her for details, and finally it all poured out. Her best friend, Yvette, had been pressuring Joy to date a well-heeled cousin of her wealthy fiancé . . .
“We went out a few times—but as a
group
. The last time, Yvette and her fiancé found a reason to leave us alone, forcing me into a date with his rich cousin. He was a total jerk, Mom, so arrogant, completely in love with himself, but Yvette wouldn’t let it go. She kept saying I wasn’t giving him a fair chance because of my long-distance relationship with Manny. Then when Manny came to see me over the holidays, she showed him a cell-phone photo of me and this Frenchman. She said I was ‘going out with him,’ which made it sound like I was dating him, which I wasn’t! She told Manny that if he broke things off with me, it would ‘free me’ to hook up with this wealthy Frenchman who ‘has the means to make life much easier for me.’”
“What did you say to that?”
“I didn’t even know the conversation happened until after Manny left! I could have murdered Yvette when I found out! While he was here, he started acting tense, prodding me with questions. What did I want out of our relationship? Was I ever coming back to New York . . .”
“What did you say?”
“I said I couldn’t give him a timetable! Not yet! Our Rising Star designation threw everything out of whack. We were getting flooded with new customers, and my boss revoked half my holiday vacation. It was a major mess—and from the semi-hostile way Manny was acting, I thought he wanted out. I told him he could break it off if he felt this long-distance thing was too hard. Then we parted bad . . . and I decided that maybe it was for the best. Maybe he changed his mind about me.”
“Well, he hasn’t. Look . . . I know the kind of guy Manny Franco is. He’s sown his wild oats, and now he’s fed up with cotton candy. He wants something lasting and sustaining, and if you truly reject him now, he’ll move on, find a life with someone else. The question is—are you all right with letting him go? You’ve sown your own wild oats, as I recall, and had a lot of bad boyfriends.”
“Manny is the best. I know that, Mom. He’s patient and loving and so brave. He makes me laugh and our physical chemistry is . . .” The color came back to her cheeks. “Well, it’s amazing. Anyway . . . I never met anyone like Manny Franco, and I just love being with him—and I do love him. But that’s not the issue.”
“That’s the only issue.”
“Look, he’s there, and I’m here—and I
need
to be here at least another year. We have a chance to earn that star designation, and if we do—oh, Mom, I could write my own ticket back in New York, and I’ve worked so hard for this!”
“Then give Franco a chance to wait for you. I think he’s willing. He just has to know you are.”
“I am.”
“Joy, you know that old saying ‘All that glitters isn’t gold’?”
“Mom, I don’t need—”
“Just listen. Real gold doesn’t start its journey in a display window at Tiffany. It’s dug out of the dirty earth. Sometimes true gold doesn’t glitter. It may need a little polishing, but don’t let that bit of needed patience or effort trick you into discarding what could be the greatest treasure of your life.”
Joy said nothing to my little lecture. She simply sipped her coffee, nibbled her
canelé
, and gazed into the square, as if thinking things over.
I gazed out, too, watching artists’ pencils sketch lines—some with subjects, some without. Only time would tell what the finished drawings would be . . .
“Would you like to light candles at the Sacred Heart?” Joy finally asked.
“Very much,” I said. Then we finished our cakes, drained our cups, and stretched our legs one last time.
*
W
E RODE
an electric tram they called a funicular up the steep hill to the basilica. This was the “mount” in Montmartre, which made the Sacré-Coeur the highest point in Île-de-France, and one of the prettiest views in all of Paris.
“I’d like to see you walking down an aisle like this one day,” I whispered to my daughter inside the quiet, century-old church. We’d lit candles and said prayers together. Now we were walking out.
“I want that, too, Mom,” Joy said. “For you.”
“For me?”
“How are you and Mike doing? I noticed you haven’t mentioned him.”
“We’re . . . working things out.”
“Long-distance relationships aren’t easy, are they?”
“No. I guess that’s clear enough with what you and Franco are going through. But then, you know what my nonna used to say?”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder?”
“It does for me. I miss Mike every night. But that’s not exactly how the Italian proverb goes. For two lovers, it’s more of a warning.”
“What does it say?”
“Absence is the enemy of love.”
F
orty-seven
A
S
we moved outside the church into a cloud of chattering tourists, a strikingly tall figure approached us wearing an Eskimo parka and a placid smile.
“Mr. Hendricks!” Joy sounded amazed. “How did you find us?”
Garth Hendricks’s little smile grew wider. “Oh, I had a feeling you’d come up here . . .”
And I had a feeling my THORN phone was broadcasting a GPS tracking signal. Uneasy with the continued weirdness of all things Thorn, I opened my mouth to ask for some answers when Joy beat me to the first question.
“So what is this secret ‘assignment’ for me and my mom? The one your boss mentioned. I’m dying of curiosity here.”
Garth looked to me. “Check your phone’s messages, Ms. Cosi.”
“View-Mail?” I assumed.
After a swift greeting, Eric Thorner’s prerecorded image began to tell us a story: “Every year, on the first of May, a group of very wealthy and very influential people in the world of food and drink get together for a . . . well a sort of potluck dinner—”
“Ohmigawd, Mom!” Joy cried, tugging my coat sleeve. “He’s talking about the Billionaire Potluck!”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“It’s legend in the foodie world! I didn’t know it was
real
!”
“The dinner is one of the most prestigious and exclusive meals on the planet,” prerecorded Eric continued. “No amount of personal wealth can buy you a ticket, yet I would
very much
like a ticket to this dinner. Garth will tell you the rest. I’ll see you tonight, ladies.
Au revoir!
”
“Why does Eric want in to this Billionaire Potluck?” I asked Garth. “For culinary kicks?”
Metis Man stepped closer. “Eric has a business proposition he is pursuing that involves many of the regular attendees of the Billionaire Potluck. He would like to propose this business in a casual way at this exclusive dinner. It will give him a much better chance of achieving his goal than approaching each particular attendee alone—in less cordial circumstances.”
“So how does Eric get into this dinner?” I asked.
“The same way everyone gets in. He must be invited.”
“And how do you get invited?” Joy pressed.
“It involves some tasteful politicking,” Garth admitted. “But one requirement for the invitation is unavoidable: the attendee must offer to bring an item to the potluck that these gentlemen and ladies would like to eat or drink.”
“That’s a tall order for people who’ve likely eaten and drunk the world,” I said.
“It is,” Garth agreed. “It’s a matter of exotic ingredients used in an intriguing way. And we’re more than halfway there. The Billionaire Blend is a coffee no one will have tasted but Eric, Mr. Allegro, and you, Ms. Cosi. Now Eric would like you two—mother and daughter—to put your heads together, master roaster and apprentice chef, and come up with a few dishes that would highlight the one-of-a-kind Billionaire Blend that Mr. Allegro is sourcing right now. Blue sky, ladies; money is no object.”
“Wow . . .” Joy’s wide-eyed gaze appeared to drift away to the view of Paris stretched out below us, but I suspected her mind was already retreating into culinary dreamland, working on the problem.
I looked to Garth. “You have no other guidance?”
“A note of interest, perhaps, and one of advice.”
Joy appeared to tune back in.
“First, the note of interest,” he said. “The attendees of this dinner believe the best dishes have stories attached. Like the story behind Joy’s connection to the restaurant where she works: Les Deux Perroquets—the two parrots.”
“You know about that?” I asked in surprise.
He nodded. “Such memories make for memorable meals.”
“And the advice?”
“The same Eric gives to his employees, especially in the mobile gaming division. In his parlance: all things being equal, the simplest solution is the best.”
“That’s pretty vague,” I said.
“In these fast-moving times with complex problems, we must be nimble to succeed. We must be open to the unexpected, hone our problem-solving abilities to adapt and overcome.”
“Sorry, but that seems pretty vague, too.”
Garth smiled with strained patience. “That’s because the specifics are up to
you
. You have your assignment. You have your deadline. Eric will expect your answer at dinner this evening.”
With a snap of his fingers, the armed chauffeur was back in my life. “René will drive you to a place where you can prepare for dinner.”
“What do we wear?” Joy asked.
“Eric has taken care of that. Just remember Occam’s Razor, ladies.”
“Occam’s what?”
“It’s a heuristic, Miss Allegro. There is an optimum solution to releasing the Gordian knot. We can waste valuable time attempting to untangle ourselves and possibly fail or we can cut through it with a single slice. And from what I understand, Miss Allegro,” he tossed over his shoulder before heading off, “you keep your knives quite sharp . . .”
I froze at that—and it had nothing to do with the weather. Hendricks had just made a reference to a time in Joy’s past when one of her very sharp knives had gotten her into terrible trouble.
Thankfully, the barb didn’t register with Joy. She appeared distracted again.
But I wasn’t.
While Joy began dreaming up gourmet delights, I began worrying about that big, fat folder the Bomb Squad discovered on Eric’s smartphone, the one labeled
Clare Cosi
. And I couldn’t help wondering what else from my past Eric Thorner planned to make use of in the future.
F
orty-eight
“L
ADIES,
you look luminous . . .”
We felt mighty luminous, too, after spending hours at a day spa being exfoliated then primped, painted, and petted. Designer shoes and dresses arrived (French, of course, and speedily fitted to perfection), then Eric picked us up in a rented Bugatti and we were off—mother-daughter Cinderellas for one night.
The antique French car turned heads as René drove us through the Paris streets. For a good hour, we toured, sipping champagne as we circled the Eiffel Tower, rolled under the Arc de Triomphe, and passed over the city’s graceful bridges, so beautifully lit with glowing
bateaux
bobbing along the dark waters like diamonds drifting on a black velvet pool.
Finally, we pulled up to the Place des Vosges, a palazzo-like structure across from a lovely tree-lined park. Our destination was a restored seventeenth-century town house that once belonged to the Duke of Chaulnes.
Joy literally squealed when she saw it. Housed inside was one of the most respected fine dining establishments in all of Paris. The eatery had served royalty, heads of state, and at least one U.S. president. (And a dinner for two here would set mere mortals back a cool thousand bucks.)
When I saw the
name
of the restaurant, however, alarm bells sounded. L’Ambroisie—the food of the gods—was the French translation of Ambrosia, the very term Matt and I had chosen for the rarified Brazilian coffee, which was now all but extinct.
This can’t be a coincidence,
I thought.
Once again, it appeared Eric was planning a cunning chess move. I just prayed the result would not be an ugly scene—not involving my daughter, because I wouldn’t stand for it.
*
I
NSIDE
the restaurant, the décor was as grand as the palace of Versailles with crystal chandeliers, antique mirrors, and Louis XIV gilded consoles, yet the space itself was cozy with no more than forty seats.
Near the start of our meal, Eric waved over the sommelier and sent a bottle of wine to a nearby table of three formally dressed gentlemen—two trim and middle-aged; a third older and more heavily set. After dessert was served, the head waiter stopped by to whisper in Eric’s ear.
“Oui, merci,”
Eric replied, then turned to us. “Would you ladies excuse me a moment?”
Joy and I watched as he moved to that table with a trio of gentlemen.
The men spoke to Eric in French, and he appeared to be as fluent as Joy and my ex-husband. To my surprise, he turned and casually pointed to our table.
Joy and I smiled politely at the nodding gentlemen.
“Pardonnez-moi,”
Eric said and came back to retrieve Joy.
With curiosity, I watched as Eric introduced her to the VIPs.
The heavyset older man with apple cheeks turned out to be a sixth-generation vintner from a renowned French family, and the two trim, middle-aged men were equally distinguished. One was France’s Deputy Minister of Tourism and the other editor in chief of the
Marquess
Guides
—the highly respected publications that Eric’s company purchased to roll content into
App-itite
, his new mobile phone app for foodies.
The quiet dining room had become even quieter, and I realized Joy’s mother wasn’t the only one interested in hearing this conversation.
After the introductions, the Deputy Minister of Tourism asked Joy about her relationship to Les Deux Perroquets. With bubbly enthusiasm, my daughter told the story that Madame had conveyed to both of us many times—how she was related to Bettine, a young woman who’d scandalized her wealthy family back in the nineteenth century by running off to Rome with an Italian painter.
“When the young painter tragically died of influenza, Bettine returned to Paris,” Joy explained in French, “but her family refused to take her back, so she began dancing at the Folies Bergère, where the owner of a nearby brasserie saw her, fell in love, and married her. Bettine kept two pet parrots, a gift from her young Italian lover. Respecting that love, which in its own twisty way led the woman of his dreams to him, the Frenchman renamed his Montmartre brasserie Les Deux Perroquets.”
During the story, the three men nodded and began to smile and exchange pleased glances. Of course, I thought. What Frenchman wouldn’t appreciate such a tale of found love? And what Frenchman wouldn’t appreciate a beautiful young woman telling them the tale—especially one with a French heritage, who had a clear connection to the legend.
Joy herself appeared to have a grand time conveying Madame’s family history—even if it had been scandalous at the time. Eric seemed pleased, too, and I caught him a few times observing me watching my daughter shine.
I admit, my Mother Hen radar was up.
There must be a strategic reason Eric is doing this, but what?
Eric spoke again. “Joy is
also
the daughter of the man who sourced Ambrosia. Her beautiful mother, Clare, roasted it to perfection.”
Eric gestured toward me, and the men shocked me by lightly applauding. (Later, Eric informed me these men had sampled my coffee at this very restaurant last fall—at fifty-five dollars for each rare, imported cup—and raved.)
I smiled in thanks and lifted my wineglass.
Finally, talk turned to the special blend Matt was sourcing, and I realized Eric was subtly pitching these VIPs on our Billionaire Blend. They asked him a few more questions and he turned once more to Joy.
“How would you use your parents’ rare blend in your cooking, do you think, Joy?”
There it is . . .
Eric was asking my daughter for our solution to his assignment, which meant one or more of these men had the power to unlock the door to that Billionaire Potluck.
F
orty-nine
J
OY
understood immediately what was happening, and played her part to perfection, beginning with her inspiration from New York’s Chinatown.
“A chef there had an interesting way of smoking duck with tea—and I’ve always wanted to try it. But I would use a Bresse chicken breast and smoke it using my parents’ special coffee blend, infusing the succulent, French bird with the essences of earthy coffees sourced from the most remote regions on the planet.”
“What then?” the vintner asked, eyes bright. “How would you serve it?”
“To start, shaved thin as a carpaccio with a dollop of crème fraîche, a drizzle of truffle oil, and a garnish of coffee caviar. I’d arrange the slices as petals, a blossoming flower of flavor on the plate.”
The Deputy Minister of Tourism raised an eyebrow. “Did you say coffee caviar?”
“Oui
,
monsieur . . .”
Joy briefly described a technique of molecular gastronomy, which allowed a chef to create tiny spheres of flavor from almost any liquid.
They asked her for more ideas, and she gave them—coffee and cream
lunette
, little, domed pasta circles with a filling of the same coffee-smoked Bresse breast shredded and tossed in French butter and black truffles. The delicate pillows would then be placed on a mascarpone-based cream sauce and finished with shavings of white truffles . . .
“Interesting use of Bresse chicken,” the vintner said. “But you must promise not to follow your colleague’s example and throw the poor birds back at the farmer!”
Everyone laughed, and Eric was now beaming.
My daughter and I had done what Garth suggested—created dishes around stories. I agreed with the Metis Man on that one: cuisine was lifted by the conversation around it, which made for memorable meals.
“What about dessert?” the editor of the
Marquess
Guides
prompted. “What sweet would you make us,
mademoiselle
?”
“Coffee gelato, I think, made fresh from my parents’ special blend. I’d use it as the center of a tiny bombe, layer that with crushed hazelnut praline and another layer of mascarpone gelato laced with Ugandan gold vanilla beans—my father told me about those,” she proudly added.
“I’d create a thin espresso-infused sponge cake on the bottom layer and once the tiny layered ball was frozen, I’d finish the outside with a magic mocha shell using Chef Thomas Keller’s famous method—Valrhona chocolate, cold-pressed coconut oil, and my parents’ special coffee blend. I’d also want to emboss the chocolate with a design.” She smiled politely at Eric. “For Mr. Thorner here, I might use a rose with thorns circling the bombe and paint it in using edible gold leaf.”
A hush fell over the table as the group considered Joy’s double reference to a bombe.
Touché
, I thought.
If Garth can bring up Joy’s explosive past, she can bring up Eric’s . . .
Luckily, Eric saw the humor. (We’d set him up for the perfect punch line.) “It sounds absolutely delightful, Ms. Allegro,” he declared. “As long as
your
bombe does not go off.”
The table of men burst out laughing, and Joy glanced back at me.
Brava
, I mouthed and lifted my glass again.
Finally, all three men glanced at each other. The vintner locked eyes with Eric. “I would very much like to taste this new coffee.”
“I agree,” said the Deputy Minister of Tourism. “And those dishes sound delightful,
mademoiselle
.”
“I would like to taste them also,” the vintner declared.
“So would I.”
Joy turned to see who had spoken last. It was L’Ambroisie’s own chef
.
Joy greeted him with a touch of awe, and he invited her to see his kitchen. With a silent glance of elation back at me, she followed him out of the dining room.
When Eric returned to our table, I leaned close.
“Merci,”
I whispered.
“No, Clare, thank you,” he softly replied. “You and your daughter sealed the deal. On May first, I’ll be bringing your coffee to my very first Billionaire’s Potluck.”
It was another elaborate setup, of course, another play by a young master player. I was grateful for the time spent with my daughter. Given the events of the past two weeks, however, I was now anxious to question Eric privately.
I tried to enjoy our coffee and dessert, but it wasn’t easy.
I couldn’t stop thinking of Madame and her worry for her old friend; of Nate, the earnest professor, sitting in jail; and of my own Mike Quinn with his dire warning.
More than ever, I needed to know . . .
Is Eric Thorner, the master strategist, also a mastermind of murder?
F
ifty
T
HE
night had been a grand success and Eric was jubilant. After dropping Joy off at her apartment, Eric told his driver to take us “home,” which turned out to be a charming town house on the Left Bank.
Eric’s butler in Paris, an older man named Hervé, showed me to my room and quickly disappeared. My small suitcase was on the floor, my things unpacked.
I was about to change when I heard a light knocking at the door.
“Care for a nightcap?”
It was Eric, still in his formalwear. He shrugged, smiling like a schoolboy. “I’m still so juiced. I don’t think I can sleep.”
“It was exciting, wasn’t it?”
“It was. Come on, let’s talk in my room—”
“I would like to speak with you, Eric, but not in your bedroom—”
“Clare, it’s a suite with a sitting area. Come . . .”
Now was my chance to question this man, really question him. With the amount of alcohol he’d consumed, I was fairly sure he wouldn’t be able to lie without giving himself away, so I followed Eric down the hall.
True to his word, he fixed me a drink in a comfortable sitting area. If there was a bed, it was beyond one of the three closed doors off this space, which put me at ease.
A fire crackled in the hearth and Eric handed me a snifter of an obscenely delicious Armagnac. I had no doubt the vintage was rare and the price equally obscene.
“To the Billionaire Potluck,” I said, tapping my glass to his.
“Where I’ll debut the most expensive app ever marketed.” Grinning, Eric set his snifter aside and leaned close. “I’ll bet you never heard of the
I Am Rich
app?”
“You’d win that bet.”
“It’s real, Clare, or it was. The app cost a thousand bucks to download, but had no function at all. Eight people bought it. Some of them complained and it was taken off the market. The whole thing was crazy, but it got me thinking.”
“About scamming people?”
“About an exclusive app for the superrich. A portal to purchase certain high end products that can’t be put on the mass market because of their limited availability. My blue roses. THORN smartphones. The Billionaire Blend—”
“Advertising!” I cried. “That’s why you wanted into the potluck.”
He nodded. “The billionaire app is not something that can be sold in a magazine ad. But the potluck will involve importers, purveyors of specialty foods, vintners, people who will want to be included in the app. Billionaires who own hotels, casinos, and restaurants will hear about the app via that potluck dinner and they’ll want it for themselves, for their managers, their chefs, and sommeliers. Once word gets out, the app becomes a Veblen good—the more expensive and exclusive it is, the more the wealthy and influential will covet it.”
And the more Eric will profit. From the sale of the app, and from a small percentage of cash he will garner from each transaction.
“You made your fortune in mobile gaming. Are you going to give that up?”
“Game apps will have their day, become passé, and pass away,” Eric replied “I want to grow something more permanent, create something my father would have understood and been proud of.”
“You never speak about your parents.”
“My dad was a sweet man. A big Santa Claus to his employees.”
“He owned a chain of regional restaurants, right?”
“Big Billy’s All-Nite Brunch. Twenty-four locations in the Midwest. The menu was comfort food—mac and cheese, meatloaf, roast chicken, spaghetti, twenty-four-hour breakfast.” Eric drained his snifter. “Dad just wanted to make people happy.”
I knew that Eric sold his father’s regional restaurant chain for seed money to launch THORN, Inc. Now I wondered if that end to his family’s legacy haunted him. Or was it something else? Guilt, perhaps . . .
“Before he was arrested, Nate Sumner told me the story of Eva’s bullying, and her death—”
“Did Nate tell you how I changed the game after that poor girl’s suicide? How I gave a million dollars to a nonprofit anti-bullying group?”
“He didn’t.”
“Of course not.” Eric rose and began to pace. “I was devastated, Clare. It was like an ugly nightmare flashback . . .”
“Flashback?”
“With all my physical problems, I was bullied, too.”
“You?”
“I suffered from Scheuermann’s kyphosis. The older I got, the more twisted my spine became. The other kids called me Humpty-Dumpty because they were too ignorant to call me Quasimodo. The way my peers saw it, I was always falling off the wall and being put back together in the operating room. Even my sister joined the chorus.”
“And your parents?”
“Dad did all he could. Spent a fortune on doctors—”
“And your mother?”
“When mother was sober, she looked at me like I was a freak. When she was drunk, she didn’t see me at all. I hated it, Clare.”
“Did you hate Nate Sumner for reminding you?”
Eric snorted. “Nate? No way. That poor old man was framed.”
I blinked, astonished by his answer. “I agree. But who framed him?”
Eric poured another drink. “From that doubtful look on your face, you probably suspect me.”
“You have to admit, it’s ingenious. Framing Nate slows down Solar Flare, an organization that cost you money last year because of their protest against those
Pigeon Droppings
Tshirts. It also gets rid of Charley, who may have found out things you didn’t want her to know . . .”
“Believe me, Clare, I had nothing to do with any of that. And I can prove to you that I didn’t frame Nate in one sentence.”
“Go for it.”
“I’m paying my company’s law firm to defend him.”
F
ifty-one
E
RIC
informed me that a few hours ago, a judge in New York City denied Nate Sumner bail. The old professor was stuck in Rikers, but Eric’s lawyers were already crafting an appeal.
“If Nate is innocent, who’s guilty in your eyes?” I asked.
“You forget, Clare. My car was supposed to be parked at the server farm when the bomb went off, not in front of your coffeehouse. My servers were the target. Grayson Braddock wanted to shut them down. I don’t think he intended to kill Charley, but that’s how it turned out.”
“You don’t think Braddock set the bomb himself, do you?”
“He was an Outback punk once upon a time, so I wouldn’t put it past him. But Braddock is smarter now, so he no doubt hired someone.”
“Someone who knew how easy it would be to frame Nate? Someone who had access to your schedule and could get into your car without suspicion?”
Eric frowned. “Yes. Which means Occam’s Razor would be the wrong approach to take in this case.”
“Run that by me again.”
“Occam’s Razor dictates that when you hear hoofbeats behind you, you should think horses, not zebras. But what if you’re on the African veldt?”
“I get it. You’re saying the police went for the obvious suspect when they grabbed Nate, because they thought they had physical evidence and a motive—”
“But I believe we’re in Africa, Clare. The hoofbeats we hear are not horses, they’re zebras. And the guilty party has a first name that’s muddled those black-and-white stripes—
Gray
Braddock. I’m not going to let him get away with murder.”
“Gray didn’t do it without help. It looks like an inside job.”
Eric shook his head. “The officers of my company are the only people with that kind of access. They’ve been with me from our start-up days. They’re like family and I trust them.”
“Garth Hendricks wasn’t around when you were a start-up. How much do you trust the Metis Man?”
“Garth is my mentor, Clare. He became my mentor before we ever met.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My life changed when I read his book. I used his principles to grow my company. I wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for Garth’s teachings.”
“That must be some book. What’s the title?”
“
Puncturing the Donut: Thinking Outside the Corporate Pastry Box
.”
I laughed. “Garth Hendricks used to be a baker?”
“No, and that’s not funny. The title is a business metaphor. Garth compares corporate cultures by postulating how different organizations might approach the problem of putting holes in donuts.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. Garth showed how one company might create the hole before baking. Another company might cut a hole after frying, while a third company might use donut holes to make another product. The problem comes when a corporation builds their philosophy around manufacturing the hole—which, if you think about it, is the creation of nothing.”
“But a very important nothing,” I interjected. “You can’t have a donut without the hole.”
“Now you’re thinking like Garth Hendricks.”
I frowned. “I thought I was making a joke.”
“Garth’s philosophy is no joke,” Eric shot back. “I used his basic tenets to make
Pigeon Droppings
a hit.”
“When Braddock cornered me at the Source Club, he said you would never share that secret with me.”
“’Why not? I have nothing to hide.”
“Then tell me, Eric.”
“In his book, Garth said that performance is nothing without performance art, and he was right. I launched THORN, Inc., with my college friends, and for a solid year we did the best work we’d ever done to make the best mobile game ever. We went on sale the same day as eleven hundred other apps, just one of the crowd. Sales were modest but steady, but it couldn’t sustain our company for long. I soon realized the performance was over. Now it was time
for
performance art
.”
Eric poured his third Armagnac and rubbed his stiff neck.
“Back in those days, I ate a lot of meals at Dimmy’s, an all-night diner in Bel Air. So did Judd Rogan, the director who made all those raunchy teen comedies ten years ago . . .”
I shrugged and shook my head.
“Anyway, I chatted up the waitress, found out Rogan called ahead to reserve the corner booth. Svetlana agreed to call me whenever that happened, and the stage was set.”
“Stage?”
“When Judd Rogan showed up that night, the tables around his were filled with people playing
Pigeon Droppings
on their phones.”
“Who were these people?”
“My staff. Me. Our friends. Even family. Once we hired actors. We put on that show three times before Rogan noticed. In the middle of the fourth act, he cornered Minnow, my chief programmer, and asked her what she was playing.”
Eric paused. “Two days later, Rogan’s agent called to ask if the director could put my app in his next movie.
Fake ID
was a huge hit for Judd Rogan, and because of the exposure,
Pigeon Droppings
became the fastest-selling app in mobile gaming history. All it took was a little street theater . . .”
“Street theater? More like a sting, It was trickery. You made Judd Rogan think he was buying into the hottest game app ever—”
“And he did, ultimately. No harm, no foul, as Garth would say.”
Garth again.
It was beginning to sound like the Metis Man was a bad influence.
“How long ago did you hire the Metis Man?”
“I know what you’re thinking, Clare, but I trust Garth. Look elsewhere.”
Eric’s tone made me think that he had someone else in mind, but before I could press him, he groaned.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s been a long day and my pain meds are winding down.”
“I’m not surprised. You’ve been pacing since you started telling me your story.”
“My shoulder is killing me and I sent my butler to bed. Could you help me off with this damn jacket?”
He turned and led me through a door, into a bedroom nearly as large as the sitting area. Eric lifted his arms while I unbuttoned the jacket and slipped it off, to reveal a crisp white linen shirt.
As I hung the jacket, I spied a blue velvet gift box on Eric’s nightstand.
“Oops. You weren’t supposed to see that until tomorrow. Might as well open it now.”
“You have to stop giving me gifts—”
“It’s not a gift. It’s test marketing. I expect a report.”
Inside I found a pair of black gloves. The Italian leather was supple, and they were my size. “They’re lovely, and I thank you. But who test markets a pair of gloves?”
“You’re the first. That’s the only pair in existence right now.”
“It’s more than a pair of gloves, then?”
“It’s a phone, Clare. Put on the left glove, place your thumb on your ear and speak into the little finger. Miss Phone will answer. It’s already programmed and ready to use.”
While he spoke, Eric moved stiffly to the dresser and popped a few pills, chasing them with the last of his Armagnac.
“Could you please help me with this shirt? I can’t bend my arm enough to work the buttons.”
That was obvious, so I took over.
Eric moved slowly as I pulled his arms free. Bare chested, I could see the bandages were gone, but an ugly scar remained.
I was about to back away when Eric suddenly shifted into high gear. Before I could stop him, he crushed me in his arms and kissed me.
“No, no, no . . . Eric, this can’t happen . . .” I pushed until he released me, stepped back, and wiped my smeared lipstick with the back of my hand.
“You and I . . . we’re
meant
to be together.”
“Eric,” I said evenly. “You know I love another man—”
“But I love you, Clare!”
“No, you don’t—”
“I do, and it makes perfect sense. Garth says two things cause people to fall in love—intensity or propinquity. I fell for you when you looked into my eyes after that bomb went off and promised to take care of me. That was
intensity
—”
“More like infatuation, a passing fancy. You’ve had too much to drink tonight, Eric, that’s all.”
He seemed unsteady now that the painkillers were catching up to the Armagnac. Instead of arguing with me this time, he just shrugged, his energy drained.
I swung into Mother Hen mode, pulling down the blankets and rolling him onto the bed, tugging off his shoes and socks. Eric didn’t fight me, and he didn’t get fresh—though I did draw the line at his request to help him off with his pants!
When he was snugly tucked, I grabbed the gloves and moved to the door. “Get some rest, I’ll see you in the morning.”
“For me it was intensity, Clare. For you it will be propinquity . . .”
I shook my head.
“We just need to spend more time together, you’ll see!” he called before I left his room, went to mine, and locked the door behind me.
F
ifty-two
B
ACK
in my room, I tried to call Mike Quinn—using my THORN phone, not the gloves, which I shoved into my coat pocket. Unfortunately Miss Phone gave me major attitude.
“Call cannot be completed as dialed,” the digital vixen declared. “Please try again later . . .”
Funny how Matt Allegro had no trouble getting through five minutes later. The connection was lousy, but there was a good reason. Matt was calling on a satellite phone from Africa.
“I talked to Eric this afternoon,” he said. “He’s planning to fly you to Saint-Tropez. No doubt his final destination is a topless beach. Well, forget it, Clare. At this time of year it’s cold and rainy. The weather’s much warmer here in Uganda.”
“Uganda!”
“You sold me on helping coffee farmers. Time to deliver. Get Eric down here.”
“How?!”
“Easy. He’ll go wherever you go, and I plan to take him places baby billionaires never go. This will not be ‘glamping.’ I’ll e-mail you a list of things you should bring, and I’ll tell you right now don’t skimp on the aspirin, Pepto-Bismol, insect repellent—with DEET—and mosquito netting. Call me when you touch down in Tororo.”
*
M
ATT
had no trouble finding us at Tororo Airport—there was only one runway, and it was unpaved.
The town was unimpressive, too, resembling a suburban strip mall surrounded by dirt roads instead of concrete. Though areas of the Tororo District boasted panoramic views of Uganda’s Mount Elgon, it took us four grueling hours to drive to the coffee growing region in the foothills.
During the long, bumpy ride, Matt told Eric that 90 percent of Uganda’s coffee output was Robusta, easy to cultivate, but not prized due to its high acidity and bitterness.
“The small amount of Arabica produced is not held in high regard, either,” Matt explained. “Farming standards are poor, and the beans aren’t always picked at the optimum time, so the end product contains rotten cherries and underdeveloped beans. But what’s really hurting quality and production is dry processing.”
Matt told Eric that sun drying beans was labor intensive, because the beans have to be raked constantly, or they will develop molds that give the finished cup a metallic taste. Water processing was more efficient, but more expensive, too, requiring an investment the impoverished farmers didn’t have.
The obvious question occurred to Eric. “If Ugandan coffees are unspectacular, why are we here?”
“Because on one small family farm in the foothills, something remarkable happened.”
We finally arrived at a yellow wooden house clinging to the side of a hill, where Matt introduced us to the family matriarch. A cheerful woman with deep wrinkles, she served us roasted ground nuts—good old-fashioned peanuts, an important source of protein in this part of the world—along with boil-brewed cups of pan-roasted coffee.
Eric smacked his lips. “This coffee tastes like vanilla! Is it flavored?”
“Bite your tongue,” my ex replied.
Matt explained that vanilla beans were Uganda’s second biggest cash crop, and there were vanilla fields in the hills around us. Matt wasn’t sure if it was cross-pollination or absorption of chemical properties through the roots, but the result of their proximity was a coffee with pronounced and pleasing vanilla notes.
After a lunch of
ebinyebwa
(a savory peanut and chicken stew that’s native to the region), we toured the coffee fields and viewed the crude wooden drying platform. An ancient woman supervised a dozen children of various ages, who used long wooden poles to rake the coffee cherries drying in the sun.
“Where are all the men?” Eric asked.
“Most have jobs in the city,” Matt replied. “Needless to say, they can’t commute from Tororo so they’re only home a few days each month. Their absence doesn’t impact coffee production. In Uganda women and children do the farming.”
“But these kids should be in school.”
“There’s a school down in the valley. But like I said, dry processing is labor intensive so they’re needed here.”
Eric nodded. “I propose we buy this season’s harvest—the entire lot—at a fair market price. On top of that, I’ll throw in a washing station. That way these kids can get an education.”
“I’ll make the deal,” said Matt, hiding his delight.
I caught Matt’s eye and smiled.
Good job, Allegro . . .
*
I
’D
been seat hopping during the entire flight to Thailand, trying to avoid sitting beside Eric, who couldn’t keep his hands off me, much to Matt’s amusement.
Eric continued the chase for hours, until he finally got bored and talked shop again. “What do you know about that coffee they mentioned in the movie
Bucket List
? Cat poop coffee, they called it.”
“You’re referring to Kopi Luwak,” Matt said, frowning. “And it’s an Asian palm civet, not a cat.”
“You don’t sound impressed.”
“I don’t want to pooh-pooh the whole Kopi Luwak phenomena, but there’s a lot of fraud out there,” Matt said. “Twenty years ago it was bogus Jamaican Blue Mountain and Kona. Today it’s phony Kopi Luwak.”
Matt explained that traditional methods were simple. Civets ate the largest, choicest coffee cherries for their juicy pulp. The bean went through the animal’s digestive tract, where it fermented. Enzymes seeped into the beans, making the coffee milder, smoother, less acidic. The civets’ excrement was then collected, the beans retrieved and roasted.
Bad changes came after Kopi Luwak was “discovered” in the 1980s, when old methods were replaced by intensive farming. Today, civets are fed a diet of coffee cherries and not much else, so they’re far less discriminating and eat all the fruit, not just the choice ones. The natural selection process that occurred in the wild is bypassed, and so is quality.
“On top of that, fifty times more Kopi Luwak is sold than is actually
produced
, so most of the stuff available commercially is counterfeit,” Matt concluded. “But if you’re still interested in a not-so-crappy crap coffee, I say we go bigger. Much, much bigger.”
F
ifty-three
T
WELVE
hours later we arrived at an elephant refuge in the lush green hills of Northern Thailand. The sun blazed hot, but a jasmine-laced breeze off a nearby creek cooled the air.
Around a wicker table under a tall shade tree, we cupped Black Ivory while two dozen Thai elephants munched coffee cherries on the other side of a flimsy wooden fence.
“This stuff is preternatural,” Eric gushed. “The smoothest coffee I ever drank. It’s earthy, yet floral. And there are flavor notes I’ve never tasted . . .”
Matt informed us that the cup we’d just consumed would cost fifty U.S. dollars, and the roasted beans were priced at over five hundred dollars a pound.
“At the moment, Black Ivory’s only available in high-priced resorts in Thailand, the Maldives, and in Abu Dhabi.”
Cultivated on the same principles as Kopi Luwak, Black Ivory was considered to be superior because the beans passed through the elephant’s digestive system at a slower rate, fermenting up to seventy hours. The enzymes broke down the coffee protein, making the finished cup sweeter and less acidic. Other ingredients in the elephant’s stomach added interesting and unique flavor notes.
Black Ivory was prohibitively expensive because it took seventy-two pounds of raw coffee cherries to recover just
two
pounds of intact, digested beans. But we all agreed the final result was worth it.
“But the best part of all is that these elephants are all rescue animals,” Matt said. “Some of the profit from the sale of Black Ivory is used to protect at-risk elephants in captivity and in the wild. They’d love to expand this herd, save more at-risk elephants, and double the production capacity, but right now funds are scarce.”
“Do they take donations?” Eric asked. “I’d sure love to help . . .”
*
O
UR
next trip took us from the elephant refuge to Thailand’s Golden Triangle, where poppies were grown to make opium. In that area notorious for narco-trafficking and gang wars, a new kind of coffee trade—and a new kind of coffee
trader
—were flourishing.
Matt brought us to a tribe in the mountains who had taken complete control of their coffee business. They cultivated the fields, reaped the harvest, accepted orders by satellite phone or over the Internet. They roasted the coffee in a small facility on top of the mountain where it was picked, sealed the finished beans in valve-bags, and shipped them all over Asia.
It was the exact opposite of conditions in Uganda, where every step in the coffee production process was fraught with difficulties, and the middleman took most of the profit.
“The difference is infrastructure,” Matt said. “Uganda’s is primitive, here it’s practically state-of-the-art. As communication grids improve across the world’s coffee belt, this operation in Thailand could become the model for twenty-first-century coffee production.”
*
A
FTER
stops in Jakarta and Hawaii, we moved to Central America, where we sampled cups from the
Cinturón de Oro
, the “Golden Belt” of El Salvador’s coffee growing industry. There we discovered a remarkable bean growing on the slopes of the Ilamatepec volcano.
The Caribbean was next, with short stays in Haiti, and bordering Jamaica. Our final stop in this region was Costa Gravas.
Once racked by political strife that halted the nation’s coffee production, the island country was now at peace, but still backward, even by the region’s low standards.
Primitive or not, Costa Gravas was also one of the most beautiful islands in the blue-watered Caribbean. Eric was immediately smitten by this “paradise.”
After a long hike, we stood on a promontory overlooking the ocean. Eric managed to slip his arm around my shoulders while I concentrated on the view.
“A man could set up an amazing life here, away from it all . . . if he had someone to share it with . . .”
Matt couldn’t hide his “I told you so” grin.
I shrugged off Eric’s arm and faced him. “This is hardly paradise. There’s no Internet, and I doubt the average citizen ever saw a personal computer or a smartphone.”
“It wouldn’t take much to fix that,” Matt added. “Thanks to satellite communications, Costa Gravas has cell phone access. Adding an Internet component shouldn’t be too hard, and it would also be a necessary step before resuming the coffee trade.”
I discovered how well the phones worked when Tucker interrupted me with a call.
“Hate to ruin your vacation, but preparations for this Appland party are getting brutal. You
do
remember we’re scheduled to cater it?”
“Of course, Tuck. How can I help?”
“First of all, do you want guests to dip the Flourless Peanut Butter Cookies in your homemade Chocolate
Reese’s Nutella, or your Almond Joy Nutella?”
“Both.”
Tuck sighed. “And what in the whole wide world are Nuts on Horseback?”
“It’s my own invention. You’ve heard of Angels on Horseback, right? It’s just oysters wrapped in bacon. Devils on Horseback replaces the oysters with dried fruit. Well, for Nuts on Horseback we’re going to make bite-sized pieces of butternut squash, wrap them in bacon, and roast them with maple syrup.”
“Oh, yum! Very tasty! Last question now . . . What in the world is Paleo Pizza?”
“No grains. It has a crust made of cauliflower.”
“I don’t live on that planet, CC. You better get back here and help us with this stuff.”
I silently concurred. I wanted to attend that party because it was my best chance to get to know—and possibly interrogate—some of the employees in Eric’s mobile gaming division.
“Tour’s over,” I announced when I hung up. “I have to get back to NYC.”
Matt protested. “But what about South America?”
“We’ll do it later,” Eric replied. “I have business in Silicon Valley this week.”
Eric shook Matt’s hand. “It was a great coffee tour, Allegro, but digital duty calls.”
F
ifty-five
T
HE
East Coast headquarters of THORN, Inc., was officially open for business.
While Eric’s staff oriented themselves to the new digs, my people prepared treats in the company kitchen for the opening-day celebration. Invited guests would arrive around noon, when my baristas were scheduled to roll out the snacks.
I was responsible for catering, and the recipes were my own. But there was more to do than serve up goodies. Tuck would be hosting an espresso-making demo, while Esther would give lessons on how to create latte art.
I was on the hook for a dessert performance, and was all set to fry up fresh, hot batches of my nonna’s Italian donuts (as a little tribute to Eric, and his love of the Metis Man’s “out of the pastry box” philosophy). Despite my schedule, I refused to allow work to interfere with my
unofficial
duties.
I intended to finish what the late Charley Polaski had started. I would continue her investigation into Bianca Hyde’s death and uncover the identity of Eric’s car bomber—hopefully
without
ending up in the morgue.
Grayson Braddock had the strongest motive for setting the car bomb and framing Nate—but billionaires like Braddock were big-picture men. They wouldn’t purchase their own groceries or drive their own cars, let alone plant an explosive device to blow a competitor sky-high.
Braddock would have used an accomplice, most likely a mole inside THORN, Inc., to provide inside information about Eric’s whereabouts, to access restricted areas like the server farm, and to plant the bomb.
So how does a coffeehouse manager uncover a corporate spy turned assassin?
Okay, that’s one I haven’t figured out yet.
By the time I arrived at Eric’s shiny new office building, housed in what was once an old toy factory, the sidewalk was crowded by gawkers watching animated light sculptures of flying dragons projected onto the company’s twelve-story glass façade.
With the exception of THORN’s high-tech display, this quiet, tree-lined Manhattan neighborhood of modest, low-rise structures (once tenement buildings and small factories) looked nothing like what it had become—part of the second largest technological hub in the world, a little Silicon Alley to California’s legendary Silicon Valley.
Google, Mashable, and Bluewolf, Inc., all had offices here in Chelsea, and Tumblr was just down the block. These companies were attracted by the district’s charm, and the availability of old buildings with high ceilings and plenty of natural light.
Ironically, during the twentieth century, this little area had been the center of America’s toy industry—and in my view, nothing had changed much in the twenty-first. Apps, e-games, digital devices, and social media sites were the toys of our time.
I pushed through the gawking crowd, then THORN, Inc.’s glass doors. After clearing security, I noticed Esther in front of the company logo.
“Hi, boss. Isn’t this a cool place?”
“How’s it going so far?”
She shrugged. “Everything’s copacetic inside the castle—”
“Castle?”
“You’ll see. Oh, and there’s a woman with Ashleigh Banfield glasses and a T-shirt looking for you.”
I scanned the people around us. “
All
of these women are wearing horn-rims and tees. How will I recognize her?”
“This one is Eric’s sister.”
I wondered if there was another Thorner sister, because Esther’s description didn’t come close to matching the evil glamour queen I’d argued with at the Source Club. Either way, it didn’t matter. Since Eden was near the top of my to-be-interviewed list, I headed upstairs.
Stepping off the escalator, my jaw dropped. The entire second-floor gallery was taken up by a full-sized replica of a medieval castle topped by a sawtooth battlement.
I recognized Eric’s sister as she approached me through the arched portcullis.
Esther’s description had been on target. Eden Thorner had swapped her contacts and slinky dress for chunky glasses, snug denims, and a form-fitting white tee emblazoned with the word
Milady
. She offered me her hand, and a (surprisingly) welcoming smile.
“It’s nice to have a second chance to meet you, Ms. Cosi. Please allow me to apologize for our first encounter—”
“No need to apologize.”
“Yes, there
is
, Ms. Cosi. You have to understand, I was frantic with worry that night. First someone tried to murder my kid brother, and then he decides to check himself out of the hospital
against
his doctors’ orders.” She shook her head. “When I saw him dining at the Source Club, I thought he’d risked his health, possibly his life, simply to indulge another one of his reckless infatuations.”
“You thought I was some kind of gold digger?”
“Yes, frankly. I’d never seen you before, and I had no idea Eric had important business with you. I feel terrible. I behaved like a monster, Clare, because I thought
you
were a monster.”
“Let’s forget the whole incident and start over, okay?” I smiled (guardedly). I still wasn’t sure if this woman was friend or foe—to me, anyway. She seemed protective of her brother, so I doubted very much she was helping Grayson Braddock sabotage him . . .
Or was she? Could Eden have a motive to double-cross her brother? How forthcoming would she be if directly questioned?
I cleared my throat to find out: “I take it Eric’s had some problems with his past . . . infatuations?”
“My brother’s a genius in some things, but not all things.”
“‘All things’ being women?”
Bianca Hyde came to mind, but I thought it best not to mention her—yet.
“It’s understandable, my brother’s naiveté, given what he went through growing up. While his peers were attending school, learning to drive, and going out on dates, Eric was stuck in hospitals and rehab facilities.”
“It must have been difficult for him.”
“His computer was his only friend. I guess it paid off, but Eric can be gullible where women are concerned.”
“Where is Eric, anyway?”
“He flew back to the Silicon Valley offices. Eric was away so long he has to play catch-up.”
“Oh, too bad.”
Okay, I was fibbing
. I was incredibly relieved Eric wasn’t going to be here. I wanted to question his people without the boss hovering. (I also hoped someone here could figure out how to
unblock
Mike Quinn’s calls on my THORN phone!)
“I didn’t know this was going to be a theme party,” I said, still studying Eden. “I do love the décor.”
“We’re rolling out a sword and sorcery game app in June, so we decided that should be the theme. Just be thankful it isn’t
Pigeon Droppings
.”
Oh, Lord, what a thought.
“My Italian grandmother thought bird droppings were lucky,” I confessed, “but I’d hate for anyone to wonder if that dollop of white in their espresso macchiato was something other than steamed milk.”
We both had a laugh.
“Pardon me, Milady.”
The youth interrupting us was tall enough to be a center on the Knicks basketball team. Lean and gangly, he self-consciously swiped at straight black bangs, then tugged at an oversized black tee with
Slayer
spelled out in fiery letters.
“It’s party time, boss. Everyone’s waiting for the hostess.”
“Tell them I’ll be right there, Darren.”
“Yes, Milady.” Darren bowed deeply before departing. “Your wish is my command.”
“‘Milady,’ huh? That’s an interesting title.”
“I know, it’s a little childish. Darren’s the one who gave it to me. He has a romantic streak—and he’s obsessed with sword and sorcery games.” She shrugged. “You have to admit, it’s more impressive than ‘Senior Projects Manager.’ And ‘House Mother’ just sounds pathetic.”
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Let’s party!” an amplified voice proclaimed.
“That’s my cue, Ms. Cosi. I’d better go.”
“Can we speak again after the party?” I asked “I may need help with a project.”
“Of course, Ms. Cosi,” Eden replied. “Anything I can do to help.”
“Please, call me Clare.”
“Only if you call me Eden—
and
give me first dibs on those freshly made Italian donuts on your menu.”
I watched Eden go, realizing that Eric had been right about one thing: I did find her likeable.
