Latte Trouble

Twenty

Madame and I were both so intimidated by the quiet, ordered oppressiveness of Rikers Island that I don’t think we dared breathe normally until we’d crossed the bridge back over the East River and merged with the normal flow of traffic on the Grand Central Parkway.

For once, I felt happy to be stuck in the noisy chaos of pre-rush hour and I gazed out the window, watching an airplane wing its way over Rikers before making a banking approach to one of LaGuardia’s runways. I wondered how it would feel to be trapped inside that prison and hear—hour after hour, day in and day out—the whine of airplanes filled with happy, free people going about their lives just over your head.

“Where would you like to go, Mrs. Dubois?” asked Mr. Raj.

Madame offered him a blank stare. “Very good question.”

I cursed. “I’m so stupid. I should have asked Tucker where Jeff Lugar is being treated. That’s the kind of information that’s difficult to pry out of hospital administrators.”

Madame leaned forward. “Just make it Manhattan, for now,” she told Mr. Raj, who nodded and continued heading for the Queensboro Bridge.

“Have you a clue where he is, Clare?” Madame asked.

“I believe at least one ambulance came from St. Vincent’s,” I said.

Madame nodded. “That’s a start, my dear.” She fumbled in her tiny purse until she located her cell. “Now relax while I make a few inquiries.”

Madame dialed her cell, then spoke. “Dr. McTavish, please. It’s Mrs. Dubois calling.”

The good doctor immediately took the call. No surprise, since Madame had been seeing the man off and on for quite some time now. Well over seventy, Dr. McTavish bore a passing resemblance to Sean Connery. Like the actor who played 007, the esteemed oncologist from St. Vincent’s cut an imposing figure even at his advanced age. Unlike Mr. Connery, however, Dr. McTavish had retained most of his iron gray hair.

Madame murmured something sweet to the doctor and the years seemed to melt away from her face as she listened to his response. A few minutes later, she was closing the cell phone and declaring, “It pays to have connections within the healthcare community.”

I would have barked, “Spill,” but because this was Madame, I politely asked, “What did you discover?”

Madame’s eyes brightened—clearly all this detective stuff was up her proverbially dark alley. “Mr. Jeffrey Lugar was brought to St. Vincent’s for triage the night of the incident. After he was diagnosed with cyanide poisoning and his condition had been stabilized, he was transferred to the poison treatment center at Bellevue Hospital for long-term care.”

Madame leaned over the front seat, touched Mr. Raj’s arm. “We’d like to go to Bellevue Hospital. That’s on—”

“First Avenue at Twenty-seventh Street. I am quite familiar with the institution, Mrs. Dubois,” he replied with a smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Raj.”

Madame faced me. “I do hope we can help poor Tucker. He must feel so alone, abandoned, and isolated.”

“He knows we’re trying to help, that he’s not completely alone,” I replied.

Madame nodded. “Loneliness is a terrible thing. Perhaps the most terrible thing. I could face poverty, illness, even death with courage. But not loneliness and isolation…I need people in my life, Clare.”

“Is that why you received Lottie Harmon so graciously when she returned to New York?”

“That’s one reason, of course. But in the past I’d always enjoyed Lottie’s company. Unfortunately, the years have changed her.”

“Changed her? How?”

“She’s just not the same carefree person anymore. Now she’s always on edge, you know?”

“What do you mean, on edge? Can you be more specific?”

“Well, let me see…” Madame pursed her lips in thought. “Her laugh, for instance. It’s so strained. It actually makes me uncomfortable, to tell you the truth. It never used to. And the sidelong glances filled with concern. She’s very fussy now…a worry wart. Yet she was once so lighthearted, so free and easy. She’s just not comfortable in her own skin anymore—it was a trait I’d always admired about her, but now it’s vanished.”

“I know what you mean. She’s too self-conscious. And her manner seems affected—not insincere, so much as strained. Like her laugh—too loud, too strident. Like she’s covering up for something.”

Madame nodded. “The poise she had. The self-assurance. It’s gone…But I suppose life can do that to a person.”

“What in life, do you think?”

Madame frowned. “A tragedy, perhaps…or a succession of romantic or other disappointments…” Madame’s voice faded. She seemed lost in thought. “I wish I could tell you more,” she finally concluded.

It was my turn to frown. “We’ve run out of clues, I think. Even this visit to Jeff Lugar—it’s an act of desperation. I couldn’t tell you what I hope to accomplish.”

“Well, don’t fret, my dear. It’s the decent thing to do,” she pointed out. “That man was poisoned in our coffeehouse. The least we could do is pay him a visit. If we don’t learn anything from Mr. Lugar, we’ll try other avenues.”

“Well, whatever happens, I want you to give the good Dr. McTavish my thanks.”

“He was happy to help. He wasn’t aware Jeff Lugar had even been at St. Vincent’s or he would have snooped on our behalf much sooner…He as much as said so.”

I decided to risk Madame’s disapproving stare and pry. “Now that we’ve mentioned him, how are things between the good doctor and yourself?”

It was, of course, a big mistake to bring up romance because Madame turned the question back to me so fast I actually felt a little dizzy—or maybe it was car sickness.

“We were speaking, I believe, about how Lottie Harmon has changed,” Madame said stiffly. “And since we are on the subject of change, what do you think of Matteo’s efforts to remake himself?”

“His newfound entrepreneurial spirit, you mean?”

“I mean the way he looks at you, Clare. Don’t you see how differently he treats you?”

“No, actually,” I replied, recalling the mysterious lipstick I found on his collar. I sighed, wondering how my relationship with my ex-husband had suddenly become the topic of conversation.

“You must admit that Matteo has taken a new interest in the business.”

I nodded, conceding to myself that he’d also taken a new interest in me, at least until something better—something named Breanne—showed up again.

Madame fixed her determined eyes on me. “And I believe he’s also shown a new deference and concern for his…family.”

I sighed. “I admit that Matteo has dropped hints that he’d like to…see more of Joy.”

“And you, my dear.”

“He may want that, but it’s not something I think is wise for either of us,” I replied diplomatically, hoping I’d led Madame to a soft landing.

“But you still love him,” Madame shot back—an assertion, not a question. I met Madame’s expectant gaze.

“Oh, Madame…you know love was never the problem.”