Latte Trouble

Twenty-Five

“Drink this.”

“What is it?”

“Water.”

Still holding the cool cloth over my eyes and forehead, I blindly accepted the tall glass from Matt. “Where’s the coffee?”

“It’s coming. For now, your body needs water. Drink it down, Clare. Trust me, I’ve had enough hangovers to know what helps.”

On this subject, I did implicitly trust my globetrotting ex-husband, who seemed to personify the lyric from the old hit song “One Night in Bangkok,” which, paraphrased, essentially says, all countries look the same with your head in a toilet bowl.

I myself had already worshipped the porcelain god in the Inferno, right after I discovered my barely adult daughter about to shove Bolivian marching powder up one delicate nostril.

The scene after that was a fairly horrific blur—I was about to take Joy by her wrist and drag her out of that club, but I hadn’t needed to do anything nearly that dramatic. She was so alarmed at seeing her mother inebriated to the point of passing out, she’d helped me to the door and into a cab. I pulled her in with me, refusing to let her out of my sight, then insisted she stay the night with me in the duplex.

When we got upstairs, we found Matt already home—to my stunned surprise. I would have bet the farm he’d been planning to spend the night in Breanne’s bed. But there he was, ready to take care of us both.

He’d given up his own room when he realized Joy was spending the night. After digging out one of his T-shirts to sleep in, he tucked me into the master bedroom’s four-poster. I was too shaky to ask where he was going to sleep—and once again assumed he had some other woman’s bed in mind anyway.

“Matt, you have to talk to Joy,” I said, still staring at the inside of my hangover cloth. “Straight talk.”

“I will, Clare. First thing in the morning. Let’s all just get some rest tonight.”

I didn’t have it in me to argue. Just then, I heard a delicate tinkling, like a toy piano playing my favorite song from The Sound of Music.

“My cell,” I moaned. “Matt, I’m sorry, but can you help me out again?”

“Sure.” He followed the electronic rendition of “Edelweiss” to the chair where I’d thrown my clutch. Fishing inside, he found my phone and brought it to me.

“Thanks,” I said, flipping it open. “Hello?”

“Clare? It’s Mike. You left a message to call. I hope it’s not too late.”

“No. It’s fine. Just a minute.” I sat up, the cloth falling from my eyes. Matt stared. I met his gaze with a pleading look. “Coffee?” I asked with wide-eyed innocence.

“Be right back,” he said. Then he turned and left the room—very slowly. When he was finally out of eavesdropping range, I spoke into the phone again.

“Mike, Fen kidnapped me tonight.”

I hadn’t wanted Matt to hear that—he was already pissed at me for the Nancy Drew act. If he found out what it resulted in, I knew he’d hit the ceiling, which is exactly what Quinn was doing.

“What! Clare, what the hell happened? Where are you now? Are you all right? Do you want me to send a patrol car?”

“I’m fine. I’m home. It’s okay now. But earlier, he had two thugs pick me up in a limo and take me against my will to this private club in the old Meatpacking District; it’s called the Inferno and it’s definitely mobbed up.”

I could hear Quinn’s frustrated sigh. “Yeah, I know about the place. So do the Feds. It’s not the only hot spot in the precinct but unless there’s obvious criminal activity, it’s out of my jurisdiction. Kidnapping, however, is another matter. Do you want to file formal charges? What happened down there, for god’s sake?”

“Fen said he heard I was asking a lot of questions and he wanted to talk to me—find out what I knew and pretty much intimidate me into staying out of his business. He slipped some grain alcohol into my wine glass, I assume to loosen my tongue.”

“What did you find out?”

“Not much I didn’t already guess. He denies having anything to do with Rena’s murder.”

“He’s got a solid alibi.”

“Well, check his nephew, Bryan Goldin. I think he’s the one who does the dirty work. Of course, Fen’s got the entire cast of The Sopranos on his payroll, too. But I did uncover something from his past. A woman he’d been sleeping with died under mysterious circumstances in Thailand in 1988. Mona Lisa Toratelli, Lottie Harmon’s sister.”

“Got it. I’ll see what I can find out from Interpol.”

“Great.”

“Clare? You’re sure you’re all right?”

“I’ll be better when Tucker is out of jail and Rena’s killer is arrested.”

“Yeah…listen, I didn’t get anything from Fen, other than a solid alibi, but your blackmail information was a big help with Starkey and Hut. Tad came clean with it and they’re going to help me on the Garcia murder. Even they admit the two poisonings are likely linked and there might be another perp involved.”

“Not another perp,” I insisted. “An altogether different perp.”

“One step at a time, Detective Cosi.”

I smiled, actually picked up the slight teasing in Mike’s tone—no easy feat, considering the man usually maintained a poker voice to match his poker face. Half the time, reading Quinn was about as easy as reading a brick wall—a blank one, of course, one without a collection of overdressed babes covering it.

“Thanks for calling back, Mike.”

“Sure, Clare.”

I continued to hold the cell to my ear. A long silent moment passed. Neither of us, it seemed, had anything more to say—but neither of us wanted to sign off, either.

“Here you go, sweetheart, fresh coffee!” Matt had returned to the master bedroom with two steaming mugs.

“I have to go now,” I softly told Mike.

“Good night, Clare.”

“Good night.”

I closed the phone and accepted the mug. The warm, nutty fragrance of the dark roast was more than welcome and I drank it down with extreme satisfaction.

“God, I needed that.”

“You’ll need these too.”

Matt dropped two aspirins into my hand and I gulped them down, along with the rest of the water. Then back to the coffee. After a long silence, Matt sat down on the edge of the bed and folded his arms.

“You want to tell me what you told him?”

I squirmed. “Nothing to tell. Really. I just drank too much at the Trend party and then ran into a friend who took me to the Inferno, where I saw Joy.”

“Liar.”

“Oh, Matt. It’s close enough to the truth. Just let it go.”

“Clare, I’m warning you, don’t get in over your head with this detective game. It’s too dangerous.”

“Please, Matt. Let’s not argue.” I drained the coffee mug and was about to throw the cold cloth over my eyes again when the phone on the nightstand rang. I lunged for the receiver, miraculously snagging it before Matt.

“Hello?” I said.

“Clare, dear, I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, Madame.”

Matt’s eyebrows rose.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Madame in a conspiratorial tone, “about our case, you know?”

Oh, lord, I thought. Please don’t let Matt hear you say that. With my suspicious ex-husband continuing to stare, I carefully asked, “What’s on your mind?”

“Only this…do you think it’s possible Lottie herself is the culprit?”

“Lottie herself?” I hadn’t considered that possibility. “Why would you think that, Madame?”

“Because Lottie may have learned of Tad and Rena’s plan to sell their shares. And Rena would have trusted Lottie. She would have easily taken a poisoned latte from her and drunk it down.”

“True. But why would Lottie have poisoned herself?”

Matt frowned and glowered, finally hearing a phrase that confirmed I was discussing the case with his mother. I twisted away from his disapproving eyes.

“Well, my dear, I thought that through, too,” Madame replied. “It’s possible that Lottie found an accomplice to help her set the whole thing up—that she never intended to drink the poison but only to taste it and then accuse Tad and Rena of poisoning her, but, of course, Ricky Flatt and that poor Jeff Lugar drank down the poison instead. Lottie Harmon may have been trying to gain control of her own label by any means necessary.”

“It’s an interesting possibility, Madame…I can’t deny it.”

“Of course, I could be wrong, but I thought you should hear the theory.”

“Yes…well…” I looked up again to find Matt ready to blow. “I better get some rest now—and so should you. Big day tomorrow!”

“Oh, yes, the runway show. I’ll see you there, my dear. Sweet dreams!”

Bryan Goldin had wished me the same, as I recalled, but I doubted very much I’d have them. I hung up the phone and collapsed into the pile of bed pillows, smacking the cold cloth back over my eyes before Matt could grill me.

“Clare.”

“Don’t, Matt. Don’t.”

“Fine. Let’s go to bed then.”

Before I could ask what he meant by “let’s,” the light was clicking off and my ex-husband was climbing in beside me under the bedcovers.

Oh, god, no, I thought, but was too exhausted to protest. I simply turned on my side, away from the father of my child. A moment later, I felt Matt’s muscular arm curling around me and pulling me possessively against him.

I knew it was wrong, that I should resist. But the familiar feel of his strong body tucked around me again was like that cup of java he’d brought me, warm and reassuring, and reminiscent of those days during our marriage when we’d been happy together, young and undamaged, hopeful and optimistic.

With a sigh I relaxed into him and let dreams descend.