TWENTY-ONE

I leaned forward in the chair and inhaled the roasted aroma rising from the cup. It took all of my self-control not to guzzle the entire thing down in one burning gulp. Instead, I tried to relax and concentrate on the tasting.

Before the coffee cooled too much, I took that first welcome sip. After swallowing, I took a second, deeper drink.

“It’s quaffable,” I said, keeping the disappointment to myself. For a crafted blend in a luxury hotel, this brew was one-dimensional and very ordinary.

“Anything else?” Esther asked. “Did the aroma or taste seem the tiniest bit familiar?”

“Sorry,” I said, a little tired of apologizing.

I paused to take some fresh water while I waited for the coffee to cool and its flavor profile to change—and hopefully improve. Madame and Esther stood over me, watching with a mixture of hope and impatience.

I took that crucial next sip (okay, more of a gulp).

“Anything now?” Madame asked.

“It’s . . . caffeinated—”

Madame rolled her eyes. “Oh, bosh, Clare. Don’t hold back. Tell us what you really think.”

“I think that this coffee is unworthy of a luxurious venue like the Parkview Palace hotel. I’m detecting a blend of Sumatra and Colombian with buried notes of chocolate and walnut. But they botched the roasting and there is zero brightness for balance, no acidity at all, so it’s flat and dull. I would have added an African, Kenyan AA or Yirg, or more likely one of Matt’s specially sourced Central American beans for that missing top note. For a true premium blend, I might have included his Brazilian Ambrosia—and I would have roasted the single origins separately. This isn’t one of ours, is it? Please tell me I didn’t create this.”

“You didn’t. It’s not Village Blend coffee.” Madame set her own cup aside and studied me. “But your tasting displays advanced expertise. Do you know where you acquired it?”

“Of course! I worked for you the entire decade that Matt and I were married. You mentored me, taught me everything there is to know about coffee.”

“I taught you everything I knew, Clare. But since then, you have far surpassed me. And you proved it just now. I only tasted a flat, dull blend, but you pinpointed the precise problems.”

“Which means?”

“Which means there’s no doubt now: We can absolutely tap into your accumulated knowledge. We’ve found a crack in the block to your memories. We’re on the right track.”

“If you say so . . .”

“I do.” She smiled with satisfaction. “Matt wasn’t importing the Ambrosia beans when you were married to him. His relationship with that Brazilian farm didn’t develop until years after you divorced.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Madame nodded, and I felt hopeful as I finished the cup. I even poured myself another. Though the blend was mediocre, it was real coffee!

“Clare’s Proustian madeleine could still be in this room,” Esther declared. “I wouldn’t recommend eating week-old wedding cake samples for Remembrance of Things Past, but maybe she should sniff a few. It might stimulate a cortex or three—”

“I have a better idea,” Madame suggested. “After we leave, I’ll have a friend order the same samples from the chef downstairs. Clare can taste them once she’s settled—”

A sudden shout, muffled by the closed doors, halted her words.

“Hey!” Mr. Dante yelled from the hall. “Some guys are running this way. They’re—”

His voice was replaced by the sound of a blow and a startled grunt.

“Dante!” Esther cried, rushing to the double doors.

Before she reached them, they burst open to reveal a trio of guards wearing identical blue blazers and gray slacks. The biggest one had immobilized Mr. Dante from behind, wrapping his thick left arm around the barista’s throat while using the right to pin back the young man’s hands.

Mr. Dante and his tormentor were flanked by a stout, older guard holding a truncheon, and a skinnier, younger guard, armed with a stun gun. Fortunately, he was pointing the gun at the ceiling and not at us.

Though these three men clearly meant business, they didn’t intimidate Madame in the least.

“Release that boy immediately!” she demanded, her posture a tower of righteous indignation.

Scowling, the stout, older guard spun his truncheon once and dropped it into a belt loop. When he stepped in front of the others, I noted his badge read Stevens. His bulldog face was topped by thinning red hair. A jagged scar marred his ruddy cheek.

“You’re trespassing, lady,” he said. “All of you are trespassing—”

Madame squared her narrow shoulders and walked right up to him.

“We have a perfect right to be here. I’m this year’s chairwoman of the Gotham Ladies’ Charity Committee and this suite belongs to us!”

Stevens looked over the room.

“What the hell are you doing, having a tea party? This is a crime scene. Didn’t you notice the pretty yellow tape?” He snorted. “Are you completely batty or just senile?”

Madame’s violet eyes flashed. “I’ll brook no ageism from anyone, least of all from an overstuffed poltroon hiding behind a badge. Now, you tell that jackbooted thug to release my barista this instant! Then I want you all to leave these premises.”

With an arrogant frown at Madame, Stevens shook off the order. Mr. Dante made a valiant effort to break free on his own—but the guard restraining him simply tightened his grip. The barista’s complexion went from pale to purple.

That was when Madame strode right up to Mr. Dante’s tormenter and slapped him in the face. “Release that boy, you fascist!”

Fearing the worst, I jumped in front of Madame.

“She’s right,” I argued. “This suite legally belongs to the Gotham Ladies. They pay good money for it. You have no right to harass us.”

Stevens appeared to hesitate at my words—until he stared harder at me, narrowing his gaze on my blond wig and fake glasses, which didn’t do much to convince him of our veracity.

“Step aside,” he ordered. “I’m placing the old bag under arrest.”

“She did nothing wrong!” I cried.

“She struck a member of my staff,” Stevens shot back.

Now Esther stepped up. “She had good reason. Your rent-a-badge had it coming. He’s harming our friend. And if he”—Esther pointed to said rent-a-badge—“doesn’t release our friend, I am going to kick him where no man wants a boot to go—ever. Then you can arrest us all, and we’ll sue!”

While the guard appeared distracted by Esther’s tirade, Mr. Dante made his Karate Kid move. Pulling one arm free, he elbowed the guard’s midriff hard enough to break the choke hold and escape. But the adrenaline-charged barista didn’t retreat. Spoiling for a fight, he turned to face his bigger, bulkier abuser.

Before the guard with the stun gun could act, a woman’s outraged voice broke through the chaos.

“Step back, Stevens! Call off your men. These people are friends!”