Seventy

Before descending to the basement, I made a pit stop at our coffee bar, where I told Madame how much her dashing astronaut was appreciated upstairs.

“Looks like your Golden Ticket holder is worth his weight in gold.”

Madame smiled big, pleased to hear that her charity auction prize had turned into a benefit for us all.

In that moment, I nearly spilled the beans on Cody Wood’s offer. I opened my mouth, ready to let off steam, but instead I bit my tongue.

Yes, I’d promised Matt that we’d discuss the offer together. But there was another reason I was willing to delay my primal screaming. Given the disastrous food fight upstairs, I couldn’t help worrying (once again) about our financial future. Matt was clearly skeptical. But with Madame blasting off for the Space Coast, I would have a little more time to prove my case of a retail turnaround before Cody’s offer landed. I just hoped there was smooth sailing ahead—and not just on getting our shop back into shipshape.

“Before you go, Madame, would you mind taking a look at a few photos?”

With Joan and Addy giving me conflicting feedback on the photos from the original Writer’s Block group, I asked Madame if her memory might shed some light…

“Let me see,” she said, taking my phone.

She nodded as she scrolled through the images. “They do look familiar, but I couldn’t tell you their names…”

She handed back the phone. “I’m sorry, dear.”

“Wait. What about this middle-aged guy with a walrus mustache?” I flipped to the group photo that included that big, Italian-looking man standing in the background. “Do you recognize him?”

“Yes, of course. But he wasn’t a member of the group. He was the one who served them. That’s a picture of my dear barista Nero.”

“Nero? That’s Nero?”

“You didn’t recognize him?”

“The only picture I ever saw of Nero was when Matt’s father was young. The two were laughing together. And Nero was just a skinny kid, late teens, early twenties, clean-shaven.”

Madame smiled, a faraway look in her eyes. “I remember that photo. I framed it for Matt.”

“He still has it…” I thought for a moment. “Is Nero still with us?”

“If that’s a polite way of asking has he kicked the bucket, the answer is no. He’s still around and enjoying his life. He retired to Sicily.”

“Do you have a phone number?”

“Only an address. I don’t think he owns a phone, Clare. He’s living with family. Spends quite a bit of time on his nephew’s fishing boat. What are you thinking?”

“I’d like to write to him, ask him if he’ll speak with me. I’ll give him my phone number and tell him to call collect.”

Madame fell silent. “You want to question him about what happened that night in the alley, don’t you?”

“I do.”

Madame sighed. “I didn’t have reason to doubt him back then. Not at first. But after the police visited us, after they told us about that poor dead boy in the vacant lot, I had a gut feeling Nero was holding back the truth.”

“To protect you and the shop,” I said.

Madame nodded. “I pressed him privately, but he was a stubborn man, and he stuck by his story: a juvenile fight that ended in a bloody nose.”

As she shook her head with regret, I touched her hand, and softly said, “Maybe he’ll talk to me. I can assure him that, after all these years, he no longer has to worry about you and the shop. That you’re both perfectly safe. But Jensen Van Dyne’s life may be on the line, so if there’s more to the story, it’s time for him to tell it.”

Madame closed her eyes when I mentioned Jensen. Then she squeezed my fingers. “It’s a good idea, Clare, and it’s certainly worth a try…”

She promised to text me Nero’s address, then she headed for the stairs to join her date, and I pulled an espresso for a quick pick-me-up.

I needed it.

While I was feeling hopeful about the captain’s suggestions for righting our caffeinated ship, I felt completely defeated in my mission to question Addy’s granddaughter.

I shuddered to think of the young woman returning to her elegant grandmother (who was still one of my favorite authors) with dried frosting on her clothes and pastry crumbs in her hair.

For solace, I took a rich, warm sip from my demitasse and was about to take another when I froze at the sight of a familiar face—though I almost didn’t recognize her.

Across the room, quietly laughing with Tony Tanaka at an intimate café table, was Blair Woodbridge, the glamorous assistant to Addison Ford Babcock.

Last night, at the Grand Maison Hotel, the tanned, toned, model-tall Blair was decked out in a glitzy designer split-thigh gown, her brunette hair styled in loose curls, makeup perfect.

Today in our coffeehouse, the glam was gone. Blair’s hair was tied back in a sloppy ponytail. She wore baggy jeans, an oversized hoodie, and no makeup on her face, just a large pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

After knocking back the rest of my espresso in a single gulp, I moved toward Blair’s table. Suddenly, she and Tony weren’t laughing anymore. They seemed more serious, almost secretive, their heads close together.

I was curious about what they were discussing, but Tony seemed to have radar. As soon as I stepped close, he pulled away from Addy’s beautiful assistant.

“Hey, Ms. Cosi!” he said, with an awkward smile. “Would you like some gummies? I call them happy gummies.” He winked. “They’re the low-THC kind. Great for relaxing.”

“No thanks, Tony. Would you mind if I had a private word with Blair?”

“Oh, sure. I’ve got to get back to work upstairs, anyway. See you later, Blair.”

“Bye, Tony, thanks for the gummies,” she said and turned to me with a smile. “Nice to see you, Ms. Cosi. Hey, thanks again—I mean it—for helping us out with Ethan last night. He said you were very kind to him.”

“He’s a bit of a lost soul, isn’t he?”

“I guess you could put it that way. He’s unhappy. He’s admitted as much to me, and he’s been in that state for some time…”

It was sad to hear that. And I couldn’t help seeing Professor Ethan Humphrey as a young Mr. Scrib. The two men were clearly intelligent, sensitive, and (for whatever reasons) tragically disturbed.

“Anyway, Ms. Cosi, your coffee is superb. I truly appreciate a good cup, so I thank you for that, too.”

“You’re welcome. Listen, would you mind doing me a small favor?”

“Sure. How can I help?”

I took Tony’s seat and lowered my voice. “I had brunch with your boss today, and Addy mentioned that her granddaughter was coming to my shop. If she’s still here, would you mind pointing her out? I’d like to say hello.”

The request seemed to catch Blair off guard, and she shifted uncomfortably.

“What is it?” I asked. “I hope she wasn’t a victim of that horrible food fight upstairs. I’m so sorry about that.”

“What happened upstairs wasn’t your fault,” Blair said with conviction. “If anyone is to blame it’s that jerk with the air raid siren ringtone. I can’t believe how awful he was. He just kept it blasting, and instead of apologizing, he insulted that girl.”

I tensed. “That girl wasn’t Addy’s granddaughter, was it?”

“No. She wasn’t.”

“That’s a relief,” I said. “So, where is she? Or did she leave already?”

Blair took a breath. “To be perfectly honest, Ms. Cosi, she’s here.”

“Where?”

“Here.” Blair pointed to herself.

I was tired and a little fuzzy, and I wanted to make sure. “Do you mean to say that you’re Addy’s assistant and also her—”

“Granddaughter, yes. You have to understand, in professional situations, like the event last evening, I never identify myself as a relative. When some people hear ‘granddaughter’ instead of ‘assistant,’ they stop taking you seriously. And I’m very serious about my writing career.”

I thought about that for a moment, and I couldn’t help but ask, “Do you live with your grandmother?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Then I’m going to be frank. What are you really doing here?”

“I’m sorry? I don’t understand the question.”

As Blair blinked at me with her long-lashed eyes, I couldn’t tell if she was truly clueless or pretending to be.

“Look, I had brunch with your grandmother today and I saw her big, beautiful home, where a writer could sit all day, be waited on by staff, and type with a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline. With all your grandmother’s experience, you also have the best writing advice and publishing connections at your fingertips. The writers who are coming to our coffeehouse don’t have those advantages. They’re looking for feedback and support while sharing living spaces with roommates and working gig-economy jobs. With all the advantages you have in Brooklyn Heights, what are you really doing here?”

Blair’s skin flushed red. She fell silent, and I thought she might be angry. But when she spoke again, her voice was pleading and so quiet it was almost a whisper.

“I’ll be honest with you, Ms. Cosi, because I’d like to continue coming here. I’m here to work on my own writing. Something that I find impossible to do at my grandmother’s place.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My grandmother and I are completing a project together—I’m her cowriter for the new cycle of New Amsterdam novels. It’s not a secret. She’s crediting me in the acknowledgments, not as her granddaughter, but as Blair Woodbridge, and I’m being compensated quite well, but…”

“But it’s not what you want to write?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m enjoying the process, and I love her New Amsterdam world and characters. I just don’t want to obsess over it twenty-four hours a day. I have my own ideas for creative projects. But, as I’m sure you noticed, my grandmother is rather—”

“Overbearing?”

“Strong-minded. She likes things her way. My mother moved to Europe to get away from her. And I admit my grandmother isn’t easy to put up with, but I do, because…”

“She holds the purse strings?” I said, finishing for her. “Or should I say puppet strings?”

Blair sighed. “I’d like to come here a few times a week to be free of those strings. Hear my own voice in my head, you know? Anyway, I should get going—”

“Before you do, I’d like to ask you about this feud between your grandmother and Joan Gibson.”

“I can’t help you there. Or maybe I can…”

“Go on.”

“It’s my turn to be frank with you, okay? My grandmother texted me to be careful of you.”

“Excuse me?”

“She said you were asking prying questions at brunch today, and if you started grilling me, I should tell you something.”

“What’s that?”

“For all our sakes, stop asking questions.”

“Well, I can’t. I consider Jensen Van Dyne a friend, and all of us here are concerned about his well-being.”

“We are, too,” Blair insisted. “My grandmother has known Mr. Van Dyne for decades. She’s always been a dear friend to him, but Joan Gibson, for her own purposes, has twisted that relationship. She turned Mr. Van Dyne against my grandmother, misled him.”

“How, exactly? By convincing him to tell the truth about Ace Archer’s murder?”

Blair’s eyes widened. “I’ve said too much. I have to go!”

Not yet, I thought. I knew from Mike that sometimes interviews had to get heated. With Blair about to run back to her grandmother, it was time to turn up the heat and watch her reaction.

“Tell me the truth,” I pressed. “Do you know who attacked Mr. Van Dyne in my alley? Was it you? Or someone that you or your grandmother sent?”

Instead of denying it, Blair’s eyes went wide and she rasped, “Why would we do that?”

“To get the notebook Van Dyne was using to write his true crime memoir—and maybe, in the process, shut him up for good about the past by putting an end to his life.”

“That’s ridiculous!” she cried, but the uncertain look on her face told me she was either guilty or suspected her grandmother was. Suddenly, she shook her head. “I don’t know anything about what happened in your alley.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It doesn’t matter what you believe. What matters is that you can trust us. Not Joan.”

“Trust you? Do you realize that you’ve contradicted what your grandmother told me? She pretended she hardly knew Mr. Van Dyne and didn’t know Joan at all.”

“If she lied to you, then she had good reasons. And you need to butt out, Ms. Cosi. This isn’t your business. We’re going to take care of everything, including Mr. Van Dyne.”

“What does that mean? Is that a threat?”

Instead of answering, she jumped to her feet. “My grandmother is expecting me. Thanks again for the coffee, and for helping my cousin Ethan, but I’ve got to go!”

And just like that, she was gone.