Forty-seven

ON my ride back to Manhattan that night, I officially joined the ranks of New York’s smartphone zombies. Door to door, my gaze never left the mobile screen.

First, I replied to my daughter’s text, telling her to call me anytime.

Next, I checked for any reply from Tucker to my many messages, pleading with him to reconsider his resignation, found nothing, and feared my beloved assistant manager was (in the parlance of the digital domain) “ghosting” me!

With a sigh, I scanned a new note from Matt:

Told Marilyn about your mission 2 find & unmask Crest. She is all 4 it. Suggested 3 more dating apps 4 U . . .

I downloaded the new swipe-to-mate apps and set up “Kara” profiles on all of them. Then I returned to Cinder to get comfortable with its glittery bells and whistles.

By the time my car pulled up to the Village Blend, I was feeling confident about my first steps into this sparkly new digital dating world. Then I pushed the door open to the depressing state of my real one.

As the welcome bell echoed through my near-desolate shop, I took in the sad customer count. Three NYU students sat by our wall of French doors, and an older couple faced the fireplace—a far cry from the packed house we usually had on Friday nights.

At least we’ve got a plan, I thought. Two, actually, if you count Esther’s scheme. After tomorrow, if things don’t turn around, I’ll try something else—because, I swear, if our Village Blend goes down, it’s going down swinging . . .

As for tonight, Esther was still behind the counter, so bored she was reading a book of poetry to pass the time. When I took a seat at the empty espresso bar, she set it aside.

“Hey, boss lady! Take off that trench coat and stay awhile.”

“I can’t take it off. I’m practically naked under this thing. I had to borrow it from Matt—” When Esther’s eyes widened behind her glasses, I realized what that sounded like. “No! It’s not what you think . . .”

After my story of a near-death experience with an SUV the color of a young cabernet, Esther shared her own news.

“Our Barista APB is activated! Dante’s sketches are now on the phones of everyone on staff. And I hung his originals in the pantry. That goof is so proud of them, he even signed them.”

“Dante’s no goof when it comes to art, Esther. He’s very talented. Those sketches might be worth a pretty penny one day.”

As Esther rolled her eyes and cracked wise about “Baldini’s Rogues’ Gallery,” I considered giving Dante another assignment—drawing that man with the red beard who nearly ran me over. But I quickly talked myself out of it.

What if Red Beard actually turned out to be a PI, sent to catch Matt in flagrante with a married woman? The public revelation would be beyond embarrassing. No, my plate was full enough, and Matt said he would handle it.

“So what’s our next step?” Esther asked.

“I start the manhunt by swiping right on the most likely suspects. I plan to invite them to ‘ask for Kara’ at our shop tomorrow night—”

“Tomorrow? But that’s our big event night.”

“Exactly. With a large crowd here, Crest will feel comfortable, believing he can blend in. He won’t know our entire staff will be on the lookout for him.”

“Smart,” Esther said with tiny applause. “This is going to be fun. Can I help you swipe through suspects?”

“I was counting on it.”

“Stimulation first!” she declared. “An espresso?”

“For plowing through peacocks? I’m going to need something much stronger. Make it a Shot in the Dark.”

While Esther got busy dropping a shot of espresso into a black pool of high-octane brew, my finger got busy swiping on one of Marilyn’s recommended apps.

Eesh. Talk about a rogues’ gallery!

I paged through the profiles with hope, but out of the whole muscle-flexing, backpacking, dog-smooching, naked saxophone-playing bunch, not one had Crest’s MO.

Suddenly, in the midst of my swiping, a sound distracted me, the full-bodied alto of a mature woman’s laughter.

Madame?

Turning in my seat, I took a longer look at that older couple facing the fireplace. When I’d hurried in, I barely noticed the violet beret and matching jacket of the female in the pair. Now I realized the hat was sitting at a jaunty angle on a familiar silver pageboy.

But if the woman was Matt’s mother, who the heck was the lanky, mocha-skinned gentleman giving her the giggles?

Must be another “Silver Fox” date, I assumed, admiring the man’s jet-black hair and distinguished gray temples. But I was wrong. In mild shock, I suddenly recognized Madame’s sixty-something companion—

“Sergeant Jones?!”

At my cry of surprise, the older couple turned in their chairs. It was Madame, all right, getting cozy with Leonidas Jabari Jones of the NYPD Harbor Patrol.

“Clare!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t notice you arrive. My goodness, dear, whatever are you wearing?”