“Who did attack you.”
“Yes, the Neanderthal also locked me in a Dumpster. But he didn’t shoot me. He called the NYPD. I’m sure he would have done that for Alf, too... Still, there’s something about James Young that doesn’t feel right...”
“What’s that?”
“Young became very tense when I brought up Alf, as if he were hiding something. Or at least knew more than he was telling me.”
“Perhaps he was just uneasy with your grilling him about a terrible crime that occurred right outside his home.”
I drummed my fingers on the cab’s vinyl seat and watched restaurants, storefronts, and apartment houses roll by. “Young is certainly perceptive enough to know that I was suspicious of him—or at least of Alf’s being on his balcony.”
“Wouldn’t it make you nervous to have someone suggest you may have something to do with a murder?”
“I guess so.”
“So where are we now?” Madame turned in the car seat to face me. “The trail hasn’t gone cold, has it? Perhaps Mr. Young left you with another lead? Do you have a new theory?”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve certainly picked up on the gumshoe slang, haven’t you?”
“No mystery there, dear.” Madame waved her hand. “You’re not the first coffeehouse manager who’s regularly provided hot stimulants for men in law enforcement.”
Having heard more than a few racy stories of Madame’s bohemian years, I wasn’t at all sure how to interpret that remark. Before I could clarify what exactly she meant, however, our taxi pulled up to the curb. We paid the driver, climbed out, and gasped. The line to get into the Village Blend was literally around the block.
“My goodness!” Madame gawked. “I thought you told me afternoon business has slowed considerably since the economic downturn.”
“It has.”
“Well, my dear, I haven’t seen this kind of enthusiasm for a retail refreshment since Seinfeld aired an episode on the Soup Nazi! Did some television show film an episode about our Village Blend?”
“Not that I know of... Come on.”
Rather than fight our way through the crowd, I led Madame around to the back alley, pulled out my keys, and unlocked the back door. We entered through the pantry area, passing the service stairwell that led down to the basement and up to my private apartment.
“Would you rather we go upstairs to talk?” I asked.
“And miss finding out what all the fuss is about? Not on your life!”
Seventeen
“People, people!” Tucker yelled, clapping his hands. “Will you puh-leeze give your order a thought on your way up to my counter! And have your money or credit card out before you get to me!”
The espresso bar looked like a caffeinated zoo—but a well-run caffeinated zoo. I still couldn’t believe the shop was so busy. When I’d left earlier to go to Studio 19, the place had already slipped into its typical weekday-afternoon coma. Now the main floor was raucously packed. Tucker’s shift had started, but Esther was still here, mixing drinks with Dante behind the espresso machine—she’d obviously agreed to stay past her scheduled departure time to help handle the thirsty tsunami.
I turned to Madame. “I want to pitch in here, but I need to ask you something important first.”
“Of course.” Madame nodded. “I’ll find a table.”
I could see from my quick scan of the first floor that she wouldn’t have a problem. Despite the line out the door, quite a few tables were still empty. The drinks my baristas were mixing were mostly “with wings”—aka to go. A lot of the patrons were new, but just as many faces belonged to former regulars—customers I hadn’t seen in here for some time.
I noticed Tucker’s friend, the ex-soap actor Shane Holliway, as boyishly appealing as ever with the golden shag and trendy chin stubble. He was sipping a drink near the fireplace, a scarf rakishly thrown over his shoulder. When he saw me checking him out, he gave me a big smile and a wink.
Another winker, I thought. What was it with these guys on TV? Did those klieg lights affect their vision or something?
I waved politely—and that’s when I noticed the thirtysomething redhead, the one I’d clashed with the night of Alf’s murder. She was back, sitting in a far corner of the shop, still gorgeous, still angry, her eyes focused on me as if I’d thrown a macchiato in her face.
I wasn’t intimidated. Not even a little bit. I met her gaze with a direct stare. She looked away.
Mentally dismissing the grudge-carrying socialite, I tapped my assistant manager’s shoulder. “What’s going on, Tuck?”
“Ohmigawd, Clare!” he said, finally noticing me. “It’s our Fa-la-la-la Lattes!”
“What? How can that be? I only just put out the sidewalk chalkboard this morning!”
As reluctant as I’d been to cash in on Alf’s Taste of Christmas latte idea, I’d changed my mind for two reasons. The shop badly needed an economic shot in the arm, and as a business manager responsible for the sustainability of this shop and its employees, I had to be willing to try anything. The second reason was Dexter Beatty’s nostalgic reaction to Gardner’s Black Cake Latte the previous evening. If Alf’s idea could bring back even one happy holiday memory for a customer, I figured it had to be a worthy addition to our menu. But I never expected a reaction like this. It didn’t even make sense!
“Tucker, all these people can’t be random foot traffic!”
“We’re all over the Net, Clare. Two major foodie bloggers frequent the Blend. They wrote about our lattes first thing this morning—loved the Fa-la-la-la holiday theme. Actually, one of them loved it, the other one kind of derided it as ‘twee.’ But both thought the variety and flavors were outstanding. Then two more foodie writers came in, much bigger ones: Grub Street Digest and the-feedbag.com! They took digital pics. Someone else took a YouTube video! We’re the talk of the foodie Web world! A Post reporter was just here, and a Times photographer called to confirm our address!”
“Excuse me! Hello!” A young woman in heels and hose plopped her designer handbag on top of the cash register. “I’m on a work break. Are you people going to take my order, or what?!”
Tucker whipped his head around. “Chill-ax, honey! I’ll get to you.” He snapped his fingers. “And get your Kate Spade off my register!”
“Give me ten minutes and I’ll relieve Esther,” I told Tuck. “Madame’s waiting for me at a table.”
“It’s okay, Clare. We’re going just about as fast as we can anyway. Another pair of hands won’t help Dante pull those espressos any faster.”
“And we don’t want him to, either.”
“I know—quality is why we’re in business after one hundred years. But I warn you, I have a choreography rehearsal at seven sharp for my Ticket to the North Pole production number. The benefit party’s next Tuesday evening, so there’s no time to spare. All of the dancing elves and singing Santa’s helpers are on my call sheet.”
“Is that why Shane’s here?” I gestured to him in the corner, noticed he was still watching me, and quickly dropped my pointing finger.
“Oh, is Shane here already?” Tuck glanced across the room and waved. “Well, the rehearsal space is just down the block. And, yes, Clare, he is one of my dancing elves. Apparently Dickie Celebratorio—”
“The party planner?”
“The same. He’s throwing this bash and he owes Shane some big favor, so I had to hire the man, but that’s fine with me. I figure the ladies at the benefit party will be more than happy to see him in tights. Anyway, I’ve paid for the rehearsal space already, so I can not give you any overtime.”
“No problem, Tuck. I’ll cover.” I ducked over to Esther, thanking her for staying past the end of her shift.
“What’s to thank, boss? You are paying me, right?”