Smart vs. Pretty (11 page)

“He left them in the basement.”

Frank smelled the beans again. “Most curious.” She folded up the napkin and slipped it into her own jeans pocket.

“I don’t think those beans are good luck,” said Matt. That made Amanda stir.

“You’re superstitious, too?” asked Frank. An ambush, she thought.

“They sure weren’t good luck for Chick. But maybe his bad luck came from you two,” said Matt. “Maybe it’s not the beans. Maybe you girls are the trouble. There’s a dark cloud sitting on your heads. It’s practically visible.” After that gloomy pronouncement, Matt looked gravely at each sister in turn. Then he stared straight into Frank’s eyes and asked, “You going to eat those potatoes?” Frank pushed her plate in his direction.

It was around six-thirty when they paid the bill. Amanda wanted to use the change to throw the I Ching. Matt and Frank watched. The pattern: heads, tails, tails, tails, tails, and tails on the bottom.

Amanda sighed. “Mountains over earth. The mountain topples and crushes a solid foundation.”

“Good thing the I Ching is meaningless, or I’d be more worried than usual,” said Frank.

At that moment, Harry, Park Plaza’s owner’s son, entered the diner to begin his shift. He was wearing a heavy snow parka and carrying a copy of the
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. As soon as he saw Frank and Amanda, he approached their table. He wasn’t smiling.

Frank said, “Coffee tastes better today.”

Harry nodded. “We upgraded to Excelso.” Colombian Excelso. That’s an upgrade? thought Frank. It wasn’t a particularly high-grade coffee by any standard. “I’m really sorry,” Harry said. Then he handed Frank his Sunday
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. The cover copy:
GUNSHOTS AT CAFÉ MURDER
. She quickly scanned the story—written by Piper Zorn with photos from last night—which compared Frank and Amanda to the Borgia sisters (he made one reference to “possibly poisonous caffeinated potions”). The story implied that a visit to Romancing the Bean would put one’s life at risk. The photo of Amanda and Chick was reprinted, and Zorn included a new one of Frank looking extremely angry. Pissed proprietress? Piqued proprietress? Purple-faced proprietress?

Frank said, “Can I keep this?”

“It’s yours. And breakfast is on the house,” said Harry.

“We already paid,” said Frank.

The three walked out into the cold Brooklyn morning. The wind had needles in it. Matt pointed at the air over Frank’s head. He said, “You see?”

She looked up, and there it was. A small black cloud, hovering five feet above her. She reached up to touch it, and in that instant it disappeared.

A
manda couldn’t stop thinking about Chick. What exactly did she owe him? If his involvement with her had anything to do with his death…she couldn’t even contemplate the meaning of that. Her karma would never recover. She attempted to clear her mind with some meditation. In, out, the sun, the moon, the waves, the rocks, the beach, the sand, the sandbox, the dirt, the bugs, the decay, the death. Not working. An image sprang to her mind: a drunk and wobbly Chick, cornered against the brownstone wall, trying to defend himself against the Shadow Murderer. A caveman club (her spontaneous vision of a blunt object) cutting through the dark night, landing with a barbaric thud on Chick’s lovely cranium, the sound of skull collapsing into squishy brain matter, like the splat of rocks on mud.

“Your face is turning green,” Matt said to Amanda as they stood outside the Park Plaza, deciding what to do next.

“I want to have a talk with Piper Zorn,” said Frank. “I doubt he’s a reasonable man, but if I explain to him that we already have a long list of problems without his assistance, he might stop writing about us.”

Amanda shook her head. “Clarissa won’t like that.”

Frank looked directly at Matt. “I’m not sure I agree with Clarissa’s strategy in this regard—only in this regard. Otherwise she’s doing an incredible job for us, which I appreciate from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. And”—she turned toward Amanda—“you’ll be sure to tell her I said that when she finds out I went to visit Zorn at the
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. I hope he works on Sundays.”

Amanda clutched her churning gut and said, “I guess I’ll go back to the café and open up.”

Frank said, “Matt, you think you can open the store for us today?” He nodded. Frank continued, “Amanda, why don’t you go to Moonburst and talk to Benji? He knew Chick the best of anyone around here. Maybe talking about him would make you feel better.”

The younger sister was genuinely touched. “I’m sure it would,” said Amanda. “I have to admit, I’m surprised.”

“Didn’t think I had an ounce of compassion in me?” Frank asked.

“Not compassion,” said Amanda. “Patience.”

“I don’t have time for your many chakra blockages?”

“You don’t seem to, no. And since we’re on the subject, it’s always hurt my feelings that you dismiss me so easily.” Amanda’s stomach tension loosened with the admission.

Frank said, “Now I’m surprised.”

Amanda asked, “What?”

“I’m surprised to have had such an effect on you.”

The sisters stood silently, looking at each other, arms hanging at their sides, their white frosty exhales meeting in the space between them and dissolving in the air. Amanda itched for a hug. This was clearly a moment, a cracking of the surface of their Frank-enforced (Amanda thought) cordial-but-strained relationship, revealing the hint of something honest and durable underneath. Amanda knew that if she reached out and tried to widen the crack, Frank might pull away and seal it right back up.

Matt said, “Now that I’m officially staying at your apartment, can I do my laundry?”

Frank said, “Please do.”

“You can borrow some clean socks in the meantime,” offered Amanda.

“Message received,” said Matt.

Frank headed for the Clark Street entrance to the numbers two and three trains. Amanda and Matt bundled themselves as best they could and headed back toward Romancing the Bean.

Amanda shivered slightly as they walked and wrapped her pea coat closer to her chest. “Chilly today,” she said.

Matt said, “I don’t small-talk.”

“Talking about the weather isn’t small talk.” Moods shifted with the wind, the heat, and the dampness of the air. The brightness of the sky. How many times had a sunny morning lifted her whole being to a higher level? “Farmers happen to take the weather very seriously,” said Amanda.

“I meant what I said inside about the two of us hanging out sometime.”

Amanda tried to change the subject. “Didn’t Patsie smell a bit like reefer this morning? I detected a definite pot scent.”

Matt said curtly, “I don’t smoke. Or smell.”

That was it for conversation. They walked in silence, which, Amanda had to admit, was more comfortable than trying to put him off. It wasn’t that she found Matt repellent. She just couldn’t consider dating until she’d cleared her mind of Chick. Besides, they worked together. And Matt had no money at all. For all her spirituality and sensitivity and seeing the good in anyone, Amanda had dating standards. She didn’t need a man to be rich. She didn’t even need him to be employed. But if he couldn’t pay for dinner, she wouldn’t pay attention.

Once they’d arrived at the café, Amanda gave Matt her keys to the gate and the front door of Romancing the Bean. She peered into the window at Moonburst next door. The gate was up, but Amanda couldn’t see anyone inside. She knocked on the window and waited. After what seemed like ten frozen minutes of waiting, she spotted Benji Morton plowing up the street, a ring of keys in his hand. He didn’t even look at her as he unlocked Moonburst’s front door. He opened it, stepped in, and then held the door open for her. Like a proper lady (and adhering to her men-must-make-the-first-move rule), Amanda wouldn’t enter until she’d had a verbal invitation.

“Are you coming in or not?” Benji asked. Amanda smiled sweetly, counted one, two, three, and entered wordlessly. He closed the door behind her.

He shrugged off his barn jacket. He wore his regular work uniform of khakis, a denim shirt, and a tie. Amanda had to admit that she was drawn to his red-haired, fresh-scrubbed burly looks, but she’d never acted on her attraction—Frank would never stand for her dating the enemy. Amanda wasn’t convinced that Benji himself was truly evil. But Frank’s hatred of all things Moonburst kept Amanda from getting to know him better. This estrangement didn’t make it easy for Amanda to walk in and strike up a personal conversation about a hurtful subject (it was for her, anyway; she wouldn’t guess yet how Benji felt about Chick’s death).

Benji draped his coat across the counter. Amanda registered his tubular middle. He could use some exercise, but who was she to judge? Saying nothing, Benji strode past Amanda to his computerized cash register and started tapping buttons. She cleared her throat. He didn’t look up. He seemed to want nothing to do with her.
The rudeness
. Frank might treat him rudely, but Amanda had never been impolite to Benji. And she wasn’t used to such disregard from men.

His insolence provoked her. She looked at the menu on the wall behind Benji and said, “Arabian Mocha-Java. A classic blend. The world’s oldest. One part mocha beans from the Red Sea region of Yemen. Two parts Java arabica beans from Indonesia.”

“What of it?” he asked.

Not to be undone by his surliness, Amanda batted her lashes and said innocently, “Java hasn’t produced quality arabica beans in decades.”

“Point?” he snapped.

“It’s just that I thought Moonburst sold only top-grade arabica beans,” she said softly. “That’s what it says in your brochure.” Amanda plucked a Moonburst pamphlet out of the bin in front of the register and held it aloft.

“No one cares, Amanda.” Benji slammed the register closed. “Does any schmuck on the street give two shits what’s in the coffee? Our customers just want it hot and strong. And that’s what we give them. Moonburst could put out a Malibu Beach blend and people would buy it. That’s what you and your sister fail to understand. The customers don’t want to be connoisseurs. That takes time. Work. Thought. At Moonburst, we do the thinking for the customer.”

He was so angry. At me? she wondered. Amanda said, “All that negative energy is terrible for your health.”

Benji didn’t even look up. He made some scribbles on an order form. “I’m sure my health isn’t what brings you here at this hour,” he said. “What do you want? I’m busy.” He put down his clipboard and started emptying five-pound bags of beans into the store’s giant burr grinder.

Amanda was now beyond hope of connecting with Benji. And his open, hot hostility was hard to steel herself against. She said, “You’re being really mean to me, Benji.”

“You started in on me,” he said. “You may act like a flake, like you’re some kind of magic princess who’s too delicate for this world, but the truth is, you’re as obnoxious as your sister.”

An impromptu personal critique—completely untrue—was not what she’d come in for. When the tears gathered in her eyes, Amanda let them come. And they came in streams. She sobbed heaves from deep in her belly. She covered her face with her hands, sank to the floor, and let it pour.

Benji sighed. “Oh, great. She’s hysterical. This is just fucking great.”

Amanda cried even harder. Benji grunted and then knelt down by her. He said softly, “Stop crying. You’ve got to stop. The sound of a woman crying is like an ice pick in the eye to me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. You’re a very nice person. You’re not a flake. Look, I’m having some personal problems. I shouldn’t have taken them out on you. Please stop crying. I can’t stand it. I’ll do anything. What can I do? Just tell me.”

Amanda hiccuped and gulped for air. “Anything?”

“That’s what I said."

“Tell me about Chick.”

Benji’s muscles stiffened. Amanda could see his thighs bunch up under his khakis. He said, “Chick who?”

“Benji, I know he was your friend. I just want to learn more about him. What was he like? Did he take long, hot showers or short, cool ones? What kind of food did he eat? Did he laugh a lot? Just tell me what you know. I feel like there’s a hole in my heart that can only be filled with information about Chick. I need to get to know him, like I would have if he hadn’t been murdered.”

Benji scrambled to his feet, leaving Amanda alone on the floor. “I didn’t get to know him either.”

“Then can I have a phone number for Bert Tierney in Vietnam?” she asked. Their mutual friend might talk to her.

Benji said, “Bert who? I don’t know anyone in Vietnam.”

Why was he lying? “Why are you lying?” she asked.

Moonburst’s doors flew open. From her position on the floor, Amanda looked up to see two men in polyester-blend three-button suits with their wallets in their hands. Police. The one with the mustache said, “Benjamin Morton?” Benji nodded. The one with the beard (but, strangely, no mustache), grabbed Benji under his arm and handcuffed him on the spot.

Mustache asked Amanda, “Who are you? And why are you crying? Did this bastard hurt you?”

She said, “Dust in the eye.”

Mustache said, “Name.”

“Amanda Greenfield.”

“The pretty proprietress.”

She blushed. “I wouldn’t say pretty.”

The bearded cop said, “I would.”

Mustache followed up with, “Well, Amanda Greenfield, you’re officially off the hook for Peterson’s murder.”

“Was I ever officially on the hook?” she asked.

“Only to the press,” Beard said. “Come on, Morton.” He yanked Benji toward the door.

Completely unsatisfied, Amanda lifted herself to her feet and said, “Where are you taking him?”

“Are you involved with this man?” asked Beard.

“Are you asking as part of your investigation, or out of personal curiosity?” asked Amanda.

“Enough, Pastelli,” said the mustachioed cop to his partner. To Amanda, he said, “We’re taking Mr. Morton to the precinct. A witness came forward and we need to put him in a lineup.”

“A witness to what?” she asked.

The cops looked at each other as if Amanda were incredibly thick. The bearded one finally said, “He’s been accused of murdering Charles Peterson.”

Exactly what Amanda was afraid to hear. Her mind refused to compute the idea: Benji, the arrogant guy next door, couldn’t have committed a vicious act of violence against a gentle soul like Chick. Benji’s face was white. He looked like he was about to faint. The cops led him outside with a few well-placed shoves. Amanda followed them, not sure what else to do.

The cops forced Benji’s head down to get him into the police car. It was right around six-thirty. Despite the hour, a crowd of a few dozen watched Benji’s mortification in the clutches of the law. Montague Street was suddenly congested with spectators, all eyes on Benji, the accused.

Once seated, Benji screamed, “Amanda, if our friendship means anything to you”—she was sure it meant nothing to him—“stay inside and wait for my staff to show up so they can open the store.”

“Where are the keys?” Amanda asked.

The cops slammed the car door. Benji mouthed through the soundproof window, “On the counter.” Amanda nodded and the car sped off.

Amanda went back into the empty Moonburst. She locked the front door from the inside. She was still in shock that Benji had been taken off by the police. But even as reality settled in, her all-seeing, all-knowing third eye refused to believe that Benji was guilty. She wasn’t sure where this intuition was coming from, but she trusted it. Despite her certainty, Amanda’s stomach had returned to full churn about the mystery of Chick. If Benji couldn’t help her contact Bert Tierney in Vietnam, she’d have to help herself.

At best, she figured she had about fifteen minutes before EBAT (estimated barista arrival time). She started rummaging under the counter (poor Benji left his coat behind). Finding nothing, she went toward the back of the store to Benji’s office. She tried the keys on Benji’s ring, fumbling and dropping the set over and over, wasting precious time. Her heart was ricocheting off her ribs. Finally she got the door open. Inside was a space no bigger than a closet. But this windowless hole had a desk, computer, phone, and file cabinet. And a Rolodex.

Amanda flipped to the Ts. Tierney, right in front. She quickly scrawled the number on a Post-it note and stuffed the yellow square in her jacket pocket. She checked her watch. EBAT: eight minutes. A call to Vietnam would probably cost a fortune. She sat down in Benji’s chair and dialed the international operator. He helped her place the call.

On the first ring, a man answered. He said, “Silver Coast Resorts.” Amanda was relieved to hear English.

She said, “Bert Tierney, please.”

“Speaking.”