Smart vs. Pretty (17 page)

Benji continued, “I told him that I couldn’t buy any coffee until I’d sampled it. He said I should come to Vietnam. Now I was stuck. I’d just said that I flew all over the world for Moonburst. So I told him we were locked into contracts until at least March. He let it drop. But then he hit me up for some investment capital—the real reason he’d called. I found out later he’d called everyone in his address book looking for money. I told him I’d send a thousand dollars. We hung up. I hoped I’d never hear from him again.”

Frank was sure Benji would have sent the thousand dollars just to keep the charade alive. “Chick—the American botanist—showed up at my store a week later,” Benji said. “In about five seconds he’d figured out that I had no power in the Moonburst operation. I was prepared to admit to every lie, but then Chick said, ‘Since I’m here anyway and I’ve got a pound of beans, let’s make a go of it.’ I did have some contact with a regional retail director in Seattle. I found myself getting excited. To toast our new pact, Chick and I brewed a pot from the pound of roasted beans he smuggled in—he also brought some raw beans, which, he said, were for his personal consumption—and we sat down to discuss strategy. I took one sip of the brew and nearly fainted. My heart raced, my blood was pumping from the caffeine, and the flavor was dreadful. There was no way Moonburst would sell coffee that tasted that bad.”

“I beg to differ,” said Frank.

“You haven’t tasted this coffee,” said Benji. “I told Chick the coffee venture was a bust. I felt guilty about the whole thing, so I offered him a place to stay. He was a polite guest, but after a few days I wanted my space back. He was getting on my nerves, too, hanging around Moonburst, talking to my customers about his miracle beans. He kept coming behind the counter, taking samples of coffee and pastry. My patience ran out and I told him he had to leave. He landed, apparently, on your doorstep.”

“Where’s the pound of roasted beans?” Frank asked. Chick must have finished off the raw stash himself (minus the beans Matt gave Frank), overdosing in the process.

“Chick kept most of it. He gave me about a quarter-pound sample to hold on to, just in case I changed my mind. It’s locked in the store safe. He never asked for it back. I assume it’s still there.”

“Can we get it?” Frank asked. She was curious to taste the brew.

“Unfortunately, the keys to the safe are now somewhere in the New York City sewage system,” said Benji.

Amanda giggled. “Sorry about that.”

Frank had no idea what they were talking about. But she didn’t really care. “We can always break the safe,” she said to herself out loud.

Amanda asked, “Tell me more about Chick. When he stayed with you, did he sleep late? Jump up at the break of dawn? Did he cook for himself or eat cereal out of the box? Did he read before bed? Clean up after himself?”

Benji said, “I don’t know.”

“How can you not know? He lived here for a few days.”

“Yes, but I hardly saw him here. I leave by six to open the store, and he wasn’t up then. He did eat my food—leftover pasta and chicken, fruit, cereal, eggs—but I don’t know if he ate it out of the container or on a plate. He usually cleaned up after himself. I’m not sure if he read before he went to sleep. I hit the sack at ten.”

“You slept in your room?”

“In front. I’d say I was turning in, close my door, and that was it for the night.”

“Where did Chick sleep?” asked Amanda.

“On the couch.”

“On this couch?” she asked. “This is more like a love seat. How did he do it? He was well over six feet tall.”

“I don’t know,” said Benji. “I never thought about it.”

Amanda said, “First he slept on a very uncomfortable couch, and then on the basement floor at our place. His last few nights must have been tortured and restless. He grabbed food where he could, hungry, desperate, craving human contact. Chasing his dreams that would never come true.”

Frank said, “You’re romanticizing him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’m getting a different picture of Chick.”

“Such as?”

“He was a freeloading operator.”

Amanda gasped. “He was a botanist!”

Frank bit her lip. She could have gone into detail about Chick’s pattern of using someone until a door closed. If Amanda hadn’t humiliated him on their date, Frank was sure she would have had to deal with Chick sleeping at their place until she had to throw him out, too. In fact, it occurred to Frank, Chick’s intention was to seduce Amanda into opening her home to him. Maybe that was part of the reason he ran out of the Heights Cafe, so that Amanda would look for him the next day and beg him to stay with her. Could this be possible? Was Chick a manipulative user? Frank kept her theory to herself. The last thing she wanted to do was upset Amanda. Frank was surprised by how much she liked the idea of their complementing each other, that they’d not only opened up to each other, but a part of each had opened up inside the other. Frank didn’t want to spoil all that by popping Amanda’s Chick bubble.

Frank said, “You’re right. Chick was just down on his luck.”

Benji said, “Which brings me back to the murder. Does any of this trigger something for you, Amanda? Are you getting any of your messages?”

“It helps put Chick in context, but nothing is coming up,” she said. “Let me percolate for a few hours. Something may rise to the surface.”

“All I can ask is that you try,” said Benji.

Frank brushed off her jeans and stood, too. “Let’s go, Amanda.”

The sisters thanked Benji, wished him luck, and left. Out on the street, chilled by the air and by Benji’s plight, Amanda said, “All the time and energy we’ve spent building up Benji to be a ruthless adversary seems wasted. He’s just a desperate schmo.”

“Like the rest of us?” Frank asked as they walked.

“You don’t believe that for a second,” Amanda countered, “You think you’re damn smart. Admit it.”

“And you think you’re damn pretty.”

“Well, I do hate false modesty,” she said, batting her long lashes.

Frank said, “Matt might know where the rest of the coffee is.”

“We can ask him,” said Amanda.

“I’m curious about those beans.” Frank agreed that highly caffeinated beans would be attractive to consumers. Of course, if they caffeinated you to death, that was a problem. But this was only the first generation of the hybrid. Mixing robusta and liberica with arabica plants might make for greater caffeine content plus better taste. A refined hybrid could be worth a fortune.

Instead of turning on Montague Street to go home, Frank said to Amanda, “I have an idea. Take a walk with me.”

“Where are we going?” asked Amanda.

“Just come.”

Amanda shrugged, bundled her coat tighter, and followed Frank. They continued down Hicks Street all the way past the promenade, into the North Heights. Frank made a left onto Middaugh Street. It was one of those tucked-away single-block streets that felt out of place with the rest of Brooklyn Heights’ upscale Victorian style. Many of the houses on the block were made of wood, not brownstone. All of them were dilapidated, slouching with neglect, with withered shingles and paint-stripped front doors. This was the slum stretch of Brooklyn Heights, which was probably the equivalent of the ritziest street on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. They walked the length of the block, stopping on the corner of Clinton Street. Frank looked up at a sagging gray house. She checked the number on the door and said, “We’re here.”

She began knocking on the dirty gray door. The street-level windows were soaped white, but Frank could see heavy curtains hanging inside. She kept banging even though no one answered after a few minutes.

“I don’t think anyone’s home,” said Amanda.

“He’s sleeping,” Frank surmised. “He sleeps during the day.”

“Are we interviewing a vampire?” asked Amanda.

“A baker.”

At that moment a giant marshmallow answered the door. Patsie Strombo was wearing pink-striped pajamas that reminded Frank of Piglet from Winnie the Pooh, only about five thousand times the size. His brown hair was curled. And it was just that—a single hair wrapped around and around his head. His scalp looked like a cinnamon swirl.

“Whazzis,” he asked, more exhausted than angry.

Frank said, “Patsie Strombo, hi. I’m Francesca Greenfield. I send you a check each month.” Frank hadn’t laid eyes on him since high school. In the year of running the business, she and Patsie had corresponded with notes and phone messages, never face-to-face. “It’s been a while. You haven’t changed,” Frank noticed. He hadn’t. Maybe the hair was longer.

Patsie smiled, showing dingy teeth. “Francesca Greenfield. You look more and more like your father.”

“How’s your head, Patsie? I hope it’s okay,” said Amanda.

He smiled sleepily at her and said, “And you look just like your mother. My head is fine. I owe you an apology for frightening you like that.”

If Amanda lopped off his head, this guy would apologize for squirting too much blood, thought Frank. “May we come in?” she asked. It was cold on the street.

Once inside, Frank scanned the four hundred square feet. Against one wall loomed a double-size Sub-Zero fridge. Next to that, a massive Viking stove. Upon a huge table with a steel counter sat a five-gallon Cuisinart. In the back corner Frank spied a cot—a king-size cot, mind you—and an armoire. A door near the bed must have led to a utility bathroom with a stall shower.

“My work is my life,” said Patsie, as if to explain his living conditions.

Amanda said, “I really admire a man who isn’t obsessed with acquisition. Material objects can’t supply you with love or even peace of mind, and they certainly don’t get you one step closer to any kind of spiritual enlightenment.”

Patsie nodded. “At times, when I’m alone at midnight, making cookies, I can almost hear the sound of the earth spinning.”

“Zen and the art of dough baking?” asked Frank. Under the cot, she saw an ashtray and a small red bong.

Patsie shifted uncomfortably on his tiny feet, suddenly self-conscious. “What can I do for you?” he asked. “Is there any problem with the breadstuffs?”

Frank said, “No problem at all. But I was wondering if you happened to have found half a pound of coffee beans in our basement on one of your deliveries.”

“Half a pound of coffee?”

“I assume it was in a bag.”

“You never store coffee in the basement,” he said. He was right. Frank bought small amounts so the beans would stay fresh and kept it all upstairs.

“Maybe someone gave it to you? Or sold it to you?” Frank had a theory, the magic-beans theory. Chick was living in the basement, and he needed some cash quick to court Amanda. So he sold some magic beans to the giant. They must have crossed paths at some point in the basement. Frank wasn’t sure what Chick’d said about the beans to Patsie, but the baker wasn’t too swift.

“I smell something,” said Frank. Her bloodhound nose led her toward a baker’s rack near the stove. Each shelf held a different ambrosial treat: scones, cakes, muffins, pies, biscotti, little pots of crème brûlée. She couldn’t distinguish the coffee scent from goodie to goodie. Frank said, “It’s in here, right? The coffee is here.”

Patsie sighed wetly and nodded. “The brûlée took me hours. Double broilers. Ramekins. But they’re worth the effort. The recipe called for powdered coffee, so I had to grind the beans and then pulverize them by hand. And I love how the Coffee L’Orange Scones worked out. Two heaping tablespoons of fresh-ground coffee per dozen. I’ve already eaten a tray of those myself. Maybe that’s why I’ve been having trouble sleeping.” When he spoke, Patsie’s chin was nearly indistinguishable from his neck.

“What’s this?” Frank asked, lifting a pastry in a tiny tin dish.

“Good choice,” he said. “That is a Chiffon Caffe Mini Pie. Graham-cracker crust. Egg yolks. A cup of double-strength, extra-strong brewed coffee. Squeeze of fresh lemon juice—and a sprinkle of zest. Eat. Enjoy.”

Frank stripped the pie of its metal skirt and nibbled the crust. She took a bigger bite. “Ahh,” she cooed. It was incredible. Frank ate the whole thing. “I just destroyed evidence.”

Amanda said, “I’m confused. That’s the Vietnamese coffee? Baked into pastry?”

Patsie said, “Vietnamese? Matt said that the beans were specially grown in Singapore for baking.”

Matt? Matt sold him the beans? Well, Frank’s magic-beans theory was off, but only slightly. “You’re talking about Matt, the scruffy guy. The one who hit you on the head with the cappuccino machine?” asked Frank.

Patsie nodded, his chin disappearing. “Yes, him.”

“Thanks for your help,” said Frank. She’d have to find out how the beans had passed from Chick to Matt. No problem there. She’d just ask him. “Promise me one thing?” she said to Patsie. “Don’t eat or sell this stuff. Freeze it.” However terrible the beans were for brewing, they were fantastic for cooking. These Vietnamese jumping beans might have commercial potential after all. A caffeinated snack. Would Americans buy that?

Patsie agreed to freeze the coffee treats. The sisters thanked him, and they headed out. Patsie called after them. “Wait! Should I invoice you or Mr. Phearson for January? I can just send your bill to the Heights Cafe.”

“What does Todd Phearson have to do with our bakery bill?” Frank asked.

Patsie seemed confused. “Tomorrow is January fifteenth.”

“So?”

“You don’t know about the deal?”

Frank felt a chill, but not from the cold. “What deal?” she asked.

He shook his head. “You girls had better have a talk with Mr. Phearson.”

“I have nothing to say to him.”

“I’m sure he’ll have something to say to you,” said Patsie as he closed his weatherworn door.

A
manda feared the new setback would push Frank over the edge. She wasn’t having a problem herself. In fact, now that she’d found the edge to her personality, Amanda quite liked it. She could actually envision a crystalline sharpness forming in her brain, and wondered if her cheekbones would soon appear chiseled. There was much to be said for embracing the edge: just look at Frank, razor thin, a rapier intellect, a cutting sarcasm. But at that moment, Frank’s hard line was blurred by her hopping rage.

Amanda said, “Calm down.”

Frank said, “I’ll calm down when I’m dead.”

“I’m sure of that, Frank. But I wish you’d try to relax in the meantime.”

“Shut up, Amanda.”

The sisters watched as their nemesis-come-lately, Todd Phearson, taped a sign on Romancing the Bean’s metal gate. It read:
Property of the Phearson Restaurant Group
. He stood on his tiptoes to tape the top corners.

Todd finished his dirty work and hung the role of electrical tape around his wrist. He said, “Frankly, I’m surprised you girls didn’t know this was coming. Your parents never discussed their finances with you?”

Frank said, “We had an appointment with them to do just that, but they blew it off by dying.”

Todd said, “They should have explained this to you.”

Amanda said, “Why don’t you explain it to us?”

He looked up at Amanda and rolled his eyes, as if the exertion of talking was too much to contemplate. Then he said, “You know the ownership history, right?”

Frank said, “Our grandfather had a long-term lease, and Mom and Dad bought the building from your grandfather’s landlord about twenty-five years ago.”

Todd nodded. “Right. They got a thirty-year fixed-rate mortgage in the mid-seventies, when interest rates were sky-high. And they never refinanced after rates dropped! Your parents were never very good with money. Anyway, a little over a year ago, when Barney Greenfield’s started to falter, your parents wanted to take out a loan. But Citibank thought your folks were a bad risk, considering how they hovered on the verge of bankruptcy. So your folks came to me. I gave them a loan of fifty thousand dollars, plus ten percent interest, payable in just over a year’s time—that would be today, at five o’clock. If your parents—or their heirs—couldn’t make the payment, the title on the building would be turned over to me.”

Frank said, “That’s the stupidest deal I’ve ever heard. They had only a few years left on the mortgage. This building is worth at least eight hundred thousand dollars.”

Her sister was right, thought Amanda. Sure, it was small and run-down, but a Montague Street storefront with an upstairs apartment, in this real estate boom? Had to be worth a ton. It was their nest egg, the reason Amanda didn’t think she’d ever have to worry about retirement savings.

Todd said, “Go get yourself a buyer who will give you fifty-five thousand dollars in cash by five o’clock. I don’t care if you sell; I just want my money.”

“You’d rather have the building and you know it,” said Frank. “You intentionally kept this arrangement a secret from us so that we’d have no recourse. I want proof that this deal even exists.”

Todd removed a sheet of paper from his wool coat pocket. He handed it to Frank, and the sisters read it. The official-looking agreement was signed and notarized two days before their parents’ deaths. Amanda noticed that Bernie Zigler, their parent’s lawyer, had signed off on it. Why hadn’t he told them about this deal at the funeral? Had he forgotten to mention it in the melee?

“See the date? They probably planned on telling us, but they never got a chance to,” said Amanda.

Frank nodded. “We should have investigated any claims.”

“I just assumed all we had to do was pay the mortgage every month,” said Amanda.

“How could Mom and Dad have made this deal?” Frank asked. Amanda had wondered that, too. Their desperation was written all over that piece of paper. They must have been terrified of losing the store, but optimistic that a loan could revive business. Amanda was glad her parents didn’t have to see the man they thought of as a friend cut the sisters off at their knees.

Frank said, “I’m calling our lawyer.”

“Do,” said Todd.

The way he said it, Amanda suspected that Zigler, their parents’ trusted lawyer, was somehow involved in keeping this deal a secret. But she didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say.

Frank said to Todd, “No wonder you’ve been so hostile to us. When you said we were hurting your business, you didn’t mean the Heights Cafe; you meant Romancing the Bean.” Frank held the contract at Todd’s nose level and ripped it in half. The pieces fluttered in the wind and blew down the street.

“That’s a copy, Francesca. The original is locked in my desk at home.”

“It’s a fake,” she protested.

“Call Bernie Zigler. I’m sure he has your parents’ original in a vault. Perhaps in the confusion after Flo and Marv’s deaths, you overlooked it?” Now Amanda was sure the lawyer was in cahoots with Todd. She closed her eyes to the ugliness, but could still see it on the underside of her lids.

“And if we don’t come up with the money by the end of the day?” asked Frank. It was around 1:30
P.M
.

“I’ll come over with a locksmith and change the locks.”

“You’ll have to go through me first,” Frank said, plastering her body across the metal gate.

“So be it.”

“How are we supposed to get fifty-five thousand dollars in a few hours?” Amanda asked. “It’s impossible.”

Todd said, “I’d be happy to claim the store now.”

“Fuck you and a half,” Frank said to him.

Todd laughed as he headed back to the Heights Cafe. Amanda turned to Frank, hoping to hug. But Amanda could see that the softening of Frank had ceased. She was withdrawn again.

“I’m finding a major glitch in my overall life philosophy,” said Amanda. “I keep expecting the best, and getting the worst.”

“Even if you expected the worst, it’d still hurt when you got it, believe me,” said Frank.

“Can we go inside?” Amanda asked. “It’s freezing out here.”

They went upstairs to confer at home. Clarissa and Matt surprised them with a beautifully clean apartment. They’d scrubbed from top to bottom. They must have worked hard—this was the first time Amanda had seen a sheen of sweat on Clarissa’s brow (and it looked good on her, too). Matt was mopey as he held a broom. Amanda hugged both of them in thanks.

Clarissa said, “We couldn’t help overhearing your conversation on the street.”

“Not with our heads out the front window,” added Matt.

The sisters were led by Matt into the kitchen (sparkling, shiny, and smelling of bleach) and they sat down at the nicely loaded table (hot tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches). Amanda wanted to ask Matt about selling the coffee to Patsie. But she’d been so battered already. And why should she expect anything but lies from him? After a lifetime of trusting strangers, friends, lovers, anyone who seemed kind, Amanda realized that the only person she could really count on was her sister. Instead of loneliness at the thought, Amanda felt a reassuring calm. Funneling her trust into one person—her family—had more kick than the diffuse, free-floating goodwill she’d spread around the cosmos. Focus fortified her. If she’d been searching for direction, she now had it: her new life goal, one notch above finding a soul mate, was Frank’s happiness and stability.

While Frank went into her bedroom to call Bernie Zigler, Amanda enjoyed some lunch. She said to Matt and Clarissa, “Thanks for cleaning up. I wish I could believe you had honorable intentions, but it’s more likely both of you acted out of guilt, not kindness.”

Frank came into the kitchen. Her face told the story of her phone call. “We have bigger sharks to skewer, Amanda,” said Frank. “I think Zigler is in on this deal. He was so unctuous in his apology. ‘How could I forget to discuss this with you?’ he said. I hate him. And, of course, Todd will have to be killed.”

“I’ll have to dig up my arsenic and old lace,” said Amanda.

“I’m serious.”

“You don’t have to kill him.” The sisters turned to face Matt, still holding his broom. “You just have to pay him,” he said. A fine assessment of the obvious-yet-impossible, thought Amanda.

“You stole from us,” Frank said.

Matt put a finger to his chest. “Me?”

“You sold Patsie the baker some coffee beans you found in our basement,” she explained. “If that bag was in our basement, it was our property.”

“Chick left the beans in the basement. I sold them to Patsie before I knew you had any interest in them.”

“You could have said something.”

“You didn’t ask,” he responded.

Frank pursed her lips. “If you knew Patsie already, why did you bash him on the head when Amanda came down the basement steps?”

Matt stammered. “He grabbed her.”

“So?” Frank asked.

“Just because you’ve done business with a guy doesn’t mean he’s not a rapist. He grabbed Amanda; she was screaming. I picked up the first heavy object I could get my hands on and clobbered him. I worked on instinct, Francesca. I let my natural urges guide me.”

Frank stared at him blankly. Amanda was a bit flattered that Matt was so protective of her, even if she hadn’t been in any real danger.

He plucked the rubber gloves off his fingers. “Amanda, let’s take a walk. I know when I’m not appreciated.” He glared at Frank. She scrunched her eyebrows at him.

Amanda wanted to stay with her sister, but Frank said, “Go ahead. If Matt’s instinctive natural urges are guiding him outside, who am I to stand in his way?”

“I’m surprised you can be so flip at a time like this, Francesca,” said Clarissa, leaning against the fridge. “You’re about to lose everything. Your store. Your self-respect.”

“Yes, I’ve lost a lot. Only my virginity and my sense of humor left,” said Frank.

Clarissa gasped. “You’re a virgin?”

“So much for my sense of humor.”

The phone rang. Amanda reached to pick up the receiver, but Frank waved her off, saying, “Let the machine get it.”

The answering machine picked up after the third ring. The four people in the kitchen waited patiently. Finally a voice came over the speaker: “Francesca, it’s Walter.” Someone gasped. Amanda assumed it was her, but she wasn’t sure. Frank stared at the wall inscrutably. The message continued: “If you’re there, please pick up. Okay, I don’t blame you for screening. And you’ll probably never speak to me again. But you have to know the truth. I didn’t write that story. Piper Zorn wrote it and put my name on it. He badgered me into telling him about our date. I admit that I went out with you for information, but after we…after I got to talk to you, I knew I couldn’t stay on the story. Zorn threatened to fire me if I didn’t tell him what we talked about. So I told him. I assumed he knew. He seemed to know everything else about you. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I’m humble and groveling. I’m sure you never want to talk to me again. But please reconsider. I really care about you, Francesca. I had a great time last night. I want to see you. You’ve got to give me another chance. I’ll call back later. I’ll call back every day if I have to.”
Click.

Amanda studied Frank carefully. She tried to pick up on her sister’s vibe. What would she do? Amanda suspected Frank would blow him off. That was probably a good idea: he was tainted. Frank must have felt the six eyes on her. This moment, suspended almost, was heavy, palpable.

“How’s it feel to be a player?” Clarissa asked Frank. Amanda thought that was an astute question. Frank was usually an observer, a witness, in life. But this moment was all about her. She was the main character in a romantic drama. And from all appearances—she wasn’t wet eyed or flushed or jittery—Frank was coping.

Frank said, “To forgive is to let go. So I think I’ll hate him forever. That way I get to keep him.”

Amanda said, “Forgiving gradually might be wiser.”

“You and Matt were going to take a walk?” asked Frank.

When they got outside, Matt asked Amanda, “You think she’ll call him?”

Amanda hoped she wouldn’t. “I have no intention of discussing personal matters with a deceiver like you.”

“Oh, come on, Amanda. I totally forgot about those coffee beans. I don’t like it that you don’t trust me. I want you to have faith in me.”

She said, “How much did you get for the bag of beans?”

“Ten bucks.”

“You could have gotten more,” she said.

“I don’t need more,” he said. They were walking across Montague Street as they talked. Once they’d stepped up on the curb, Matt said, “Here we are.”

“The Olive Vine?” asked Amanda. “You crave olives?” They stood in front of the tiny specialty store that fulfilled Brooklyn Heights’ olive, olive oil, and olive paste needs. There was also a Western Union wire in back.

The owner, Mrs. Vitz, couldn’t be a fan of the
Post
. Amanda accepted her warm greeting, her fat, dangly upper arms encircling Amanda’s neck, cutting off the precious flow of oxygen to her brain. Amanda loved physical affection. She was practically the Queen of Hug. But when Mrs. Vitz enveloped her with her olive smell, Amanda cringed. “Hello, Mrs. Vitz,” she said warmly. “How are you today?”

“It’s Monday,” she griped. “How should I feel?”

“Happy?” Amanda tried.

“Happy? Feh!”

“I bet you could tell me stories.”

“Don’t get me started.”

Matt said, “What the hell is that?” He was pointing at a twenty-gallon vat, filled to the top with olive oil and giant green olives the size of plums.

“Harvested by hundred-year-old farmers in a remote island—not bigger than a square mile—off the coast of Greece,” said Mrs. Vitz. “So luscious, so tasty, after you have one, you can never go back.”

“How much?” he asked.

“Thirty dollars a pound.”

Matt whistled. “That’s outrageous.”

Amanda explained, “If you love olives, price is no object.”

Mrs. Vitz pinched her cheek. “Sweetie,” she said, and then squeezed the stuffing out of Amanda again. “Such a pretty face.”