On What Grounds (Coffeehouse Mysteries, No. 1) (A Coffeehouse Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page A

her. Why else would there be such a note of tremendous pride in her voice when she told her tales of sobering up Jackson Pollack, William de Kooning, and other abstract expressionists at the Blend with more than one pot of hot black French roast? Or allowing the occasional struggling poet (such as the young Jean-Louis—“Jack”—Kerouac) or evicted playwright to sleep on one of the second-floor couches?
    Upon my arrival, Madame emerged from her bedroom suite still wearing mourning black, yet elegant and regal as ever. The unadorned dress was impeccably tailored. Her only jewelry was Pierre’s diamond and platinum wedding band. Her hair, once a rich dark brown, had long ago turned gray and was now rinsed a beautiful silver and blunt-cut above her shoulders. Today she wore it in a French twist, a sleek and simple black pearl comb holding it in place.
    This elegant façade had deceived many over the years into assuming Madame was nothing more than an elite socialite.
    But I knew the truth.
    There was unbreakable marble in that woman’s satin glove, and I’d seen it unveiled on every sort of person in this city: from corrupt health inspectors, shady garbage collectors, and chauvinist vendors to bratty debutantes, self-important executives, and narcissistic ex-hippies.
    The key to Madame’s contradictions was quite simple, really. Although her family had been very wealthy back in prewar Paris, they’d lost everything to the Nazi invasion and were forced to flee to struggling relatives in America with nothing but the clothes on their backs.
    Little Blanche Dreyfus may have been raised a pampered, cultured Old World girl, but her harrowing trip to America, during which both her mother and sister had died of pneumonia, made her grateful for its shelter, and every day since her arrival in the New World, she had risen from her bed determined to make a contribution to its greatest city.
    So you see, no matter what her affectations, her core beliefs were no different from any other destitute immigrant’s. Few people recognized this, but I had, because of my own immigrant grandmother, who’d pretty much raised me from the age of seven. Grandma Cosi had the same sense of honor, of spirit, that same combination of gratefulness, determination, and frayed-lace pride. I suppose that’s why Madame liked me so much. I guess she knew how deeply I understood her.
    “What did Flaste do with the cash, by the way? I mean, after he’d sold the Blend’s plaque?” I asked without preamble.
    (Madame and I had always shared the ability to resume conversations within hours, days, or even weeks of when we’d started them.)
    “He immediately spent it,” Madame said as we settled into the French antiques showroom that served as the Dubois salon. “The bill confirmed the entire transaction amount was used to purchase a pair of cuff links apparently worn by Jerry Lewis during the opening night party for Cinderfella. ”
    “You’re joking.”
    “Clare, you know I never joke when it comes to swindlers.”
    “Yes,” I said, “but still, he sounds more like a movie buff than a criminal.”
    “Mad for celebrity. Like most of the Western world. I’m sure he wanted to show them off at those theater parties he was always attending.”
    “Well, if it’s a piece of fame he wanted to own, it’s a wonder he didn’t keep the plaque itself, given its noteworthy place in cultural history—”
    “Oh, yes,” Madame said with sublime gravity. “An O. Henry short story, an Andy Warhol print, and a Bob Dylan song…at last count.”
    “Of course I can also see where Flaste wouldn’t want it,” I said. “I mean, it’s not as if he could wear a ten-pound brass plaque to a cocktail party. Even as a conversation piece, it would be cumbersome.”
    “A swindler, I say. With a revolting lack of respect for the Blend’s heritage. And a pig besides.”
    “You mean prig, don’t you?” I asked.
    “ Pig, my dear. In the six months since I hired