it. Ric must have borrowed that cutting to show to Monika Van Doorn and her people at Dutch International. I’m sure everyone was impressed, and Dutch International signed the contract. Now Ric is going to deliver beans. Only they’re not going to be from his hybrid decaf plants—”
“They’re going to be Mexican water-processed decaffeinated Bogotá packed in Gostwick Estate Reserve Decaf bags,” Matt said, finishing my thought.
I nodded. “It’s the Kona scandal all over again. Only this time you and I are right in the middle of it.”
“But you didn’t do anything wrong,” Matt assured me. “It’s all my fault. I helped Ric smuggle the cutting, and I’m an accessory to fraud. Not you.”
“I’m in this with you, Matt. Both of our reputations are on the line, not to mention the reputation of this coffeehouse. It’s ugly what Ric is doing, but we have to face it. The Village Blend is about to become a party to fraud.”
Matt stood. “It isn’t fraud if it’s exposed. I’m going to pay a visit to Monika Van Doorn. I’m going to tell her what I know, and what I suspect. After that, it’s between her and Ric.”
“But you don’t even know where the woman is staying.”
“Yes I do. Mother’s invited to the Dutch International Halloween party tonight. The RSVP contact is a number at the Waldorf=Astoria. So I called the hotel and checked with the desk clerk. The Van Doorns have been staying in a suite for over a month.”
I rose to join my ex-husband. “Let’s go.”
OUTSIDE the weather was blustery; the storm from the night before hadn’t completely dissipated. Periods of menacing clouds were followed by flashes of blue skies. After I instructed Tucker to call in barista help, Matt and I flagged a cab on Hudson and rode uptown.
The old, original Waldorf=Astoria was located where the Empire State Building now stands. The current structure is a forty-seven story art deco landmark on Park Avenue. The grand hotel has been a temporary home for kings, princes, and the über-wealthy. I was reminded of that fact when we exited the cab on Forty-ninth Street and saw the commemorative plaque affixed to the wall. (Former President Herbert Hoover and retired U.S. General Douglas MacArthur had both lived in Waldorf suites.)
Matt paid the fare while I stepped into the crowd. I glanced up at the MetLife Building looming in the background. Then I glanced at the hotel’s majestic entrance and stopped short.
Matt joined me on the sidewalk. “Let’s go.”
“Wait,” I cried, dragging him off to the side.
Matt resisted, so I pulled harder. “Clare, what’s the matter with you?”
“That man, coming out of the hotel,” I whispered, trying not to point. “That’s Neils Van Doorn, Monika’s husband.”
He followed my gaze. “No way, honey. Look at the way he’s dressed. Van Doorn always looks as if he just posed for a “Fashions of the Times” layout. That guy’s either a recent immigrant or a style-challenged tourist.”
Matt was certainly right about the clothes. Neils wore a lime green polyester track suit and matching jacket over an orange sweatshirt. The shiny material was decorated with shoelace trim in chocolate brown. Not even the discount chains would be caught dead selling clothes that tasteless. Neils Van Doorn was wearing the kind of cheap stuff hanging on racks outside outlet stores on Fourteenth Street, right down to the no-name twenty-dollar sneakers on his size twelve feet.
“That’s him!” I insisted, seizing Matt’s hand and tugging him back to the middle of the sidewalk again. “He’s waiting at the light. Look at his face when he turns . . . There.”
Matt nodded. “You’re right. I don’t get the clothes, though. Maybe that’s his Halloween costume. Superior Dutchman dresses as typical American hip-hop mook.”
“Too subtle for an elitist’s Halloween costume,” I replied, still dragging Matt by the hand. “Men like Van Doorn dress up as Julius Caesar or Napoléon Bonaparte. I think he’s wearing a disguise.”
Matt touched his forehead. “So now we’re going to follow him, right?”
“From a distance. We don’t want to spook him.”
“Don’t you need a license to do detective work in this state?” Matt shot back. “I have an idea. Why don’t you follow him, and I’ll go talk to his wife.”
“No!” I cried, dragging my ex-husband across the street. “There’s plenty of time to corner Monika later. Anyway, I’m too nervous to follow Van Doorn alone. In that disguise, who knows what kind of dive or dump he’s heading for.”
Matt rolled his eyes. “Clare. This is gentrified Manhattan in the