been very angry with Breanne lately?”
“Not that I know of. They’ve always been pretty tight. Before Monica was promoted, she used to be Ms. Summour’s assistant.”
“You mean like you are now?”
Terri nodded.
“So you trust Monica?”
The young woman laughed nervously again. “I didn’t say that—and why do you care, anyway?”
We arrived in a room with a fridge, cupboards, and some vending machines. The space was empty. I closed the door and lowered my voice.
“I’m trying to help your boss right now, Terri. You can trust me on this: my questions are important. So tell me the truth. Why wouldn’t you trust Monica?”
“It’s just that . . .” Terri shrugged. “Monica can be slippery sometimes.”
“What do you mean by slippery?”
Terri looked away. “She’ll say one thing to someone’s face—like she thinks an idea for an article is really good, you know?—and then she’ll turn around and deny it in a big meeting.” She shook her head a little, like she was getting agitated. “I heard that when Monica was Breanne’s assistant, she undermined some older editors with that sort of thing, going to Ms. Summour before a meeting, telling her about this or that idea she’d overheard and spinning it badly, totally dissing the thing before the editor got the chance to present things her way. One editor felt so demoralized with the pattern, she just quit. That’s when Ms. Summour promoted Monica over other junior people into the woman’s job.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Before I started here. About four years.”
“Has that older editor been in touch lately? Maybe threatened your boss?”
Terri shook her head. “The woman got married and moved to Australia with her new husband. I hear she’s doing really well, started her own e-book publishing company.” She checked her watch. “Listen, we better get that coffee started. Ms. Summour’s going to be pissed.”
Oh, God forbid Ms. Summour should be pissed. “Okay, fine, let’s see what we’ve got to work with here.”
I rummaged around the cupboards and fridge, satisfied with what I found (at first). There was a small grinder and a bag of whole coffee beans beside the microwave. I found milk in the fridge and a few lemons, no doubt for the many tea drinkers on staff (one entire cupboard was filled with herbal, green, and “weight-loss” varieties). Unfortunately for me, the situation deteriorated from there.
The drip coffeemaker stank of mildew. It probably hadn’t been cleaned since the Carter administration. And the beans on the counter were nearly as old. The French roast was a quality Arabica, purchased from the Whole Foods Market in the basement. The beans might have been okay if the vacuum bag hadn’t been left wide open (air and light being the enemies of freshness). I sniffed the shrunken black gravel and gagged at the level of bitterness.
Great.
Nunzio was an Italian artist, born and raised in a country with over 200,000 espresso bars and a century-old tradition of serious java making. If I served him this swill, he’d probably spit it out right in front of me.
I considered my options and had a thought.
“Terri, you have a product closet here, don’t you?” (I remembered Matt scoring a few choice items when Breanne invited him to peruse the thing.)
“That’s right,” Terri said. “It’s down the hall.”
“Show me.”
It took me all of three minutes to dig among the straightening wands, kitchen appliances, shower attachments, and exercise devices to find a home espresso maker, sent gratis to the magazine in hopes of getting a mention in Trend’s Hot Products page. As a bonus, I even found a set of espresso cups and a serving tray. Terri helped me carry everything to the break room, where I hurriedly set it up.
“Do you know where Bouchon Bakery is, Terri?”
“You’re kidding, right? Everyone in this building knows where it is: right downstairs in the lobby shops, follow the smell of warm croissants.”
I fished out some cash (after all, if Bree could buy me a $900 outfit, the least I could do was spring for some decent joe). “Go down to the bakery’s take-out counter and buy a package of their whole bean coffee—”
“Their what?”
“Bouchon doesn’t just peddle éclairs and tartlets. They sell freshly roasted coffee beans in small bags. Ask for whole bean. Not preground and not decaffeinated.”
“Whole bean. Not decaf. Got it,” Terri said, giving me a team-player thumbs-up.
Bouchon Bakery was run by Thomas Keller, one of the greatest American chefs alive. And the coffee beans I’d just sprung for weren’t only served at the man’s bakery twenty-two floors