Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,58

had been seeing the man off and on for quite some time now. Well over seventy, Dr. McTavish bore a passing resemblance to Sean Connery. Like the actor who played 007, the esteemed oncologist from St. Vincent’s cut an imposing figure even at his advanced age. Unlike Mr. Connery, however, Dr. McTavish had retained most of his iron gray hair.

Madame murmured something sweet to the doctor and the years seemed to melt away from her face as she listened to his response. A few minutes later, she was closing the cell phone and declaring, “It pays to have connections within the healthcare community.”

I would have barked, “Spill,” but because this was Madame, I politely asked, “What did you discover?”

Madame’s eyes brightened—clearly all this detective stuff was up her proverbially dark alley. “Mr. Jeffrey Lugar was brought to St. Vincent’s for triage the night of the incident. After he was diagnosed with cyanide poisoning and his condition had been stabilized, he was transferred to the poison treatment center at Bellevue Hospital for long-term care.”

Madame leaned over the front seat, touched Mr. Raj’s arm. “We’d like to go to Bellevue Hospital. That’s on—”

“First Avenue at Twenty-seventh Street. I am quite familiar with the institution, Mrs. Dubois,” he replied with a smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Raj.”

Madame faced me. “I do hope we can help poor Tucker. He must feel so alone, abandoned, and isolated.”

“He knows we’re trying to help, that he’s not completely alone,” I replied.

Madame nodded. “Loneliness is a terrible thing. Perhaps the most terrible thing. I could face poverty, illness, even death with courage. But not loneliness and isolation…I need people in my life, Clare.”

“Is that why you received Lottie Harmon so graciously when she returned to New York?”

“That’s one reason, of course. But in the past I’d always enjoyed Lottie’s company. Unfortunately, the years have changed her.”

“Changed her? How?”

“She’s just not the same carefree person anymore. Now she’s always on edge, you know?”

“What do you mean, on edge? Can you be more specific?”

“Well, let me see…” Madame pursed her lips in thought. “Her laugh, for instance. It’s so strained. It actually makes me uncomfortable, to tell you the truth. It never used to. And the sidelong glances filled with concern. She’s very fussy now…a worry wart. Yet she was once so lighthearted, so free and easy. She’s just not comfortable in her own skin anymore—it was a trait I’d always admired about her, but now it’s vanished.”

“I know what you mean. She’s too self-conscious. And her manner seems affected—not insincere, so much as strained. Like her laugh—too loud, too strident. Like she’s covering up for something.”

Madame nodded. “The poise she had. The self-assurance. It’s gone…But I suppose life can do that to a person.”

“What in life, do you think?”

Madame frowned. “A tragedy, perhaps…or a succession of romantic or other disappointments…” Madame’s voice faded. She seemed lost in thought. “I wish I could tell you more,” she finally concluded.

It was my turn to frown. “We’ve run out of clues, I think. Even this visit to Jeff Lugar—it’s an act of desperation. I couldn’t tell you what I hope to accomplish.”

“Well, don’t fret, my dear. It’s the decent thing to do,” she pointed out. “That man was poisoned in our coffeehouse. The least we could do is pay him a visit. If we don’t learn anything from Mr. Lugar, we’ll try other avenues.”

“Well, whatever happens, I want you to give the good Dr. McTavish my thanks.”

“He was happy to help. He wasn’t aware Jeff Lugar had even been at St. Vincent’s or he would have snooped on our behalf much sooner…He as much as said so.”

I decided to risk Madame’s disapproving stare and pry. “Now that we’ve mentioned him, how are things between the good doctor and yourself?”

It was, of course, a big mistake to bring up romance because Madame turned the question back to me so fast I actually felt a little dizzy—or maybe it was car sickness.

“We were speaking, I believe, about how Lottie Harmon has changed,” Madame said stiffly. “And since we are on the subject of change, what do you think of Matteo’s efforts to remake himself?”

“His newfound entrepreneurial spirit, you mean?”

“I mean the way he looks at you, Clare. Don’t you see how differently he treats you?”

“No, actually,” I replied, recalling the mysterious lipstick I found on his collar. I sighed, wondering how my relationship with my ex-husband had suddenly become the topic of conversation.

“You must admit that Matteo has taken a new interest in the business.”

I nodded,