Espresso Shot

Unfortunately for Roman, his exalted family of judges, physicians, and scientists had been appalled by his desire to make a career in restaurant work. They pressured him through four years of premed before he ditched it all and moved to New York City.

Cut off from their financial support, he couldn’t afford culinary school, so he took jobs waiting tables in fine restaurants, befriended the chefs and sommeliers, and began to write chatty, flamboyant pieces on food and dining under the name Brio (a pen name made legal) for the Village Voice. Before long, glossy magazines like New York Scene and Food & Wine were publishing his work, and he was cowriting cook-books and memoirs with some of the city’s most talked-about chefs.

I’d first met the man last fall, during a coffee-tasting party at the Beekman Hotel, then again during my investigation of Chef Tommy Keitel’s death. (Roman knew New York ’s foodie scene better than the back of his chubby hand, so he was a valuable informant, to say the least.)

It was a stroke of luck seeing him here, since he’d been friends with Brea

I tugged Matt’s apricot Polo shirt, or more precisely the snug-fitting sleeve above his bulging biceps. “I’m going to speak with Roman.”

“Fine. I’m going into the fitting room area to find Brea

We parted, and I headed over to the white leather couch.

“Hello there, Roman. How’ve you been?”

The food writer glanced up from his magazine. “Why, Clare Cosi! Hello there, yourself.” He took in my worn jeans, scuffed boots, and long-sleeved cotton jersey. “Were you looking for the Gap, sweetie? It’s up the street.”

“No, Roman. I’m here on purpose to… help out Brea

Roman’s dark eyes brightened. “Do tell?”

“Matt’s going to find her and explain it all.” I pointed at the departing back of my ex-husband. Roman’s gaze followed the man’s posterior with nearly as much appreciation as Sue Ellen Bass had the night before. Then he shut his magazine and patted the empty seat next to him on the couch.

“Sit down, Clare. This I’ve got to hear.”

Roman was not unfamiliar with the history of my sleuthing, especially the cases I’d solved in the Hamptons and at the Beekman, and I knew I could trust him. I told him the basics of the situation and asked him to keep my mission to himself for now. I’d talk to Brea

“Certainly,” he said. “I don’t envy the job ahead of you. Brea

“That’s what Matt’s mother said.”

“Are you sure she didn’t pull that trigger last night?”

“Almost positive.”

Just then, I noticed Matt already striding back to the boutique’s lobby. He was rubbing his forehead, his features displaying a look of exasperation.

“What’s wrong?” I asked as he approached the couch.

“Brea

“It is,” Roman said flatly.

“It’s a long-standing superstition,” I agreed.

Matt frowned and met my eyes. “It wasn’t with you.”

Oh, for pity’s sake. “I didn’t have a wedding gown, just a white sundress. Don’t you remember? We were married at City Hall.”

With a male grunt of exasperation, Matt whipped out his cell phone and called Bree. I could hear her ringtone jingling somewhere in the back. Tensely pacing the ocher marble, Matt spilled everything to Brea

I could tell by Matt’s end of the conversation that Brea

“Calm down, honey,” Matt cooed into the phone. “Yes, I know what we discussed, but it was a surprise bachelor party…”

Roman glanced at me. “A look-alike stripper?” His impish eyes danced. “Soooo tacky.”

I leaned toward Roman, lowered my voice. “Listen, would you mind going back there and reasoning with her?”

“Sorry, Clare. I don’t see what I can do. The poor woman’s been in a state for days. Bride’s nerves.” He shrugged.

“Just talk to her? In the interest of premarital peace? Matt’s not going to give in on this. And he’s not going away until she does give in. Try telling her that.”

Roman sighed. “All right, I’ll give it a shot-” He froze. “Ooooh, bad choice of words.”

“Good God, yes.”

With a grimace, he headed off. I waited for him to move through one of four archways off the lobby, then I covertly followed.

Once out of the front showroom, the ochre marble gave way to a wide corridor holding more display cases. A thirty-ish, elegantly dressed boutique employee noticed me and asked, with a trenchant scan of my clothes, if I had an appointment.

I replied that I was a close personal friend of Ms. Summour, who was now being fitted.

“Oh, of course,” the woman said, her censuring tone immediately turning ingratiating. “Is there anything Ms. Summour needs?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course!” The woman instantly backed off.

It’s a doggone shame, I thought, picking up Roman’s trail again, how well naked condescension works in some corners of this city…

The fitting rooms weren’t far from the lobby. The corridor opened up into a spacious area, including the largest three-way mirror I’d ever seen-it practically took up an entire wall.

There were lots of closed white doors flanking the mirror. Roman had approached one. He a

I stepped up to the door, pressing my ear to the thin, lacquered wood.

“I spoke with Matteo outside,” Roman began. “Your groom is very worried about you. It’s sweet that he wants Clare to look out for you. Why don’t you let her?”

“Sweet? Ha! Is that what you call it?” Brea

Chihuahua? I thought. That’s insulting. I’ve always thought of myself as a Jack Russell terrier.

“Listen, honey-” (Roman again.) “Weren’t you the one who kicked him out of your apartment for the week?”

“For his own comfort! I’m having the bedroom redone as part of an upcoming Trend design feature. The place is a complete mess.”

“And you’re having a few little things ‘done’ this week on yourself as well, right?”

“Well… that’s true, too. The treatments do leave me rather puffy in the mornings.”

“Translation: the man loves your sausage, but you’d rather he not see how it’s made.”

“It’s not just that. This wedding has a thousand details to be overseen. The last thing I need this week is Clare Cosi pretending to be a sleuth.”

“She doesn’t have to pretend, honey. She’s already solved more than one homicide.”

“If you ask me, this is simply a ploy to ruin the wedding. That wa