by Cleo Coyle
“Sorry, big guy,” Moirin replied, hands linked behind her back in a professional posture. “This party’s dry.”
“No, it’s not,” the giant replied, “I just sucked down some spiked whipped cream from inside those ‘Little Match Girl’ Brandy Snaps. No buzz, though. You must have something with booze in it over here!”
“I’m not tweekin’ you,” Moirin assured him. “We’ve got nothing with spirits at this table.”
Muscle man flashed a grin full of cornpone charm, but the good humor didn’t quite reach his chilly blue eyes. “I don’t know about that. You sound like you got a lot of spirit.”
Almost certainly a professional athlete, it was clear this man was also a player of another sort.
“Hey, I’ve seen your cute tail,” he said, tone flirtatious, “downtown—at Cheshire and Daddy-O. You’re a club girl, aren’t you?”
“I follow a few bands, that’s all.”
“Are you a hockey fan?”
That’s when it hit me, who this guy was—
“I’m Ross Puckett, captain of the New York Raiders . . .”
Puckett was the reason Mike Quinn’s son was so excited about this party. Earlier, I’d glimpsed the hockey star, handing out free jerseys and tousling hair. But on the ice he’d worn his helmet and bulky uniform. I hadn’t recognized him without all the hockey gear. Obviously, he’d done a quick change in the men’s room before joining the adult section of this party.
Grinning at Moirin, he thrust out a meaty hand, but he wasn’t looking for a polite shake. “How about you put your personal flask in my palm, and I’ll cross yours with a dead president.”
Moirin blinked under her black bangs. “Which one?”
“Ben Franklin.”
Her lips twitched. “Franklin’s on the U.S. hundred, that’s true. And he is dead. But he was never your president.”
“Oh, you are a cute one.” His grin grew. “Give it over.”
Moirin sighed. “Now why would you be thinkin’ I carry a flask?”
“You’re Irish, aren’t you?”
Oh man. What a jerk. To M’s credit, she kept her temper.
“I reckon I am Irish. But believe me, Mr. Puckett. I don’t have one. I don’t even own one.”
Puckett’s response was to step around the cookie display.
M stepped back, surprised and a little intimidated by the giant man’s nerve. “Shoo, now, mister,” she said, clearly trying to keep things light. “On the other side of the table with you!”
“Not until I search you, lassie.”
Was this Puckett’s ham-handed way of flirting? Or was he just a pushy alkie, getting off on intimidation?
I could see Moirin struggling with this one. If she were on the street or in a club, I had no doubt she’d put him in his place. But this wasn’t any guy. Causing a scene with a celebrity like Puckett could embarrass Janelle.
Well, I could handle myself, too. As he reached out to paw her, I stepped up. “So, how is your evening going, M?!”
Ross Puckett blinked, a little surprised when I moved behind the display and elbowed my way between them, hard.
“Janelle told me you had a supply problem. She sent me over with this box of doilies!”
I waved the box, “accidentally” bouncing it off Ross Puckett’s rock-hard chest.
“Oops! Sorry about that, sir! Listen, Janelle had specific instructions about the display. You’d better let me arrange these for you . . .”
“Oh yeah, Clare. That’s daycent of you,” M said, biting back her laughter.
I tore open the box and laid out the doilies in four neat piles of twenty-five each. As I worked, I made sure to “accidentally” bump and elbow Giant Man. Finally, I tromped on the shiny leather toes of his very expensive shoes.
That did it. He’d had enough.
By the time I was finished “arranging things” not much was different, except that the display’s doily supply had been replenished, and Ross Puckett was in front of the display again.
“There. All set,” I declared.
“Thanks, Clare,” Moirin said. “For everything.”
“So,” I said, addressing Ross Puckett this time. “I see by those half dozen Brandy Snaps in your pocket that you visited Rita Limon’s table. I haven’t met the woman, but I hear her display is fantastic.”
“Yeah,” he said, still a bit dazed by my passive-aggressive intervention.
“Did you know those Brandy Snaps were inspired by the Hans Christian Andersen story ‘The Little Match Girl’? See how the tubular brown cookies look like matchsticks? And the cherries on the ends—I see your cherries are gone—resemble the red match head?”
“I ate the cherries,” Puckett said. “Sucked out the spiked cream inside, too, but, uh . . . not much fire for a match, if you get my drift.”
“I do understand . . .” I turned on my “difficult customer” smile. “How about I fix you up with a nice Irish coffee—heavier on the Irish than the coffee? That’s what you need, right?”
“Sounds good,” Puckett said, then his eyes narrowed. “So long as I don’t have to stand too close to you while you pour it.”
“It’s a deal. Follow me to the coffee bar.” I set off with the giant in tow.
“Catch you later, club girl,” Puckett called over his shoulder.
M didn’t reply.
I grabbed Esther’s arm a moment later and explained the drink order.
“Make it a double,” Ross Puckett called.
“Coming right up,” Esther promised beneath her green Grinch Peruvian Beanie (believe it or not, this was her holiday hat of choice). “By the way, boss, where are the stirrers?”
“Whoops! I’ll be right back . . .”
I returned to the kitchen and located a box. On my way back to the coffee bar, I noticed that Moirin had another visitor.
Dressed casually for this affair, the young man wore tight denims—black to match his leather jacket. His hair was dark, too, and rakishly shaggy. It framed a boyish, dimpled face. He was shaking his finger at Moirin, but not in a threatening way. It was more like teasing.
M wasn’t nearly as composed as she was with Ross Puckett. Her arms were no longer behind her back in a professional server’s posture, but waving madly, and her smile was far from carefree—it looked more like a smirking challenge.
This must be the mysterious Dave, I thought, Moirin’s boyfriend.
I remembered her reaction to his call in the shop that afternoon. She said she’d been expecting it, and the look on her face when she got it was one of almost smug pleasure.
Something about that call—including the way she rushed into our back pantry to keep it private—made me think something was up. Whether it was good or bad, I couldn’t say.
I was about to go over and introduce myself (i.e., snoop) when Esther called out to me. The box of coffee stirrers in my hand reminded me I had work to do. By the time I was free again, Dave was gone.
Five
“AND you didn’t hear any part of the conversations between Moirin and her young man?” Detective Endicott asked. “On the phone or at the party?”
I shook my head. “At the coffeehouse, Moirin kept her call private. At the party, I was too far away, but Moirin was clearly worked up, waving madly, and the young man seemed passionate. Emotional.”
“Emotional? How do you mean?” Lori pressed. “Hostile? Angry?”
“More like agitated.”
“And you don’t know his full name? Where he lives?”
“No, I don’t. But her full-time employer might . . .” I gave them Janelle’s name, address, and phone.
“All right, Soles, I think we’ve heard enough from Ms. Cosi,” Endicott snapped, silencing us with a backhand gesture reminiscent of a conductor starting a major performance. “Can we begin?”
Lori nodded, pen poised to scribble, and Detective Endicott began to describe the crime scene in a clinical monotone.
“The victim’s name is Moirin F
agan. Female. Caucasian. Approximately five feet, five inches tall. I would guess her weight at around one hundred and twenty pounds. Age between twenty and thirty—”
“Moirin is twenty-five,” I broke in.
“Twenty-five,” Endicott amended. “According to a bystander. Make a note to confirm from an authoritative source.”
“What? Like her driver’s license?” I shot Lori a look: How in the world did this clown get to be a New York City detective?!
Lori mouthed a one-word reply that reminded me why some municipal promotions are not made of sugar and spice and everything nice: politics.
“. . . because of an ambient temperature of approximately thirty-three degrees Fahrenheit, the time of death is difficult to determine at this point in the investigation—”
“No it’s not,” I interrupted again. “The last time I saw Moirin was eight thirty, almost exactly. I’m sure she was killed soon after. And there’s a way to determine that, too.”
“I very much doubt it.” Endicott speared Lori. “You see why I don’t trust human witnesses? First this woman claims she was busy working at the party. Now she wants us to believe she can correctly recall the exact time she last saw the victim.”
“But I can.”
“Did you see her inside the restaurant, or outside, in the park?” Lori asked.
“Outside. I was coming back from the ice rink.”
“And what were you doing outside, Ms. Cosi?” Endicott asked suspiciously. “I thought you were a waitress at this party.”
“Actually, I was the beverage service manager at this party,” I corrected. “And I took a break from my work to go outside for a very specific reason.”
“Go on,” Lori said.
“My boyfriend was supposed to be at the party to watch his kids. When he didn’t show, I asked my employer to step in . . .”
* * *
“HOW’S everything going out there?” I asked, behind our beverage station.
“Beautifully!” Madame gushed, accepting my proffered espresso. “Mike’s children are having a delightful time on the ice!”
Madame Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois, the owner of the Village Blend, my former mother-in-law, and doting grandmother to my adult daughter, Joy, had been graciously looking after Mike’s kids since the start of the party.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m glad they’re having fun.”
“And I left them in good company,” she assured me. “At the moment they’re giving Uncle Franco his very first ice- skating lesson.”
I nearly dropped a demitasse. “Uncle Franco? You mean—”
Madame nodded.
Emmanuel Franco was a young, former anti-gang detective who now worked with Mike on the NYPD. After Franco and my daughter began a long-distance relationship, he and I became friends. So, when Mike failed to show, I gave him a call.
“I asked Franco to take a turn watching Mike’s kids,” I said. “I didn’t expect him to skate with them.”
“Don’t fret, dear. Both of those children are quite accomplished on the ice. Little Molly likes to glide with her arms positioned just like that famous Russian figure skater, Galina Kulikovskaya, and Jeremy says he’s going to skate all winter and try out next year for his school’s hockey team.”
Madame touched my hand. “I think you should step outside to see for yourself. The sight of Emmanuel Franco surrounded by all those children is well worth witnessing.”
“Franco on ice?” Tuck said, peering out from behind the espresso machine. “Sounds like that legendary Happy Days episode with Fonzie on roller skates . . . If Fonzie had a badge, a gun, ripped abs, and a shaved head.”
With the tinkle of tiny bells, Nancy Kelly set her empty tray on the bar. “Fonzie? Who’s Fonzie?” she asked, the peaks of her jingling elf cap bobbing in front of her wide eyes.
“Before your time,” Tuck replied. “Like rotary dials, vinyl records, and dinosaurs.”
Nancy tossed a wheat-colored braid and shrugged, which made her headgear tinkle like the harnesses of Santa’s eight tiny reindeer.
“You should take a break, Clare. Go out there yourself and . . .” Madame winked. “Bring that camera of yours.”
At my daughter’s request, I’d already filled half my memory card with digital images of tonight’s literary cookie displays. But Madame’s suggestion puzzled me.
“You want Franco’s photo? Why?”
“I know!” Tuck snapped his fingers. “She’s going to boost next year’s donations for the Big Apple Literacy Foundation by selling a beefcake calendar.”
Madame offered Tuck a sly smile. “Not a bad idea, my boy, but these photos wouldn’t be for me.”
I blinked. “Then who—”
Finally I got it, and Madame and I exchanged a scheming look.
A photo of Joy’s beau skating with two adorable children might put an idea or two in my daughter’s head—like Franco as family man. Like maybe it was time she wrapped up her culinary apprenticeship in Paris and moved back home to New York to settle down, and . . .
With thoughts of grandchildren suddenly dancing in my head, I said—
“Take over, Tuck. I’ll be right back . . .”
* * *
AFTER pulling off my apron and Mrs. Santa Claus hat, I dug the camera out of my bag behind our counter, picked up my parka at the coat check, and dashed outside.
I passed the TV cameras on the restaurant’s patio, where Janelle was finishing up her interview with New York One, and made a beeline for the skating rink, where it wasn’t hard to find Franco—
He’d become his own attraction.
With serious expressions, Molly and Jeremy held Franco’s hands to keep him upright. Meanwhile, the audience, mostly young nannies, pointed at the muscle-bound cop with giggly, whispering interest.
Clearly, with hunky Ross Puckett gone, the women found a new object of female amusement. Unlike the hockey star, however, Franco was less than comfortable with blades on his boots.
“Slow down, guys, this isn’t the Olympics,” I heard him plead.
“We are going slow, Uncle Franco,” twelve-year-old Jeremy patiently informed him. “If we were going any slower we’d be standing still.”
Ten-year-old Molly locked eyes with the detective. “Don’t feel bad. When I was little, I had to go slow, too.”
From the icy wet patches on the man’s Yankees jacket and blue jeans, it seemed clear he’d fallen once or twice already—and, no doubt, Mike’s sweet-hearted kids had helped him up again.
Fortunately for the sake of Franco’s pride (and his posterior), he got the hang of it and began moving more smoothly around the rink, with Molly and Jeremy continuing to spot him like preadolescent training wheels.
I moved with them, around the outside of the rink, shooting picture after picture of the Franco on Ice show, taking advantage of the Christmas tree and the twinkling London planes for background.
I even got a few shots of Franco and the kids with the park’s famous merry-go-round, La Carousel, as a backdrop.
According to an announcement made during the party, something had gone wrong with the power, and the popular ride remained dark and silent. But I took several shots anyway. The shadowy darkness in the distance, coupled with the Christmas lights around the rink, made the human figures pop, and I was sure I got some great shots.
I was so busy peering through the lens that I stumbled into a pedestrian.
“Oh no, I’m so sorry!” I lowered my camera.
“Think nothing of it,” the woman replied with a wave.
I knew when I saw her that she was not a guest. No flashy highlights or elaborate hairdo. In her thirties, the woman wore her mousy brown locks in a severe bun. From the food stains on her sweater, and the bulging fanny pack around her waist, I could see that she was some guest’s nanny. A younger woman, also a nanny, stood silently nearby.
“Are those your children?” the thirtyish woman asked.
“Molly and Jeremy? No, I’m b
abysitting for the party.”
She visibly relaxed when she knew she was with a peer. “You work for one of the guests, then?”
“Actually, I’m managing the coffee service for the event.”
The woman’s attention was diverted by a ten-year-old boy darting among the skaters at twice everyone else’s speed.
“Slow down, Adam! You’re going to hurt yourself—or someone else!”
The boy slowed, but only until his nanny turned to face me again. Over her shoulder I saw him speed up once more.
“You do the coffees? Everyone’s raving about some caramel swirl drink. But I’m not a big fan of caramel.” She made a face. “I like peppermint, though.”
“We have a Candy Cane Latte.”
“Oh, that sounds perfect. I’m going to try one if I get the chance.”
Before I could reply, she whirled to face the rink again. “Adam Rayburn, I told you to slow down and I meant it!”
She shook her head and glanced at me. “Spoiled rotten.”
I cringed at the hateful tone in the woman’s voice. Maybe the kid was a handful, but to hear his own nanny declare it with such venom made me feel sorry for them both.
I could see she was studying me, waiting for me to dish, too. But I had nothing negative to say about these kids, and she quickly shifted gears.
“Duty calls. I’d better go. It was nice to—run into you.”
She smiled at her quip and I nodded. “Nice to run into you, too.”
The two nannies walked quickly away together, the younger one clearly still interested in watching Franco. But I couldn’t any longer. The low battery warning began blinking on my camera. I’d taken enough shots for Joy, anyway. It was time I returned to work.
As I headed for the restaurant, I noticed the TV crew on the patio again. Janelle Babcock was no longer there. Reporter Roger Clark had finished up his interview with the pastry chefs and moved on to celebrity guests.
Singer Piper Penny was now beaming at the camera in a belly-baring metallic pantsuit. I recognized the downtown party girl, who often made headlines for her bad behavior. She’d arrived on the arm of hockey star Ross Puckett. But he was nowhere in sight.
