by Cleo Coyle
Soon, I was sinking again, but not into a numb and terrified state. I was relaxing into a dream and wishing I could stop the clock and stay like this, in Mike’s arms, for all time.
“Oh damn . . .”
Hearing Mike’s soft curse, I stirred.
“What is it?”
He stroked my hair. “I was just lying here, thanking God I’m alive—and remembering my Pullman is at the bottom of the ocean . . .”
I closed my eyes. More than luggage had been lost tonight, but I’d been too self-focused to consider it. I recited a silent prayer for all the victims of the storm, including the families and friends who would be grieving with the news.
Moirin’s family in Ireland would soon be grieving, too, but her death wasn’t caused by a storm. Another person had brutally beaten that poor girl; a killer who was walking free, a monster who could strike again.
That’s when I remembered—Janelle Babcock never called me back tonight. I wondered if the police had contacted my friend yet. Would they wait until morning? No matter when she heard the news, it would be hard to take, and I didn’t want her to face it alone.
First thing in the morning, I’ll go to see her . . .
There was nothing more I could do tonight, so I swallowed hard and said one more prayer, a thank-you to heaven for sparing the man lying next to me.
“You know,” Mike was saying, “every item in that Pullman is easily replaceable, except one.”
“What?”
“I ordered something specially made for you, even had it engraved. I was going to put it under the tree. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. There’s no time to replace it. Your Christmas gift is lost.”
“Oh, Mike, no it’s not . . .” I turned in his arms. “My gift is right here.”
Sixteen
THE urgent beeper on my cell phone went off early the next morning. Quinn, exhausted by his trip, didn’t even budge. There was nothing in the world I wanted more than to cling to the warm body beside me and drift back to sleep.
But that was not to be. I rolled over to check my phone’s messages. There was only one, a text from Janelle.
“Come over ASAP, we need to talk.”
Yes we did. The police had likely questioned her by now, and I wanted to find out what she told them, including what she knew about Moirin’s mysterious boyfriend, Dave. So I reluctantly left Quinn snoring in my bed and braved the chilly morning.
I set off for Janelle’s West Side bakery as the first rays of dawn broke through a fog that rolled off the Hudson River. The snow was piled high; there was no traffic, and hardly anyone on the narrow neighborhood streets. Yet despite the desolation, I got the eerie sensation that I was being watched.
I saw no one, of course, but the feeling rattled me. Hailing a taxi was out of the question because there weren’t any. So my only choice was to pick up the pace, no easy task on the slippery, snowy sidewalks.
I’d convinced myself I was just being paranoid, until I noticed a man in a bright blue parka lurking in a doorway of a closed shop across the street. Eyes hidden behind dark glasses, he held a smartphone to his ear. When he realized I’d seen him, he quickly gave me his back.
Oddly suspicious behavior, I thought, considering I was too far away to eavesdrop on his conversation.
I let it go and continued on, crunching through the ice-crusted blanket and hopping clear of white drifts. Every once in a while I peeked over my shoulder to make sure the man in blue wasn’t stalking me.
The character of the neighborhood I was entering didn’t allay my paranoia. Not much traditional West Village charm could be found this close to the river: no perfectly preserved Italianate row houses, quaint bistros, or secluded gardens; no flickering faux gaslights or wrought iron fences. This neighborhood was dominated by former factories that once serviced the busy waterfront but had since been converted into apartments, lofts, and co-ops.
As I approached the retasked warehouse where Janelle rented a ground-floor storefront, I heard footsteps. Yet when I turned, there was no one, which spooked me enough to practically lunge for the golden light shining from the tiny bakeshop. My gloved fingers frantically jammed the doorbell until Janelle peeked through the caramel-colored blinds and buzzed me in.
“Clare!” she cried. “You scared the life out of me, girl. Are you okay?”
“Are you?”
Her teary brown eyes met my green ones. Then she threw her strong mocha arms around my neck, and I reached my arms around her well-worn baker’s jacket.
“Who did this to our poor girl?” she sobbed.
“That’s what I want to find out.”
“I should have gone outside and searched for her last night! Why didn’t I? I should have known that girl was too responsible to duck out on me. But I’ve had so much bad luck hiring assistants, I assumed she’d let me down like the others.”
We stepped apart and she dabbed her eyes. “If only I’d gone looking, I might have found her in time to call an ambulance or something. But I didn’t, and now M is dead . . .”
I’d known Janelle Babcock since she was the pastry chef at the five-star restaurant Solange, long before she struck out on her own, but I’d never seen her so distraught.
“There was nothing you could have done,” I insisted. “Detective Soles told me Moirin was killed outright. There was no saving her.”
“I’d like to find the SOB who did this before the police do,” Janelle said, folding her fingers into a fist. “I still have my daddy’s knuckle-dusters around here somewhere. But if I can’t find the dang things, my rolling pin will do just fine!”
Janelle suddenly froze and sniffed the air, then she cried out. I followed as she raced to the eight-burner stove.
I’d expected to encounter a host of lovely holiday scents at Janelle’s shop this morning. And while the dominant aroma inside the bakery was sweet and delightful, it was also completely unexpected.
“Is that root beer?” I asked.
“That’s right,” she replied, stirring a pot of simmering brown liquid with a silicone spoon. “I was contracted to develop recipes based on soda flavors. Right now I’m reducing root beer to create a simple syrup to flavor cakes, cookies, and frozen desserts.”
“Why not use extract?” I asked.
“Because I’m creating this recipe for the New York Beverage Company website, and they don’t make extract. They want home cooks to use their bottled soda.”
“Got it.”
Catering was only one aspect of my friend’s expanding business. Janelle, who’d grown up on Creole French cooking in New Orleans and earned a scholarship to study at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, also sold her premium baked goods wholesale to shops, boutique food stores, and coffeehouses like mine.
In the past year, she’d taken on developing original recipes for food and beverage companies, too.
“I honestly don’t know how I’m going to get everything done without an assistant,” Janelle said. “I have yet to bake cookies for the next Swap, and there are three catering jobs on my schedule. Plus these soda pop recipes are due next week!”
Janelle pointed to a cooling rack. “At least one recipe turned out well. You should try those root beer whoopie pies. I have some coffee with chicory I brewed up fresh, too.”
I fetched the treats while Janelle watched her bubbling pot. Near the cooling rack, next to a tempting sheet pan of brownies iced with pretty pink candy-cane frosting, I spied a large traditional-looking cream pie smothered in meringue. A single slice was missing.
“Mmm . . . what’s this cream pie? Looks delicious.”
“Looks can be deceiving, girl. Didn’t your grandma teach you that?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“My auntie used to make a sweet potato pie with maple syrup that was heavenly. I thought substituting root beer syrup for the maple might be worth a shot. But the thing turned out downright nasty. Slightly slimy instead of creamy, and with a medicinal tang, like something they’d force down you
r throat at a hospital.”
“Aw, too bad about the cream pie fail, but you certainly scored with these whoopie pies. The old-fashioned root beer flavor really comes through. They’re amazing.”
When the whoopie pies were reduced to a few crumbs, I set my empty coffee cup aside. “Did the police visit you last night?” I asked.
Janelle nodded. “A woman, Detective Soles, and some dude in a plaid jacket and a Ward Cleaver sweater vest. They asked a lot of questions.”
“Did they grill you about Dave?”
“M’s friend?” Janelle shook her head.
Crap. I couldn’t believe they hadn’t followed up with that lead. But then Endicott believed Piper Penny was their murderer—and was waiting for forensics to confirm it.
I cleared my throat. “I told Lori Soles about the young man who was speaking with Moirin at the Cookie Swap. The way they were arguing, I’m sure it was her boyfriend, Dave.”
“I couldn’t say,” Janelle replied. “I never met Dave. And I don’t put much faith in the police, anyway. I just know they’re going to look in all the wrong places, and I’ll be the one who ends up in hot water.”
“You? But you didn’t do anything wrong.”
Janelle shook her head. “The last time I checked, hiring an illegal immigrant and paying her under the table was against the law. Several laws, in fact.”
I blinked, hoping I’d misheard. “What are you saying?”
“It’s been a real struggle, Clare, keeping this business going. I’ve had financial setbacks. A couple of clients went under before they paid their bills, and lately I’ve had employee troubles, too. Expensive employee troubles. When Moirin came along last year, she was perfect for my shop, except—”
Janelle paused, her expression guilty. “Except she had no green card or social security number, at least not legit ones.”
“M was an illegal?”
“She had to be. The girl’s IDs were obviously forgeries. I used to buy better dang fake IDs back in high school.”
I was floored. I’d never had to worry about Moirin’s immigration status because technically I wasn’t paying her salary. But if the government came knocking, Janelle and I would both be in hot water.
Janelle knew what I was thinking and tried to reassure me. “Don’t worry, girlfriend. If I get busted, I won’t say anything about our deal.”
“That’s the least of my worries. I assume you kept this information from Detectives Soles and Endicott?”
“They didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell. But I’m sure they’ll figure it out soon enough.”
“And you’re certain Lori didn’t ask you about Dave?”
“His name never came up, and I couldn’t have told them much, anyway. I don’t even know his last name.”
“Neither do I.”
“And I don’t think M was all that sweet on him, anyway. Moirin and Dave might have dated, but they weren’t exclusive. A lot of guys called my assistant while she worked in this kitchen. There was a Benny and a Tony. They called almost every other day.” Janelle offered me a sly smile. “Our girl was playing the field, and it was a big dang field.”
Janelle had just outlined one of the most basic recipes for domestic violence. If Dave wanted more than Moirin was willing to give, her murder could have been a crime of passion.
“The police have Moirin’s cell. They may have followed up with Dave already. I wish I could talk to him. If only I had his phone number, too. Or even his last name. Something to go on—”
“Wait!” Janelle cried. “A couple of months ago, Moirin asked me to send a few dozen cookies Dave’s way. I probably have the delivery address in my computer.”
Janelle thrust the spoon in my hand and ordered me to keep stirring, while she went to a laptop on the corner table. As she searched, I stirred the simmering brown liquid. The spicelike aroma of sweet root beer syrup was heady, nearly overwhelming.
“Found it,” Janelle cried. But she quickly frowned as she scribbled on a Post-it. “I’m sorry, Clare, but this can’t be Dave’s address. Now I remember. Moirin told me this is where he works.”
“Better than nothing.” I read the address. “‘Evergreen Retirement Community, Recreation Center . . .’”
A retirement community? Hmmm . . .
An idea began simmering—not as cloying as Janelle’s root beer syrup, but just as heady. If I wanted to meet and question Dave, I had the perfect plan, as long as I could secure my favorite partner in snooping: Matt’s mother, Madame Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois.
Despite her advanced age, Madame was a dynamo, and she was never busier than the holiday season. My biggest obstacle would be scheduling her time.
The front buzzer interrupted my plotting. Through the blinds in the front door, I saw a looming silhouette and frowned in alarm, until Janelle glanced at her watch and said, “That’s probably my supplies. Turn off the syrup; let it cool. Let’s go say hello to the deliveryman.”
But when we opened the door, three men were standing there—and they’d come to deliver an ugly surprise.
Seventeen
“I’M Dick Belcher, Channel Six News at Eleven . . .”
An assertive blond in a navy blue blazer, Belcher had perfectly coiffed hair, Marlboro Man looks, and a face I’d seen hundreds of times. On either side of him stood men in blue parkas with photo IDs hanging around their necks. One carried a video camera on his burly shoulder. The other still clutched the smartphone he was using when I caught him spying on me from that doorway.
“This is my cameraman, Ned,” said Belcher, “and my producer, Lou . . .”
Before I could head him off, he homed in on a startled Janelle. “You’re Ms. Babcock, is that correct?”
Janelle nodded mutely.
“Perhaps you’d like to give us a statement about your former employee, Moirin Fagan?”
Dick Belcher’s tone was borderline polite, but he didn’t wait for an invitation. He barged into the shop, his cameraman in tow, while producer Lou brought up the rear.
Overwhelmed by the man’s aggressiveness, Janelle stepped back. The man with the camera gently elbowed me aside and pointed the lens at Janelle. Dick Belcher gave his cameraman a silent nod, and the tape began to roll.
“According to a source at the NYPD, your employee, Moirin Fagan, was the first murder victim attributed to a string of serial attacks the police are calling ‘the Christmas Stalkings.’ Do you believe the police commissioner should have warned the public before this perpetrator turned to murder?”
Belcher shoved his microphone into Janelle’s face.
“I . . . I didn’t know about any stalker,” she stammered.
But I did, I realized, as my mind raced back to last night’s crime scene in Bryant Park . . .
Standing on the carousel, Endicott had described Moirin’s injuries as being consistent with blows from a blunt object. “Which fits the modus operandi in the last attack,” he’d said.
“You mean there’ve been others?” I’d asked Lori.
My question had made her uneasy. “There have been several assaults against women recently” was all she’d say.
“Do you have any suspects in the other attacks?” I’d asked.
Lori gave me a look that said she couldn’t reveal more. Now I wondered why. Was she the “source” who revealed it all to Belcher? Was Endicott?
The newsman looked directly into the camera. “The public has the right to know, and we’re here to inform. News Six has learned that there have been four attacks since Thanksgiving. The victims, all female, escaped serious injury. But as of last night, the authorities fear that the Christmas Stalker’s reign of terror has turned deadly.”
Impossible, I thought. There was no way some random predator was going to lure Moirin onto the carousel by brandishing a paving stone!
On top of that, I heard Moirin on the phone yesterday afternoon, setting up a rendezvous. She must have known her attacker.
If this “serial attacker” was
the theory the detectives were pursuing in Moirin’s case, then her killer would never be caught.
Finished with his monologue, Dick Belcher faced Janelle again.
“What would you like to say to this predatory serial attacker who took the life of your assistant in such a brutal fashion, Ms. Babcock?”
Too distraught to speak, Janelle’s eyes filled with tears and she turned away.
This is cruel, I thought, but the newsmen obviously didn’t agree.
The shared look between Lou and Belcher told me this was exactly the reaction they’d wanted—emotional footage for their lead tragedy of the evening.
Stepping up, I wrapped protective arms around Janelle. “Please leave her alone now,” I warned them. “Give her some privacy.”
“Just a few more questions,” said Belcher.
“Didn’t you hear me?” I said as Janelle continued to cry. “You and your news team need to turn off your cameras and get out of here now.”
I let go of Janelle and moved toward them, my arms outstretched to shoo them away. Instead of retreating, the cameraman refocused the lens on me, and Belcher thrust the microphone under my nose.
“Would you like to make a statement, Ms. . . .” Belcher glanced at his producer who nodded. “Can you state your name for the record?”
“Cosi. Clare Cosi. And I made my statement. I asked you and your team to leave.”
“Not without a comment from you,” Belcher insisted.
“Fine, you want a comment? Here’s your comment: Whoever killed Moirin Fagan is a sick, sad excuse for a human being—a monstrous coward who thinks slinking away into the night is cover enough after taking an innocent life. Well, justice will be served when that worm is caught and punished. I’ll do everything in my power to see that happen, and that day can’t come soon enough to suit me!”
“One more question for Ms. Babcock.”
The camera swung back to Janelle.
“No! No more!” my friend cried, hands raised to shield her face.
“Ms. Babcock, please tell us . . .”
