Holiday Buzz

by Cleo Coyle

  How can I make this jackass leave? What do I have to do, hit him with a—

  I almost smiled. Janelle’s failed pastry experiment sat on a table a few feet away, and before the News Six at Eleven team could react, I walked over to it, snatched it up, and threw the meringue-topped root beer sweet potato monstrosity right into Dick Belcher’s startled face.

  The newsman howled, dropped his microphone, and began frantically swiping the goopy root beer–flavored mess off his formerly perfect hair and natty blazer.

  “Now will you go?” I calmly asked.

  “I-I’m going to sue you for this!” Belcher sputtered. “My cameraman caught your whole assault on tape!”

  I folded my arms. “Just be sure you show the footage at trial. Your competition at Channels Two, Four, Five, Nine, and Eleven will get great ratings out of broadcasting it, over and over again.”

  Eighteen

  BY the time I got back to the Village Blend, I was frozen to the bone from my crosstown walk. I shed my parka and approached the espresso machine for some much-needed caffeine reinforcement.

  I found Esther there, her eyes red from crying. I immediately hugged my sad-faced barista, and the Dark Queen of Goth hugged me right back.

  “Nancy told me what happened to M. Do the police have any clue who did this?” she asked.

  “Not yet. Which is why they’re going to be looking for answers—and so am I.”

  Esther broke our embrace. “What do you need to know, boss?”

  “For starters, more about M’s personal life.”

  “Well, she lived in Brooklyn, I’m not sure where. She had a boyfriend named Dave, but Dave what I don’t know. M went clubbing a lot, but never mentioned which clubs.” Esther paused. “I guess I don’t know squat, either.”

  “Don’t feel bad. It seems Moirin was a private person. Not even Janelle knew much about her.”

  Esther shrugged. “Who really knows anyone, anyway? I mean, look at my poor Boris. He put his trust in a boss who threw him under the bus!”

  “I think I can help your boyfriend,” I said.

  Esther’s zombie-chic eyes went wide. “You’re going to hire him?” she cried hopefully.

  “Janelle’s going to hire him. The poor woman is distraught, overworked, and at the end of her rope. She needs Boris as much as he needs a job.”

  “You’re talking about Moirin’s job?” Esther said, crestfallen.

  “Don’t think of it that way. See it from Janelle’s point of view. She just lost her assistant baker in the middle of a busy week of catering events, and on top of all that, she has to prepare for the Global Goodies Toyland Cookie Swap next Friday. Janelle is desperate for someone who can hit the ground running, and knows his stuff well enough to hit it right out of the ballpark with the first swing.”

  “Baseball metaphors aside, nobody works harder than Boris,” Esther said. “And my boyfriend is smart enough to run a bakery himself. But are you sure about this?”

  “I broached the subject with Janelle before I left her bakery this morning.” (After I chased the obnoxious Dick Belcher and his News Six at Eleven team out the door.) “She told me she’s met Boris, she’s aware of his resume, and she’d be grateful for his help.”

  Esther threw her arms around me this time. “I’m going to call Boris right now—”

  “No, first, you’re going to pull a pair of double Americanos for Mike and me. Then you can deliver the good news to your boyfriend.”

  * * *

  I managed to open the duplex door, step over lounging furballs Java and Frothy, and make it to the bedroom—all while juggling a plate of Eggnog Crumb Muffins and two ginormous cups of wake-up juice without spilling one drop.

  Mike was an unmoving lump under the sheets, and I wondered if he’d stirred at all while I was gone. I set the cups and muffins on the nightstand and reached out to touch his shoulder.

  That’s when Mike clamped onto my sore wrist for the second time in twelve hours. But I didn’t mind. Helpless in the man’s firm grip, I yelped as he dragged me onto the bed and used his body to pin mine.

  “Mike! Let me up!”

  He silenced me with soft lips and roving hands, and I soon confirmed something had stirred under those sheets.

  “Come on,” I said, squirming. “I’ve got a long day and so do you. Have some coffee. Not that you need perking up, apparently!”

  Smiling, Mike released me and sat up. The sheets fell away, baring his powerful chest. His sandy hair, tousled from sleep, was longer than I’d ever seen him wear it, and he finger brushed it back before taking a big swallow from his cup. He followed that with a colossal bite of my special holiday eggnog muffin, accompanied by some amusing guttural sounds of male satisfaction.

  “Where have you been?” he asked. “I thought you had Saturday mornings off?”

  “A text message from Janelle. She asked me to come over. She’s understandably upset and needed to talk.”

  “Upset about what?”

  I was silent long enough for Mike’s expression to cloud. “Clare? What’s wrong?”

  “Something happened that I didn’t mention last night . . .”

  I gave Mike a severely truncated version of the tragedy, starting with my discovery of Moirin’s corpse and ending with Lori Soles being assigned to the case. At some point in my retelling, Mike pulled me close. When I was done, I stared up at his grim, hard-lined face.

  “Damn, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “No wonder you freaked out on me last night.”

  “I didn’t ‘freak out.’ I reacted.”

  Mike took another gulp of his coffee. “So that’s why you went to Janelle’s?”

  I nodded. “Something weird happened on the way over, too. I felt like I was being followed, and after I arrived, a news team showed up on Janelle’s doorstep to badger us with questions.”

  Mike frowned. “Which news team?”

  “Channel Six.”

  “Dick Belcher? That guy’s a real pain. Specializes in ambush journalism.”

  “He sure ambushed Janelle and me.”

  “What did you say?”

  “What’s the difference? What bothers me is how this Belcher guy found out about me, about Janelle. Our names weren’t in the papers. The news stories didn’t even mention the Village Blend. So how did Mr. News Six know enough to bother Janelle and me?”

  Mike scratched his stubbly jaw. “That is funny, considering you’re dealing with Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass. They’re pretty tight-lipped, and they would never talk to a jerk like Belcher.”

  “Sue Ellen is on medical leave. Lori has a new partner.”

  Mike straightened. “Who?”

  “Detective Fletcher Stanton Endicott.”

  “Oh no. Not Mr. DNA.”

  “I take it you know the man?”

  “I know him.”

  Mike drained his cup, pulled off the sheets, and slipped into his terrycloth robe.

  “You were being followed, Clare,” he said. “That’s Endicott’s style. Big stories make big cases, and he likes to be in the middle of a big case. Makes him look like a superstar, and it helps his literary career, too.”

  “Great. Now what?”

  Mike offered me a sympathetic shrug. “Expect more leaks.”

  I sighed. “I wish someone would leak something about Moirin’s personal life.”

  “But you worked with her. Don’t you—”

  “That woman’s a mystery. And Moirin wasn’t even born in the United States, so there’s a limit to what I can find out.”

  I stepped up to Mike.

  “Now that you’re a bona fide Federal agent, maybe you can help?”

  “You want background on her?”

  I nodded.

  “I suppose I can reach out to someone at the Immigration and Naturalization Service. I have quite an impressive”—he arched an eyebrow—“Rolodex now.”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Thank you.”

  “No guarantees,�
� he cautioned.

  I smiled. “You know, I’d really love to get my hands on that Rolodex of yours sometime . . .”

  “I’ll bet you would.”

  The phone on my nightstand rang. After the string of calls last night, I was wary and checked the caller ID. “Oh God. It’s your ex-wife.”

  “Good. I have a few things to say to her.” Mike scowled as he snatched the phone. “Hello.”

  His features softened immediately, and I knew it wasn’t his ex but Jeremy and Molly on the other end. Mike chatted with his kids for about ten minutes, while I finished my own coffee and made the bed. When he hung up, Mike was no longer scowling.

  “I’m going to take them for the afternoon,” he said. “We’re going to see a movie called Santa Claus, Zombie Hunter—can that be right?”

  “That’s the title. It’s a hit with the pre-teen crowd.”

  “What ever happened to Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer?”

  “These days little Rudy would have to be a robot who transformed into a supersonic spacecraft complete with laser beams, missiles, and microwave oven.”

  “Kids today . . .” Mike smiled. “We’re also having frozen hot chocolates at Serendipity. You’re welcome to join us. In fact, Molly was insistent.”

  I shook my head. “We’ll all do something tomorrow. Today I’ve got an errand to run with Madame.” (And we’d be running all the way to a retirement home in Brooklyn—if I could persuade her to help me.)

  Mike seemed suddenly distracted. “With my luggage lost, I hope I have something to wear.”

  “You left lots of clothes here. I’m sure you’ll find something.”

  Mike loosened his robe. “I’d better hit the shower.”

  “Shave close, please. It’s cold outside, my skin is delicate, and I don’t need beard burn on top of frostbite.”

  “That would mean you have future plans to kiss me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Something to live for.”

  Mike closed the bathroom door just as my smartphone beeped, announcing a text message from Lori Soles.

  “On the QT, U were right. Hairs definitely NOT from Piper Penny. Will be in touch.”

  I looked up from my screen. Now how can those forensics guys know that so soon? I wondered. DNA analysis takes days, sometimes weeks . . .

  The answer came to me when I ran through the facts—and it almost made me laugh. But I couldn’t laugh for sure until I spoke with Lori Soles.

  Nineteen

  AN hour later, with Quinn off to see his kids, I headed downstairs to the Blend.

  Janelle’s famous Lemon Sugar Cookies were in our pastry case, and I planned on boxing up a baker’s dozen and delivering them personally to Matt’s mother at her Fifth Avenue luxury apartment.

  The cookies were delicious—sweet-tart perfection. They were also one of Madame’s favorites, and I hoped they’d be a suitable bribe to enlist her help.

  To my surprise I found the woman already in our shop, relaxing beside the Blend’s fireplace and sharing a plate of those very same cookies with Sergeant Emmanuel Franco of the NYPD.

  I fixed myself a French pressed cup of our Ethiopian Sidamo. The beans were superb. Matteo had sourced them in the Gera Woreda, and their bright citrus notes made a coffee that paired excellently with Janelle’s cookies.

  Franco rose when I arrived at their table, and the handcuffs on his belt rattled. “That was some night, eh, Coffee Lady?” he cracked.

  “Emmanuel told me all about your nocturne horribilis, my dear,” Madame said, pecking my cheek.

  Madame looked stunning in a holiday red bouclé jacket with loop buttons, over an embroidered blouse of white silk—both pieces custom made for her by a legendary fashion designer (and longtime friend of the Blend). Black thin-legged silk pants, matching half boots, and an adorable necklace with a gold mistletoe charm completed her seasonal ensemble.

  Franco was the flip side of the fashion coin in black denims, rugged work boots, and a scuffed leather bomber jacket over a sweatshirt. It wasn’t even noon and he already had the beginnings of a five-o’clock shadow.

  “Are you enjoying the cookies, Emmanuel?” Madame asked.

  “They’re okay, I guess. A little girly, though. What is it with women and lemons? Lemon cake. Lemon cookies. Lemon pie. Lemon bars. I’d mention lemon tarts, but I wouldn’t want you ladies to get the wrong idea.”

  “I was reminding Emmanuel of his promise to deliver our Christmas gifts to Joy when he goes to Paris in two weeks,” Madame said.

  Franco nodded. “I’m happy to do it. But make sure you don’t wrap those gifts, because airline security is only going to open them up.”

  “You’ll wrap them for us when you get to France, won’t you?” Madame asked.

  “Me and my two left thumbs. I’ll do my best,” he said then raised his index finger. “Here’s a tip, ladies. If you want a bow, make it a stick-on.”

  “Is that why you’re both here? To plan my daughter’s Christmas?”

  “I’m on duty in an hour,” Franco said. “I just stopped by to see how you were after your exciting evening.”

  “And I’m waiting for my wayward son,” Madame replied. “We’re off to Brooklyn. I’m treating him to lunch at a lovely little Williamsburg bistro that’s now serving our beans.”

  I sighed. “Well, I hope I can change your mind about those plans with Matt. I need help and I need it today.”

  Madame tilted her head. “What is it, dear?”

  “Actually, it’s right up your alley.”

  I explained about Dave and the Evergreen Retirement Community in Brooklyn where he worked, and how I planned to gain access to its recreational center to meet him—provided Madame was willing to help.

  Madame broke one of the sweet-tart cookies with her long, elegantly manicured fingers, took a bite, and chewed thoughtfully. “Perhaps I will visit this community. Incognito, of course.”

  “I’m counting on your acting chops to get us inside.”

  Franco snorted. “Blanche is going to need more than acting skills, Coffee Lady. Nobody from Brooklyn dresses like her.”

  “You know, Franco makes a cogent point. You’ll need a disguise.” I checked my watch. “We can find something at the Salvation Army shop on 14th Street and be back before Matteo arrives.”

  “The Salvation Army? Isn’t that rather . . . extreme?” Madame replied. “I could have my driver take me back uptown, change into something more . . . casual.”

  “I don’t think you own anything ‘casual’ enough for this. And we need to be here to meet Matt.”

  “Maybe I should reschedule the lunch?”

  “No. Matt’s useful. Dave is probably a charming, cooperative young man with nothing to hide, but it’s also possible he’s a handsome young murderer who could go postal when confronted. Matt should come—as our muscle.”

  “You’re right, dear. Even with a questionable wardrobe, this adventure will be much more fun than seared scallops in a bistro.”

  “Well, I hope your son doesn’t object to my plan. You know how he dislikes our doing these sorts of things.”

  Madame patted my hand. “He’ll come around. All it takes is a little deception on our part. Just enough to string him along—until he has no choice in the matter.”

  Twenty

  “EVERGREEN Retirement Community. Where Life Begins Again.”

  Matteo Allegro almost did a double take when he read the sign over the entrance to the ten-story glass and steel building.

  He brushed back his rakish dark hair. “I thought we were going to lunch in Williamsburg? Mother said something about a new restaurant that’s serving our coffee beans to their customers?”

  “We’ll be dining at Durango’s soon enough,” Madame replied. “I told you I needed to make this little side trip first.”

  “Little?” Matt shook his head. “If this side trip were any longer we’d be in the middle of the bay, not on the shore looking at it.”

 
As if summoned by his words, a sharp wind blew off the white-capped waves, and we were pelted by stinging ice. We redoubled our steps to the front doors, and Madame tugged at the collar of her dowdy brown coat to mitigate the chill.

  Matt noticed her discomfort and snickered. “Are we missing our cozy-warm sable coat, Mother? I should have known something was up when I saw those odd clothes you’re wearing. Where did you get them? The Salvation Army?”

  Madame made a show of checking her shabby wool coat, her dun brown polyester pants, and the tan-colored sneakers on her feet.

  “There’s nothing inappropriate about my attire,” she proclaimed.

  “Sure there is,” Matt replied. “You forgot the shapeless floral print muumuu.”

  “You exaggerate, my boy. I’ll admit I’ve dressed down—”

  “Dressed down? Looking at you makes me feel old.”

  And that was my Peter Pan ex-husband’s real problem with Madame’s disguise. With his youthfully energetic mother still a vibrant force in his life, he never had to think of himself as getting older.

  “Okay, I give up. Why are we here?” he asked. “And please tell me we’re visiting one of your friends.”

  “I’m looking for a change,” Madame replied. “I’m lacking a sense of community in my life. Clare is so busy at the shop. Joy is living in Paris. You’re traveling all the time.”

  She paused, touched the corner of her eye, and sniffed loudly. “Sometimes I get lonely—”

  Matt was unmoved. “You have more friends than you have time for.” He whirled to face me. “You put her up to this charade, didn’t you?”

  “No comment,” I said as we entered the glass-walled lobby.

  “I’m rather tired of my old apartment, too,” Madame continued. “Many of my favorite haunts are gone, so even Manhattan has become a bit of a bore. I could use a change of venue to perk things up.”

  “Uh-huh,” Matt said.

  “Look around, my boy. The scenery outside is lovely. The beach, the ocean, that strip mall across the street.”

  “Oh, sure,” Matt smirked. “And with the added charm of that view of the Cyclone roller coaster at Coney Island, the aesthetics here rival the south of France.”