by Cleo Coyle
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” Mike crossed his heart. “Rudolph figures out the zombies are part of an elaborate plot by an evil toy manufacturer who can’t compete with Santa’s operation. Santa invades bad-guy headquarters, takes down the zombie ninjas, cures all the folks infected with zombie-itis, rescues Mrs. Claus, and saves Christmas—all in an hour and a half.”
“Wow,” I said. “All they needed was a cliff-hanger ending that leads to a sequel.”
Mike blinked. “You have seen this movie, haven’t you?”
“You mean there actually was a teaser ending?”
“The film finishes with a shot of Santa’s Workshop under a full moon—”
“Don’t tell me. A werewolf howls?”
“You should dream up this stuff yourself, Cosi.”
By then the onions were sweet and brown, all their bitterness gone. I added a yin and yang of mushroom slices—half clean white buttons, half earthy dark portabellas—along with a pat of butter. I added chicken stock, and was measuring the wine when Mike wrapped his arm around my waist and nuzzled my neck.
“How about a sip?” he asked.
“Marsala is a wonderful wine for cooking and marinating. But for my taste, it’s too concentrated for anything else.”
I was glad when Mike heeded my not-so-direct hint. I knew how he’d been dealing with stress in DC—happy hour cocktails. But I wanted him sober and lucid when I discussed Lori’s visit.
So Mike grudgingly returned to his eggnog latte while I tossed the mushrooms in the wine, scenting the kitchen with sweet and savory aromas. When the liquid was reduced by half, I returned the chicken to the skillet, then rolled it in the thickening brown sauce until the meat was warm and buttery.
Mike’s stomach rumbled. “That smell is going to turn me into a flesh-eating zombie.”
The table was already set so I prepared the sandwiches. Chicken Marsala can be served over pasta, rice, or roasted potatoes, but Mike’s visit with his kids ran overtime. It was almost nine o’clock—too late for a full-blown meal. A chicken Marsala sandwich with a crusty, fresh-baked semolina roll was a perfect compromise.
“Eat,” I said, “before you get zombie-itis.”
I presented the succulent sandwich and no comprehendible sounds came out of Mike for the next ten minutes. Only oohs, ahhs, mingled with the occasional grunt of animal satisfaction.
I had a sandwich, too—half the size of his—and when the plates were cleared, I started water simmering for the French press. Then I set a slice of my Apple Spice Crumb Pie with Warm Custard Sauce in front of the man. Once again, all conversation ceased as he slipped into an enraptured food trance.
When dessert was over and we finished our coffee, I sat down and finally recounted the details of today’s visit by Lori Soles. I didn’t hold anything back—because if you can’t trust a hand-selected member of a U.S. Attorney’s special anti-drug task force, who can you trust?
“Lori was leaking to you for a reason, Clare. She’s enlisting your help the same way Endicott got Dick Belcher to help him out after his humiliation over those dog hairs.”
“Endicott was desperate. He’s the guy who got humbled.”
“Lori’s humiliated, too,” Mike pointed out. “Think about the way Endicott is treating her. Like a glorified secretary. She told you that herself.”
“There’s one more thing Lori told me. She said that one of my baristas is the prime suspect for Moirin’s murder and the Christmas Stalkings. He’s now under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”
Mike’s face turned grim. “Do you know who it is?”
“I checked last night’s time cards. Dante Silva came in almost two hours late, so this job doesn’t provide an alibi for the time Moirin was murdered.”
“Maybe he was delayed by the storm.”
“Dante usually walks to work, he lives so close.”
“Did you ask him about it?”
I shook my head. “Dante came in shortly after Lori left. I knew by then he was the suspect, but I didn’t feel right mentioning it.”
“Good call. If Dante is innocent, he has nothing to fear. If he’s guilty, then he should be locked up.”
“He’s innocent.”
Mike surprised me with his reply. “What makes you so sure?”
“Come on. Dante has an Italian temper, yes, but he’s not violent.”
“Clare, you have an Italian temper, and you don’t look violent, either. Yet in less than twenty-four hours you assaulted a police detective, threatened that same officer with a knife, and assaulted a television reporter with a cream pie.”
“Meringue-topped sweet potato, actually.”
“I stand corrected—but you take my point?”
I closed my eyes. It was true, all of it. I had to admit that my own reactions, when pushed too far, were very like David Brice’s when I’d pushed him at lunch today. The cocky, angry, sexually aggressive rocker in him had shown itself, and I found it disturbing to witness.
Is that what happened the night of M’s murder? I couldn’t help wondering. Had there been a man in her life like David—a man in the music world, but one much younger and angrier? A man who was slick, even charming on the surface, but unstable at his core? A man capable of murder? Was he this Stalker, too? Or were they two different cases?
One thing I was certain of—whoever killed M, it was not the young man Endicott suspected.
“I know Dante Silva, Mike. He’s a passionate artist, but his heart is so good. He’s one of the sweetest people I know. He’s absolutely innocent!”
“You’re probably right. Dante could have a good reason for being late. It could be coincidence.”
Mike was humoring me now, “blowing sunshine” as Franco would say. I knew because of what Mike really thought about coincidence. In a criminal investigation, it was not an adequate answer for anything.
Before I could reply, I glanced at the antique wall clock and realized News Six at Eleven had just begun. I grabbed the remote and switched on the small television on the counter.
Mike gave me a quizzical look.
“I want to see how much of my press ambush gets aired,” I said, and fell silent when I heard the smarmy voice of Dick Belcher.
“. . . A former employer and friend of the victim was obviously distressed by the murder . . .”
The edit didn’t include Belcher’s aggressive questions, only a quick shot of Janelle melting into tears and backing away from the camera.
“. . . Clare Cosi, manager of the Village Blend coffeehouse in Greenwich Village, reacted with anger to the news of this brutal murder.”
Suddenly I was staring at my own florid face glaring back at me.
“Whoever killed Moirin Fagan is a sick, sad excuse for a human being,” Television Clare said. “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!”
I heard Mike groan.
Dick Belcher moved on to another story, and I muted the television.
“What’s wrong?”
“I know your outburst was heartfelt, Clare, but you shouldn’t have done that. You sounded like you were threatening the Christmas Stalker.”
“I was threatening Moirin’s killer. So what if I was threatening the Stalker, too? Whether the Stalker killed M or not, the man is targeting women in my shop. I want him caught just as much as M’s killer!”
“And that’s my point. Throwing down the gauntlet isn’t a smart move given that the Stalker is working out of your coffeehouse. I’m worried that a public scolding could influence the selection of the Stalker’s next target, or even how violent the attack is.”
All the anger drained out of me. Mike had pulled the right string. He knew I would never knowingly endanger any member of my staff any more than I would risk a member of my famil
y.
“You’re right,” I whispered. “I was just so angry.”
“A natural response to a crime so brutal.”
I massaged my forehead. “You’ve seen so much of this over the years. How do you deal with your anger?”
“First of all, I try not to get angry. Anger on the job doesn’t accomplish anything or help anyone. But I’m human, and I do get angry.” He paused. “When that happens, I ask God for patience.”
“But I don’t want patience.” I met his eyes. “I want these monsters caught as soon as possible. I want them brought to justice.”
“That will happen. I guarantee you, this Stalker—and Moirin’s killer, whether they’re two different people or not—isn’t smarter than Lori Soles. He’s probably not even smarter than Endicott. He’ll be apprehended.”
“In the meantime, I have to take precautions. Protect my staff.”
“Come here . . .” Mike took me in his arms. “I know you’ll do all you can. But for now, try not to worry.”
I rested my head on his broad chest. “And how on earth am I supposed to do that?”
“Focus on something else.”
“Like what?”
“Like us. I’ll be back in DC this time tomorrow, and we won’t be able to touch each other again for at least a week.”
“You’re right,” I said. “These days, the clock is always ticking.”
He took my hand and gently tugged. “So let it tick—upstairs.”
Thirty-one
I spent Sunday with Quinn, Jeremy, and Molly, but I was only going through the motions. For the kids’ sake, I put on a good face, and at the end of the day, I put Quinn on a train. Then I headed back to my suddenly lonely duplex; and on Monday, it was back to the holiday grind.
The first thing I did was call a meeting of my staff—the entire staff, even employees who weren’t scheduled. I closed the store early and opened my 6 PM summit by sharing what Lori Soles had told me about the Christmas Stalker’s MO. The man was prowling for victims at our coffeehouse.
I warned them that undercover police officers could be planted among our customers, but that shouldn’t cause them to let down their guards. They needed to watch for any suspicious behavior, and take precautions when coming or leaving work—especially the females.
Finally, because there was safety in numbers, I announced that no one would close the Village Blend alone until the Stalker was apprehended.
When the meeting was over. All of us headed out to Brooklyn in a caravan of cabs for Moirin’s memorial service. The evening event was organized by Dave Brice and held at the Evergreen Retirement Community.
* * *
WHEN we arrived, we were ushered to the recreational center. The large room was filled with flowers, most sent by families of the residents. Beyond the wall of sliding glass, the beach looked bleak, the ocean blacker than a silent night.
A priest and a rabbi who serviced the senior community presided over the solemn event. Emotions ran highest when Dave Brice delivered a moving eulogy, followed by a recording of an original bittersweet ballad of love and loss, sung by Moirin herself.
Though production values were slight, the raw emotion in M’s voice shined through, and I found my gaze wandering to the view again, where I saw lights flickering in the dark distance—holiday decorations near Coney Island. I hadn’t noticed them before. They twinkled in the night like nearby stars, lifting my spirits.
On the way out, I saw the poster Madame discovered on our first visit. The special holiday sing-along that Moirin was scheduled to preside over had a brand new banner: Postponed had been changed to Cancelled.
My spirits sank again.
Nancy saw the sign and tears sprang up. “What a shame!” she cried. “Now all these nice seniors won’t have a Christmas Eve party. It’s so sad when the holidays come and you’re left out of the celebration, when everyone else is having fun but you.”
By the time I returned to my chilly apartment above the coffeehouse, it was after midnight, and my quilt-covered bed and two purring felines were calling to me. But I had good reason to resist.
The evening’s heart-wrenching service had stirred my emotions, and my mind couldn’t stop drifting back to Bryant Park, the Cookie Swap party, and that young, handsome man with whom Moirin was speaking—the one I thought was Dave.
My mind’s eye saw that Mystery Man so vividly that I grabbed my sketch pad and drew his portrait. It took three tries before I was completely satisfied, but the final sketch was as perfect a likeness as my recollection allowed.
It was nearly 4 AM before my head hit the pillow, cats curling up close. Fortunately my assistant manager opened every Tuesday, so with the knowledge that the Village Blend was in the capable hands of Tucker Burton, I slept late.
When I finally opened my eyes, it was close to noon.
I barely had time to feed Java and Frothy, shower, and throw on jeans and a sweater before I was due to check in downstairs. With no time to brew a morning cup, I descended the service staircase, muttering my need for caffeine like one of Santa’s Christmas zombies.
* * *
“ROUGH night?” Tuck asked, pulling an emergency espresso.
I nodded without comment, having entered the coffeehouse on unsteady legs, my laptop under one arm, my sketchbook under the other.
After downing the shot, I thanked him. “What about you?” I asked. “Any sign of ‘Evil Eyes’ Eddie Rayburn?”
Tuck made a face. “Everyone’s making a big deal about this, but I’m sure it’s nothing. Just in case, I do have backup.”
“Who?”
He jerked his thumb toward the end of the counter, where a lean, young Latino sat on a stool, scanning a computer tablet.
“It’s nice to see Punch again,” I said. “I don’t think he’s been here since last week.”
“He’s been pulling double-duty for the holiday season, my children’s production on the weekends and a cabaret weeknights—an all-male revival of one of my all-time favorite movies, White Christmas. Punch is reprising Vera-Ellen’s role. You should see him perform ‘Sisters’!” Tuck said proudly. “Danny Kaye wasn’t nearly as graceful when he tried it in drag.”
I scratched my head, trying to recall the number. “Bing and Danny did it together, right? How did that song go?”
Tuck smiled, belting out an Irving Berlin line.
Punch glanced up (never one to miss a cue) and completed the phrase.
“Very pretty. But can he fight?” I asked (pinching a line from one of Quinn’s favorite movies).
“Listen up, honey,” Punch called down the bar. “If you want to be a drag queen in this town, you’d better learn to defend your honor. And FYI—I’m a fan of The Dirty Dozen, too.”
He jumped out of his seat, dropped into a martial arts crouch, and threw a half dozen superfast punches, tight brown muscles rippling on his biceps.
“I’m impressed,” I said, then turned back to Tuck. “Since you have everything in hand—and your back appears to be sufficiently watched—I’ll grab a table. I need to review our supply list for Friday’s Global Goodies Cookie Swap.”
I barely sat down before the first crisis of the day erupted, and it involved Detective Endicott’s favorite suspect: my barista Dante Silva.
“Happy friggin’ holiday!” a drunken voice bellowed. “Only some of us don’t get a holiday. Some of us get bupkis!”
A portly middle-aged man in a natty suit stood in the center of my coffeehouse, waving a sheaf of papers.
“It might be Christmas for all of you, but not for me!”
I rose from my seat, ready to intercept the man, but Dante was faster. My barista had just arrived for his afternoon shift, Village Blend apron still slung over his shoulder.
“Come on, friend, let’s take it outside.”
Dante’s voice was calm but firm. In response, the drunk hurled his papers in my barista’s surprised face. The loose sheets flew into the air and fluttered down around my startled
customers like angry birds.
Dante’s face flushed red, but he immediately got control of his anger. “Dude, you’re acting crazy. And that’s not going to do you any good—or anyone else. So let’s talk this over on the sidewalk.”
Suddenly the hostility drained out of the poor man, and he allowed Dante to guide him to the exit without resistance.
“You don’t know the pressure I’m under,” he said plaintively.
“You can tell me all about it once we’re outside.”
As he physically herded the stranger, Dante called out to a man sitting alone near the shop’s entrance. “Hey, Fred, could you help me out?”
The man nodded and jumped up to open the door.
As soon as he reached the sidewalk, the boozy stranger broke away from Dante and took off down Hudson Street. Coatless, my barista stood in the cold, watching until the man disappeared around a corner.
When Dante came back through the door, he thanked Fred for his help.
“Did your pal Larry get home okay?” Dante added with a smile. “He sure seemed determined to raid Tiffany at midnight on Friday.”
“Oh yeah, I got him home.” Fred quickly donned his coat. Then he paused to tip his hat. “Have fun at those reindeer games.”
This time Dante opened the door for him. “Happy holidays, Fred!”
The entire incident didn’t last longer than two minutes, but it was long enough to remind me of Dante Silva’s value as an employee.
Polite to a fault, he not only took the time to remember a regular customer’s name (during a crisis, no less), he managed to exchange a few friendly words with the guy. And I was willing to bet Dante knew Fred’s favorite drink, too.
Of course, we all knew that Dante was popular with the ladies. But he was always a gentleman when flirting with them—warm, funny, kind, and just plain sweet.
This young artist, who could pull a near-perfect God shot, and deliver an Italian barista experience to the males and a thrill to the ladies, was a cherished member of my extended family.
And this was Fletcher Endicott’s fingered prime suspect? It was hard to take. Yet I couldn’t deny that Endicott did have reason to suspect Dante—and I had questions of my own.
