by Cleo Coyle
As Dante joined Tuck in gathering up the scattered papers, I moved to help, aware an undercover officer could be watching us.
“Dante,” I said quietly, “when you’re done here, go up to my office and wait for me there. We need to talk.”
As I moved away from the pair, I examined one of the scattered pages. It was a resume, professionally printed.
Our angry customer was a forty-seven-year-old bank executive. His out-of-control behavior was very wrong, but it wasn’t without reason. According to the dates on his resume, he’d been laid off almost exactly one year ago.
Thirty-two
“WHAT’S up?” Dante asked as I entered my small office on the Blend’s second floor.
I shut the door, sat down at my scuffed wooden desk, and cut to the chase: “I need answers from you, Dante. Be as honest and accurate as you can. You called Moirin several times last week. She didn’t return your calls—until a few hours before she was murdered. What were those calls about?”
Dante’s expression was a mixture of surprise and embarrassment. “Did she tell you about my call? Did she say I was harassing her or something?”
“She didn’t tell me a thing.” I let my answer hang, and after a pause, Dante spoke.
“I asked her out to a gallery show. She said she was busy, so I pressed it a little, asked her to chill with me after work some night. That’s all.”
“And she . . . ?”
“Shot me down. M was blunt. She said something ugly happened back in Ireland when she dated someone from work, and she wasn’t interested in dating a coworker ever again.”
“What did you say?”
“What could I say? She wasn’t interested.”
“You weren’t angry? Hurt by her rejection?”
He shrugged. “Sure, I was disappointed. But that’s life, right?”
“Tell me why you came late for your shift that night? Two hours late.”
“I was on a tear. I’d painted all night and most of the day. I was so keyed up after that, I couldn’t lie down. So I called Moirin.”
“You wanted to tell her about your painting?”
He nodded. “I was hoping she’d want to see it for herself. Instead our chat kind of lowered my energy so I took a nap. I didn’t set the alarm and woke up late. But I made it up to Gardner and Vicki. You remember? I sent them home and stayed after closing to clean up alone.”
Dante frowned. “Wait a minute—you don’t think I had anything to do with Moirin’s murder?”
“Not me . . .”
He studied my face. “It’s the police, isn’t it?! I’m a suspect because I made a few calls?” Dante shook his head. “Dude, I can’t believe this!”
“Listen to me carefully. I know you’re not a killer. And Mike says if you’re not the Christmas Stalker, you have nothing to fear, either.”
“What!? The cops think I’m the Stalker, too!”
Happy he “guessed” that, as well, I lowered my voice. “The police are following several leads. But those calls you made to Moirin sent up a red flag.”
Dante rubbed the back of his neck.
“I want you to look at something.” I slid my sketchbook across the desk. “Have you ever seen this man here at the Village Blend?”
“Good sketch . . .” Dante studied the image a minute before he answered. “I never saw the guy. Did a police artist do this? Is this man M’s killer?”
“I drew it. From memory. I don’t know if he’s the killer or not, but I saw them speaking shortly before she was murdered. He wasn’t dressed formally for the party, and he appeared to be very familiar with her.”
Dante took a second look, then shook his head. “I suppose he could have been here, but I don’t remember him.”
“Keep your eyes open. If you ever see this man—”
“I’ll know what to do,” Dante said, balling his fists.
“You’ll tell me about it, that’s what you’ll do.”
Dante nodded and I sent him back downstairs.
When he was gone, I closed my sketchbook, waited ten minutes, and followed. I hit the Blend’s main floor in time to hear Nancy’s ever-cheerful voice greeting a new customer.
“Hey, there, Mr. Rayburn! Are you here to see Tucker?”
Oh great. Just what I need—another angry middle-aged man.
Thirty-three
EDDIE Rayburn, the guy known across reality TV–land as “Evil Eyes” Eddie, jealous husband with a short fuse, scowled as he scanned the coffeehouse. Finally, he spied Tucker at the register.
With deliberate care, he raised his arm, pointed a stubby gloved finger at my assistant manager, and cried—
“You! You’re just the angel I came here to see!”
Flashing a huge smile, Eddie surged forward, arms outstretched.
Tucker moved around the counter, meeting the human fireplug in the center of the coffeehouse, where Eddie bear-hugged my assistant manager.
I’d frozen in place the moment Eddie arrived, expecting Tuck to be hospitalized. But the pair began talking like long-lost buddies.
I shot a perplexed glance at Punch. He simply shrugged.
“Look, Tucker . . . I can call you Tucker, can’t I?” Eddie asked.
“Call me Tuck, Mr. Rayburn!”
“And you call me Eddie. All my friends call me Eddie! Can we sit down?”
Tuck glanced hopefully at me. “Actually, I’m on duty—”
“No worries,” I interrupted. “Sit down at the counter, Tuck. I’ll take over.”
Tuck guided Eddie to the stool beside his boyfriend, and made introductions. I served up White Chocolate Snowflake Lattes, and lingered close enough to shamelessly eavesdrop.
“Let me be straight with you, Tuck,” Eddie said in a gravelly voice. “My Danni hasn’t been the same since her True Housewives show was cancelled. You guys are in showbiz, too, so you know the score. One minute you’re on top of the world with a big-ass television hit, an appearance on Leno, a sit-down with those dames on The View, even a cook-off with that extra virgin EV-oh-oh what’s her face?”
“Rachael Ray?” Punch guessed.
“That’s the one! Then suddenly the show’s over, the lights are out, no more cameras following my Danni around, recording every minute of her life like she’s queen of—whatever. Lately, her producer stopped returning her calls . . .” Eddie paused, shook his head. “The show did a number on Delores’s marriage. Her husband left her. Now even the paparazzi have lost interest. Danni and Delores didn’t even get mentioned in the Cookie Swap gossip column coverage. Danni cried her eyes out for two whole days.”
I sighed at what sounded like another David Brice cautionary tale about instant fame. How did David’s FM-smooth voice put it? “There really is a fine line between feeling on top of the world and having it all go to hell.”
“That’s terrible,” Tuck said with genuine sympathy. “Danni. Delores. They’re both so charming and vivacious. Fame’s a fickle boy, but he won’t abandon them forever. Your wife and her little buddy may have hit a speed bump on the road to stardom, but they’ll make a comeback.”
“That’s what I tell my wife every day, but Danni doesn’t believe it coming from me.” Eddie poked his thick index finger into Tuck’s chest. “She believed it from you, though.”
Tuck swallowed as Eddie gulped his latte and smacked his lips, ignoring his foamy milk moustache.
“So tell me about this show you’re gonna do? The one with the girls in it . . .”
Tuck and Punch exchanged uneasy looks.
“Well, to be honest,” Tuck said, “I haven’t exactly written it yet.”
“What do you mean you haven’t written it yet?”
“Well, I, um . . .”
Eddie drew himself up. “You weren’t pulling my Danni’s chain now, were you?”
Suddenly, the scowl was back.
Uh-oh . . .
Thirty-four
“YOU have to understand,” Tuck quickly chattered, “it started
out as this little idea for a cabaret show. We were going to do the whole thing in drag. Well, maybe not the whole thing. A big, strong guy like you, well, we’d have to cast somebody who’s really butch. Anyway, since Delores and Danni want to be involved, I envision something much bigger.”
“Yeah, so do I,” Eddie said.
“Of course, like I said, I haven’t written it yet. In fact, I just started rewatching your latest True Housewives season On Demand. And we still have to find the proper venue, and a backer, of course.”
“Never mind that . . .” Eddie waved his beefy hand. “I’ll find you all the backing you need—all the way to Broadway.”
Tuck and Punch gasped, and then exchanged wide-eyed stares.
“That’s how I roll, gentlemen,” Eddie promised. “I’m a professional promoter. That’s what my firm does. I have a lot of diverse clients—from hip-hop to hockey teams—and I have access to real whales, investors with big money who are always looking for new high-profile projects. Just don’t let my Danni or her little buddy know I’m involved. I want the call to come from you.”
Tuck couldn’t contain his excitement. He might have been Danni’s angel, but Eddie was Tuck’s Santa, granting his Christmas wish for a really big show, maybe even on Broadway.
“Will you be at this week’s Cookie Swap?” Eddie asked.
Tuck nodded.
“Perfect. I want you to hook up with the girls there. Tell them about your big plans, that you’re lining up backers, a theatrical space, the whole thing.”
“Are you sure about this?” Tuck asked.
“Here’s my cell number,” Eddie said, sliding his card across the counter. “Whatever you need, I’ll supply. Dream up that big show for Danni and Delores. And I’ll make it happen.”
With that promise, Eddie downed the rest of his drink and finally wiped his milky upper lip.
“So, Danni mentioned you have a show running now?”
“Just a little production at the Manhattan Children’s Theatre,” Tuck said. “A limited-run holiday show. It’s an adaptation of a Christmas story by O. Henry—”
“Sure, sure. I know O. Henry,” Eddie said. “Gift of the Magi, right?”
“Well, Magi has been overproduced, so I chose to adapt a lesser-known story. I call it The Christmas Stocking, although the title of O. Henry’s original story was ‘Whistling Dick’s Christmas Stocking.’”
Eddie’s eyebrows practically hit our tin ceiling. “Whistling what?!”
“Dick is the name of the story’s hero. And he whistles. Nevertheless, given modern argot, I felt we should change the title. I mean, ‘Whistling Dick’? Think of the children!”
“Smart move,” Eddie replied. “Shows you got good commercial instincts.”
Tuck gestured to his boyfriend. “Punch here is the star of the piece. He plays a jaunty hobo named Dick. After surviving a harrowing set of circumstances, Dick saves a kindly family from robbery and ruin on a chilly Christmas Eve.”
“It’s a lovely part,” Punch said. “But it does have its challenges.”
“He’s talking about Dick’s big climax,” Tuck explained (and he actually said it with a straight face).
“Go on,” Eddie said, nodding with interest. “What does Dick do to climax?”
Oh good heavens.
“Well, Dick is a hobo, and he’s learned that other hobos—bad ones—are planning to break into this nice family’s home and rob them during the night. A little girl inside was kind to him, and he doesn’t want to see her hurt. But the bad hobos learn Dick is going to warn the family, so they hold him prisoner at their bad hobo camp.”
Eddie was on the edge of his seat. “Go on!”
“Well, Dick can see the family’s house on the hill, so he writes a note, warning them of the robbery, attaches it to a rock, and uses a lady’s stocking that he’s been carrying around to shoot it through their window when his hobo guard isn’t looking.”
“I don’t get it?” Eddie said. “How does a lady’s stocking help you hurl a rock?”
Tuck turned to his partner. “Punch, show Eddie how it’s done.”
Punch shook his head. “I don’t know—”
“Come on,” Tuck coaxed. “Your costume and props are in your backpack.”
“Okay, okay.” Punch leaned over and rummaged through his bag, coming up with a red-and-white-striped woman’s stocking and a rock roughly the size of a tennis ball.
“Here’s how Whistling Dick saves the day . . .” Punch dropped the rock into the stocking and began to spin it over his head. The rock pushed against the toe of the sock, stretching the material in a colorful display. The rock literally began whistling around his head.
“When I let go, it flies all the way to the other side of the theater, where it breaks a false window. Fake glass rains down and everything. It’s amazing. A real show stop—”
With a sudden snap the stocking flew out of Punch’s hand. Like a candy cane firework, it sailed in a red and white arc across the landmark coffeehouse and right through a pane of glass in our wall of French doors.
Shattered shards crashed to the hardwood floor, thankfully near no customers. Outside, there was a bang, and a car alarm began to wail.
Oh crap.
For a moment, everyone gaped at the broken window.
Then Eddie Rayburn broke into peals of laughter. “I hope you have better control in front of an audience, Whistling Dick,” he said, chuckling. “I mean, think of the children!”
Eddie grabbed his hat and buttoned up his coat. “I’ll see you people on Friday!” Still laughing, he walked out the door.
“I’ll get the broom,” Nancy said.
“Oh goodness, Clare. I’m so sorry!” Tuck cried.
“Me too,” said a contrite Punch.
“Don’t worry about it. We’re insured.” With a five-hundred-dollar deductible . . . I sighed. Making that one very expensive climax.
Tuck slumped in his chair. “Maybe I should have staged ‘The Little Match Girl.’”
“Why didn’t you?” Nancy asked, broom and dustpan in hand.
“I wanted to, but the producers at the Children’s Theatre found the story of an abused little girl, trying to avoid going home on Christmas Eve, only to freeze to death instead, was just a tad depressing for a young holiday audience.”
Nancy looked up from her sweeping. “You’re right, Tuck. ‘The Little Match Girl’ is really depressing. But at least she wouldn’t have made such a mess for me to clean up!”
Thirty-five
THE rest of the week went by without further incident (or broken windows, thank you very much). Then Friday rolled around, bringing another party.
True to his word, Eddie Rayburn attended. The Double Ds came, too, along with hockey star Ross Puckett, and a few more suspicious guests.
Much of this would be recounted to the responding detectives because, in the end, another poor young woman would be killed by repeated blows to the head, just like Moirin. And like the previous Cookie Swap, the timeline for this bash held the clues to the basher.
Oddly enough, the key events began, as they did the week before, on the subject of coffee stirrers . . .
* * *
“I said, do you have enough?” Matt yelled.
“Enough what?” I called from behind the red and white counter. “Come around, so I can hear you!”
Matt struggled through the buzzing crowd to my side of the café counter.
We were swamped with customers—girls in pretty party dresses, boys in tiny suits, adults in designer evening wear, and full-grown men in elf tights and felt hats.
The location for tonight’s fund-raiser was the most famous toy store in the world. Catering to the pampered and privileged, this legendary Fifth Avenue establishment featured high-end merchandise displayed across three vast floors, personal shoppers, a private party room, and an event consultant.
My staff and I were located in the rear of the first floor, where we’d taken over the store’s
little café.
“Last week, you told me that everyone at the first Cookie Swap wanted a swirl-it-yourself Caramel Latte,” Matt said. “So are you short on stirrers again?”
“No. Tonight, we’re about to run out of—”
“Plastic swizzle sticks!” Tucker and Esther finished together, hands busy filling orders.
“Our Gumdrop Spritzers have been flying out of here,” I explained to Matt. “We’re offering every flavor a gumdrop comes in: cherry, lemon, lime, orange, mint, grape—”
“And we slide an actual gumdrop onto each drink’s swizzle stick before serving it,” Tuck added.
While Europeans routinely added high-quality coffeehouse bar syrups to sparkling water, most Americans had never seen baristas blend them with anything but espressos and steamed milk. But freshly made sodas carried remarkably bright and powerful flavor. There was really no comparison to a pre-bottled or canned soda, and many of tonight’s guests were getting their first taste of them.
“We’re even mixing the drinks to order,” Esther jumped in, “and kids are suggesting some fun combos, too—cinnamon-orange, cherry-vanilla, and mint-chocolate.”
“Who knew a simple Italian-style soda could beat out a caramel latte?” Matt said.
“I did,” Tuck smugly replied.
“That’s true, you did,” I conceded.
“And how did he know?” Matt asked.
“Tucker Burton’s Death of Popularity theorem,” Esther declared.
“A little philosophy I have about customer behavior,” Tuck explained, handing out a smile with another gumdrop drink. “When Thing A catches on, the mere whiff of its popularity makes it even more popular; but soon A becomes so popular that it’s considered common, humdrum, and consequently dropped like a pet rock in exchange for Thing B. Then B becomes so popular, it’s dropped for Thing C, and so on down the variable alphabet.”
“That’s not just customer behavior,” Matt said. “That’s human behavior.” He turned to me. “So you need a hand?”
