by Cleo Coyle
“Tonight, I recommend the Gumdrop Spritzers. If you’re not too busy you should definitely try one.”
She nodded. “Caught a break just now. The little Rayburn kids are watching the show.” She touched my arm. “So do you know if Rita Limon is up there now?”
I nodded. “On the mezzanine. Look straight down the main aisle to the Barbie section. You can’t miss her display. It’s wonderful.”
“Yes, I’ve really missed her cookies,” the nanny called over her shoulder as she headed off.
Forty-two
AS I arrived back at the store’s café, a deafening whoop erupted from the audience crowding the front of the store. The fireworks had begun.
According to Tuck’s showbiz source, the Robo-Rudolph show began with sing-along songs by Santa; then came fireworks on the plaza; followed by Rudolph emerging from a life-sized Red-Nosed Supersonic Robo-Rocket.
The plucky robot reindeer would pantomime a prerecorded song and dance number called “Don’t Die On Me, Christmas.” Then he’d greet the children while his army of elf-helpers handed out promotional T-shirts—which meant my staff and I had roughly fifteen minutes of relative calm before we were mobbed again.
Tucker was making the most of his downtime, icing glasses for a new round of Gumdrop Spritzers while Esther gleefully impaled innocent gumdrops with swizzle sticks.
“The whole thing is just weird,” Esther was saying to Tuck. “And I usually like weird. I’ll even admit, when I see some of the holiday shoppers who stumble into the Blend, they actually resemble zombies. But mashing up the walking dead with the most festive season of the year? I just don’t see it.”
“The zombies that Santa Claus battles in the movie aren’t dead. They’re simply under an evil spell,” Tuck explained. “Also they don’t eat flesh; they gobble up all the holiday sweets they can find. Plus these zombies can be cured by the right song, which is being piped in here even as we speak.”
Esther listened for a moment, then shrugged. “So the only drawback to zombie-itis is bad movie music and possible type 2 diabetes?”
Tuck fixed her with his gaze. “Admit it, Snark Grinch. Those are two scary propositions!”
Before Esther could reply, I noticed something just as frightening: a pair of ruby-sequined predators moving through the sweetshop’s candy aisles like lionesses through a rainbow veldt.
Big Danni Rayburn burst from cover first. She bounced on tiptoes as she approached our counter, her bustier-clad chest thrust out so aggressively that her “enhancements” seemed more like helium balloons holding her aloft.
“Hiii-eeeee,” Big Danni squealed. “Remember us?”
“Of course Tucker remembers us,” Little Delores Deluca purred. “Who doesn’t remember ‘spectacular’?”
It was then I noticed Big Danni’s husband hanging back in the candy shop. Eddie Rayburn waved and smiled at Tucker—but that smile didn’t reach those “evil eyes.” The gesture looked more like a threat than a greeting.
Tuck audibly gulped then quickly welcomed the women.
“Wow! Girls! I’m so glad you’re here,” he cried, moving around the counter to air-kiss them both. “I was hoping to catch up with you. I have a very important offer to make the Double Ds!”
“Sounds delicious,” Danni said with wide, heavily made-up eyes.
“Should we alert our agent?” Delores asked.
“Do, because that little cabaret show I told you about—”
Big Danni cocked her head. “The one where we get to play ourselves?”
“That’s the one. Only the size of the project has ballooned out of proportion—”
“Kind of like their enhancements,” murmured Esther before I elbowed her into silence.
“In fact,” Tuck continued, “the show has gotten so big the whole production may be headed to Broadway.”
Danni and Delores let out whoops loud enough to rival the cheers on the other side of the toy store.
“Can we sit?” Delores asked. “Talk about this?”
Tuck gave me a sidelong glance and I nodded once.
“Sure, here’s an out-of-the-way table,” Tuck said. “Let me get you something to—”
“You’re not moving, sugar daddy,” Delores declared as she slung her red Hermes Birkin bag across the table, into an empty chair.
“Girl? Hey, girl?” she called in my direction. Then Delores snapped her cougar-length fingernails. “Hello!”
I blinked. “Sorry. Were you talking to me?”
“Who else? Fetch me one of those gumdrop drinks. Strawberry. Make it a double.”
Tuck reacted. I signaled that it was okay, boorish customers in this town were nothing new—and I was being inattentive. (Though in my defense, it’s been a few years since anyone addressed me as “girl.”)
“And what can I get you, ma’am?” I asked Big Danni.
“Whatever Delores is having,” she said with an impatient wave.
I pushed Esther in front of me as we both made the spritzers. “Are you delivering, or am I?” she asked when the drinks were made.
“I’ll spare you the pain,” I said, lifting the tray. Besides, I want to hear this conversation for myself!
“What sort of acting have you done?” I heard Tuck ask the Ds as I approached the table.
“I appeared in an episode of that serial killer cable show Wexler,” Danni said. “I played a girl named Emily. I knew my lines, but I always missed my cue.”
“Bad direction?” Tuck asked.
“No, it was my fault. The other actor would say, ‘Hey, Em,’ and I’d be waiting to hear ‘Hey, Danni.’” She rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I’m such a ditz. But it won’t matter in your show because I’ll be playing myself.”
Tuck faced Delores. “How about you? Any thespian experience?”
“Last month I auditioned for the role of a police assistant on that network show Criminal Intent. I even got tips on how to play the part from my sister, who really is a PA for the police commissioner’s office. I dressed all dowdy for the audition, too, just like my sister.”
Little Delores sighed. “I didn’t get the part, but my agent told me to look on the bright side. A girl like me just can’t hide her glam.”
I’d served the drinks and was about to depart when Danni screeched at me.
“This is strawberry! I hate strawberry!”
Danni then waved her spritzer in the air until some of the liquid sloshed onto her own Birkin bag—much like her friend Delores’s, only pink instead of red. And she kept hers tightly slung over her shoulder.
O-kay, I thought. So much for “I’ll have what Delores is having.”
“How about lemon-lime?” I suggested. “Or cherry?”
“Whatever,” she said, whirling to face Tuck again.
“You only have to be your vivacious selves and this show will be a hit,” Tuck declared. “And you know what that means? Instant fame, all over again.”
The Double Ds squealed and Danni bounced in her chair.
As I headed back to the counter, I thought about all of those privileged children who’d come to the party tonight. They pointed to the toy they wanted, and no matter the cost, Daddy or Mommy sent their personal shopper off to process the credit card.
The Double Ds fit right into that paradigm. They didn’t know it, but a Secret Santa was holding the credit card for them, willing to shell out the cost of making their dreams come true.
But the vast majority of struggling actors, writers, and artists didn’t have it so easy, and I saw examples of it daily in my own coffeehouse: fine arts painter Dante Silva; jazz musician Gardner Evans; Goth poetess Esther Best. And then there was poor Moirin, who’d worked so hard as a baker’s assistant while trying to scale the ladder of singing success. It just didn’t seem fair—or right.
“Let’s try a lemon spritzer this time,” I told Esther as I set the tray on the counter.
She arched her eyebrow. “Not lemon-lime?”
“This one should
be sour.” To match the lady’s personality, I nearly added, but didn’t have to.
Esther winked with understanding. “I got you, boss. And I think—uh-oh . . .”
“What?”
She lifted her chin and lowered her voice. “Here comes that lunkheaded Ross Puckett.”
“The hockey player?” I asked without turning. “You serve that spritzer. I’ll serve the lunkhead.” Because this time I’ve come prepared . . .
Forty-three
A minute later, Ross Puckett approached the toy store café counter. Looking dashing in his extra-large formal wear, he grinned stupidly—until he came face-to-face with his worst nightmare.
“Whoa! Not you!” he cried, clearly remembering our last encounter. “Keep back, Coffee Lady. I just had my Bruno Maglis polished this morning. They were plenty scuffed from our last meeting.”
“That’s terrible. I’m really sorry about that,” I said, pouring on the charm. “How about I make it up to you right now?”
Puckett’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How are you going to do that?”
“Easy. I’m going to prepare something really special for you: a cherry cordial latte with a mix of kirsch, crème de cacao, and Kahlua. I guarantee it will give you a happy holiday buzz.”
To my surprise, Puckett shook his shaggy blond head. “I’ll take one of those Gumdrop Spritzers instead. Make it a cherry, now that you got me thinking about it.”
I added the syrup to the icy club soda, dropped one of our dwindling supply of swizzle sticks into the glass, and handed it over. I was about to compliment the hockey captain on trying to stay dry tonight, when Puckett drew a flask out of his jacket pocket and poured a clear liquid into his glass.
I arched an eyebrow. “I see tonight you’ve come prepared.”
He smirked. “Fancy drinks can’t beat the punch of pure vodka.”
As he returned the flask to his pocket, he brushed at the telltale crumbs still clinging to his black lapels. They were pieces of Rita’s Pastelitos de Cajeta, and I knew he’d visited—and very likely hit on—the beautiful Latina in the Barbie doll section. Once again, I remembered how much he’d liked those Brandy Snap Matchsticks from the first party. They’d been Rita’s, too.
Ross Puckett flashed me a flirtatious smile. “Got to go,” he said, adding a wink. “Maybe see you later.”
He sauntered off, turning for a final wave before vanishing among the sweets. I scanned the candy shop and realized Eddie was gone, too.
When did he disappear?
That’s when I got the shivery feeling of being watched. I turned to find Delores Deluca staring hatefully at me.
What did I ever do to you, lady? I silently wondered.
“How did it go with the lunkhead?” Esther asked.
“He was his old charming self, which is more than I can say for the Little D over there.” I leaned closer to Esther. “Is it my imagination, or was that woman glaring at me while I was talking to Ross?”
“She was,” Esther replied. “The whole time.”
I shook my head. “Maybe she was jealous that a celebrity was giving a cheesy wink to me instead of another celebrity like her. Anyway I can’t take the stares. Hold down the fort. I’m going across the street.”
“Where?”
I pointed to the recessed glass door on the exterior wall of our little café. “I’m using that door to slip outside. I’m going to that bar, see it? Vintage 58.”
Typically, this side door was used to give the public access to the café before the store opened. During the party, however, the door was locked from the outside. But I could go through it now and have Esther let me back in.
“Why are you going to a bar, boss? If you need a drink, I can pour you a kirsch-laced Kahlua!”
“We need swizzle sticks, dear. I know Vintage 58 has them, emblazoned with their logo. I’m going to talk the manager into gifting me a couple of hundred, for which he will get a massive amount of free promo with this VIP crowd.”
Esther gave me a thumbs-up. “Problem solved on the cheap. A-plus!”
On the way to the side exit, I passed Tuck and the Double Ds. Tuck was telling the girls all about the rock-in-the-sock stunt in his Children’s Theatre production. Noting the large windows along the wall, I was grateful he resisted the temptation to provide an actual demonstration this time.
Forty-four
TWO hours later, the guests were gone, and much of the staff, too. Other than four security guards and a manager—all of them gathered near the front doors—only a few bakers were still packing up their things, and that’s what I was counting on.
Before one particular baker left, I had questions for her. Tucker had departed already so I asked Esther to finish packing up while I headed for the store’s escalator.
The vast space felt strangely empty and eerily quiet as I walked by the stuffed animals and toy soldiers. When I reached the mezzanine, I moved to the Barbie section, but Rita Limon was gone.
I stepped closer. On the shelf above, a line of beautiful plastic dolls looked down at me with unseeing eyes, and I realized—
Rita’s not gone. Not yet . . .
Her cookie table hadn’t been packed up and broken down, which meant she was still around here somewhere. The restroom was the likeliest place to look, so I moved past the $25,000 Barbie Foosball table, the $1,500 jeweled Etch A Sketch, and the giant floor piano, and entered the store’s private party room.
Countless parents had rented this space over the years to celebrate their children’s birthdays. The room was cheerful with kid-sized tables and chairs, jumbo stuffed animals, and tall windows that overlooked Madison Avenue.
Tonight the party had been throughout the store, so this room was set aside for use by the participating bakers and party staff to hang coats and keep personal items.
Another door, inside the room, led to the restrooms, and I expected to find Rita there. I pushed the door with the little girl silhouette and found the room dark and freezing cold.
I almost left, but something didn’t seem right. An odd, metallic smell hung in the air, and I had a very bad feeling about the chilly temperature. So I flipped on the lights. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, until I moved inside.
Dark liquid had been spilled on the tile floor at the far end of the room. I moved closer to examine it, pushed open the last stall door—and screamed.
Rita’s body was crumpled in a corner stall, blood pooled around it. Like Moirin, her head had been bashed in at some point during the festivities. An open window let the winter air in, a smart move on the part of the killer to mask the time of death.
I was shaken, angered, and finally outraged over this savage crime. Those emotions would lead me to put myself in danger later this very night (a decision I would not regret, given the outcome). But first the homicide detectives would have questions for me, and I was more than ready to provide answers.
Forty-five
THIS was my second NYPD crime scene in a little over a week. Like Tucker Burton’s repertory company, the costumes were different, but the cast was pretty much the same.
Detective Sergeant Fletcher Endicott was here, in paper booties, milling around a Ken doll display. Mr. DNA was dressed ludicrously formally for a murder investigation. Beneath his clear plastic “clean suit,” he wore a black tux, white tie, and burgundy silk vest.
Instead of a digital recorder, the man was speaking into a smartphone while watching the white-suited CSU team walk in and out of the children’s party room area, plunking on keys of the giant floor piano as they combed for clues.
Endicott was forced to speak loudly to be heard over the discordant floor-piano concerto (which, for me, made eavesdropping that much easier).
“Yes, Captain! I have the situation well in hand!” Endicott declared. “My prime suspect has been under surveillance for days. He’s finally made his next move, and I’m certain we shall be taking him into custody this very night!”
I blanched. Surely he isn
’t referring to my barista?
“Mobile communications is about to patch me through to my undercover tail. She’s been posted at the coffeehouse where our suspect works . . .”
Oh God, I realized, he was talking about my barista, which meant the man’s prime suspect for Rita Limon’s murder was again Dante Silva—the very young man he believed bludgeoned Moirin Fagan to death last week as part of a serial string of Christmas Stalkings.
“I have no doubt our undercover followed the suspect to this location within the time frame of the murder . . .”
I cast about for someone sane and spotted Lori Soles.
Like Endicott, Lori fit right into the Barbie aisle with her red and black evening dress and pearl earrings. Her short blond curls were sleekly slicked down this evening. Her bright red lipstick matched the holly berry red in her dress; and with her high-heeled pumps on her already long legs, she literally loomed over a uniformed officer, who was giving her an update.
When Lori finally saw me frantically waving, she approached, heels clicking.
“If this crime scene is formal, I’m underdressed,” I told her.
“Thank the stars you are . . .” She stepped closer: “As a member of the suddenly high-profile Stalker Task Force, I was ‘invited’ to the Mayor’s Holiday Gala: a formal dinner followed by a performance of The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center.” She checked her back and lowered her voice. “I was coerced into attending as Fletcher Endicott’s dinner partner. Honestly, Cosi, I was relieved when the evening ended early.”
“You were Endicott’s date? What did Mr. Soles think of that arrangement?”
“He’s still laughing.”
Meanwhile, Endicott continued his conversation with his superior: “No, sir. It pains me to report that the toy store’s security cameras are useless on this floor . . . Yes, they do have them. But it seems they were focused on the rather costly Barbie Foosball table, jeweled Etch A Sketch, and the like and not on the stacks of cheap plastic dolls where the victim was stationed. And though the private party room has cameras, they are only made active during private parties—”
