by Cleo Coyle
I nearly fell off the examination table.
“Nope.” Puckett drained his flask. “Evil Eyes didn’t guess squat. And you never read about Danni and me in the tabloids, either. Do you know why?”
Too shocked to reply, I simply shook my head.
“Because I was a true man of discretion. I kept a secret the whole time we were hooking up last December.”
Last December? Oh my God . . .
The timing was irrefutable—the car wreck that killed M’s cousin was last December. The car was driven by a “crazy bitch” involved with Ross. And now he admitted the identity of the woman he’d been having a secret affair with last December.
This idiot doesn’t know it, but he just admitted to me that Kaitlin Brophy was killed by Danni Rayburn!
Ross belched. Hot, alcohol-laced breath washed over me. He lunged again and our lips locked. During the ensuing struggle, my bun disintegrated.
There was no more to be gained here, and my situation was dire. I had to go. Fortunately, I’d already planned my escape. All it required was a little melodrama on my part.
As Ross moved in for another kiss, I knocked my sunglasses off. Then I covered my eyes and started screaming.
“I yam blind! Blind! The light, it ruin-ink my eyes.”
“Oh man, oh man. Let me find your glasses,” Ross said in a tone of drunken panic. Then I heard a sickening crunch. “Damn. Damn,” groaned Ross.
Oops. So much for those pricey Kazuo Kawasaki frames.
My screams got louder, until someone pounded on the door.
“Let me in or I break it down!” Boris commanded from the other side.
“I’ll be right there,” Ross said. He tripped during his headlong lunge for the lock. He staggered to his feet, ripped the door open, and sighed with relief.
“You better get her out of here,” he told Boris. “Get her to a doctor, man.”
“Boris? Is that you?” I called, eyes closed, arms groping blindly.
“Get away from her, you brute!” Boris shouted, hands balled into fists. “This is outrage! An international coincidence!”
“I’m gone!” Ross pushed past Boris and staggered down the hall.
I rolled off the examination table and kicked the ice pack off my calf. Boris handed me my pumps.
“Thanks, comrade,” I whispered as I slipped them on. “Let’s get out of here. Through the back door, this time.”
Fifty-nine
“COSI, that hit-and-run is a year old,” Lori Soles informed me by phone the next morning. “It also took place in Nassau County, on Long Island, so it’s out of the NYPD’s jurisdiction.”
“But—”
“No buts,” Lori insisted. “What you have is hearsay, not proof. Ross Puckett has everything to lose and nothing to gain by repeating the story he told you. The man’s attorneys would never allow him to go on the record with authorities.”
I paced my kitchen, suggesting that Lori at least review the files.
“I’ve got no time for that! Reach out to the shields on Long Island, maybe they can help. Anyway, I can’t see how that case is related to the unsolved homicides we do have in our jurisdiction.”
“It is related, if you consider my theory—”
For half the night, I lay awake going over my memories from both Cookie Swap parties, and I’d come to a firm conclusion: one of two people had to be guilty of killing M. Unfortunately, Lori wasn’t listening.
“—by now you must know about the evidence your man Quinn dug up,” she went on. “Your late employee testified against members of a Dublin car-theft ring, one of whom is still at large. My lieutenant is completely sold on Quinn’s revenge murder theory, and he’s got half the squad checking alibis on the gangs’ known associates in the United States—”
“Listen to me,” I said, “Mike Quinn is a brilliant narcotics detective, but his theory about M’s murder is totally skewed by the Irish authorities. They have good reason to think what they do, but they weren’t at those Cookie Swap parties or at the Bryant Park crime scene. I was. And I have my own theory about the connection between my employee’s murder and her cousin’s death. I admit I can’t prove it. But I promise you that it does add up.”
A long pause was followed by a mumbled conversation to someone on Lori’s end of the line. Finally, she came back.
“Look, Cosi, I’ll come by the shop tonight, and you can brief me on this theory of yours. But I have to warn you—without proof, theories are about as valuable to me as a kiddie bedtime story.”
“Yes, Detective, I realize that.”
“Oh, and save me a few of those gingerbread men. Biting their heads off is proving cheaper than therapy.” She lowered her voice. “Endicott’s snapping his fingers. Got to go . . .”
The line went dead, and I collapsed into my kitchen chair.
I knew in my bones that I was close to solving M’s murder. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get around Lori’s point. For anyone to believe me, I would have to find proof. But how on earth was I going to do that?
* * *
AN hour later, I descended the stairs to the Village Blend. The scheme I’d come up with was simple enough—and if I executed my plan this afternoon, I’d have the evidence in time for Lori’s scheduled beheading of little gingerbread Endicotts tonight.
There was only one drawback. I would have to persuade my most trusted barista to help me. And that barista had every reason to turn me down.
“And here she is! The Great Galina herself!” Tucker Burton grinned as I approached his lanky form behind the coffee bar.
“Tuck, we need to talk. Pull us a couple of doubles and come up to my office.”
Sixty
“SO?” Tuck began as I shut the door. “Dish! How did it go last night with the horny hockey captain?”
“Well enough to give me a very strong lead on M’s murderer.”
“Wow. The NYPD should keep me on retainer to costume all their undercovers!”
I settled into my creaky desk chair, took a hit of earthy espresso, and hoped the caffeine would give me the courage to get through this.
“Tuck, I’m so sorry, but I’ve got some disappointing news for you.”
“Uh-oh. I don’t like the sound of that.”
“The last thing I want to do is shoot down an artist’s dream, just as it’s taking off. But what I discovered is going to mean an end to your bound-for-Broadway show with the Double Ds.”
For a terrible moment, Tuck looked completely stricken—and I felt horrible. Then a whoosh of air rushed out of him and he sat back with an unreadable look.
“Ooooh,” he wailed, “thank goodness!”
I blinked. “Thank goodness?”
“Oh, honey, if you can get me ‘off the hook’ to do this show, I will be forever in your debt!”
“But . . . I don’t understand. I thought you were thrilled with the chance to do a show with Danni and Delores?”
“That was before I got to know the real them. Those ladies were heavily packaged by the reality show producers—and it worked for TV. But theater is another animal. On stage, what you see is what you get, and those ladies . . . How do I put this? If talent could be measured on a scale of one to ten, they’re in the negative numbers.”
“Even with a campy production?”
“Are you kidding? Camp takes courage, CC, and it also takes skill: singing, dancing, comic timing; at the very least, the ability to deliver your lines with a modicum of stage presence! Punch is brilliant at it, and I would much rather work with him and any number of actor friends, who are true geniuses, rather than with those true housewives.”
“Really?”
“For days, I’ve been trying to work out how to save the production. Punch suggested a drag show around them. They’d make a few key appearances, something simple for them to handle. But Eddie Rayburn wouldn’t have it. His Danni and her little buddy Delores had to be the stars, so I’ve been losing sleep, trying to figure a way out. I mean, sure it�
�s every director’s dream to be handed a big-budget show, but who needs a bomb so big it explodes your career?”
“Oh, Tuck, I am so relieved that you’re relieved!”
“No problem, CC. Maybe I’ll get to Broadway someday; maybe I won’t. But, honestly, I’d rather my success be based on my own talent and experience—not on a couple of ladies who are simply famous for being famous.”
I took another hit of espresso, fortifying myself for the second half of my difficult news.
Tuck studied me. “So? What did you find out last night? Did Ross come out and say that one of the Ds killed M?”
“Not M. Her cousin Kaitlin.”
“You’ll have to explain.”
“Last December, Ross told authorities that his BMW was stolen by an unknown thief. But last night, he told me that a jealous girlfriend got herself drunk and took it. He wouldn’t tell me her name; only that she was crazy enough to get herself tattooed with 88 is Great. A few chugs of Smirnoff later, he let slip that he was having an affair, in that same time period, with Danni Rayburn.”
“No!”
“Yes! Obviously, Danni Rayburn killed Kaitlin when she drove Ross’s car into the bakery where the girl worked. The car severed gas lines feeding the ovens. The bakery caught fire, Kaitlin was killed, and Danni escaped manslaughter charges because she and Ross covered it up.”
“And how does that connect to M’s murder?”
“It seems to me, when M first came to America, she must have lived and worked on Long Island, probably with her cousin Kaitlin, at that same little bakery where the girl was killed. Two years ago, M moved to New York City to pursue her dream of becoming a professional recording artist. That’s when she moved in with ex-rocker David Brice.”
“The guy you met at the retirement community?”
I nodded. “I’m sure M hoped to hit it big one day, and that was why she changed her name when she came to the city—to prevent anyone from tracing her history to that sordid scandal in Dublin. Then last year, she heard the news of her cousin’s death, and it hit her hard, but she kept going, continued working, singing, and dreaming. I’m sure she believed what everyone else did: that Kaitlin’s death was a terrible accident and the person responsible was a car thief who got away.
“Then about three months ago, according to Lori Soles, M received a letter. What was in this letter? M never wrote that down in her diary, but she did say it brought ‘terrible news.’ She obviously thought about the letter a long time and then wrote that ‘the letter changes everything.’ As of about three weeks before her death, she began to write about the Letter with a capital L, and finally said that it would help her ‘build a better future for herself, and for others.’”
“And?”
“I believe this Letter revealed the truth about the accident that killed Kaitlin. It wasn’t some unknown thug who caused that fire; it was TV star Danni Rayburn, a rich and famous woman, who never paid for what she’d done. I think M decided to make Danni pay. She used the Letter to blackmail her.”
“Oh my goodness, this is actually making sense . . .”
“Danni probably agreed to pay but demanded to see this Letter first. M would have insisted the meeting be in a public place so she could be sure of her safety—but also make sure the tables weren’t turned on her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, what M was doing was a crime. She was extorting money in exchange for silence. M would want to avoid the presence of any witnesses who might help Danni twist things around and charge M with blackmail.”
“That’s why they met in the Bryant Park carousel?”
“Yes, that broken carousel was in the public eye during the Cookie Swap, yet still private. With carols playing over the speakers and the ice rink the center of attention, no one would notice what was going on inside that dark circle . . .”
“Go on!”
“My bet is, M brought the Letter to the killer, who waited for a chance to bash M to death. Afterward, the killer took the Letter and went back to the party. With the heavy snowstorm predicted that night, M’s body wouldn’t have been discovered for at least another day—that is, if I hadn’t stumbled upon it.”
“And you really think Danni Rayburn was the killer?”
“Either Danni or her hotheaded husband, Eddie. He could have done it for her, and he was at the Cookie Swap, too.”
“Eddie certainly has a history of violence,” Tuck noted. “What about Ross Puckett? Couldn’t M have tried to blackmail him with this Letter?”
I shook my head. “I overheard the way Ross spoke to M at the Cookie Swap. There was no bad blood between them. Ross kidded with her, even made a pass. That kind of behavior doesn’t add up to a perjurer talking to his blackmailer.”
“What about the blood spatter? Wouldn’t there have been blood on Eddie’s suit or coat? How could he go back to the party with evidence like that on him?”
“I thought of that, too, but then I remembered what Matt told me about Breanne’s leaving her fur at home this season because the hottest fashion item for women this winter is—”
“The Fen reversible coat! Oh my gosh!”
“Yes, that’s why I think the killer was a woman—Danni and not Eddie. If Danni got any blood on her coat, all she would have to do is wipe away the wetness with a tissue and reverse the thing. Then she could leave the dark carousel, maybe hang around the skating rink for a little while, watching her kids on the ice, and finally walk right back inside to the party, checking her coat before continuing her evening as if nothing had happened.”
“Don’t the police have anything from the crime scene? Fingerprints? Blood? Hairs?”
“According to Lori Soles, there are no usable forensics on M’s murder. The snowstorm in Bryant Park saw to that. They did recover a single bloody fingerprint from Rita Limon’s murder at the toy store. But the police are convinced Rita’s estranged husband is the killer. They’re still looking for him. The thing is . . .” I shook my head. “Given the similarities between M’s murder and Rita’s, I’d swear they were killed by the same person. But I don’t know of any connection between Rita and Danni, so—”
“You’re kidding! You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Before Rita opened her bakery, she worked as a personal chef for the Rayburn family! She cooked for Danni and Eddie!”
I sat back. The revelation was a stunner. But it shouldn’t have been. My mind raced, remembering what Rita had revealed at the toy store Cookie Swap. She said, when she first came to this country, she worked at a resort spa in Arizona . . .
“One of the ladies who went there liked my dishes so much that she brought me here to New York, and I became a personal chef to her wealthy family. The pay was good, and . . . I caught a little break with some TV exposure . . .”
The Double Ds reality show was what gave Rita the exposure to find financial backers, quit her job with Danni and Eddie, and open her own bakery. The clues had been there. I just hadn’t seen them. On the other hand . . . timing was everything.
I leaned forward in my creaky chair. “Tuck, I never watched True Housewives of Long Island. Do you remember if Rita was still working for Danni last December?”
His head bobbed. “She was! Rita made brief appearances on both seasons.”
This was it, the connection, and it made complete sense with my theory! I threw my arms around Tucker and squeezed. “Thank you!”
“For what?”
“Rita was the one! I’m sure she wrote the Letter. While she was working as the Rayburns’ cook, she must have overheard Danni spilling her guts to someone—her husband or her best friend Delores. Then Rita bided her time. She waited until after she left her job with the Rayburns. And when she was out of their house, she felt safe enough to tell M the truth about who killed her cousin. That’s why Rita was murdered! Danni found out what she’d done!”
“Oh God,” Tucker moaned. “What are we going to do? How are we going to prove
any of this? Do you want us to question Danni, like you did Ross Puckett?”
“No. If she or her husband is a killer, we’d be putting ourselves in real danger. But I’ve come up with the perfect solution. We’ll go to—”
“Delores, of course!” Tucker blurted.
I nodded. “Delores is Danni’s best friend. If anyone knows her secrets, she does. And these people aren’t exactly geniuses. Delores won’t suspect you and me of ulterior motives. You’re her director and I’m just a lowly coffeehouse manager. We’ll come up with some clever angle to get into her house. I’ll bring a digital recorder, keep it hidden, and get Delores a little tipsy on wine—”
“Not wine. Champagne! Delores is a sucker for it. The pricier the better.”
“I’ll take care of it. If we can get her to corroborate at least part of my theory, I’ll play the recording tonight for Lori Soles. Once Lori is convinced, I know she’ll help us set up Danni the same way. But when we approach Danni, you and I will be wearing wires, and we’ll have police backup.”
“Brilliant plan, Shirley Holmes!” Tuck put out his hand and I slapped it.
Quinn would be so proud of me, I thought. I might be impatient for justice, but I’m not taking any risks this time. Not only am I going in with backup, I’m steering clear of the truly dangerous suspects.
What could be safer?
Sixty-one
“THIS is it.” Tuck steered Punch’s Nissan into a curving driveway.
The Deluca home sat on a quiet road in an upscale section of Long Island, fashionably close to the shore. Surrounded by trees and an expansive snow-covered lawn, the house could be called “modest”—if you compared it to the Palace of Versailles, or Windsor Castle.
“Don’t let these imposing digs intimidate,” Tuck assured me. “Delores is very approachable.”
Recalling the unhappy laser stares that Ms. Deluca had emitted at me—twice, in as many parties—I was doubtful, but it was too late to turn back now.
We strode up to the double-door entrance, where Tuck rang the chimes, and I reached under my coat to activate the digital recorder in my skirt pocket.
