by Cleo Coyle
I sighed again, gazing out the window, wishing for a miracle. And a few minutes later, I got one . . .
“Ho, ho, ho!” Jingle bells rang out as our front door opened. “Merry Christmas!”
“It’s Santa Claus!” Tuck cried, running up to hug the man in red.
Behind his long white beard, the red-suited figure grinned wide.
“Have you been a good boy?” Punch teased.
Tuck’s boyfriend was so lean he needed three pillows to fill the suit. On his back, he carried a red velvet sack filled with my gifts to my baristas and their gifts to one another—the Secret Santa presents that had been piling up all month in the back pantry, beside our little, plastic, motion-detecting Bing Crosby.
As Punch unloaded the presents, I saw Matt saying something to me, but I didn’t hear him. I didn’t hear anything. Staring into space, I was suddenly reliving a moment before that first Cookie Swap . . .
I saw the image of M taking that cell phone call, a call I now knew was from her killer, Delores. The two were finalizing plans for their fateful meeting at the broken carousel. M had walked back to our pantry area so she could speak to Delores in private, and that’s when I heard our little Bing Crosby singing his tinny “White Christmas.”
“Oh my gosh!” I jumped up.
“What is it?” Matt asked.
I raced over to Punch. “Santa, let me see those gifts!”
“I don’t know. Have you been a good little girl?”
“Good enough!” I began frantically unloading the packages onto our counter. Halfway down, I saw it—the mysterious gift that Vicki had mentioned the other day, a gift marked for Moirin, one that none of the baristas had taken back since her death.
I didn’t have to ask anyone who put it there. I knew. Ripping the paper, I opened the gift and looked inside.
“What is it?” Matt asked, hurrying up to me.
“This is it! The Letter . . .”
Obviously, M had learned something from her old boyfriend in Dublin, who’d hidden a handgun under a Christmas tree. Well, this little present was just as explosive.
I pulled out the sheet of Barbie pink paper. The Letter told the whole awful story of how Delores Deluca stole Ross Puckett’s car, wrecked it into the bakery, and killed M’s cousin. I was thrilled with this discovery, until—
“Oh no . . .”
“What?” Matt asked.
“The Letter is typewritten. And it isn’t signed. Without Rita’s signature, we’re sunk.”
“Look,” said Matt, peering into the box. “There’s something else in here . . .”
And that’s when we finally nailed Delores Deluca for Rita Limon’s murder—because the box contained a second letter, this one handwritten on a plain piece of notebook paper:
Dear Moirin,
I knew Kaitlin. I went to her bakery often. She told me that she had a cousin who worked in the city for Janelle’s Pastries. That’s how I found you.
The letter enclosed explains the truth of how Kaitlin died. I overheard it spoken in Danni Rayburn’s home. I used her stationery as proof of this.
I didn’t sign the letter because I would like to remain anonymous. But I think you should use it to make Delores Deluca pay for what she did.
Peace be with you,
Rita Limon
The “Peace be with you” troubled me—because I couldn’t feel any peace.
I’d uncovered the who, what, where, and how of M’s murder. I even knew why the killer did it. What I didn’t know was why M had.
Part of me still saw her as the child from “The Little Match Girl,” lying in the snow, dreaming her dream as she died. The other part saw her greedy and grasping, resorting to blackmail, and that truly troubled me.
Why had she done it? To enrich herself? Or punish Delores?
Learning what I had about M, neither rang true. I prayed about it, but reached no reconciliation, and cried myself to sleep.
Sixty-four
TWO days before Christmas, Detective Lori Soles stopped by to see me. She’d come to fill me in on the repercussions of my final discovery.
When I approached her fireside table, I found her munching serenely on one of Janelle’s famous chocolate chip cookies, even though we still had plenty of gingerbread men awaiting execution in the pastry case.
“Off beheadings?”
“Da, Comrade Cosi . . .” (Ever since she heard about my little Galina masquerade, she’d taken to spoofing a Russian accent.)
I sat down and pointed to the pile of cookies on her plate, none of which resembled her gingerbread stand-ins for a certain self-satisfied superior.
“Why the stays of execution?”
“First things first. I came by to thank you for finding the Letter. Once we got our hands on that, there wasn’t a leg Delores Deluca could stand on. If you saw the papers, you know the DA is charging her with the premeditated murder of Rita Limon.”
“Actually, I heard the report on New York One. It’s all over the media.”
“The woman’s defense attorneys are scrambling for a plea bargain, and that’s always a good sign. They know it’s over.”
I frowned. “Are you saying Delores is going to plead guilty to a lesser charge?”
Lori shook her head. “That train left the station this morning, when Danni Rayburn’s missing nanny walked into my precinct house. She knew all about Delores and the car crash, but she wanted no part of blackmail. When your employee was killed, the nanny got nervous, but swallowed the same delusion Endicott did—she told herself Moirin Fagan was a random victim of the Christmas Stalker.”
Lori sunk her teeth into one of Janelle’s Eggnog Shortbread Cookies, happily chewed, and chased it with gulps of Americano.
“After Rita was killed at the toy store, the nanny figured Delores was involved in both murders, though she couldn’t prove anything. She also figured she was next on Little D’s hit list, and took off. She hid at her cousin’s apartment in Washington Heights until she read the papers and found out Delores wasn’t leaving Rikers anytime soon. That’s when she decided to come to us.”
Lori grinned. “With the nanny’s testimony, Delores Deluca is just like this little goodie—”
She held up a crisp piece of Janelle’s Oatmeal Cookie Brittle. With a snap, she broke it in two, then plunged half into her coffee and wolfed it down.
“So why this end to the Reign of Terror?” I said. “Sick of gingerbread?”
“That’s the other reason I’m thanking you. Detective Fletcher Endicott is finally off my back!” She grinned wide. “Mr. DNA is taking an administrative leave to write a book about the Cookie Swap Murders. That means I’m being assigned a sane partner until Sue Ellen gets off medical leave in February.”
“Oh, that is reason to celebrate. But you know something? You still haven’t explained to me why you call Endicott ‘Mr. DNA.’”
“It’s the Devo song, right?” Tuck asked, who’d dropped by the table to say hello (and eavesdrop).
“Nothing to do with Devo,” Lori replied. “DNA are the initials of Endicott’s fictional character: Detective Nat Adams. The Deoxyribo-Nucleic Acid Detective—get it?”
“Ouch. That almost hurts.”
“If you think that hurts, save yourself some pain and skip searching for his book titles.”
I was fine with that advice, but Tuck made a beeline right for the counter, and I knew why. A few minutes later, Lori finished her coffee and popped a Pfeffernüsse—a sugar-coated little spice ball that had a lot in common with the detective herself.
“Got to go,” she said, giving me a little hug. “Have a merry one, Cosi.”
“You too . . .”
After seeing Lori to the door, I headed back to the coffee bar and noticed Tuck tittering with Punch.
“Okay, what’s so funny?”
Tuck pointed to Punch’s tablet computer. “The titles in Detective Endicott’s DNA book series, that’s what. Lori Soles wasn’t kidding. These are painful!”<
br />
“They can’t be that bad.”
Tuck pointed at the screen. “His first novel is called The Secretors.”
“Which begs the question,” Punch said, “what do they secrete?”
“That tour de force was followed by Body Bags,” Tuck said. “Then Residues and Don’ts.”
“Oh, ouch.”
“The next book appears to be some kind of ethnic mystery.”
“Title?”
“Seminal, Indian.”
“Oh no,” I said. “Enough!”
“Look!” Punch cried. “He even has a holiday-themed mystery!”
“Don’t tell me . . .”
“Have to,” Tuck said with a grin.
“Let me guess . . . Slay Bells?”
Tuck shook his head. “Mistletoe Tags.”
* * *
THE next day was Christmas Eve. In the lull before our noon rush, our doorbell jingled and we had another visitor with a beard, but not a long or white one. This man’s trimmed whiskers were tawny and shot with gray, more Kris Kristofferson than Kris Kringle. His shoulder-length hair was pulled into a short, hipster ponytail, and a small loop of gold glinted in one ear.
This guy didn’t have a red suit, either.
David Brice sauntered into my shop wearing ex–rock star holiday colors—black jeans, black sweater, and a black leather jacket. What he brought me that morning before Christmas felt just as dark, but there was light at the end of it.
I smiled when Nancy’s perky voice sang out: “Hey, Mr. Brice. How are you? I’m surprised you haven’t left for your daughter’s yet!”
“In a few hours,” Dave said, that deep FM voice sending shivers. “She’s expecting me before sunset, so we can light the Chanukah candles together.”
I greeted the man with a smile, inviting him to sit at the counter as I retrieved his navy sport jacket—the one he’d lent me when we’d been on the run from News Channel Six.
“Thanks for the loan.”
“No problem.” He made a sweeping gesture across the shop, from our wood plank floor and marble-topped tables to our tin ceiling. “Nancy was right. This really is a great place.”
“And you haven’t even tried the coffee yet . . .”
I asked Tuck to get us two Holiday Blends and joined Dave at the counter. “Nancy tells us she’s been enjoying her work at Evergreen . . .”
On the night of M’s memorial, Nancy had confided with me that she couldn’t stop thinking about those “nice old folks.” She said her own family was scattered across the country, and she missed the chance to have older people in her life.
“Well, why don’t you speak with Mr. Brice?” I’d suggested. “Maybe he’ll agree to train you, and you can take on some of M’s part-time duties . . .”
She did and the fit was perfect.
“The residents love Nancy,” Dave told me now. “And everyone’s buzzing about the big show tonight. It was good of your people to jump in like that.”
“They’re doing it for M. She wouldn’t have wanted those seniors to be sad and disappointed. Not on Christmas Eve . . .”
Dave nodded his thanks as Tuck brought our coffees. Then he sipped my Holiday Blend, made yummy sounds, and drank more deeply. “I hear Janelle’s baking special treats to go with your show?”
I nodded. “When she heard the party was in honor of M, she insisted on providing the cookies.”
“Sorry I’ll miss that,” Dave said. “That woman bakes the best chocolate chips on the planet. The problem is, she doesn’t bake enough of them. When I try to order, she’s always sold out.”
“Well, I promise you, that woman is going to do a lot more baking from now on and a lot less bookkeeping . . .”
Earlier in the week, I’d brought her to my coffeehouse and introduced her to another customer who’d come to my attention as needing work—that bank executive who’d thrown his resumes in the air.
I’d kept one of his crumpled CVs and looked it over. His experience was extensive, including financial consulting with small business owners, so I called him up and asked him to come in.
He turned out to be the perfect man to revamp Janelle’s back office, and if he found more clients like her, he wouldn’t need a full-time job—ever again.
As for the guy’s upsetting outburst, it was a one-time thing. Sometimes a good man could have a bad day. And everyone was entitled to a bad day, though maybe not as bad as Delores Deluca’s . . .
Boris arrived with a round of treats (and lucky for Dave, they were his fave). Dave sank his teeth into a warm, fresh cookie with toffeelike notes, the chocolate chips still slightly melted, and told me he felt like he’d just died and gone to heaven.
“Ironic,” I said, “because the last time we shared a nosh, you were talking about hell.”
“I was talking about fame.” Dave sighed. “It can be torment, when it comes and when it goes, but it’s a hell of our own making.”
It was the opening I needed. “Do you think that was what drove M to blackmail?” The question was a harsh one, but I wanted to know. “Was she that impatient for fame?”
“M wanted the chance to sing for more people, I can tell you that. She loved making people happy—and that’s the difference between her and the monster who killed her. A girl like Moirin doesn’t go to hell. No way. In fact, Clare, now that you’ve brought it up, there’s something I want you to see . . .”
Dave reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“What’s that? It looks like sheet music.”
“It is. I found it on my desk the other day. Didn’t know what it meant until I got your call . . .”
The day after we found the Letter, I called Dave to let him know and asked him to let me know if he ever found more evidence of what M had been thinking.
Now he unfolded the wrinkled sheet music, pressed it flat, and turned it over. The other side was filled with doodles and scribbles.
“M made these notes just before Thanksgiving,” he said. “Look here, in the corner . . .”
Kaitlin’s dad—$25,000
Rita—$5,000 for her new bake biz
EFTF—$7,000
My bills—$3,000 max
Dave—$10,000
Grand Total—$50,000
“Fifty thousand,” I whispered. “The exact amount M asked Delores to pay.”
Dave shook his head. “Back in the day, that was my bar bill for the year. And for a woman like Delores Deluca? That was probably her seasonal clothing allowance.”
I pointed to the paper. “What’s this? EFTF?”
“That’s the Evergreen Field Trip Fund.” He swallowed, clearly emotional. “A few months ago, M wanted to take a group of seniors to a concert, but we had no budget for it. She said we should start raising money for a ‘field trip’ fund to get the seniors who were strong enough out and about. I said she should keep dreaming—because nobody I knew had money.”
“What about this note . . .” I pointed. “The one with your name. Did Moirin ever mention that she’d planned to give you ten thousand dollars?”
“Hell no! Like most struggling artists, for M poverty was a way of life. I never expected money from her.”
I tapped the sheet again. “Looks like M only wanted to keep three thousand for herself, to pay off her bills . . .”
It was so hard, this feeling of wanting to turn back time, reach into M’s life, and fix it all for her. M had been working day and night to make the rent, finance her dreams. I had a whole shop of baristas just like her, working hard, struggling to make something of themselves and put their passions to good use.
I tried to contain my emotions, like Quinn does, but fury rose in me anyway, because I wanted to slap Delores Deluca, and all women like her. Slap them harder than I’d struck Tuck to wake him from his drugged stupor. I wanted to tell them that they should wake up, appreciate, and cherish what they had—not throw everything away to get something they didn’t.
Delores could
have sold one of her cars. She could have handed M her Birkin and Coach bags, a few designer dresses and shoes. She could have put them on eBay herself and come up with the money to pay the girl off.
But M had been wrong, too, and I wanted to lecture her, as well; tell her she should have gone to the police; advised her that shortcuts seldom worked.
Tucker Burton knew that.
As persuasive as people like Eddie Rayburn and the Double Ds were, Tuck knew to get clear of their kind and rely on his own talent and experience to get ahead. Like Dave told me a few weeks back: “Fires built on nothing flame out fast.”
Well, it seemed the fires of fame proved fateful this season. Delores had been on her way down that white-hot ladder while M had been on her way up. And when they met inside that dark circle in Bryant Park, they’d destroyed each other.
A tragic tale, but in the end, life was sometimes like that. Hans Christian Andersen knew it. He couldn’t save his Little Match Girl, and I couldn’t save my Moirin. At least with Dave’s visit, I was beginning to feel some peace about the girl’s intentions . . . and her fate.
As Dave finished his coffee, I gathered up the sport coat he lent me.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” He pulled something silver out of his black jacket. “A holiday gift. This is a CD-R of M’s songs. Her lyrics are beautiful, and with all the publicity surrounding her death, two major artists contacted me. They’re interested in recording a few of M’s songs. She didn’t have the resources to record an entire professional album, but she made this rough four-song EP. I wanted you to have a copy . . .”
“Thank you.” I wrapped my arms around the man and he hugged me back. When he was gone, I heard a jingle-jingle again. (Nancy in her elf hat.)
“Isn’t Dave the coolest?” she gushed.
“Uh-oh,” Tuck said. “I sense a new crush in the making.”
It will never work out, I thought. But that never stops a girl from dreaming . . .
