by Cleo Coyle
His marriage was working very well because his new wife understood this character flaw and allowed him a long leash. But I knew Breanne, and I was absolutely certain she equated Matt’s dog runs with flings in Rio or beach bunnies in Bali. Not rolls in antique four-posters with his New Yorker ex-wife.
But that was beside the point, which was (for me) just as simple and pure: A good man was sleeping alone in a hotel room, two hundred miles away—a good man who trusted me, which is why I flatly informed my ex-husband: “Quinn called. He said: ‘Keep your hands to yourself.’”
Matt smile widened. “And what do you say?”
“I say you didn’t take my hint.”
“About what?”
“The beard.” (If anything the shower made it look darker—and curlier.) “I want you presentable for the party tomorrow. What’s the story?”
Matt shrugged, folded his arms. “Putting a raw blade to my face every morning has gotten tiresome—and there’s something atavistic about it, too.”
I stared at his caveman bush. Atavistic was right, but he had it backward. “We’re at least six millennia out of the jungle, and three centuries beyond Benjamin Franklin. Can’t you get with the program?”
“What do you mean?”
“Go electric.”
“Have you ever used an electric razor? They’re crap. An hour later, I’ve got stubble.”
“Stubble is in, Casanova. Stubble’s been in since Don Johnson posed in a white suit and slip-ons. What you’ve got now is the call of the wild. I repeat. Go electric.”
“Does Quinn shave with an electric razor?”
I sighed. (Matt had a point, but so what.) “No matter how you do it, putting a razor to your cheek is civilizing, isn’t it? Wouldn’t growing a beard be the thing that’s atavistic?”
Matt smirked. “Quinn doesn’t use electric, either, does he?”
“He doesn’t, but—
“Case closed.”
“No. Door closed!” I pointed. “Your bed is down the hall. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Fine. But remember, there are plenty of ladies on this planet who’d love to do anything but show me the door. You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Oh, yes, I do.”
THIRTEEN
“STRAW-BEAR-WEE… Lee-mon… Butt-tair-cream…”
With a groan, I pulled the bedcovers over my head, but the faux French menu wouldn’t stop torturing my eardrums.
“Chocolat… Oooh la la—Chocolat!”
I threw off the covers and rolled smack into a hard wall of male flesh. What in the world? The bedroom windows were dark, the room dimly lit, but I could see enough to know who was in my bed.
Mike Quinn had a long torso, a powerful set of shoulders, and a number of hard-won scars. I certainly knew his body, but seeing it in bed with me now made no sense.
“Mike? I thought you were in Washington?”
He didn’t answer. I gently shook his strong shoulder. “Mike?”
“What is it, sweetheart?”
The groggy voice was certainly Quinn’s, but when he turned in bed to face me, he turned into someone else—someone with dark bedroom eyes, a Roman nose, and a thick beard.
“Matt!” I cried. “You don’t belong here!”
White teeth grinned through his black beard. “Don’t I?”
“Oooh la la… flavors for vous!”
“Boss! You’d better get down here!”
Esther? I could hear her voice rising up from the street outside. Something was wrong. I moved to get out of bed, but Matt’s stubborn fingers locked around my wrist.
“Let me go,” I told him.
Matt laughed. “Make me.”
“Boss!”
“Dammit!” I struck Matt’s arm. He released me, and I ran through the room, yanked open the window, and leaned out. But Esther wasn’t down there. Nobody was. Just an eerie gray mist that rapidly expanded until even the streetlamps were swallowed, their halogen rings floating golden halos through the inexplicable fog.
“Esther!” I called. “I can’t see you! I can’t make sense of anything!”
“Clare! Is that you?” This light, musical voice was Lilly Beth’s. Pure as birdsong, it floated up on the night air. “I need your help, Clare! Help me! Please…”
Lilly Beth’s in trouble!
I turned for Matt, but he was gone. My four-poster was empty, and I was alone. Not even Quinn was there to help. I tore through the hall, out the door, and down the exterior stairs that led to the back alley.
“Help! Somebody!”
I moved through the dark, narrow passage between the brick buildings. At the end of the alley stood a door with metal bars. The gate wasn’t locked, but I couldn’t budge it. I shoved as hard as I could until it swung wide and I tumbled to the sidewalk. The rough concrete scratched my palms and bare legs. As I moved to get up, pebbles stabbed my knees, my hands started bleeding, and I began to cry.
A spotless handkerchief appeared in front of me. A hulking figure held it.
“Detective Buckman? Can you help me?”
Bathed in the searing brilliance of floodlights, Buckman replied, but I couldn’t understand him.
“Lilly’s lost,” I told him. “We can’t lose her…”
I reached for his handkerchief, but the moment I took it, the man vanished. The fog disappeared, too, and the floods transformed into summer sunshine. Suddenly our sidewalk was filled with café tables crowded with customers.
“Straw-bear-wee! Butt-tair-cream!”
Kaylie was back. As her rainbow-splashed truck pulled up to our curb, customers rushed forward for coffee and cupcakes.
“Flavors for vous…”
“Turn it off!” I cried, running to the window. “Turn it off!”
A young Asian man confronted me. He looked wiry and strong. Coiled around his arm was a stylized tattoo, a Chinese dragon that looked as fierce as he did.
Squaring my shoulders, I tried to stand up to him, but he shoved me hard and I stumbled backward, falling again to the ground.
“I’m sorry…” Lilly Beth’s voice called, this time from somewhere above. “This is my fault, my fault, my most grievous fault…”
As I struggled to get up, the young Asian man shouted in another language. With alarm, I realized he wasn’t addressing me, but giving orders to the dragon on his arm.
The colorful ink began to move, slithering around his limb until it slipped free, filled out into three dimensions, and inflated like a parade balloon.
Screaming, the crowd scattered as the giant dragon opened its mouth and swallowed Kaylie’s Kupcake Kart, Eiffel Tower and all!
Then the monster spied me. Its limbs began to curl and spin, transforming into wheels. Rolling after me, it bellowed but the roar sounded mechanical, like the throaty growl of a muscle car engine.
I rushed blindly into the haze, coughing and choking. My bare feet slapped pavement; I ran and ran but couldn’t get away. Glancing behind me, I saw colossal wheels bearing down, moving to crush me.
I screamed in terror—and woke myself up.
FOURTEEN
A ringing phone roused me again, just after dawn. No faux French menu this time, and no Chinese dragon. When I rolled over, I was relieved to find my bed empty—well, except for Java and Frothy.
“Hello?”
On the line was Nurse Terry Simone. She had news for me about Lilly Beth, good and bad. The good: Our friend was still alive. Lilly had come out of her first surgery okay.
The bad: During post-op, her brain began to swell from a previously undetected head trauma. I tensed as Terry described how the doctors performed a decompressive craniectomy to alleviate the pressure, and then placed her in a medically-induced coma.
“She’ll be in that state until the swelling subsides,” Terry explained, “which could take hours—or days.”
Lilly’s life was still in danger, that was clear, but everyone was pulling for her, and that lifted me up. Then Terry’
s final news sent me spiraling again.
“The neurologist doesn’t yet know if the damage to Lilly’s spine will result in permanent paralysis…”
In other words, Lilly Beth Tanga might never be able to walk again.
I thanked Terry for keeping me in this up-and-down loop, then hung up in a daze. I said prayers for Lilly as I showered, more as I dressed and fed my furry girls.
I ached to hear Mike’s voice again, but I knew he had a breakfast meeting scheduled with VIPs, so I gritted my teeth, pulled on low-heeled shoes, and started my workday.
With one last check on my furry ex-husband, still snoring in the guest room, I took the service stairs down to my Village Blend.
“ESTHER, what are you doing here?”
I was surprised to find her sitting at the espresso bar. She wasn’t scheduled for an early shift. Tucker and Vickie had opened already—and everybody knew Esther was not a “morning person,” which is why mental alarms immediately sounded.
Without a word, she slapped the Saturday edition of the New York Times down on the marble countertop, flipped it open to the Metro section, and pointed to a four-column story.
“Is that an article about what happened last night?”
“No,” she said. “Our hit-and-run didn’t make the papers. Big city, too much news, and nobody died—”
I cringed, thinking, Not yet.
“But this article does happen to be about Lilly Beth.”
I scanned the headline: Reading, Writing, Arithmetic: Subtracting Fat and Sugar. A big color photo showed Kaylie’s Kupcake Kart parked in front of a Manhattan public school with a line of tweens queuing up to be served.
“The reporter identifies Lilly Beth as an advisor to the mayor’s office,” Esther said. “Lilly’s quoted many times, and she didn’t pull her punches for print. She took a shot at the Unidentified Frying Objects truck for their deep-fried Snickers bars—which aren’t bad, by the way. But she saved her worst culinary beat down for Kaylie’s Kupcake Kart.”
Reading the piece, I was relieved to see that it wasn’t completely negative. Lilly praised vendors who offered healthy alternatives, including Veggie Weggie and The Ploughman’s Lunch, along with the low-cal, high-fiber offerings from our own Muffin Muse. But she had nothing good to say about Kaylie’s fare, citing the excessively high fat in several of the Kween’s most popular delectables.
“Empty calories in pretty packages along with sedentary lifestyles are becoming dangerous vehicles for our children,” Lilly warned, “driving them to pediatric diabetes.”
“Check out the part where Lilly Beth urges the City Council to ban food trucks from parking within 150 yards of a school or playground.”
I knew plenty of street-food vendors would be angry after seeing that, especially the ice cream trucks. Scanning ahead, I learned Lilly was also pushing the mayor’s office to require nutritional information to be posted on all food carts.
The Muffin Muse voluntarily posted the info, but trucks weren’t yet obligated the way restaurants were. Most vendors would be upset about the cost and trouble such a rule would impose; and any truck with a menu of excessively high-calorie products was sure to see a drop in business.
“Looks like Lilly gave half the food-truck owners of New York reason to run her over,” I said.
“It may look like that, boss,” Esther said, “but skip to the last paragraph.”
“Here it is: Mr. Ray Grant, owner of Unidentified Frying Objects, maintained that adults have a right to make informed choices about the foods they eat. But he also stressed that he ‘never parked in front of schools, or specifically targeted children.’ Ms. Kaylie Crimini, owner of the Kupcake Kart, had no comment.”
“Had no comment!” Esther rattled the paper. “Which meant a reporter contacted Kaylie about this story. Don’t you see? The Kupcake Kween knew this article was coming!”
Esther lowered her voice and leaned close. “It’s clear, isn’t it? Kaylie learned about this hit piece, hit the roof, and planned a hit of her own—on our Lilly Beth.”
I exhaled in frustration. Esther had come to the same conclusion I had. Kaylie did seem the likeliest suspect behind Lilly’s hit-and-run. But this article wasn’t going to help us prove it to the district attorney’s office.
Yes, it solidified my feelings about Kaylie’s motives; it even refocused the target as Lilly, instead of just some “random” Blend customer; but it did something else, as well.
“This article gives Kaylie legal cover, Esther, and that’s not good news.”
“What do you mean?”
“If the police don’t find hard evidence connecting Kaylie—or a member of her crew—to last night’s crime, then she can point to this piece and claim Lilly had many enemies. Her lawyer can argue that any food-truck vendor might have been fed up enough to take a swipe at her with a service van.”
“Okay,” Esther said. “But we know different. So what are we going to do about it? We can’t just stand by and let that Paris pink poseur get away with running down our friend—and right in front of our shop!”
I checked my watch. Detective Buckman hadn’t contacted me yet, but I knew he would. In the meantime, I brought Esther up to speed on what I’d done so far to help—how I’d found that YouTube video and asked Dante to track down the kid who’d shot it.
“If we’re lucky, our little Spielberg recorded the hit-and-run, too. By now he would have sent the files to Buckman. When the detective calls, I’ll ask him if he’s found anything useful in the footage—”
I stopped talking when I saw three men walking through our open French doors. Dante and two guests. The older man I didn’t recognize. He wore a summer-weight olive suit and a serious expression. The youngest of the trio, however, was still clad in the same electric green Speedos I’d seen him wearing the night before.
Dante ushered the men to a table near the fireplace and waved me over. The older man in the suit removed a leather bicycle glove and shook my hand with a warm, firm grip.
“My name is John Fairway. I’m a practicing attorney and director of the alternative transportation advocacy group Two Wheels Good. I’m here to represent this young man in both of these capacities.”
Tall and slightly gangly, Fairway struck me as mid-thirties, though his lined, sun-dried complexion and silver-blond crew cut gave the impression of his being older. He would have had the outward demeanor of your average lawyer, calm and staid with a conservative suit—except for the rainbow banana helmet dangling from his arm, the Day-Glo orange mini-pack strapped to his back, and the bright yellow bicycle ties around his suit pants.
“And this is Calvin Hermes.” Dante gestured to the kid in Speedos. “Calvin is a bicycle messenger for Citywide Quick-Delivery. He shot the YouTube video of Esther you told me about last night.”
From his name and uniquely attractive features, I deduced that Calvin Hermes was of Afro-Greek heritage. The kid couldn’t have been more than twenty, with a dark complexion and ebony curls that contrasted sharply with wide, light blue eyes as captivating as a young Paul Newman’s. Like most bike messengers, Calvin didn’t appear to have an ounce of fat on his lean form.
I sensed the kid was nervous, and immediately tried to allay his fears.
“Thank you for coming, Calvin. I hope Dante made it clear that you’re not in any trouble and you don’t need a lawyer. But I’m glad you and Mr. Fairway are here, because we really need your help.”
Calvin visibly relaxed, and Fairway cleared his throat.
“I think I know the reason for this meeting, Ms. Cosi. You want to know if Calvin captured footage of the hit-and-run in front of this coffeehouse last night.”
“Dante told you about the incident?”
“He didn’t have to. I have a network of cyclists who keep me informed. When one of my people witnesses an injury or fatality caused by a motor vehicle, they forward the data they gather to me electronically, in the form of text messages, photographs, or video recordings.”
“And you pass this information on to the authorities.” That seemed obvious, but Fairway shook his head.
“No. We don’t.”
I blinked, certain he’d misunderstood. “What I meant to say was, I’m sure you give this evidence to the police, right?”
“No, Ms. Cosi,” the lawyer said. “That’s why we’re here. The police are the problem.”
