A Brew to a Kill

by Cleo Coyle

  “Excuse me? You’re saying Mike got a job offer from the Justice Department?”

  “Sorry to give you the bad news. Powerful people got that way for a reason. When they make you an offer, they don’t expect to be refused.”

  No, I thought, there is no way Mike is considering a move to Washington. With firmness I told Buckman, “You got it wrong.”

  “A little birdie I know in D.C. says otherwise.”

  Oh, that tone was insufferable. I’d grown to like Mad Max, but I could see how trying he could be—and irritatingly persuasive. He actually drove me to rethink my last phone conversation with Mike. He hadn’t mentioned a job offer last night. But something wasn’t right with him, either. He was stressing. And he was drinking, which wasn’t like him.

  “You’re wrong, Detective,” I said—though not as firm this time. “Mike wouldn’t leave his guys on the OD squad. He put the whole team together. It took him years…”

  And what about me? I silently added. Would Mike expect me to move with him? He knows how much the Village Blend means to me, not to mention my relationship with Madame, my family of baristas, the century-old legacy I mean to pass to my daughter…

  Buckman didn’t reply. He was staring straight ahead, through the windshield, at the empty street. His attention had strayed back to Lilly’s case, or more likely, from what I knew after being with Quinn, a part of his brain had never stopped thinking about it.

  “I just can’t figure out that wineglass,” he muttered. “What was it doing on the front seat? Was hitting Lilly Beth something to celebrate?”

  “Are you okay, Detective?”

  “Sharp as a tune-up.” Buckman said, suddenly back to business. “And I want you to stay that way, too, which is why I’ll be giving Mike Quinn a call.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re his main squeeze, right?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m sure he’s mentioned what happens on the street. How drug dealers sometimes go after a rival’s girlfriend or family member.”

  “No. You’re not saying—”

  “It’s another possibility. The driver of that van could easily have been some friend or relative of a scumbag that Quinn put away. So watch your back. Officer Gifford will be outside until the party’s over. If anyone threatens you in any way, let him know.”

  “I will.”

  “I don’t have the manpower to assign you a private bodyguard. Gifford’s off duty after the party, so go home and stay there. Will you do that for me?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Do more than try, Cosi. I do not want the next hit-and-run I investigate to be yours.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  BUCKMAN threw me a short wave and pulled out, his GTO engine revving with the power of a Formula One on the starting line. When he was gone, I glanced across the street at Officer Gifford, still astride his motorcycle. The burly cop noticed my gaze and smiled behind dark glasses.

  Turning, I discovered Matt leaning against the warehouse fence, the harsh bite of industrial chain-links softened by our hand-painted party balloons, some shaped like muffins, others coffee cups—courtesy of Josh Fowler, Dante’s Five Points friend.

  “So, what did Bozo want?” Matt asked.

  “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Too long.”

  I shrugged. “Detective Buckman was just giving me an update. I’ll fill you in later.”

  “You know that car he’s driving is worth a quarter of a million dollars? How does a supposedly honest cop afford something like that?”

  “Buckman’s a motor head, Matt, with a degree in MechE. I’m sure he bought it used in the seventies when it wasn’t worth spit.”

  “Here’s another question.” Matt unfolded his arms and pointed. “Why is that Chopper Cop sitting across the street from my warehouse?”

  “Security for our party.” (That was true.) “With two city officials here—both about to run for mayor—it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  Matt grunted suspiciously. “Seems to me Dominic Chin and Tanya Harmon brought their own entourages, security included.”

  I could have said more, but the truth was too complicated to explain with three hundred guests in our parking lot. Besides, that sticky issue—the part where Buckman believed Quinn’s work may have put my life in danger—would have sent Matt over the moon. And I needed him here in Brooklyn. So I changed the subject.

  “Did I mention how good you look today?”

  He blinked. “No…”

  “Well, you do! Good enough for Helen Bailey-Burke to eat…”

  I wasn’t fibbing this time. My Esther needed Helen’s approval to get us that grant money for the Muffin Muse. Matt could be a big help schmoozing her up. Thankfully, he looked tanned and rested, but best of all, he’d done as I’d asked and spent the morning hacking through jungles of facial hair. Like Michelangelo sculpting David, Matt had come away from the mirror with a masterpiece. Unfortunately, the neat, perfectly shaped goatee was a little too sexy.

  “That’s the problem,” Matt said. “Maybe you failed to notice, but Helen arrived with wannabe mayor Tanya Harmon.”

  “I noticed. But then Helen is well connected. She raises money for a lot of causes, including political ones. I’m sure Tanya wants Helen in her pocket—if she’s not there already.”

  “Well, here’s the problem. Remember that little story I told you about me and Ms. Harmon?”

  “Let’s see… after one of your mother’s fund-raisers, you and our city’s current public advocate had a night of too much champagne. Is that about right?”

  “Yes, and today I learned the champagne didn’t affect her memory.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She wants an encore.”

  “You’re kidding? She made a pass?”

  “To put it mildly. First the woman dropped every suggestive double entendre she could think of, and when that failed to grab my attention, Tanya grabbed something else of mine. And right in front of Mother.”

  I bit my cheek to keep from laughing. “Take it easy, okay? Your mother is a bohemian at heart. And she knows your history. I’m sure she took the display in stride.”

  “Well, I didn’t! Tanya doesn’t even care that I’m married now.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Being married never seemed to hamper you before.”

  “This is different. And I’ll be frank: Tanya’s a man-eater. She treats her employees like servants and her constituency like they work for her. Do you know what a woman that awful is like in bed?”

  Matt fell silent. The statement was rhetorical, and I should have minded my own business, but the snoop in me was already on overdrive.

  “Don’t stop there,” I said. “You’ve got me curious.”

  He sighed, glanced around, and lowered his voice. “You know me, Clare. I like to have fun in bed, but it’s got to be a mutual thing. Spending a night as Tanya Harmon’s lover was on par with being her waiter. The woman snapped her fingers and expected to get what she wanted, when she wanted it. And if you didn’t deliver, a tongue lashing ensued—and not the good kind.”

  “Okay, I get it.” I checked my watch. “The woman hasn’t been here long, and she probably won’t stay long, either. Just try to avoid her…”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing? Thank goodness Dominic Chin is here. I’ve been hanging around him near the Five Points group at the truck. Tanya won’t go near the guy—” Matt shuddered. “He’s like a cross to her vampire.”

  “Come on. She can’t be that bad.”

  While Matt assured me she was, I pulled out my cell phone and checked for new text messages. With relief, I saw Franco had responded to my request for help:

  No problem, Coffee Lady. In transit to Red Hook now…

  “I’ve got to hand it to you, Clare,” Matt was saying. “How did you manage to lure the city’s two biggest political rivals to your muffin mixer?”

  “It just happened that way. I didn’t
plan it.”

  “Well, that’s why there are so many reporters and photographers here. They’re waiting for the fireworks.”

  “I dearly hope there won’t be any. This isn’t about politics. It’s about art.”

  “Everything is about politics, which is why I came looking for you. Esther’s been schmoozing Helen Bailey-Burke just fine. Mother is there for backup. But Esther’s due on stage any minute, and Mother wants you to take over, stand beside Helen and answer any questions she might have about Esther’s plans for your truck.”

  Matt pointed. “They’re over by—”

  I grabbed his hand and dragged my unwilling business partner along.

  “You’re coming with me,” I said, “even if you have to face Countess Dracula. You have a stake in our success, too.”

  Matt groaned, but I wasn’t sure why. It was either my lame joke or the thought of Tanya Harmon sucking the life right out of him.

  “THERE you are, Matteo! Wherever did you disappear to?”

  I’d seen our public advocate on television and expected the woman to be much smaller. In person, there was nothing diminutive about her. Alpine tall, with a lush figure, the blond Valkyrie’s determination was as large as her stature, which is why Matt and I didn’t get within ten feet of Esther and Helen Bailey-Burke.

  Like a raptor streaking toward her prey, Tanya stepped out of the crowd to head us off. Matt told me Tanya’s modeling days were long over, but to my mind, the ice-princess was still catwalking the runway.

  “That’s so like you, Matt! Here we were having a marvelous time, and you just scurry off!”

  Tanya’s eager eyes were bright under makeup more suitable for a late-night rendezvous than a family-friendly afternoon bash. Her clothing choice, a shocking pink couture suit, made me fear for the redecoration plan of Gracie Mansion should she actually become our next mayor.

  “Duty called, but I’m back,” Matt replied.

  Though my ex wore a strained smile, at least his facial muscles functioned. Tanya’s expression—well, there wasn’t much of one, actually. Her eyes moved in their sockets, but not much else, and I feared the worst: Botox addiction.

  “So, Matt, you were telling me that your wife is out of town. The way you two travel, I’ll bet you don’t sleep together more than a few weeks every year. That’s got to be hard, especially on a man like you…”

  Oh, god. She did not just say that. But she did, and now she was moving her hand, reaching for Matt’s— Oh, no, lady. Not on my watch.

  “Hello!” I said, stepping forcefully between them. I grabbed her wayward hand. “I’m Clare Cosi, Matt’s business partner. I’m also his ex-wife and mother to his grown daughter. I’m so glad you could come to our party.”

  “Ah, the little woman…” Tanya gave my hand a quick politician’s pump. “So nice to meet you. I hope I can count on your vote.”

  “Yes, well…” (Not in this liftetime.) “I am glad you could come today—” I began to tell her, but Tanya’s attention was gone.

  “I’m going to a soiree later,” she informed Matt, “and I heard amazing things about this fusion restaurant in Chinatown. It’s right near my acupuncture clinic—”

  I threw a loaded look at Matt. Botox? Acupuncture? Is this woman in love with needles, or what?

  “So, Matt?” she prompted. “Want to share an early nosh?”

  His glance at me was desperate: Can I please tell her to go to hell? Please?!

  No!

  Fine! “I’ll, uh, get back to you on that, Ms. Harmon…”

  Undeterred, the Terrible Tanya took another tack—

  “Wait, what am I thinking? You’re an importer, so this will be right up your alley. I’m going to the Atlantic-Pacific Trade Commission Ball tonight at the Pierre Hotel. Join my group, Matt! You can do a little glad-handing, make some connections. Raise your profile.” She frowned at me and lowered her voice. “This is all so low-rent. You’re above this…”

  Matt shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I…”

  “He can’t,” I said, moving between them again. “He’s busy.”

  I’m quite certain Frozen Face would have raised an eyebrow at me, if she could have. In lieu of working muscles, she simply glared down as if I were an annoying little pest-bug. “Excuse me?”

  “Our daughter is working in Paris right now. She’s calling us tonight, and Matt doesn’t want to miss Joy.”

  “Oh, I assure you, dear, if Matt comes with me tonight, he won’t miss joy. I’ll see to that!” Tanya laughed, her gaze still fixed on my ex. “So, we’re on? Tonight at the Pierre? The APTC ball. I’ll expect you.”

  Matt could see I wanted to get to Esther, but I was unwilling to abandon him. He cleared his throat and tried to get us both out of this: “Tanya, don’t you want to shake a few hands? Greet the people? They could be your constituents, someday.”

  “This bunch? Why bother? I don’t see any deep pockets. That’s why I’m sticking close to Helen. You’re a big boy, aren’t you? You should know elections are won with dollars, not handshakes. And the big money is at the ball tonight.” She lowered her voice. “And speaking of dollars. I have quite a lot of pull with Helen. If you want this grant, you might reconsider my invitation…”

  I stared in disbelief, flashing for a moment on Buckman’s warning about people in power. To my surprise, Matteo didn’t appear fazed by the ugly proposition. In fact, the threat changed his gaze from long-suffering to cold as finished steel.

  “Matt,” I whispered, “you don’t have to—”

  He squeezed my arm. “Go to Esther. She needs you. I’ll take care of this.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “AT its core, literature is about the sharing of experience…”

  From behind a standing microphone, Esther addressed the audience. With her onstage was a group of inner-city children, trying their darndest to keep from fidgeting.

  Smiling, Esther pushed up her black-framed glasses. “Here’s what I teach my kids: The subject of our poetry might be a flash of awareness, affection, even anger. It might be an epic story that retells years of pain and struggle. Whatever the form, if the poem shares a unique human experience, then it can help us better understand ourselves, our neighbors, even our enemies…”

  The crowd had been restless when Esther first started, but with her last moving words, most of the packed parking lot fell as silent as a church.

  “We may live in a world of divides, but there are bridges, too; and poetry is one of them. The best poetry does more than reach across; it helps us reach each other.”

  “You go, Esther!” called out a fan. The crowd lightly clapped.

  “With tools of language and imagery, we poets sharpen up our musings. Then we pull back the bow, open our mouths, and let fly, seeking to pierce the hard human shell of our audience…”

  Hard human shell is right, I thought with a glance at the brittle brunette to my left.

  Our typically cynical Esther was showing us a whole new side of herself today—one of rare eloquence and sincere passion. Yet the director of special funding for the New York Art Trusts appeared unmoved.

  Maybe Helen Bailey-Burke was in the habit of withholding approval, an occupational hazard from her profession as a high-powered fund-raiser. Or maybe she was just (to borrow a phrase from Allen Ginsberg’s generation) uptight.

  Unlike her big, brassy friend Tanya (a harridan of the first order), petite Helen impressed me as a woman of patrician beauty and aristocratic grace. Just like Tanya, however, she’d come to our neighborhood block party impeccably overdressed.

  Her off-white skirt rippled with knife-sharp pleats, and the sienna highlights in her cocoa-colored French twist precisely matched the piping of her tailored Fen jacket and the shiny polish on her pedicured toes. A string of black Tahitian pearls with diamond rondelles dripped from her neck, and the marquis-cut ruby on her right hand was at least the size of two Kona peaberries.

  In contrast, Madame was a portrait of Hepburn simplicit
y. Her silver pageboy loosely framed her gently wrinkled features, which carried only a hint of silver-blue eye shadow and a light pink gloss. Under an open silk shirt the color of today’s crystalline blue sky, she wore comfortable Kabuki slacks and a colorful tee emblazoned with Roy Lichtenstein pop art. Even her jewelry was whimsical: a chunky street-fair necklace of rough-cut amethyst and a wristwatch of neon plastic.

  She now stood on one side of Helen while I stood on the other. Where my ex-husband was standing, I had no idea.