by Cleo Coyle
The jungle guru’s words were punctuated by another embarrassed cry as a man squirmed right out of his shorts.
Fifty-eight
FORTY-FIVE minutes later, The Critter Crawl had come to its grueling end. I was perched on a stool at the chrome-plated counter of the Euclid, the tony fitness club’s minimalist juice bar.
I pondered why a juice bar would be named after the father of geometry, a science that took us into space. After I arrived, I decided it was because of the astronomical prices—eighteen dollars for a banana smoothie?!
(And, yes, no one knew better than I the need for retailers and wholesalers to pass along costs of importing produce and necessary labor—to, for example, pick, process, ship, and roast quality coffee beans. But, last I checked, even organic bananas were less than a dollar a pound. So unless their “World Famous Banana Smoothie” included Plantation rum, I’d be getting globally hosed on that one.)
At last, true to his word, Tucker arrived with Punch. Their evening slate was suddenly clear—since dinner with the cast had been postponed due to the producer’s torn ligament.
Punch shuddered at the memory. “Those monkey moves were next to impossible, and I’m a trained dancer.”
“But it was the Yellow Kangaroo that did him in,” Tuck replied.
Over (twelve-dollar) Sparkling Pear Pick-Me-Ups—icy cold, fruity, honey-sweet, and nicely refreshing after all that exercise—Tuck and I finally talked.
I pleaded with my former assistant manager to rethink his relocation, and return to his job at the Village Blend. After fifteen minutes of relentless cajoling, I was halfway to victory. Tuck still refused to “burden my failing business with his salary,” but he did come to the conclusion that returning to Louisiana would be a mistake.
“I have good reason to stay now,” he said. “Punch and I came up with a brilliant concept for a fitness program, and we’ve decided to convince the McBurney YMCA to sponsor it.”
“I call it exer-tainment,” Punch said. “Mostly because enter-cise sounds vaguely indecent.”
Not wishing to press Tuck too hard, I switched subjects to the message I’d sent him after Haley Hartford’s murder.
“I’m sorry, Clare. I didn’t even open your text. I was in makeup for hours, starting at four AM. Then we heard about Carol Lynn’s arrest, and before we knew it, the police came and questioned the entire cast and crew about her, the prop gun, everything! Things were too frantic.”
I opened my smartphone and displayed the grim image. “Tell me now. Did you know this woman?”
Tucker gave the photo a hard look then turned away.
“I know her face but not her name—honestly, I recognize that heart tattoo more than anything else. I do remember that she was in the coffeehouse the day Carol Lynn pointed out Richard Crest.”
“You’re certain?”
“I’m certain because Crest was sitting with the heart-tattoo girl. At the number three table by the window.”
Finally, a second witness! I felt like cheering.
“What else do you remember about their tryst?” I pressed.
“It wasn’t a tryst. It was more like a business meeting. Heart Girl showed Crest something on her laptop, and he passed her an envelope. Then they both left, but not together.”
“Was it a big envelope? Little envelope?”
“Just a regular envelope, kind of bulky.”
A new wrinkle. Was Haley doing work for Crest, too? Or was there something else besides money in that envelope?
I held up my smartphone to ask Tuck another question.
“Oh, that ghastly photo again!” a familiar voice cried.
Tuck, Punch, and I turned on our stools, to face Tristan Ferrell, Nancy by his side.
Fifty-nine
I was relieved to see the fitness guru had put more clothes on.
“Did we interrupt something?” Nancy asked.
“Not at all,” I replied, extending my hand. “I’m Clare Cosi, and I know who you are.”
Ferrell took my hand, then gripped my wrist, bro style.
“Great to meet you, Clare. Nancy has told me so much about you. She says your ohm is pure.”
“Wow, that’s, uh . . . comforting.”
Up close, Tristan Ferrell’s strong and sinewy physique was even more impressive. Not one molecule of extra fat on this guy. He wasn’t very tall, standing only a few inches above me, but he seemed to radiate power, a Napoleonic sort of energy.
“Would you join us for juice?” I asked. “This Pear Pick-Me-Up is delicious.”
Tristan made a face. “No sugar for me—of any kind. Even honey can disrupt the purity of my detoxed and defragged system.”
He glanced at my bottom. “You might consider cutting out a few forms of sugar yourself.”
“Uh-huh.” I held up the phone. “So you recognize this image?”
“Of course. That’s a picture of Haley Hartford. The police detectives showed me a different one. They were two powerful women with aquatic totems. Do you know them?”
“Soles and Bass? Yes, I do.”
“It’s terrible what happened to Haley. Bad karma for the dude who did it.”
“How do you know it was a man?”
Ferrell shrugged. “The police said it was a mugging in the park.”
“Tell me . . .” I called up Dante’s sketches. “Do you recognize this man? He’s not a mugger. He goes by the name Richard Crest.”
Ferrell hardly glanced at the picture. “I don’t know any Richard Crest—”
“Look closely. You might know him by another name. He’s wanted for questioning.”
Ferrell took another look and exhaled. “Clare, there are so many people in my classes. It’s possible he’s attended—that’s all I can tell you. What are you? Some kind of freelance private investigator?”
“More like a freelance concerned citizen.”
“I see. And if you have to make a citizen’s arrest, you’re in shape for that?” He lifted a skeptical eyebrow as he looked me over again.
“Sometimes brains are a better weapon than brawn.” With a smile, I lifted my smartphone. “Why wrestle a suspect when you can call 911 and have trained officers do it?”
“Why don’t we discuss something more pleasant—and lucrative. Nancy tells me you own the Village Blend, the coffeehouse and the brand.”
“Not quite. I have some equity. Eventually, I’ll inherit partial ownership. Until then, my employer, Madame Dubois, owns and controls the brand and the shops—”
“Amazing real estate,” Ferrell interrupted. “But I understand Mrs. Dubois is getting rather long in the tooth.” He leaned close as if confiding a secret between us. “I know it’s a bitch waiting for her to, you know, check out. Believe me, I sympathize. I’m in a similar position. But I’ll bet it’s nice to know that when the old lady kicks, you’ll be sitting on a gold mine.”
I was too appalled to reply. Ferrell took my silence for agreement.
“So would you like to come to my Angel Party? I’m looking for investors in my new Critter-a-Day Motivation and Exercise Calendar app. It’s going to be major, Clare. Big payoff for anyone who gets in early . . .”
He insisted we exchange contact information, which we did.
“I’ll invite your employer, too. She’ll enjoy the party—it’s a venue Uptown, near the Boat Basin, where I keep my Riva.”
He waited for me to be impressed. I forced a frozen smile. Then I tried to turn the subject back to Haley. I asked how he came to hire her.
“Sorry, Clare. I have an advanced class in Soho, and—” He pointed to Equator’s wall of global clocks. “I’m running late in every time zone. Ha-ha! Nice meeting you. See you at my party!”
As the fitness guru vaulted away, my smartphone vibrated. It was Esther. Anticipating the reason for her call, I turned up the v
olume so Tucker could hear.
“We need more hands on the caffeinated deck,” Esther said. “I texted Mr. Boss with a reminder on the supplies we need from his warehouse. And Dante and I could use help with the outdoor tables and heaters.”
“We’re on our way,” I replied.
Ending the call, I faced Tucker.
“That hardly sounds like a failing business, does it?” I quickly told him about our big event. “So come back, Tuck, please? And start tonight? You’ll break everyone’s heart if you leave us, including, and especially, mine.”
Tuck finally agreed, and we hugged tight. Then he and Punch left to get their coats, and I looked around for Nancy.
I spotted someone else instead, a woman on the other side of the bar, her eyes like a predator’s, bright and sharp and intensely focused on me.
It was Cody, Sydney’s head of security—with a banana smoothie mustache.
How long has she been watching me?
“Here’s your jacket,” Nancy said. “I’m coming with you since I’m all done here at Equator. And I just got an ‘all-hands’ text from Esther!”
As we headed out, one more call came in, the one I’d been waiting for . . .
“Joy?”
“Mom? Where are you?”
“What do you mean, where am I? I’m in New York.”
“So am I. But you’re not at the apartment or the shop. They said you went to some gym?”
“Forget the gym. What are you doing in the city?”
“I told you. I need to talk.”
Uh-oh, I thought for the second time in two hours. This can’t be good.
“Stay put, honey, I’ll be right there . . .”
Sixty
BY the time I arrived at the coffeehouse, Joy was downstairs helping with the outdoor tables and heat lamps. I hugged her hello and went up to my apartment to change.
After my shower, I entered my kitchen for a quick bite to eat—and found all the evidence I needed of my daughter’s distress.
Joy had shopped for fresh ingredients and made us sandwiches for lunch. But not just any sandwich. She’d made le jambon-beurre (literally, “the ham-butter”), a deceptively simple French classic, consisting of a baguette sliced in half, generously buttered, and layered with thinly sliced ham.
During Joy’s first stressful months of her culinary apprenticeship in Montmartre, she had lived on these sandwiches, not just because they were one of the most popular in Paris, but because they reminded her of the sandwiches I’d made for her as a little girl—just as my grandmother had made for me.
My nonna had used salami instead of jambon and spread her butter on slices of crusty Italian bread, instead of French-style baguettes. But the culinary concept was the same: a simple sandwich that brought crunchy, salty, unctuous comfort.
And, yes, I inhaled mine in record time.
After assuring me everything was on track downstairs, Joy fell silent as she chewed her own sandwich. I filled the awkward quiet by bringing her up to speed on Sydney’s (and Esther’s) plans to give our customer base a boost.
“So . . .” I said at the end of my update. “You came here to talk?”
She cleared her throat. “I’m not sure how to say it . . .”
I glanced at the kitchen clock. “Joy, you’re not a teenager anymore. Don’t make me drag it out of you.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. Then her face contorted, as if she were choking on something, and she spit out the words like a piece of spoiled fruit—
“I think Manny is cheating on me!”
Oh, God.
As distressing as it was to see my daughter in pain, my instant reaction was to assume she was overreacting. I could not believe Emmanuel Franco would do such a thing.
“Joy, did you actually see Manny with another woman?”
“No.”
“Did anyone tell you Manny was cheating?”
“No.”
“Then what makes you believe—”
“He was supposed to come down to DC for the weekend. We had firm plans. Then he canceled at the last minute. He said he had to work, but I think he was lying . . .”
I held my breath, remembering what Mike had said about Franco’s schedule. He was off this weekend, which meant he did lie to Joy. I told her what I knew, but quickly added—
“It could have been a simple white lie. Maybe Franco was tired and needed rest, but he didn’t want to hurt your feelings—”
“There’s more.”
“More?”
“Mom, I heard something at the end of our phone call. That stupid Tinker-Tinker alert. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
Unfortunately, I did.
“I think Manny has a second phone, one he keeps away from me. He’s obviously installed that Cinder dating app on it. I’m sure he’s using it to cheat on me!”
“Slow down, Joy. You can’t be sure of anything yet. That Cinder alert may not have come from Manny’s phone. It could have been a colleague’s phone nearby.”
“He was at his apartment when he called—I mean, I think he was.”
“You see? You’re jumping to conclusions.”
“That’s why I came up to New York. To surprise him, and set my mind at ease. But he’s not at his apartment. I used my key to let myself in. And when I phoned him, he didn’t pick up or respond.”
“Okay, so we have ourselves a little mystery here. We just need to clear up what’s going on with him. Then I’m sure you two will laugh over these simple misunderstandings—”
“It’s not just the phone call. I know Manny. He’s more comfortable in a Kevlar vest than a suit and tie, but he was wearing a really expensive suit when he came down to visit last weekend. He said he did it to impress me, but then he pulls a Louis Vuitton man-bag full of rich-guy stuff out of his duffel.”
“Define ‘rich-guy’ stuff.”
“The kind of cologne Dad used to get from his ex-wife’s fashion clients, emollients and lotions I’d never seen him use.”
“Maybe he’s trying to spruce himself up, you know, now that he’s been promoted.”
“Mom, I caught him slathering Crème de la Mer on his shaved head like it was Vaseline. It’s like a thousand dollars for an eight-ounce jar! Where did he get the money for that? I’d like to know.”
Me too, I thought, leaning back in my chair. If it were anyone else in the NYPD, I’d think corruption—but Franco?
“There must be some explanation,” I continued to insist.
“Yeah, there is one. I was cleaning up the bathroom after he left, and I found a note crumpled in the trash bin.”
“What kind of note?”
“Handwritten, in big bold capital letters, it said: ‘FOR MANNY’ and it was signed, ‘—JOAN.’”
“Joan?” I sat forward again. “Who is Joan?”
“I don’t know! I was planning to ask him when we were together again this weekend, and then he canceled, pretended he had to work, when it’s clear he lied to me. Now I don’t know what to do. Mom, you’ve got to help me find out what’s going on with him.”
“Me?!”
Sixty-one
“YOU’RE brilliant at snooping,” Joy declared. “And I’m certainly not going to hire a private investigator. Manny’s a cop, for heaven’s sake. That would be a disaster. So I want you to find out who this Joan person is. She’s obviously loaded. I think she’s showering Manny with expensive stuff to buy his affection. I need to know how serious it is—”
She must be an older woman, I thought, but didn’t dare say. It would just confirm Joy’s worst suspicions.
“Slow down,” I warned. “There could be an innocent explanation . . .”
As soon as I said it, my mind flashed back to the skeptical look on Mike’s face when I said Franco would make a good husband. Then I r
ecalled his discouraging words: ”. . . the issue with your ex disliking him—and that’s an understatement—isn’t going to make life peachy for them as a couple. And living in different cities isn’t easy on any relationship . . .”
At the time, I had brushed off Mike’s remarks. Now they weren’t so easy to dismiss. Did Mike suspect Franco was cheating on Joy? Did he actually know it for a fact—maybe even know this Joan person?
“I’m sorry, Mom . . .”
I let out a breath that I didn’t know I was holding. “Sorry for what? Joy, you have a right to be confused over Franco’s behavior. And I’m glad you came up to talk this over. Believe me, I know how you feel.”
“That’s not what I’m sorry about. I never knew, not really, how awful it was for you all those years ago. How much it hurts—like a slice through your soul—when you love someone, as much as you loved Daddy, as much as I love Manny, and that love is betrayed.”
Tears welled up in my daughter’s green eyes. Then the dam broke . . .
“There’s no crying on the line in a Paris kitchen,” she once told me. “The staff would crucify me!” But she was crying now. It was full-out, ugly crying with fat drops streaking her ruddy cheeks, and her heart-shaped face contorting into a mask of pain and confusion.
Sliding my chair over, I pulled her into my arms, and urged her to let it all out. Clearly, she’d been bottling up these worries for days.
When the sobs finally slowed, I stroked her dark hair. “Joy, do you remember that terrible storm years ago, when you were afraid of the thunder?”
“N-no . . .”
“Your father co-opted a few world myths and told you the thunder was just a big giant, beating his drum in the sky.”
“Oh, y-yes.” She wiped her nose. “That’s right.”
“Boom-boom-boom . . .” I reminded her. “You and Daddy marched around the apartment, pretending to beat your own drums.”
“I remember. I actually wanted the thunder to boom again, so I could beat my drum even louder.”
