Prime Crime Holiday Bundle

by Cleo Coyle; Emily Brightwell; Kenneth Blanchard

  Only a few café tables were occupied, and after I whipped out another dozen sporadic take-out orders, there were no customers left in line. This was usually my favorite time of day—the quiet afternoon between lunch and dinner, the calm before the after-work crowd stormed our doors. But I didn’t like the calm. Not today. Not one bit. My deserted coffeehouse suddenly felt like a widow’s empty kitchen, once boisterous with family laughter, now as silent as the viewing room of a funeral home.

  Around two o’clock, a number of chatty tourists and chilled holiday shoppers passed right by the shop without even glancing in. I frowned, considering writing up that sidewalk chalkboard featuring our new Fa-la-la-la Lattes, but I thought of Alf again—how the whole Taste of Christmas thing had been his idea—and my heart just wasn’t in it. So I swept the floor and wiped down our unoccupied tables.

  Just before three, I felt myself tensing. Alf almost always stopped in at this time to “warm his mittens,” as he put it, and I’d take a break with him, grab a latte, and sit by the fire. At one minute after the hour, the jingle bells rang. I glanced up, half expecting to see my Santa, and instead found Matt standing there.

  I smiled.

  He returned my smile, clomped his snowy hiking boots across the wood plank floor, and took a load off at my espresso bar. I was a little surprised to see him dressed like the old days (before fashionista Breanne’s influence) in paint-stained jeans and a battered old parka. As he pulled off his coat and settled onto the bar stool, I took a moment to thank him for his help the previous night—and not just for coming to the crime scene.

  I’d been so distraught after finding Alf that I didn’t think I could tell my staff about the murder without breaking down. Matt had understood. While I’d gone up the back stairs to collapse in bed, he agreed to return to the tasting party, break the news to my baristas, and handle locking up.

  “Tucker didn’t say much about Alf’s death this morning,” I told Matt. “Just that it was too depressing. How did everyone else take it?”

  “They were upset, of course,” he said. “But I didn’t tell them right away. I let the tasting go on as planned—”

  “You what?” That decision stunned me.

  “I broke the news near the end of the party. You wanted the tasting info, didn’t you? Oh, that reminds me—”

  He shifted on the bar stool and pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his back pocket. “Here are last night’s reactions to the latte flavors. It went pretty well overall. There were only a few duds and a couple of suggestions for tweaking the recipes.”

  I ignored the folded paper. “I can’t believe you let that tasting party go on! What were you thinking?! What about Vicki—”

  “Vicki Glockner never showed, Clare. If she had, I would have told her about her father right away. Give me a little credit.”

  “Oh.” I frowned, processing that. “Why didn’t Vicki show? Do you think the police got to her first? Called her to give her the news?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t Esther try to reach her? Call her cell?”

  “Yeah, sure, but she just got Vicki’s voice mail, and—” Matt shrugged. “Esther wasn’t about to inform her friend that her father was murdered on a recorded message.”

  I closed my eyes. “Of course not.” My heart really went out to Vicki—especially after I saw the morning papers. The death of her dad wasn’t just news. It was a tabloid bonanza.

  Ho-Ho-Homicide, screamed one front page in red and green letters. Santa’s Final Sleigh Ride, declared its rival. Randy Knox’s scandal sheet wasn’t about to miss the fun. The Grinch Who Plugged Santa Claus was the lead story for the New York Journal, complete with the head of Dr. Seuss’s Grinch Photo-shopped over the body of a gun-waving street punk.

  All over the Five Boroughs, beleaguered parents now had to explain the news to distraught youngsters who’d heard on television that jolly old St. Nick would no longer be riding his sleigh—or pushing it, in Alf’s case.

  “Clare?”

  I opened my eyes.

  “You okay?” Matt asked.

  I nodded.

  “Espresso then,” he said, “if you don’t mind.”

  “No problem.”

  I was relieved to turn my attention to something so familiar, not to mention fundamental—the espresso being the basis for most Italian coffee drinks. After burring the beans, dosing the proper amount of grounds into the portafilter, and tamping them in for perfect distribution, I locked the handle into place and sent a small amount of hot water under high pressure through the puck. In less than thirty seconds, the water extracted the flavor from the freshly roasted beans, producing that quintessential full-bodied, aromatic liquor topped with crema—the term for that dark golden foam that defines a correctly drawn espresso shot.

  After finishing the pull, I set the white porcelain cup on its saucer and slid Matt’s shot across the blueberry marble counter.

  Customers sometimes ask me if I ever grow tired of smelling coffee. I never do. Unlike perfume or incense, the caramel-sweet aroma of a perfectly pulled espresso is neither overbearing nor monotonous. To me, it’s a living scent, rising and falling with the life of the cup. Intoxicating yet invigorating, it’s like a song I never tire of hearing; the sight of an old friend stepping again and again through my front door . . .

  “Getting back to last night,” Matt said as he brought the demitasse to his lips. “Did your guard dog ever call you back? Or are you frosted at him for ignoring you?”

  “Mike dropped by after work. And I’m not frosted at him. There was a very good reason he didn’t come to the crime scene.”

  “Another woman?”

  Spare me. “No. As I recall, that was typically your reason for not returning my calls. But only when we were married.”

  Matt grunted. We’d run our wagon wheels over this road so often, the grooves reached the earth’s mantle.

  “And how’s Breanne?” I asked after a long, awkward silence.

  “Breanne is . . .” Matt looked into his cooling cup, where the exquisite crema was slowly beginning to dissipate. “The same as she ever was.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Matt shrugged. “You know how she gets.”

  “What exactly are you two fighting about?”

  “At the moment?” Matt shifted on his bar stool. “She’s obsessed with micromanaging her magazine’s holiday party: all the details, the food, the music, the guest list—”

  “Guest list? I thought a company party was supposed to be for the employees? You know, to pat them on the back for a job well done over the past year.”

  “Well, that’s your version. Breanne sees it as a networking opportunity for Trend. She’s invited name designers, press people, celebrities—she’s got her staff working after hours on an ‘exclusive’ holiday issue for the attendees. Photographers will be there to capture every Technicolor moment. She’s determined to garner national buzz.”

  “I see. And how do you fit into all this?”

  “I don’t. And frankly, Clare, I’m sick of being ignored by my own bride. I mean, I come home after a two-week tour of Central American coffee farms and what do I get? The cold shoulder. She comes to bed after I’m asleep, gets up before I’m awake—”

  No sex, in other words. I arched an eyebrow. For Matt, that was tantamount to no food or water.

  “I’m just going to stay out of her way till this holiday crap blows over. But it really pisses me off. I cleared my travel schedule for December. I thought we were going to celebrate a nice, romantic Christmas together. Now I can’t wait until January second.”

  Great, I thought, another bah-humbug refrain. “Well, you shouldn’t be so eager to see the holidays come and go. Our daughter’s flying all the way from Paris to spend time with us.”

  “Joy’s coming?”

  I nodded. “She called yesterday morning—morning my time, I should say, with Paris six hours ahead. She asked for two weeks off to
celebrate the holidays with us. She says the restaurant’s sure to be busy, but she’s owed a lot of time off and her bosses are willing to give it to her.”

  Matt’s expression lightened. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all week. You know, you’re right, Clare, I should focus on our daughter . . .” He reached out and took my hand. “You want some company tonight? I mean, you’re probably still upset about Alf and everything.”

  “I’m fine. I don’t need company.” I gently reclaimed my appendage. “Listen, can I give you some advice?”

  Matt exhaled. Loudly.

  “Breanne’s just stressed right now. A combative attitude from you is not going to help the situation. Try to be patient with her. And while you’re waiting for her workload to lessen, don’t go looking for love in all the wrong places.”

  Matt glanced away. “Whatever.”

  It was then I noticed his neglected espresso. Its thick, golden foam was shrinking and collapsing, breaking up into ugly patches that revealed the black pool beneath.

  “Your drink’s gone cold,” I told him.

  Matt should have known better. Espresso was a tricky commodity. Once the harmony of the crema was lost, the experience could turn bitter.

  “I’ll just have a new one then,” he announced. “Doppio, please.”

  After that, he settled in near the fireplace with his double espresso, his cell phone, some industry trades, and his PDA. Every once in a while, he’d look up at me and wink. But that was Matt, ever constant in his inconstancy.

  AS the day wore on, business picked up, and I was glad to see Dante arriving on time. Tying on his apron, he joined me behind the counter to deal with the crescendo of the after-work crowd. By six thirty—far too early for my bottom line—the rush began to slow again. That’s when Dante spotted my relief coming through the front door.

  “Gardner’s here!” he called at the register. “And look who else decided to show on her night off . . .”

  I glanced up from my espresso machine to see who was walking in behind Gardner’s easygoing strides. Esther Best. And she wasn’t alone. Sweeping in after her on a blast of frigid air was the last person I expected to see tonight—Vicki Glockner, the daughter of my murdered Santa Claus.

  EIGHT

  “VICKI, I’m so sorry about your father.” I came around the counter to embrace my former barista.

  She nodded her head, setting off the tiny jingle bell earrings. “Thanks, Ms. Cosi. That means a lot.”

  Her pretty face was florid; her eyes, which were the same bright hazel green as her father’s, were now puffy from crying and shadowed from lack of sleep. Under her fuzzy yellow beret, her mass of salon-streaked, caramel-colored curls, usually silky and soft, were frizzy and windblown. She tossed back a handful and sniffled.

  I pointed out an empty table. “Have a seat, girls; I’ll get us some drinks.” A few minutes later, I brought three mo chaccinos over on a tray.

  Vicki sniffled again as Esther and I helped her off with her long, belted beige coat. She pulled off her yellow hat and matching scarf, then wiped her eyes with a tissue. Esther and I took seats flanking her.

  As we drank in silence, I couldn’t help recalling some of the last words I’d said to Vicki almost eight months earlier . . .

  “No opening shifts. No closing shifts. I’m sorry, Vicki, but I can no longer trust you with the keys to this coffeehouse.”

  Within two weeks of hearing those words, Vicki had quit—via a cell message. She’d wanted more hours to earn more cash, and I wasn’t willing to accommodate her.

  Vicki’s skills weren’t the problem. She’d come to me from a recently closed restaurant on Staten Island, already trained on a professional espresso machine. She started out loving the coffeehouse experience—experimenting with the bar syrups, learning how to prep our menu of coffee drinks. She was great with the customers, too, (crucial for a true Italian barista), but food and beverage service wasn’t only about skill and affability.

  Vicki had started coming later and later for her shifts, forcing her coworkers to cover for her, and her behavior at work was becoming far from reliable. One evening, I found Gardner alone, dealing with a growing crowd. Vicki had gone downstairs to fetch supplies, and she hadn’t come up for thirty minutes.

  I found her down there, all right, making out behind the roasting machine with a cute customer. She didn’t know the guy. He’d simply been flirting with her and she’d invited him down there for a necking session—and I’m being polite. When I’d interrupted them, their hot-and-heavy focus was moving a lot lower than the neck.

  I liked Vicki; it was hard not to. A full-figured girl with an equally full personality (just like her late dad), she had a mile-wide smile with adorable dimples. She laughed easily and at only twenty-one years old joked around with the customers with a level of ease I typically saw in someone much older.

  Because Esther and Vicki had gotten to be good friends during the time Vicki worked for me, I’d actually asked Esther to help straighten her out. She’d told me Vicki’s parents had separated recently, and I assumed the girl’s erratic behavior was akin to Joy’s “acting out” after her father and I had split. The backlash was understandable. Alf and I even discussed it one afternoon over lattes . . .

  “Vicki was always a good kid,” he told me. “I know she made some bad choices when she was working for you. But I don’t blame her. Childhood’s an insecure enough ordeal without having your parents screw up your universe, you know?”

  I didn’t disagree with Alf. Even though “childhood” was a debatable term for a twenty-one-year-old, I knew how much psychological stock young adults put in having their childhood world still available to them, whether they went back to it or not.

  My heart went out to Vicki because I assumed she felt some of the same fears I’d felt around her age—which, frankly, was what tipped the scales for me toward marrying Matt. At nineteen, my fine arts studies were going well, but my grandmother had recently died and my father had just sold off our family grocery. Yes, Matt had gotten me pregnant and I wanted to legitimize Joy’s birth, but a big part of me felt adrift at that time. My past was gone, my future uncertain. I’d wanted ties again, stability, someone to love and lean on, a family to belong to.

  Unfortunately, my sympathies for Vicki did little to change her. Not even Esther could straighten her out.

  “That girl,” Esther told me, “has a mind of her own.”

  Vicki was always sincerely apologetic after she was caught messing up. Her behavior would improve for a week or so, but she’d always backslide again. Then she started picking up guys from dance clubs, bars, God knew where. One day there’d be a preppy white student from the Upper East Side waiting for her shift to end, the next a black kid from Greenpoint in basketball sweats, a week later an Italian street tough from Ozone Park.

  Finally, one night, she’d been responsible for closing and “forgotten” to set the security alarm and bolt the back door. A lot of managers would have fired her for that alone, but I still didn’t have the heart. I read her the riot act instead, limited her hours, and kept her off key shifts. She pulled the plug herself, leaving the Blend for a waitressing job at a bistro on the Upper West Side.

  I hadn’t seen her since—until tonight.

  “I really liked your dad, Vicki,” I assured her as she sipped her mochaccino. “If there’s anything I can do to help—”

  “There is!”

  I blinked, a little surprised by the speed and force of her reply. “Okay. Tell me.”

  “It’s that thing you do,” she said.

  “That thing I do?” I paused. “You want me to make espressos for the wake?”

  “No, not that thing. The other thing.”

  I glanced at Esther, who looked suddenly uncomfortable.

  “Sorry?” I said.

  Vicki leaned toward me and dropped her voice. “What you did for Joy. I need you to do that again.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you—” />
  “I know everything, Ms. Cosi. The real reason your daughter went to work in Paris; Esther spilled the whole story. She said you were the one who got Joy cleared of double murder charges. She said the police stacked the evidence against your daughter, but you still found the real killer.”

  As Vicki wiped her nose, I shifted uneasily. Although I was proud of bringing Tommy Keitel’s killer to justice, my daughter’s involvement in that sordid affair was something I didn’t like spread around. I shot Esther enough of a frown to get that across. She replied with a typical Esther shrug—part sheepish, part defensive. I could almost hear her arguing: Okay, boss, I feel bad about gossiping, but what did you expect? It was in the papers!

  “I know you liked my dad,” Vicki went on. “And he really liked you. He told me how much he looked forward to his latte breaks with you at the Blend. You want to see his killer brought to justice, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do, but the police are working on it. I’ve spoken with them—”

  “You mean that clown with the do-rag? Sergeant Franco?! He thinks Dad was shot by some anonymous street punk. I know better, but Franco and his partner don’t believe me.”

  I frowned. “What don’t they believe, exactly?”

  Vicki’s gaze locked with mine. “I know my father was executed.”

  Once again, I glanced at Esther. This time she looked a little freaked and shook her head—Don’t ask me!

  I turned to Vicki. “Who would want your father executed? I mean—”

  “Omar Linford is his name,” Vicki replied. The sniffles were all gone now, her jaw set, her hazel green eyes flashing. “The man lives right next door, too.”

  “Next door where? To your dad uptown?”

  Vicki shook her head. “No, back home on Staten Island. He lives next to the house where I grew up and my mom and I still live.”

  “So Linford’s your next-door neighbor?”

  “He used to be close friends with my dad, but they had a falling out. Linford’s a shady businessman, Ms. Cosi. He may not have pulled the trigger on my father, but I’m sure he’s involved. I want you to find the proof—”