Holiday Grind

by Cleo Coyle

  I recalled what the bartender at the White Horse had told me. Alf was there that night. He’d ordered a cranberry juice and then left in a hurry without finishing it. I also recalled the small shopping bags I’d seen on James Young’s coffee table—the ones labeled Tiffany, Tourneau, Saks.

  Did Alf notice James Young walking home that night? Was Vicki Glockner right? Was Omar Linford pressuring or threatening Alf over the money he’d lent him? Was Alf so desperate to pay back Linford that he’d turned to burglary? If he had, was James Young Alf’s first try—or had Alf done it before?

  The phone on Young’s desk buzzed.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Ms. Cosi,” he said, reaching for the receiver. “I have work to do.”

  RELUCTANTLY I left James Young’s office to search out Madame again. After thanking Heidi for her help, we flagged a cab on Eleventh.

  “What did you find out?” Madame asked as we settled into the backseat.

  “James Young is an attractive, confident, financially comfortable man. That’s what I found out.”

  “Don’t those sorts of men commit murder, dear?”

  “Not my point. If James Young caught Alf Glockner in the act of burglary, would a man like him have gone all the way down to the alley, shot him, and then robbed the Traveling Santa cart to make it look like a random mugging?”

  “Patently ridiculous.”

  “Agreed. Just last night, Young saw a dark figure on his fire escape—me—and all he did was call his doorman.”

  “Who did attack you.”

  “Yes, the Neanderthal also locked me in a Dumpster. But he didn’t shoot me. He called the NYPD. I’m sure he would have done that for Alf, too . . . Still, there’s something about James Young that doesn’t feel right . . .”

  “What’s that?”

  “Young became very tense when I brought up Alf, as if he were hiding something. Or at least knew more than he was telling me.”

  “Perhaps he was just uneasy with your grilling him about a terrible crime that occurred right outside his home.”

  I drummed my fingers on the cab’s vinyl seat and watched restaurants, storefronts, and apartment houses roll by. “Young is certainly perceptive enough to know that I was suspicious of him—or at least of Alf’s being on his balcony.”

  “Wouldn’t it make you nervous to have someone suggest you may have something to do with a murder?”

  “I guess so.”

  “So where are we now?” Madame turned in the car seat to face me. “The trail hasn’t gone cold, has it? Perhaps Mr. Young left you with another lead? Do you have a new theory?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve certainly picked up on the gumshoe slang, haven’t you?”

  “No mystery there, dear.” Madame waved her hand. “You’re not the first coffeehouse manager who’s regularly provided hot stimulants for men in law enforcement.”

  Having heard more than a few racy stories of Madame’s bohemian years, I wasn’t at all sure how to interpret that remark. Before I could clarify what exactly she meant, however, our taxi pulled up to the curb. We paid the driver, climbed out, and gasped. The line to get into the Village Blend was literally around the block.

  “My goodness!” Madame gawked. “I thought you told me afternoon business has slowed considerably since the economic downturn.”

  “It has.”

  “Well, my dear, I haven’t seen this kind of enthusiasm for a retail refreshment since Seinfeld aired an episode on the Soup Nazi! Did some television show film an episode about our Village Blend?”

  “Not that I know of . . . Come on.”

  Rather than fight our way through the crowd, I led Madame around to the back alley, pulled out my keys, and unlocked the back door. We entered through the pantry area, passing the service stairwell that led down to the basement and up to my private apartment.

  “Would you rather we go upstairs to talk?” I asked.

  “And miss finding out what all the fuss is about? Not on your life!”

  SEVENTEEN

  “PEOPLE, people!” Tucker yelled, clapping his hands. “Will you puh-leeze give your order a thought on your way up to my counter! And have your money or credit card out before you get to me!”

  The espresso bar looked like a caffeinated zoo—but a well-run caffeinated zoo. I still couldn’t believe the shop was so busy. When I’d left earlier to go to Studio 19, the place had already slipped into its typical weekday-afternoon coma. Now the main floor was raucously packed. Tucker’s shift had started, but Esther was still here, mixing drinks with Dante behind the espresso machine—she’d obviously agreed to stay past her scheduled departure time to help handle the thirsty tsunami.

  I turned to Madame. “I want to pitch in here, but I need to ask you something important first.”

  “Of course.” Madame nodded. “I’ll find a table.”

  I could see from my quick scan of the first floor that she wouldn’t have a problem. Despite the line out the door, quite a few tables were still empty. The drinks my baristas were mixing were mostly “with wings”—aka to go. A lot of the patrons were new, but just as many faces belonged to former regulars—customers I hadn’t seen in here for some time.

  I noticed Tucker’s friend, the ex-soap actor Shane Holliway, as boyishly appealing as ever with the golden shag and trendy chin stubble. He was sipping a drink near the fireplace, a scarf rakishly thrown over his shoulder. When he saw me checking him out, he gave me a big smile and a wink.

  Another winker, I thought. What was it with these guys on TV? Did those klieg lights affect their vision or something?

  I waved politely—and that’s when I noticed the thirtysomething redhead, the one I’d clashed with the night of Alf’s murder. She was back, sitting in a far corner of the shop, still gorgeous, still angry, her eyes focused on me as if I’d thrown a macchiato in her face.

  I wasn’t intimidated. Not even a little bit. I met her gaze with a direct stare. She looked away.

  Mentally dismissing the grudge-carrying socialite, I tapped my assistant manager’s shoulder. “What’s going on, Tuck?”

  “Ohmigawd, Clare!” he said, finally noticing me. “It’s our Fa-la-la-la Lattes!”

  “What? How can that be? I only just put out the sidewalk chalkboard this morning!”

  As reluctant as I’d been to cash in on Alf’s Taste of Christmas latte idea, I’d changed my mind for two reasons. The shop badly needed an economic shot in the arm, and as a business manager responsible for the sustainability of this shop and its employees, I had to be willing to try anything. The second reason was Dexter Beatty’s nostalgic reaction to Gardner’s Black Cake Latte the previous evening. If Alf’s idea could bring back even one happy holiday memory for a customer, I figured it had to be a worthy addition to our menu. But I never expected a reaction like this. It didn’t even make sense!

  “Tucker, all these people can’t be random foot traffic!”

  “We’re all over the Net, Clare. Two major foodie bloggers frequent the Blend. They wrote about our lattes first thing this morning—loved the Fa-la-la-la holiday theme. Actually, one of them loved it, the other one kind of derided it as ‘twee.’ But both thought the variety and flavors were outstanding. Then two more foodie writers came in, much bigger ones: Grub Street Digest and the-feedbag.com! They took digital pics. Someone else took a YouTube video! We’re the talk of the foodie Web world! A Post reporter was just here, and a Times photographer called to confirm our address!”

  “Excuse me! Hello!” A young woman in heels and hose plopped her designer handbag on top of the cash register. “I’m on a work break. Are you people going to take my order, or what?!”

  Tucker whipped his head around. “Chill-ax, honey! I’ll get to you.” He snapped his fingers. “And get your Kate Spade off my register!”

  “Give me ten minutes and I’ll relieve Esther,” I told Tuck. “Madame’s waiting for me at a table.”

  “It’s okay, Clare. We’re going just about as fast as we c
an anyway. Another pair of hands won’t help Dante pull those espressos any faster.”

  “And we don’t want him to, either.”

  “I know—quality is why we’re in business after one hundred years. But I warn you, I have a choreography rehearsal at seven sharp for my Ticket to the North Pole production number. The benefit party’s next Tuesday evening, so there’s no time to spare. All of the dancing elves and singing Santa’s helpers are on my call sheet.”

  “Is that why Shane’s here?” I gestured to him in the corner, noticed he was still watching me, and quickly dropped my pointing finger.

  “Oh, is Shane here already?” Tuck glanced across the room and waved. “Well, the rehearsal space is just down the block. And, yes, Clare, he is one of my dancing elves. Apparently Dickie Celebratorio—”

  “The party planner?”

  “The same. He’s throwing this bash and he owes Shane some big favor, so I had to hire the man, but that’s fine with me. I figure the ladies at the benefit party will be more than happy to see him in tights. Anyway, I’ve paid for the rehearsal space already, so I can not give you any overtime.”

  “No problem, Tuck. I’ll cover.” I ducked over to Esther, thanking her for staying past the end of her shift.

  “What’s to thank, boss? You are paying me, right?”

  I squeezed her shoulder, pushed up my sweater sleeves, and a few minutes later approached Madame with two freshly made Fa-la-la-la Lattes and a quick update on why our store was suddenly swamped.

  “Well,” she said, after sampling my own late addition to the latte line-up, “if all your new flavors are as delightful as this Chocolate Cherry Cordial, I’d say we’ve struck gelt.”

  I laughed. “Speaking of gelt—you should try our Apricot-Cinnamon Rugelach and Raspberry Jelly Doughnut lattes.”

  “For Chanukah!” She hooted. “Wonderful!”

  “Esther’s idea.” I smiled, but then glanced at the line again, a little worriedly.

  “Come now, Clare, you don’t have to entertain me when the shop’s this busy. Ask me your question and get on with your day.”

  I leaned closer. “I need to know if you know a man named Omar Linford.”

  Madame paused a moment, thinking it over, and frowned. “Now that’s a name that does not ring a bell for me.”

  “Too bad. I’m out of leads and Alf’s daughter’s theory is actually starting to make sense.”

  “How so?”

  “Alf Glockner was a warm, generous, thoughtful humanitarian. The only way I could see him turning to burglary was if he was pressured or threatened into it. He owed this man Linford a great deal of money. Alf may have turned to crime to get it, but if he had, he obviously wasn’t paying Linford fast enough and the man decided to make an example of him instead.”

  “Have police questioned this man?”

  “Yes, but they say he has no criminal record and they don’t see him as a viable suspect for what appears to be a random street crime, especially now, when street crime is on the rise.”

  “Could the police be right, Clare? Perhaps Alf was going to burglarize this nice man James Young, but he had second thoughts and then he himself was mugged and killed—a terrible irony.”

  “Yes, it could be that simple. But Vicki Glockner herself claims it isn’t—”

  And although I didn’t mention it to Madame, I still had my suspicions about the lead detective in the case. “Generalissimo” Franco’s own partner practically called him a vigilante, and his hostile treatment of me, for butting into the investigation, not to mention his oddly intense statement about not “seeing evil” in me left me wondering. The night of Alf’s murder, Franco had told me he’d just come on duty. Could he have shot Alf himself in some twisted form of street justice? Or was Franco somehow involved in covering up the real truth about Alf’s murder? He wouldn’t be the first corrupt cop to take a bribe for looking the other way, especially when it involved the shooting of a man he judged to be a criminal himself.

  “I have to talk to Linford,” I finally told Madame, “see what I can find out. Even a denial can be telling if the man’s not a good liar.”

  “You’ll need a partner for that, too, dear.”

  “I have to get a handle on this guy first. I know where he lives—next door to Vicki Glockner—but Vicki wasn’t very helpful about his background. I need to know more about him, his business, his associates. I need to know how to question him.”

  Just then, a wiry young man with spiked blond hair and a pale complexion approached our table. He wore baggy jeans, motorcycle boots, and a shiny, outer-boroughs black leather blazer. The young man nodded politely, then struck a slouching hip-hop pose.

  “Clare Cosi, Clare Cosi; you’re a fresh Village posy; now release my czarina; so with me she can mosey!”

  Madame’s eyes widened. She glanced at me and addressed the rapper: “And who is your czarina, young man?”

  “The Best girl, in the West, girl! That sweet-booty babe-with-the-chest girl!” The young man lifted his closed fist, shook his pinkie and index finger free, and pointed both toward the espresso bar.

  “Esther?” Madame glanced at me, just to make sure.

  “This is Boris Bokunin,” I said. “He’s a Russian émigré, slam poet, and urban rapper.” He was also a hardworking assistant baker in Brighton Beach, but I knew he preferred the other identifiers. “Did I get it right, Boris?”

  Boris gave a little bow. “BB Gunn. That’s my hip-hop handle! Just ask me ladies and—” He clapped his hands and pointed at us. “I’ll light your candles!”

  Madame glanced at me, her laugh lines crinkling. “He reminds me of the beats!”

  Boris’s eyes widened. “You need someone beat down?”

  “She means beat poetry, Boris,” I said. “But that’s a whole other century.” I rose from my chair. “Tell Esther I’ll relieve her in a minute.”

  BB grinned at that, saluted me, bowed to Madame, then spun on his motorcycle boots and headed for the counter.

  Madame touched my arm. “Do keep me informed of the developments on catching Alf’s killer. I’d like to help if I can.”

  I patted her hand. “Have a good trip to Vermont with Otto. The bed-and-breakfast sounds amazing. Your beau certainly knows how to keep the romance in the holiday season.”

  “Mistletoe and music, my dear.” She winked. “Candy canes by candlelight.”

  I nodded, ignoring a surge of mixed feelings. With Joy away and Mike trying to crack a cold case, this Christmas wasn’t going to be a very merry one for me. On a quiet sigh, I bent down and gave Madame a good-bye hug.

  I could only hope my daughter was finding the same sort of happiness in Paris that her grandmother was enjoying in New York. Despite the theme of today’s Chatsworth Way, it appeared the holiday season really could be the most romantic time of the year for some women. I simply wasn’t one of them.

  EIGHTEEN

  A FEW days after wishing Madame a good trip, I was on my way to Staten Island to have lunch with Omar Linford. I even brought backup. With Madame still away on her long romantic weekend, I tapped my old partner in anticrime, Esther Best.

  We finished our morning shifts together and she agreed to do the driving—mainly because I didn’t want to burden her with balancing my struffoli on her lap all the way to Lighthouse Hill.

  According to Dexter Beatty, bringing a home-baked gift was a sign of affection. A black cake would have been a better choice, given Linford’s Jamaican roots, but I didn’t have three weeks to macerate fruit in Manischewitz or travel to Brooklyn and back for a jar of authentic West Indian burnt sugar.

  Instead, I made the famous little “Italian Christmas tree” pastry that I’d loved as a child, hoping it would start us out on the right foot (as long as I could prevent the whole thing from ending up on the dashboard, that is).

  Esther had been doing fine in the bumper-to-bumper traffic across the Brooklyn Bridge, but now that we’d hit 278, she was tearing down the highway like
a Goth out of hell.

  “Esther, slow down! We’ve only gone from Lower Manhattan to Brooklyn Heights. Not to Monaco’s Grand Prix!”

  “Sorry,” she replied, easing up on the pedal. “It’s just that this part of the drive is seriously tedious . . .”

  As its name suggested, Staten Island was in fact an island, connected to the borough of Brooklyn via the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Commuters without cars took the famous Staten Island Ferry.

  “It would have been much easier to take the ferry from Battery Park,” Esther pointed out.

  It would have, except she knew as well as I did that cars had been banned from the ferry since the 9/11 attack.

  “We have no choice. We have to go through Brooklyn.”

  Esther sighed and hit the gas again. “So, boss. You never told me how you managed to wrangle this invitation.”

  “It was Dexter’s doing,” I explained as we zipped along the highway. “I did a little snooping and found out he knew Linford.”

  “Oh, I see. No big deal, then.”

  Actually it was a big deal.

  I’d started my research on Saturday morning. After typing Linford’s name into a couple of Internet search engines, I learned he’d founded and managed a hedge fund called Linvantage. The fund was based in Antigua and had its prospectus posted online. It appeared to be very profitable, and I noticed the minimum investment was high enough to keep the client list exclusive.

  Further research uncovered Linford’s name on the roster of half a dozen import/export companies, all of them based in the Caribbean.

  Of course, when I thought of the Caribbean, I always thought of Matt’s friend Dexter—an absolute pillar of the Brooklyn Caribbean community. Any bigwigs from the Islands in the New York area probably made themselves known to Dex at one time or another to purchase authentic West Indian products for a party, family gathering, or traditional celebration.