Holiday Grind

by Cleo Coyle

  “Look, I’m going to be straight with you here. I’ve seen Quinn around with another woman.”

  “What do you mean, ‘another woman’?”

  “I mean you mentioned to me that the man was doing all this overtime and was so busy. But last week I stopped in at Enoteca’s bar and saw him having dinner with a really beautiful redhead.”

  “A redhead?” I stilled, remembering that stunning woman I’d seen in here a number of times. The one with the obvious grudge against me. It can’t possibly be the same woman, can it?

  “And then I saw the two of them again, having breakfast early one morning in the East Village—very early. Early enough that I can imagine what they were doing the night before. Doesn’t the man bunk over there?”

  “Yeah, his apartment’s in Alphabet City. But there must be some explanation. Maybe she’s part of a case.”

  “Quinn was in an intense conversation with this lady both times. It didn’t look professional. It looked personal. And this redhead—she looked familiar to me, too. Then I finally remembered where I’d seen her before. So I looked her up.”

  “What to you mean, you looked her up?”

  “She was a Victoria’s Secret model about fifteen years ago. Really hot. Cover model material. I keep all the holiday issues. They put her on the cover with a Santa hat, little black boots, and a naughty Mrs. Claus baby-doll nightie.”

  “You’re making me want to throw up.”

  “Sorry,” Matt said. He blew out air and ran a hand through his short, dark Caesar. “I wasn’t going to tell you, Clare, but the elf actually looks like a good time, and”—he shrugged—“I thought maybe you deserved that. I mean, why save yourself for a guy who obviously wants an open relationship?”

  I blinked, dumbfounded for a moment. “You can’t be right,” I finally said. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Suit yourself,” Matt said with another shrug. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Hey, boss!” Dante suddenly called. “We can use a hand again! Things are backing up.”

  “Okay!” I rose on legs that were suddenly a little shaky. Then I mentally shoved Matt’s claims aside, deciding there had to be an explanation, and went back to work.

  Matt departed with a sad little wave. An hour later his mother came in waving, too. But her gestures weren’t sad or little—they were big and frantic.

  “Clare, dear!” she called, motioning me to step away from the espresso machine.

  “Take over, guys,” I told my two-man crew. “I’ll be right back.”

  Madame looked stunning this morning in a jacket of whipped-cream soft suede and matching slacks. A hat and gloves the color of cappuccino foam, both trimmed in fine-spun faux fur, completed the ensemble.

  “You look gorgeous,” I said, pecking her cheek.

  “Thank you, dear! It’s sleigh-ride couture.” She laughed. “I bought it especially for my little Vermont getaway with Otto.” We sat down at a café table near the fireplace. “We just got back this morning.”

  I smiled. “Candy canes by candlelight?”

  “Yes, yes—it was all quite romantic, but that’s not what I’ve come to tell you. Something alarming has occurred.”

  “Are you talking about the ferry incident? Did Matt tell you?”

  “Ferry incident? No, there’s nothing here about a ferry . . .” She reached into her blond leather tote bag and pulled out a tabloid newspaper. A yellow Post-it marked the Gotham Gossip column. “This is what I’m talking about!”

  “Oh my God.”

  Splashed across the tabloid’s fold was a series of color photographs, set up frame by frame, showing an intimate moment between Phyllis Chatsworth and her executive producer, James Young. The two were standing in the foyer of a storefront, looking at jewelry. James put his arm around Phyllis and squeezed. She put her head on his shoulder. And in both of their hands were shopping bags—Tourneau, Saks, and Tiffany. The exact same bags I’d seen in Young’s apartment the day after Alf was killed!

  “Didn’t Mr. Young tell you he was out shopping the day Alf was murdered?” Madame whispered. “Didn’t he tell you he thought Alf saw him with bags from high-end shops and decided to burglarize him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what Young obviously didn’t tell you was that a photographer was following him, too.”

  I quickly looked at the photo credit. “Ben Tower!”

  Madame nodded. “Mr. Dewberry is very upset, Clare. The Chatsworth Way is an important asset for him, and these photos threaten that asset.”

  She was right. I skimmed the column, written by a man both Madame and I had tangled with before—scandal hound Randall Knox. Knox speculated whether the married relationship counselors who hosted one of the hottest TV shows on the air didn’t need counseling themselves.

  I added it up. “Madame, did Mr. Dewberry approach you with this? I mean, does the man expect you to do something about it?”

  “Yes, but I should explain. You see, Otto and I have had a number of very nice dinners with Mr. Dewberry and his wife. They’re very generous people. And Mr. Dewberry has a very good memory. He recalled my mentioning our previous dealings with Randall Knox and Ben Tower, the photographer of record here.”

  “You’re dining out on tales of our sleuthing, aren’t you?”

  Madame looked sheepish. “Well, they are good stories, dear. Quite entertaining!”

  “Okay . . .” I sat back in the café chair. “What’s your plan?”

  “I have a few angles to play with our Mr. Tower—and I wanted to know if you’d like to accompany me. I thought you might be curious, given the timing of his pictures, so close to Alf’s murder.”

  “I am curious. Tower may have seen something incriminating. He may even have a proof sheet that shows more . . .” I quickly brought Madame up to date with Dwayne Linford’s arrest. “But the police still haven’t found a murder weapon or gotten a confession from the kid. So every little bit of evidence is going to help the authorities pin him to Alf’s murder.”

  I checked my watch. “I’m going to Alf’s memorial service right after my shift. You go to see Ben Tower and do your thing. Let’s talk afterward, okay? You can tell me what you dig up.”

  Madame nodded, her blue eyes brightening. “What fun!”

  TWENTY-THREE

  “CLARE, I’d like you to meet someone . . .”

  Vicki Glockner approached me with a shaky smile; her hazel green eyes, so much like her dad’s, were still red and puffy from the moving memorial service we’d attended in the storefront church above. We were now mingling in the church basement—a brightly lit space with colorfully painted walls and a big Christmas tree in the corner.

  At least two hundred Traveling Santas packed the place. Homeless men and soup kitchen workers had come, too, people who remembered Alf from his entertaining “stand-up Santa” visits in the shelter system. Even some of Alf’s old Staten Island friends were here. Omar Linford was not among them, and I wasn’t surprised. Shelly Glockner wasn’t here, either. But Vicki had warned me a week ago that her mother probably wouldn’t come to today’s service.

  Like me, Vicki had worn a simple black pantsuit for the event. Her mass of caramel-colored curls was tied back in a tame ponytail. Walking close beside her now was a big, bald man. Tall and only slightly paunchy, he was dressed simply in black slacks and an open-neck black shirt. The man’s cheeks were cheerfully ruddy, his brown eyes lively under bushy brows, and the soft brown beard, trimmed close to his face, was shot with only a bit of sliver.

  “Clare,” she said. “This is Peter Dominick.”

  “Just call me Brother Dom,” the man insisted. He smiled down at me from his substantial height. His voice was very deep but soft and kind. “I understand you’re the lady to thank for the delicious boxes of cookies and muffins and all those hot thermoses of coffee.”

  “She’s the one!” Vicki nodded, her jingle bell earrings ringing.

  Vicki had been wearing th
ose same earrings a week ago, the day after Alf had died. I suspected they’d been a gift from her dad, which probably meant they wouldn’t be coming off her ears anytime soon.

  “Clare’s been great,” Vicki said. “She’s doing a lot for Dad right now.”

  “How’s that?”

  Vicki lowered her voice. “She found Dad’s killer.”

  Brother Dom’s bushy brown eyebrows rose. “So you’re a policewoman, too?”

  “No, no! I’m a coffeehouse manager. I just asked a few questions and helped the police out.”

  “Vicki!” One of the Traveling Santas was waving for her to come to the goody table. “There’s a girl here asking for you!”

  “I’ll be right there!” she called. “Excuse me.”

  Brother Dom and I talked for a few minutes about Alf—and I was glad to have this chance to question the man. Dom had founded the Traveling Santas a few years before. A former Franciscan monk, he now worked with the city and several of the city’s churches to bring aid to the homeless and hungry.

  “It’s funny,” I told Brother Dom. “The more I pieced together about Alf’s life, the more I wondered about the gaps in it. There are so many things that make no sense about the man.”

  “Like?”

  “Like I know he was a failed restaurateur. I know he had an alcohol problem and his marriage fell apart—”

  “Yes, Alf was an alcoholic, struggling to work through the twelve-step program. When I first met him, he had a lot of problems.”

  “But when I met him, he wasn’t struggling at all. He seemed so certain about life, so happy, so together. He was full of optimism and purpose. His primary concern whenever I spoke with him was helping others. I just can’t reconcile the stories I’m hearing about his past—and his past actions—with the living man I knew. Or thought I knew.”

  “You have questions, Clare. Ask and you shall receive answers—” He laughed. “If I can provide them . . .”

  “Okay—what do you think turned Alf around? I mean, what made him suddenly want to do charitable work?”

  “A Christmas Carol.”

  “A song?”

  “The book.” Brother Dom’s attention wavered when someone came up to speak with him.

  Just then, my cell phone went off, vibrating in my pocket because I’d silenced the ringer for the service. I saw from the Caller ID that it was Quinn.

  “Mike?”

  “I have bad news.”

  I braced myself—suddenly remembering Matt’s ugly story about some redhead. But Quinn’s news wasn’t personal.

  “Dwayne Linford’s going to walk, Clare.”

  Crap. “What happened?”

  “There’s nothing we can hold the kid on. The cameras in the St. George Terminal parking area confirm his story. Dwayne picked up a man on the incoming ferry—a college counselor from NYU that his father set him up to meet. His dad wants him to get a degree in music instead of trying to make a living as a club DJ. That’s what Dwayne claims you overheard them fighting about. His father wanted him to keep the appointment with the counselor.”

  “Did you confirm his alibi?”

  “Of course. The guy checks out—Grant Bass works at NYU. We spoke with him. As a favor to Omar, he took the ferry over to meet with Dwayne. The kid was angry, but he didn’t disobey his dad’s wishes. He picked up the man at the ferry for their meeting. There’s no way Dwayne was on that ferry so there’s no way he could have stolen the blackmail note and thrown you overboard.”

  I closed my eyes, tried to think. “Linford had a secretary. A woman named Mrs. MacKenzie. She didn’t pull out after she dropped me off. She parked her BMW in the lot.”

  “I don’t know, Clare.” Quinn exhaled. “A woman wouldn’t have had the strength to toss you the way you described.”

  “This woman was big, Mike. I think she could have.”

  “Come to the Sixth as soon as you can and take a look at these digital recordings. If you know what she looks like, you’ll have a better shot at spotting her movements.”

  “Okay, I’ll come to see you within the hour.”

  “I won’t be here. Sully and I have a meeting uptown. Ask for Hong or Franco. They’ll help.”

  I shuddered at the thought of seeing Emmanuel “Do-Rag” Franco again. “I’ll ask for Hong,” I replied.

  “Fine—just be careful, Clare. Do not go anywhere alone today. Okay? Are you hearing me? Whoever threw you off that boat is not in custody. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, Mike. I do. I won’t take any chances.”

  After saying good-bye to Quinn, I noticed that Brother Dom was still hovering close by. He turned away from another conversation to get back to ours.

  “Have you ever read it, Clare?” he asked me, motioning me toward the goody table.

  Read it? “I’m sorry?” I said. My mind was still spinning from Mike’s news. “Read what?”

  “Have you read A Christmas Carol?”

  “Oh, right. You were saying that book was important to Alf . . . No, I’ve never actually read the Dickens story. But everyone knows about Scrooge, right? The terrible misanthrope who hated Christmas?”

  Dom filled two paper cups with hot coffee and handed me one. “What else do you remember, Clare? About Scrooge?”

  “Well, let’s see . . . he was a rich man but he was also very unhappy—and greedy and selfish and cynical. He loved money and had no use for humanity or humanitarians. Bah humbug.”

  Dom smiled and sipped his coffee. “Go on.”

  I paused, trying to remember the story, and took a long caffeinated sip from my own cup—as mystified as ever how the simple sharing of a warm cup o’ joe could be both comforting and fortifying at the same time.

  “I think Scrooge had a business partner, didn’t he?”

  Dom nodded. “His name was Marley.”

  “Yes, I remember now . . . the story opened with Marley already dead. It was Christmas Eve and Scrooge went home alone. That’s when Marley’s ghost comes to his home to haunt him. And then what happens?”

  “Marley warns Scrooge that he’s going to be visited by other specters—”

  “Oh, right! The spirits of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.”

  Brother Dom nodded. “And through those visits, Scrooge is made to remember the man he once was, examine the man he truly is, and consider the man he might still be. Most important of all, Clare, Scrooge makes a decision about the man he no longer wants to be.”

  “And you’re telling me that single book changed Alf’s perspective?”

  “A single chapter, actually. You see, Alf lost everything—his worldly clothes were stripped away. And when that happens to a man or woman, he or she has nowhere to hide any longer. That human being must face the ultimate question of identity: Who am I? Without my clothes and job and worldly goods? Without even my friends and family? What is it that makes me who I am? And more important, who do I want to be in this life and in this world?”

  Brother Dom’s voice was deep and strong and full of earnest passion. I could see the fire in his eyes, the certainness of his purpose and place in the world. He was a natural minister, and hearing him speak helped me understand something more about my late friend. Alfred Glockner hadn’t gotten out of the dark woods all by himself. He’d followed in the footsteps of a man who knew the way.

  “When we crossed paths,” Brother Dom continued, “Alf was simply looking for work. The Traveling Santas do make money for their time. They work hard and they take a percentage of what they collect. But before one of my Santas puts on that beard and red coat, I have a long talk with him over coffee—”

  He lifted his paper cup and winked at me.

  “I then ask our aspiring Santa to read A Christmas Carol. Alf took the book the day we talked and came back to me. He stopped reading after one chapter.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s all he needed to read.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Brother D
om motioned for me to follow him. I did. We moved out a door, away from the loud hum of the talking crowd and into a long, quiet hallway that had been whitewashed clean—but then covered anew with colorful posters and photos. There were families and children beaming at me, smiling elderly people, waving groups of men. I got the impression they were people that Dom’s organization had helped. He confirmed it. Finally, the man opened another door, ducked inside, and came out again.

  “Read the book, Clare,” he said, handing me a worn copy of Charles Dickens’s beloved tale. “I think you’ll see what Alf saw. There’s a passage at the end of the first chapter that moved the man to tears, made him understand that it wasn’t too late for him to change his perspective. I’m glad he had that reconciliation before he died.”

  “Thank you for this,” I said, holding up the book. “My life’s been crazy busy lately, but I’ll read it soon.”

  “That’s the trouble with the holidays,” Dom said with a smile. “People forget the reason—”

  “—for the season, I know!”

  As we walked back to the wake, I glanced again at the array of faces on Dom’s hallway walls and asked about this year’s donations. Given the economy, I expected the news wouldn’t be great, and it wasn’t.

  “Donations are low this year, I’m afraid. I doubt very much we’ll meet our goal.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “A sad irony—with the top rungs feeling the pinch, hands remain clenched. But the people on the bottom rung need help more than ever. Losing Alf is tough for that reason, too. His collections were among the highest in the city, right behind his roommate, Karl Kovic.”

  Karl—that’s right. “I’ve wanted to talk to Karl, Brother Dom. But I don’t know what he looks like. Can you introduce me?”

  “I wish I could, but Karl didn’t come to the service today.”

  I stopped walking. That sounded wrong. “He didn’t come to the memorial service of his own roommate?”

  “That’s right.” Dom turned to face me.

  “Why not? Do you know if they were estranged?”

  Brother Dom sighed and folded his arms. “The two were longtime friends—since high school. It was Karl who introduced Alf to me and got him the job as a Traveling Santa.”