by Cleo Coyle
“No one has kidnapped you, Ms. Cosi. I merely provided a ride—and bodyguard—to keep you safe for your trip downtown. You did willingly get into my car, if you recall. I’m sure the Pierre doorman would testify to that.”
“Bull-loney.” I rose. Like a listing ship, the entire room seemed to lurch to the side. I stumbled, clutched the edge of the carved table and nearly toppled it, too.
“You say you were kidnapped, Ms. Cosi. But I say you came here to my club inebriated and became quite loud and disorderly. Indeed, you caused a scene, as my staff will attest. Why, a scandalous story like that could even reach the papers.”
“You rat!” I hollered. “You drugged me!”
“Just a healthy dose of grain alcohol, nothing to get excited about. We’re done now, Ms. Cosi, and I do hope you are, too. All this nosing around in other people’s affairs is really not a healthy pursuit. And we did drink to your health, did we not?”
Then Fen was through talking. He no sooner gave me his back than his nephew, Bryan Goldin, emerged from the shadows. Not gently, he ushered me out the door, depositing me at the bottom of the spiral staircase, which might as well have been the base camp at Mount Everest.
“Sweet dreams, Cosi.”
After taking a deep breath, I grabbed the wrought iron railings with both hands and began to climb. It took an eternity to move from one step to the next, and I had to stop for oxygen every minute or so and wait for the room to stop spinning. God, where’s a sherpa when you need one?
Finally, I reached a level I recognized—the dance floor and that long bar made of glass bricks, illuminated from within by a blood red glow. The sight of it, and the thought of all the animals slaughtered in this building, was suddenly making my stomach churn. Just then, I spied the public phone—which was in use—and the ladies room next to it.
Oh, lord, I’m going to be sick. I lunged for the bathroom. No line, thank goodness, so I pushed my way through the door. Inside I found two large stalls, both in use. I heard giggling, then voices echoing from behind one of the partitions. Whoever they were in there, they were taking up a stall without making proper use of it, and that suddenly made me furious. The grain alcohol made me bold, if not certifiably insane, and I began to pound on the stall door.
“Hey, knock it off,” a woman cried from the other side. I pounded again, then kicked the thing. It burst open.
Two young women and a young man in a business suit were crammed inside the stall—one of the women was a tall blonde with a daring leather vest and skirt that bared her belly. The other was a pretty brunette with a short velvet dress that revealed lots of leg and plenty of cleavage. Her lipstick was familiar, I suddenly realized, a garish hue I would never wear, but the exact shade I’d found on my husband’s collar the day before.
I blinked, not sure, but hoping, it was all just a nightmarish hallucination. The brunette’s eyes were as wide as a deer’s on a busy highway—not surprising since she’d been caught in the act of holding a tiny spoon full of illegal white power under her nose.
Then her familiar voice cried, “Mom!” and I knew this was no delusion. The brunette holding the cocaine was my daughter, Joy.
TWENTY-FIVE
“DRINK this.”
“What is it?”
“Water.”
Still holding the cool cloth over my eyes and forehead, I blindly accepted the tall glass from Matt. “Where’s the coffee?”
“It’s coming. For now, your body needs water. Drink it down, Clare. Trust me, I’ve had enough hangovers to know what helps.”
On this subject, I did implicitly trust my globetrotting ex-husband, who seemed to personify the lyric from the old hit song “One Night in Bangkok,” which, paraphrased, essentially says, all countries look the same with your head in a toilet bowl.
I myself had already worshipped the porcelain god in the Inferno, right after I discovered my barely adult daughter about to shove Bolivian marching powder up one delicate nostril.
The scene after that was a fairly horrific blur—I was about to take Joy by her wrist and drag her out of that club, but I hadn’t needed to do anything nearly that dramatic. She was so alarmed at seeing her mother inebriated to the point of passing out, she’d helped me to the door and into a cab. I pulled her in with me, refusing to let her out of my sight, then insisted she stay the night with me in the duplex.
When we got upstairs, we found Matt already home—to my stunned surprise. I would have bet the farm he’d been planning to spend the night in Breanne’s bed. But there he was, ready to take care of us both.
He’d given up his own room when he realized Joy was spending the night. After digging out one of his T-shirts to sleep in, he tucked me into the master bedroom’s four-poster. I was too shaky to ask where he was going to sleep—and once again assumed he had some other woman’s bed in mind anyway.
“Matt, you have to talk to Joy,” I said, still staring at the inside of my hangover cloth. “Straight talk.”
“I will, Clare. First thing in the morning. Let’s all just get some rest tonight.”
I didn’t have it in me to argue. Just then, I heard a delicate tinkling, like a toy piano playing my favorite song from The Sound of Music.
“My cell,” I moaned. “Matt, I’m sorry, but can you help me out again?”
“Sure.” He followed the electronic rendition of “Edelweiss” to the chair where I’d thrown my clutch. Fishing inside, he found my phone and brought it to me.
“Thanks,” I said, flipping it open. “Hello?”
“Clare? It’s Mike. You left a message to call. I hope it’s not too late.”
“No. It’s fine. Just a minute.” I sat up, the cloth falling from my eyes. Matt stared. I met his gaze with a pleading look. “Coffee?” I asked with wide-eyed innocence.
“Be right back,” he said. Then he turned and left the room—very slowly. When he was finally out of eavesdropping range, I spoke into the phone again.
“Mike, Fen kidnapped me tonight.”
I hadn’t wanted Matt to hear that—he was already pissed at me for the Nancy Drew act. If he found out what it resulted in, I knew he’d hit the ceiling, which is exactly what Quinn was doing.
“What! Clare, what the hell happened? Where are you now? Are you all right? Do you want me to send a patrol car?”
“I’m fine. I’m home. It’s okay now. But earlier, he had two thugs pick me up in a limo and take me against my will to this private club in the old Meatpacking District; it’s called the Inferno and it’s definitely mobbed up.”
I could hear Quinn’s frustrated sigh. “Yeah, I know about the place. So do the Feds. It’s not the only hot spot in the precinct but unless there’s obvious criminal activity, it’s out of my jurisdiction. Kidnapping, however, is another matter. Do you want to file formal charges? What happened down there, for god’s sake?”
“Fen said he heard I was asking a lot of questions and he wanted to talk to me—find out what I knew and pretty much intimidate me into staying out of his business. He slipped some grain alcohol into my wine glass, I assume to loosen my tongue.”
“What did you find out?”
“Not much I didn’t already guess. He denies having anything to do with Rena’s murder.”
“He’s got a solid alibi.”
“Well, check his nephew, Bryan Goldin. I think he’s the one who does the dirty work. Of course, Fen’s got the entire cast of The Sopranos on his payroll, too. But I did uncover something from his past. A woman he’d been sleeping with died under mysterious circumstances in Thailand in 1988. Mona Lisa Toratelli, Lottie Harmon’s sister.”
“Got it. I’ll see what I can find out from Interpol.”
“Great.”
“Clare? You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I’ll be better when Tucker is out of jail and Rena’s killer is arrested.”
“Yeah…listen, I didn’t get anything from Fen, other than a solid alibi, but your blackmail information was a big help
with Starkey and Hut. Tad came clean with it and they’re going to help me on the Garcia murder. Even they admit the two poisonings are likely linked and there might be another perp involved.”
“Not another perp,” I insisted. “An altogether different perp.”
“One step at a time, Detective Cosi.”
I smiled, actually picked up the slight teasing in Mike’s tone—no easy feat, considering the man usually maintained a poker voice to match his poker face. Half the time, reading Quinn was about as easy as reading a brick wall—a blank one, of course, one without a collection of overdressed babes covering it.
“Thanks for calling back, Mike.”
“Sure, Clare.”
I continued to hold the cell to my ear. A long silent moment passed. Neither of us, it seemed, had anything more to say—but neither of us wanted to sign off, either.
“Here you go, sweetheart, fresh coffee!” Matt had returned to the master bedroom with two steaming mugs.
“I have to go now,” I softly told Mike.
“Good night, Clare.”
“Good night.”
I closed the phone and accepted the mug. The warm, nutty fragrance of the dark roast was more than welcome and I drank it down with extreme satisfaction.
“God, I needed that.”
“You’ll need these too.”
Matt dropped two aspirins into my hand and I gulped them down, along with the rest of the water. Then back to the coffee. After a long silence, Matt sat down on the edge of the bed and folded his arms.
“You want to tell me what you told him?”
I squirmed. “Nothing to tell. Really. I just drank too much at the Trend party and then ran into a friend who took me to the Inferno, where I saw Joy.”
“Liar.”
“Oh, Matt. It’s close enough to the truth. Just let it go.”
“Clare, I’m warning you, don’t get in over your head with this detective game. It’s too dangerous.”
“Please, Matt. Let’s not argue.” I drained the coffee mug and was about to throw the cold cloth over my eyes again when the phone on the nightstand rang. I lunged for the receiver, miraculously snagging it before Matt.
“Hello?” I said.
“Clare, dear, I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No, Madame.”
Matt’s eyebrows rose.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Madame in a conspiratorial tone, “about our case, you know?”
Oh, lord, I thought. Please don’t let Matt hear you say that. With my suspicious ex-husband continuing to stare, I carefully asked, “What’s on your mind?”
“Only this…do you think it’s possible Lottie herself is the culprit?”
“Lottie herself?” I hadn’t considered that possibility. “Why would you think that, Madame?”
“Because Lottie may have learned of Tad and Rena’s plan to sell their shares. And Rena would have trusted Lottie. She would have easily taken a poisoned latte from her and drunk it down.”
“True. But why would Lottie have poisoned herself?”
Matt frowned and glowered, finally hearing a phrase that confirmed I was discussing the case with his mother. I twisted away from his disapproving eyes.
“Well, my dear, I thought that through, too,” Madame replied. “It’s possible that Lottie found an accomplice to help her set the whole thing up—that she never intended to drink the poison but only to taste it and then accuse Tad and Rena of poisoning her, but, of course, Ricky Flatt and that poor Jeff Lugar drank down the poison instead. Lottie Harmon may have been trying to gain control of her own label by any means necessary.”
“It’s an interesting possibility, Madame…I can’t deny it.”
“Of course, I could be wrong, but I thought you should hear the theory.”
“Yes…well…” I looked up again to find Matt ready to blow. “I better get some rest now—and so should you. Big day tomorrow!”
“Oh, yes, the runway show. I’ll see you there, my dear. Sweet dreams!”
Bryan Goldin had wished me the same, as I recalled, but I doubted very much I’d have them. I hung up the phone and collapsed into the pile of bed pillows, smacking the cold cloth back over my eyes before Matt could grill me.
“Clare.”
“Don’t, Matt. Don’t.”
“Fine. Let’s go to bed then.”
Before I could ask what he meant by “let’s,” the light was clicking off and my ex-husband was climbing in beside me under the bedcovers.
Oh, god, no, I thought, but was too exhausted to protest. I simply turned on my side, away from the father of my child. A moment later, I felt Matt’s muscular arm curling around me and pulling me possessively against him.
I knew it was wrong, that I should resist. But the familiar feel of his strong body tucked around me again was like that cup of java he’d brought me, warm and reassuring, and reminiscent of those days during our marriage when we’d been happy together, young and undamaged, hopeful and optimistic.
With a sigh I relaxed into him and let dreams descend.
TWENTY-SIX
SUNDAY morning started far too early. I awoke at six with a parched mouth and the fringes of a hangover headache, courtesy of Fen’s atomic cocktail.
Matt was still sleeping in my bed and I silently thanked him for making sure the slight discomfort I was experiencing took the place of the blinding pain I would have surely endured without his help.
After showering and dressing like a George Romero zombie, I stumbled downstairs to find Gardner Evans chipper and wide awake despite the fact that he’d closed last night and had just opened this morning. He and two other evening employees would be serving the Blend’s regular customers here at the Village store while Esther, Moira, and I catered the Fen runway show in midtown, which was scheduled to go off in less than six hours.
Esther and Moira soon arrived and we all loaded up the van I’d rented days before and parked in the alley behind the Blend: two espresso machines and service for three hundred, including cream, milk, sugar, coffee, disposable cups, stirring sticks, and napkins and paper plates for the baked goods, which would be delivered on site at eight o’clock sharp. We even brought our own water—filtered fresh this morning (good-tasting water being an essential ingredient for a great cup of joe).
To get our hearts jump-started, I prepared a thermos of double-strength Breakfast Blend, a medium roasted mix of Arabicas with the highest caffeine content on our play list, which we all shared before heading out.
“You drive. I don’t think I’m up to it,” I told Esther, handing her the keys.
Under normal circumstances, I would have resisted turning over the keys—and my life—to a vehicular novice, but at seven on a Sunday morning, traffic in Manhattan was virtually nonexistent and my head pounded too much to care anyway.
I climbed into the van’s cab, then called to Moira. “Take off your backpack and you can squeeze into the front seat with Esther and me.”
“That’s all right, Ms. Cosi, I’ll just ride in back.”
Moira climbed into the back of the truck and settled in. We could hardly see her among all the stuff packed inside the van.
“God,” whispered Esther, roiling her eyes. “Why can’t she be sociable? You’d think that pack was glued to her spine.”
I shushed Esther and off we went.
By the time we came in sight of the lions in front of the Forty-second Street Library, the morning clouds had cleared and the sun was shining brightly for a late September morning—even though a brisk ocean wind swept across Manhattan from the east, providing a chilly glimpse of the winter to come.
I hadn’t been back to Bryant Park since my first visit with Lottie on Fashion Week’s opening day. The scene was even more chaotic now—cabs, vans, fashionista trailers, and plenty of people. We pulled up to the barricade on Fortieth Street.
The road was closed to regular traffic during the festivities, but we presented our pass to a uniformed New York City police off
icer and he waved us in. Esther managed to park our van crookedly between a Metro New York satellite truck and a tour bus emblazoned with the Fen logo.
“Okay,” Esther began. “I know Sunday is right in the middle of Fashion Week and the optimum time for a runway premiere, but why did Fen and Lottie schedule the damn thing before noon?”
“Lottie told me they were selling a spring collection, so Fen wanted his models to be brimming with energy. ‘Like the first budding of spring,’ is how she put it.”
“But what about the fashionistas?” Esther complained. “With all their late-night parties, won’t they fall asleep?”
“That’s why we didn’t bring decaf,” I replied. “And it seems to me that Fen was on to something.”
I pointed to the pack of journalists and buyers already circling the tents, most of whom seemed less than fully alert. Meanwhile the high-stepping models trotting about in gauzy spring fashions in the chilly autumn air seemed energized.
“They move like they’re powered by supercharged batteries,” I remarked.
“More likely cocaine,” quipped Esther.
I frowned, remembering Joy and hoping Matt would come through with his promise to speak with her. I’d spoken to Joy many times over the years about the dangers of illegal drugs. Now I knew she needed to hear the warnings from her larger-than-life father, the former addict—his words would carry a thousand times more weight than mine.
Stepping out of the van, I felt like a junkie myself, and shielded my hangover-sensitive eyes from the harsh stabbing agony of the sun. Suddenly I wished I’d held on to those Jackie Onassis tinted glasses of Madame’s.
I noticed Moira McNeely with a hand to her head, too.
“Moira, are you okay?”
She shook her head. “Headache. Massive.”
“Join the club.” I pulled a pillbox of aspirins out of the pocket of my jeans and handed it to her. “I’ve come prepared. Take two aspirins and have another cup of coffee.”
“No, I can’t,” she said handing the pillbox back to me with a look of panic. “I told you earlier in the week. I’m allergic.”
