by Cleo Coyle
While we waited in a short line to be admitted, Madame touched her son’s arm. “I know you’re angry and anxious, but I don’t want you to make a scene.”
Matt had taken a short nap, but he’d never recovered from his caffeine and sugar high. In fact, since he’d arrived at his mother’s penthouse, he’d continued to feed his habit. Now his nerves were more jangled than ever. The veins protruded from his neck as I adjusted his black mask.
“She’s right, you know,” I cautioned. “You’ve got to cool that hot Latin blood, Zorro.”
Finally we reached the door. Madame’s invitation was for her and a guest—in this case her son. But she introduced me as her “amanuensis” and the man at the door let us right through.
“Why didn’t you just tell him I’m your personal assistant?” I whispered.
Madame chuckled. “Did you see the look on that young man’s face? Amanuensis! He probably thinks you’re some sort of personal physician. There’s no way he’d keep you out, for fear of my dropping dead and spoiling the fun.”
The restaurant consisted of two floors connected by a wide, red carpeted staircase. The main floor was quite spacious, with the kitchen in the back. Upstairs was mostly balcony, with ornate golden railings in the shape of twisting Chinese dragons. On both the upper and lower level, two of the four walls were lined with picture windows fronted by simple fiberglass and Formica booths. Between upstairs and downstairs, there were three open bars and five buffet tables. An efficient waitstaff was also circulating among the guests with trays laden with spring rolls, wontons, spicy hot shrimp, and tiny egg rolls.
Munching away, I scanned the room for any sign of our hostess. I didn’t see Monika, but I did spy her husband. I half expected to see Neils Van Doorn in his American mook disguise. Instead, he opted for a pirate of the Caribbean look—red greatcoat, knee length black leather boots, a three cornered hat and an eye patch to complete the effect.
I faced Madame again, saw a look of determination on her face. I followed her gaze to the bar, where an elderly gentleman in a Roman centurion costume stood alone, nursing a glass of wine.
“Excuse me, dear. I see someone I know.”
I watched her cross the crowded room and greet the man. Although she held her mask over her face, the man recognized Madame at once. Apparently, the Queen of Hearts had already started stealing one. But then I remembered Dr. McTavish and knew she’d soon be breaking one, too, if she hadn’t already.
I turned away from the animated couple, scanned the room for Matt. I spied the Zorro costume across the room at one of the open bars. Matt’s back was turned to me, and he plucked a glass off the counter—some kind of cocktail.
Dammit, Matt, don’t start drinking. The man hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, and I thought he wanted to keep his wits about him (what little were left anyway) to speak candidly with Monika Van Doorn.
I pushed my way through the crowd, searching for any sign of our hostess. When I reached Matt, I touched his shoulder. The man in the Zorro costume turned, and I blinked in surprise. Hat askew, mask pulled up to his forehead, Ric Gostwick offered me a crooked grin.
TWENTY-SIX
“YOU’RE looking lovely tonight, Clare,” Ric said. He leaned against the bar and his arm nearly slipped off the countertop. Some of his drink sloshed over the edge of the glass. He didn’t seem to notice.
I pulled my sunglasses off and tucked them into my purse. “How are you doing?”
Ric shrugged.
“I’m sorry about Ellie,” I told him.
“So am I.” Ric’s liquid brown eyes looked haunted. He drained his glass, reached for another.
“Matt told me you were interrogated by the police about her murder?”
Ric’s frown turned into a sneer of contempt. “They detained me for hours, even though they had no proof that I did anything wrong. And even when they let me go, they strongly hinted I was still their ‘person of interest’ in Ellie’s death, and told me I shouldn’t leave town. Apparently, I’m off the hook for Carlos Hernandez . . . they’re still looking at Matt for that one . . . No evidence, but if your police are anything like the ones that now operate where I used to live, they’ll trump it up soon enough . . .”
“Ric, I’m sorry about everything that happened. I—”
“The detectives asked me a thousand questions. I answered them all with a simple question of my own. Why would I kill Ellie? Why? She was my lifeline. I needed her—”
“And yet you’re also wooing our hostess, Monika Van Doorn—Mrs. Van Doorn.”
Ric’s crooked smile returned, and this time he directed his contempt at me. “Little Sister Clare . . . did you actually use the word woo in a conversation?” He threw back his head and laughed. “You’re such a prude. Presuming to judge how an adult like me conducts his life, as if it’s any business of yours. No wonder Matt . . .”
His voice trailed off, but he didn’t need to complete the sentence for me to understand where he was going.
“No wonder Matt cheated on me? Is that what you were going to say?”
“You don’t understand. Monika is just business. Ellie was . . . something else.”
“That ‘something else’ doesn’t include the word love, I noticed.”
“It’s beyond your understanding—”
“You mean you don’t think I’m sophisticated enough to understand your motives, your actions? What you’re trying to accomplish? You’re probably right, Ric. But if I don’t understand, others might not get it, either. Like Jerry Lassiter, Ellie’s husband, who might still love his wife, the woman you were sleeping with. Like Neils Van Doorn—”
Ric snickered into his drink. “Don’t worry about Neils. He’s been the perfect host. Now there’s a civilized man. My relationship with his wife doesn’t bother him in the least! The man even brought me my first drink, we shared a toast with my second. He’s a real man of the world, that one . . . demonstrable savoir-faire . . .”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Yes, he had this costume for me, you know? I showed up here, and didn’t have one, but Neils . . . good man . . . he presented me with a package and voila! Inside was my Zorro . . . but . . . where is our lovely hostess?” Ric said loudly. “I really ought to give her a kiss. You know, when Monika and I first met? It was at a party like this. I was Zorro and I kissed her, and she never forgot me. Besides . . . if I don’t find her, I may have to spend the night alone, and I wouldn’t want to do that . . . my old hotel room . . . it’s a crime scene now . . .”
Ric was beginning to attract attention. He lurched forward, bumping into a woman dressed as Cleopatra. I reached out to steady him and he pulled away; I was nearly jerked off my too-high heels. Ric caught me in his arms, held me close—a little too close. When I looked up, he moved to kiss me. I turned my head and felt Ric’s sour breath on me as he nuzzled my throat. I laughed it off, as if his mauling was some sort of amusing prank. Gently but firmly, I pushed him away.
“I really don’t believe you hurt Ellie, Ric. At first, I thought it might have been her husband, and then maybe Carlos Hernandez, but—”
“I hope Hernandez had something to do with Ellie’s murder,” Ric said.
“Why?”
“Because . . .” Ric’s eyes glazed a bit. “Because then I’ve avenged her.”
I blinked a moment, trying to comprehend the implications of what Ric had just said. I remembered the robot voice toy in my bag. I had planned to show it to a sober Ric, asking if it sounded like the voice he’d heard the night of the mugging. Now I fumbled with my bag, curled my fingers around one of the robot voice discs. But I didn’t pull it out. Instead, I simply pressed record.
“What did you say about Hernandez?”
Ric’s expression darkened. “I said I hope the son of a bitch did have something to do with Ellie’s death, because if he did, then she’s avenged—”
“You’re talking about cosmic justice?” I asked.
“Real justic
e, Clare. You like to talk about morality, but look at the world we live in. Hernandez’s family and that gangster government of theirs, they stole my country, they took my family’s land. We went into exile, started over. But even here in America they hound me . . . I tried to be gracious, accept the inevitable, the way things are. Then that bastard Carlos followed me out to the balcony, demanding more.”
Ric’s eyes met mine. For a moment I was afraid he’d realized what he’d been saying and pull back. But Ric didn’t care—or he was so eaten up by it all, he had to tell someone.
“He tried to extort money from me, Clare. That’s why he came without a bodyguard. He wanted no witnesses from his entourage and that was his mistake.”
“His mistake?”
“The bastard wanted to be cut in. Hernandez knew there were no real legal means for his country to easily take my hybrid, so he threatened me. Unless I quietly paid half the profits on my new hybrid’s earnings to him personally, he would see that the rights to my plant were tied up in international courts for decades. That was his leverage. By the time my plant was free again, other inventors would surely beat me to the marketplace. But I refused to give in to his blackmail. I spat in his face, and he attacked me. I couldn’t take his abuse anymore, so I . . . I dealt with the problem. I finally fought back. I punched him hard, and he went over the balcony.”
Near the end of his tirade, Ric’s voice seemed to fade. Suddenly pale, he swayed on his feet.
“I’m going to the men’s room . . .” he said in Spanish, and he stumbled off toward a doorway near the bar. I almost followed, but decided to check the robot voice recording instead. There was a three minute memory limit, but I’d gotten the entire confession on the digital recording. Even if the evidence wasn’t admissible in court, if the detective in charge of the Hernandez murder heard the recording, they would let Matt off the hook for good.
I had to find Matt and tell him. I turned to begin my search when I noticed Monika Van Doorn finally making her grand entrance. Dressed as a regal Marie Antoinette, she descended the carpeted staircase on ribboned pumps. Bedecked in an elaborate, pearl-trimmed gown, Monika’s expression was haughty under a towering, white powdered wig. In one raised hand she fluttered an ornate oriental fan. It was quite an entrance, and many of the guests applauded as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
I continued searching for Matt. Finally I saw Zorro emerge from the crowd, pushing his way toward Marie Antoinette. For a moment I thought it was Ric, since he’d been dressed as Zorro, too. But this man’s stride was steady—too steady for someone who had been so drunk only a few moments before.
“So Matt’s making his move,” I whispered, silently wishing him luck. I knew what happened in the next few minutes might very well determine the future of the Village Blend. From my angle, I could only see Matt’s broad back under his flowing Zorro cape. I wondered how he was going to broach the subject of the fraudulent beans. He must have started out friendly, because Monika turned and greeted him with a smile. That’s when I saw the gun.
Zorro’s hand pulled the weapon out from under his cape. Three cracks came in quick succession. Monika was thrown backwards, hitting the steps with the first shot. The second and third bullets struck her sprawled body. She must have died quickly because she didn’t even raise her arms in defense.
As the echo of the shots faded, Zorro spun around and fired another shot into the ceiling. The screams of the crowd were deafening. Everyone (including yours truly) dived for the floor.
Zorro raced across the cowering mass of bodies, heading right for a door near the bar. I realized it was the same doorway that Ric had stumbled through in his Zorro costume a few minutes before!
But the gun-toting Zorro didn’t make it. Another Zorro, swathed in black, dived from the second floor balcony, and landed right on top of the shooter. Both men tumbled to the ground. Tables spilled over and partygoers scattered while the two men wrestled on the linoleum.
I scrambled to my feet and raced to the middle of the restaurant, or tried to. I was fighting against a sea of costumed guests, all of them moving in the opposite direction. Finally I got a good look at the two Zorros struggling on the floor. One clutched a .38, the other held the first one’s arm and was trying to shake the weapon from his grip.
The gun boomed again, shattering a picture window to my right. The glass crashed to the floor and someone cried out. On the sidewalk outside the restaurant, people shouted and screamed.
Suddenly, the armed Zorro broke free. Using his gun, he pistol-whipped the other Zorro, who clawed at the mask of his armed opponent. The mask was ripped away, and his identity finally exposed.
Neils Van Doorn waved his gun at the partygoers. “Stay back!” he cried as he made his way to the shattered ground floor window. Leveling his gun at the restaurant crowd, Van Doorn backed out through the broken frame. He was seconds away from escaping into the chaos of the Village Halloween Parade crowd.
He never even noticed Detective Mike Quinn coming up behind him—not until Mike’s seasoned grip took hold of the Dutchman’s wrist and twisted it behind his back. Neils howled and doubled over. The .38 tumbled to the sidewalk.
“You’re under arrest for murder,” Mike said.
At that moment two uniformed officers arrived to help Mike cuff the man. Sirens wailed nearby. Behind me, I heard a familiar groan and rushed to Matt’s side. He sat up, yanked the mask off his face with his left hand. His eye was swollen and a welt marred his cheek from the pistol-whipping he’d received.
“Your face!” I cried.
“It’s my arm that’s wrecked. I would have beaten the guy if I hadn’t broken it when I did my swan dive.” Matt clutched his right arm with his left, hugged it close to his body. “Some swashbuckler I turned out to be. I couldn’t even save Monika’s life. But I thought . . . if Neils was gunning for anyone, it would have been Ric.”
Suddenly Matt tried to rise. “I still have to talk to Ric. Where is he?”
“He’s probably unconscious in the bathroom.” I told Matt about the talk I’d had with his old friend, and the recording I’d made. “Ric was drunker than I’d ever seen him, and I’m guessing Neils slipped him some kind of a Mickey. Grain alcohol in his cocktail, or maybe a nice date-rape drug. Either way, Ric was loopy and way too chatty. Then he got sick and ran to the men’s room—”
I pointed to the doorway next to the bar. “That doorway is exactly where Neils was going. I’m guessing he was going to plant the gun on Ric, make it look like Zorro Gostwick killed his wife. Then Neils would slip back into the chaos of the party, wearing his pirate gear and looking innocent.”
Beads of sweat dewed Matt’s upper lip. The shock was wearing off, and the pain setting in. “What about Ellie?” he asked.
“I’ll bet it was Neils again, looking for Ric’s cutting. Neils was already pawning his expensive things, so Monika must have cut him off financially. He was probably desperate to make his own fortune. Stealing and selling that cutting to Carlos Hernandez or someone like him would have gotten it for him. But when Neils broke into Ric’s hotel room, looking for the cutting, Ellie was there. You yourself told me that Ellie and Ric had made love that afternoon—”
“I see where you’re going,” Matt said. “When Neils kept failing at getting his hands on the cutting, he resorted to securing a fortune the old fashioned way—by murdering his rich, cheating wife and inheriting everything before she could dump him.”
“Exactly.”
Mike Quinn appeared a moment later. “You were right, Clare,” he told me.
I met his blue eyes. “I thought you said you didn’t have the resources to follow Neils Van Doorn?”
“We don’t. But I decided to follow Van Doorn during my off-duty hours. See what the guy was up to. I figured you had something on him, so . . .”
I blinked, genuinely flattered. I was about to tell him so, too, but he was glancing in another direction, toward the staircase. “I only regret I couldn’t prevent the
murder of Mrs. Van Doorn,” he said. “Her doorman wouldn’t let me into her party. I had no costume or invitation. The sidewalk outside was the best I could do.”
While we spoke, more uniformed police officers arrived. I saw two of them escorting a stumbling Zorro out of the men’s room.
“Hey, Mike! Look what we found. Another Zorro!”
“That’s Ric Gostwick,” I told Mike. “But before you cut him loose I think you’d better listen to this . . .” I pulled out the robot voice toy and handed it over.
“You’re not kidding?” Mike asked, looking at the cheap plastic recorder.
“I wish I were . . .” I glanced at Ric. On many levels, my heart went out to him. “But in this country, we don’t exact justice at the top of twenty-sixth floor balconies. And as trying as Matt can be, I’d really like his name off that Midtown detective’s ‘persons of interest’ list.”
Mike nodded. “I think you missed your calling, Cosi.”
“Is that right?”
“With your nerve, you should have been a cop, a thief, or a demolitions expert.”
“Well, I’m too moral to become a thief, I’m too old to get into the police academy, and I’ve got more interest in working with flavor profiles than plastique. Guess it’ll have to stay a hobby.”
“Case by case, then?”
With everything that had happened, it felt wrong to smile, but a part of me was glad I’d finally done something right.
“Yeah, Mike,” I said. “Like I tell my Blend trainees. ‘One customer at a time.’ ”
EPILOGUE
“WHAT’S that?” I asked Mike Quinn a week later.
