by Cleo Coyle
“Cheer up,” I commanded. “Plenty of women think you’re a prince.” I tugged his sleeve. “Look over there.”
I directed Matt’s attention to the white CSU truck that had parked twenty feet away. A small group had already gone back into the woods to gather evidence. For the past ten minutes, however, these two female techs—a short blonde and a tall brunette—had been sorting the same equipment over and over while they continued to check out Prince Charming and whisper to each other like high school BFFs with a secret crush.
Matt cleared his throat. “I see what you mean.”
“Why don’t you pump them for information?”
“Like their phone numbers?”
Mental forehead slap. “Like what they think happened to Anya. Or if the medics managed to revive her in the ambulance, on the way to the hospital. Or if they’ve found evidence of foul play.”
Matt caught the brunette’s eye and she smiled.
“Good thinking. I’ll get right on it.”
NINETEEN
MATT wasn’t gone a minute before a sleek gray BMW pulled up. An unmarked passenger van parked behind it, and a tight knot of uniformed police poured out and approached the luxury vehicle.
The cops were so fresh-faced that I (correctly) surmised they were cadets from the 20th Street Police Academy, uptown on a teaching tour; and the blue serge wall was so tall that I could barely see the man now at its center.
“As I was saying . . . a good police officer needs a sharp mind, along with an eye for detail that rivals an electron microscope!”
Oh, lord help me. That insufferable voice could only belong to one man—Detective Sergeant Fletcher Stanton Endicott, bestselling crime-writer and creator of the fictional “Forensic Detective,” a moonlighting gig that made him known derisively around cop locker rooms as Mr. DNA.
“You couple that with a steel-trap memory, and a superior detective can instantly recall the name or occupation of anyone he encounters in the line of duty—”
“Excuse me, Detective Endicott,” I called into the group. “I’d like a word with you.”
By the way the man’s face fell, I detected his “steel-trap memory” was recalling our previous encounter.
“Gentlemen, this is Chloe Coswell. Miss Coswell is a private investigator.” Endicott eyed my peasant costume and Dalecki’s scarlet cape still draped over my shoulders. “Working undercover, presumably.”
“It’s Clare . . . Clare Cosi,” I corrected. “And I’m a barista, not an investigator.”
As the blue wall surrounding me reacted with barely suppressed guffaws, the embarrassed detective tugged me aside.
Always nattily dressed, Endicott had chosen an autumn theme for his evening seminar, with a brown plaid sport coat over a pine green cable crew, and khaki chinos. During our short stroll away from the rookies, he checked his Rolex.
“Cute undercover costume, Ms. Cosi—if you plan to get close to the Seven Dwarves.”
“I’m not undercover. I was working at the Storybook Kingdom. Now would you please tell me what you think happened to Anya?”
Endicott adjusted his wire-framed glasses. “Nothing more sensational than an overdose. Self-induced, accidental, or criminally administered remains to be determined.”
“Overdose? On what drug?”
Endicott paused then responded to my questions with a question. “How do you know the victim, Ms. Cosi?”
I didn’t see the need to drag Leila and Molly into this, so I replied with less than full disclosure. “Anya was working as a costumed model at today’s festival, and I was working at the same festival.”
As I spoke, Endicott wagged a finger to summon his partner, a heavyset detective in a gray raincoat. The man slipped him Officer Dalecki’s notes, and Endicott paused to read through the pages.
“Yes, we have already verified that fact,” he said. “But unless you are a member of the victim’s family, I don’t see how the investigation is any of your concern.”
“I found the young woman, Detective. If it hadn’t been for me, she would still be lying out there, maybe dying. Maybe dead. I think you owe me some consider—”
A bellow interrupted us, one from an all-too-familiar source.
“Get your paws off me, flatfoot!” Matt roared. “I didn’t do a damn thing, and I won’t be manhandled by a pair of fresh-faced fascists!”
TWENTY
TWO stalwart cadets hauled Matt over to Detective Endicott. Though my ex was spitting mad, he wasn’t resisting—yet.
“We’ve got a problem, Fletcher.”
The speaker was Endicott’s heavyset partner. While the man spoke, he flipped through Matt’s snakeskin wallet.
“I caught the Prince here trying to charm information out of two CSU ladies. He’s a local with an upscale address named Matteo Allegro. I’m running a background on him now.”
Endicott’s blond eyebrows rose high enough to contact his receding hairline. “A most interesting development, considering we have an eyewitness stating the victim was last seen at four o’clock, speaking to a man in quote ‘medieval garb’—”
“Sorry,” I said. “But clearly you have Matt mixed up with another man in quote medieval garb.”
Endicott narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Allegro was with you when you found the body, correct? Why were you searching for this woman, Ms. Cosi?”
“We weren’t looking for Anya. We were looking for a lost dog—” I untangled Penny’s leash from around my leg. “This dog. In fact, Penny knew Anya. She discovered the young woman and led me to her.”
“So you and Lassie found Sleeping Beauty while working in tandem with Prince Charming?”
“I wasn’t ‘working in tandem’ with anyone. Prince Char . . . I mean Mr. Allegro was simply helping me look for this lost dog.”
With a dismissive wave, Endicott resumed his professorial tone as he addressed the cadets. “What we see here is a ham-handed attempt by the perpetrator to establish an alibi.”
“What?!” Matt and I cried together.
“Crime scene investigations often involve a spouse or lover who happens to ‘stumble across’ the victim’s body”—Endicott made finger quotes—“it is this person who then alerts the authorities to divert suspicion, because this person is actually the guilty party.”
“Hey, Ellery Queen,” Matt snapped. “I am not a ‘spouse or lover.’ I hardly knew Anya.”
“You hide the truth,” Endicott proclaimed, poking Matt’s tunic. “You were seen with the girl before she disappeared. ‘A tall man in medieval garb,’ our witness said. You certainly fit that description.”
“I worked with Anya most of the day,” Matt stated through clenched teeth. “But we split up at three o’clock.”
“So you say. How long did you know the victim, Mr. Allegro?”
“I only met her this morning—”
“That’s true,” I confirmed. “Ask Samantha Peel. She’s in charge of—”
“Ms. Cosi, your blatant attempt to establish an alibi for your paramour becomes more transparent each moment. On top of that, according to your statement”—Endicott tapped Dalecki’s notes—“you betray knowledge of the crime possible only if you were involved.”
I blinked. “And what would that be?”
“You know precisely when the girl went missing—”
“Of course I know when the girl went missing! The Pink Princess was supposed to show up at my coffee truck. It was Matt who reported Anya missing.”
“Proving my point,” Endicott loudly declared. “Mr. Allegro alerted the authorities to divert us from the fact that he is the guilty party.”
Endicott narrowed his eyes. “What illegal substance did you feed that poor girl, Prince Charming? A deadly form of heroin? Bad cocaine? Some sort of date rape drug—”
“I didn’t give her the time of day.”
>
Endicott frowned. “I should detain you on suspicion. Charge you, even.”
“Charge him for what?” I demanded.
Endicott pointed to the sword. “Your boyfriend is armed.”
“It’s plastic!” I cried. “And he’s not my boyfriend!”
“It’s all right, Clare. I wouldn’t need a sword to take this idiot down. I’d just shove this kinky boot right up his—”
The uniforms on either side of my ex tightened their grips, while I spoke loud enough (I hoped) to drown out Matt’s threats.
“Sure! You could arrest him, Detective, but you and I both know you have no real cause to detain Matt, and I suspect you know that, too, don’t you?”
Before Mr. DNA could reply, his partner in the gray raincoat waved a notebook computer. “Fletcher, I think we got something.”
Endicott tipped his head. “Proceed . . .”
The detective began with Matt’s multiple arrests in high school—underage drinking, fighting, misdemeanor vandalism (i.e. graffiti). He jumped a decade to Matt’s overdose on cocaine and near death, even though no charges were ever filed in that incident.
The detective failed to mention Matt’s three-month rehab stint, and the fact that he hadn’t touched drugs in over a decade. (With the exception of caffeine and alcohol—the latter to the dismay of his twelve-step sponsor, though Matt seldom drank to excess.)
With relish, the detective then announced Matt’s profession in the import-export business. But he saved the biggest revelation—and a broad grin—for last:
“Both Mr. Allegro and Ms. Cosi were scooped up in a DEA sting a short time ago. They were kicked loose without charges, but I smell something.”
“So do I,” Endicott said, rubbing his bony hands together.
“That charge was a mistake,” I protested. “Don’t make another one, Detective Endicott. If you’ll just speak with Samantha Peel—”
“I already did,” Endicott’s partner cut in. “She informed me that the victim, Ms. Anya R. Kravchenko, was scheduled to appear at the Fairy Tale Village with Mr. Matteo Allegro from three to five o’clock this afternoon, but neither of them showed—”
“But—”
“Don’t you understand, Ms. Cosi?” Endicott smirked. “Ms. Peel is our eyewitness. She is the one who last saw the victim speaking to the man in ‘medieval garb’ at four, which bolsters our theory, not yours.” Endicott faced the cadets. “Cuff Mr. Allegro, and read him his rights.”
To my surprise, Matt behaved like a prince. He accepted his fate. As they slapped handcuffs on him, his gaze met mine.
“Don’t bother Mother with this, Clare. Let my wife’s lawyers handle it. I’ve got nothing to hide, and I’ll be free in a few hours, guaranteed.”
Endicott stepped between us. “Count yourself lucky, Ms. Cosi, that you’re not joining your boyfriend—though you may end up in my interrogation room yet.”
As the police loaded Matt into a squad car, I watched in helpless frustration.
“One last word of caution,” Endicott added, leaning next to my ear. “If I see you or your little dog anywhere near a crime scene again, I’ll have you charged with interference of a police investigation, and Lassie here sent to Animal Control.”
TWENTY-ONE
OH, how I wanted to throttle that sanctimonious martinet, but I knew nothing would be gained by landing myself in jail and Penny in the pound, so I bit my tongue.
But I did leave a message for the smug detective.
As Endicott led his cadets into the park to “observe the crime scene,” I moseyed over to the man’s shiny new BMW and encouraged Penny to lift her leg and tag the driver’s door.
“There it is, Endicott, a nice, warm puddle for you to remember us by . . .”
Alas, I could not coax the little collie to contribute anything more substantial to the cause.
Still stewing, I exited the park at West 72nd Street, near Strawberry Fields. Across the street from The Dakota, I paused under a cast-iron lamppost to check my messages. A text came in from Mike.
IN NYC. ON MY WAY TO HUG KIDS. CU SOON.
Oh, thank goodness. I could not wait to see him. And I was relieved he’d be at Leila’s apartment. At this hour, Molly was likely in bed, and somebody had to stop me from strangling her mother.
It took me a few minutes to hail a cab—possibly because I had a dog; on the other hand, I was wearing a blood-red, floor-length cape wrapped around a bizarre peasant costume.
While the cabbie made the forty-block detour around Central Park from West to East, I placed an unpleasant but necessary call to the current Mrs. Allegro, Breanne Summour.
I was hoping to leave a brief message with Bree’s assistant or housemaid, but both were apparently out for the evening. The disdainer-in-chief of Trend magazine answered on the first ring—and though her staff was off duty, her caller ID was working just fine.
“Well, Clare, I’m home from a frantic Saturday meeting and Matt’s not snoring in front of the HDTV or whipping up a high-caloric meal I can’t touch. Presumably you’re calling to tell me what you’ve done with my husband. Or should I wait to read all about it in the New York Post?”
“Hello to you, too, Breanne. And as for Matt’s situation.” I paused. “Well, it’s rather complicated.”
“It’s always complicated when you and that misfit asylum of a coffee shop are involved.”
“There is a bright side,” I promised her. “If you act fast, we might be able to avoid an ugly mention on Page Six.”
I explained the state of affairs, starting with Matt’s “coronation” and ending with his arrest “on suspicion.” Breanne was surprisingly unsurprised. She took down the name of the arresting officer and his precinct, and agreed to deploy her “legal team” ASAP.
“Okay, we’re done,” she said at last. “Buh-bye!” I could almost feel the cocktail party air kiss.
Though I was relieved that particular call was over, Breanne did give me an idea.
When she mentioned her “legal team,” it occurred to me that if I played my cards right, I could have a legal team, too—or at least a legal water boy. More like water bird, I thought, remembering the loon on Harrison Van Loon’s business card.
I fished around in my peasant blouse until I found the attorney’s number. Though physically exhausted and emotionally frazzled, I summoned my best customer service voice for this performance.
“Mr. Van Loon? It’s Clare Cosi. We met earlier this evening, in Central Park.”
“Yes, I remember. You’re the peasant girl.”
“Coffeehouse manager, actually, and master roaster, but I’m calling now in my capacity as one of your official vendors.”
“Go on.”
“A situation has emerged that might expose the festival to legal risk.”
That grabbed Mr. Van Loon’s attention. “What sort of situation?”
Now to pour it on. “Actually, it’s two situations, Mr. Van Loon, and they are both quite serious.”
I told him about finding Anya’s unconscious body in the park, and the subsequent police investigation. Van Loon seemed more relieved than surprised, and I found out why.
“A tragedy,” he said, “although your news does solve one problem.”
“Really?”
“When that young woman disappeared on us, Samantha and I feared she’d pilfered the gown, or peddled it to fashion pirates, which could have put the festival at great risk. Securing the property should forestall any legal action on the House of Fen’s part.”
“Oh, is that so?” I shook my head in disgust. “Well . . . thank goodness for that,” I said, though Mr. Van Loon failed to catch my sarcasm. “There is another problem, however.”
Van Loon expressed appropriate concern about Prince Allegro’s arrest—after I pointed out that Matt was technically an employee of the
festival, and his arrest would reflect badly on it.
I also mentioned that if Matt was falsely incarcerated (which he was), then he was within his rights to sue for damage to his good name.
“Such a suit could be forestalled,” I pointed out, using Van Loon’s own jargon, “if someone from the city’s Fairy Tale Fall committee took action before news of the incident reached the media.”
Harrison Van Loon hastily agreed with my summation.
“Rest assured that police harassment of any festival employee seriously concerns me, Ms. Cosi, and I shall deal with this matter personally, starting with a phone call to the mayor’s office.”
Yes! I silently cheered. Take that, Mr. DNA!
I ended the call with a feeling of accomplishment, and relaxed back into the cab seat for the first time. Penny was curled beside me, and I was ready to enjoy the city scenery going by and the prospect of happy reunions ahead.
Molly and Jeremy would be overjoyed to see Penny. And my own heart felt lighter knowing I’d be reunited with Mike. Then I remembered Anya, and the thought of that beautiful young woman, lying close to death, sank my spirits, which failed to lift at the thought of seeing Mike’s ex-wife.
The woman wanted to murder me with her bare hands.
The feeling was mutual.
In public, Leila and I could pretend all we wanted, but there was no getting around the ugly truth. Under our barely polite talk, we both knew the score: a cold war was raging between us.
And speaking of Cold Wars . . .
The spy job I gave Tucker came to mind, and I sent him a fast text message, asking for the skinny on Mike’s wife. Maybe he could shed light on her shady behavior. With hope, I stared at the screen.
No reply.
Right about then, the cab rolled to the curb and I realized I was on Park Avenue, in front of Leila’s apartment building.
“No traffic,” the cabbie said, beaming.
My grin was more of a grimace. “Lucky me.”
