by Cleo Coyle
“Then I’ll feel her out first. Maybe she’ll agree to speak with Franco.”
As Mike nodded his approval, his attention strayed—first to my empty cookie jar, then to my nearly empty fridge.
“What are you looking for?”
“Snacks. Your cats are having them. We can, too.”
“Mike, you ate four hot dogs three hours ago.”
“Ah, yes, but no dessert.”
“And your ex-wife called me the pastry pusher.”
“Push away, sweetheart. Dealing with scumbags always makes me hungry. Case in point—those amazing meltaway cookies you baked for me last week, the ones with chopped hazelnuts around the edges? Got any of those around?”
“I’m sorry, but Mother Hubbard’s cupboard is bare. I was supposed to spend the weekend with you, and Esther was going to look after these two.”
In reply, Java began licking her coffee-bean-colored paw. Frothy plumed her tail, and slipped her long-haired body around Mike’s leg, leaving a white fur trail on his charcoal pants as he tried to detect what was in my freezer.
“Not even any ice cream?” he whined, reaching down to scratch the ears of a purring Frothy.
“Check the fridge again. What’s in there, remind me?”
“A jar of olives, a bottle of champagne, a carton of almond milk, three eggs, and one lemon.”
My culinary gray cells started spinning. “Get out the last three ingredients.”
“Why?”
“We’re going make something that’s even better than ice cream on a chilly night like this.”
“Okay, I’m officially curious. What else do we need?”
“A medium saucepan—” I started to get up, but Mike pushed me back in the chair and dropped Frothy on my lap.
“You sit. I’ll cook.”
With my sore leg, I didn’t argue. Frothy appeared happy with the arrangement and settled in for the show—and some chin rubbing.
“Go on,” Mike prompted. “What else do we need?”
“Cornstarch, vanilla, and a little salt . . .”
Watching this formidable man obey my every directive was surprisingly enjoyable, and I couldn’t help thinking up a few more commands for Detective Lieutenant Mike Quinn. But I’d have to hold off on those, because they had nothing to do with cooking.
* * *
TEN minutes later, Quinn had followed my foolproof steps for stirring up Almond Milk Custard.
“Holy cow, Cosi, this is amazing.”
I watched his eyes roll back in ecstasy and laughed. “I told you it was better than ice cream.”
“It’s official. You’re a kitchen witch.”
“Thanks, but my spells are limited by my ingredients.”
“Maybe, but the proof is in the pudding.”
“Ouch, there’s a hoary saying.”
“Believe it or not, when I was a young rookie, one of my field training officers did his best to pound that little ditty into my skull.”
“Why?”
“Two reasons—one, the guy was obsessed with pudding: chocolate, vanilla, mousse, flan, custard pie, you name it, he sampled it, wherever we stopped for coffee.”
“And reason number two?”
“The proof really is in the pudding. As he used to put it: ‘Evidence and facts are the ingredients we gather to make cases. But we can only serve a DA what we can cook up from it, a proof that a court of law will swallow.’”
While Mike continued to enjoy silky spoonfuls of warm custard, I digested those words.
“Okay, given our situation, how do I prove that Matt didn’t do anything wrong?”
“You can’t prove a negative, not without a solid alibi. Allegro was there, and he was paired with Anya for most of the day. If you want Endicott off Matt’s case, you’re going to have to do better than just claim he’s not guilty. You’ll need to serve him up another suspect—or scenario. Do you have a theory? Can you tell me what happened to Anya in those woods?”
I thought it over. “This Red sounds like a party girl. Maybe she gave Anya the overdose by accident and is freaking out now. Maybe she wants to speak with Matt to find out what the cops know.”
“Maybe, but like I said, Anya wasn’t a drug user. She was a happy mother’s helper. How likely was it that she went into the woods with her friend, during a children’s festival, to get high? And if she overdosed, why would Anya’s friend leave her in the woods? What’s Red’s story? What’s her motive? What kind of drug did she use on Anya? And how did Anya ingest it?”
“I don’t have answers. Not yet.”
“Then get some rest.”
“But—”
“Sweetheart, I’ve learned a few things doing this kind of work. The mind is a black box. Solutions come when you’re not looking for them.”
“I get it. But I don’t feel like going to sleep yet.”
Quinn’s eyes lit up. “Then why don’t you go upstairs, take a nice, hot bath, and I’ll make things . . . cozy for us.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
IN the upstairs bathroom, I stripped down and sank into the tub as prescribed. An ugly bruise formed on my thigh where that Cuckoo nurse had stomped me, but the hot water felt good, and I attempted to “chill-ax” (to borrow a phrase from my baristas) by focusing on the swishing of branches outside my bathroom window.
A minute later, the chill became real.
Though the window was sealed tight, an icy breeze touched my shoulders. At the same time, the water in my bath grew hotter.
How was that possible?
In the blink of an eye, I found out—
My apartment’s walls melted away, and I was outside in some kind of hot tub. Looking around, I realized the “tub” was black iron, shaped like an antique pot, and propped over an open fire.
Paralyzed, I rubbed my eyes, but the vision was still there. Then the heat of the fire increased. “Help!” I cried. “Someone help me!”
Cackling laughter was the only reply.
I drew breath to scream—but didn’t have to. In another eye blink, I was back inside my bathroom. The black cauldron was gone, the water harmlessly tepid. Instead of a scream, I blew out air.
What in heaven’s name just happened?
Sanity dictated one answer—I had dozed off. Yet what I experienced wasn’t a dream. It felt far too real. My heart was beating double time; my brow was damp with sweat.
It must be the coffee . . .
Matt’s crazy African coffee was still affecting me. I stepped out of the tub, splashed cold water on my face. Then I threw on my short terry robe and hurried down the hall to find the master bedroom empty.
Where did Mike go?
His suit jacket was draped over a chair and his holstered gun sat on the dresser. The sight of both eased my mind. While most nights I was fine with my solitude, tonight I really needed Quinn’s comfort.
In the hearth, a fire now crackled. I was glad he’d kindled it. With the lights low, the flames cast an almost magical glow across the room’s antiques—from the stained glass of the Tiffany lamps to the Italian marble of the century-old mantle and the polished mahogany of the four-poster bed.
The radiant light continued up the French mirror and across the high walls, gilding the hundreds of paintings, etchings, and doodles that helped make this landmark home so special to me. Over the years, Madame had cheered these artists on—and up—even sobered them up with her pots of French roast. In return, they’d given her these works.
I may have been an art school dropout, but I was the de facto curator of this precious coffeehouse collection, in sole charge of selecting what to rotate down to the shop or lend to museums—like Basquiat’s Dreadlocks and the Three Bears, a mixed-media collage that I’d proudly delivered to the Museum of Modern Art for the upcoming Brothers Grimm exhibition.
If I were to move to Washington, caring for these treasured pieces was one of the many things I’d miss.
My gaze caught on another of my favorites, a small oil-on-canvas titled Café Corner. The artist had conceived it right downstairs. The subject of the piece was a golden-haired young woman, sitting alone among a sea of empty tables.
Like Edward Hopper’s much more famous Automat, the girl was more than alone. She seemed completely isolated (a common enough irony of city life, being alone in a crowd). And the cup she stared into didn’t exactly runneth over. It was full once, but she’d drained the contents, and now sat contemplating the emptiness.
The city was full of girls like this. They came to New York with golden dreams for fairy tale futures, dreams drained by all the bad choices and wrong turns, by dark intentions rooted here long before they arrived. And though the afternoon sunlight was strong in the painting, it cast equally strong shadows.
I’d never noticed it before but the crossbars of our French doors looked almost like prison bars. It made me reconsider Hopper’s title for the work.
Was the girl in Café Corner doing more than sitting in a corner of a corner café? Perhaps she was feeling cornered, trapped, like all those fairy-tale characters, by a choice she’d made. Or couldn’t make.
Or was I reading too much into it because of my own situation?
Out the window, the storm was getting worse. Raindrops pelted the glass, and the bushy top of a sidewalk tree swayed heavily in the wind, back and forth, back and forth.
For weeks now, I felt like that battered tree, swinging between two wishes: Being here. Being with Mike. In the morning, he would expect an answer. He deserved one. But which choice was right? Which would I regret?
Catching my reflection in the window, I saw the same troubled expression as the girl in the painting. To confirm it, I glanced again at the canvas—and froze.
What in the world?
The painting had changed. The golden-haired girl was replaced by a fortyish woman with shoulder-length hair the color of Italian roast. I stepped closer.
It’s me. I’m the subject of the painting!
I rubbed my eyes and looked again, but my image was still there.
“You know, you look adorable in that robe, Cosi. But it’s got nothing on that peasant dress.”
Mike had returned to the room. I could hear his deep voice, yet it sounded miles away.
“I didn’t want to mention it at the hospital, but I especially liked the sopping wet, button-free version . . .”
What’s happening to me? I felt disoriented, woozy, and unable to tear my gaze away from the canvas.
Should I tell Mike what I’m seeing? And if I do, will he believe me? Or drag me out of this asylum and into a real one?
THIRTY-EIGHT
MIKE crossed the room and pressed a warm cup into my hands. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”
I took a few gulps, hardly tasted it.
“Is something wrong? You look a little confused.”
“I’m fine,” I croaked and gulped down more of the hot liquid.
“The coffee’s good, isn’t it? I made it myself.” He put his lips close to my ear. “Of course I had a great teacher.”
When I failed to reply, he touched my cheek, pressing me to face him.
He’d changed into his old NYPD sweatpants and a worn Rangers tee. His light brown hair was mussed and he looked more human, more huggable. His typically icy gaze was alive now and flickering with the warmth of blue fire. He looked ready for bed, for me.
I watched him sample the coffee he’d made for us. I joined him, slowing down and sipping this time, so I could actually taste what was in my cup.
The notes of flavor were enjoyable—chocolate, plum wine, cloves. Then came that familiar hint of exotic spice, the one I couldn’t identify.
That’s when I panicked.
“Mike, what is this coffee?”
“Why? Is something wrong?”
“Just tell me.”
“I don’t know exactly. I got the beans from a shiny green bag in your cupboard.”
Oh, God. Matt sent that bag up from the roasting room two days ago, but I’d been too busy to sample it!
“I admit I was curious about the M written on there with black marker. Is the M for Mike?”
“Only if you’re Magic Mike.”
“That would require a striptease, wouldn’t it?” An impish smile appeared. “I’m not averse to that, if it’s just you and me—and I get one in return.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“What’s gotten into you?” I asked and knew the answer was right in front of me: the coffee!
“Mike, listen to me, these beans aren’t meant for drinking casually. They’re for ritual fortune telling. My ex-husband sourced them in Africa, and his mother used them at the festival today. The beans are supposed to be . . .”
“Be what?”
I felt silly saying it, but—“I wasn’t kidding about the M.”
“You mean I’m drinking magic beans?”
“Yes!”
“You’re serious?”
“All I can tell you is these beans are having a peculiar effect on me. I believe they’re inducing . . . well, visions, for lack of a better word. I better not drink any more. And you shouldn’t, either.”
He took a few more sips. “I don’t taste or feel anything out of the ordinary—except excellent coffee. Look, I think you’re overwrought. You need to take it easy. Why don’t you try some more? You’ll see your imagination is getting the better of you.”
“How do I get through to you? Fine, I’ll show you.” I pointed to the wall. “See anything strange?”
Mike frowned at the work. “What should I be seeing?”
“Me!”
“You’re in it? Really?” Mike stepped closer. “Where? Behind the counter?”
I gawked and looked again. No more Clare Cosi in the corner.
The golden-haired girl was back in her seat, contemplating an empty cup.
“I do think someone should paint you,” Mike said as he set our own cups aside. “But not like this, more like . . .” Behind me now, he curled his arms around my waist, fumbled with my robe’s belt.
“Mike, I swear, I saw myself in this painting—”
“Mmm, yes, like this.” His fingers finished their work and my robe fell open. “It’s time to relax.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. And I’ll help. After all, I’ve been dreaming of these curves all week.”
“You have?”
“Oh, yeah.” I felt his lips on my neck, his hands on my body. “And don’t you want to make a guy’s dream come true?”
“It’s my dream, too,” I whispered.
“Good. We can dream together.”
Then Mike’s mouth found mine and my robe found the floor.
THIRTY-NINE
BEEP-BEEP! Beep-beep!
Car horns?
Stirring from a deep sleep, I rubbed my eyes. Mike’s large body lay beside me, sinking the mattress. I was a happy victim of gravity, tight against his snoring form.
Unsure of the time, I glanced at the bedside clock.
Seven PM? That can’t be right . . .
Lifting Mike’s heavy arm from around my waist, I slipped free of the covers and went to the window. Laughter drifted up from the sidewalk crowd as taxis snarled traffic, dropping off fares at my coffeehouse.
If the clock was right, then we’d slept all day, and this mob was here for Esther’s Poetry Slam—the thought of which made me slam my forehead.
If I don’t get a move on, I’ll miss my chance to question Red!
Letting Mike sleep, I threw on jeans and a sweater. Then I dashed down the service staircase and burst into our shop’s second-floor lounge.
The mass of b
odies was thick, merry, and loud. As I plowed my way through, Esther grabbed a microphone and announced—
“Attention, everyone! She’s here!”
Applause and cheers rang out. A bright light swung and I was blinded. Is that spotlight on me?! Confused, I lifted my arm to shield the glare and saw a broad-shouldered silhouette approach. Matt?
My ex-husband was back to his Prince Charming act—literally. He wore the same costume he had at the festival.
“Allow me to escort you,” he said, offering his arm.
As we walked forward, I saw our queen. Matt’s mother wore a flowing gown of royal purple and a golden crown on her silver head. When I stepped up on the stage, she opened her arms—
“Welcome, my dear princess!”
“But I’m not a princess,” I said. “And I certainly don’t look like one.”
Madame waved her diamond wand and my jeans and sweater transformed into a pink gossamer gown, its filmy fabric sparkling in the spotlight.
“You see? You are a princess,” Madame insisted. “But you cannot have two kingdoms. You must choose one.”
“No, I can’t choose. Please don’t make me!”
“You must choose by morning, dear, or the choice will be made for you.”
“We came here to dance!” cried a young woman from the crowd.
“Yes, we want to dance!” another shouted.
“Dance, dance, dance!” more girls chanted.
“And so you shall!” Madame replied. “Ladies, come up to the stage!”
Out of the crowd, twelve young women stepped forward, wearing a rainbow of sparkly gowns. They formed a circle around me and began to dance, sing, and float—because each had a pair of translucent fairy wings.
Then thunder cracked and a lightning bolt shot through the room. When the flash was over, a dark silhouette stood in the middle of the gasping crowd. The figure wore a long black robe with a large hood.
I peered into the raised hood and saw a pitch-black void where a face should have been. Everyone in the room quaked—except our queen. She was furious. Madame rose from her throne and pointed a finger.
