by Cleo Coyle
“Elaine’s South” was how Tom Wolfe once referred to the eatery—ironically, since it was hardly more than twenty blocks down from the famous literary watering hole. After Elaine Kaufman’s death, however, her titular restaurant closed its doors while Babka’s remained standing.
The restaurant’s footprint was expansive, taking half the city block with sidewalk seating and an attached bakery. While the dining room served a menu of upscale comfort food, the bakery specialized in babkas of all kinds: Russian, Ukrainian, Polish, Hungarian, Lithuanian.
There were traditional chocolate babkas (the favorite), as well as cinnamon (not bad, either), and inventive new flavors like Nutella and Key Lime Crunch. They even featured seasonal babkas like Vermont Maple in early spring; Glazed Maine Blueberry for summer; and a fall bounty of Pumpkin-Spice; Harvest Apple; and Sugared Cranberry.
Famous movie scenes had been filmed inside Babka’s, authors had celebrated it, and now tourists flocked to it. On weekends, there were lines around the block.
“We’re in luck,” I said.
“Why?”
“My boss is an old friend of the restaurant’s owner, which means she might let me have a look at the reservation list.”
“You wish to find out who Red was to meet here.”
“You got it.”
Eldar studied the restaurant. “You know babka is not only pastry. Is also word for grandmother.”
“I know.”
“Is owner Barbara like grandmother, too? Nice little old woman?”
How to answer? “She’s a businesswoman.”
Eldar glanced at me. “You are businesswoman, no?”
“True. But I’m not in her league.”
“Sorry?”
“Let me put it to you this way: You don’t build a babka empire by being a ‘nice’ little anything. Listen, will you stay here and wait for me?”
“Sure,” Eldar said with a shrug. “For once, I parked legal.”
“Thanks. I’ll be right back.”
I popped the door, dodged traffic, and hurried into the restaurant.
Avoiding the hostess, I quickly scanned tables for anyone dining alone. But couples and groups were all I saw. Then I noticed one empty chair at a primo table by the window.
A large group of diners sat around the table, all of them members of the Fairy Tale Fall Committee. I recognized the Committee’s bearded lawyer, Harrison Van Loon. And at the table’s center (and center of attention) was the legendary Barbara “Babka” Baum. The elderly restaurateur appeared to be commanding the conversation the same way she ruled her restaurant—with a forceful attitude and a very loud voice.
To Babka’s right was Madame, my employer. To her left sat Samantha Peel. Our festival’s commanding general was dressed much softer today in a V-neck cashmere sweater and pencil thin skirt as black as her lustrous hair. No tight ponytail today. Samantha’s long locks were down, ends curled with care.
I yanked the phone from my purse to quietly contact Madame, but stopped when I saw Sam rising, her high-heeled fashion boots heading for the restroom. I quietly followed her into the paneled hallway.
“Excuse me, Sam?”
“Clare! How are you? Are you here to join us?”
“Sorry, no. I came to keep an appointment for someone else, only I don’t know who I’m supposed to meet.”
Sam’s dark eyebrow rose with gossipy interest. “A blind date?”
“No.” I pointed back toward the dining room. “Your group wasn’t expecting a no-show, were they? Maybe one of the festival’s Princesses?”
“Heavens no. This is a meeting about the next FTF event, the Brothers Grimm MOMA exhibit.”
“Then I better explain why I’m here—”
I pulled Sam into the women’s room and whispered the news about finding Red’s body. Sam’s complexion went whiter than her creamy cashmere sweater.
“Oh, my god, Clare. Are you sure she’s—”
“Yes, she’s gone. The police are at her place now.”
“I think we should tell Harrison, don’t you?” Sam started for the door.
“Wait.” I pulled her back. “Mr. Van Loon can’t help us. But Babka can. Red had a date to meet someone here.”
“You want to see the reservation list.”
I nodded.
“Come on—” This time Sam was pulling me. She quickly found the restaurant’s hostess and crisply pointed to the FTF committee table. “Barbara asked us to check on a reservation in the system. You’ll help us, won’t you?”
The hostess immediately hopped to it, taking us to the reservation desk and punching in the exact time we asked for. As she stepped back from the screen, we both reviewed the list—and gasped.
“Matt Allegro?” I whispered in shock. “I don’t believe it!”
“Neither do I,” Sam replied. “The Committee’s meeting is into its third hour. My chair gave me a view of the restaurant’s entrance. I never saw Matt come in.” She pointed at the screen. “And look, Allegro is listed as a no-show.”
“That only makes him look more guilty,” I whispered. “The police might think Matt didn’t show because he knew Red was already dead!”
Sam looked as horrified as I felt. “Something’s wrong here.”
I nodded. “I think Matt is being set up.”
“I think you’re right.”
“You do?”
Sam glanced back to the Committee’s table. Who was she looking at? Babka? Van Loon?
“What’s wrong?” I whispered. “Sam, talk to me.”
“Not here. I better get back—”
Before she could bolt, I caught her arm. “I want to know what you know. Please.”
She nervously met my gaze. “I’ll call you tonight, okay? We’ll talk on the phone. But right now, I have to get back to that table, and you should get out of here.”
* * *
OUTSIDE again, I climbed back into Eldar’s car.
“Did you get a name?”
“Dead end,” I said, regretting my words when Eldar winced. “But I may have a new lead. Someone is going to call me with—”
Just then, my phone vibrated, I thought it might be Sam, or even Esther’s sister. But I was wrong on both counts. On the other end of the line was the last person I expected—Mike Quinn’s son.
“Aunt Clare, I need you to meet me,” the little boy’s voice commanded. “It’s important.”
I tensed. “Jeremy, what is going on? Is anything wrong?”
“Yes, there’s lots wrong. But I can’t tell you about it on the phone.”
“Where are you?”
“Central Park.”
“Who’s with you?”
“Penny.”
At the sound of her name, the little collie barked.
“Who else is with you, Jeremy?”
“Nobody.”
“Young man, you know you’re not allowed in the park without an adult!”
“Tag, Aunt Clare. You’re it.”
FIFTY-NINE
“OKAY, Jeremy, I’m here. Now tell me why you are.”
Afternoon sunlight streamed through overhead branches, and ducks splashed around the craggy stone base of the Oak Bridge. The pretty park scene was a picture of serenity. Not so Jeremy. I found Mike’s son pacing in the middle of the span, phone in one hand, Penny’s leash in the other.
When he spotted me, Jeremy’s chin stuck out and his brilliant blue eyes flashed with defiance, as if he knew his actions were correct even if no one else could see it. In other words, he was behaving exactly like his father.
“I need you to show me where you found Anya.”
Now I was in a pickle.
I knew Mike would not want his son involved in a criminal case, but the boy was obviously determined, and he was a tad big for me
to throw into a stroller and wheel down Park Avenue.
“I might be able to help you, Jeremy. But you have to tell me why you want to see this place.”
“I just have to.”
“That’s not good enough.”
He shook his head. “Aunt Clare, you’re not going to understand.”
“Try me.”
“I’ve been lying awake in bed, going over and over it. I was here in the Ramble on the night Anya overdosed. Penny found her. If I’d just kept looking, I would have found her, too—”
“There was nothing you could have done,” I assured him. “When I got to Anya, she was already unconscious—”
“But if I had found her, she might have gotten help in time. I looked it up on the Internet. Doctors can save a person with an overdose, but only if they get immediate treatment.”
How could I explain to the boy that Anya didn’t overdose, that she was drugged? That the substance used was as mysterious as the identity of the person who administered it? Or that Anya’s friend was now dead, probably poisoned by the same stuff?
The simple answer was I couldn’t. These facts were even more disturbing than the ones keeping him up at night.
On the other hand, if I could prove to Jeremy that there was absolutely nothing he could have done to help Anya, maybe I could relieve some of his anguish.
“All right, Jeremy, I’ll take you there—”
“Great!”
“If I can find the spot again.”
“We can do it, Aunt Clare. I’m sure we’ll find it.”
I led Jeremy through the Ramble Arch and up the hill, retracing my twisted path from two nights ago. It wasn’t easy, and I wished Officer Daleki were here with his trusty horse, O’Brian. Daleki had rattled off the precise GPS location when he reported in.
“By the way,” I said as we walked, “how did you get out of the apartment without your mother knowing?”
“Mom’s not home. She went shopping to buy a new dress, and then she has an appointment at the salon. She said an invitation came for her, and she’s going to meet someone important tonight. She seemed really happy about it.”
An invitation? I flashed on the card that came with her golden key. Invitations to come. “Is Leila going alone, do you know?”
“If you mean without my stepfather, yes. He hasn’t been home in nearly two weeks.”
I checked my watch. “Where’s Molly?”
“Ballet lessons. A babysitter’s going to watch us tonight—even though I keep telling Mom I’m old enough to watch Molly.”
“She’s probably still rattled by you two getting lost the other day, and I don’t blame her. It shook me up, too . . .”
We were halfway up the hill when I paused beside a boulder. Penny happily left her mark on yet another tree trunk while I scanned the area.
“This place looks familiar . . .”
Despite the fallen leaves, the colorful fall foliage was still fairly thick. I searched for some clue, and then I saw it. A fresh cobweb had been woven between two low-hanging branches, its delicate threads beautifully illuminated by a beam of sunlight.
“Over there—” I pointed. “I remember running through a spiderweb and getting the strands all over my face.”
“Yuck,” Jeremy murmured.
“Let’s duck under it this time, so the spider won’t have to build it again.”
“And we don’t have to get it all over our faces,” Jeremy added sensibly.
We wandered around until I found the wall of shrubbery that had separated me from the lost Penny. I pushed aside the brush.
“This is it . . .”
No police tape had been left behind, but I could see where the undergrowth had been trampled by EMS and the Crime Scene Unit. Penny recognized the spot, too. As she began to bark and strain at her leash, I faced Jeremy.
“Now I want you to look around and realize how impossible it is to find this spot from the path. Anya was on the ground, practically invisible. I only found her because Penny knocked me down and I could see through the shrubs.”
Jeremy frowned with disappointment. He thought he would make a discovery here or remember something that could help Anya’s case. But there was nothing.
I touched his shoulder. “I know you want to help, but—”
Suddenly Penny yanked the leash so hard it threw Jeremy off balance. The dog dragged him to the base of an old elm and began digging frantically with her front paws.
For some reason, the sight of this suddenly rocked me off balance.
Tunnel vision overtook me and I felt eerily detached, as if I were experiencing déjà vu. Then I recalled where I’d last seen Penny digging. My crazy dream! I had been locked in a dungeon and she helped free me—
“Bad dog,” Jeremy said.
“No, let Penny dig!” I cried. “Don’t pull her back.”
The little collie continued digging. When her frantic paws stopped, she stuck her brown muzzle into the hole, lifted her head, and deposited a shiny object at Jeremy’s feet.
I stared, stunned at the sight of Anya’s golden key.
“Penny must have buried it that night,” Jeremy said excitedly. “She buries things all the time. Last month she tried to bury Molly’s sunglasses in Riverside Park!”
I hesitated then plucked the key off the ground. Between the mud and doggie spit, I doubted there was significant evidence left to corrupt.
Wiping the dirt away, I found the key in good shape.
Meanwhile, Jeremy was beaming with pride. “Did I help, Aunt Clare? Did I?”
“You helped, Jeremy. More than I can explain . . .”
With Anya’s key in my hand, I could appease the Magic Mirror and open that mysterious door to the Prince Charming Club. It was a risky plan, but it could yield some real answers.
“Is there anything else I can do?” he asked.
“One small favor. Go to Molly’s room and find Anya’s chain, the one she lost in the park.”
“You want to put her key back on the chain?”
“That’s right. Can you do that for me—and for Anya?”
“That’s easy. No sweat!” he said.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t say the same. Given my plans for this key and its special chain, I was sweating already.
SIXTY
IN the dim light of the parked Town Car—borrowed from one of Franco’s informants—I put on the first earring and examined the short, thin wires and tiny earbud attached to the back of the other.
“Did you get these from the police equipment locker?”
“Naw,” Franco said, “that means paperwork. I bought this stuff at the Spy Shop in Queens. Nice and discreet, no questions asked.”
We were a few blocks from the Prince Charming Club, making final preparations for my attempt to enter with Anya’s key.
“They look kind of cheap,” I pointed out, “and they don’t go very well with the dress.”
“Style should be the least of your concerns tonight, Coffee Lady. If you get caught in that private club wearing this transmitter, they won’t care whether the gold is real. But they will care about your snooping—and who knows what they’ll do to you.”
“I’m going in, okay? You can’t scare me, so stop trying.”
“Right. Then let’s get you ready . . .”
Leaning across the front seat, Franco held the second earring next to my lobe while I slipped the listening bud firmly into my ear canal. Then I slipped on the earring with the transmitter and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror.
The cheap earrings looked fine—after I unclipped my hair to partially cover them. At least the electric blue Fen gown was top quality, a gift from Madame for a charity event at Otto Visser’s gallery. The neckline was perfect, daring enough for me to pass for one of the women who frequented the club, but
not so risqué that I’d draw too much male attention. The gown itself was exquisitely forgiving, hugging my curves attractively.
Matt had taken care of the shop all day—thank goodness—which gave me the time to get ready. Like Leila, I’d gone to a salon for highlights and a mani-pedi, and bought a sturdy pair of Spanx. (Okay, so she didn’t need the Spanx.)
What I was about to do was risky, but Franco’s update a few hours ago had made up my mind.
Red’s death hadn’t dissuaded Endicott and his partner from focusing on Matt as their favorite suspect. In fact, the data they retrieved from Red’s smartphone provided a gold mine of circumstantial evidence, and they were determined to use it.
“I tried to talk them out of their theory,” Franco had explained, “but the evidence, I’m sorry to say, is pretty damning . . .”
There were text messages about Red’s plan to meet Matt the night before she died. And the cops canvassing her neighborhood found witnesses who stated Matt was aggressively asking for Red at several Astoria nightclubs.
In other words, my ex-husband’s earnest desire to make sure our distraught barista was safe would be used against him in the worst possible way. As early as tomorrow, he could be charged with murder.
The least I could do was a little undercover work tonight.
With luck, I’d find a lead on the real killer, hand the evidence over to Franco, and bury Endicott’s plan to destroy Matt, break my daughter’s heart, and devastate my beloved employer.
I was about to test my earring transmitter when my smartphone vibrated. I checked the caller ID.
“It’s Esther’s sister. I better take this . . .”
Hattie Best-Margolis spoke as fast and loud as her little sister: “Clare, I’m sorry I didn’t call you back earlier, but Esther is beside herself—”
“Then she’s in Westchester? With you?”
“Yes, but she wouldn’t let me call you back! She doesn’t want Boris to know where she is. She told me all about what happened with that awful public marriage proposal—”
“It wasn’t awful. Boris took great pains to make it special. He simply didn’t realize what was going on in Esther’s head. But listen, Hattie, I really do need to speak with Esther—”
