Brewed Awakening

by Cleo Coyle

  “I don’t know. But what we think doesn’t matter. As her physician, he’s in charge of Clare’s treatment—”

  “Not if Clare requests a second opinion from another doctor.”

  “She’s unlikely to, as long as he keeps her isolated from our influence. And if he deems Clare a danger to herself, then he’s prepared to make a case for legal commitment.”

  “Why in the world did you get that man involved?”

  Quinn blinked. “I didn’t. Lorca came to me. He said he heard about Clare’s case through a colleague at the hospital.”

  “I see. Well, I stand corrected,” Blanche said. Then she paused and fixed a firm gaze on Quinn. “So what are we going to do now?”

  “Pull every string we can. I’ve put in a call to the DA’s office, another to the chief of detectives. Maybe, if we’re lucky, the NYPD brass can use the witness angle to keep Clare in the city, even if she remains hospitalized.”

  “There they are!”

  “Oh, no,” Blanche whispered, hearing her granddaughter’s voice. Turning, she saw Joy Allegro pushing through the office building’s heavy glass doors.

  Quinn frowned. “How much do we tell her?”

  Joy waved excitedly as she hurried across the lobby. “Dad just texted me about the meeting. Why didn’t you let me know sooner? I would have come!”

  Blanche shot Quinn a warning glance. Let me do the talking.

  Sergeant Manny Franco followed his girlfriend with concern in his eyes. Shaved head gleaming in the afternoon sun, he unzipped his leather jacket, and then stood stoically watching Joy hug her grandmother.

  “How did it go? What did the doctor say?” Joy’s voice was heartbreakingly hopeful. “Is Mom coming home today?”

  “Not just yet, dear. The doctor doesn’t think she’s quite ready.”

  “When can I see her again?”

  “Not now. But soon.”

  When young Franco exchanged glances with Detective Quinn, Blanche knew the boy had a hunch they weren’t telling Joy the whole truth. Thank goodness the young man trusted his boss’s grim silence and didn’t ask questions.

  As Joy’s lips quivered and her eyes pooled with fearful tears, Blanche pulled her close. “No need to cry. The doctor told me that your mother is in perfect health and that everyone is very optimistic that she will be herself again.”

  “I want to see her!”

  “We all do, but for now all we can do is be patient.”

  Joy swiped her wet cheeks with the sleeve of her jacket. “I feel so helpless. Isn’t there anything I can do?”

  “You can live your life,” Blanche firmly advised. “Your mother is no longer missing. She’s returned, and she’s physically fine. We can all be thankful for that. In the meantime, you must go back to Washington—”

  “No!”

  “Yes. You have work to do. The Village Blend, DC, needs its manager. That’s what your mother would tell you if she were here. That’s what our Clare would want.”

  Blanche faced Franco. “My boy, why don’t you drive Joy down to Washington? I don’t want her to fly back all alone. Leave tonight—make it a pleasant road trip. Try to enjoy your time together. Maybe stay the weekend, too.”

  Franco glanced at Quinn, who nodded.

  “Do as the lady says. The OD Squad owes you plenty of downtime. Get Joy settled and come back when you’re ready.”

  “I’ll call with updates,” Blanche assured Joy in a farewell hug. “You’ll see your mother soon. I guarantee it.”

  But even as she made the promise, Blanche wasn’t sure how she could possibly keep it. Detective Quinn wasn’t a fount of optimism, either. As Blanche watched Franco and Joy cross Broadway and head toward Central Park, Quinn checked his phone and cursed.

  “The chief of detective’s office should have called me back by now.” Quinn tucked the phone into his lapel pocket. “I’m going to One Police Plaza to force a face-to-face with him.”

  Blanche squeezed his arm. “Good luck, Michael.”

  To her surprise, Quinn managed a weak smile. “It’s not over yet. I’ll stop by the coffeehouse soon with an update. I promise.”

  SEVEN

  DETECTIVE Quinn kept his promise, though it took him until almost nine that evening.

  Blanche spied his broad-shouldered form through the Village Blend’s rain-streaked windows. Face twisted into a scowl, Quinn strode across Hudson looking as cold, wet, and battered as a piece of storm-tossed driftwood.

  Blanche met the poor man at the door, helped him off with his trench coat, and hustled him into a warm chair near the brick hearth.

  Esther was there in minutes with a steeping pot of a beautiful single-origin coffee from El Salvador with notes of brown sugar, ripe strawberry, and raisins. Matt had sourced it from a fourth-generation family-owned finca called La Providencia (providence). Clare had roasted it right before she disappeared; and since Blanche considered her return an act of providence, she prayed for just a little bit more as she gently pressed the pot’s plunger and poured two generous cups. Quinn downed half of his before he declared—

  “There’s not a damn thing I can do.”

  “But you’ve been out of touch for hours.”

  “Believe me, I tried. I forced that face-to-face with the chief of detectives. He sent two female detectives to interview Clare. The questioning was done in front of Lorca, who refused to allow me in the room. The official line is that Clare remembers nothing about the night Annette Brewster was abducted, and Lorca is signing off on her memory impairment, which makes her useless as a witness.”

  Quinn shook his head. “I tried to circumvent the chief, insist we challenge Lorca’s assessment and influence on Clare. The commissioner refused to consider it. After pointing out my obvious conflict of interest, he threw me out of his office. Then I went to the district attorney’s office and got stonewalled. An assistant DA who works closely with my OD Squad tried to help. He confided the backroom reality. Lorca’s been a valuable party fund-raiser through his celebrity connections, and there’s no way the DA, the mayor, or his appointed police commissioner will cross the man. So that’s it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “From my end of the puppet show, it’s over. I’m out of strings to pull. In order to challenge Lorca, I’ll have to hire an outside legal firm and take it through the courts.”

  “Won’t that take forever? Weeks or even months? Meanwhile, Clare will be upstate, alienated from all of us, a drugged ‘subject’ of Lorca’s next bestseller.”

  Quinn’s body sagged. “Maybe it’s been too long a day, but I can’t help wondering . . .”

  “What? Tell me.”

  He stared into his empty cup. “What if this ‘treatment’ is what’s best for Clare? What if it’s what she really wants?”

  “Oh, please!” Blanche waved her hand. “That’s your exhaustion talking.” She picked up the pot and poured him a refill. “I know you, Michael. You won’t give up.”

  “It’s not a matter of giving up. We have to face reality.” Quinn glanced away, his bloodshot eyes reflecting the rain-streaked windows.

  “When I first saw Clare in that hospital room, and she didn’t remember me, I told myself it would be okay. That even if her memories never came back, I would still have a chance to get her back, make her fall in love with me again. I mean, she’s still Clare, right?”

  He sampled his second cup. “I know that’s not what you want to hear. You’re probably hoping Clare will get back together with your son—”

  “That’s not true,” Blanche assured him, but he looked so skeptical, she had to admit—

  “All right, perhaps it was true once, but not anymore.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “Because I was the cause of Clare’s marital misery.”

  “That’s ridiculous—�
�

  “No, it’s true.”

  Never in her life had Blanche thought she’d reveal this secret to another soul, least of all Michael Quinn. But these were extraordinary circumstances, and he not only deserved to know; he needed to.

  “When I first met Clare, she was nineteen and pregnant with my son’s child. She was also on her own. Her mother had abandoned her years before. Her grandmother, who raised her, had just passed away. My son wasn’t much older than Clare, and far less mature, yet I insisted he propose marriage.”

  “You mean it wasn’t his idea?”

  “Matteo said he didn’t want to be saddled with a wife and child, but I told him to marry Clare anyway. I suggested that if he truly needed time to sow more wild oats before settling down to a faithful union, then he should do so on his travels. ‘If you must have flings, have them while you’re out of the country, sourcing coffee,’ I said. ‘But marry Clare now, support your daughter, and you will always have a solid home to come back to. You may not appreciate that as a young man, but I promise you will one day.’ I told him, as long as he never let Clare know about his ‘global affairs,’ I would look the other way.”

  Blanche reluctantly lifted her gaze. Quinn’s expression remained unreadable.

  “I convinced him for Clare,” she said, “and for my granddaughter. I wanted the chance to take care of her and baby Joy. After the wedding, I happily taught Clare my business. Matt had no interest in staying put to run the Village Blend. This coffeehouse has become a landmark in the community, a legacy, a part of Village history. Too many New York businesses have gone the way of the dodo. I didn’t want to see that happen to my beloved coffeehouse. I needed to pass it on to someone who would want—as much as I did—to keep the lights on, the fire burning, and the coffee brewing. Clare became that someone. So, I suppose, the unvarnished truth is that I pushed my son into marriage for my own sake, as much as Clare’s and Joy’s.”

  Quinn could no longer hide his disapproval. “You gave your son permission to cheat?”

  “When you say it like that, it sounds shameful. And I suppose it was, if you look at my decision from a cool, judgmental distance. But you must understand, all those years ago, I was beside myself with worry. The situation felt dire, and it was the best solution I could muster for us all.”

  She paused to meet Quinn’s gaze. “You know, Clare was as stubborn and headstrong then as she is now. She was determined to have her baby. If Matt didn’t marry her, she was going back to Pennsylvania, and I couldn’t bear to see her leave like that, pregnant and alone. Honestly, I held out hope that my son would grow into his roles as father and husband, that he would mature over time and eventually want to be faithful to Clare.”

  Blanche sighed. “Unfortunately, my son’s nature is what it is. He’s not content to stay in one place—or share himself with only one woman. Clare, on the other hand, will always want an anchored home and a faithful partner.”

  To Quinn’s obvious surprise, Blanche took his hand in both of hers.

  “Michael, you are that partner for Clare. Your steadiness gives her strength. And her goodness lifts your spirit. I’ve seen the understanding, admiration—and passion—in the silent glances between you. It reminds me of the love I once felt for Matt’s late father. I’ve never come across two people more right for each other.”

  Quinn swallowed hard. “I can’t bear the thought of losing her. But it seems so hopeless.”

  Blanche patted his hand and released it. “Go home and get some rest. It’s my turn to take over.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  She threw him a wink. “This old woman may not live in a shoe, but she knows how to pull strings, too.”

  EIGHT

  CLARE

  I pulled the gray hair, separating it from my dark strands, and yanked it out. Then I stared at the reflection in the hospital’s bathroom mirror, searching for more traces of the years I’d lost.

  It was a waste of time.

  I was still Clare Cosi, as far as I could see, though at the moment I couldn’t see all that much.

  My eyes, normally clear and bagless, were so red and puffy from crying, I couldn’t tell if there were any new wrinkles. And I’d been frowning so long and hard, I could find no laugh lines around my lips—not even the ones I remembered.

  I did discover more than one gray hair and wondered how I got them. Likely from raising a preteen daughter through the rough road of adolescence all by my lonesome—a daughter who, from my damaged perspective, had grown into her adulthood overnight.

  I found it hard to hold that thought, to realize that my “little girl,” Joy, was now a young woman who remembered all the intimate motherly moments I had obviously forgotten. I felt myself wishing I could speak with her now and with Madame, and even—

  No! Not him! Not Matt!

  I shook my head, trying to shake my volatile feelings. I simply could not reconcile years gone by with the raw pain I suffered at learning of his betrayals. Multiple, almost routine betrayals, from the moment he left me behind in New York for all those sourcing trips abroad.

  The humiliation of his cheating felt too new, the cutting wounds of our breakup too fresh. But then—

  What did it matter, anyway? Dr. Lorca insisted my recovery required isolation from anyone associated with the part of my life that remained a blank. Moving to new surroundings would help with my recall—at least, that was what the doctor assured me.

  But that’s not what you really want, whispered a little voice, deep inside.

  “It’s not?” I whispered back.

  Why should you be alienated from your family—the people who love you—at a time when you need them the most?

  “I don’t know. The doctor said I should.”

  Running my hands through my tangled hair, I turned away from the confused madwoman in the mirror.

  It’s not that I didn’t trust Lorca. He was so generous, donating his services, and easy to like, such an attractive and interesting man, so polished and charming. Not like that pair of detectives who spoke to me the other day.

  The one with the shaved head and leather jacket looked downright dangerous. But it was the sandy-haired detective—the tall one in the wrinkled suit with the blue eyes—who made me the most nervous. I could still see his intense gaze staring at me as if I were guilty of some awful thing.

  I shuddered at that memory.

  Those female police officers, the ones who conducted the second interview, were far less intimidating. Ultimately, they accepted my testimony that I didn’t remember visiting the Parkview Palace hotel or ever meeting its owner, Annette Brewster. And I certainly didn’t see any sort of crime take place—not that I could recall.

  Now I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about that crime.

  From their questions, it was clear I had been a witness to Mrs. Brewster’s abduction—or maybe even murder—before I went missing, too.

  “I’d like to know more,” I told the policewomen.

  They appeared willing to speak further, but Dr. Lorca quickly cut the interview short, and my questions remained unanswered, even by my own mind, which was unbelievably frustrating, especially since I did remember the headlines from the other day—

  HOTEL HEIRESS MISSING

  MYSTERY AT PARKVIEW PALACE: ABDUCTION OR MURDER?

  There was no TV in my room, so I couldn’t learn more from the news. There weren’t any clocks in here, either, and I didn’t have a watch.

  Those two female detectives—the friendly blond woman named Lori Soles and her pushier, dark-haired partner, Sue Ellen Bass—were the only outside contact I’d had with anyone since morning. Except the nurses. And Dr. Lorca.

  Which means your isolation has already begun.

  “Ms. Cosi?”

  Hearing my name, I walked out of the bathroom to find my night nurse standing next t
o the bed, a placid smile on her face and a small white cup in her hand.

  “Did you enjoy your dinner?”

  “Not really. What’s with the decaf tea? Can’t a person get a decent cup of coffee around here? How about it? Will the nursing staff fix me up?”

  “Sorry, Ms. Cosi. No stimulants are permitted.”

  “No coffee? Really? Not even a drop?”

  “Once you’re moved upstate, you can discuss your menu with Dr. Lorca.”

  “When will that be exactly?”

  “Soon. Here you go . . .”

  The nurse held out that small paper cup. Inside were two pills.

  “What are those?”

  “Something to help you sleep.”

  “No, thanks.”

  I climbed into bed and pulled the sheet over my legs.

  She pressed the cup toward me again. “Dr. Lorca prescribed these. You’ll have to take them—like you did last night.”

  “I’m not a fan of sleeping pills. I’ll be fine without them.”

  The nurse lowered her voice. “Ms. Cosi, you can either swallow the prescribed medicine, or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  “I’ll have to inject it.”

  “Over my objection?”

  “Come now, Ms. Cosi, you’ve already agreed to the treatment. Now you’ll have to trust the doctor’s orders. Don’t be difficult—”

  With a slight turn of her head, she made eye contact with a shadow in the doorway. I hadn’t noticed that shadow before. It belonged to a burly nursing assistant. As he stepped forward, I saw his beefy hands were carrying a small metal tray, and sitting on top, like a sundae’s glistening cherry, was a hypodermic syringe, the sealed bottle of drugs next to it, all ready to go.

  I blinked at the nurse. “Did I miss something?”

  “What do you mean?”