A Brew to a Kill (35 page)

“Because she probably is,” Dante replied.

“Is there an e-mail publicly linked to that account?” I asked.

“There should be…”

Dante found it, and I told him to try my little
gotcha
trick. We plugged the e-mail into Google to search for other references to that address. We got a hit on a cartoon site that featured a glittery pink kitten.

The pink cat was the clue I needed. And when we found a small photo attached to a fan profile, we hit pay dirt. KittyKatKlubette was none other than Mrs. Li’s pretty young granddaughter, the teen in the Chinatown bakery who’d been so smitten with Dante.

“Kaylie or Billy must have put her up to it,” Dante said, “or they’re using her account.”

“Either way, that connection to Kaylie is enough for me.”

“So what do we do?”

“Nothing yet,” I said. “But we’re going to stop Kaylie. I promise you…” I already had the ammo, and I was more than ready to pull the trigger. I just needed the right opportunity.

Tuck tapped my shoulder. “Our boy’s on the job,” he declared. “And you’ll be pleased to know Franco is exceptionally talented at balancing a full tray of dirty latte cups on his shoulder.”

We watched Franco clear one table and move to the next. He worked with efficiency, but when it came time to flirting, the boy came off a little
too
friendly.

Coming upon a young woman intensely reading, he brashly interrupted her to convey a joke. It didn’t exactly work like a charm. She nodded nervously then packed up her things and fled.

Dante saw the problem immediately. “Franco’s flirting like
a boroughs guy. Manhattan women require a different touch. Don’t worry, boss. I’ll set him straight.”

“Hey, boss!” Nancy dangled our store phone in her hand. “Detective Buckman wants to speak to you. He said something about Sunday dinner…”

I took the call in my upstairs office.

“I was just about to call you,” I said. “What’s this about dinner?”

“Time for another meal of crow,” he replied, deep voice rumbling like his GTO engine.

Great.
“You’re talking about Billy Li’s fingerprints, right?”

“Yeah, Cosi. Sorry to break the bad news, but the prints you sent over don’t match any of the prints we found in the van. And don’t bother trying for Kaylie’s, or anyone else on her crew, because my guys checked them out and none of them were involved in Lilly’s assault.”

“And you know this how?”

“Two Sunday mornings ago, Kaylie, her truck, and her entire crew boarded the ferry to Governors Island where they spent the day selling cupcakes to the spectators at the Five Boroughs Little League Soccer Playoffs.”

“I don’t understand. Why is Kaylie free and clear because of somewhere she was two weeks ago?”

“The van that struck Lilly was involved in another hit-and-run after Kaylie and her staff boarded that ferry to Governors Island. Her boyfriend, Jeffrey Li, along with his truck and staff, were on the same ferry. Now it’s possible a stolen van used in one hit-and-run was abandoned by the perp and later stolen by a second perp for a subsequent attack, but we very much doubt it.”

I did, too, and the news could not have been worse.

From the start I’d been convinced that Kaylie or her coworker Billy Li was responsible for Lilly’s injuries. Now that Buckman proved me wrong, I had no clues, no motive, no suspects—and about a million questions, none of which this motor head detective was willing to answer.

“I’ll talk to you again soon. Take care.”

*    *    *

A
FTER
ending the call, I descended the stairs now happy that John Fairway and Warrior Barbie were in my coffeehouse.

This is good timing
, I thought.
I can press them about what they know on this other hit-and-run.

But when I reached the main floor, their table was empty. Fairway and Barbie were gone.

With an exhale of frustration, I returned to work behind the counter, where Dante, Tuck, and Nancy were now gathered in a knot.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Tuck grinned. “Our little boy is all
growed
up.”

A burst of feminine laughter floated through the air. Tucker pointed, and I searched the crowded floor to find Franco chatting up those single ladies who’d admired him earlier. My undercover barista appeared relaxed, natural, friendly, and personable—in short, a perfect example of the boyfriend experience.

“Amazing…” I turned to Dante. “How did you do it?”

He shrugged. “I told him flirting with women was no different than pouring them coffee. Too hot, you’ll burn them. Too cold, they’ll dump you. But serve it up with
just
the right balance of warmth and stimulation and, brother, they’ll be back for more.”

I patted Dante’s shoulder, happy he’d steered Franco in the right direction. At the same time, I couldn’t help wondering about Max Buckman’s.

What lead is he following? What does he know?

I had some educated guesses about the identity of that other hit-and-run victim, but I’d have to wait for the detective to contact me again before I could be sure.

I sighed, giving it up—for now.

With Franco squared away, Quinn preparing for a drug sting, and Mad Max hot on the trail of our killer driver, it was time I refocused my energies on the coffee business.

A
S
the week progressed, Mike Quinn continually reminded me to keep things looking normal. I did my level best—although it was hard to relax into routine when your next customer might be a Brazilian drug runner.

Still, Monday and Tuesday went without a hitch: no shots fired, no DEA raids, nobody run over. I did, however, face one daunting challenge, and it had nothing to do with the workplace or the crime wave.

My biggest problem was domestic.

Quinn and Matt continued to squabble over just about everything from bathroom time, to second helpings at dinner, to the last slice of my special “Melt-and-Mix” Double-Chocolate Espresso-Glazed Loaf Cake.
(Really, I would have melted and mixed two if I’d known they were going to eat the entire thing in one day.)

Then came Wednesday, and for the first time since our truck-painting party I was out in public—the middle of Flushing Meadows Park to be precise—where criminal smugglers could chat me up at any moment.

As scheduled, I’d come to Queens with our Muffin Muse
to participate in the Dragon Boat Festival, aka Duanwu Jie, a yearly event held in China and in Chinese communities around the world. New York’s was typically held in August, but today’s late spring event was an exhibition for visiting diplomats and was very well attended.

Cheers and drumbeats now echoed across the park’s Meadow Lake, where dragon-prowed rowboats shot across the water. Along the shore, spectators watched from a forest of colorful tents with fluttering banners emblazoned with team logos.

At sunset, Chinese lanterns would be lit for martial arts demonstrations, live music, and Esther’s kids reading Chinese poetry—capped by a fireworks display at nine.

Our Muffin Muse truck now sat in a grassy field next to the lake, alongside a half circle of food trucks featuring a United Nations of taste: Korean barbecue, Mexican tacos, Salvadoran papusas, and Asian shaved ice. I’d already snagged a half dozen of their frozen yogurt bites with exotic flavors like mango, green tea, and lychee.

Unfortunately, Kaylie’s Kupcake Kart was also here, just twenty feet away from us, and the Kween had been glaring at me for the past two hours.

After that snarky tweet on Sunday, even more appeared on Twitter under the hashtag #DragonBoat, and I was convinced Kaylie had another prank up her buttercream-stained sleeves—specifically for this event—which is why I’d enlisted Franco to help me end her sugarcoated reign of terror once and for all.

“Anything suspicious?” I asked.

Franco grunted. “Not yet, but I’m pretty sure Billy Li recognized me from the day I snagged his prints. Perps are like elephants. Chat up their tats and they never forget.”

“Maybe Billy will have second thoughts about trying something, now that he knows we’re watching.”

“I doubt it,” Franco replied. “Not with that blonde in the paper crown giving you the fish-eye. By the way, if she sends over cupcakes, I would advise you not to eat them.”

“Kaylie would love to poison me. In her mind, this is some kind of turf war. But there’s plenty of business to go around. It doesn’t have to be this way.”

Franco shrugged. “Then convince Kaylie. That’s how I did things when I was working anti-gang. We couldn’t lock up all the gangbangers. Sometimes I had to negotiate.”

I smiled, patting him on his big shoulder. “
Now
you’re sounding like a member of the family…” Madame’s family, for sure.

Nancy Kelly’s angry cry interrupted us. “Holy smokin’ rockets! Dante’s talking to
another
girl.”

My youngest barista’s mad crush on Dante was ongoing—though, by now, we’d discouraged her from pursuing a workplace romance. She tossed her head, clearly miffed.

“That’s the fifth girl in an hour to hit on him.”

Dante, who’d been placing muffin- and coffee-cup-shaped balloons around our truck, had been garnering attention, but I didn’t think he was the attraction.

“It’s not Dante this time, Nancy. Those girls were asking him about the hand-painted balloons that Josh Fowler created. I’ve had a dozen people ask me how much they cost. I’m thinking we should sell them.”

“Well, that chick is only
pretending
to look at the balloons,” Nancy insisted. “I can tell. It’s a sneaky excuse to press Dante’s flesh.”

Franco folded his arms. “You know, Nance, there’s more than one sexy bald guy aboard this truck.”

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “Everyone knows you’re taken. You’re so into Joy it’s scary.” Then her scowl melted into a dreamy smile. “But it is
soooo
romantic, though…”

Another batch of customers arrived, many of them directly from the office, and boy did they crave caffeine. They nearly cleaned us out of Blueberry Pie Bars, too. The Asian-American crowd seemed more impressed with Lilly’s Forbidden Chocolate Muffins and Black Bean Brownies.

During a lull, an older man appeared at our window, his wrinkled face animated with good cheer.

“Map lady! Good to see you again!”

“Mr. Hon! I see you’re not driving your cab tonight.”

“And you’re not chasing dragon trucks!” Mr. Hon laughed.

“No truck chasing,” I said. “But I’ll tell you a secret. I am still chasing the boy with the dragon tattoo. See, he’s over there in the cupcake truck, and I’m sure he’s up to no good.”

Mr. Hon frowned, shook his head. “When boy is headed for trouble, he need to be put on right path. Right path important. Like this festival today. Duanwu Jie, all about staying on right path.”

“Do you know anyone competing in the dragon boat races, today?”

“Yes, yes…” Hon nodded. “Two cousins, three nieces, one nephew. We all meet later, watch fireworks and eat
zongzi
.” He smiled.

I didn’t want Mr. Hon to leave empty-handed, so I poured him a free coffee and gifted him one of Lilly’s special Black Bean Brownies. Munching happily, he sauntered off.

“Hey, boss, look who’s here,” Dante called. “Mother of the year—that’s what Josh calls her.”

He gestured to a knot of formally dressed men making their way toward our food-truck area. These were the visiting dignitaries from China, I realized, and plenty of local politicians were gathered around them for photo ops. But Dante was pointing out the only woman among them—Helen Bailey-Burke.

I had no desire to see Mrs. Bailey-Burke again, not after she so coldly rejected Esther’s grant proposal and then publicly slapped gentle doctor Gwen Fischer. I had no love for her sidekick, either, sorority sister Tanya Harmon.