A Brew to a Kill (47 page)

For his next strike, Josh planned a double event, intending to kill both Lilly Beth and Helen on the same night.

“But how did Josh know Lilly would be at the Blend that evening? Did Dante tell him?”

Buckman nodded. “Remember, that night Josh was going to help—”

“Prime the truck, of course!”

Dante had discussed Friday’s Muffin Muse schedule with Josh. They were going to put the base coat on the truck late
in the evening—after Lilly and I showed off the truck to Matt. So Josh knew where Lilly would be, and when to strike. He also learned Helen was attending a fund-raiser nearby at Cooper Union that same evening, so the timing was perfect.

“Josh planned to draw Mrs. Bailey-Burke into the street with a fake phone call,” Buckman explained, “just like that phony call he used to lure Dr. Fischer away from the wedding. Of course, things didn’t work out that way.”

Apparently everything fell apart after Josh ran Lilly down and he got stuck in the ultimate New York leveler—traffic. On Thompson Street, a police cruiser appeared at the end of the block and Josh got spooked. He ditched the van, leaving the glass behind to finger Dr. Fischer, deciding to kill Helen another day, and another way.

Unfortunately, the prints on the glass were smudged and Gwen was never arrested. Then Helen publicly slapped Gwen Fischer in the face at the Brooklyn truck-painting party, and Josh was inspired to try again, with an even bolder plan. He’d lifted Dr. Fischer’s purse at a coffeehouse, which held her car keys. He stole her car and ran over Helen in Central Park after luring her to the perfect spot with a fake phone message—the same method he’d used to get Gwen away from the party, making her look guilty.

For the second time, Josh wore that creepy Gwen mask he’d created. But this time he used the patsy’s car, and there were witnesses, so Dr. Fischer was charged with murder. That’s when Josh burned the mask, wiped his files off the Five Points computers, and bought a plane ticket to Paris.

“Why Paris?” I asked. “Random or another reason?”

“A very specific reason,” Buckman said, “and the real reason this all took place. Josh had made a tentative deal with a French magazine to publish the comic he’d created with the late Meredith Burke. But their offer was made based on photocopies. To publish, Josh had to produce the original art and the legal rights to Meredith’s contribution.

“Meredith’s mother, Helen, was the only obstacle. She had
possession of the artwork and refused to release what she saw as an embarrassment: her daughter’s frank portrayal of her tormented childhood.”

I sighed, understanding. Josh’s motive came down to much more than revenge. “With Helen dead, he thought his troubles were over. Yes, he avenged his best friend, but he also killed the woman holding his artwork hostage.”

Buckman nodded. “Josh told me his plan was to travel to a better place. He was moving to France to become a famous comic book artist.” Pausing, he scratched his silver-gray temple. “The kid is talented, and maybe that comic he created with Meredith was brilliant. But the poor girl’s death twisted something inside him.”

Like Lilly’s jars,
I thought.
All the good things inside Josh got emptied out.

“It’s a terrible waste,” I said. “Instead of enlightening the world with his art, Josh Fowler used his creativity to spread anger, hate—all the dark things within him.”

Buckman reminded me that Josh would have a long time to consider his mistakes. And he would leave prison a poorer man, too. John Fairway, esquire, had been talking to Lilly’s mother every day since Josh was arrested.

“I think Fairway’s convinced the woman to file a civil suit on her daughter’s behalf,” Buckman said.

“You mean Fairway’s intent all along was to get in on a fat lawsuit? No wonder he was always lurking.” I shook my head. “All that reconnaissance his Two Wheels Good people do on vehicular accidents. It actually boils down to—”

“Ambulance chasing. Yep. But then, ‘follow the money’ is an old saw. And since Josh has deep pockets, and Lilly’s going to need money to cover expenses, it all works out for John Fairway and for Lilly’s family.”

“What about the papers I found in Lilly Beth’s bedroom?” I was uneasy about bringing this up, but I had to. “Those medical records of Meredith’s, what are you going to do with them?”

Buckman shrugged. “File them. That’s where they’ll be
forever. In the evidence file, for anyone to act on if they choose to…”

Silence fell between us.

We both knew the facts. Dr. Land and Helen Bailey-Burke were dead, and it seemed unlikely that anyone would have an interest in digging up those records and pursuing any kind of case with them. Even if they did, most people probably would agree that whatever Lilly had done wrong, she’d suffered enough punishment for it.

Buckman checked his watch. “I hope the docs are finished with my Lilly. She might want another slab of that blue cake. I know I do.”

“Hey, Max.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you just say ‘
my
Lilly’?”

“Gee, nothing gets by you, does it, Cosi?”

“C
LARE
, dear, I have news!”

Three weeks after my sit-down with Buckman, I rose early to pack a Pullman and roast enough fresh coffee to cover a busy weekend. Just before noon, Madame swept in and waved me over to her favorite sidewalk table.

The summer sun was warm on our faces, the cooling kiss of an Atlantic breeze carrying salt-tinged air through our yawning French doors.

Over iced mocha frappes and my fresh-baked Coffee Cake Streusel Muffins, my former mother-in-law finally shared her announcement: “Otto and I have secured a new angel for Esther’s summer outreach program!”

I smiled at this, but it was hardly a revelation. “You already found two patrons,” I reminded her. “The audio-video stream is up and running on the truck, and Esther’s holding her first Village Blend poetry slam upstairs next Saturday.”

“I know, dear, and I can hardly wait!” Madame’s ube-colored eyes hadn’t sparkled this brightly in years. “But our new patron is an award-winning filmmaker who wishes to
make Esther’s mobile muse and the inner city kids she inspires the subject of a short documentary. He’s calling it
Poetry in Motion
and plans to enter it in several international festivals, isn’t that wonderful?”

Esther at the Oscars? Short documentary category? Yeah, I could see it…

After knocking glass mugs, we caught up on news of Joy, who was planning a fall visit home, and Matt, who just took off for a three-week stint of regional coffee hunting.

Despite Quinn’s confidence in Brazil’s “safe” status, Matt thought Indonesia was a better idea (as did I). Timor, Sulawesi, Papua New Guinea, and the Island of Java were all sharing the same harvesting season, and as far as I knew, not one of those countries was harboring an
oxi
drug lord with a grudge.

“Billy, my man!”

“Dante, whassup!”

Madame and I paused in our discussion to witness a small miracle. The boy with the dragon tattoo strode into the Village Blend with a new delivery of his grandmother’s warm egg custard tarts (our fastest-selling new item), and my
artista
barista slapped hands with him.

Madame tilted her silver pageboy. “They’re getting along now?”

“Famously.”

The first time Billy Li delivered the tarts, things were tense between the young men, until Billy asked Dante about a few of the many designs on his arms. (Franco had been right. Tattoo talk really was the way to a potential delinquent’s heart.)

Both guys had designed their own elaborate body art, and by the end of their “tats” discussion, Dante was inviting Billy to stop by the Five Points Arts Collective.

With Josh gone (for a long,
long
time), Dante was in the market for a new apprentice. “Now Billy’s helping Dante on a Battery Park mural,” I said. “And he’s developing his own proposal for a ‘Dragon and Lion Dance’ installation in City Hall Park for the next Lunar New Year.”

According to Tucker, Billy even responded well to those pointers on serving Village Blend beans.

“Well,” I told Tuck, “when Billy gets tired of delivering his
yeh-yeh
’s tarts, let’s try him out behind the counter.” After all, I reasoned, given his grandmother’s DNA, Billy couldn’t be all bad, and I might even get something out of it—like that Jimmy’s Kitchen recipe for warm custard sauce.

Madame, on the other hand, enjoyed the possibility of a new artist in her barista family. Clapping her hands, she suggested we have
another
truck-painting party. “I’ll get the permits,” she promised, “and we’ll hold it in front of the Blend this time.”

“A block party sounds perfect to me…” Our turf war with Kaylie was history, and Dante was already working up a fresh parody painting for the truck, one that wouldn’t remind us of Lilly’s brutal hit-and-run.

Madame sighed, noting all that had happened since that terrible Friday. “The older I get, the more I see it…”

“What?”

“Blessings in disguise.”

Taking in the cloudless blue dome above, I didn’t dispute her, although few people would ever characterize a nearly fatal hit-and-run as a blessing. And yet… if Lilly hadn’t been hit, one day the burden of her secret may have become too much for her.

To my mind, Buckman himself had posed the most difficult question in this case:
When Josh recognized Lilly at the Village Blend was it “bad luck” or “an act of God”?

Given the new direction Max Buckman’s life was taking, I knew how he’d answer it. As for me, I couldn’t stop thinking about all those jars Lilly had filled with dark coffee beans. Every last one had been emptied of its colorful contents and refilled with blackness—an appropriate color, given Lilly’s internal struggles with guilt. But there was an important difference between Lilly’s darkness and Josh’s, and that difference was prayer, the desire to find a way back to the light.

Seeing Lilly out of her coma these past few weeks, with Paz and Max and her mom around her, I knew she was on her way.

On the other hand, I found myself wondering if Madame’s “blessings in disguise” idea could be applied to the other half of my Little Manila drama—the lambanog-pushing, hair-flipping Dragon Lady.

With the woman’s properties and businesses seized by the government and a hefty financial award sure to be granted to Lilly in a civil suit, I had no doubt Amina Salaysay would be able to purchase the building that her beloved little restaurant had occupied for over two decades.

That fact actually made me see what Matt and I had gone through with new eyes. Would I call finding millions of dollars of Brazilian crack in our coffee bags a blessing?
Uh,
no.
But that little problem did end up preventing a deadly drug from hitting our city’s streets, and an already monstrous woman from growing into Godzilla with false eyelashes.

Finally, Madame’s curiosity took another turn. “Now that Lilly’s hit-and-run case is closed,” she said in a sly little voice, “is that nice detective still visiting the hospital?”

“More than that,” I said. “Max Buckman and Lilly Beth Tanga are officially a couple.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes…” I explained how Lilly had woken from her coma to find a strange man playing Go Fish with her young son, a man who seemed to know everything about her, who now makes her laugh every five minutes, appears absolutely taken with Pinoy food (
especially
ube cake), and insists on bringing her fresh flowers every day.

“Well, I don’t know many women who could resist that!” Madame said.

“There’s only one downside,” I noted.

“Oh, dear. What’s that?”

“Max’s vintage GTO is being neglected. He’s too busy retrofitting Lilly’s wheelchair.”

A
short time later, I checked in with Tucker, who assured me all was well for the next few days.

“We’re fine, sweetie. Now get your assets in gear or you’ll miss your ride!”

Nancy tapped her watch. “To quote Taboo, ‘Your train! Your train!’”

Esther slapped a hand to her forehead. “It’s
Tattoo
, and it’s ‘de plane, de plane.’”

“Huh?” Nancy appeared puzzled.

Tucker patted her hand. “Esther’s right. I mean, you were trying to quote the opening of that kitschy old TV show
Fantasy Island
, weren’t you?”

“Holy Smokin’ Rockets, is that where it’s from? I always thought it was an ad for Amtrak.”

Well, Nance wasn’t totally wrong, because the Acela Express was where I was heading, by way of yellow cab to Penn Station. Mike Quinn texted me earlier with info on the hotel room he’d booked.

True to his word, Mike had come back to New York for two weekends in a row. But Esther had been right when she’d defined “in love” as passive and “loving” as active. They really were distinctive parts of life as well as speech, like the difference between theory and practicum.