Authors: Cleo Coyle
Tags: #Fiction, #Detective, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Coffeehouses, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Cosi; Clare (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction
Holiday Grind (22 page)
He brightened at the mention of the Blend. “I know the place. A number of friends in the neighborhood are hooked on your lattes. I’m into tea myself—white tea lately—so I don’t frequent your establishment. Nothing personal.”
“No worries,” I said, realizing this guy’s Rolex wasn’t the only indication he had plenty of disposable income. White tea was among the rarest and most expensive varieties on the planet.
Young looked at me askance, as if he were trying to place me. “You do live in my building, right? Chaz said you were a neighbor.”
“Actually, I live several blocks away. But I’m familiar with your building, and the property around it. It’s usually a fairly safe part of the city, but the other night, there was a murder on your street. You know about that, right?”
Young nodded. “I read about the shooting. Apparently it happened in the alley right outside my residence.”
“I knew the victim, Mr. Young. He was a friend of mine.”
“Oh?” he said. “I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you.”
At the mention of knowing the victim, I noticed a subtle change in the man. His coolness began slowly evaporating and he began to fidget.
“The victim’s name was Alfred Glockner,” I explained. “He was an aspiring stand-up comedian, and he worked as a Traveling Santa. Does his name mean anything to you?”
Young pursed his lips and then frowned. “I never heard of a Mr. Glockner. Should I know him?”
“That’s a question I want answered. You see, I’m privately investigating Mr. Glockner’s murder, and just last evening the police received evidence that proves Alf was on the fire escape, right outside your apartment window, just minutes before he was gunned down.”
Young’s fidgeting form froze. He was silent for a few moments, and then he said, “I’m stunned to hear that. I really am. I mean, I didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary that night. Not even sirens.”
“Well, I was wondering—why do you think Alf was on your balcony?”
Young’s eyebrow arched, a little cruelly. “I guess he wasn’t delivering presents, was he, Ms. Cosi? I mean, I would have expected Santa to use the chimney for that, wouldn’t you?”
“I’m serious, Mr. Young.”
“I know you are, and I’m surprised you’re even asking that question. Burglaries increase during the holidays. That’s one of the things I learned researching today’s show . . .”
As he spoke, Young glanced several times at his Rolex. His gaze then began darting back and forth between me and his closed office door.
Is he hoping for an interruption? Or is he worried who might suddenly walk in and become a party to this conversation?
Is he hoping for an interruption? Or is he worried who might suddenly walk in and become a party to this conversation?
“I was out much of that day, holiday shopping,” Young continued. “Perhaps this Glockner fellow saw me with shopping bags around the neighborhood and followed me back to my building with the intent to rob my apartment.”
I recalled what the bartender at the White Horse had told me. Alf was there that night. He’d ordered a cranberry juice and then left in a hurry without finishing it. I also recalled the small shopping bags I’d seen on James Young’s coffee table—the ones labeled Tiffany, Tourneau, Saks.
Did Alf notice James Young walking home that night? Was Vicki Glockner right? Was Omar Linford pressuring or threatening Alf over the money he’d lent him? Was Alf so desperate to pay back Linford that he’d turned to burglary? If he had, was James Young Alf’s first try—or had Alf done it before?
The phone on Young’s desk buzzed.
“If you’ll excuse me, Ms. Cosi,” he said, reaching for the receiver. “I have work to do.”
RELUCTANTLY I left James Young’s office to search out Madame again. After thanking Heidi for her help, we flagged a cab on Eleventh.
“What did you find out?” Madame asked as we settled into the backseat.
“James Young is an attractive, confident, financially comfortable man. That’s what I found out.”
“Don’t those sorts of men commit murder, dear?”
“Not my point. If James Young caught Alf Glockner in the act of burglary, would a man like him have gone all the way down to the alley, shot him, and then robbed the Traveling Santa cart to make it look like a random mugging?”
“Patently ridiculous.”
“Agreed. Just last night, Young saw a dark figure on his fire escape—
me
—and all he did was call his doorman.”
me
—and all he did was call his doorman.”
“Who
did
attack you.”
did
attack you.”
“Yes, the Neanderthal also locked me in a Dumpster. But he didn’t shoot me. He called the NYPD. I’m sure he would have done that for Alf, too . . . Still, there’s something about James Young that doesn’t feel right . . .”
“What’s that?”
“Young became very tense when I brought up Alf, as if he were hiding something. Or at least knew more than he was telling me.”
“Perhaps he was just uneasy with your grilling him about a terrible crime that occurred right outside his home.”
I drummed my fingers on the cab’s vinyl seat and watched restaurants, storefronts, and apartment houses roll by. “Young is certainly perceptive enough to know that I was suspicious of him—or at least of Alf’s being on his balcony.”
“Wouldn’t it make you nervous to have someone suggest you may have something to do with a murder?”
“I guess so.”
“So where are we now?” Madame turned in the car seat to face me. “The trail hasn’t gone cold, has it? Perhaps Mr. Young left you with another lead? Do you have a new theory?”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve certainly picked up on the gumshoe slang, haven’t you?”
“No mystery there, dear.” Madame waved her hand. “You’re not the first coffeehouse manager who’s regularly provided hot stimulants for men in law enforcement.”
Having heard more than a few racy stories of Madame’s bohemian years, I wasn’t at all sure how to interpret that remark. Before I could clarify what exactly she meant, however, our taxi pulled up to the curb. We paid the driver, climbed out, and gasped. The line to get into the Village Blend was literally around the block.
“My goodness!” Madame gawked. “I thought you told me afternoon business has slowed considerably since the economic downturn.”
“It has.”
“Well, my dear, I haven’t seen this kind of enthusiasm for a retail refreshment since
Seinfeld
aired an episode on the Soup Nazi! Did some television show film an episode about our Village Blend?”
Seinfeld
aired an episode on the Soup Nazi! Did some television show film an episode about our Village Blend?”
“Not that I know of . . . Come on.”
Rather than fight our way through the crowd, I led Madame around to the back alley, pulled out my keys, and unlocked the back door. We entered through the pantry area, passing the service stairwell that led down to the basement and up to my private apartment.
“Would you rather we go upstairs to talk?” I asked.
“And miss finding out what all the fuss is about? Not on your life!”
SEVENTEEN
“PEOPLE, people!” Tucker yelled, clapping his hands. “Will you puh-
leeze
give your order a
thought
on your way up to my counter! And have your money or credit card out
before
you get to me!”
leeze
give your order a
thought
on your way up to my counter! And have your money or credit card out
before
you get to me!”
The espresso bar looked like a caffeinated zoo—but a well-run caffeinated zoo. I still couldn’t believe the shop was so busy. When I’d left earlier to go to Studio 19, the place had already slipped into its typical weekday-afternoon coma. Now the main floor was raucously packed. Tucker’s shift had started, but Esther was still here, mixing drinks with Dante behind the espresso machine—she’d obviously agreed to stay past her scheduled departure time to help handle the thirsty tsunami.
I turned to Madame. “I want to pitch in here, but I need to ask you something important first.”
“Of course.” Madame nodded. “I’ll find a table.”
I could see from my quick scan of the first floor that she wouldn’t have a problem. Despite the line out the door, quite a few tables were still empty. The drinks my baristas were mixing were mostly “with wings”—aka to go. A lot of the patrons were new, but just as many faces belonged to former regulars—customers I hadn’t seen in here for some time.
I noticed Tucker’s friend, the ex-soap actor Shane Holliway, as boyishly appealing as ever with the golden shag and trendy chin stubble. He was sipping a drink near the fireplace, a scarf rakishly thrown over his shoulder. When he saw me checking him out, he gave me a big smile and a wink.
Another winker
, I thought. What was it with these guys on TV? Did those klieg lights affect their vision or something?
, I thought. What was it with these guys on TV? Did those klieg lights affect their vision or something?
I waved politely—and that’s when I noticed the thirtysomething redhead, the one I’d clashed with the night of Alf’s murder. She was back, sitting in a far corner of the shop, still gorgeous, still angry, her eyes focused on me as if I’d thrown a
macchiato
in her face.
macchiato
in her face.
I wasn’t intimidated. Not even a little bit. I met her gaze with a direct stare. She looked away.
Mentally dismissing the grudge-carrying socialite, I tapped my assistant manager’s shoulder. “What’s going on, Tuck?”
“Ohmigawd, Clare!” he said, finally noticing me. “It’s our Fa-la-la-la Lattes!”
“What? How can that be? I only just put out the sidewalk chalkboard this morning!”
As reluctant as I’d been to cash in on Alf’s Taste of Christmas latte idea, I’d changed my mind for two reasons. The shop badly needed an economic shot in the arm, and as a business manager responsible for the sustainability of this shop and its employees, I had to be willing to try anything. The second reason was Dexter Beatty’s nostalgic reaction to Gardner’s Black Cake Latte the previous evening. If Alf’s idea could bring back even one happy holiday memory for a customer, I figured it had to be a worthy addition to our menu. But I never expected a reaction like this. It didn’t even make sense!
“Tucker, all these people can’t be random foot traffic!”
“We’re all over the Net, Clare. Two major foodie bloggers frequent the Blend. They wrote about our lattes first thing this morning—loved the Fa-la-la-la holiday theme. Actually, one of them loved it, the other one kind of derided it as ‘twee.’ But both thought the variety and flavors were outstanding. Then two more foodie writers came in, much bigger ones: Grub Street Digest and the-feedbag.com! They took digital pics. Someone else took a YouTube video! We’re the talk of the foodie Web world! A
Post
reporter was just here, and a
Times
photographer called to confirm our address!”
Post
reporter was just here, and a
Times
photographer called to confirm our address!”
“Excuse me! Hello!” A young woman in heels and hose plopped her designer handbag on top of the cash register. “I’m on a work break. Are you people going to take my order, or what?!”
Tucker whipped his head around. “Chill-ax, honey! I’ll get to you.” He snapped his fingers. “And get your Kate Spade
off
my register!”
off
my register!”
“Give me ten minutes and I’ll relieve Esther,” I told Tuck. “Madame’s waiting for me at a table.”
“It’s okay, Clare. We’re going just about as fast as we can anyway. Another pair of hands won’t help Dante pull those espressos any faster.”
“And we don’t want him to, either.”
“I know—quality is why we’re in business after one hundred years. But I warn you, I have a choreography rehearsal at seven sharp for my
Ticket to the North Pole
production number. The benefit party’s next Tuesday evening, so there’s no time to spare. All of the dancing elves and singing Santa’s helpers are on my call sheet.”
Ticket to the North Pole
production number. The benefit party’s next Tuesday evening, so there’s no time to spare. All of the dancing elves and singing Santa’s helpers are on my call sheet.”
“Is that why Shane’s here?” I gestured to him in the corner, noticed he was still watching me, and quickly dropped my pointing finger.
“Oh, is Shane here already?” Tuck glanced across the room and waved. “Well, the rehearsal space is just down the block. And, yes, Clare, he is one of my dancing elves. Apparently Dickie Celebratorio—”
“The party planner?”
“The same. He’s throwing this bash and he owes Shane some big favor, so I had to hire the man, but that’s fine with me. I figure the ladies at the benefit party will be more than happy to see him in tights. Anyway, I’ve paid for the rehearsal space already, so I can
not
give you any overtime.”
not
give you any overtime.”
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