Holiday Grind (26 page)
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
“My car’s close to an antique,” I warned Esther. “Make sure you warm up the engine for at least five minutes before you drive away, or you might stall out.”
“I got it, boss. But I still feel rotten leaving you like this—”
“Go!” I gently pushed her. “Take your test. I’ll be back at the Blend in a few hours.”
With a reluctant nod, Esther headed toward the curb where she’d parked my Honda. I cut across the snow-covered yard, leaving little pointy-toed prints on the field of pristine white. Then I carefully stepped over a low row of leafless bushes that separated Linford’s elegant residence from the Glockners’ more modest home.
Of course, the word
modest
could only be used in comparison. The Glockner house—a split-level brick ranch with a double garage and what appeared to be a built-in pool, freestanding sauna, and glass-enclosed hot tub in back—was quite grand by New York City standards. In this neighborhood, the place could easily command a cool million or more, even in these overleveraged times.
modest
could only be used in comparison. The Glockner house—a split-level brick ranch with a double garage and what appeared to be a built-in pool, freestanding sauna, and glass-enclosed hot tub in back—was quite grand by New York City standards. In this neighborhood, the place could easily command a cool million or more, even in these overleveraged times.
A few moments later, I arrived at Mrs. Glockner’s front door (a single door this time), with a small wreath hanging there the only concession to the season.
I rang the doorbell, waited a polite ten count, then rang again. The curtain on the bay window stirred.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” a woman’s voice called.
I guessed that Mrs. Glockner was making herself presentable. But much more than a minute passed before the door opened. Freezing on her stoop, I counted the seconds.
When Mrs. Glockner finally answered, she was oddly still wearing the same sweats, and her short-cropped yellow hair was still banded by the pink elastic.
So what had she been doing all that time?
So what had she been doing all that time?
“Hi,” she said.
“Mrs. Glockner? My name is Clare Cosi. And—”
“Come on in,” she interrupted, giving my hand a strong, no-nonsense shake. “Call me Shelly.”
Good
, I thought with relief,
at least she’s not going to give me indigestion
.
, I thought with relief,
at least she’s not going to give me indigestion
.
She was a foot taller than me and a bit heavier, but Shelly Glockner’s size didn’t affect her carriage. As she led me inside, she walked with the proud, confident grace of a principal dancer.
Alf had mentioned that his wife was around his age (mid-fifties), but she looked much younger with high, sculpted cheekbones, and—like her pretty daughter—a generous mouth and dimples in both cheeks. Sans makeup, her face showed only the subtlest signs of a skilled plastic surgeon’s work around the eyes, chin, and neck.
We walked through a foyer into a spacious living room with a small, retro 1950s aluminum Christmas tree in the corner. The hardwood floor of almost black mahogany set off stark white walls covered with framed black-and-white prints. The furniture was mostly white, the tables and lamps all chrome and glass. A large fireplace of white brick dominated one wall of the large room, but there was no fire—and no sign there ever was one. The hearth looked as clean as a convent’s kitchen floor.
Along the mantel, I noticed an array of photographs, all framed in heavy silver. There were a number of pictures of Vicki at various ages; other pictures appeared to be of friends and relatives. Not one photo of Alf.
Mrs. Glockner neatly set aside a few black throw pillows, then sat down on her sleek sofa of white leather—not a scuff or smudge on it. With a gesture she invited me to take a seat in a matching chair.
“I expected you later this afternoon, but since you’re here now, it’s good that we can just get this over and done with.” She smiled widely. “I hope you brought the check for me!”
I blinked. “Excuse me. What check?”
“You’re kidding, right? You do have papers for me to sign?”
“I have a few questions for you, Mrs. Glockner. That’s all.”
The woman’s sunny disposition clouded and a thunderous flash of pique bolted across her pretty features. It suddenly reminded me of her daughter’s mercurial moods—I’d seen plenty of them when the girl had worked for me.
“I thought I answered all of your questions,” she said, almost petulantly.
“I’ve never spoken with you before, Mrs. Glockner.”
“I can’t believe you people don’t talk to each other down at that office!” She threw up her hands. “How can you make a profit when you don’t manage redundancies like this!”
“What?”
She stared at me and I stared back. “You’re from the insurance company, right? You’re here to close out my late husband’s policy.”
“I’m sorry you misunderstood, Mrs. Glockner. I’m not from any insurance company. I was simply a friend of your late husband’s.”
She sat back, smirking, and crossed her long legs. “A friend of Alfred’s, huh? What kind of friend?”
“Alf was a customer at my coffeehouse. I also employed your daughter, Vicki, at one time; and to tell you the truth, Mrs. Glockner, Vicki was the one who asked me to step in and look into her father’s murder. She has concerns that the detectives on the case are on the wrong track—”
“Well, she’s right about that!” The woman cried. “Two of them showed up at my real estate office to question me—and on one of my busiest days, too! The jerk with the red, white, and blue babushka almost scared one of my clients off for good!”
“You’re talking about Detective Franco?”
“Yes, that was his name.”
I raised an eyebrow at that.
Why would Detective Franco bother to interview Shelly Glockner? Oddly thorough for a cop who claims he’s only looking for an ordinary street thug in a random mugging.
Why would Detective Franco bother to interview Shelly Glockner? Oddly thorough for a cop who claims he’s only looking for an ordinary street thug in a random mugging.
Mrs. Glockner shook her head. “That’s always been one of my Vicki’s
many
problems.”
many
problems.”
“What has?”
“She’s just like her father. Can’t let anything go!”
I gestured to the Alf-free pictures on the mantel. “I can see you don’t have that problem, do you?”
“Why?” Mrs. Glockner narrowed her eyes. “Because I don’t keep my husband’s picture around for sentimental reasons?”
“I understand. I know he was about to become your
ex
-husband.”
ex
-husband.”
“New York State law requires that a couple live apart for a year before a divorce can be finalized. We’d just reached that merry milestone when Alf began dodging my lawyers. Not that it matters now.” She sighed. “You see, Ms. Cosi, I met Alf in high school. We married a year after graduation. Vicki was born later—a pleasant surprise after years of thinking we couldn’t even
get
pregnant.” With a deep breath she rose, crossed to the mantel, and reached for a framed photo tucked behind the others. “We spent more than thirty years together, but this is what Alf truly loved.”
get
pregnant.” With a deep breath she rose, crossed to the mantel, and reached for a framed photo tucked behind the others. “We spent more than thirty years together, but this is what Alf truly loved.”
She shoved the framed photo into my hands. It was an old one, showing a younger, slimmer Alf standing under the green awning of his restaurant:
Alfred’s
. Beneath the name, in much smaller print were the words
Steaks, Chops, Fine Wine
.
Alfred’s
. Beneath the name, in much smaller print were the words
Steaks, Chops, Fine Wine
.
“It was a traditional New York-style steakhouse bordering the La Tourette Golf Course. He borrowed and borrowed and mortgaged this house to open that restaurant. For a lot of years, it was a success. People came because they loved Alf. It was like a party every night—folks around here still tell me they miss it. Not that they did much to help keep him in business . . .” She fell silent.
“What happened?” I asked. “To Alf’s restaurant, I mean.”
Shelly Glockner took back the picture and stared at it. “The recession. The entire New York financial sector taking it in the neck. That and Alf’s drinking, which got worse and worse as his business declined. Of course, it didn’t help that he hadn’t changed the menu or that dark, imposing decor in fifteen years. Tastes change, and that dump was so old-school! I told him so. Many times. Then Alf finally decided I might be right. He remodeled twice, changed the menu, offered deals, advertised. Nothing helped.”
She set the picture behind the others and faced me. “Stu pidly, I let him continue the farce. Really stupid because we hadn’t saved much over the years.”
“Why not?”
She waved her hand. “Vacations, spas, a pleasure boat, remodeling the house, the hot tub and sauna in the back—”
Plastic surgery for you
, I silently added.
, I silently added.
“We never expected the Manhattan financial sector to collapse, for heaven’s sake! That it would take down dozens of restaurants all over the city! Anyway, Alf refused to close, tried to keep his place afloat by burning through the small nest egg we did have—which was
my
hard-earned money as well as his. But then his whole identity was wrapped up in that business.”
my
hard-earned money as well as his. But then his whole identity was wrapped up in that business.”
“What do you mean his whole identity? He was a husband, a father—”
“Oh, please. That was never enough. Alf couldn’t imagine doing anything but being a restaurateur. When he lost his place, he just”—she shrugged—“lost himself.”
Just then, the phone rang. “Excuse me.” She took the call, standing and staring into space. Then she barked into the receiver. “No! I told both parties that already. If Mr. Ma houd wants to back out, that’s fine. But
we
keep the deposit. I haven’t had a commission in six months, so I’m not playing here. You just warn him that I’ll see him in court!”
we
keep the deposit. I haven’t had a commission in six months, so I’m not playing here. You just warn him that I’ll see him in court!”
She hung up and faced me again. “Are we done? I have a session with my personal trainer in twenty.”
“Just a few more questions. What happened after Alf spent your nest egg on the restaurant?”
Mrs. Glockner exhaled with obvious impatience. “Alf wanted to take a second mortgage on our home, that’s what happened. We’d just paid off this house after twenty-five years. I wasn’t going to sit still for that, so I put my foot down and refused to allow it. Banks wouldn’t help him, so Alf took out that ridiculous loan from our neighbor.”
“Ridiculous? Why?”
“Because I knew the restaurant was dead by then, that’s why! I knew we could never pay Omar Linford back—not without selling this house! Alf was deluding himself, Ms. Cosi. He was a failure and a drunk, and only digging himself in deeper with that loan. That’s when I knew it was time to move on. So I had my lawyers draw up papers and I asked a judge for a separation.”
I frowned, wondering how I might have fared with a marital partner like Shelly Glockner. Maybe it wasn’t very nice of me to judge the woman, since I hadn’t walked a mile in her cross-trainers. But I was a first wife, too. A bad marriage with an addict could hard-boil any woman’s heart, but it appeared to me, after all those years together—not to mention Alf being a father to their daughter—that Mrs. Glockner was suspiciously unaffected by her husband’s murder.
Once again, I began to wonder about that blackmail letter . . .
“I just had lunch with Omar Linford, Mrs. Glockner. Are you aware Mr. Linford is alleging that Alf tried to blackmail him?”
“That’s preposterous.”
“I heard the whole story from Mr. Linford himself.”
“And you believe that pirate?”
“Mr. Linford claims he has proof. In fact—” I checked my watch. “I’m headed over there right now to pick up the note and turn it over to the NYPD, where it will be analyzed. With forensic science today, they can determine if the letter was really sent by Alf—fingerprints, fibers, DNA. It’s amazing what they can do.”
Frankly, I didn’t know what the police could accomplish, but I wanted to shake Mrs. Glockner’s brittle little tree, see what might come loose.
It worked. The second I mentioned the NYPD, her face flashed redder than Rudolph’s nose.
“Why are you doing this?!” she demanded.
“I told you, your daughter asked me to find out—”
“It’s Christmas, for heaven’s sake!” She stomped her running shoe. “Why don’t you just mind your own damn business and let Alf rest in peace!”
I locked eyes with the irate woman. “Don’t you have something you want to tell me, Mrs. Glockner? Something that might help the police solve Alf’s murder?”
That did it. Her face went from berry red to almost snow-white. She went quiet and her voice turned low and calm: “You have to leave
now
.”
now
.”
“Mrs. Glockner—”
“I have a busy day ahead of me.”
Yeah, with your personal trainer. Then there’s that highly lucrative moment when you sign off on the insurance policy and cash in on your husband’s murder.
I rose. “If you change your mind about talking to me, you can reach me in the city at the Village Blend. Thank you for your time, Mrs.—”
The door slammed behind me, sending the tiny holiday wreath tumbling to the ground.
With a deep breath of wintry air, I retraced my pointy footprints across the snow-covered yard, back to Linford’s sunporch. I was hoping that I hadn’t been missed, but it didn’t work out that way. Approaching the solarium, I paused when I heard angry voices. Peeking around a manicured bush, I spied Omar Linford and young Dwayne arguing in the room that Esther and I had vacated.
“. . . and I’m not going to stop! I told you already!” Dwayne shouted.
Other books
Spanking Her Highness by Patricia Green
B00BLPJNWE EBOK by Roberts, Paul Craig
Engaging the Boss (Heirs of Damon) by Adams, Noelle
The Inventor's Secret by Andrea Cremer
Lizzie's War by Rosie Clarke
Elective Affinities by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Hidden by Donna Jo Napoli
Marco Vichi - Inspector Bordelli 04 - Death in Florence by Marco Vichi
A Fresh Start by Grace, Trisha
Las Marismas by Arnaldur Indridason