Holiday Grind (34 page)

Read Holiday Grind Online

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

BOOK: Holiday Grind
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“I came here looking for Mr. Kovic. He hadn’t shown for his roommate’s memorial service, and I wanted to see how he was doing . . .” Which was true. “That’s when I found Karl’s corpse.”
Fortunately, the responding detectives accepted my statement and released me. At this point, I knew the only cops who could truly understand the whole story were Mike Quinn, Charlie Hong, and (heaven help me) Emmanuel Franco.
Right now,
tonight
, I had a window of opportunity to confront the jet-setting Dickie Celebratorio over his role in this sordid mess—before he dashed off to Rio, Dubai, Cap d’Antibes, or God knew where for the holidays—and I wasn’t going to pass that up.
Propelling myself forward, I dug into my shoulder bag, pulled out my cell, and hit a speed-dial button. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I chanted like a mantra.
“He-LO-ooo,” Tucker answered in a three-note vocal exercise. I could hear other actors warming up in the background, too.
“Tucker! Thank God.”
“Clare!” he said, alarmed. “Please don’t tell me there’s an emergency at the Blend. I’m getting ready to put on a show here!”
“Everything’s fine at the Blend. I need you to get me into Dickie Celebratorio’s big holiday bash, ASAP!” (
Because once my friends with the gold shields arrive, we’re all going to have a little powwow with the dubious party planner.)
“I can swing getting you in here,” Tucker replied. “But you
have
to do me a
huge
favor in return.”
“How can I help?”
“There are massive delays on the Long Island Rail Road. My two Candy Cane Girls aren’t going to make it in time, but I’m sure I can squeeze you into one of their costumes.”
“Did you say
squeeze
?”
“Yes. Face it, sweetie, you’re
chesty
, and I’ve hired professional young actresses for tonight’s gig. You know the type, vegan anorexics who purge after one lemon chai.”
“I don’t know, Tuck—”
“Please! I’m begging.”
Glancing down at my old jeans, scuffed sneakers, and worn parka, I realized I wasn’t exactly dressed to blend in with the invited glitterati. I exhaled hard, hating to admit it, but disguising myself as part of the production number was probably the smartest thing I could do to keep a low profile inside that bash.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
“You’re a godsend, Clare! Don’t worry, okay? No singing or dancing is required. All you have to do is wear this adorable Santa’s Little Helper getup and pass out candy canes to the kiddies.”
Once again, I cringed—not at the activity. I loved children. It was the adjective
little
applied to
getup
that made me wary.
“Where do I meet you?”
“Go to the first door on the Public Library’s Forty-second Street side entrance. There’ll be two staff members at a desk just inside. I’ll call right now and have them add your name to my cast list. Someone there will direct you down to the basement room we’re using as a dressing area.”
I signed off and flagged a cab. On my way downtown, I placed more calls—the first one to Mike Quinn. Unfortunately, I got the man’s voice mail. I asked Quinn to call either me or Detective Hong and dialed Hong’s number.
Detective Charlie Hong was strike two. This time, I left a long, detailed message on his voice mail informing him that I’d found Alf Glockner’s roommate dead in his apartment and discovered that the murdered man was selling celebrity photos and videos . . .
“I think the murders of Alf and Karl are linked. According to a source I have, Karl Kovic was blackmailing someone, and I found a note in Karl’s coat pocket that I’m sure means Dickie Celebratorio helped set up Karl for execution . . .”
That’s when I realized something else. Matt had mentioned that he’d left Breanne at Dickie’s pre-event cocktail party to meet me on the Upper West Side.
“Dickie couldn’t have done the deed himself,” I added to Hong’s voice mail, “because he gave himself the perfect alibi. Hundreds of people were seeing him at a pre-benefit cocktail party when Karl was shot! By whom, I still don’t know. But Dickie almost certainly does . . .”
I gave Hong details on where to scoop up Dickie for questioning. “Come to the Public Library’s main branch as soon as you can, Detective. I’ll be at the party inside, keeping an eye on Dickie’s movements until you arrive. I’m getting in as part of the show. Look for me in a Santa’s Little Helper costume.”
I ended the call to Hong and stared at Emmanuel Franco’s cell number, written on the card that Hong had given me. I punched in the man’s first three digits and stopped—
No.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
I just can’t.
Frankly, I figured I was better off alone than with Dudley Do-Rag as backup.
Tucking the phone into my bag, I realized the cab was pulling over between Forty-first and Forty-second streets. I glanced across Fifth Avenue. The sprawling main branch of the New York Public Library was bathed in soft golden light. Chandeliers sparkled through massive windows and a deep burgundy
Ticket to the North Pole
banner fluttered from one end of the sculpted beaux arts facade to the other.
Limousines were lined up all the way around the corner of Forty-second. In a kaleidoscopic parade, women in lollipop-colored couture, men in black dinner jackets, their children equally well dressed, passed between the famous stone lions that guarded the library’s entrance, then ascended the red carpet, which flowed like a cherry stream down the wide stone steps. At street level, uniformed police manned barricades, where a mob of young women held signs and shouted out to famous actors and recording artists.
I darted across the avenue, jaywalking through traffic, and headed for the side entrance, just as Tucker had advised. The party staff already had my name and directed me to the basement maintenance area that was doubling as tonight’s dressing room. Tucker raced up to me as soon as I stepped through the door.
“Slip into this fast!” He thrust a garment into my hand—a scrap of red velvet trimmed in white fur. “The rest of my elves and Santa’s Little Helpers are already upstairs on the floor!”
I dangled the scrap of material between my finger and thumb. “Where are the
bottoms
?”
“Over there—” He pointed to a pair of frilly white panties clipped to a hanger, then touched a finger to his chin and appraised me. “Don’t bother with the push-up bra. You’ll have cleavage to spare already and we don’t want to risk spillage—”
“Spillage?! Tuck!”
“Sorry.” He shrugged. “Just being practical. You’ll also find nude tights and black go-go boots in the dressing room.”
“That’s
it
? That’s all I’m supposed to wear? Are you kidding?!”
Tucker threw up his hands. “Just pretend you’re a Rockette!”
I held the microdress up to my body. “More like a Bada-Bing pole dancer.”
That was my last official protest. Tucker push/guided me into a communal dressing area created out of portable resin room dividers. Inside, folding chairs were scattered around a long table with makeup kits and lighted mirrors.
“Use the lockers over there for your clothes and bag,” Tuck said. “And don’t forget to pin on your Santa hat.” He pointed to the hairpins on the table. “It might come off when you’re bending down to hand out the promo candy.”
“Bending down? In this thing?” I shuddered at the thought.
Five minutes later, I emerged from the dressing room, my face redder than the form-fitting outfit I had indeed squeezed into.
“You look fabulous, Clare,” Tucker proclaimed. Then he placed his hands on his hips. “But you can’t go through the entire event clutching your hem with one hand and covering your cleavage with the other.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing you need a free hand to pass out the promo candy!”
I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. The dress (for lack of a better term) had long sleeves trimmed with fake white fur around the wrists, so my arms were covered. But those were the only body parts on me that were modestly draped. My legs were sheathed in tights, but the nude shade made it look as if I were exposed all the way up to my—you know. And the plunging neckline, also fur trimmed, left little to the imagination. Plus the fur was ticklish.
“Don’t worry about a thing. You look absolutely scrumptious,” Tuck gushed, pulling me to the makeup table. “Now stand still.”
In three minutes flat, he’d sponged pancake makeup on my face and chest areas; did up my eyes with (way too much) mascara, liner, and snow-white shadow; added gloss to my lips and rouge to my cheeks; and dusted every inch of bared flesh with some kind of sheer glitter powder.
“Tuck, that’s too much makeup!”
“It’s Santa’s Helper stage makeup, honey.”
“Santa’s Helper? I look like Santa’s Hooker!”
“Here’s your bag, Candy Cane Girl!” He passed me a bulging red velvet sack with a long shoulder strap. It was packed with gourmet chocolate-dipped red and white candy canes and green peppermint sticks,
Ticket to the North Pole
printed on each cellophane wrapper.
“Whoa, this is heavy.”
“Sorry—but you’re now doing the work of
two
promo candy girls.”
“Ouch. Don’t elves have a union or something?”
“Okay, sweetie, get upstairs,
smile
, and show those folks the true meaning of a Hollywood Christmas!”
I climbed the wide marble staircase to the enormous Rose Reading Room. On a normal day, this stately space with its massive windows and majestic chandeliers was library-quiet, with brass lamps glowing on heavy tables of darkly stained wood. Tonight, raucous laughter and children’s holiday ditties (“Frosty,” “Rudolph,” “Jingle Bells”) were echoing loudly off the high ceiling.
The room’s chandeliers were still burning brightly, but the reading tables had been replaced with twelve-foot-tall candy canes, toy soldiers, rag dolls, and a Santa sleigh as big as my Honda. On one end of the room an open bar had been set up in front of a wall-sized enlargement of a children’s picture book cover—the one this Hollywood movie was based on. At the other end of the long space, a temporary stage was flanked by two foam “snow” mountains.
“Hey, there, little elf. Got something sweet for me?” called a male voice.
I turned to find an extremely tanned guy in a tux shooting me with a trigger finger.
Gritting my teeth, I reminded myself that this flashy PR event was also a fund-raiser for charity. But after fifteen minutes of passing out confections to little ones, I realized I’d attracted an embarrassing amount of Big Boy attention, and I looked for a place to hide.
That’s when I spied Breanne. She was stunning, as usual, in a pine-colored taffeta dress with a kicky flared skirt and a bolero jacket dripping with hand-sewn gemstones. Her long blond hair was piled high to show off her annoyingly swanlike neck, and her slender back was turned to me (a lucky break).
As I moved to hide from her—behind a giant toy soldier—I realized a dashing, dark-haired guy in Armani was ogling my cleavage. A few seconds later, he finally noticed the face above it.
“Clare?!”
“Matt!”
“What are you doing here?” he whispered. “And why are you dressed like that?”
“I’m here to have a talk with Dickie,” I replied.
“Dickie? Why? Wait! Don’t tell me—” Matt took a long belt from the tumbler in his hand. “I don’t want to know.”
“You better get back to your wife.”
“I know,” Matt griped. “She’s royally pissed at me for taking off to grab your new kitten—who’s safe and snug in the duplex, by the way. I refilled Java’s food bowl and bought some kitten chow at a convenience store. The box is in the cupboard.”
“Thanks. I mean it.”
“It’s okay,” he sighed. “Anyway, you’re right. I better get back to Bree. If she saw me talking to you right now, with you dressed like that—” He took his good old time looking me up and down, then blew out air. “I’m pretty sure she’d be wearing my private parts for earrings come Christmas morning.”
“Hello! Good evening!”
A diminutive man in a spotless white tux had stepped up to a microphone on the temporary stage.
“My name’s Dickie. Welcome to my pah-ty,” he said with what sounded like a slight Bronx accent.
Loud applause greeted the man. As it intensified, I made a study of the famed party planner. With dark hair slicked back, a spray-tanned complexion that bordered on burnt orange latte syrup, and a Botox-numbed face, the Napoleon-sized Celebratorio (whose younger photographs cast him as a Dean Martin lookalike), now struck me as a cross between George Hamilton, Austin Powers’s Mini-Me, and a Madame Tussaud’s wax figure.
I moved to get closer to the stage. If Dickie decided to dash away without notice, I wanted to be in a position to follow him. But my movements were halted when strong fingers wrapped tightly around my upper arm and a man’s hot breath tickled my ear—

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