Holiday Grind (38 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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AS we climbed into Quinn’s car, I noticed him give a quick wave to someone across the street. A short, loud
whoop
replied, and I realized Sergeant Franco had stuck around, waiting for a signal from Mike to depart. Now his blue sedan sped away, heading uptown.
“He’s going to the Dickie interrogation, isn’t he?” I said.
Quinn nodded. “They probably have him in custody by now.”
“I wish I could be there, too.”
Quinn started the car. “I doubt very much a man like that’s going to confess to anything, Clare. He’s got a lot of money. He’ll lawyer up.”
I slumped back in the seat, and we both fell into an unhappy silence for the rest of the ten-minute drive. When we pulled up to the Blend, the lights were still burning. Esther and Vicki—a barista team once more—were just getting ready to close up shop. (As it turned out, Vicki Glockner wanted to make some extra cash over the holidays, and I badly needed another trained barista. So we’d agreed to give our working relationship one more try.)
Boris Bokunin was inside, too, waiting for his Best girl to finish her shift.
As Mike pulled to a stop by the curb, I automatically reached for a handbag that wasn’t there. That’s when I remembered—
“My keys!”
“You don’t have them?” Quinn said. “Oh, that’s right. Your bag’s in that locker. Should we drive to the Public Library?”
“No . . .” My bag wouldn’t help me. I’d given
Matt
my key to the duplex. “I was going to pick up the spare at your place, but then I found Leila, and . . .”
Quinn reached out and put his hand on my leg. “Come back to my place, sweetheart. Just come back.”
“You have a key to my duplex, don’t you? I gave you one.” Quinn stiffened. “Yes.”
“Can I have it back, please?”
Quinn didn’t answer right away. For a long, silent moment, he just held my eyes. Then he rigidly reached into his pocket and brought out his ring of keys. With a heavy silence, he worked my key off his circle and held it out.
“Thanks.”
As I took it, he leaned toward me. “Clare—”
“Good night!” I climbed out, shut the door, didn’t look back. I could hear his car continuing to idle as I walked quickly through the Blend’s front entrance.
Jingle-jingle . . .
“Hey, boss!”
“Clare Cosi, Clare Cosi, the West Village posy . . .”
I said a fast hello to Boris, then Esther and Vicki, and headed right for the back service stairs. Emotionally drained, I was about ready to burst into tears and I didn’t want them to see.
None of this was easy. I was tired and hungry, badly disappointed in Mike for not trusting me, freaked out by his conceited ex-wife’s crazy behavior, and still unbelievably frustrated that after all of my efforts I wasn’t able to bring Alf’s killer to justice.
As I hauled my tired body up the stairs, a strong sensation came over me that something familiar was cooking—heavy and savory with hints of garlic and herbs. It reminded me of the holiday aromas in my Nonna’s house, and for a minute, I thought maybe her ghost was in my kitchen now, fixing me a much-needed snack.
“Don’t be silly, Clare . . .”
It’s a hunger delusion
, I decided. My stomach was so empty that some kind of foodie flashback was hijacking my senses. I slipped Mike’s key into the lock, turned it, and even imagined hearing sounds coming at me from another room of my duplex: pots and pans, laughter and voices—
“You have too many in the pan!”
“I do not.”
“You have to be
patient
, Daddy! Fry
small
batches. If the oil cools off, the shrimp will soak it up and be greasy . . .”
“I
know
how to fry shrimp, little girl.”
“I’m the pro here. You should let
me
cook for
you
—”
“Oh, I will, muffin. I expect a
full
-course French meal this Sunday!”
I rushed toward the lighted kitchen. It was true! This was
real
. My daughter was back from Paris!
“Joy!”
“Mom!”
She looked so beautiful, so grown up, standing there cuddling Alf’s little white kitten. Her chestnut hair was much longer now, spilling loosely over her shoulders. Her green eyes were bright, her wide mouth smiling in her fresh, heart-shaped face.
Her father was a few steps away, working at the stove, frying something with lots of garlic and oil.
“Am I dreaming?!” I murmured.
Matt grinned. “Glad you finally made it!” He was still in his tuxedo pants, his Armani jacket draped over a chair, his black tie undone and hanging around his partially unbuttoned white shirt.
I opened my arms. “My Joy to the World!”
Stepping up, she hugged me tight. “I wanted to surprise you, Mom. I tried your cell but I couldn’t reach you, so I called Daddy.”
“I had your key,” Matt said, “so I came back to let her in.”
“And he brought two pounds of this amazingly fresh shrimp!”
“I’ve been so sick and tired of sushi and raw bars and vegan fare—when I got Joy’s call, I decided what I really wanted was to cook my little girl up a nice big batch of Italian fried shrimp.”
I shook my head, still amazed Joy was home. “Where’d you get the fresh shrimp at this hour?”
“Easy, I was already at a private party in a restaurant. I just ducked into the kitchen and slipped a staff worker fifty bucks to grab me two pounds from their walk-in.”
Joy and I laughed as we sat down. Matt fried up those jumbo, bread-crumb-encrusted babies and we popped the hot, deliciously crunchy results into our mouths. Then I brewed up a big pot of our Holiday Blend, opened up my cookie jar of home-baked biscotti, and for the next two hours we were a family again. Matt and I caught up with our daughter about so many things!
Finally, Matt began to yawn.
“I better get back uptown. I told Bree I’d meet her at the apartment.” He checked his watch. “I’ll see you girls tomorrow, okay?”
Joy kissed her father’s cheek. I gave him a hug.
Then, arm in arm, she and I climbed the stairs together. As I made up the bed in the second room, I sensed there was something on her mind—and I remembered what Madame had assumed about Joy’s initial change of plan. Had the grande dame been wrong? (She hardly ever was.)
“So,” I pried, “your bosses
really
decided they could let you off, after all?”
“Why do you ask that way?”
“Oh, because the way you changed plans last week, your grandmother seemed to think a boy was involved.”
Joy’s expression faltered. “I didn’t want to say anything.”
Aha!
“What happened?”
“I met a guy. He’s French.”
Big surprise.
“We work together on the brigade, so we’ve spent a lot of time together—”
Score two for Grandma. Man, she can really call it . . .
“He’s so cool, Mom. He and I really hit it off . . .”
“But then?”
“But then he bailed on me. He was supposed to come home on this trip so you and everyone could meet him. But at the last minute, he said he didn’t want to come. He said if I had any delusions about his moving to America, we needed to stop seeing each other.” Joy’s eyes were filling with tears. “I think he just got scared . . . and then I didn’t want to come home, either. It felt like he totally ruined the holidays for me.”
“Sit down,” I said. She did and I put my arm around her. “I’m glad you told me. And I’m glad you decided to come home anyway.”
“Why are men such jerks?”
“Women are jerks, too. We’re all jerks when it comes to relationships. At one time or another we all let each other down. The miracle is when we figure out how to love each other anyway.”
Joy rested her head on my shoulder. “I’m glad I came home, Mom.”
“Me, too, honey.”
 
EARLY the next morning, Joy found me at the bathroom sink. She was already dressed in stressed denims and a sweater straight out of her suitcase, wrinkles and all.
“Mom? You’re up already?”
“I didn’t want to wake you, honey. It’s not even six. Go back to sleep, you must be exhausted.”
Joy shook out her newly grown long hair and reached into her pocket for an elastic band, automatically securing it into a tight, kitchen-ready ponytail.
“I’m still on French time,” she said, “so my internal clock’s gone completely to
merde
. Since I’m up, I thought I’d help around the coffeehouse today. That okay?”
I was still flying from last night’s reunion, and Joy’s words sent me soaring even higher. I was so happy she was home for the holidays, and here she was asking to spend the whole day with me? It was the best Christmas gift I could ever get.
She pointed to the sink. “What are you doing with Frothy’s jingle bell pillow?”
“Oh, Java got territorial. She sprayed the thing. It’s too bad. The two girls were getting along otherwise . . .”
Last night, a purring Frothy even curled up next to my bigger, older Java at the foot of my bed. But this morning, I found Java tinkling all over Santa’s embroidered sleigh.
“I don’t think Java liked the smell of this thing,” I said, “but then it did come from a strange apartment . . .” (With a dead guy in it, but I left that part out.) “I’ll give it a good soaking in strong soap, wash it out—that should do the trick.”
“What can I do? Make coffee?”
“Not here. You can start opening downstairs, though. Our bakery delivery guy should be here in the next half hour.”
“No problem, Mom. I’ll take care of it.” Smiling, Joy grabbed the coffeehouse keys off the table in the hall. “See you downstairs!”
I searched Frothy’s pillow for a zipper, planning to soak the inside and covering separately. But there was no zipper, just a tear in the fabric that had been closed with a safety pin. I unclipped it, and a flat, green, oval-shaped capsule clattered onto the tile floor—
What the heck is this?
I picked up the little green capsule and realized it was a flash drive, a portable computer storage device. It looked just like the flash drives I used to back up my laptop data. I put the device on the sink and searched the kitty pillow until I was satisfied it would yield no more secrets. Then I washed my hands and hurried down to the computer inside my small office on the second floor of the Blend.
I plugged the flash drive into my computer. It contained a single folder labeled CC.
“CC again?” I whispered. “Me? Clare Cosi?”
Uneasily, I opened the folder and a series of thumbnail images appeared, dated and arranged in progression.
“Macy’s Thanksgiving’s Day Parade?” I murmured, confused.
I clicked through pictures of the parade marching by an Upper West Side apartment building. Then I stopped and stared at a close-up of a man. The man’s face was familiar to me—and millions of other American women.
Oh my God.
The “CC” in the note I’d found—the one in Karl Kovic’s coat pocket—it didn’t stand for Clare Cosi! It stood for this handsome TV celebrity who was laughing with an attractive young woman, one who was clearly
not
his wife.
The next image was a close-up of the young woman. I recognized her as Waverly “Billie” Billington, the famous “Pilgrim’s Daughter” heiress who died of a prescription drug overdose on Thanksgiving night. She was the victim in the case Mike was working on.
Just then I heard someone knock on the locked door downstairs.
The bakery delivery must be arriving . . .
“I’ll take care of this, Mom!” Joy called.
“Okay, thanks,” I yelled back. As the
jingle-jingle
of the front door sounded, I placed a call to Mike Quinn’s cell.

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