Once Upon a Grind Page 6

  “We didn’t say we found them. We found them.” Matt pointed to the children. “Ask them.”

  He glanced at Molly and Jeremy, who were continuing to argue with their mother. When he turned back, his suspicious lawyer gaze was no longer on Matt. Now he was focused on me.

  “Exactly how do you know these children, Ms. Cosi?”

  “Through their father, an NYPD police detective on assignment with the Justice Department in Washington.”

  Van Loon continued to frown down at me until Matt pointedly added—

  “Clare is in a relationship with the man.”

  “Oh, I see . . .” Van Loon’s stiff posture instantly relaxed. “I was trying to cognize why I witnessed the hostility toward Ms. Cosi from the children’s mother. But now that you’ve explained the personal situation . . .” He shook his head and actually broke into a smile before suppressing it.

  Oh, brother. Before I could give him something else to cognize, he lowered his voice.

  “Let me ask you something. Did the children tell either of you how they got here? I mean, did anyone—especially members of our festival staff—lure them into the woods?”

  “No, nothing like that . . .”

  As I explained how the search began first for the Pink Princess, and then the lost dog, Van Loon began patting his many pockets. Finally, he came up with an engraved silver case, out of which he produced two cards with little loons on them (the feathered kind).

  “For the record, I may have to contact you two again, after I speak with the kids and get their side of tonight’s events.”

  Gritting my teeth, I reminded myself that lawyers—like cops—had to get everyone’s side of the story. It was the naked condescension I could have done without.

  Van Loon handed over his cards. “It’s merely a formality. We want to avoid exposure, and protect the festival from legal action. I have your contact info, now you have mine, and—”

  Jeremy’s strong voice interrupted the lawyer. “No way, Mom. We’re not leaving the park without Penny.”

  With a frosty look, Leila tried to silence her son. It didn’t work.

  “I told Molly I would find Penny and I’m going to do it,” he declared, his expression displaying a determination beyond his years. Like Mike, I thought again, and almost smiled—almost because the kids’ distress over their lost dog was heartrending, and their mother’s attitude wasn’t helping.

  I pushed past the lawyer and stepped up to Molly.

  “We’ll find Penny,” I promised her. “Matt and I will bring her home tonight.”

  My ex shot me a dubious look. But Molly’s face brightened, and that was all I cared about.

  “Can you really find her, Aunt Clare?”

  I squeezed Molly’s hand. “I’ll do my best.”

  “If you can’t find Penny, I’m coming back, first thing tomorrow,” Jeremy declared.

  Leila opened her mouth to speak—and for once thought better of it.

  Samantha Peel never said a word during the encounter. She sat in uncomfortable silence, hands in her leopard print lap, obsessively playing with one of her chunky rings while Leila and the kids climbed aboard the cramped buggy.

  Is Sam embarrassed by all this? I wondered. The woman was a socialite who traveled in elite circles. Charity balls, celebrity fund-raisers, black-tie galas—these were the tent poles of her year. I’d served coffee and croissants in Manhattan long enough to know how her species acted (and reacted). For someone like Sam, appearances were everything.

  Did she think the story of two lost kids would hit the papers? I couldn’t imagine why. They weren’t lost for very long. It all seemed like very small potatoes.

  Oh, well, one glass of imported vino, and Samantha Peel would forget all about this little hiccup in an otherwise smoothly run event. And Harry Van Loon, attorney-at-law, would be relieved that Mike’s ex-wife had no grounds to sue the festival.

  “Excuse me, folks . . .” The policeman sidled up to us. “The mother gave us a description of the dog. I’ll notify Animal Control to look out for the collie in and around the park, but . . .”

  Matt sighed. “Don’t get our hopes up?”

  The cop shrugged his shoulders. “Give it your best shot, your royal highness, but don’t stay in Central Park too long. In that getup, you never know what kind of trouble will come your way.”

  SIXTEEN

  AS the electric buggy rumbled away, I waved good-bye to the kids. When the vehicle was out of sight, Matt turned to me.

  “Mission accomplished,” he declared. “Let’s go home.”

  “Some Prince you are. You go. I’m staying to look for Penny.”

  Even in this gloom I could see the frustration on Matt’s face.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “I already know. It’s like finding a needle in a haystack—”

  “A needle with four legs and a will of its own.”

  “We have to try. I told Molly I’d do my best.”

  But it wasn’t only that; I was spurred by the thought of what could happen to a little lost dog in a city where human beings sometimes vanished without a trace.

  Matt noted my resolve and rolled his eyes to the starry sky. “Gee, I can’t think of a better way to spend a Saturday evening in Manhattan. Can you?”

  “You’re a prince.”

  Matt snorted.

  “Just let me call Mike and we’ll go.”

  “Where?”

  “Back through the Arch and into the Ramble. That’s where Penny ran off.”

  Matt nodded and crossed to the middle of the bridge to give me privacy. He didn’t have to. Quinn didn’t pick up. I left a voice mail message, letting him know his kids were okay.

  He was likely in the air by now, which meant our weekend plans in DC were ruined. But his kids were safe, and I thanked their guardian angels for our lucky outcome.

  “Let’s go, Clare, it’s getting late . . .”

  Leading with the Maglite, Matt guided us back through that giant stone keyhole and into the woods.

  * * *

  “HERE, Penny, Penny. Penny!” I called. “Come on, girl . . . Come to Mama . . . Here, Penny, Penny, Penny!”

  This went on for some time until the yelling and the hiking became too much, and I paused to take a breath.

  “Thank you,” Matt said. “I was getting a migraine.”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of whining?”

  “I can’t whine on the job,” he replied. “Obsessing about a bad hotel room or a busted Rover in some underdeveloped country is flat-out indulgent. I mean, I’m living like royalty compared to the hunger, disease, poverty, and lawlessness I see on my coffee-sourcing trips. For me, whining has become a first-world luxury I only enjoy at home in New York, surrounded by the people I love—”

  “Shhh!” I cut in, not that I minded Matt’s complaint about complaining, but I thought I’d heard—

  Bark!

  “Did you hear that? Here, Penny, Penny!” I shouted. “Come to Mama!”

  Bark, bark, bark!

  Before Matt could react, I snatched the flashlight and leaped into a bush.

  “Clare? Are you nuts? Stick to the path!”

  “You stick to the path! Try to circle around and meet me on the other side.”

  I lost Matt’s reply in my headlong juggernaut through the brush.

  I hopped fallen trees and rocks, and crashed through low-hanging branches, their fingers shredding my babushka. I pulled it off completely and nearly screamed when the creepy silk of cobwebs tickled my face. Frantically shaking them off, I kept moving, toward the sound of Penny’s bark.

  “Come here this instant!” I commanded, using my “stern manager” voice.

  In reply, I heard a whimper and saw that Penny and I were separated by a tangle of shrubbery too dense to break through
and too high to clamber over. As I sought a way around the foliage, I was stopped by an ominous growl.

  “Penny, is that you?” I whispered.

  Suddenly Matt’s crack about wild dogs seemed believable.

  This is silly, I told myself. It’s only Penny.

  That’s when a snarling ball of fur burst through the shrubs and knocked me backward!

  My head hit something hard and the purple sky was suddenly bursting with meteors and flashing with comets. I raised my arms to fend off tearing claws, dreading the sharp fangs that were about to close around my throat.

  Instead I felt a wet, warm tongue on my cheek, accompanied by lots of heavy breathing.

  “Bad dog,” I moaned, wincing when I touched my head.

  The little collie sprawled on the ground beside me, wagging her tail and whining in canine gratitude. Penny was still trailing her leash, and I wrapped the strap around my wrist.

  “Let’s see you slip away now!”

  The knock on the head made me weak, and when I sat up, a wave of nausea hit me. Next came a blast of chill air that cut right through my peasant costume.

  I’d been cold for the past hour, but I’d hid it from Matt, fearing he’d drag me back to the coffee truck. Now I could no longer control my shivers, and my teeth started chattering.

  “Let’s g-g-go home, girl.”

  I rolled onto my hands and knees—and spied an eerie glow through the branches. I blinked to make sure they weren’t concussion fireworks and realized the Maglite had been knocked from my hand into the brush.

  As I reached for it, I saw the brilliant beam illuminating a figure. A young woman’s body was sprawled on the ground.

  Oh, no . . .

  I crawled backward, the shock adrenaline rush rattling my already aching head.

  Penny strained against her leash to get to the motionless form.

  “Penny, sit,” I commanded, pulling her back. Reluctantly the dog complied.

  Now I was the one hurrying to get to the girl. Gently, I touched her skin. The alabaster flesh felt cold as winter stone, and I flashed on a life-sized porcelain doll, cast into the wilderness. But this wasn’t a doll.

  Holding my breath, I held two fingers on the underside of the girl’s slender wrist. There it was! The flutter of a pulse—

  She’s alive!

  The wind had piled leaves around her face and body. I brushed them aside to reveal long golden hair and a pink Sparklewear gown. The hope in my heart from the proof of life instantly plummeted to a dark, tangled place.

  It can’t be . . .

  With frantic fingers I freed the Maglite from the brush and lit the young woman’s face. This was no stranger. This was Leila’s mother’s helper, Molly’s much-beloved “Annie,” and Matt’s missing partner, the Pink Princess.

  Now I knew what had kept Penny in the woods. The little dog had found her friend and was trying to guard her from harm.

  Like Penny, I had found Anya.

  But was I too late to save her?

  SEVENTEEN

  WITH all speed, I dialed 911 and explained the situation.

  Other than a faint pulse, there were no signs of life. Anya’s eyes were closed, her hair matted with leaves, and her complexion whiter than egg shells. I shook her motionless form, called her name over and over, but she never reacted.

  “What’s your location?” asked the emergency dispatcher.

  In frustration, I struggled to answer: “Up the hill from the Oak Bridge, near the curvy trail by the big rock, but not on the path, in the bushes near a tall tree . . .”

  How are they going to find us? I silently wailed. That’s when I heard the heavy pounding of horse’s hooves and whirled in the direction of the sound.

  Either my head injury was far worse than I suspected, or a mounted knight in shining armor, plumed helmet, and flowing cape was heading right for me.

  With a steamy snort, the galloping horse skidded to a stiff-legged halt. Penny barked once as the knight slid effortlessly off the saddle and dropped to the soft loam. Before the man in armor approached, he lifted his visor and raised a gauntleted hand.

  “Ms. Cosi? Don’t be afraid. I’m Officer Troy Dalecki—” The horseman flashed a badge on a cord. “I ran into Prince Charming on the trail back there. He sent me to—Oh, jeez . . .”

  Dalecki noticed the Pink Princess. Slipping off his heavy armored gloves, he moved past me and dropped to one knee.

  “What happened?”

  I shook my head. “I just found her. She’s alive, but . . .”

  Dalecki used his own flashlight to check the girl for injury. He found nothing, even when he gently turned her on her side. Finally he opened an eyelid and checked her pupils.

  “I think she’s drugged.”

  He made sure Anya’s air passage was clear and there was no danger of suffocation, then he covered her with a blanket he drew from a saddlebag.

  While Penny happily bumped noses with the twitching mare, Dalecki spoke into a radio strapped to his breastplate. He rattled off codes and a GPS position, and then demanded paramedics, ASAP.

  When he was done, Officer Dalecki shined the light on my face.

  “Oh, jeez, your lips are blue. I think you’re going into shock.”

  “Naw, I’m f-f-f-fine,” I said, teeth still chattering.

  Dalecki whipped the flame red cape off his shoulders and wrapped it around me. He tucked a generous amount of material close to my throat and made sure my arms were covered.

  “Warmer now?” he asked.

  Suppressing another shiver, I nodded, but Dalecki was no longer focused on me. He was staring again at the Pink Princess, his expression wracked.

  “She’s so beautiful,” he murmured. “What could have happened to her?”

  Meanwhile, from somewhere along the trail I heard Matt’s call.

  “Here, Clare, Clare, Clare . . . Come to Papa!”

  EIGHTEEN

  FIFTEEN minutes later, four paramedics were hauling Anya’s stretcher through the woods to an ambulance waiting on one of Central Park’s well-lit traffic lanes.

  The medics hadn’t been able to revive her, though they kept trying. In silence, I watched them work, saying prayers for the girl as they loaded her into the ambulance, slammed the doors, and sped away.

  I feared for Anya, and my heart went out to Molly. She loved her “Annie,” and this news would be devastating.

  PO Dalecki and his horse, O’Brian, had followed Matt, Penny, and me to the road. By now, the young officer had slipped out of his tunic, armor, and chain mail jerkin to reveal a rumpled gray NYPD sweatshirt and black jeans.

  Sans steel helmet, Troy Dalecki displayed a prominent jaw, French brown eyes, and hair cropped so close I couldn’t tell you the shade.

  Rubbing his cheek where the plumed helmet had left a mark, he sat me down on a park bench beside his tethered horse, opened a notepad, and began writing down my statement.

  For every question Dalecki asked me, I had one for him.

  He told me was a member of the Mounted Unit. I remembered Mike describing them as an elite, high-profile group, one the NYPD thought of as their “ten-foot-tall cops.” Dalecki was a rookie member, following in his father’s footsteps—or hoof-steps, depending on how you looked at it. The “noble knight” costume was part of his moonlighting gig, he said, and the Storybook Kingdom was only part of it.

  “I do three shows a week at the Meat-dieval Tournament and Feast . . .”

  During our talk, Penny cemented her friendship with Dalecki’s mare. The little collie didn’t mind that O’Brian outweighed her by a thousand pounds, or that the mare towered over her like a giant fresh off his beanstalk. Penny made such a fuss to get O’Brian’s attention the horse shook her mane and whinnied in playful response.

  Matt, on the other hand, was chomping at th
e bit to make new enemies, and for once I couldn’t fault him.

  Every police officer who passed us (about half the Midtown force, it seemed) had a derisive crack or snicker for my ex and his “Prince Charming” getup.

  The situation deteriorated when Dalecki was summoned by radio back to the horse trailer. He passed his notes to another cop and rode off, leaving Matt and me to wait for the chief investigating officer without our friendly knight.

  Meanwhile, a group of uniforms gathered under a nearby tree to sip Village Blend coffee. Soon Matt, the long-suffering Prince, became the butt of their jokes as well.

  “I wish you’d poisoned that coffee,” Matt groused. “I’m having fantasies of mass cop-i-cide.”

  “I have two words for you, Matt. Anger management. The police are armed. All you’ve got are tight pants and a plastic sword.”

  Matt scowled.

  “Forget about them,” I said. “Focus on Anya. When did you see her last?”

  “She took off after the giveaway at the Cotton Candy Patch. We were supposed to mingle at the joust for a couple of hours, but Anya said she had something else to do, and she’d meet me at the coffee truck at five sharp.”

  Matt punched a tree and shook his fist. “Of course she didn’t show. How could she? She was lying half-dead in the woods.”

  The intensity of his reaction surprised me, until I considered his position.

  At his “coronation” this morning, Samantha Peel had explained that all the Prince Charmings were expected to protect their Princess partners from unwanted attention (and their couture Fen gowns from grubby hands).

  Matt had failed to protect his partner—from what exactly? That was the question.

  “You shouldn’t blame yourself,” I told him. “We don’t know what happened. But I’ll find the truth . . .” (I’d also have to tell the truth to poor little Molly, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.)

  Matt shook his head. “Some prince I turned out to be.”

  I hated to admit it, but it was easier dealing with a smug Matt than a disheartened one. For one thing, in this situation, Smug Matt would be far better use.