Holiday Grind Read online

  “I don’t understand.”

  Vicki shrugged. “He was practically doing it every night in the restaurant. Telling jokes, making his customers laugh—he loved doing that. Then the economy tanked, and those financial district guys lost their jobs and half their life savings. In, like, six weeks, Dad’s base just dried up.”

  “So he lost the restaurant?”

  “Not right away, Ms. Cosi. He loved his business to death, like, literally. He refused to close, just kept borrowing money to keep it going, spent a ton on ads in the papers, discount coupons, online stuff, but it didn’t work. Then his drinking got really bad and my parents’ marriage went right down the tubes with his business. That’s when I came to work for you. I was supposed to take over the restaurant one day, run it as my place. That’s why I didn’t even bother with college. I figured my future was all worked out, you know?”

  I blinked, still absorbing this revelation. “I remember when you first applied to work here, Vicki. You told me you had hostess and barista experience, but you never said your dad owned the place.”

  She shrugged. “I thought it would look better if I didn’t mention that Daddy gave me a job seating guests and making espressos. I mean, it worked, didn’t it? You hired me.”

  And very nearly fired you, I thought but didn’t say.

  That’s when I remembered checking Vicki’s references—an older woman at a Staten Island number had sung her praises over the phone. Had that been her mother? Well, it didn’t matter now. I remembered Alf telling me that he was a reformed alcoholic. He’d confessed he’d had to live in the New York shelter system for a few weeks earlier this year. But the only thing he’d told me about his old life was that his marriage failed after he lost his income and life savings.

  “So you see now, Ms. Cosi? That’s why Omar Linford had my dad killed,” Vicki declared, staring at me as if I were supposed to follow her logic.

  I shook my head.

  “Dad never paid Linford back. Not one red cent.”

  I took a breath. “Listen, I understand how upset you are, but it’s common knowledge that restaurants are a risky business venture. More of them fail than succeed. Bankruptcy isn’t uncommon. This next-door neighbor of yours—this Linford—he had to be aware of the risk going in.”

  “Linford isn’t some bank. He operates outside the law.”

  “Is he a loan shark, Vicki? Is that what you’re saying? Because if this man is involved with organized crime, we should contact the FBI.”

  “No. He’s not a gangster, Ms. Cosi, at least not the kind the FBI bug and take photos of and stuff. The loan looked legit. It was drawn up by Linford’s lawyer—but it was made through one of his business accounts in the Cayman Islands.”

  “So?”

  “The Cayman Islands! Hello! Tax cheat heaven. Home of crooked investment bankers and laundered drug money. Linford even lives there for part of the year!”

  “That still doesn’t mean Mr. Linford is a killer. Your dad never mentioned any of these things to me. Did this man Linford ever actually threaten your father—with a phone call or note, anything like that?”

  “Nothing I can prove. But I’m sure Linford is involved in my father’s murder—” Tears sprang into her eyes and the pitch of her voice turned almost heartbreakingly desperate. “I’m afraid he’s going to go to my mother next, force her to sell our house or something, you know? Pay up or the same thing will happen to her.”

  I exchanged worried glances with Esther. “Has this man contacted your mother? Threatened her?”

  “No, but he might. He might even come after me, use me in some way to force her to pay the debt!”

  “You told Detective Franco all this?”

  “He said he’d ‘follow up’ on it,” she said, again using air quotes. “But I could tell he thought I was just paranoid, that Dad’s killer was just some random mugger, not part of a conspiracy or something. He kept looking over at that other guy—the Chinese cop, Detective Kong.”

  “Hong,” I corrected.

  “Whatever.” She threw up her hands. “Look, they were both nice and polite and everything on the surface, but I could tell they thought what I was saying was dubious. That’s why I need you, Ms. Cosi. You and Daddy were friends. I need someone to help who actually cares.”

  I checked my watch, remembering that Mike had mentioned he was going to speak with Franco’s partner and give me an update on the case. But I hadn’t heard from him since we’d parted this morning. Alf’s case was an NYPD matter now; the next move on solving it was really Sergeant Franco’s and Detective Hong’s.

  Sergeant Franco, I muttered to myself, recalling the man’s insufferably condescending attitude. Sergeant Franco . . .

  By rights, I should have been fine with letting the professionals handle this and persuading Vicki to do the same. If nothing else, the conventions of modern life—from pushbutton pod coffeemakers to the 24/7 media—wanted us all to act like nothing more than passive observers. After leaving my fine arts program to have a baby, however, I never considered myself a passive anything.

  “These cops will never catch Daddy’s killer,” she said, taking hold of my arm. “I’m begging you, Ms. Cosi. Check out this Linford guy. Please. Do it for my dad—”

  “Okay, Vicki,” I said, quieting the nerve-racked girl. “I’ll look into it. I will. I’ll see if I can find something that will get the NYPD to take you seriously—”

  Or else get you to calm down and see that you’re wrong.

  Vicki nodded enthusiastically. I didn’t know yet what I was going to do, but seeing the relief on the girl’s face made me believe I’d at least said the right thing.

  As I gave her another hug, I glanced at the occupied tables around us. Professional journalists regularly canoodled with their laptops in coffeehouses all over this city, and mine was no exception. The accusations Vicki made—naming Linford so loudly as her dad’s killer, pleading with me so emotionally to get involved—weren’t exactly the kind of thing I’d want to read about in tomorrow’s tabloids.

  But the few people with laptops were absorbed in their work, and I knew them as regulars—two NYU undergrads, a young lawyer from a nearby firm, and a doctor from St. Vincent’s Hospital up the street. There was only one person looking our way: that gorgeous thirtysomething redhead who’d nearly run me over the previous night at the Blend’s front door.

  She was sitting alone, a few tables away, nursing a latte, her scarlet curls framing high cheekbones draped in porcelain, her doll-like eyes staring openly at me. She was studying me with such intense interest that I wondered if she wanted to talk.

  Maybe she actually wants to apologize for her rude behavior?

  I deliberately met the woman’s eyes to see if she would gesture me over—but she immediately looked away.

  I let it go.

  I doubted very much that she was any kind of writer or reporter. The previous times I’d seen her in here it was never with a laptop, PDA, or work of any kind. Travel brochures, exclusive catalogs, and high-end fashion magazines were all I’d ever seen her paging through as she nursed a drink.

  Socialite. Trust fund baby. Trophy wife—any or all of these ungenerous labels were what I affixed to the woman in the banks of my memory, and I dismissed her interest as either boredom or some sort of imagined vendetta she now had against me for our momentary confrontation the night before.

  Great, that’s all I need in my life: an aging Paris Hilton with a sociopathic grudge.

  Meanwhile, Vicki was explaining to me that she had to leave. “I have to meet with Brother Dominick about Dad.”

  “Alf had a brother in the city?”

  “Not that kind of brother. My dad didn’t have any siblings. His parents are dead, too. Brother Dominick was Dad’s boss at the Traveling Santa headquarters—”

  “He’s a Catholic monk?”

  “He used to be. His first name’s really Pete, but all the guys playing Santa call him ‘Brother,’ even though he left th
e order years ago. Anyway, Brother Dom is the one making arrangements for my dad’s funeral.”

  “Why isn’t your mom doing that?”

  “Mom doesn’t want any part of it,” Vicki said, a little bitterly. “I doubt she’ll even show.”

  “Oh,” I said, pausing as that sank in. “Well, don’t be too hard on her, Vicki. When a marriage breaks up, it can be painful. Your mom’s probably still focused on her anger, and she may even be in denial. The grief for your dad will come in time.”

  Vicki’s mouth tightened, and her hazel green eyes went cold. “You don’t know my mother,” she said, and then she rose and grabbed her coat. “Well, thanks for doing what you’re going to do, Ms. Cosi. You have my home phone number, and Esther has the number for my cell. Call anytime.”

  We hugged again, and then Vicki headed for the door. When she was out of earshot, Esther turned to me. “I don’t know if she’s paranoid about this neighbor of theirs or not, boss, but I’m sure Vicki will appreciate anything you can do.”

  “What do you mean, anything I can do? We’re going to be working together on this one.”

  Behind her black glasses, Esther’s eyes went from their typical, world-weary squint to freak-out wide. “Excuse me?”

  I bolted back the remains of my mochaccino and set down my cup. “I just decided. You and I are going to start investigating Alf’s death right now.”

  “What?!”

  “Listen up, Esther. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to need a partner—and tonight you’re it.”

  NINE

  “WHAT are you wearing?” Esther whispered fifteen min utes later.

  “For what we’re about to do, I needed something black and grungy.”

  “Well, boss,” she said, making a theatrical show of looking me up and down, “you scored.”

  In the apartment upstairs, I’d shed my pressed slacks and sweater, replacing them with scuffed black denims, a navy turtleneck, a faded Best Mom in the World sweatshirt, and worn hiking boots leftover from my snow-shoveling days in Jersey. I’d draped a dark hoodie over it all and weighed down its deep pockets with a few devices I thought I might find useful on the little outing on which I was about to embark.

  “What about me?” Esther asked, gesturing to her ensemble. “Don’t I need to change, too?”

  From her rectangular glasses to her steel-toed shoes, Esther was usually dressed for skulking around in the dark. Tonight was no exception: shiny dark pants (leather, pleather, vinyl?) topped with knee-high boots. I paused for a moment, considering the Renaissance level of cleavage bulging out of her sweater’s plunging neckline—a garment layered over what looked like a deep purple lace-up bustier. (Since she’d started dating BB Gunn, aka Russian rapper Boris Bokunin, elements of Esther’s wardrobe had taken a decidedly racy turn.) Then again, her Doctor Who scarf was the length of a football field and her ankle-length black duster would certainly provide enough warmth.

  “You’re fine,” I told her.

  Unfortunately, our route to tonight’s snoop wasn’t.

  Dante Silva had begun bussing empty tables near the front door. When he saw my street duds, he laughed—loudly—and moved to stand right in front of us.

  “Carumba, boss! Heading out for a rumble?” With one hand he brushed his shaved head in what I took to be a gang sign. “Did you join the Crips or the Bloods?”

  “The Latin Kings,” Esther replied flatly. “Her café con leche won them over.”

  Dante folded his tattooed arms and regarded us. “No kidding, you two, where are you cruisin’ together?”

  “Out,” I replied, grabbing Esther’s arm and hustling her around the overly curious painter.

  So far, so good, I thought, until someone else noticed me.

  “Sister Clare! Is that you?!” The voice was male, the Jamaican lilt all too familiar.

  I looked across the room, surprised to see Dexter Beatty sitting with Matt. When did he get here?

  “Come yuh!” Dexter waved me over with a grin. “Come, come!”

  Dex was in his early forties; his Rasta dreadlocks, which he always tied back on the job, were now loose, framing his light-skinned African features like a cocoa-brown mop. As Esther and I approached his café table, he pointed to us and said something to my ex-husband.

  Matt turned in his chair, and his gaze immediately narrowed on my oversized black hoodie. “What are you dressed for?” he demanded.

  “The latest trend,” I said flatly. “Gangsta chic. I’m surprised Breanne didn’t tell you about it.”

  “Clare, what are you up to?”

  “Not a thing,” I lied. “Java needs Cat Chow. Esther’s coming with.”

  Matt scowled. “You mean you’re not all dressed up to play detective again? Because I’ll tell you right now, Clare, it’s a bad idea. You shouldn’t get involved in—”

  “Don’t be paranoid! I told you where I’m going.” Time to change the subject. I turned to Matt’s friend. “And how are you, Dexter?” I chirped with more perkiness than a caffeinated Brady sister.

  “Good, good,” Dex answered with a nodding grin. “You must come to Brooklyn, Clare, and see my shops all decorated for the holiday.”

  “Yes, of course. You know I love your shops!”

  No forced perkiness there. I really did love them. Like my grandmother’s grocery, which had kept the Italians in her zip code supplied in fresh mozzarella, prosciutto di Parma, salt-packed Sicilian anchovies, and chestnut flour; Dexter’s three Taste of the Caribbean shops kept the pantries of West Indians stocked up with pigeon peas, chicken feet, freshly cut sugarcane, ginger beer, scary-hot Scotch bonnet peppers (for your jerk seasoning), and burnt sugar syrup (for your black cake).

  Also like my Nonna, Dex was a stickler for authentic products, and that included coffee. Given the world market, the Caribbean was far from a major coffee-growing player, but Matt routinely sought out its coffees for Dex—from Haiti, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, even St. Vin cent, where a single coffee farmer was attempting to bring back the crop to his tiny island home.

  Dex also depended on Matt to acquire one of the most expensive varieties of coffee on the planet: Jamaica Blue Mountain. Some roasters mixed JBM with less expensive beans to make a blend. But Jamaica Blue was such a smooth, mild brew that cutting it negated the entire reason for drinking it. My Village Blend JBM was pricey, but it was pure—which was one reason Dex dealt exclusively with us for that particular import.

  Anyway, with the winter holidays Dex’s busiest and most profitable selling season, I was surprised to see him here this evening.

  “And speakin’ of holidays,” Dexter continued. “This Blend of yours, she looks magical. The lights, the tree, the little jingle bells—to the fullness, sister!”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “And this holiday latte—” Dexter raised his glass. “Sweet!”

  “Sweet, huh?” Esther broke in. “Which one are you drinking? Because I still think Tucker’s candy cane concoction is borderline insipid.”

  “Well, that one may be. But this one’s a marvel!”

  Okay, now I was downright curious. It must have shown, because Matt caught my eye and explained.

  “I asked Gardner to mix up Dex his Caribbean Black Cake from last night’s tasting.”

  Dex took another sip. “The flavor of rum comes through first. Then the nutty sweetness of the brown sugar. And cinnamon is ticklin’ my tongue at the end, the way it tickled my nose at the beginnin’. I taste a note of heavy fruit flavor, too—”

  “That’s the black currant syrup,” I said.

  Dexter sipped again. “There’s a hint of somethin’ more. Somethin’ dark, sweet, earthy—”

  “Chocolate.” I smiled. “Gard and I agreed that authentic black cake is so rich it tricks the taste buds into thinking chocolate is one of the ingredients; we compensated with a splash of my homemade chocolate syrup.”

  “Clever! And what other flavors are you offerin’, Clare?” He glanced
around the shop. “Where is your holiday menu?”

  I shifted uneasily. “To tell you the truth: I had mixed feelings about putting it up. Something happened to a friend of mine last night and suddenly the whole Taste of Christmas thing feels . . . I don’t know . . . wrong.”

  “Cha!” Dexter threw up his hands. “This Black Cake Latte brings me right back to the islands. I tell you that’s a gift, Clare, a gift for your customers, bringin’ them back to a time and a place with the simple magic of flavor. I sip this drink, and I’m with my madda and aunties again, weeks before holiday bakin’ day, when they all got together and started soakin’ their black cake fruits in wine.”

  Before I could reply, he turned to my ex. “What do you think of these drinks, Matteo?”

  “Sorry.” Matt shrugged. “Fa-la-la-la Lattes just aren’t my thing.”

  Dexter frowned at his friend’s reply. “Hmmm, well now . . .” Dex said, catching my eye. “We know what is Matteo’s thing, don’t we, Clare?” He pointed to a very familiar glossy-paged publication among the papers and trade magazines on the café table.

  I smirked when I saw it. Talk about being brought back to a time and a place. For my ex-husband, the Christmas season didn’t start until the Victoria’s Secret holiday catalog arrived in the mail. Perusing its pages was an annual event.

  “You never change, do you, Matt?”

  Matt squinted. “A man has a right to shop for lingerie gifts, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I said, “but my problem was never with your giving the gift of lingerie, just the number of women you gave it to.”

  Dexter opened the racy catalog. Many of its pages were marked with Post-its—color-coded Post-its. What the coding system was, I could never bring myself to ask.

  “That one’s a stunner.” Dex tapped one of the scantily clad models.

  Matt frowned. “Are you blind? She’s got beady eyes, her lips are too thin, and her legs are bowed.”