by Cleo Coyle
Stifling a scream, I dropped to my knees beside her.
This woman wasn’t homeless or some nameless party guest. She was my part-time employee, poor, missing Moirin Fagan. And she wasn’t sleeping or passed out drunk.
She was dead.
Three
THIRTY minutes later, Moirin and I were no longer alone, and the park was lit up again, but not with Christmas lights.
My frantic 911 call brought wailing sirens. Four police officers responded in two cars. Two of the cops led me away from Moirin’s body and asked me to wait near the skating rink rail, outside their police perimeter.
Paramedics arrived next. Then came plainclothes detectives, the Crime Scene Unit, private park security, and a Con Edison crew. Now flashes of red, orange, and yellow glinted from official vehicles along 42nd Street.
The snow wasn’t yet sticking to the ground, but it was aggressively swirling. A figure approached me through the pelting flakes. This cop I recognized—Detective Lori Soles.
Her ivory cheeks were rosy, her yellow cherub curls squashed under a brown fedora. I looked around for her usual partner, Sue Ellen Bass, but I didn’t see her.
For years, Soles and Bass had been regular customers of my Village Blend. The two had started their detective careers as partners in the Village’s Sixth Precinct. Dubbed “the Fish Squad,” they had been transferred recently to a midtown station.
“How are you, Clare?” Lori began.
“I’m fine.” But hot tears stung my eyes as I said it. I swiped at them with a gloved hand, and Lori handed me a personal pack of tissues.
“Your nose is running,” she said.
And my mind is spinning.
Half an hour earlier I’d approached the park’s carousel in an attempt to save a human being from a hazardous situation. But there was no saving Moirin Fagan. Not now. Not ever.
She’d been more than lively at the party; she’d been alive, and I couldn’t help but feel that I’d failed her. When she disappeared, I assumed she was shirking work. I never even tried to look for her. That hard truth was tearing me up inside.
What in the name of heaven happened?! Who did this to her and why?!
“You knew the victim, is that correct?” Lori asked.
Too choked up to speak, I nodded. Then I blew into the tissue and cleared my throat. “Her name is Moirin Fagan, but she preferred we call her ‘M.’ She’s an Irish immigrant.”
“Could you clarify your relationship with Ms. Fagan?”
“Moirin worked for me part-time. She’s a holiday season hire.”
“What were you doing inside the park so late, Clare?”
“Earlier this evening, there was a private party at the Bryant Park Grill. I managed the specialty coffee service. I stayed late to help with cleanup, and . . .”
“And?”
And wait for Mike Quinn, who never showed.
“Clare?”
The state I was in, I wanted to spill every thought in my head—about Mike’s travel plans, my frustration with his changing decisions, my fight at the party with his ex-wife. But Lori knew Mike as a fellow detective, and it was all so embarrassing. It also felt incredibly trivial in the face of Moirin’s murder.
“And,” I finally replied, “that’s all.”
“Ms. Fagan was at this event? Is that right? Working for you?”
“She was there, but she was working her primary job, as an assistant to a pastry chef.”
The wind kicked up, low thunder rumbled in the distance, and chunks of hail began to mix with the flakes. On the carousel, the detectives in sterile white CSU suits began to look like blurry abominable snowmen.
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to hurt Moirin?” Lori asked, blinking against the bitter onslaught.
I thought back over the day. “There were a few odd incidents, at my shop and then at the party. I think they’re worth noting—”
Before I could continue, an impatient voice interrupted us.
“Detective Soles? Could you finish up quickly with that witness, please? The real work is over here.”
Lori’s answer was flat. “I’ll be right there, sir.”
She frowned at me. “Sorry, Clare. Please wait for me here. I’ll be back soon to finish taking your statement.”
I grabbed her arm. “Let me go with you. Your colleague may have questions for me.”
“Detective Endicott doesn’t like to question witnesses. He prefers to review written statements.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“But I knew the victim. And I was around Moirin for much of the day. I can help piece together a timeline for you—and tell you about some odd encounters I witnessed at the party that involved Moirin. They may be important to note.”
I could see the tug-of-war behind Lori’s gaze. She didn’t want to piss off her sergeant. But she clearly agreed with me. “Okay, come with me,” she said. “But be warned, Cosi. Fletcher will want a DNA sample from you.”
“Fletcher? That’s his first name?”
“Detective Sergeant Fletcher Stanton Endicott.”
“Stanton as in?”
“Our current mayor, Warren J. Stanton. They’re first cousins on his mother’s side. And, yes, he uses that connection—without shame—whenever and wherever it will advance his person.”
“And he’s your boss?”
“My new senior partner—temporary partner.” She didn’t have to add thank goodness, I could see it in her eyes.
“What happened to Sue Ellen?”
“Medical leave.”
“Is she okay?”
“Line of duty injury. Broken arm and some serious bruises.”
“Oh my goodness. I hope it was worth it.”
“She thinks it was. Some gangbanger made the mistake of roughing up an elderly woman in a purse-snatch within sight of her. The guy had a running start, but my girl brought him down like a cheetah on the veldt. They both plowed into a pile of garbage cans and a fight ensued.”
Yeah, that sounds like Sue. “Is the perp in the hospital, too?”
“He’s lucky he is.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m a crack shot. If I’d been at the scene, he’d be in the grave.”
O-kay. “So what’s the story with Endicott? Is the man as insufferable as his tone?”
“You’re a smart one, Cosi. You’ll figure it out—”
“Detective Soles? Are you hearing impaired?” the man called again. “You’re needed!”
“You heard him,” she said as she led the way to the crime scene.
* * *
THE carousel was illuminated, but not with its own cheerful lights. Standing halogen spots were positioned around the ride, their harsh beams focused on the corpse. In the cruel radiance, Moirin’s waxy face contrasted with a crown of ink black hair and the scarlet blood splatter that haloed her battered head.
Two technicians in matching white CSU overalls and paper booties cautiously moved around the body, snapping photographs, gathering samples of hair, of litter, of anything that might prove to be a clue. They worked fast, attempting to capture what evidence they could before snow began covering the scene.
When Lori and I tried to pass through the carousel gate, a barked command stopped us.
“I do not want this crime scene contaminated! Remain outside the perimeter.”
A man stepped away from the CSU white-suits, and I was suddenly in the presence of Detective Fletcher Stanton Endicott. A head shorter than the men around him, the detective was nattily dressed in a tweed jacket and maroon sweater vest, visible beneath transparent plastic coveralls that swathed him from head to ankle. Endicott also wore paper booties, thick protective glasses over small, round spectacles, and a cellophane hat that revealed a receding blond hairline.
With one gloved hand he held up a digital recorder. “Soles, my notes on chapters one through five of my new novel have taken up nearly all of my memory. Do you carry a d
igital recorder?”
“Sorry—” She waved her narrow, leather-bound notebook. “I still do it the old-fashioned way.”
“Fine. I’ll dictate my preliminary report, and you will take notes and transcribe them back at the precinct.”
Lori stiffly nodded, teeth noticeably clenching.
“Step closer to the fence, please, so I do not have to shout, and remember to stay outside the perimeter.”
As we carefully approached, I caught Lori’s eye. “New novel?”
“He writes crime novels,” she whispered.
Endicott frowned at me, his eyebrow arching. “Excuse me. Who is this?”
“This is Clare Cosi,” Lori replied, “the victim’s employer. She discovered the body—”
Before she could continue, Endicott scowled and stated: “Ms. Cosi has contaminated the crime scene. I’ll need hair samples and clothing fibers from everything she’s wearing.”
Before I could say a word, he gave us his back. Then his head suddenly swiveled, and he locked eyes with me. “You weren’t chewing gum, were you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then I think we can forgo the DNA swab—for now.”
Lori grunted. “You got off lucky,” she whispered.
“And what’s going on with the electricity?” Endicott bellowed. “Why can’t we get this carousel’s lighting system to work? Between the floodlights and horses, I’ll have nothing but glare and shadows in my photos!”
“Con Ed’s working on it,” a technician replied. “But it may be half an hour or more before it’s powered up.”
Endicott massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger and glanced up at the miasma of snow-filled sky. “We’re battling weather, so the floodlights will have to do, but subpar documentation of transient contextual evidence will not help our pretrial presentations.”
I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, Detective Endicott. Isn’t it a little premature to talk about a trial? You haven’t caught Moirin’s murderer—unless you already have a suspect in mind.”
“I have science in mind, Ms. Cosi.” He flashed a smirk. “Modern forensics will reveal the killer’s identity.”
“So you don’t have a suspect?”
“I don’t have a name. But if our CSU detectives do their jobs right, we’ll find the key to the killer’s identity inside this perimeter.”
“Moirin has been working closely with me for six weeks. Perhaps I can help.”
“Ms. Cosi could be an asset for us, Detective,” Lori jumped in. “We’re lucky she knows the victim. She has good instincts, and members of the PD have reached out to her before.”
“Why? Is she a private investigator?”
“I manage a landmark coffeehouse in Greenwich Village,” I explained. “I’ve been part of the community for a long time. People in the neighborhood trust me and I try to—”
“You’re an informant, is that what you’re trying to say?” Endicott finished with disdain. He shook his head at Lori. “You know how I feel about informants. They’re akin to glorified gossips. Such methods are not reliable—which means they’re not my methods. You know that, Detective Soles.”
Lori shot me an apologetic look. After clearing her throat, she tried again.
“But Ms. Cosi has informed me that she witnessed pertinent encounters at a party involving the victim.”
“That’s true,” I chimed in. “The incidents seemed unimportant, but looking back, I think you should hear the details. One of the encounters involves her boyfriend, another a high-profile sports figure, and I also witnessed—”
“High-profile sports figure, you say?” Endicott’s eyes lit up. “Yes, perhaps I should hear this background personally. Take notes, Soles.”
“Yes, sir. Go ahead, Clare . . .”
“Well, it all started with the wooden stirrers.”
“Wooden what?”
“Coffee stirrers. About two hours into the Cookie Swap, we ran short. So I ducked back to the restaurant’s supply closets and found Janelle Babcock already there.”
“And who is Janelle Babcock?”
“She’s the pastry chef who employed Moirin on a full-time basis. M worked in my shop only part-time. Tonight Janelle needed her behind her cookie display table.”
“Go on.”
“Like I said, when I got back to the supply area, I found Janelle there in a desperate search for doilies.”
“Excuse me? Did you say doilies?”
“Yes, Detective . . .”
Four
“PAPER doilies!” Janelle exclaimed with a good-humored frown. “I’m almost out of them!”
“Let’s team up,” I suggested. Flipping back the cotton tail of my Mrs. Claus hat, I told her about my stirrer crisis.
Apparently everyone wanted to try our new Caramel Swirl Latte, a drink you were supposed to stir between sips to boost the caramel flavor. Tuck called it interactive. I called it a bona fide hit.
The buttery-sweet caramel sauce looked delectably decadent oozing down the glass mugs, and the buzz for the drink had swept the party. I hadn’t anticipated this, however, and my wooden stirrer supply was nearly depleted.
“You check the closets on the right,” I said, “and I’ll check the ones on the left.”
“Oh, girl, I’m tellin’ you. My doily issue is worse,” Janelle pattered as she ripped open one door after another.
She looked adorable tonight in her special chef’s jacket and toque. This wasn’t her usual baker’s whites. The Mardi Gras party jacket was a tie-dyed tribute to her New Orleans roots. The green, purple, and gold tones complimented her café mocha skin, and the custom cut of the jacket flattered her ample hips.
“I was all ready to serve two cookies per doily, but the models and actresses in this crowd—they’re all demanding, ‘Just one cookie, no more,’ which completely threw off my doily-to-cookie ratio!”
“I can’t find any doilies,” I called. “How about plain paper napkins?”
“Sorry, but my little babies look their best on lace!” She slammed another door. “I mean, c’mon, y’all, can’t you enjoy a few extra calories? It’s the holiday season. No, they say. ‘Just one please’ and I’m going through doilies faster than you-know-what goes through a goose!”
“Found some!” I waved a box of small paper lace doilies, one hundred count.
“You’re a lifesaver, Clare!” She clutched her disposable treasures. “And before I forget, please tell Tucker he’s a lifesaver, too. His ‘Storybook Cookie’ idea was genius . . .”
Janelle was referring to the first Cookie Swap baker’s challenge. Tonight’s donations benefited a major literacy program, so the theme for this challenge was “Storybook Cookies: Treats Inspired by the Tales of Christmas.”
The New York Public Library provided books and prints as props, and the pricey tickets entitled guests to free cookies from all of the participating bakers’ tables—including a take-home Swap box—and beverages from my Village Blend station.
“I’ve handed out almost as many business cards as I have these dang doilies!” Janelle happily informed me.
“I’m not surprised. Your table is beautiful . . .”
At Tuck’s suggestion, Janelle based her cookie creations on O. Henry’s “The Gift of the Magi.” The impoverished husband of the story longs to give his wife the jewel-rimmed tortoiseshell combs for her lustrous hair. The wife wants only to give her husband a shining platinum fob chain for his prize possession—a gold pocket watch. The climax of the tale is timeless.
“Did you see Lisa Logan, the actress from that bizarre new Christmas movie?” Janelle asked.
“Santa Claus, Zombie Hunter? No, haven’t had that pleasure.”
“Well, Ms. Logan made a big show of taking one of my jewel-candy-rimmed comb cookies and sticking it into her hair while a bunch of paparazzi took her picture! Last time I saw her, she was still wearing my cookie! You can’t buy that kind of publicity, Clare. And the little kids love—
I mean love—my gold pocket watch cookies! Most of them just learned to tell time, and I set each watch at a different hour. So Moirin and I quiz the kids who come to our table. If they’re right about the time on their pocket watch cookies, we give them Sugarplum Fairy cake ball treats as a prize!”
“That’s wonderful. But I have to warn you: Tuck saw your display and he has a nit to pick. The wife’s gift in the story is a fob chain, not a watch.”
Janelle raised a hand. “Listen here, I tried making a cookie out of a watch chain. They came out of the oven looking like a tray of swamp snakes!”
“Point taken.”
Janelle glanced at the wall. “Speaking of clocks, is that the right time?”
I checked my watch. “It’s a little fast. I have ten minutes to eight.”
“I’ve got to hustle. Roger Clark from New York One is supposed to interview me with two other pastry chefs at eight o’clock!”
“Then get moving. I’ll deliver the doilies to Moirin.”
“You saved my bacon again—but what about your stirrers?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll find some. Go and wow ’em!”
We parted at the kitchen door. Janelle headed to the Grill’s patio, where the local media had set up cameras by a Christmas display, and I moved to the dining room, where the crowd was thickest.
For the first ninety minutes of the party, the big excitement had been around the ice rink, where the captain of the New York Raiders hockey team was hanging with the kids, taking photos and giving impromptu lessons. From what I saw through the Grill’s big windows, the children were having the time of their lives.
At this hour, the hockey star was off the ice, but the kids were still skating their hearts out, while inside the restaurant, costumed carolers now serenaded the adults, who continued mingling, nibbling, and sipping.
My spirits had been flagging, but they were lifted by Janelle’s positive energy—and then I reached her display table, where a wall of hard muscle, swathed in Armani and a whiff of alcohol, brought me to a puzzled halt.
“Come on, you must have something with booze in it,” the ice blond giant insisted. “A whiskey scone or a rum raisin something or other?”