Holiday Buzz

by Cleo Coyle

  “Matteo Allegro! Where did you learn to be so snide?”

  “In this town? It’s a survival skill.”

  While Madame and her son bickered, I noticed a staff directory posted on the wall. A “David Brice” was listed as activities director—and that cinched Janelle’s claim that Dave worked here.

  “Well,” Madame was saying, “you have to admit this facility is very modern. Each suite has its own balcony with an ocean view. It’s quite civilized.”

  Matt scanned the utilitarian lobby—linoleum floor, off-white walls, plastic chairs. “Mother, I don’t accept the premise that you’re going to give up a Fifth Avenue penthouse crammed with original art and valuable antiques for an efficiency apartment in this Bauhaus-By-the-Sea monstrosity. Which means you, or more likely Clare, are up to something sneaky, hazardous, and potentially illegal.”

  Matt sighed. “But now that I’m here, I’ll play along with whatever your stupid game is, provided you eventually feed me—” He glanced at the Breitling on his wrist. “Even if lunch ends up being dinner.”

  His mind made up, Matt strolled to the front desk.

  “I’d like to speak to someone in admissions, please. I think my mother might require supervised confinement . . .”

  * * *

  “WELCOME to the Evergreen Retirement Community. I’m Ellen Beesley, head of admissions. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  The impossibly slender, modestly dressed middle-aged woman rose from behind a cluttered desk and extended her hand—to Matt, of course.

  After a polite shake, Matt shed his camel hair topcoat to reveal a formfitting hunter green cashmere sweater over tight black chinos. Matt pushed his sleeves back to expose his tanned, hard-muscled forearms.

  Mrs. Beesley’s eyes appeared to pop, and her slim fingers instinctively primped her straight black bangs.

  “Please, have a seat,” she said, maneuvering it so that Matt landed in a chair right beside hers. “Now how can I help, Mr. Allegro—”

  “Matt, please,” my ex insisted. “Short for Matteo.”

  “Matt-aay-ooh . . .” She drew out the pronunciation, savoring the syllables. “How exotic.”

  “And may I call you . . . ?”

  “Nellie,” she replied, touching those black bangs again.

  “Well, Nellie, this is my mother, Blanche. She’s getting on in years and I need to find her a new place to live, where she can have the proper . . . supervision.”

  “Blanche is alone?” Mrs. Beesley asked.

  “Widowed,” Matt replied.

  Mrs. Beesley nodded sympathetically. “I’m thrice divorced myself, but I can certainly understand her anxiousness. As the weeks wear on, the lack of companionship becomes oppressive. Does Blanche reside with you and your wife?”

  “My ex-wife,” Matt corrected.

  Mrs. Beesley’s excited smile at the “ex” news was fleeting, but I caught it. I also noticed how she slid her chair even closer to Matt’s.

  “Clare maintained her emotional bond with my mother after our marriage ended,” he continued. “Though lately she’s been busy with her career, and a new romantic interest. Now Clare feels she can’t take care of Mother the way she used to.”

  Mrs. Beesley addressed Madame in a loud voice. “How are you feeling, Blanche? Was your trip taxing? Is there anything I can get for you?”

  Madame frowned. “You may decrease your volume, young woman. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my ears.”

  “Oh, very good,” the admissions administrator replied in a normal tone. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Actually, we’d love a tour of your facilities,” I said, jumping in. “Especially your recreation center. Recreation is very important to Blanche . . .”

  Mrs. Beesley frowned. “All in good time. But first I’d like to make sure that our community is the right fit.”

  “I’m sure she’d fit in anywhere,” I replied. “Provided there’s a recreation center.”

  “How is your mental acuity, Mrs. Dubois?” Mrs. Beesley asked.

  “As sharp as a tack,” Madame shot back.

  Matt caught the administrator’s eye and shook his head. Mrs. Beesley diplomatically cleared her throat.

  “You feel you’ve noticed some decline in your mother’s mental condition, Matt?” she asked.

  He nodded. “You can tell by looking at her that she’s completely lost her fashion sense.”

  “Ridiculous!” Madame sniffed.

  “As well as her sense of humor,” Matt added.

  Mrs. Beesley touched her chin. “I’m not sure these are mental health issues, clinically speaking.”

  “Blanche is bored easily and requires constant stimulation,” I interjected. “That’s why we’re terribly interested in your recreational programs and facilities.”

  This was my third-time mention of the recreation center, and I hoped Matt’s thick head would take the sledgehammer hint this time, because clearly Mrs. Beesley was paying no attention to me. Thankfully, my ex finally got a clue.

  “Clare is right,” he said. “Mother can be quite manic. ADD, if you know what I mean? She’s constantly on the go, and we’re never sure quite where. She says she’s going to her quilting circle, but we find her at a high-stakes bingo game. Last week we found her playing slots at the Queens Racino at the Aqueduct Racetrack.”

  “Oh my,” gasped Mrs. Beesley.

  “By the way, how lively is your recreation center, Nellie? Does your facility sponsor activities like quilting and bingo, that sort of thing?”

  “Oh yes. There’s an entire array of activities. No slots, I’m afraid.”

  “Posh. What am I supposed to do without slots?” Madame muttered. “I suppose you don’t allow betting on the ponies, either?”

  Mrs. Beesley leaned close to Matt and laid a lingering, sympathetic hand on his. “She gambles often?”

  “Too often. She’d lose the house if we didn’t supervise her every move.”

  Mrs. Beesley leaned even closer, until she was practically nuzzling his neck. If her chair tipped over she’d probably end up in Matt’s lap—not that she’d mind.

  “It sounds like Blanche’s gambling habit has become a challenging issue,” she said softly. “We should certainly discuss this before we consider placement at Evergreen.”

  “I’d be happy to discuss anything at all with you, Nellie,” Matt continued in an exaggerated whisper. “But not with Mother present. Why don’t you and I chat alone, while Clare escorts Mother on a tour of your recreation center.”

  Mrs. Beesley’s face lit as brightly as the LED lights on her desktop Christmas tree. “Why that’s a splendid idea, Matt-ay-oh.”

  Twenty-one

  THE Evergreen Recreation Center was a supersized playroom with a wall of glass sliding doors that faced Lower New York Bay. A wide deck of polished wood led to a beach of snow-covered sand glazed with a crust of ice, its distant shoreline foaming with frigid, crashing waves. If I could have scooped that view into a latte glass, I would have made a fortune.

  “This is quite pleasant,” Madame said, checking out the room.

  In contrast to the chilly winter panorama, the scene inside the recreation center was quite warm. Golden sunlight streamed into the space, where a gas fireplace flickered on one wall, its mantel adorned with a colorful line of hand-knitted Christmas stockings.

  An antique silver Chanukah menorah graced a table on one side of the hearth. On the other, an eight-foot spruce twinkled with multicolored lights, its piney branches heavy with white tinsel, red bows, and dozens of handmade ornaments, including a host of soapstone-carved angels.

  Although the big-screen television played on another wall, few were paying attention to its closed-captioned images. The billiards table and indoor shuffleboard court were quiet, too. Only two of the many card tables lined up along the windows were occupied; one by a group of men playing poker, another by four women working on a large quilt.

  The real action appeared to be at t
he far end of the room, where a group of residents and staff members had gathered around an upright piano. The piano sat on the floor, next to one end of a small, low stage. Most of the group stood, some leaned on canes and walkers, and a few occupied wheelchairs.

  I couldn’t tell what the group was discussing, but the conversation was curious—hushed tones followed by a loud eruption of surprise and agitated buzzing.

  “I wonder what that little gathering is about,” Madame whispered. “Do you think we shou—”

  Suddenly she yelped and rubbed her polyester-covered posterior. “My word!”

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Someone pinched me!”

  We both turned to find an elderly man wearing a rascally grin. A sky blue jogging suit hung on his scarecrow frame, and a brown fedora topped his silver head. The hat was cocked at a jaunty, Sinatra-style angle. As we stared, he touched the brim.

  “You pinched me!” Madame cried, shaking a manicured finger at him.

  “You’re darn right, babe,” replied the man with an old-school Brooklyn wink. “That’s some koo-koo carriage you’re pulling. I’m looking forward to bouncing a quarter off that rear bumper some night real soon.”

  The Rat Pack wannabe touched the brim again. Then he strolled out of the room, pushing through the double doors as if he owned the place.

  “Well, I never.” Madame sniffed.

  I stifled a laugh. “Sure you have.”

  She smirked. “So I have. But never in a place like this! And you know, Otto would be far from pleased to hear—”

  Pausing abruptly, she gripped my arm and pointed. “Clare, look at that!”

  I followed her finger to a large cork bulletin board. On the left side, a banner read: First Friday Follies, 7:30–8:30 PM. This Month’s Folly Fotos!

  Beneath were a number of photos of residents in costumes performing comedy skits, improvisations, or singing together at standing microphones. But it was the right side of the cork board that caught Madame’s eye:

  CHRISTMAS EVE SPECIAL!

  “OLDIES AND NEWBIES CHRISTMAS KARAOKE”

  HOSTED BY MOIRIN FAGAN

  SIX TO NINE O’CLOCK

  OPEN TO ALL RESIDENTS AND THEIR FRIENDS AND FAMILIES

  A red-letter Postponed banner slashed diagonally across the poster like an open wound.

  “We came to the right place,” I whispered.

  That’s when I spied a young man with dark hair replenishing the long snack table with carafes of hot water beside bags of tea, Sanka packets, and bowls of fresh fruit.

  The man’s back was turned, but from his silhouette, I had almost convinced myself this was Dave. I took a single step toward this stranger before Madame yanked me backward.

  “Don’t forget, Clare, our ‘muscle’ is back in the admissions office charming the business suit off that scrawny man-eater.”

  “Not literally, I hope.”

  “I mean it; you cannot confront this young man alone. You told me that yourself. He might be a vicious killer.”

  “You’re right. Let’s split up. I’ll keep an eye on Dave, and you fetch Matt.”

  Madame hurried through the double doors and down the hall. But I knew she would have to cross the entire length of the ground floor to reach the administration offices. I just hoped Dave wouldn’t disappear in the meantime.

  As the minutes ticked away, I kept my gaze trained on the youth’s back. Finally, he turned and walked away, pushing through the double doors and out of the recreation room.

  I followed him quietly—until he slipped a card key into a door marked Employees Only.

  Darn it! I can’t lose him. I’ve got to risk it—

  “Excuse me, Dave?” I touched his shoulder.

  He whirled, a startled look on his young Latino face. “¿Puedo ayudarle?”

  “Oh, please forgive me,” I said. “I was looking for Dave.”

  Smiling, he politely switched to English. “Dave’s in there . . .” He pointed back to the recreation center. “He’s the dude sitting at the piano.”

  The door lock clicked, the young man pushed through it, and I headed back into the playroom.

  Twenty-two

  IF David Brice sat at the piano, I couldn’t see him. The thick knot of residents and staffers gathered around the upright was as good as a human curtain. Luckily, as I crossed the room to get a closer look, their little meeting began to break up.

  A tide of rolling wheelchairs and creeping walkers swarmed slowly toward me. Only one woman in a wheelchair rolled the other way. She pushed right up to the piano bench. I moved closer, as well, until I caught my first glimpse of Dave—and halted in surprise.

  I’d been expecting a boyishly handsome, dark-haired guy of middle height, age no more than early thirties. In short, I thought I’d be meeting the same man I’d seen Moirin arguing with at the Cookie Swap.

  But this Dave, specifically David Brice, Activities Director according to his name tag, was pushing sixty, hardly the age-appropriate boyfriend I would have expected for a twenty-five-year-old club girl like Moirin.

  On the other hand, Dave Brice was not unattractive. His face, though etched with lines, sported a Kris Kristofferson–esque beard. His tawny shoulder-length hair was shot with gray, and pulled into a short hipster ponytail; a small loop of gold glinted in one ear; and his clothes consisted of distressed jeans, a denim shirt, open at the collar, and a navy blue sport coat.

  “Oh, Dave!” wheelchair woman called.

  “Yes?” Dave replied.

  “Just one more thing!”

  “You know,” Dave said, “from the expression on your pretty face, Edith, I knew you had something up your sleeve besides Kleenex . . .”

  In any given workweek, I heard hundreds of voices in my coffeehouse, but the timbre of this man’s voice gave me pause. Deep, smooth, and uncommonly resonant, it was the kind I used to hear on late-night FM radio, and I could just picture the man sitting behind a mike, sipping two fingers of Scotch between LPs.

  “If M can’t host the Christmas Eve party,” Edith continued, “then can you at least tell me when she’ll be doing her next ‘Take it Back’ session? My daughter wants to bring my granddaughters to the city, and I want them all to enjoy it with me . . .”

  From the sound of Edith’s questions, the news of M’s brutal murder hadn’t yet reached the residents here. Does Dave even know yet? I wondered. Or is he in the dark, too?

  As Edith talked, I studied the man. A shadow crossed his amiable expression. I could see that discussing M was upsetting him, and I concluded that he likely did know what had happened to the girl. But why was he keeping the truth from the residents?

  “Everyone has such fun in M’s sessions—young and old. I know my Sally and her girls will just love it, too,” Edith said. “So you’ll let me know?”

  Dave hesitated before replying. He swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was much weaker, its dulcet magic subdued.

  “I’ll let you know, Edith.”

  “You’re a good one, Dave. And I must compliment you again; last night’s First Friday Follies was one of your very best!”

  At the mention of the Follies, I realized Dave Brice was the man sitting at the piano in almost all of those bulletin board photos. Clearly, one of his duties was to help the seniors put their show on every month.

  As Edith backed away, Dave closed the piano cover, and stared into space, absently cracking his knuckles.

  I was eager to talk to him, but Matt and his muscles had yet to make an appearance. I checked my watch. For heaven’s sake, Mrs. Beesley’s grip must be harder to slip than Quinn’s powercuff hold!

  Suddenly Dave snapped out of his stupor. He swept up a small pile of sheet music into a blond leather messenger bag and fastened it. Then he stood—and I frowned.

  The man was tall, at least six feet with long limbs and a sturdy chest. Despite his age and thickening middle, the guy didn’t look like anyone’s pushover. Of course, Matt ha
d twenty years on him, but that was about it.

  He noticed me then, and gave me a polite nod—as if I were a family member here for a visit. In a few long strides, he was across the playroom and pushing through the double doors.

  As he moved down the first-floor hallway, I shadowed the man, hoping he’d stay in a public area. Instead, he turned a corner and went through a heavy fire door marked Exit.

  Oh crap, he’s leaving the building!

  Thinking fast, I untied the thin decorative scarf from around my neck and draped it over the door’s handle. Then I moved through the doorway and found myself in a service stairwell.

  Footsteps clanged on the metal stairs below me, and I knew Dave had gone down. I did, too. Descending the short flight, I spotted him moving toward an exterior door. In another few seconds, the man would be out of the building and off to heaven knew where.

  “Excuse me!” I called from the stairs. “May I speak with you?”

  Dave stopped at my call, his hand stilling on the door’s metal crossbar.

  He turned, offering a weak smile of interest—it was practiced, slightly plastic—but his amber gaze grew sharper as I approached, making me suddenly conscious of my appearance.

  In all my life, I had never been what one might call slender. In the eyes of New York’s fashionistas, I was a total fail. In the eyes of most men I encountered, however, my curvy pieces apparently fit together just fine.

  Ever since my late teen years, when I’d finally shed the baby fat of my nonna’s home cooking, my carved-out Italian curves seemed to magnetize male gazes. According to Matt, my figure was “lush.” In Quinn pillow talk, I was “temptingly ripe.” Less than comfortable with the attention, I discouraged it daily by tying on my Village Blend apron.

  At the moment, however, I was sans apron, and Dave Brice seemed to be considering my topography like a man mildly suspicious of newly presented terrain. His gaze traveled up my charcoal gray slacks, moved over the bend in my hip, made a switchback-like return to my nipped-in waist, ascended and descended the generous gradients in my butternut sweater, and arrived (finally) at my face.