by Cleo Coyle
“You could have shared some of these details with me.”
“I was embarrassed by the whole thing. It showed my stupidity as a new business owner, and I didn’t want you thinking badly of me. You’re a friend, Clare, but you’re also a good customer, and I didn’t want to shake your confidence in my ability to run my bakery well . . .”
My mind began working. “Janelle, when this St. Nick worked with you, did he spend any time with Moirin Fagan?”
“Of course! M was one of my two part-time girls, and after I fired him—for sexually harassing my other girl, who quit on me—I promoted M. She jumped right in and started doing double shifts. She was like an angel to me.”
“Where is this guy?” I peered down the first-floor aisle.
“He’s on the mezzanine,” Janelle said. “I haven’t seen him yet, but half an hour ago, a customer asked me about the other chef here who got his start in New Orleans. She handed me his business card, and Boris had to hold me back from storming up there and strangling the snake!”
Matt broke in. “I think I know who you mean, Janelle. And I think I know why the organizers put him on the mezzanine.” He smirked. “Boy Toys and Barbies.”
“What do you mean?” Janelle and I asked in unison.
Matt checked his watch. “That kiddie show is supposed to last forty minutes. Why don’t we go upstairs right now? Boris can watch Janelle’s table, and you two ladies can see what I mean.”
Thirty-nine
WE hurried down the deserted main aisle, took the escalator up to the mezzanine level, and I stopped dead at the top. Unfortunately the stairs kept moving and Matt crashed into me.
“Clare! What are you—”
“It’s him,” I whispered.
“Him who?” Matt asked.
“The Mystery Man!”
“Another superhero?” Matt quipped, glancing at the action figure display. “I can’t keep track.”
“Mystery Man isn’t a toy . . .” I pointed. “He’s the man I thought was Dave. The one I saw Moirin talking with right before she was murdered!”
Janelle followed my finger and smirked. “That’s no man, honey. That is St. Nick, my former assistant baker, and a sneaky varmint in sheep’s clothing!”
“That’s Nick Bacque?” I faced her. “Why didn’t you tell me he was the one who spoke to Moirin at the last Cookie Swap?!”
“Clare, I had no idea that man was even at the last Swap! The only guy you asked me about was Dave, and you never described him to me!”
Matt frowned. “Whoever he is, ladies, the guy’s a real operator.”
I glanced back across the mezzanine and saw what Matt meant. It appeared Nick was taking full advantage of the deserted floor. He’d left his own baker’s station in the Boys’ Toys section and moseyed over to Dolls to hit on the beautiful honey-blond baker positioned there—Rita Limon.
I remembered Rita from the last Swap. Her “Little Match Girl” table was incredibly clever, especially those edible matchsticks—Cherry-Topped Brandy Snaps, the ones that hockey star Ross Puckett tried to get a buzz from by sucking out the fillings.
It was clear to me now why the party organizers stationed this attractive pair up here. Nick Bacque was the perfect boy toy: a young raven-haired Ken doll in black formal wear and black silk shirt.
Rita Limon was a vivacious young Barbie. Even from this distance, I was impressed with her South American–themed display table. And I could understand why the opposite sex would find her physical charms even more appealing than her pastries.
In her short, pencil-thin dress of gold glitter, Rita was a striking vision with salon-colored hair that flowed like honey in a stylishly smooth ponytail down to her narrow waist. Fit and young, she projected an air of approachable elegance.
Nick Bacque was certainly captivated. We watched while he attempted to nuzzle Rita’s neck—until she roughly shoved him away. From that gesture, and the unhappy expression on her harried face, she needed someone to run interference.
“Let’s help her out,” Matt said, stepping forward, but I held him back.
“No. I don’t want you to rattle this guy, Matt . . .” Not before he answers my questions about Moirin. “Let Janelle and me handle him.”
Matt folded his arms. “Are you sure?”
I scanned the mezzanine. “Tell you what. Be our backup. You go left, circle around through the Boy Toys display. Janelle and I will move straight in and confront him head-on in the Barbie section. You can come up behind him, and if we’re in any trouble you can jump in.”
“Got it!”
With our battle plan set, Matt took off through the superhero aisle.
And just in time, too. Nick’s advances were becoming more aggressive, and Rita was losing control of the situation. I paused to decide on the best approach, but Janelle was not nearly so cautious.
“Take your slimy hands off that woman, you skeevy little skunk!” she bellowed, storming forward.
So much for not rattling the guy!
Forty
NICK saw Janelle’s determined charge and backed off, but only a little. Janelle continued her blitz, rolling right up to him, hands on hips.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my old straw boss,” Nick said with a smarmy smile.
“Straw boss?!” Janelle blinked at the terrible insult, obviously hurt. “How could you call me that? I gave you a valuable apprenticing opportunity, taught you, worked side by side with you. I was no straw boss. I was a real boss, and you stole from me.”
By now, I’d caught up with the bickering pair, and Rita Limon exchanged surprised glances with me. Together we watched the two go at it.
“I stole from you?” Nick scoffed. “You are either confused, or stupid.”
“Neither,” Janelle replied. “I was naive. Trusting. But I caught up with your tricks. You were double ordering everything, only I never saw the other half of those deliveries, did I?”
Nick smirked and folded his arms. “You signed off on every order I placed. If there were errors, you should have caught them earlier.”
“There were no errors!” Janelle cried. “The stuff came in the front door, and went out the back—and always when you were on duty.”
Nick practically laughed through Janelle’s rant. “There is nothin’ you can prove. I got you pegged right, darlin’ . . . Stupid.”
“Excuse me, Nick,” I interrupted. “But I saw you talking with Moirin Fagan at the last Cookie Swap. What were you two discussing?”
Nick seemed to notice me for the first time. He ran his eyes along my body, from my simple black dress to my work-ready ponytail and low-heeled pumps. Certainly, I was no Rita, but that didn’t stop the man from switching on the smarmy charm.
“Why do you need to know, sweet thing? Were you jealous?”
“I want to know because she’s dead.”
“I know she’s dead. I read the papers. You think I killed that little thing?”
I met his gaze head-on. “I don’t know what you’re capable of. Answer my question.”
“Sure, sugar. Come closer. I’ll whisper it into your cute little ear.”
Nick snaked his arm around my waist. Janelle exhaled in disgust as I quickly slipped his grip.
“You told Moirin what?” I demanded.
“I asked Moirin if she wanted a raise. I wanted to hire her for my new bakery.” Like a stage magician, Nick flicked his fingers and a business card appeared between them.
“Give me a call,” he purred. “I’m hungry for business, and I cater to . . . every need.”
He tried to tuck the card into my cleavage. I slapped his hand hard.
“Why, you’re a little spitfire, Clare Cosi. I like that!” He grinned wide, as if this was a game—one he enjoyed playing.
“How do you know my name?” I demanded.
“I know lots of names in this town, sweet thing. The ones that count. And I can provision your little ol’ landmark coffeehouse, too.”
“Over my dead bod
y,” I replied boldly. (To be honest, I was bolstered by the sight of Matt skulking behind Nick, near a display for radio-controlled cars.) “And I’d like to know just how you managed to wheedle your way into the Cookie Swap with a barely opened bakery?”
“Last week, I dropped by the Bryant Park Grill to let the Swap director know I’d be happy to help out at the last minute—if any of her other bakers let her down. Well, Sobel’s Bake Shop . . . you know the joint? On the Upper East Side? Poor Sam had a fire on Monday, a real bad one. I once did a little part-time work for him, so I stepped in to pass out Lebkuchen, Pfeffernüsse . . .” He snapped his fingers; another card appeared there. “And a whole lot of business cards.”
He offered it to Janelle this time. She ripped it to pieces.
“You prefer my cell phone app?” he quipped.
“What else did you and M talk about?” I demanded.
Nick shrugged. “I might have warned Moirin to be real careful with the recipes she ‘shares’ while she’s working for Janelle.”
“What are you saying?” Janelle cried, bewildered.
“How many dang recipes did I come up with? Recipes that you peddled to food companies? To websites and magazines? Where do you get off calling me a thief, straw boss? I’m the guy who got cheated!”
“I paid you good money for those recipes,” Janelle shot back. “And you knew the score. Everything you created belonged to me.”
“Produce a contract that states that in writing and I won’t call you a damned liar.”
Janelle’s face softened, as she tried to understand Nick’s betrayal.
“I hired you as a colleague, Nick, and a friend. We did business on a handshake—”
“In writing,” Nick said, expression hardening.
Janelle’s expression soured, too. “You knew the score, Nick.”
“And you’re a cheat, Straw Boss—”
“¡Ay Dios mio! Will you shut up already?”
The command came from an unexpected source: Rita Limon, and it was followed by a string of Spanish invective that began with “¡Tonto de burro estúpido!” and ended with something that, accompanied by a hand gesture, seemed obscene enough to make world-traveling, multilingual-cursing Matt Allegro blush.
“You’re just like my ex-husband,” Rita continued. “All charm and big talk, which slowly turns into intimidation and lies. You are nothing but a con man, Bacque.”
Rita’s verbal assault was unexpected. It embarrassed Nick while killing any hopes he may have harbored for hooking up with her tonight. It was enough to melt down his Cajun cool.
“You wetback bitch,” he bit out. “Who you callin’ a con man—”
Nick physically lurched toward Rita. I was sure he was going to strike her, but before Janelle or I could stop him, he was cut short by a huge, radio-controlled outback jeep that somehow slammed right under his legs.
With a howl Nick flew backward, crashing over the toy and into a display of limited-edition Prince William Ken dolls. Boxes covered with colorful Union Jack packaging rained down on the sputtering Cajun.
I whirled in time to see Matt toss aside a remote control, then hurry forward to help Nick to his feet.
“Sorry about that, old sport,” Matt said, affecting a fairly convincing upper-crust, yacht-cap-wearing, lockjaw tone. “Can’t imagine where that toy came from! Perhaps you should get back to your table before something else happens?”
Nick, livid and sputtering curses, tried to break away from Matt.
“Now, we don’t want any trouble,” Matt warned. “Or I’ll be forced to report you to Mother, an influential member of the Cookie Swap board.”
In a fraction of time that defied particle physics, the furious, violent Nick Bacque was replaced by the charming St. Nick.
“Oh my! Please excuse my off-color remarks, sir. And thank you so much for your assistance,” he said, gushing oilier than a well of Texas crude. “Perhaps I can give you my business card?”
“A capital idea!” Matt declared, throwing me an eye roll as he led the jerk away.
Forty-one
WITH a firm hand on Nick’s shoulder, Matt guided the Cajun boy toy back to the Boys’ Toys.
“I think he’ll behave now,” Matt said when he rejoined us.
“Thank you, amigo. I can’t stand men like that!” Rita confessed. “Probably because I married someone just like him. I was young. Estúpido.”
Rita spoke with a Latin lilt, but her English was perfect.
“Can you believe that puto wanted to hook up in that little kid’s party room after the Swap?” She gestured to a frosted glass door beside the store’s giant floor piano. “He suggested we have a little party of our own.”
“Oooo, yuck!” Janelle and I cried together. (The toys must have been getting to us. We were starting to sound like little girls at a slumber party.)
“Your table is awesome, Rita,” Janelle gushed.
“Totally,” I said, nodding in agreement.
“Thank you! Please, sample anything you like!”
Matt grinned and rubbed his hands together. “I think I’ll start with a Brigadeiro.”
Rita laughed. “Nostalgia?”
“Yeah. We both know they’re not exactly haute cuisine,” Matt replied, accepting the tiny paper holder from Rita’s manicured fingers. Inside was the simple, chocolate-sprinkle-covered truffle.
“What is that?” I asked.
Rita smiled. “Try one! No children’s party in Brazil is complete without it.”
“I’ve been to enough of them to know,” Matt replied and popped the tiny, sweet ball into his mouth.
I bit into mine and my taste buds were instantly drenched in creamy fudge deliciousness. An extra depth of flavor told me coffee also lurked somewhere in Rita’s unique recipe.
“I’ll have one of these eight-pointed stars,” Janelle said. “They’re made of puff pastry, I see.” When she bit into the treat, the crust crumbled all over her chef’s jacket.
“My bad,” Rita said, passing Janelle an extra napkin. “I’m still new at this. Serving Pastelitos de Cajeta at a party like this was a big mistake.”
“Don’t sweat it, honey,” Janelle replied. “You’ll learn. That’s why I cut my napoleons into bite-sized pieces. We all make mistakes. But at least yours is a delicious mistake!”
“Aw, thank you!”
Janelle finished her star and brushed the mess away. “And the cajeta—it reminds me of penuche! You make your caramel from goat’s milk, right?”
Rita nodded. “And a bit of rum. So yummy.”
I reached for a simple shortbread cookie from a tray of them, shaped like stars, bells, and angels. As I suspected, the cookie melted in my mouth like butter—or, more precisely, lard.
The New York’s food police might not approve, but animal fat was a staple of Latin American cuisine. Anise tickled my nose, and from the sugary sweetness of the cinnamon, I guessed this was a Mexican delicacy.
“New Mexican,” Rita explained. “Biscochitos are a favorite at Christmastime. You’ll find them all over the Southwest, too. I saw them in Arizona, when I worked as a cook at a resort spa.” She laughed. “I couldn’t serve them, though. Not at a health spa!”
“How long have you been at this, girl?” Janelle asked, as impressed as I was by her skill.
“My sister and I both baked all of our lives. When I first came to America, I worked at the resort. One of the ladies who went there liked my dishes so much that she brought me here to New York, and I became a personal chef to her wealthy family. The pay was good, and I saved up enough money to bring my sister Linda to America. Then I caught a little break with some TV exposure. It helped me find backers, and I was finally able to quit my personal chef’s job and partner with my sister to open our dream bakery.”
Matt’s yummy sounds were interrupted by a sharp buzz. “Damn,” he said, checking the text message. “Breanne is outside, waiting.”
Matt extended his hand. “Wonderful to see you again, R
ita.”
“And you, amigo,” she replied, her smile as radiant as it was genuine. “Come visit us sometime! All of you! The main shop is near Columbia University, and we just opened a kiosk in Grand Central’s food court.”
Matt promised he would and departed.
I invited Rita to stop by my Village Blend, and she said she looked forward to it.
“Well, I’d better go, too,” I said.
Rita, Janelle, and I shared hugs. Then we headed our separate ways, and my mind started working.
When this party is over, I’m calling Lori Soles . . .
Nick Bacque was bad news, and she needed to hear all about him.
I also planned to catch Rita before she left tonight. Once I got her away from Nick’s line of sight, I’d ask her about the first Cookie Swap. Last week, her station had been near the front doors. She might have seen Nick follow Moirin outside or even heard a conversation between the two—
A simple statement from Rita Limon to the police could help begin to close Moirin’s case.
“Is Rita still up there?”
The question interrupted my thoughts. I was just stepping off the escalator when a woman approached me. It took a moment, but I recognized her.
She wore makeup tonight, and her mouse-brown hair had been styled to curve perfectly around her chin. She wore a red party dress, too. But even if I hadn’t remembered her from our brief encounter at the Bryant Park ice rink, I would have known her by tonight’s two nanny identifiers: a utility tote bag over her shoulder instead of a designer purse; and the cheap, flat shoes. (You can’t wear designer heels when you’re tasked with three solid hours of chasing after high-energy children.)
“Oh, hello,” I said. “How are you enjoying this week’s Swap? Did you ever try our Candy Cane Latte?”
The nanny seemed puzzled a moment, then smiled brightly. “Oh, that’s right! I remember! Yes, yes, that latte was delicious.”