by Maria DiRico
There was a slight clicking sound as Santia spoke. Mia noticed her tongue, as well as her nose, was pierced. Lines of earrings marched up each ear, ending at cartilage piercings. “Hawaii plantation? Lucky owner. I’ll go with an iced coffee.”
“You got it.”
Santia took Mia’s menu and went into the café. She emerged a few minutes later with a large glass of iced coffee, topped with a scoop of coffee ice cream and a dollop of whipped cream. An artisanal cookie that looked like a rolled-up pizzelle stood at attention in the middle of the cream. Santia deposited the drink in front of Mia and waited expectantly for her to taste it.
Mia did so. “Wow. Delicious. Thank you.” She stirred the melting ice cream into the drink. Mia got the feeling that Santia might have some dirt to share, so she gave her an opening. “This makes up for not being able to get into the gallery. I’m super bummed it’s closed. And without a sign or anything on the answering machine about it. It’s weird, you know?”
Santia’s eyes lit up, and Mia gave her instincts a smug pat on the back. “I know, right? Justine, the girl who owns the gallery, always came down in the morning for coffee and one of our croissants. They’re made with butter from our owner’s organic farm in Vermont and flour from virgin wheat that he has milled at his ranch in Colorado.”
Kuai coffee plantation? Vermont Farm? Colorado ranch? I wonder if the owner is single, Mia thought, then forced her attention back to Santia.
“So, I brought Justine her coffee and croissant, like I always do.” Santia shared this in a gossipy whisper. “She was scrolling through her phone and she suddenly freaked out. I asked if she was okay and she said, ‘Someone I know died.’ Then she ran out of the café without her order.”
“Was that the last time you saw her?”
Santia scrunched up her face. “Now that I think about it, yeah. About a week ago.” Her attention wandered to a couple pushing a Boston terrier in a stroller. They parked the stroller next to a table and took a seat. “Customers. Excuse me.”
About a week ago, Mia thought while Santia tended to the couple and their dog baby. Which lined up with Tina’s murder. If that’s what motivated Justine’s “freak-out,” it might remove her as a murder suspect. But it also indicated a connection to Tina. This was a development she could share with detective Pete. Mia held up a finger to Santia and gestured for her check. The waitress nodded. She finished taking the couple’s order and returned to Mia, handing her the trendy restaurant version of an iPad. “We’re a cashless restaurant. We take credit cards, Apple Wallet, and bitcoin.”
“I have at least one of those.” Mia pulled out a credit card. She looked at the charge and her mouth fell open. “Nineteen dollars for an iced coffee? Now I know how your owner has the money for farms and plantations up the hoo-ha.”
“Sorry,” Santia said. “Tribeca prices.”
Mia paid for the drink, then emptied it and ran her finger around the inside of the glass to get every last drop of the expensive beverage. She evaluated what she’d learned from Santia and decided on her next move: tracking down Liam O’Dwyer, the sole heist culprit who was caught and did time. That nineteen bucks bought me some seat time at this place to do a little research. Mia took out her cell phone and typed in the name “Liam O’Dwyer art heist.” The internet search only yielded old articles about O’Dwyer’s trial, conviction, and jail sentence. Nothing came up about his current whereabouts. The best way to track down an ex-con is through a current con, she thought. And I just happen to know one. She called Triborough Correctional and learned Posi was on a work crew at Astoria Park. Mia drained her glass of a little melted ice at the bottom, then pulled ballet flats out of her tote bag, traded her heels for the more comfortable shoes, and took off for Queens.
* * *
She found Posi and his fellow workers, along with several guards, picking up trash on a section of trail near the Hell Gate Bridge. “Sis, what a treat.” Posi reached out for a hug. Guard Henry Marcus cleared his throat as a warning, and Posi dropped his hands.
“Hey, Po. Henry, is it okay if I ask my brother something?”
“Long as he keeps working.”
“Got it.” Mia followed Posi as he speared littered wrappers and deposited them in a bag strapped across his chest. “I’ve got some updates on the Tina murder sitch. Turns out this guest at the shower, Justine Cadeau, was a party crasher. I’m guessing she’s the one who put the stolen painting with the gifts. She owns a gallery in Tribeca named after her, so there’s an art connection.”
“She used her own name?” Posi said, bewildered. “Can’t be a career criminal.”
“Agreed. Even I know not to do that, which is why the fake ID I got when I was fifteen said Mariah Clarey.”
“An homage with a twist. Nice touch.”
“Thanks. Anyway, a waitress at the place next door said Justine disappeared after learning someone died. I’m thinking that person who died was Tina, and Justine either panicked and ran or . . .”
“Or another body’s gonna pop up soon.”
Mia grimaced. “It sounds awful when you put it that way, but yeah.”
Posi speared what appeared to be a balloon. He checked it out and recoiled. “Ugh, a used condom. Disgusting. And people think us cons are animals.” He deposited it gingerly in his sack. “I’m assuming you didn’t come here to give me a rundown.”
“No. I need to track down Liam O’Dwyer, the one guy who did time for the crime. I didn’t find an obit, so as far as I know, he’s still around. I thought maybe you could help me find a contact for him.”
“Sure. Let me work my magic. Yo!” Posi yelled this to the crew, following it with an earsplitting whistle. They all stopped and turned to him. “Anyone here know a Liam O’Dwyer?”
“I do,” a scrawny con with a full neck tattoo said. “I did time with him at Sing Sing.” He leered at Mia. “You looking to get in touch with O’Dwyer? Gimme your number, I’ll pass it on.”
Posi cast a baleful glance at his fellow inmate. “Yeah right, Belsky. Like that’s gonna happen. Get me the number and I’ll pass it on to my sister. Who happens to be engaged to Donny Boldano’s son.”
Mia opened her mouth to protest the lie, but it replaced the leer with fear on Belsky’s face. “Sorry, miss. Congratulations, and best wishes for a long and happy future.”
“Here, here,” Guard Henry seconded with a smattering of applause. Mia swallowed her annoyance at Posi and forced a smile.
There was an anguished cry from a child, followed by bawling. Mia glanced toward a line of trees next to the trail and saw a boy around five throwing a tantrum. A young woman was having no success comforting him. Mia looked up and saw a kite stuck in one of the trees. Posi noticed, too. “Henry?”
The guard nodded and the two approached the tree. Posi grabbed a branch and hoisted himself up. He climbed to the kite and untangled it. It fell into the arms of the little boy, who instantly stopped crying. Posi climbed down a branch and swung off the tree like Tarzan. “Thank you so much,” the young woman said. She tossed her bleached blond hair back and flashed a flirty smile. “I love a man in uniform.”
Mia shot her a look. “You do know that’s a prison jumpsuit.”
The woman ignored her. “I’m a single mom,” she said to Posi. “Joint custody, so plenty of downtime. I’ll give you my number. Call me when you get out.”
Mia left Posi to his love connection and hailed a cab for the ride to Belle View. She walked into the building to find Cammie, dressed in circa-1980s Jane Fonda aerobics togs, yelling at Benjy in the middle of the foyer. “Who asked you to do that, who? No one, that’s who!”
Mia wasn’t happy to see two of her employees going at it. “Everything okay?”
She kept her tone sunny, hoping to dissipate the tension. It didn’t work. Cammie, furious, pointed at Benjy. “Mister Saturday Night here pulled aside a bunch of my Zumba students and forced his comedy act on them.”
“Forced, nuthin’,” Benjy said, defens
ive. “They liked it. They all laughed at my jokes.”
“You’re Vito Tutera’s grandson!” Cammie yelled. “They were afraid you’d kill them if they didn’t laugh.”
“My comedy kills,” Benjy said with dignity. “I don’t. Now, I got a job to do. I have to order holly for the bar mitzvah comin’ up. Why the Jews want holly, I don’t know. It’s not even Christmas. But to each his own.”
Mia drew in a breath. “It’s challah, not holly. It’s a type of bread. Call Katz’s Bakery and tell them it’s for the Telsey event. They’ll know what to do.”
Benjy gave a nod and left to, hopefully, do his job. As soon as he was out of sight, Cammie mimed strangling someone. “The wrong body ended up in the marina,” she said darkly.
“I’ll see if Dad can talk some sense into him.”
Pete Dianopolis emerged from men’s room, clad in a tank top and short shorts. Mia found the image of the detective in workout gear disconcerting but managed not to telegraph this. “I heard you yelling,” he said to his ex. “I been on the receiving end of that, so my pity’s with the other guy, but I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
Cammie waved him off. “It’s over. Although,” she hastened to add, “I’m a little shaken. Some retail therapy will help me a lot. With your credit card.”
Pete flinched, but willing to do whatever it took to win her back, said, “Do what you need to feel better, babe.”
“Pete, I’m glad you’re here,” Mia said.
“That’s a new one coming from you,” he said, surprised.
“Some interesting information has come to light pertaining to the Tina Karras murder,” Mia said, hoping she sounded as official as the characters on the procedural TV shows she watched. She detailed what she learned about Justine Cadeau, then waited for Pete’s impressed reaction to her sleuthing.
“Good lead,” he said.
“Thank you.” Mia imbued her response with modesty.
“Except I got a better one. We got the marina surveillance feed. It shows Linda Karras and Tina Karras meeting on the dock and getting into an argument.”
Mia, left speechless by the unexpected twist, stared at Pete. Was she wrong about Nicole’s mother, misdirected by fond memories of the past? After a minute, she found her voice. “You didn’t say it showed Linda strangling Tina.”
“It didn’t,” Cammie chimed in. “Linda stormed out of frame and then so did Tina.”
“Babe, you weren’t supposed to share that,” Pete said, gently reproaching her.
“Oops.” Unseen by her ex, Cammie winked at Mia.
Mia struggled to justify this new development. “There has to be another reason Linda was there. Maybe Tina called her to meet and Linda went, hoping to make things right with them.” She had a brainstorm. “Or maybe the real murderer got them both there.”
Pete glowered at Mia. “Have you been talking to Linda Karras? Because that’s the excuse she came up with. Not that the murderer called her and Tina, but that someone who wasn’t either of them called both of them. She says that’s why they were arguing. You called me. No, you called me. It’s a little hard to buy, in my book. And by ‘in my book,’ I mean the new Steve Stianopolis book I’m writing.”
Mia returned Pete’s glower. “If you’re so sure Linda is guilty, why haven’t you arrested her?”
Pete hesitated, so Cammie jumped in. “The D.A. is still ticked off about Ravello’s false arrest in the case of the stripper murder this spring, so Pete’s in the doghouse. He has to come up with an airtight case to get an arrest warrant issued or his career will be on the skids and his life will be a living hell. Did I get that right, sweetie?”
“You called me sweetie,” Pete said, melting.
Cammie gave him the side eye. “I also call my kitty sweetie, so don’t get too excited.”
“Kitten? When did you get a kitten?”
“Last week. She’s what they call a Peterbald. I named her Olga since Peterbalds are a rare Russian breed.”
“Rare.” Pete paled as he said the word, which Mia knew he had translated to “expensive” in his head.
“If you give me a ride home, I’ll let you stop in and meet her—”
Pete perked up. “Great.”
“—after you buy me dinner.”
“Wait, what?”
Cammie was already out the door. He jogged out after her. “Don’t forget to look into that art dealer’s disappearing act,” Mia called after him.
Her mood thoughtful, Mia went to her office. For the rest of the day, she shoved aside freelance sleuthing and focused on her job. She confirmed with relief that Benjy had ordered “challah,” not “holly” from Katz’s Bakery, then she booked a photographer for an upcoming wedding, and scheduled tours of Belle View for three potential customers. Her tasks for the day completed, she allowed her mind to wander back to the murder. Tina was dead and Linda was still the prime suspect. Justine Cadeau was MIA; Mia had yet to receive any contact information for Liam O’Dwyer. “What to do next,” she murmured to herself. “What to do . . .” It occurred to her that she’d yet to run an online search for the mysterious Quality Control Linens. She entered the name into her computer. Nothing came up. “I knew it,” she murmured. She texted Pete her discovery and theory that Versailles was a hotbed of suspicious activity and received a noncommittal thumbs-up emoji in return, along with the photo of a tiny hairless kitten, followed by dollar signs and tears emojis. Undaunted, Mia texted, Any paintings stolen lately? Laundry bin good means of transport.
Pete responded, Having dinner with CAMMIE AND OLGA!! Off the clock. Re: stolen art, prob not or would’ve heard. Gnite!
Mia, aggravated by a lack of forward motion, debated walking away from the whole complicated situation. Then she flashed on Nicole in her hospital bed, surrounded by her worried family. The image erased all doubt, and she typed in yet another search for images of paintings stolen from the Miller Collection. This time, photos of the location itself came up. Mia saw a website address and clicked on it. She perused the site, starting with the “About” page, which didn’t reveal any new information. She studied the website tabs and clicked on “Gallery.” A page filled with images from a variety of events appeared on the screen. A line in scripted font at the bottom of the screen read, THE MILLER COLLECTION CAN BE MADE AVAILABLE FOR SUITABLE EVENTS. “La di da, Miller Collection,” Mia said to the screen. “Let’s see if you’re interested in talking to Queens’ most exciting catering company about providing staff and cuisine for these ‘suitable events.’”
Mia dialed the number at the bottom of the web page.
CHAPTER 10
Larkin Miller-Spaulding, the Miller Art Collection’s director, proved receptive to Mia’s call, scheduling a mid-afternoon meeting for the following day. Mia, unsure her ruse would fly, suddenly found herself pulling together what she hoped was an impressive presentation of catering options the facility could provide. Guadalupe and Evans stayed late to help. The coworkers set up and photographed several levels of service, ranging from cocktail party to sumptuous five-course meal. Exhausted, Mia finally fell into bed at two A.M. Why am I awake at six A.M.? she wondered as she stared at the ceiling when she woke up four hours later. She spent a half hour trying to fall back asleep and gave up.
“I’m nervous about going back to the scene of the original crime,” she told Pizzazz after removing the parakeet’s cage cover. The bird hopped around tweeting happily, then pecked at her breakfast. Doorstop lounged on the bed, waiting for the sound of his kitty kibble to drop into his bowl. Mia filled the bowl and the cat strolled into his kitchen. She poured herself a cup of coffee, and watched Doorstop go through his usual routine of sniffing his food with disdain, walking away, then deigning to eat it. She’d only told Pizzazz half the story. Yes, she was nervous about visiting the Miller Collection, the genesis of the chain of events she was convinced led to Tina Karras’s death. But there was more at play than that. The Millers were a classy lot, reeking of refinement and ol
d money. People like them pushed Mia’s less-than buttons. Her accent was too Noo Yawk, her clothes too cheap or too flashy. Stop it, she scolded herself. You’re not pretending to be a successful businesswoman looking for new venues for Belle View’s growing offsite catering business, you are one. If only she wholeheartedly believed this.
Mia spent the next hour going through her wardrobe for the perfect outfit and hating everything in her closet. Her go-to bland black dress was showing signs of being gone-to too often. It begged for a trip to the cleaner. She tried on skinny black pants with a white shirttail top. I look like a cater-waiter was her morose thought as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. She traded the top for a gray silk T-shirt and accessorized with silver jewelry. A solid B, which is as good as it’s gonna get today.
She traipsed downstairs, where she heard her grandmother humming “Non Domenticar,” a favorite family tune. She found Elisabetta in the bedroom, modeling her own outfit of simple skirt and top, all in black. “Another funeral? What happened to yesterday’s?”
“They closed the casket just as we got there. But the funeral lunch was eccellente. That new place, Tres Amici. I brought home some leftover gnocchi in a doggy bag. Help yourself.”
Mia sat down in a rickety wicker side chair dating back to the late nineteen-sixties that decorated a corner of the room. She gave Elisabetta a dubious glance. “If you crash a funeral, should you be helping yourself to lunch? It seems kind of . . . scammy.”
“Ma, che success?” Elisabetta said, affronted. “When did my granddaughter get so nervy? It just so happens that I knew a couple of people at the funeral, so it wasn’t scammy. But I’ll tell you one thing. Philip was, how do you say? A man magnet. A couple of guys slipped him their numbers.”