by Cleo Coyle
I did indeed. Madame owned the town house we now sat in, but I’d seen far too many businesses in the neighborhoods around us build loyal customers at one location, only to find themselves at the mercy of a greedy landlord.
I felt for Lilly’s mother, but as awful as her new landlady sounded, there was nothing I could do about her. On the other hand, there was one lady I could do something about—Helen Bailey-Burke.
“She’s obsessed with getting justice for her daughter,” Terry insisted. “She has the money to do it, too.”
But did she have the criminal mind to go even farther than justice? Did Helen exact vengeance by killing Dr. Land and attempting to kill Lilly? Or did someone else drive that van? Was this an instance of murder for hire? Would the murderer try to kill Lilly again?
“Sorry…” Terry glanced at her watch. “I have to go. I’m working the three-to-eleven.”
I appreciated Terry’s help and told her so. Now I had plenty of answers. I just had to let Buckman know what they were. So I pulled out my phone and began to dial…
It seemed to me that Dr. Land had protected his career. Terry had protected her friend. Lilly had protected her mother and son. But no one had protected an eighteen-year-old girl named Meredith Burke—and somebody out there cared deeply about that.
Whether it was the girl’s mother or someone else, Buckman would have to find evidence to prove it. I wasn’t thrilled about giving Max these incriminating papers, but this wasn’t a kid with a slingshot. This was life and death.
At least I could be sure of one thing: Mad Max would do everything he could to protect Lilly Beth Tanga, and that was good enough for me.
FORTY-SIX
THE Driver took a sip from the cup, glanced around the coffeehouse. No one was looking. This was going to work. It truly was going to work…
Calm down. Just wait. Watch and wait.
At tonight’s reception in Central Park, victim and patsy would be together again. The Driver expected to be there, too. All the plans were drawn up—and the payoff would be huge.
The Driver felt confident, yet a spider of apprehension began to creep its way in…
The wineglass didn’t work. What if something else goes wrong?
This next deadly outing was inevitable, ingenious. But what if…
No. No! No changing lanes!
The wheels are in motion for a greater good. No matter who has to die, there is no turning back…
FORTY-SEVEN
“I still can’t get over it,” Nancy said, eyelids batting. “Franco in formal wear.”
“I know,” I said. “He looks good enough to stand on tonight’s wedding cake.”
“What about your daughter’s wedding cake?” Nancy cooed.
“I’m not sure of that yet, Nance. I was thinking of snapping a photo and sending it to her, but I don’t want to give her ideas. I’m conflicted.”
“Well, Franco’s not,” Esther told me flatly.
“What do you mean?”
“He asked Josh Fowler to snap a pic from his cell phone when he was putting up balloons. He already sent it to Joy.”
Nancy nodded. “By now, she’s probably got it on her Facebook page!”
I sighed. The world was moving way too fast…
Franco had been the one to suggest this change in his cover. In my low heels, sheer stockings, and little black dress, I was overseeing two service stations, and he wanted to move with me, blending in with the wedding guests wherever I went.
The reception was taking place on a southwest section of Central Park. An enormous white tent hosted VIP guests with flowing champagne and a raw bar stretching from one end to the other. Outside those canvas walls, strings of lights wrapped tree trunks and formed a glowing canopy over a corridor of food trucks gathered to help feed the well-heeled crowd.
Our Muffin Muse sat among a select group of street vendors: Schnitzel & Things, Korilla BBQ, Solber Pupusas, Patty’s Taco, and Wooly’s (amazing) shaved and flavored ice.
For two hours I’d been moving between our truck crew outside the big tent and Tucker Burton, who was serving Ambrosia and a smile to the guests inside—right next to the multi-tiered cherry-vanilla wedding cake.
At the moment, I was checking on our truck’s activity. We’d set up serving tables in front of the Muffin Muse to present pretty slices of our café-inspired groom’s cakes: Espresso-Glazed Double Chocolate, Orange-Vanilla Creamsicle, and Nutella-Swirled Pound, all lined up on colorful plastic plates for guests to help themselves. We had Caramel Latte Cupcakes, too. They were tucked inside custom-designed paper holders that looked like tiny coffee mugs, complete with little handles.
Thanks to Josh, we were once again displaying hand-painted balloons, this time in the shapes of the bride’s and groom’s faces—kissing, of course.
Esther and Nancy were in charge of the cake service. Dante was stationed inside the truck, pulling espresso drinks to order.
“Don’t forget, ladies,” Dante called after hearing their Franco-in-formal-wear discussion. “The man is packing under that black jacket.”
“Oh, it’s so James Bond,” Nancy said.
“Bond?” Esther smirked. “More like a bowling pin in a rental tux.”
Nancy frowned. “He doesn’t look like a super-hot super-spy to you?”
“Only if his code name is Double-O Twelve Pin.”
“Oh, Esther, I understand…” Nancy gave out a romantic sigh. “You only have eyes for Boris!”
“I realize this is a wedding,” Esther told the girl, “but please keep your sap level under control. With all this cake around, you could send me into sugar shock.”
Okay, I thought. Everything’s perfectly normal here.
Stepping away from my truck crew, I checked in with our very own well-dressed bowling pin, keeping watch a few yards away.
“Hear anything yet?” I asked.
Franco gave a little headshake. “Nada.”
Shortly before the reception began, Franco informed me that the dealers on the New York end of O Negotiante’s network finally made first contact with Matt. A text message had warned him to be ready for a meeting late tonight.
Instructions to come.
“Why didn’t they just send all the information!” I’d asked in frustration.
“Bad guys want every advantage, Coffee Lady. Until we know the venue, we can’t set up surveillance or security. They have the upper hand.”
“Oh, that’s comforting.”
“Relax. Your man Quinn’s done this before—like a hundred times or two.”
“Yes, I know. But for me it’s the first…”
Now, standing among the mingling guests, Franco threw me a pathetic little smile. “Hey, the meeting may not even go down tonight.”
“Nice try,” I said. “But you don’t believe that. Why should I?”
Under his black dinner jacket, Franco’s big shoulders shrugged. “Just trying to ease your mind.”
It was a lovely idea, but short of chugging a bottle of Dom Perignon and passing out cold, I didn’t see how that was going to happen.
I was about to head inside the tent again, when a felt a hard tap on my shoulder. I turned to find Max Buckman looming over me. He wasn’t in khakis tonight, or DIY bandoliers. He wore an honest-to-goodness Quinn-type detective suit—smoke gray jacket and slacks, white shirt, silver tie. Quite fetching, actually.
“Got it?”
I nodded. “Follow me.”
I led the detective into the rear of our truck, pulled Meredith Burke’s medical records out of my bag, and handed them over. Max thanked me. But when he turned to go, I grabbed his arm.
“Not so fast,” I said. “Tell me what’s happening.”
On the phone earlier, I’d spilled everything I’d discovered. Now he folded his arms and gazed down at me. “You did good, Cosi. What more do you need to know?”
“Are you going to arrest Helen Bailey-Burke?”
Buckman shifted on his feet. “My team’s
in high gear off what you found, I can tell you that. We’re putting a case together against her. Twenty-four hours, maybe, we should be ready to name her as a person of interest.”
“She’s here tonight. Can’t you pick her up now?”
“You should know better than that. The woman will lawyer up with the best. We have to do it right, check any alibis. We may even have to surveil her.”
“Why?”
“Think it through. It’s possible she hired someone to do her dirty work. If that’s the case, we’ll need to establish a connection, payments—or promises. Otherwise, all we’ll get is the driver and she’ll go free.”
Payments. Or promises. That put my mind in motion…
Promises had certainly been made between Public Advocate Tanya Harmon and Helen. Were they only political?
“And remember that plaid shorts guy?” Buckman continued. “One of your baristas recognized him at your coffeehouse a short time ago, sent him our way. Apparently, he stops by your Village Blend on Friday evenings.”
I felt a chill, realizing that Lilly was hit almost exactly one week ago. “Did this man see the driver?”
“Yes, and he confirmed it was a woman. He said what struck him about her was her expression. She seemed so determined to hit Lilly that her face seemed frozen, like a mask. Her expression never changed.”
A mask? “Like too much Botox, maybe?”
“Don’t know. We’re sitting him down with a sketch artist now.”
“A woman was driving with a determined look,” I repeated. “That sounds like Helen, doesn’t it?”
Buckman seemed reluctant to confirm this. Something was troubling him with that conclusion. “Just steer clear of her,” he warned. “The woman’s either a killer or she’s hired one. And keep your wits about you tonight—”
“I push caffeine. I’m probably the most awake person you’ll ever meet.”
“Stay that way. You remember that wineglass we found?”
“The one on the front seat of the white van?”
“Yeah. Guess where we traced it?”
“Uh, let me see. Waterford County, Ireland?”
“Gracie Mansion.”
“You’re kidding? Our mayor’s residence!”
Buckman nodded and he didn’t look happy. “The last time anyone used that glass was during a birthday bash for His Honor.”
“Did you get any usable prints?” (Thanks to Franco, my Fingerprint 101 instructor, I knew it wasn’t as easy as it looked.)
“The prints on the wineglass were smudged, barely readable, but there was something telling in the lab report. We picked up a residue from a plastic food storage bag.”
Buckman and I both stared at each other on that one.
“You’re telling me that someone took a glass from the mayor’s birthday party, dropped it in a plastic bag for safekeeping, and then removed it from the bag and set it on the front seat of a stolen van used in a deadly hit-and-run?”
Buckman nodded.
“Frame job.”
“Obviously. And a bad one.”
Now I understood why Buckman wanted me to stay alert. The guest list at this party was nearly the same as the one at the mayor’s birthday bash.
“It sounds like Helen, or someone close to her, tried to frame someone else. Is that right?”
“That’s what it looks like. ‘But can we can prove it, Detective Buckman?’ That’s the question you should be asking, Ms. Cosi.”
FORTY-EIGHT
AS Buckman departed, I felt gobsmacked.
I thought this party would be a diversion for me, but Max’s revelation made me look at everyone with new eyes—suspicious eyes—because it was very likely that Helen Bailey-Burke had tried to frame someone at this party for murder.
But who? And why? And—as Buckman pointed out—how do we prove it?
I moved through the food-truck area and back inside the tent. Since coffee was my business, I joined Tuck at the Ambrosia station, but I was actually casting about for “persons of interest.”
Amid the black dinner jackets and designer gowns, the mayoral wannabes were working the crowd—Tanya Harmon, Wilson Seacliffe, and Dominic Chin. Members of Five Points were scattered about, including purple-haired Josh Fowler, who’d once again done up our custom-made balloons.
Two Wheels Good was here, as well, and I noticed John Fairway looking my way more than once this evening. Why? Dominic Chin was a friend of his. Did Dom tell John about my concerns with his organization?
Something else of note: Fairway had come with Warrior Barbie on his arm. She’s cleaned up quite nicely and donned a slinky dress—metallic silver, of course, just like her biking outfit. And I’d noticed she’d been talking quite intensely with Tanya Harmon. What was that about? Were they friends? Or were they both politicking?
On the coffee end, Tucker had everything under control. Our Ambrosia was flowing freely. And Matt would be happy because the compliments from guests were stellar. A celebrity restaurateur took Matt’s card from Tucker as did the mayor’s personal chef and the owner of a high-end hotel chain.
I soon found out that two of Ambrosia’s biggest fans had sent these connections our way: Councilman Chin and his fiancée, Dr. Gwen Fischer.
“This coffee is outstanding,” Dr. Fischer said, her smile genuine. “All those flavor profiles together, it’s almost magical.”
“Ambrosia describes this cup perfectly,” Dom agreed, arm wrapped around Gwen’s trim waist. “It’s a light roast, right?”
“Right,” I said. “Coffee lovers usually enjoy that bit of extra caffeine.”
Gwen took another sip and closed her green eyes to savor the taste. “You know what? This stuff almost makes up for my absolutely crappy day. One that started in a coffeehouse, by the way.”
“I hope it wasn’t mine.”
Gwen shook her red head, curled a sweep of her pageboy behind an ear. “A little hole in the wall near Columbia. I was checking messages on my smart phone, so I hung my purse over the back of the chair and someone snatched it.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It gets worse.” Gwen said. “My Volvo was parked outside, the keys were in the purse, so the creep snatched my car, too.”
I felt for her. “I hope you have insurance.”
“Plenty. But according to Dom’s mother, bad luck comes in threes, so I should be waiting for one last shoe to drop.”
“No way,” Dom said. “Tomorrow’s got to be better, right?
Despite her harrowing story, Gwen laughed through its telling. “So now you know why I’m here,” she concluded. “To drown my sorrows in Ambrosia… and raw oysters. They have a lovely selection from the Pacific Northwest.”
“Are you both foodies?”
“I love to eat,” Gwen said, “but Dom’s the cook. He really did grow up on one grandmother’s biscotti and another’s moon cakes—and learned to make both.” She touched her fiancé’s arm. “I actually fell for him back in college over a dish of his Chitalian Lo Mein. We parted ways for grad school, med for me, law for him—and I stupidly married the wrong guy. But I found my right guy again.”
“That’s very romantic—but you stumped me on Chitalian Lo Mein. What in the world is that?”
“It’s just lo mein made with Italian spaghetti,” Dom said. “But it has to start with my Chinglish marinade.”
“Tell her your secret,” Gwen insisted.
“Well, you have to understand, my Chinese grandmother makes a great marinade with Shaoxing cooking wine. But it’s not so easy to get Shaoxing outside of New York or LA, so I figured out a pretty good substitute: white rice vinegar and grape juice.”
“He should have been a chemist,” Gwen quipped.
“I should have been a chef,” Dom countered.
Dom’s Chinese cooking reference made me realize: “You two weren’t at the Dragon Boat exhibition. That was a pretty major photo-op for the mayoral candidates.”
Gwen squeezed Don’s hand. “I’m
afraid it was my fault he wasn’t there. I had a Smile Train fund-raising event that night, and Dom didn’t want to disappoint me…”
The Smile Train was such a worthy charity. I spoke to them a little more and discovered Gwen donated her plastic surgery skills to the cause.