A Brew to a Kill

by Cleo Coyle

  Could time and distance erode feelings as powerful as that? I hoped and prayed that wouldn’t happen. But I knew it could, and Mike was probably asking the very same question about me.

  Digging deep, I searched for an answer to this impossible situation. I knew God worked in his own time—not to mention mysterious ways. But I’d always trusted His plan, even when my own choices had tested the heck out of me.

  “At some point in their lives,” I finally said, “parents are supposed to start learning from their children.”

  “Are we there yet?”

  “Joy and Franco are a lot farther apart than you and I will be.” Somewhere in the tears, I found a smile. “On the other hand, you don’t Tweet. And you’re not even on Facebook.”

  He touched my wet cheek, his expression raw but real. “I love you, Clare Cosi.”

  “Hold that thought.”

  “I will,” Mike promised. “Just remember, the train from D.C. to New York goes both ways.”

  EPILOGUE

  THE following Tuesday, I kissed Mike Quinn good-bye on the platform at Penn Station. After watching his train depart, I wiped away my tears and returned to my Village Blend.

  Lilly Beth was now conscious and out of the ICU. According to the text message I’d received from Terry, she was craving a good cup of coffee, so I prepared a very special thermos of Ambrosia, and headed across town to the hospital.

  No surprise, I found Detective Buckman at her bedside. Pausing in the doorway, I watched the two of them with deep curiosity.

  Lilly was cocooned in a torso-to-ankles cast. Strapped to a tilt bed set on vertical, she was lifted to an almost standing position. Her arms were free but badly bruised from IV needles. Despite her condition, she was actually smiling.

  Max was in the process of cutting Lilly Beth a big slice of her mother’s light-as-a-cloud chiffon ube cake. “Got to say, this is the first neon blue cake I ever saw,” he told her. “Come to think of it, I once drove a Buick this color. What does UB stand for anyway? Ultra blue?”

  Lilly’s laugh was a song to my ears. “I told you before, Detective Buckman—”

  “And I told you before, the name is Max.”

  “It’s not a U and B cake, Max. It’s an ube cake. An ube is a purple yam that gives the cake its color.”

  “YOU-BEE cake,” he said, passing her the slice.

  “Ooo-bee,” Lilly repeated. “You must have it by now. I’ve said it like five times.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said sheepishly. “I just like watching you say it.”

  Lilly Beth’s eyes widened at that—and she finally noticed me in the doorway. Brushing away a tear, I moved to gently hug my friend, and for the next hour, she, Max, and I shared Ambrosia and sweet pieces of lavender-blue cloud.

  When a team of physicians came by to examine Lilly, Max and I stepped out, and I suggested we talk in the patients’ lounge.

  “I hear Quinn took that D.C. job, after all,” Buckman began, studying me.

  “He did,” I confirmed.

  “So how are you holding up?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Fine?”

  “Yeah, Max…” I tapped my watch. “After three hours and eleven minutes, no problem. Come midnight, my answer may be different.”

  “Well, I was beginning to wonder. I mean, two whole days and you haven’t once pestered me for an update on our case. A guy could think you lost interest.”

  I smiled and told him the truth. I hadn’t lost interest in our case. I simply trusted that he was motivated enough to nail the thing shut—which he did. With uniformed backup, Buckman had picked up Josh Fowler on Saturday night at JFK, just as the young man was about to board the redeye to Paris. By then, Max and his team had reviewed the evidence recovered from the computer at Five Points and built a strong case.

  Of course, Buckman wanted more than proof of a theory. He wanted a confession; and in the quiet of the empty hospital lounge, he confided to me how he got it.

  At first, Josh claimed innocence, even after Buckman played the role of sympathetic cop. “I told the kid I understood his pain over losing his best friend, Meredith, yada, yada, but he still didn’t open up. Fortunately, I had an ace up my sleeve.”

  The ace was Josh’s comic, The Revenger, in which he actually drew up and dramatized the details of Dr. Land’s murder, of Lilly’s hit-and-run, even how he planned Helen’s death in Central Park.

  “I showed Josh the printouts we made of his graphic novel, told him I’d read it, thought it was a masterpiece. If The Revenger was allowed to be published, it would surely become one of the most famous comics of all time.” Buckman paused, and I knew why.

  “That’s when you delivered the coup de grace.”

  Buckman nodded. He told Josh that The Revenger comic would never get published, instead it was destined to be destroyed. Of course, Josh freaked, demanding to know why the police would do such a horrible thing.

  “It’s your own defense attorneys who will have the comic destroyed,” Buckman claimed. “They’ll see it as evidence, not art. They’ll want to bury it.”

  Of course, The Revenger comic was Josh’s emotional button, and Buckman pressed it hard in the interview room. He knew Josh’s comic was marked as evidence and would not be destroyed. But Josh believed Buckman and, desperate to preserve his art, he confessed everything without a lawyer present, including exactly how he got the dark inspiration for these “hit-and-run murders”—attending one of John Fairway’s Two Wheels Good rallies.

  “There’s one thing I’d still like to know,” I said. “How did Josh even find Lilly Beth? I mean, Helen’s detectives couldn’t locate her. How did he?”

  “An act of God. Or bad luck,” Buckman replied.

  Apparently, on a visit to see Dante at the Village Blend, Josh recognized Lilly while she was sitting at a café table, working with me. Years before, Josh had accompanied Meredith to Dr. Land’s cosmetic surgery center, holding her hand on the way in. He’d seen Lilly that day. Seeing her again in the Blend had sealed her fate. He added Meredith’s “Filipino nurse” to his hit list.

  “Now Josh had three people to kill,” Buckman continued, “but he still needed one thing—”

  “Someone to take the fall,” I finished, and knowing the timing, I’d already guessed who and how. “Josh saw Meredith’s mother arguing with Dr. Land’s ex-wife, Gwen Fischer, at the mayor’s Gracie Mansion birthday bash, right?”

  “That’s right. Josh figured police would easily buy a woman killing her ex-husband, and the argument at the party with Helen made their animosity public. As far as a motive to kill Lilly, Josh figured the police would assume Gwen was angered by some aspect of an affair her ex-husband had with his Filipino nurse—not true, but a theory that both you and I had considered, too.”

  According to Buckman, Josh swiped Gwen’s wineglass that night to plant as evidence. He found the Smile Train website, downloaded photos of Gwen, and used his 3D sculpting software and artistic talents to make a lifelike mask of her. When he was ready to strike, he stole a van from a vendor in Chinatown and used it to run down Dr. Land. Then Josh stashed it in a parking garage until he needed it again.

  For his next strike, Josh planned a double event, intending to kill both Lilly Beth and Helen on the same night.

  “But how did Josh know Lilly would be at the Blend that evening? Did Dante tell him?”

  Buckman nodded. “Remember, that night Josh was going to help—”

  “Prime the truck, of course!”

  Dante had discussed Friday’s Muffin Muse schedule with Josh. They were going to put the base coat on the truck late in the evening—after Lilly and I showed off the truck to Matt. So Josh knew where Lilly would be, and when to strike. He also learned Helen was attending a fund-raiser nearby at Cooper Union that same evening, so the timing was perfect.

  “Josh planned to draw Mrs. Bailey-Burke into the street with a fake phone call,” Buckman explained, “just like that phony call he used to
lure Dr. Fischer away from the wedding. Of course, things didn’t work out that way.”

  Apparently everything fell apart after Josh ran Lilly down and he got stuck in the ultimate New York leveler—traffic. On Thompson Street, a police cruiser appeared at the end of the block and Josh got spooked. He ditched the van, leaving the glass behind to finger Dr. Fischer, deciding to kill Helen another day, and another way.

  Unfortunately, the prints on the glass were smudged and Gwen was never arrested. Then Helen publicly slapped Gwen Fischer in the face at the Brooklyn truck-painting party, and Josh was inspired to try again, with an even bolder plan. He’d lifted Dr. Fischer’s purse at a coffeehouse, which held her car keys. He stole her car and ran over Helen in Central Park after luring her to the perfect spot with a fake phone message—the same method he’d used to get Gwen away from the party, making her look guilty.

  For the second time, Josh wore that creepy Gwen mask he’d created. But this time he used the patsy’s car, and there were witnesses, so Dr. Fischer was charged with murder. That’s when Josh burned the mask, wiped his files off the Five Points computers, and bought a plane ticket to Paris.

  “Why Paris?” I asked. “Random or another reason?”

  “A very specific reason,” Buckman said, “and the real reason this all took place. Josh had made a tentative deal with a French magazine to publish the comic he’d created with the late Meredith Burke. But their offer was made based on photocopies. To publish, Josh had to produce the original art and the legal rights to Meredith’s contribution.

  “Meredith’s mother, Helen, was the only obstacle. She had possession of the artwork and refused to release what she saw as an embarrassment: her daughter’s frank portrayal of her tormented childhood.”

  I sighed, understanding. Josh’s motive came down to much more than revenge. “With Helen dead, he thought his troubles were over. Yes, he avenged his best friend, but he also killed the woman holding his artwork hostage.”

  Buckman nodded. “Josh told me his plan was to travel to a better place. He was moving to France to become a famous comic book artist.” Pausing, he scratched his silver-gray temple. “The kid is talented, and maybe that comic he created with Meredith was brilliant. But the poor girl’s death twisted something inside him.”

  Like Lilly’s jars, I thought. All the good things inside Josh got emptied out.

  “It’s a terrible waste,” I said. “Instead of enlightening the world with his art, Josh Fowler used his creativity to spread anger, hate—all the dark things within him.”

  Buckman reminded me that Josh would have a long time to consider his mistakes. And he would leave prison a poorer man, too. John Fairway, esquire, had been talking to Lilly’s mother every day since Josh was arrested.

  “I think Fairway’s convinced the woman to file a civil suit on her daughter’s behalf,” Buckman said.

  “You mean Fairway’s intent all along was to get in on a fat lawsuit? No wonder he was always lurking.” I shook my head. “All that reconnaissance his Two Wheels Good people do on vehicular accidents. It actually boils down to—”

  “Ambulance chasing. Yep. But then, ‘follow the money’ is an old saw. And since Josh has deep pockets, and Lilly’s going to need money to cover expenses, it all works out for John Fairway and for Lilly’s family.”

  “What about the papers I found in Lilly Beth’s bedroom?” I was uneasy about bringing this up, but I had to. “Those medical records of Meredith’s, what are you going to do with them?”

  Buckman shrugged. “File them. That’s where they’ll be forever. In the evidence file, for anyone to act on if they choose to…”

  Silence fell between us.

  We both knew the facts. Dr. Land and Helen Bailey-Burke were dead, and it seemed unlikely that anyone would have an interest in digging up those records and pursuing any kind of case with them. Even if they did, most people probably would agree that whatever Lilly had done wrong, she’d suffered enough punishment for it.

  Buckman checked his watch. “I hope the docs are finished with my Lilly. She might want another slab of that blue cake. I know I do.”

  “Hey, Max.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you just say ‘my Lilly’?”

  “Gee, nothing gets by you, does it, Cosi?”

  “CLARE, dear, I have news!”

  Three weeks after my sit-down with Buckman, I rose early to pack a Pullman and roast enough fresh coffee to cover a busy weekend. Just before noon, Madame swept in and waved me over to her favorite sidewalk table.

  The summer sun was warm on our faces, the cooling kiss of an Atlantic breeze carrying salt-tinged air through our yawning French doors.

  Over iced mocha frappes and my fresh-baked Coffee Cake Streusel Muffins, my former mother-in-law finally shared her announcement: “Otto and I have secured a new angel for Esther’s summer outreach program!”

  I smiled at this, but it was hardly a revelation. “You already found two patrons,” I reminded her. “The audio-video stream is up and running on the truck, and Esther’s holding her first Village Blend poetry slam upstairs next Saturday.”

  “I know, dear, and I can hardly wait!” Madame’s ube-colored eyes hadn’t sparkled this brightly in years. “But our new patron is an award-winning filmmaker who wishes to make Esther’s mobile muse and the inner city kids she inspires the subject of a short documentary. He’s calling it Poetry in Motion and plans to enter it in several international festivals, isn’t that wonderful?”

  Esther at the Oscars? Short documentary category? Yeah, I could see it…

  After knocking glass mugs, we caught up on news of Joy, who was planning a fall visit home, and Matt, who just took off for a three-week stint of regional coffee hunting.

  Despite Quinn’s confidence in Brazil’s “safe” status, Matt thought Indonesia was a better idea (as did I). Timor, Sulawesi, Papua New Guinea, and the Island of Java were all sharing the same harvesting season, and as far as I knew, not one of those countries was harboring an oxi drug lord with a grudge.

  “Billy, my man!”

  “Dante, whassup!”

  Madame and I paused in our discussion to witness a small miracle. The boy with the dragon tattoo strode into the Village Blend with a new delivery of his grandmother’s warm egg custard tarts (our fastest-selling new item), and my artista barista slapped hands with him.

  Madame tilted her silver pageboy. “They’re getting along now?”

  “Famously.”

  The first time Billy Li delivered the tarts, things were tense between the young men, until Billy asked Dante about a few of the many designs on his arms. (Franco had been right. Tattoo talk really was the way to a potential delinquent’s heart.)

  Both guys had designed their own elaborate body art, and by the end of their “tats” discussion, Dante was inviting Billy to stop by the Five Points Arts Collective.

  With Josh gone (for a long, long time), Dante was in the market for a new apprentice. “Now Billy’s helping Dante on a Battery Park mural,” I said. “And he’s developing his own proposal for a ‘Dragon and Lion Dance’ installation in City Hall Park for the next Lunar New Year.”

  According to Tucker, Billy even responded well to those pointers on serving Village Blend beans.

  “Well,” I told Tuck, “when Billy gets tired of delivering his yeh-yeh’s tarts, let’s try him out behind the counter.” After all, I reasoned, given his grandmother’s DNA, Billy couldn’t be all bad, and I might even get something out of it—like that Jimmy’s Kitchen recipe for warm custard sauce.

  Madame, on the other hand, enjoyed the possibility of a new artist in her barista family. Clapping her hands, she suggested we have another truck-painting party. “I’ll get the permits,” she promised, “and we’ll hold it in front of the Blend this time.”

  “A block party sounds perfect to me…” Our turf war with Kaylie was history, and Dante was already working up a fresh parody painting for the truck, one that wouldn’t remind us
of Lilly’s brutal hit-and-run.

  Madame sighed, noting all that had happened since that terrible Friday. “The older I get, the more I see it…”

  “What?”

  “Blessings in disguise.”

  Taking in the cloudless blue dome above, I didn’t dispute her, although few people would ever characterize a nearly fatal hit-and-run as a blessing. And yet… if Lilly hadn’t been hit, one day the burden of her secret may have become too much for her.

  To my mind, Buckman himself had posed the most difficult question in this case: When Josh recognized Lilly at the Village Blend was it “bad luck” or “an act of God”?