by Cleo Coyle
In the end, Tucker Burton’s persuasive charm—and the promise of a private dressing room—convinced Panther Man to join his fellow thespians on the Village Blend’s second floor.
When the temperamental talent was gone, I cornered my assistant manager. “So why the costume, Tuck? You’re holding a casual script read-through, not a formal dress rehearsal.”
“Wendell’s a great performer. No matter the role, he gives one hundred and fifty percent. But he’s also a Method actor, which comes with a whole lot of baggage. To understand motivation Wendell needs to live and breathe his character, 24/7.”
“Dressed in that costume, I’m surprised he isn’t living and breathing in a jail cell.”
“I know Wendell is a little . . . eccentric, but he’s the only actor willing to play Panther Man after all that’s gone down.”
“You mean the shootings?”
Tuck shook his shaggy head. “I mean the police harassment.”
“What?”
“I thought I was going to end up in jail myself. My crime was calling every rental place in town for a Panther Man costume. What I got was a very unfriendly visit from two surly NYPD detectives who wanted to know why I wanted the suit—”
“You explained everything, right?”
“Of course, only to find out I’d been profiled. Costume shops were ordered to provide authorities with a list of Panther Man requests. My name was on a list, Clare. A suspected terrorist list!”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that, Tucker.”
“So am I. After the detectives interrogated me, they questioned Wendell. I hear they even grilled that Panther Man hustler in Times Square. I was ready to cut the character out of my play completely. But in the end the comic publisher provided a costume. They really want Panther Man to appear at a kid’s charity event to counter all the bad publicity.”
After Tuck greeted the last arriving cast member, a strapping Amazon playing Wonder Woman, he announced: “Well, that’s my cue. I’d better get upstairs before the talent start counting their lines and complaining they didn’t get enough dialogue.”
“I’d say break a leg, but those spiral steps are already an insurance nightmare, so good luck!”
When Tuck was gone, I put the broom to a more traditional use and swept the sidewalk. I looked up minutes later to find Nancy, my youngest barista, running toward me at top speed, her wheat-colored braids flying behind her.
She should run. The girl is over an hour late!
But if I was expecting an apology—and I wasn’t—I would have been disappointed.
“Is he here? Is he here?” Nancy asked as she screeched to a halt. I caught the covered sheet-cake pan before it slipped from her grip.
“Whoa, slow down. By he you mean—?”
“Superman . . . I mean David. Is he here yet?”
“The actors have arrived, according to Tuck. Superman is being played by David? David who?”
“It’s David. Just David. Isn’t that so perf? He models for Abercrombie and Fitch and Hanes underwear. His last ad was so steamy and revealing that the MTA had all the posters removed from the subway!”
An image of Michelangelo’s David in tighty-whities came to mind.
“David wouldn’t happen to be Italian?”
“Oh, no,” Nancy replied. “His accent is so cute. He was born in Australia—or was it New Zealand? And then his family moved to Wales . . .”
“I thought Superman was from the planet Krypton.”
“Ha-ha.” Nancy rolled her big doll eyes. “David just relocated to New York, so I baked him a welcome-to-America treat. It’s my version of Blueberry Boy Bait.”
“Well, the prey is waiting—” I pointed upstairs. “So I guess you better deliver the bait.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
AN hour later, Tuck gave the actors a fifteen-minute break. While Esther served coffee and pastries to the super heroic cast, Nancy presented her crush with a generous slice of blueberry heaven, cradled in a lacy doily.
“Enjoy, David . . . I baked this just for you.”
The undeniably handsome underwear model flashed the blushing barista a toothy smile. “Thank you so much, luv. This looks super. Simply super.”
Nancy waited expectantly until he took his first bite. As he chewed, David threw her a wink with one of his Paul Newman blue eyes.
“Oh, it’s super good. Really, really super,” he cooed around a mouthful of sweet, tender cake.
Nancy’s smile was bright enough to light the second floor. “I’m so happy you like it. Let me get you another slice!”
Esther was beside me at the serving cart. “Seems like everything is super with Superman.”
“He is super, isn’t he?” Nancy gushed, arriving at our side. As she spoke, David raised his half-eaten cake with a smile.
Nancy giggled with glee and whispered, “Blueberry Boy Bait . . . it never fails.”
“Ouch.” Esther slapped her own forehead. “My feminist soul just cringed.”
“Oh, what is it now?” Nancy demanded.
“Your choice of vocabulary is so . . . prehistoric. I mean, this is the twenty-first century. Who talks about ‘boy bait’?”
David’s perfect mouth took another bite of cake, and he winked again at Nancy. She tiny-waved back.
“What’s wrong with boy bait?”
“Nothing, if you wear white gloves, a pillbox hat, and voted for Eisenhower!”
“Eisenhower? Is he one of your stupid Beat poets?”
“Oy gevalt,” Esther wailed into her own hands. “Those who don’t know history are doomed to wear aprons!”
“Look around, Esther. We’re all wearing aprons.”
Tucker and I laughed at that one while Esther steamed.
“You’re like a broken clock, Nancy,” she said, tapping her Powerpuff Girls watch. “You’re right twice a day!”
Unbowed, Nancy went toe-to-toe with her roommate. “How about you make like the Powerpuffs and go take a flying leap—”
I was about to intercede, but Tucker moved faster, jumping between the battling baristas. “Ladies! And, believe me, I use the term loosely. Let’s not make a scene!”
“Come on, Tuck! Don’t you find the words boy bait sexist and offensive?”
Hands on hips, Tucker challenged: “You’re the poet, Esther. Come up with a new name.”
“Okay. How about mate bait? It’s perfect. Gender neutral and free of power trips and social convention, because there’s no wife and no husband. Just a mate.”
“Fine, call it whatever you want,” Nancy said. “It made David happy and that’s what counts. Isn’t he a dream?”
Esther took a closer look at Superman. “I don’t know. I couldn’t go for a guy with Botox lips.”
“David doesn’t have Botox lips!”
“Sure he does, look at him. He’s gone full Mick Jagger. He’s got the pale complexion of Elvis, too.”
“Pale? David’s got a gorgeous, golden tan!”
Esther blinked. “Your gorgeously pale David is clutching his throat—”
“He’s . . . he’s probably practicing his death scene or something,” Nancy said, her voice uncertain.
“He plays Superman. Superman isn’t supposed to die—”
“He’s not supposed to fall off his chair, either!” I cried, rushing to the stricken actor’s side. “Call 911! David’s going into anaphylactic shock.”
FIFTY-NINE
“I think he’ll be okay,” I said to a tearful Nancy after the ambulance had gone. “Why, I’m pretty sure David’s at the hospital already.”
“I almost killed him. I almost killed Superman!”
“Come on, Nancy,” Esther said, putting an arm around her. “How could you know David was allergic to blueberries? Anyway, you heard the paramedics. They got the air tu
be in him just in time—”
“Waaaaaaaahhhhhhh!”
“I’ll take over,” I insisted, stepping around Esther.
For the next ten minutes I consoled my youngest barista, giving her hugs and drying her tears. Nancy had finally settled down, when Tucker climbed the spiral stairs and sank into a chair across from us.
“My Superman is down for the count. Jeez, who knew a little old innocent blueberry had the potential to be Kryptonite?”
“I . . . I didn’t mean it,” said Nancy, her sobs dissolving into hiccups.
“I know,” said Tuck, leaning forward to pat her hand. “He would have been all right if he hadn’t sprained his wrist when he fell to the floor. But now . . .” With a dramatic sigh he sat back, then slapped his knees. “Well, the show must go on—with or without David!”
“You always tell me the world is full of actors,” I said.
“Actors, yes. But actors who are also acrobats—they’re not so easy to find on short notice.” Tuck snatched a piece of the offending boy bait from the serving cart.
“What does he have to do?”
“Perform aerial stunts onstage. Superman has got to fly, Clare. Fly! And David was experienced. He’d learned the ropes of rope performing when he played the winged Car Insurance Angel in that ‘Heavenly Rates’ commercial. Plus he has the physique of Superman. Even if I can find a last-minute understudy with rope skills, he’ll probably have to wear an inflatable muscle suit to look the least bit super heroic.”
Tuck took a bite and chewed absently. Suddenly, his eyes lit up. “Hey, this is really good.”
Nancy wiped her wet cheeks. “It’s the award-winning Betty Crocker recipe with my own little tweaks—”
“Tweak away, kiddo. It’s delicious.”
I was happy to see Tuck smiling for the first time since the Fall of Superman. But poor Nancy was still miserable.
“Hey, Nancy, I have an idea. Why don’t you and I go to the hospital and visit David?”
“I can’t!” Nancy cried. “I feel so guilty. He probably never wants to see me ever again!”
“I’m sure he doesn’t feel that way. Look, if you like, I could go and check on him for you.”
“You’d do that?”
“Of course . . .”
I was heading that way anyway because David had been taken to the same hospital as Gus Campana, and I knew that’s where I’d find Sophia.
With a deep breath, I got moving. I had a king’s ransom in jewelry to return, pumpkin bread to deliver, and a list of questions I was anxious to have answered.
SIXTY
BEAUTY has tamed the savage beast . . .
My first thought when I arrived at Gus’s bedside after checking on David—who was doing fine and (thank Cupid) didn’t blame Nancy in the least.
With good news on my first visit, I was feeling positive about the second. That’s when I found Gus’s lovely daughter on a hospital couch, cradled in the arms of her Viking-sized husband.
The room was peaceful with ambient forest noises floating through the air from a small machine on the windowsill, and there was another sound, too.
Hunter Rolf was stroking his wife’s dark golden hair while quietly singing in another language, his voice a whispered purr accompanied by the soft pinging of the medical monitors.
“Byssan lull, koka kittelen full,” he sang.
Just then, he spied me in the doorway—and without breaking rhythm he put his index finger to his lips. As he finished his song, he slipped out from under his sleeping wife, put his jacket under her head for a pillow, and draped his coat over her for a blanket.
In shirtsleeves, he led me into the hallway.
“I’m sorry, but I do not wish to wake her. She slept very little in the past twenty-four hours.”
“Of course.”
“You are Ms. Cosi, from last night?”
Hunter was clearly embarrassed that he had to ask, but I didn’t blame him. With my hair in a ponytail, and my jeans and flats, I looked a lot different today.
“Call me Clare.”
He nodded, and when he spoke again, I could better hear the lilting Swedish rhythms in his speech.
“Please accept my apology for my behavior last evening. I was not sure that I could trust you. And when you asked about the man in Rome, I became protective. Perhaps overly so. But my dear wife explained what a trusted friend you are, and she is grateful you found me at the club. So am I. We talked all night and worked out many misunderstandings . . .”
It seemed Hunter had transformed overnight, from angry lion to purring kitten. Of course, Sophia had warned me that her husband was a charmer—so I viewed this gentler version of the gem dealer with a skeptical eye.
“I’m glad we had a chance to meet again,” I told him with reserve, and pointed to my tote bag. “I brought something to eat.”
“How kind of you, Clare. Sophia will be happy. Lately, it seems the first two words out of her mouth every morning are ‘I’m hungry.’”
“I brought coffee, too. If you’ve tried to choke down the brew here, you know why.”
“I am sure Sophia will enjoy it, but I cannot drink coffee. I have an allergy to caffeine.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “I get the hives.”
Resisting the urge to ask how he felt about blueberries, I glanced at Gus. “How is Mr. Campana?”
“Not good, I am sorry to say . . .” Hunter gravely shook his head. “The toxicology tests revealed that Gus was poisoned—”
“Poisoned?”
“Acute exposure to beryllium salts. His condition is very serious. But there is hope. Now that the doctors know the problem, they have begun a proper treatment.”
“How was he poisoned?”
“Beryllium is used in metal processing, so it was probably an accident at the forge. Early this morning, two female police detectives visited us here at the hospital. They wanted access to the Campana property, so Sophia called her security man to let them in. I’m confident the police will find out how this accident happened.”
“Did Gus show any symptoms of poisoning when you talked to him yesterday?”
“None at all. He seemed fine. Happy. I brought him good news.”
“I see. And the news . . . I assume it was connected to that business meeting you had last night?”
“Yes, that was a celebration. As I explained to Sophia last night, the deal is sealed and will bring millions of dollars to the Campana family business over the next few years. I will no longer be the freeloader in this family.”
“Freeloader? That’s a harsh word. Is that how Sophia felt?”
“No, not my wife. But her father did. He did not believe I truly loved his daughter. He thought my marriage to her was a scheme to profit from their successful family business.”
“Why would he believe that?”
Hunter lowered his eyes. “He had good reason. My old business, and the way I conducted it, bothered Sophia terribly.”
“Did you do anything illegal, Hunter?”
“Not illegal, but, I admit . . . some would not view it as ethical. You see, in addition to hunting gems, I procure heirloom jewelry. I act as a middleman between buyers and sellers. Because my clients are almost exclusively women, I try to be amiable, persuasive—even charming—in order to detach a valuable piece from a widow, a divorcée, or a neglected wife.”
“You seduce the jewelry out of them for a fraction of its value—is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“These are very wealthy women, Clare, and they part with their items by choice.”
“But you persuade them—charm the stones from them, by your own admission. Romancing the Stone is a term I’ve heard—”
“Yes, yes, I saw that movie years ago.” He smiled weakly. “But that is now behind me.”<
br />
“Behind you? You gave it up?”
He folded his arms. “Sophia would see a client’s text messages or overhear a phone conversation, and she’d fly into a jealous rage. She would not accept that my heart was hers alone and my brief associations with these women was simply business, so . . .” He shrugged. “I decided to make it my business no longer.”
“You gave up romancing the stones? Completely?”
“Completely, yes. With what the three sheikhs have paid me, and the new connections I have made through Eduardo, I will be able to invest in the Campana business and work with Sophia. We will no longer be apart. No more traveling for our separate businesses. Together, Sophia and I are going to help Gus with the family business, and with my investment, we can begin planning for a profitable expansion.”
The noises in the hospital corridor increased, and Sophia made a sound in her sleep. Hunter paused to check on his wife and partially closed the door.
His concern for Sophia seemed so tender and genuine, his demeanor so gentle, that it was hard to reconcile my suspicions that Hunter was the coldhearted shooter who’d targeted so many good cops.
But Hunter was undeniably an associate of Eduardo De Santis, a known—if unconvicted—drug dealer. And Hunter went on safari with De Santis, which meant this kindhearted hustler was capable of killing a helpless animal. It also meant he had the skills to act as a hired sniper.
“One more question, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I asked about the man in Rome last night. I’ll ask again now. Who is this man, and why did you want to speak with Gus about—?”
“Hunter? Is that you out there?” called Sophia through the door. “I’m hungry. I hope you got us something to eat!”
SIXTY-ONE
AS Hunter and I returned to the hospital room, Sophia was slipping into the flats I’d swapped with her last evening.
“Your friend Clare is here,” he announced. “She’s brought you something special.”