Dead Cold Brew

by Cleo Coyle

  Sophia jumped up and hugged me tightly.

  “I’m also returning your jewelry,” I said as I returned the hug. “It’s here with your beautiful handbag and your designer heels—”

  “Please, keep the bag and shoes,” Sophia said, “if you’ll let me keep your flats. They’re the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever worn!”

  I smiled. “Absolutely, keep my shoes as a gift. But you must take back yours. It’s not even close to a fair trade—”

  “I received them gratis, Clare. I have two more pairs at home, ditto for the designer bag. I get so many freebies and deals with my work in the fashion trade. Please keep them. I insist!”

  “Well, if you insist.” I leaned close. “I know my new fiancé will be happy.”

  “Do tell?”

  At my slight blush, she smiled. “You know, the rubies I lent you to wear may have helped in that department.” As she spoke, she unwrapped her jewelry from my silk scarf and lifted one of the earrings up to the light. “Look at the brilliance of that red, a magnificent stone with intense energy. Historically, many cultures believed it gave the wearer confidence and power. It’s also the stone of passion—a gemological aphrodisiac.”

  “Really?”

  “The ruby’s glowing red hue is said to ignite an inextinguishable flame between couples, inspiring great and long-lasting love . . .”

  With care, she transferred her necklace and bracelet into a safe pocket of her handbag on the couch. When she returned, she still held the earrings. To my shock, she presented them to me.

  “Keep these, Clare. They look amazing on you.” She held them up to my ears. “They even bring out the red in your chestnut hair.”

  “That’s incredibly generous, but I can’t possibly—”

  “Please accept them—as an engagement present.” She wrapped the earrings back up in my scarf and pressed them into my hands. “Now let’s sit . . .”

  Over slices of my iced pumpkin bread and paper cups of coffee from my thermos, we discussed Gus’s condition. Hunter declined sampling my Winter’s Dawn blend, sipping fruit juice instead, though he clearly enjoyed the bread, eating three pieces in a row.

  “Too bad you missed Perla,” Sophia said, nibbling on her first slice. “She brought that ambient music box in hopes that Dad can hear it. It’s very pleasant, but I’m afraid the forest sounds put me right to sleep.”

  “That or the song I heard Hunter singing to you.”

  Sophia nodded, her face glowing with love for her husband. “It’s a Swedish lullaby. Hunter learned it from his mother. When we were first married, he sang that song to me nearly every night. But I haven’t heard it in a long time.”

  “It’s called ‘Galley of Riches,’” Hunter said. “A sweet little song about things grouped in threes. Three wanderers from afar, three ships that sail to port, a treasure box with three gifts—”

  “And how three people make a family,” Sophia added. “A mother, a father, and a child . . .”

  The way Sophia looked at Hunter made me think that remark was more than rhetorical. Is Sophia pregnant? The glow in her face and revved-up appetite sounded awfully familiar.

  I recalled how my own little family of three began. The tender way Matteo treated me when I was pregnant with Joy, including his many trips to all-night bodegas and neighborhood delis to satisfy my cravings.

  The three of us certainly weathered the ups and downs together, like a rocky ride on a volatile sea; but even after Matt and I split, the ship didn’t sink. We kept our bond to support our daughter.

  My gaze found Gus, still unconscious, on the hospital bed, hooked up to machines and monitors.

  I tried to imagine what his little family of three had gone through aboard the Andrea Doria on the harrowing night it went down. It must have been terrible and terrifying. But somehow he’d gotten them through it—his wife, Angelica, and their young daughter, Perla.

  Perla.

  My thoughts stalled on Gus’s eldest child as a crucial question occurred to me that hadn’t before—

  The day Gus was poisoned, Sophia had joined Matt and me for the opening of the safe-deposit box. Why wasn’t Perla with us?

  SIXTY-TWO

  “SOPHIA, can I ask you a question about your sister?”

  “Sure.”

  “How did Perla react to news about the Eye of the Cat?”

  “Funny you should ask, because I wondered about that myself. She seemed curiously unsurprised when I told her about it. But then, Perla is Perla. She never reacts the way you think she will . . .”

  Perla Campana was not only Gus’s daughter; she was his first child. In every Italian American household I knew, the eldest held a special place in the family. The oldest child was usually entrusted with more responsibility—including legal ones like assignment as executor of a parent’s will.

  “But why wasn’t Perla at the vault?”

  Sophia shrugged. “Because Sal Arnold didn’t have orders to serve her a letter of notice. She wasn’t named as one of the trustees.”

  “Only Matt and you? Do you know why?”

  “You’d have to ask my father for sure, but I suspect Perla’s total lack of interest in the family business might have been a factor. My sister made it clear when she went off to college that she wanted nothing more to do with my parents’ jewelry business. She announced she wanted her life to be her own.”

  “But don’t you think Perla will want a say—and a big share—in the fortune that the Eye of the Cat will bring?”

  Hunter had been listening quietly, but he laughed out loud at that question.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  With a shake of his head, he echoed Matt’s sentiments.

  “You think that jewel will bring a big fortune, but what it really brings is big trouble. That man in Rome, the one you asked about. He is only the beginning of the storm that is coming.”

  Hunter explained that while he was doing business in Rome, he was approached by an elderly but dapper man in a white suit, who refused to give his name but claimed to have been aboard the Andrea Doria with Gus.

  “He showed me money transfers that proved Gus paid him a small fortune over the decades since the shipwreck—close to a million dollars. This man freely admitted it was blackmail money. He said he witnessed something on the sinking ship, something that involved Gus and the Campana family. He refused to tell me what, only that because Gus had recently cut him off, there would be a reckoning.”

  “Reckoning how exactly? What do you think he was blackmailing Gus about?” I asked, thinking I might know the answer—and it had to do with a young apprentice named Silvio.

  Sophia jumped in. “Isn’t the answer obvious? This man in Rome must have known Dad snuck the Eye off the ship and hid it all these years. Dad cut off this man’s blackmailing payments because he knew it was time for the safe-deposit box to be opened—and the secret would be out anyway.”

  My theory was no better, so I didn’t dispute hers, not out loud.

  But it seemed to me the blackmailer’s threat implied something darker than a hidden jewel. In Hunter’s words, “he witnessed something on the sinking ship, something that involved Gus and the Campana family.”

  While Gus was on that ship, he was in rightful possession of the jewel. His unethical act of concealing the truth occurred after the ship had sunk. Yet the blackmailer claimed to have “witnessed” something on the sinking ship.

  To my ears, it was worse than one man assuming another’s identity. It sounded as if the blackmailer had watched a crime take place, something awful enough for Gus to pay off this witness for sixty years.

  I turned back to Hunter. “What did Gus say when you told him about this blackmailer in the white suit?”

  “He seemed unfazed,” Hunter replied with a shrug. “Gus knew all about the man and his threats, and
he assured me that he would deal with the problem himself.”

  “If Gus was stricken after you left, isn’t it possible that this character had something to do with Gus’s poisoning?”

  “What are you saying, Clare? That what happened to my father wasn’t an accident? You think someone tried to murder him?”

  “I have no proof, but the timing makes me suspicious. Doesn’t it make you suspicious? I’m sure it will make the police extremely suspicious—”

  Just then, a knock on the open door made our heads turn.

  Detectives Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass strode into the room, followed by two uniformed police officers.

  The last time I’d spoken to the Fish Squad was at my engagement party. They put on a good false-arrest act that time. This time, I was certain their grim demeanors were no act.

  “Ah, Detectives, back so soon?” Hunter said, rising.

  Without breaking her stride, Sue Ellen Bass pulled out her handcuffs as she stepped behind Sophia’s husband.

  “Hunter Rolf,” Lori Soles announced, “you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Gustavo Campana. You have the right to remain silent—”

  A stunned Hunter put up no resistance as Sue Ellen cuffed him. Then the shocked silence was obliterated by a shriek of anguish so loud and sharp that members of the hospital staff came running.

  “No!” Sophia cried. “You can’t take him away! You can’t!”

  Using her manicured nails like claws, Sophia launched herself at Detective Bass. The uniformed officers jumped in and pulled a sobbing Sophia back as Sue Ellen dodged back and forth to avoid getting slashed, while valiantly keeping her hold on the prisoner.

  I quickly stepped up and took Sophia off the officer’s hands and into my arms.

  “Hunter!” she cried.

  “I did nothing,” he assured her.

  An annoyed Sue Ellen hustled him out of the room, followed by the uniforms. Lori Soles touched my shoulder, and tilted her head at the tearful woman in my arms.

  “Get her out of here, but don’t let her go home. Their place is being searched. That could go on for hours.”

  “What are you basing this arrest on?” I asked.

  “This morning Mr. Rolf freely admitted that he visited with his father-in-law on the date and time shortly before the poisoning. We also lifted his fingerprints from the glass of cold brew coffee that Gustavo Campana drank from, which contained the poison.” Lori met my gaze. “Another full glass sat by the sofa, it remained untouched. The untouched glass also carried Mr. Rolf’s fingerprints.”

  Sophia was so distraught I doubted she noticed our exchange. After Lori left, I helped Sophia to her feet.

  “Come on,” I said. “There’s nothing more you can do here. You’re coming home with me.”

  SIXTY-THREE

  AN autumn cloudburst caught us as we flagged a cab outside the hospital.

  Though we were soaked when we arrived at the Village Blend, Sophia refused to go upstairs to my duplex because she “didn’t want to impose.”

  So I took her to the most comfortable spot in my coffeehouse, the second-floor lounge, a place to dry off, and speak in private.

  I stoked the fireplace, and soon the crackling flames dispelled the dampness and the gloom. All we needed was something warm and soothing.

  “How about a caffè corretto or maybe an Irish coffee?” The moment I made the suggestion, I wanted to take it back.

  “Irish coffee, please!” Sophia replied. “I don’t think Sambuca is going to be sufficient to drown my sorrows.”

  “But . . . maybe you shouldn’t. I mean, if you’re . . .”

  “If I’m what?”

  “Sophia, are you expecting?”

  “No. But that’s prescient of you. Among the many things Hunter and I discussed last night was our agreement that we would start a family—as soon as my father recovers, if he recovers . . . and if I can keep the man I love out of prison.”

  “Try to stay positive.”

  Despite her down tone, I knew Sophia had a resilient spirit—because I’d seen it. The moment we climbed into the cab outside the hospital, she pulled out her phone and called her company’s legal team, firmly demanding they spring Hunter from custody. If she was going to get through this in one piece, she needed to keep summoning that strength.

  As we settled into our armchairs by the fire, Tuck delivered a tray with a plate of treats, along with a pot of hot coffee, four shots of Jameson, fresh whipped cream, and a bowl of brown sugar.

  As Sophia nibbled one of our sweetly iced Pretty in Pink cookies, she watched me place a bit of brown sugar into each of our glass mugs, stir in the shots of whiskey, pour on the hot coffee, and finish the drinks with generous dollops of whipped cream.

  Sophia hit the spiked coffee hard.

  “Oh, that’s good,” she said, already appearing more relaxed. “Clare, I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done.”

  “You might not remember, Sophia, but it was a rainy day like this when you came out to New Jersey to visit me and my daughter. It was right after my divorce from Matt, and Joy was really struggling with all the changes in her life. The confidence you gave my daughter was a priceless gift. I can’t thank you enough for that, so no more talk of ‘imposing,’ okay?”

  “Okay . . .” She gave me a weak smile before her expression clouded again. “You know, it’s ridiculous the police think Hunter is a murderer. If you saw the way he mourned after we lost our child—he was completely inconsolable.”

  “You lost a child? I’m so sorry. I didn’t know . . .”

  “A few months after Hunter and I met, I got pregnant. I told him he was the father, and assumed our affair would be over. Considering his reputation in Europe, it was a reasonable assumption. To my surprise, Hunter wanted us to be married immediately. It was a quickie wedding on Aeroe Island, but it was so beautiful, right on the bluer-than-lapis Baltic Sea, and afterward, we traveled across Europe, and we were so happy together, and then . . . I miscarried.”

  Sophia swiped at a tear. “After that, I got it in my head that Hunter only wanted the child, not me. I treated him badly. Pushed him away. I became very jealous and said awful things. Until last night, when you convinced him to come back to me.”

  “It wasn’t me, Sophia.”

  “It was you, Clare. I called and called last night. I texted him, too, maybe a hundred times. But Hunter didn’t come until you and Matt talked to him . . .”

  I tensed, recalling the distracted way Hunter had looked at his phone last night while speaking with me and Matt. After the fireworks caused all that chaos in front of the cop bar, I had suspected Hunter’s rush to leave had something to do with setting them off. Now, it was clear, his rush to leave had everything to do with his wife. And yet . . .

  He was an associate of De Santis, owed the man for a multimillion-dollar deal, fit the physicality of Panther Man, and was a marksman by his own admission.

  “Sophia, I have to tell you something—and it’s going to be upsetting, so brace yourself. I believe Hunter may have been picked up by the police for more than one reason, more than suspicion of poisoning your father.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Last night, Hunter’s meeting at the 21 Club showed him to be an associate of Eduardo De Santis, a man who was tried a few years ago in this country for distributing drugs in his nightclub. He wasn’t convicted, but members of the NYPD believe De Santis may be behind the recent spate of cop shootings as revenge. And because Hunter is now a known associate, there is concern that he’s also involved—”

  “Involved in shooting cops?! That’s insane!” Sophia adamantly shook her head. “Hunter is the gentlest man I’ve ever known. He abhors violence!”

  “If that’s true, then why does he shoot innocent animals? He told me last evening that he met De Santis
on an African safari—”

  “Yes, a photo safari! You should see his pictures—they’re spectacular. If he stopped hunting jewels tomorrow, he could probably get a job with National Geographic.”

  “Does he own a gun? Has he ever?”

  “No! He hates guns. He won’t even carry when he’s in dangerous parts of Africa.”

  “And what about his business in Africa? Last week, I overheard you arguing with him in your family’s store. It sounded to me like he deals in blood diamonds.”

  “God, no, Clare, he doesn’t! I was enraged at him last week after I saw a series of text messages from a Danish woman who will not stop chasing him—and she’s far from the first. You see, Hunter started out in this business by buying heirloom jewelry from wealthy women and reselling the pieces at a higher price—”

  “Yes, he told me about that.”

  “Well, let me tell you, it became a very bad habit, like excessive gambling or drinking. He’d see a woman in a restaurant or hotel and charm the jewels right off her neck. It became a game to him, and I hated that he kept playing it after we were married. What you overheard was one of our many arguments about my wanting him to stop. My ‘blood diamond’ remark was a trade insult. It’s as if you told Matteo that his latest crop of beans were garbage. It was a charge that I knew would hurt Hunter because when he buys heirloom gems, he may be buying blood diamonds or their equivalent, and these days he is a stickler about legally sourcing his stones.”

  With each new revelation, my body tensed a little more.

  This was clearly a very different picture of Hunter than the one I saw last night—and, worse, the one I painted for Mike Quinn.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  “WHAT can I do to help my husband, Clare? Tell me!”

  The words I used to comfort Sophia were a salve for my own racked conscience.

  “First, try not to worry. All of these facts about Hunter will come out as detectives interview him. And the search of your home will yield nothing incriminating—no guns, no fireworks, no evidence of any involvement with the shootings here in the city. They’ll check his phone and any digital messaging account and see that he’s innocent, not only of plotting to hurt police but of plotting to hurt Gus. I’m sure they’re looking at you, as well, to see if you colluded with him to kill your father so you could inherit the business—you see where I’m going?”