by Cleo Coyle
ALL PROFITS TO THE
CENTRAL PARK CONSERVANCY FUND
“Hello?” I called again.
This time, an ominous voice boomed a reply—
“Enter, you who seek the council of Madame Tesla!”
Well, I thought, she certainly sounds authentic . . .
Quelling my queasiness about the whole fortune-telling thing, I moved around the fabric-covered wall and into the dimly lit tent.
NINE
A single candle glowed on a table covered with white lace. Behind it, the old woman’s violet eyes gleamed with arcane wisdom.
Swathed in multicolor robes and a pirate plunder’s worth of bangles and necklaces, the gypsy’s silver pageboy shined in the flickering light and her long earrings of moons and stars jangled above her narrow shoulders.
“Come, seeker of truth . . .” Madame Tesla beckoned me forward with a bejeweled hand. “The spirits have been accommodating today. Who knows what they may predict for your future?”
“Absolutely nothing,” I assured her. “Because I’m not here for a reading.”
“Oh, too bad, dear, because I’ve been getting raves!”
Slipping out of character, Matt’s mother grinned. Today she was Madame Tesla, but every other day she was Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois, octogenarian owner of the Village Blend, and my employer.
There aren’t many women who can say that the best thing about their marriage was their mother-in-law, but for me that was true.
Madame had taken me under her fiercely protective wing when I was a young, naïve, very pregnant small-town girl. By nineteen, I’d read through my school’s entire library. I’d earned a scholarship and traveled to Italy to study art history, yet in far too many ways, I wasn’t very smart.
With wisdom and patience, Madame showed this art school dropout how to survive and thrive in big, bad New York City. Along the way she taught me everything she knew about the coffee trade, shepherding me into a vocation that enriched me in countless ways.
Her own life was an inspiring story of triumph over adversity—from the loss of her family during wartime to the loss of true love in midlife, when Matt’s father died. But with every setback, she rose again.
Knowing adversity had made her the perfect Mother Hen of Greenwich Village—historically a neighborhood of castoffs and outlaws; misfits and miscreants; free spirits and free thinkers.
In the years I’d known her, she’d amazed me with hundreds of tales from her eventful life, and still she managed to surprise me. For instance—
“Can you guess who I chose as the inspiration for my character?”
“No idea.”
“Alma, the wife of a former Turkish ambassador to the UN. She’s the one who taught me the art of tasseography.”
“Really?”
“Alma was wise, in her own way—and she knew how to play the crowd.”
“Whatever your inspiration, I have to agree, your act was a sensation.”
“It was the talk of the festival!” a voice boomed from the shadows.
Tucker Burton burst into the light so suddenly, I nearly jumped out of my Tyrolean peasant shoes.
“And look at Madame Tesla’s giant pickle jar!” He shook the large container. “It’s packed with tickets!”
My assistant manager was still dressed in his last stage costume of the day: the Pied Piper of Hamelin—that or a very tall, floppy-haired Santa’s elf.
“What in the world were you doing lurking in the corner—with a pickle jar?”
“I asked him to step back there,” Madame noted. “You see, when he stopped by to collect my tickets for the festival raffle, we got to talking, and—”
“And when she heard you coming in, she wanted you to see her fortune-telling performance without any distractions,” Tucker added.
I was dying to ask him about Leila, but—given my lecture to Esther—I felt a little self-conscious.
“Um, Tuck . . .” I began carefully, “did you happen to get my text message?”
“I got it, CC, but late in the day. Your message came during our dress rehearsal, and my phone was turned off.”
“So were you able to do that thing I asked?”
“Oh, yes . . . I saw that person you asked about. She met with someone else at the theater.”
“Someone else?” I prompted.
A long pause followed, but it was more than careful hesitation. Tucker actually looked frightened. “Can we please talk about it later?”
“Talk about what later?” Madame broke in. With a miffed tone, she turned to face me. “What is going on?”
That’s what I wanted to know. Tucker Burton loved gossip. He also trusted me and Madame. So what could Mike’s ex-wife possibly be doing that would put fear into him?
“Hel-lo-oo! Mr. Pied Piper! Are you in there?”
Before any of us could answer, Tuck’s boyfriend burst in, feathers flying (literally). As one of the best drag performers in the city, Punch had been receiving raves for playing the title character of Tucker’s latest cabaret show, Goosed!
His standing-room-only act made him a natural choice for the role of “Mother Goose” in the Fairy Tale Fall week of Storytime kiddie shows, which kicked off today at the Delacorte. The performance involved so many pratfalls, stunts, and belt-em-out ballads that a wiry Hispanic actor in a gray wig, giant petticoat, and feather-covered French mantua was actually better suited for the role than a woman of a certain age.
“They want Madame Tesla’s tickets ASAP for the raffle,” Punch informed his beau. “And a VIP is asking for you.”
“A VIP?”
“I’ll explain on the way. Now come on—or do I have to blow that Pied Piper piccolo of yours to get you to follow me?”
Tuck blushed. “Sorry, CC, I’ve got to go . . .”
Madame pointed a beringed finger to the empty chair across from her.
“Sit down, dear. You look a bit frazzled.”
“I should be going, too—”
“But you haven’t even tasted Matt’s new coffee . . .” Madame poured me a cup. The earthy aroma was irresistible—and it had been a long day. I took the cup, but I didn’t sit.
“Matt did a nice job on the roast,” I admitted as I sipped. “And he was right about these beans. The profile is nothing like the typical bright Ethiopian.”
“What notes do you taste?”
“Bittersweet chocolate, plum wine, cloves . . . and something else.” I sipped again. “Some kind of spice . . .”
As a master roaster, I prided myself on my sharp palate. It was rare for me to taste something I couldn’t decipher—frankly, it bugged me, and I took more hits, trying again and again to nail down the elusive flavor.
“Matteo told me he sampled one cup of these pan-roasted beans under the African moon and bought half the harvest.”
“I know,” I said, still not certain of that strange spice. But when I reached for a second cup, Madame stopped me.
“Are you sure you don’t want a reading?”
“Yes, I’m sure!” I grabbed the pot so fast to refill my cup, dark liquid sloshed onto the snow white lace. “Oh, no, I’m sorry . . .”
“Not at all, dear. I can see you’re upset. Calm yourself. Enjoy your coffee break. I’m going to change,” she said, rising. “My clothes are in the coffee wagon. Please sit down, put your feet up . . .” She pushed two chairs together. “Close your eyes, take a little nap. You’ll feel much better.”
I had no intention of taking a nap, but I did take a load off. As I finished my coffee, I even put up my peasant-soled feet. That’s when I heard the young girl’s voice.
“Aunt Clare? Are you in there?”
Molly?
TEN
“AUNT Clare, we can’t find our mom!”
Mike’s daughter looked frantic. Jeremy looked
scared. He’d stepped in after his sister, holding Penny’s leash.
I got to my feet and embraced the children. “Where have you two looked for her?”
“We went to Belvedere Castle, like she told us to,” Jeremy said.
“But she wasn’t there!” Molly cried.
“Okay, calm down. We’ll find her . . .”
I led the children out of the tent. Then they took the lead. Night had fallen fast, but the park seemed especially dark. Mike’s children headed for the castle again.
“Slow down, kids! Wait for me!”
They didn’t. They kept moving. At the crest of the hill, I reached the castle grounds, only to find the kids racing for a set of stone steps on the other side. At the bottom of the steps, they took a dirt path, one of the many entrances leading into—
Oh, no . . .
“Molly! Jeremy! Come back! Don’t go in there!”
The Ramble was confusing in daylight. At night, the thick woods and maze of winding paths were downright stupefying. I did my best to catch up, but Mike’s kids were moving at a preternatural pace.
Freestanding park lamps glowed along the path. They were few and far between. The children would appear in a pool of light and quickly disappear again, as if swallowed up by a black beast. And then—
No!!!
They were gone. I had completely lost them!
I saw a fork in the trail. Both paths branched off into thick woods—one sloped upward, the other down.
Which way do I go?
Both routes seemed right. With tears of frustration, I searched for any sign of which path to take. And then I saw the light—literally.
A flickering glow emanated from far down the descending trail. Was it a flashlight? Someone signaling for help? I hurried along the dirt path only to find an incomprehensible sight.
A traffic sign hung on a huge oak tree, blocking my way, its blinking bulbs spelling out the words Bridge Detour.
“Clare . . .”
Now someone was calling my name. Off the path, I heard leaves crunching, saw branches moving. Then came a flash of sparkling pink.
Between two gnarled trees, a slender woman appeared with her back to me. Against the black trunks and brown leaves, the glistening fabric of her gown seemed to glow with its own illumination.
Then the woman turned.
“Leila!”
At the sound of her name, Mike’s ex-wife took off.
“Stop,” I shouted, following her off the path and into the woods, “your kids are looking for you!”
The brush grew thicker, but I kept going. Then the ground began to give, like quicksand. With tremendous effort, I tried to push forward but couldn’t. That’s when I felt it—
The cold.
Not the icy bite of harsh weather, but the black, empty chill that freezes you from the inside out.
A presence loomed nearby. I didn’t need to see it because I felt it. And whatever it was, I knew it meant harm.
Shaking with fear, I watched a specter begin to materialize. The black shape started out as human then it began to transform, its essence bending and twisting until it became a monstrous animal.
I was about to scream when somebody beat me to it.
“Help! Help me!”
I fell off my chair and onto the floor.
What the—
From my padded derriere, I rubbed my eyes. No longer in the Ramble, I was back in Madame Tesla’s fortune-telling tent. My chair was turned over, my empty coffee cup on the ground beside me.
“Help me! Help me! Please!”
The woods had been an illusion, but these cries weren’t part of a dream. They were real.
I scrambled to my feet and bolted for the lawn.
ELEVEN
THE cry for help had drawn a costumed crowd. A dozen Storybook Kingdom residents converged in front of my coffee truck. I elbowed my way through Jack, Jill, and Little Miss Muffet (sans her Tuffet).
Pushing into the center of the fairy-tale ring, I found Mike Quinn’s ex—in a clinch with mine.
“What happened?!” I cried.
Matt stepped back and Leila faced me, topaz eyes pooling.
“I can’t find Molly or Jeremy. They were supposed to meet me at the castle. When they didn’t show, I searched everywhere, but I couldn’t find them!”
She buried her face into my ex-husband’s princely tunic.
That’s when it hit me like a sucker punch: Lost kids. In an urban park. At nightfall. And they weren’t just any kids. They were Mike’s kids.
“Did you try calling them?”
“What are you talking about, Clare? Molly doesn’t have a phone.”
“But Jeremy does!” I reminded her.
“Not since I took it away.”
“You what?!”
“My son sneaked his phone into school two days ago,” Leila said. “And that’s prohibited!”
“Mike never told me that!”
“That’s because I haven’t had time to tell him.”
I clenched my fists so tightly my nails dug into my palms. “Leila, if Jeremy had his phone now, we could contact him.”
“Stop yelling at me. They’re my children. Not yours.”
“And what about their father? Maybe you should have consulted him before you took the phone away.”
Leila shook her scarlet mane, and her tone turned shrill. “What does that matter now? I can’t find my babies. That’s your fault, not mine. I left Molly and Jeremy with you. You agreed to watch them!”
A wall of muscle stepped between us. “That’s enough. Bickering and blame aren’t going to help us find two lost kids.”
Leila’s eyes flashed at Matt. “They also had their collie with them.”
“Okay, and their little dog, too.”
Leila demanded the police be called, and a perpetually grinning Cheshire Cat stepped up, informing us he’d already spoken to 911.
(The cat was actually James Elliot, whose popular portobello mushroom burger prompted his embrace of the Alice in Wonderland theme, complete with inflatable hookah-smoking caterpillar atop his bright orange sandwich truck.)
Within a minute an electric buggy with two park policemen rolled up, while in the background an NYPD sector car approached along the narrow road circling the ball field.
Samantha Peel arrived with her handy Bluetooth—and a bearded man in a navy blue blazer (the festival’s legal advisor).
The police were serious and professional, but they were not overly alarmed; in other words, no Amber Alert, not yet. They calmed Leila and launched some basic protocols.
A smartphone alert was sent to Sam’s staff, and an announcement was made over the loudspeakers for “Jeremy and Molly to please come to the coffee truck . . .” Meanwhile, Leila was instructed to ring her building’s doorman (no sign of them) and the kids’ friends. (No luck.)
Finally, the police shared their plans for a systematic search of the entire festival area, as well as the museum’s grounds near the festival’s entrance. If the kids didn’t turn up, the hunt would be widened.
The Mad Hatter joined the Cheshire Cat in offering to help search, as did Jack and Jill, Snow White’s Huntsman, and Little Bo Peep (who clearly took her role to heart). But while the police outlined their plan, I felt a cold itch at the back of my skull.
That little dream I’d had in Madame Tesla’s tent had involved Mike’s kids, and they hadn’t led me to any of the places the police were about to search.
It bothered me. But what was I supposed to do about it? Tell the police to base their response on a coffeehouse manager’s naptime musings?
Rationally speaking, I had no idea where Molly and Jeremy were. And I certainly didn’t want to divert official resources on this mother’s “goose chase.”
Yet my dream had seeme
d so real. I couldn’t let it go . . .
That left me with one solution. But first I had to call Mike Quinn and tell him the truth. There was no getting around it—
I’d let down the man I loved.
TWELVE
QUINN picked up on the first ring. As soon as I explained the situation, he went into full cop mode, peppering me with questions on the official response, the name of the officer in charge, the search procedure, and a dozen other things.
“I’m sorry this happened, Mike. You warned me about Leila’s flaky behavior, you asked me to keep an eye on your kids. I should have been more careful—”
“Stop. It’s not your fault—”
“I don’t care what you say. I feel responsible—”
“Let me finish, Clare. It’s not your fault for a very simple reason. It’s mine.”
“How could it possibly be yours? You’re four hundred miles away.”
“Exactly.”
I closed my eyes and took a breath. “Mike, I’ll find them. I promise—”
“I’m coming to help.”
“In the morning?”
“Now. I’m already in the car. If I can’t book a seat out of Dulles, I’ll go on standby. Call me anytime, okay? If you can’t get through, I’m on the plane. I’ll call you back as soon as I can . . .”
We said our good-byes and I turned my gaze skyward. The night felt especially dark with the glow from Manhattan’s lights painting the horizon an eerie purple.
I hurried to my coffee truck and climbed in the back door.
Esther looked up. “Nancy and I already emptied the thermal Air-Pots—”
“Fill them again,” I commanded. Then I told them about Jeremy and Molly. They were both upset and asked to help. “Take care of the truck. And after the coffee is ready, notify the officer in charge that free java is available to all police and park personnel helping with the search.”
Rummaging through the utility drawer, I found a heavy Maglite. I tested its beam—and accidentally blinded Esther.
“Yow!” she howled, rubbing her eyes. “Why do you need the flashlight?”