by Cleo Coyle
“How long did you—”
“Three days. I was about to give up when an old man woke me at midnight. He led me through the forest. Under a full moon, we climbed to the top of a cliff that overlooked Lake Tana. Adina was there, along with many others, including an Orthodox priest wearing old, worn robes. I joined the circle, and while prayers were chanted, we were served pan-roasted coffee around the ritual fire.”
Matt paused. “The coffee was exceptional. After we drank it, the old man led me back to my tent while the rest stayed behind to meditate or pray.”
“And did you experience any visions? Weird dreams?”
Matt shook his head. “Nothing. At the time, I figured it was all bunk, a good story to tell when selling the beans for an upmarket price. And when I saw Adina again, I offered to buy what the tribe was willing to sell—two fifty-pound bags. Then, as I was packing the rented Rover, Adina showed up with the coffee and a warning . . .”
“Matt, are you okay? You look pale.”
He nodded and shifted again. “She said the coffee gave her a vision. She told me to avoid ‘the blue goose.’ She insisted the blue goose would destroy me if I got too close.”
“I didn’t even know they had geese in Ethiopia.”
“Around Lake Tana blue geese are about as common as pigeons in Manhattan. Anyway, I didn’t know what to make of her warning until three days later. I was boarding a ferry to cross the lake when I noticed a blue goose painted on the ship’s bow. I got a sick feeling seeing it. I remembered what Adina said and decided to postpone my trip for one more day. Take the ferry in the next town.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad.”
Matt’s expression darkened. “That night I found out the blue goose ferry capsized. Everyone was lost.”
Despite our cozy surroundings, Matt shivered—and so did I.
“It could have been a coincidence,” I said.
“You really think that?”
“No, but I don’t have any other rational answer. And right now I need rational answers. I mean why did Adina see your future after drinking the coffee? But you saw nothing? And why am I having visions—while you’re experiencing nothing?”
“At first, I thought maybe it was gender. You had to be a woman. Then I thought it had something to do with being psychic. You know, Clare, I always thought you were a little psychic. When we were married, there were times when I could never get anything past you.”
“I wasn’t psychic. You were predictable.”
Matt drained his espresso cup. “Look, I told you already, if you want rational answers, the man to see is Dr. Pepper.”
“And who is he exactly?”
“We met on a transatlantic flight and talked coffee for like eighteen hours straight. He’s a biochemist and medical doctor, and he’s had a lifelong passion for our favorite beverage—consuming it and studying it.”
“And how is he supposed to help me?”
“I sent him the Lake Tana beans for testing. After I texted him about your vision, he got very excited. He wants you to visit him in Columbia.”
“Colombia, South America?!”
“No! Dr. Pepper isn’t South American. He’s East Indian. And he’s teaching at Columbia University. He wants you to come uptown to his lab.”
“Why his lab?”
“He’s going to wire you up to some machine and test your brain functions after you drink the Lake Tana coffee.”
“Matt, I am not drinking that coffee—not ever again.”
“Suit yourself. But the fact is, you already drank it, more than once, and it gave you visions. So why not use them?”
“Because I’ve sworn off fortune telling.”
“What harm can it do?”
“Plenty.”
Matt sat back and studied the tin ceiling. “How can I convince you?” Pushing away his empty cup, he leaned forward.
“If you don’t want to believe this coffee saved my life, then don’t. But you have to admit it helped us find Quinn’s kids. Remember? Back in Central Park?”
“The Oak Bridge,” I whispered. “You’re right.”
“Remember how we figured that out?”
“Actually, you’re the one who figured that out.”
“Yeah, after I heard the clues in your vision. And we can do it again. Come on, what do you say?”
I closed my eyes and considered my (far too limited) options.
“Fine. Where do we start?”
FORTY-FOUR
“WE need to interpret what you saw under the coffee’s influence,” Matt said, “which means I’ll need to know more about your dream. Tell me what you remember.”
I began with the surreal Poetry Slam—how I was treated as the guest of honor and young women with fairy wings danced around me until a dark figure intruded, ruining the party.
“That sounds a lot like the Sleeping Beauty story, doesn’t it?” Matt observed. “All the fairies are invited to a royal party for a beloved princess, all but one. The one who’s not invited shows up and curses the princess with a sleeping spell.”
“How do you know about the Sleeping Beauty story?”
“How do you think? Our daughter.”
“You read it to her?”
“I took her to the animated movie. Before her Hello Kitty and vampire phases, Joy went through a Disney Princess obsession, don’t you remember?”
“Of course I remember. I didn’t think you did.”
“Are you kidding?” Matt shivered. “That evil Disney fairy gave me nightmares for days.”
“Maleficent gave you nightmares? She’s a fictional character.”
“Let’s just say she reminded me of a few not-to-pleasant romantic entanglements.”
“That I believe.”
“Back to your caffeinated dream: So there you are on stage, dressed in a pink gown like Anya’s, and this hooded figure pricks you in the leg with its animal-clawed hand and puts you to sleep, which means it did the same thing to Anya, right?”
“It’s possible something like that happened. She has no history of using drugs. So it makes sense that someone injected her without her consent. This dark figure also wanted to see everyone’s golden key. But I didn’t have one—and there wasn’t a key on Anya when they found her, either.”
Matt frowned. “What are the keys for anyway?”
“From what I can tell, they’re pass keys to an exclusive club on the Upper East Side. And get this—Mike Quinn’s ex-wife has one.”
“Wait a second, isn’t Anya working for Quinn’s ex?”
“Yeah, it seems suspicious to me, too. Leila was also acting strangely at the festival yesterday, but I can’t point to any rational reason she’d want to silence Anya.”
“Let’s go back to the hooded intruder. If this figure wanted to see your key, then he or she must be connected to that exclusive club.”
“Matt, I think it’s all connected to that club. I had a very sick vision outside its door. I felt the same heavy darkness in Central Park that night. That figure in my dream was the source, a dark soul willing to kill for what it wants.”
“Okay, but what person does this dark soul inhabit?” We sat in silence a moment. “Maybe we should approach it like we did the clue to the Oak Bridge. Let’s try being literal. Who do you know that wears a hood?”
Of course. “Red!”
“The hood in your dream was red?”
“No. It was black. But remember Anya’s friend, the Red Princess? According to Esther, she raps around town as Red in the ’Hood. She’s also coming to the Poetry Slam tonight, and she expects to meet with you.”
“Me? Why?”
“I don’t know, but Quinn thinks you should be careful—”
“I think I can handle myself, Clare.”
“No, listen, she could be dangero
us.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“Esther described Red as a party girl. So if she gave Anya drugs and the girl accidentally overdosed, then Red might be panicking now. She could have heard about the police questioning you and might want to set you up in some way, plant drugs on you, and turn you in to avoid blame herself—especially if Anya dies.”
“So am I meeting with her or not?”
“You’re waiting upstairs in my apartment until I call you down. I want to talk with her first.”
“About what?”
“About Anya—I need to see how Red reacts when I bring up her friend.”
“What are you looking for?”
“The real story between them.” I leaned across the table and lowered my voice. “I can’t stop thinking about Anya’s golden key. Mike’s daughter claimed she had one, yet it wasn’t on Anya when I found her—and her necklace chain was broken. What if Red wanted Anya’s golden key to get into that exclusive Upper East Side club? What if Anya refused to give it up? Red might have hatched a plan to drug her friend, steal the key, and leave Anya unconscious in the woods, making it look like a drug overdose.”
“If that’s true, then the clawed hand you saw shooting out of that black robe makes perfect sense.”
“Why?”
“The Red Riding Hood story isn’t complete without the ruthless wolf. Maybe Red is the wolf. In her story, they could be one and the same.”
“Or we could be wrong. That’s the trouble with fortune telling. Interpreting signs is tricky business. Red could be innocent. After all, the hood in my dream was black, not red.”
“Then why does she want to see me?”
“If she’s innocent, then maybe she simply wants to question you. After all, for most of the day you were paired with Anya as her Prince Charming.”
“She’s either a suspect or a witness, Clare, make up your mind.”
“I can’t. Not without more to go on. And I’ve got to figure it out fast, or you could be in real trouble.”
“I’m already in real trouble.”
“Then I guess we’ve got nothing to lose.”
FORTY-FIVE
A few hours later, Esther’s Fairy Tale Invitational Poetry Slam was under way, and I was front and center when Red strutted onto our temporary stage.
Smart and sexy in a tight, red leather dress with a sequined hood half covering her scarlet-streaked dark hair, Red’s saucy poses easily netted male attention. But her tarty act was broad, self-aware, and so funny it brought the females along, too.
Sticking to the fairy-tale theme, she rapped out a story about Jack and Jill’s journey up the hill. Her version was a ribald tale about two runaways in the big city. Her slam was sharp and clever, her voice melodious, but Red’s real talent was her remarkable skill at connecting with the audience.
I watched from a front row table, sitting among members of Esther’s Poetry in Motion urban outreach program. Esther’s teenage students were enthralled by Red’s rapid-fire rap, which was more than I could say for my zaftig barista.
“My puppies are killing me,” Esther whispered as she untied her shoelaces.
All evening, Esther had been jumpy, awaiting the arrival of her boyfriend. Thus far, he was a no-show. And she became distracted by a more down-to-earth matter—her feet.
I glanced at her combat boots. “Why didn’t you wear your comfy Keds?”
“Comfort is out the window, boss. Tonight Boris is going to break up with me, and I have to be prepared.” Esther slipped her feet out of the shoes and wiggled her toes inside her tights. “It’s part of my female survival manual. If a woman’s going into battle, she’s got to have the proper footwear.”
The boots worked well for her own rap, too—Gretel’s Revenge, another urban retelling of a Grimm tale in which a tough girl frees her younger brother from the clutches of a female crime boss who wants to fry him for stealing hallucinogenic candy.
The crowd loved Esther (as usual), but I could tell she wasn’t enjoying the evening. Not with Boris expected to show up for their scheduled “discussion.” Though Esther was convinced he was going to dump her, I wasn’t so sure.
Despite their disagreements, Boris and Esther truly were made for each other, and I was hoping they could work out whatever was wrong. On the other hand, I was glad he’d stayed away tonight—for Esther’s sake as well as mine. She didn’t relish a public quarrel, and I needed all the help I could get handling Red.
The Girl in the ’Hood was now winding up for her finish. Esther noticed, and slipped her feet back into the boots, though she didn’t bother with the laces.
Red ended her slam to wild applause, which she acknowledged with a smile. But the second she exited the stage, the girl’s people-pleasing persona left, too.
Before I even had a chance to stand, she jumped down from the stage and confronted Esther with a scowl.
“Where is Matteo Allegro?” she demanded. “I don’t see him, and you promised he would be here. Did I waste my time?”
“Matt’s here,” I said, rising. “You can talk to him. But first you have to talk to me.”
FORTY-SIX
RED stared in silence, clearly taken aback.
Thank goodness, Esther jumped in. “Talk to her,” she firmly advised. Then without bothering to tie her boots, she clomped to the stage to thank the audience and announce a short intermission.
As members of the crowd began milling around, stretching their legs, Red moved to the chair where her scarlet backpack sat. I shadowed her.
“So who are you?” she asked, fishing around her pack.
“My name is Clare. I’m Mr. Allegro’s business partner. Why do you want to see him?”
“My business with Matteo Allegro is none of your business, business partner.”
“You’re wrong about that. His business is my business. And we’re both wondering if you heard about the business involving your friend Anya?”
“You mean my stupid friend? The stupid girl lying in that stupid hospital? Do you think I’m stupid? Of course I heard what happened to Anya!”
In a dazzling blur of motion, Red’s right hand opened a silver case, flipped a cigarette into her mouth, and lit it.
“Yesterday morning in Central Park, you were looking for her. What was the reason? Did you need something from her? A key maybe?”
“What is this? Shakedown? Maybe you are looking for key of your own?”
“I don’t want anything from you but the truth.”
“You can trust her,” Esther broke in, returning to her seat. “And you’re not allowed to smoke in here.”
“Why should I trust her?” Red snapped, ignoring the smoking ban. “And why should she care about Anya?”
I stepped closer and lowered my voice. “Because I’m a friend of the two children Anya helped care for. I promised them I’d find out what happened to her. And right now I think it’s connected to her missing key.”
Red pursed her lips, as if reevaluating me. Then her tone changed from defensive to curious. “You think I took her key?”
“Did you?”
“No.” She took a long drag on her cigarette and blew a smoke stream toward the ceiling. “Why would I need Anya’s key? I have my own key.”
“So . . . you’re a member?” I said, unconvinced.
“You don’t believe me? Who do you think helped that stupid girl get her stupid key? Was me!” Then she surprised me by showing me proof. Her right hand angrily stamped out the cigarette, yanked off her sequined hood, reached down her neckline, and pulled out a golden key.
The key itself didn’t convince me, but the chain did. That signature chain made of silver and gold links in little diamond shapes couldn’t have been Anya’s because Molly had it.
“You see. I am not lying. I did not want Anya’s key. And I did not hurt he
r. Anya was my friend. But she would not listen to me. I tried to tell her—once you say da to these people, you do not say nyet!”
“Who? What people?”
But Red wouldn’t tell me, simply ranted in Russian. Though I understood nothing, I did recognize the phrase Esther mentioned last night—
“Ya budu ryadom! Ya budu ryadom!”
She repeated it several times. When I asked her what it meant, she shook her head. “I told you enough. Now let me see Matteo Allegro or I am leaving.”
“If you’re really Anya’s friend, then you should care about what happened to her.”
“Are you stupid? Of course I care!”
“Then prove it. Come back here tomorrow morning. Matt will be here to talk to you—along with a friend of ours.”
“What friend?”
“He’ll listen to your whole story, off the record. We’ll all put our heads together and figure out the next step.”
“Who is this off-the-record man? Reporter?”
“No . . .” I leaned close, whispered in her ear. “His name is Emmanuel Franco. He’s a cop, you can trust him.”
That did it. The mention of police spooked Red completely. She shook her head hard, pulled her hood back up, and turned to gather up her raincoat and bag.
“Wait—” I grabbed her arm.
“You get one last chance,” she hissed, shaking me off. “Matteo Allegro comes to get me in five minutes or I am going. And I am never coming back.”
I didn’t like Red, but I did believe her about the key and the club, and I wanted to know more about both, along with “these people” to whom Anya had first said yes and then said no.
Matt, who could charm the pantyhose off most women, was now my only hope for getting more out of this edgy girl.
At the moment, my ex was ensconced upstairs, in the kitchen of my duplex, munching cookies, playing smartphone games, and catching up on international calls.