by Cleo Coyle
“Come on, Tuck, since when do you avoid gossip?”
He glanced around and whispered: “Since it involves one of the most powerful women in this town.” He paused to sip some caffeinated courage. “Look, you wanted the scoop on Leila, here it is, and you did not get this from me: While I was working with my cast at the Delacorte, I saw Leila talking to Babka Baum. I didn’t hear a word between them, but I did see Babka give Leila a small purple box. They talked quietly for a long time, and then they hugged.”
I already knew about that little box and what it contained. But there was still a mystery here, and it had nothing to do with Leila.
“What was Babka doing at the theater?”
“She’s our Storytime kiddie show’s main sponsor for Fairy Tale Fall week.”
“And that’s why you were afraid of telling tales on her?”
“Let me put this in perspective for you, CC, remember that VIP I went to meet the night of the Central Park Festival? Well, he’s a big producer, and he wants to take my cabaret show, Goosed, to a larger venue, a place on Eighth Avenue that’s right off the Theater District. The run will be limited, but it’s great exposure—for me and especially for Punch.”
“That’s amazing for you both, Tuck, congratulations.”
“Thanks, but listen up . . .” He leaned closer. “Babka is the one who made that happen. She loved my work for the FTF’s kiddie shows, so she made a few phone calls—and suddenly I’ve arrived.”
“I get it. Babka likes you.”
“Yes, but here’s the rub—when Babka doesn’t like you, ugly things happen.”
Tuck told me the show business legend about a young actor who went from the hottest commodity on Broadway to a weatherman’s job at a public access station in Pahrump, all because he took a few jabs at Babka’s “old fashioned” menu on a popular talk show.
“Babka ruined the man. He went from a potential starring role in a Hollywood feature to the Fourth Ring of Thesbian Hell. Let me tell you, there’s more to Babka than yeast cake. If you want to survive in this town, you don’t mess with Baba Yaga.”
EIGHTY-ONE
BY the time I arrived for lunch at Babka’s, the restaurant was packed with a line out the door.
The famous dining room was an immense open rectangle with a wall of high windows facing the avenue. Despite its size, large furniture pieces were artfully used as room dividers, making things intimate, and several marble fireplaces—each culled from some elegant old Manhattan mansion before demolition—filled the area with warmth and a lively crackle.
The décor was over-the-top Victorian. There was so much bric-a-brac that I was afraid to wave my arm for fear I’d break something. Among this homey clutter were framed photos of Babka herself posing with actors, musicians, artists, writers, and politicians from the 1960s to the present.
“Barbara likes to say she’s friends with ‘everybody who’s anybody,’” Madame once told me, “and she rules her dining room like the Queen of Hearts.” So-called “nobodies” were stashed in one area while select guests were ushered into another.
Oh, sure, you could eat Babka’s Shrimp Kiev and her Gourmet Knishes of roasted truffled potatoes pureed with mascarpone in the same dining room as a blockbuster film director and millionaire pop singer, but thanks to the huge room dividers, you wouldn’t be seated anywhere near them.
And if you happened to “casually stray” into the exclusive area to snap a quick cell photo or ask for an autograph? Off with you head! You would be ejected immediately and forever.
I counted on Madame’s longtime friendship with Barbara to skirt the velvet rope. Favored customers (and celebrities) were usually placed in one of the reserved areas, and I figured Madame would be among The Elect.
Sure enough, my employer had been given a treasured spot by the window, and a hostess dressed as a Victorian housemaid escorted me to her cozy booth.
Tea had already arrived, in the kitschy “Mother Hen” service Babka’s was renowned for. And I noticed Madame couldn’t resist ordering the restaurant’s mini tribute to a classic strawberry dessert from Leo Lindermann’s original Lindy’s (a favorite old eatery of Milton Berle, Damon Runyon, and the Jewish mobster Arnold Rothstein).
Me? Well, if my employer was starting lunch with a freshly baked white cupcake filled with glacéed strawberries and served with a drizzling shot of fresh strawberry syrup, why not join her?
I ordered and in mere minutes was also enjoying Babka’s famous Twinkie Baba Rum—modern comfort food meets old world classic in forkfuls of guilty pleasure.
“You said you wished to speak with Barbara?” Madame dabbed a bit of strawberry syrup from her chin and leaned with bright eyes across the gingham tablecloth. She was looking as flamboyantly elegant as ever in a chartreuse shift and silk scarf printed with Van Gogh’s Green Wheat Fields, Auvers.
“I take it this is part of your investigation? Matt filled me in on some of it—finding a Sleeping Beauty in Central Park . . .”
Over cups of the strong black tea, I told Madame the rest of the tale, including the not-so-pretty chapter of Anya’s friend, Red, dead on her basement apartment’s floor; and how both young Russian women were associated with the speakeasy six floors below our feet, which was why I investigated the place myself.
I noticed she tensed at the mention of the Prince Charming Club.
“That secret club is secret for a reason, dear. Be sure to tread lightly when you speak with Babka.”
“She’s been your friend for years, hasn’t she?”
“Yes, but . . .” Madame’s smile was enigmatic. “She holds a lot of clout and can be punishingly direct. That does not mean you can be equally honest with her. Babka takes offense as easily as she offends.”
“You mean you don’t want me to ask her about the secret club?”
“Find a way to ask without asking.”
We were interrupted by a raucous cry that nearly shook the low rafters.
“Clare, baby! Stand up and let these tired old peepers get a look at you!”
I was hardly on my feet before I was enfolded by the arms of the legend herself, Barbara “Babka” Baum.
EIGHTY-TWO
A petite, birdlike woman in her early eighties, Babka continued to present the image of the stylish New York businesswoman she’d been for decades.
Still chicly thin, she wore a tailored designer suit with a pair of diamond-studded glasses on a chain around her neck. Through her perfect makeup, her senior skin showed gentle wrinkling along with a few cosmetic enhancements (all tastefully done, of course) while her short, wavy hair was maintained with a bitter-almond rinse tempered with salon-perfect highlights of burnished gold.
As her restaurant’s name suggested, Barbara thought of herself as everyone’s grandmother, and behaved accordingly. When the energetic hug ended, she pinched my cheek between her thumb and forefinger. The sting made me flash back on those terrible slaps the unconscious young Anya received in her hospital room.
“Where have you been keeping yourself, Clare? Madame tells me you still haven’t married that detective. You’ve found your prince. What are you’re waiting for?”
“So my love life is what you discuss at those Fairy Tale Fall committee meetings?”
My employer raised a plucked eyebrow. “I’m afraid we do nothing but chinwag, my dear. That committee is a hotbed of steamy gossip.”
Babka gently nudged Madame. “Scoot over, Blanche, and I’ll join you.”
At tables around us people tried not to stare at the boisterous display, and largely failed.
While Babka was famous for stopping by a customer’s table for a greeting and a chitchat, an actual sit-down with the celebrated restaurateur was a rare privilege. A few customers—among them a sitcom star and a major cable news personality—shot us envious glances.
“I really love what you’ve done
to build your coffeehouse into an international brand, Clare. Your Billionaire Blend is the talk of the trade.” Babka tapped the side of her head. “Smart to cater to the upmarket, too. The rich are the only ones with ‘doe-ray-mi’ these days.”
Madame grinned like a proud parent at Babka’s compliment.
“Well, I can’t take all the credit,” I replied, “Matt sourced the—”
“Feh! Take credit where credit is due, kiddo. You’ve earned it.”
Babka shot Madame a sidelong glance. “You know Blanche could have made that old coffeehouse into a franchise long before the bucks was added to Star, but she chose to marry that little Frenchman and slip quietly into retirement.”
Madame pursed her lips. “Let’s not go down that road again.”
“Come on, Blanche! Years ago, I told you to think big. I did and you didn’t. Next month I’m flying to Nevada for the opening of Babka’s at the MGM.”
She counted with her fingers. “I’ve got the restaurant downtown, and one in Chicago. There’s a Babka’s in LA—which makes the Vegas opening my fourth location since you took up knitting or Mahjong or whatever old people do.”
“Madame was hardly playing Mahjong,” I shot back.
My employer’s “retirement” consisted of overseeing Pierre Dubois’s four homes and two estates in three countries; staging his business and social gatherings; and as Pierre’s health waned, running her husband’s import-export business.
I was about to say as much, but Madame silenced me with a gesture and replied to Babka herself.
“Not all of us want that sort of life, you know. There are other things of value. Gracious living. The love and companionship of a good man—”
Babka dismissed that line with a wave. “I was married once. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
“Let’s not speak ill of the dead,” Madame cautioned.
“Why not? Marvin thought your late husband was a supercilious lout.”
Madame made a face. “Well, maybe just this once.”
Late husband disposed of, Babka jumped to a new topic.
“Truthfully, Clare. I do know a smart cookie when I spot one, and you’re smarter than most. If you ever get tired of living in New York City, I’ll open a franchise anyplace you like, and you can be my manager. Name your town. Boston. Memphis . . .” She paused and winked—
“How about Washington, DC?”
I tensed. How can she possibly know my plans, when I hardly even know if they are my plans?!
Before I could reply, Madame’s violet eyes flashed. “That will be quite enough of that!” She gripped my hand. “Clare is not an employee to be stolen away. She’s family to be cherished, and she always will be, no matter what she decides for her future.”
Whatever my future, it was certainly not the topic I’d come here to discuss, and I quickly attempted to steer the conversation to other subjects—like purple jewel boxes and key necklaces.
“What other endeavors have you undertaken, Babka? Have you ever opened a club? Something very exclusive, perhaps?”
Babka didn’t blink an eye. “Five restaurants are endeavors enough for anyone, sweetie. And pretty good for a girl who started as a humble tea lady.”
“Tea lady?”
Madame was close to rolling her eyes. It was clear she’d heard this story before.
“I pushed a tea service cart at one of those elegant old law firms here in Manhattan,” Barbara said with a shrewd smile. “You know the kind? Full of blue bloods with country club memberships. Back in those days they had teatime in the afternoon. It was all very civilized.
“Anyway, in the little spare time I had, I baked babkas in my Bowery tenement. Everybody on the Lower East Side knew babkas, but the stuffy lawyers I worked for never heard of them. When I started serving babkas on my tea cart, those waspy farts went crazy for it!”
Madame sighed heavily, but said nothing.
“It was my sweet old boss and a couple of other partners who lent me the cash to start a bakery and restaurant. The rest is history.”
Unable to hold her tongue any longer, Madame cleared her throat.
“Everyone tweaks their résumé, Barb, but you should never leave out the juicy parts. Intrigue is good PR.”
“Intrigue?” My ears perked up.
“Barbara was indeed a tea lady at a white-shoe law firm,” Madame said. “But she neglected to mention that ‘sweet old boss’ of hers was ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan, the Father of the Central Intelligence Agency. He was officially out of the CIA by the time Barbara met him at the firm, but I do wonder if anyone really retires from a life of espionage . . .”
I thought of the white-haired Wilson and his spy story involving the underground club. But the bragging Babka was suddenly (suspiciously?) dismissive of this intrigue idea.
“Don’t exaggerate, Blanche!” she cried. “Mr. Donovan was simply a lawyer, that’s all.”
Madame cocked an eyebrow. “And yet Babs found herself at the center of an international incident during the Cold War, didn’t you, dear?”
This must be it, I thought. The story Wilson told me about all the sexpionage going on in Babka’s club and the murder of his agent Faith!
But the story Babka told wasn’t about any of that.
“Years ago, when the Iron Curtain was still welded closed, I hid a Bolshoi Ballet star who wanted to defect.” She laughed. “I hid her in plain sight, too. The girl wore a wig, worked as a waitress right here, and slept in my office until everything blew over. A marvelous waitress. With her balance, she never dropped a tray.”
Babka faced me. “Dancers make great waitresses, and mariachi players are good cooks. But never hire a writer, they’re too damn moody! Remember, Clare, good employees are one of the keys to success—”
Keys! Finally an opening! “Speaking of keys, Babka, I wanted to ask—”
Just then, my phone went off—the urgent ring.
I apologized and checked the screen. Franco was calling. I was hoping for good news, but he started with: “I have an update on Matt. I’m sorry, Clare . . .”
My heart nearly stopped. “Hold the line, Sergeant.”
Excusing myself from the table, I stepped outside.
EIGHTY-THREE
ON the chilly East Side street, Franco laid out the cold, hard facts.
“Matt’s been arrested. We scooped him up at the Village Blend.”
“We?”
“Yeah.” Franco paused. “I had no idea it was going to happen. Endicott and Plesky ordered me to come with them, and things turned pretty ugly.”
“Matt wasn’t hurt, was he?”
“No, but he resisted arrest when Endicott demanded that I cuff him—”
“Oh, Franco, no!”
“Yeah, I felt pretty bad, Coffee Lady. All I could think about was Joy and how heartbroken she’s going to be when she hears about this. And, of course, your ex-husband wasn’t too happy about it, either.” Franco paused. “In the process, he struck a police officer. Matt could be charged with assault. He could go to jail for that alone.”
“Is the officer okay?”
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
“Matt hit you?!”
“Couldn’t be helped—and I have to admit your ex packs quite a wallop.”
“What’s next?”
“I’m calling from the precinct bathroom. When I leave this stall, it’s back to the interrogation room where they’re holding him. I don’t know what Endicott has up his sleeve, but I’ll keep you in the loop.”
Franco ended the call, and I found myself staring at the restaurant’s purple twilight awning and pondering my next move. Red was dead, Anya in a coma, and now Matt was under arrest.
Enough with the verbal sparring, I decided. It was time to shoot from the hip.
Boris once told
me that Russians had two faces, a public one, and another that was secret. That certainly fit Barbara Baum. Despite her public face as a kindly old lady who baked cake, there was a snarling Baba Yaga lurking behind the façade.
But I can be formidable, too—especially when my family is threatened.
My mind made up, I marched back to our table.
* * *
“THERE’S our girl,” Babka said when I sat down. “Now what were we talking about?”
“Keys,” I said. “Like the keys you hand out to pretty girls and beautiful women. Those special key necklaces that get them admission into your private club downstairs.”
In a flash, the jovial Babka was gone, a serious, sharp-eyed Baba Yaga in her place.
“Honey, I don’t know what you’re talking—”
“No more lies. Rozalina Krasny is dead, murdered. Anya has been drugged, and Madame’s son, Matt, was arrested this afternoon for both crimes.”
“Heavens!” Madame cried.
“I’m sorry you have to hear the news this way,” I told Madame, “but Barbara needs to hear it, too. An innocent man, the son of your friend, is being framed for crimes connected to the club downstairs.”
“You’re wrong,” Babka insisted.
“Am I? Anya had a key. So did Red.”
“You’re wrong about the club, Clare.”
“I saw the rooms of Silver, Diamond, and Gold, right out of The Secret Ball, Anya’s favorite fairy tale. Was that your intent? To create a fantasy for hungry men and willing women?”
Babka shook her head. “I started the club to help all the poor, pretty girls who worked for me as waitresses, and the lonely women who came to my restaurant for a meal. You’re a businesswoman, Clare, you know the score.”
Babka touched my arm. “You can only do so much charity before you’re broke. My girls hit me up for money all the time. ‘I can’t pay my rent. I need this, my kid needs that.’ For a while, I was a soft touch, but things got so bad I had to start saying no. That’s when I got the idea to introduce the pretty girls to fat cats who were good at making money—but not so smart about meeting women.”