by Cleo Coyle
“I would have pegged you for a convenience-store-coffee kind of guy.”
“Bodegas, actually. Remember those blue-and-white paper cups with the Greek design?”
“The Anthora?” she said, putting water on to boil.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what the design is called. Back in the 1960s, a paper cup manufacturer wanted to create something that would appeal to the Greek-owned coffee shops—they were all over New York at the time. ‘We are happy to serve you,’ right? That was the motto on the cup—”
“And on my patrol car, come to think of it, another version of it, anyway.”
“I don’t recall the NYPD serving coffee.”
“No, but we drank enough of it to keep the shops in business. I practically lived on it when I was in uniform, the younger model of me.”
“This model’s not half bad.” She looked him up and down, and threw him a cheeky wink.
Now he felt like blushing.
Clare smiled. “Was the younger model of you that different from this one?”
“This one’s a lot wiser. Otherwise, not much different in the things that matter.”
“Oh, I already guessed that.”
“How?”
“Let’s see—” Her fingers ticked off a list. “Number one, the way you talk about your work. It’s obviously part of your identity. Two, you carry an EMT jump bag in your car, you know, just in case you casually come across a civilian having a heart attack. Three, your haircut is vintage police academy. Shall I go on?”
“Be my guest. But I’ll need coffee first. Lots of it.”
“You read my mind.” She rolled her eyes. “Or what’s left of it.”
Yep, still Clare, he thought. How could he not love this woman?
She was about to grind the beans when he stepped in and took the bag from her hand.
“Sit down, let me.”
“You know how?”
“Guess who taught me.”
“Oh . . . okay.”
“Don’t sweat it. I taught you a few things, too. But not in the kitchen . . .”
When his captivated gaze found hers, her blush came back. Mike couldn’t stop himself. The back of his hand lifted to brush her cheek. She immediately backed away.
“Sorry,” she said.
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I need to take things slow. I keep reminding myself, but . . .”
“Don’t be discouraged,” she said again.
He smiled. “We detectives wouldn’t get very far if we gave up easily.”
“I don’t give up easily, either.”
“No, you never have—and I’m counting on that.”
FIFTY-SIX
AS Mike Quinn shared coffee with Clare, the rhythm of their relationship resumed so beautifully, it almost felt like a normal morning, until—
“Hey, you two, what’s going on?” Matt strode into the kitchen in jeans and a T-shirt, bluntly asking, “Is she cured?”
“No,” Clare returned without blinking an eye, “but that slab of bacon you bought is. Why don’t you tactlessly ask it?”
As Quinn suppressed a laugh, Matt put up defensive hands. “I just thought with the pair of you playing footsie down here, something might have, you know, been kicked loose.”
Quinn wanted to kick him. “Dial it down, Allegro. We’re getting to know each other again.”
With a shrug, Matt retreated to the kitchen counter, where he began futzing with one of his high-end appliances. “Just tell me the truth,” he said. “Was there any funny business last night, after I fell asleep?”
Quinn risked a peek at Clare to find her already peeking at him. When they awkwardly glanced away, Matt cackled.
“You two look like a couple of teenagers in your parents’ house.”
“Only you would think that,” Clare said, “given your maturity level. But it isn’t that simple.”
“It was until he showed up.”
Quinn was about to respond (and not politely) when Clare cut in—
“Are you making coffee over there? I was wondering about that thing on your counter—”
The eye roll she shot Quinn, before jumping off the bar chair, made it clear she didn’t care all that much about Matt’s mystery machine, but acting like she did might defuse the mounting tension.
She was right. Like a neglected kid, Allegro appeared pleased to have his ex-wife’s focus back on him. As the coffee talk ensued, Quinn felt his pocket buzzing. He pulled out his mobile and read the screen.
The text was from Franco:
My friends arrived. With papers.
They didn’t see my cousin.
No worries. Already gone.
That was fast, Quinn thought. Too fast. He weighed whether or not to tell Clare and Allegro the bad news. At the moment, they were in the weeds over the particulars of automated pour-over.
“. . . and the copper-coil heating system maintains the temperature throughout the brew cycle,” Matt droned on. “Not only that, the showerhead evenly saturates the grinds like the manual method.”
Clare shook her head. “Won’t it flood the bed?”
“No, that’s the beauty of it. The showerhead pulses, allowing perfect blooming.”
“I still don’t get the rationale.”
“Because your memory loss doesn’t take into account the latest trend in the coffee business. Manual pour-over became so popular with high-end-coffee consumers that shops began to feature slow bars.”
“Slow bars!” Clare gawked at her ex. “I’m sorry, but on what planet do coffee drinkers wait for pour-over? New Yorkers can’t wait three minutes in line without complaining.”
Reluctantly, Matt confessed that she had announced these same reservations when he insisted they try a slow bar at the Village Blend.
“And?” she asked. “How did it go?”
“Ultimately, nobody had the patience for it.”
“I was right? You admit it?”
Matt shrugged. “Even I lost patience with my manual pour-over. That’s why I bought this automatic.”
“Espresso bars were created so customers wouldn’t have to wait for their coffee—you know that. The machine itself was invented to speed up service.” She glanced around. “Why don’t you have an espresso machine here?”
“I moved it to the warehouse in Red Hook. That’s where I spend most of my time when I’m in New York.”
“I see, well . . .” Clare patted his shoulder. “I’m sure slow bars work in resort areas. Waiting for water to gradually seep through ground beans is probably a Zen experience—in the land of hot tubs and pool parties.”
“Don’t knock the pleasures of anticipation.” He waggled his eyebrows. “You always enjoyed it in foreplay.”
Hearing the change in subject, Quinn cleared his throat, loudly.
“Excuse me. I thought you two might like to know. I received a text message from my second-in-command.”
“Who’s that?” Clare asked.
“You met him at the hospital, Sergeant Franco.”
Clare’s face froze. “You mean the young cop with the shaved head and leather jacket?”
Quinn could tell she wasn’t a fan—and decided not to mention his relationship with her grown daughter. Unfortunately, Allegro couldn’t keep his big mouth shut. He immediately started ranting about Franco being a “mook” and how he was looking forward to the day Joy came to her senses and gave the poor sergeant the heave-ho.
“Are you finished?” Quinn asked.
Allegro folded his arms, and Quinn turned to Clare, who looked scared out of her wits.
“Don’t listen to your ex-husband. He has his own history with Franco and reasons for disliking the guy. But Franco is a good man. He’s been a real friend to you, and you’ve been one
to him. Despite your ex-husband’s objections, Joy has great affection for Franco and the feeling is mutual.”
“Really?” Clare sounded skeptical. “And I’ve had no objections to their relationship?”
“Joy’s history has been rocky. She’s had negative experiences with men, but never with Franco. You were thrilled to know she chose to be with a good guy like him. You’ve been holding out hope they’ll make a commitment one day.”
“As in marriage?”
“Not long ago, you told me you were having mother-of-the-bride fantasies.”
Allegro’s groan was highly audible. Quinn ignored it. Thankfully, so did Clare. Still a little wary, she nevertheless nodded, apparently willing to accept the situation—at least for now.
“What about this message from your sergeant?” Clare asked. “What’s his news?”
“The DC police paid a visit to Joy this morning with a warrant to search her home and business. They were searching for you.”
“What!” Clare and her ex cried together.
Matt looked ready to kill. “You’d better explain, Quinn.”
“Calm down, and I will . . .”
FIFTY-SEVEN
QUINN quickly recounted the Fish Squad’s visit to the Village Blend, and Madame’s bright idea to send them on a wild Allegro chase to Washington, DC.
“Great! Just great!” Matt began to pace.
“She had no choice,” Quinn told him. “Soles and Bass added up the obvious. They came to your coffeehouse, expecting a lead, and your mother gave them a credible one. She bought us time.”
“Well, the clock is ticking now,” Matt said. “We need to get her memory back.”
“I’m right here,” Clare said.
“Okay.” Matt faced her. “We need to get your memory back. Or the NYPD is going to deliver you right back to the hospital.”
“Take it easy,” Quinn stepped in. “Piling on stress isn’t going to help. You’ve got coffee on. Let’s all sit down and have some.”
* * *
• • •
THE three of them moved from the marble bar to a sunny corner of the large kitchen, where a breakfast nook with a cushioned banquette was tucked against the mansion’s tall windows.
Matt filled their mugs with coffee. Quinn sampled the excellent brew and nodded. He had to give it to Allegro; the man knew his trade.
“We have to find more keys for Clare,” Matt began.
“Keys?” Quinn said.
“Sensory stimulation to unlock her memories.”
“Like the chicken?” Clare said.
“What chicken?” Quinn asked.
Taking a seat, Matt recounted the KFC experiment. He also reminded Clare of her breakthrough after her first taste of the Hampton Coffee in the van ride. She responded by reminding him that it all started with her visit to the Parkview hotel’s Gotham Suite.
“So we need to find more memory aids for her,” Quinn said, summing up, “preferably ones that highly stimulate her senses.”
The table went quiet as they all began to ponder a next step. Quinn caught Clare peeking at him several times and blushing. That intrigued him. Before he could pursue what was on her mind, Matt spoke up.
“Why don’t you try baking something?”
Clare arched an eyebrow. “Is that because you’re hungry?”
“I could eat. But the truth is, you love it. You do a lot of it, and it could bring you back to yourself.”
“You’re not wrong,” Clare admitted. “I grew up baking with my grandmother, and it always relaxes me.”
“That’s good,” Quinn agreed. “Anything that makes you feel safe and comfortable will help. So what do you feel like baking?”
“I don’t know . . .” Clare gazed out the window in thought. “At this point, my memories of baking are all about my grandmother—and my daughter, of course, teaching her recipes in our Jersey kitchen. Can either of you remember what I baked, say, in the last few weeks?”
“Your Apple Cobbler Cake,” Matt immediately suggested. “You made that for a staff meeting before you disappeared. I had a piece, and it was great. You mentioned you wrote about it in one of your old columns. A few ingredients, magically whipped together into a breakfast cake, something like that—”
“I have a better idea,” Quinn cut in. “Since that recipe goes back years, it’s not a good anchor in Clare’s mind. But the morning before she disappeared, she baked something special for the two of us.”
“I did?” Clare leaned closer. “What was it?”
“Your shop’s pastry case recently added glazed Blueberry Cream Cheese Scones. They were so melt-in-your-mouth tender and such a big hit, you wanted to try a version using strawberries. You baked a sample batch for the two of us. They were amazing, Clare.”
“Strawberry Cream Cheese Scones?” She licked her lips. “Mmmm. Were they glazed, too?”
Quinn nodded. “I remember you used sweet juices from the macerated strawberries to help flavor the glaze and color it pale pink.”
Clare’s eyebrows lifted. “You know what macerated means?”
“I learned it from you. You used vanilla and sugar for the process.”
“Then you watched me make the scones?”
“Of course. Watching you cook is a beautiful thing. I feel guilty sometimes, because you make us meals so often. When you let me, I treat you to restaurants, but you usually prefer to stay ‘Cosi at home’—that’s how you put it.”
He smiled and she returned it.
“That sounds nice. Just the two of us?”
“And Java and Frothy. Those are your cats. I start a fire in the living room, and you start dinner in the kitchen. I enjoy talking with you at the end of the day, so I mix us drinks, or pour glasses of wine, and we decompress together. I even help, when you let me. The truth is, Clare, whatever lights you up lifts me, too . . .”
As she listened to Quinn, Clare leaned closer and closer. “Strawberry Cream Cheese Scones,” she repeated, her expression growing softer. Then her lips parted, and Quinn almost thought she was going to kiss him, until Matt peevishly pointed out—
“Strawberries are out of season.”
“So what?” Quinn said, unable to unglue his gaze from his fiancée. “I’ve seen Clare use frozen blueberries in muffins. Can’t you get frozen strawberries around here?”
“I’m sure we can find fresh,” Clare said almost dreamily. “Just like Matt’s coffee beans, berries are shipped here from farms in other countries so we cold-weather dwellers can enjoy some variety in our produce year-round.”
Matt folded his arms. “Clearly, you have no memory of the locavore movement.”
“The what?”
Matt appeared to relish breaking the mood completely with a mini lecture on the California origin of the movement, along with its philosophy, and the general attitude it reinforced among those who thought of themselves as foodie elite.
“And what attitude is that?” Clare asked.
“Eating produce out of season is frowned upon.”
“I get that, and I like using seasonal produce, too. You get the best pricing that way. It’s also commendable to encourage people to use farmers’ markets and support local producers. But”—her eyes narrowed into a look Quinn knew well—“until I move to California and have a citrus tree in my backyard, I’m not giving up oranges, lemons, limes, bananas, avocados, coffee, and all the other fresh fruits and veg that don’t happen to grow anywhere near this region. I’d rather not give up their health benefits, either. My guess is that most families in this country, including low-income families in urban areas—not to mention the hardworking people in the grocery industry, who’ve labored to develop trade practices that provide year-round variety for our diets—are of the same opinion.”
Quinn almost felt sorry for Allegro. He didn’t know w
hat hit him.
Swallowing his smile, Quinn addressed Clare. “Why don’t you and I take a drive to find some berries, fresh or frozen? We can get some air, stretch our legs—”
“You think that’s wise?” Matt asked. “I think she should stay hidden.”
“I have a good disguise,” Clare said. “And I’d like to get out.”
“She’ll be fine,” Quinn agreed.
“How do you know?” Matt challenged. “With that mobile phone on you, your flatfoot pals can trace you to this area.”
“That won’t happen. I have a plan.”
“So you’ve said, but I haven’t heard it.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s right!”
“We’ll see about that!”
FIFTY-EIGHT
CLARE
I shook my head, watching the men argue. The word pigheaded came to mind again, though this morning they were acting more like alpha dogs. The yapping became so intense, they failed to notice the light knocking at the front door.
Happy for a reason to get up from the table, I left to investigate. Of course, I checked the peephole first (I’d learned my lesson last night). Then I pulled the door open for a visitor I recognized.
“Are you Barbara ‘Babka’ Baum? One of the Gotham Ladies?”
“Hah,” cried the elderly queen of retro cuisine. “Amnesia or not, I knew you’d never forget a gal like me!”
The sunny autumn morning was temperate, with only a slight chill left over from the night before, and Babka had dressed appropriately, in tan slacks and a hand-embroidered sweater under a tailored jacket. Stylishly thin, her jewel-studded glasses dangled from a spangled necklace. Stepping over the threshold, she removed her chic sun hat, to expose wavy hair rinsed mahogany brown with tasteful salon highlights.
“Nobody forgets me, Clare, because I’m unforgettable,” Babka declared. “Why, even my ex-husband says I’m impossible to forget—as much as that bastard would like to!”
Suddenly, I heard Madame’s voice in my head—