Brewed Awakening

by Cleo Coyle

  “Be careful, Clare. Babka takes offense as easily as she offends.”

  I could not recall the time or place of that warning, but I heeded Madame’s advice and allowed Babka to think that I fully remembered whatever we’d experienced together. The truth is, Madame’s remarks about her old friend were about all I recalled—that and Al Hirschfeld’s lighthearted drawing of her hanging in the Parkview’s Gotham Suite.

  As short as I was, the petite Babka didn’t have to stoop to cup my head between her hands or kiss both cheeks. Stepping back, hands on hips, she gave me an appraising once-over.

  “Clare, you look darn good for someone who’s not right in the kop!” She tapped her head with a finger.

  “Err . . . thanks. You look good yourself.”

  The legendary New York restaurateur and businesswoman struck me as part swaggering CEO, part meddling grandmother. As I ushered her into the great room, she chattered on about maintaining a vacation home in East Hampton—at least twice the size of Matt’s—where she staged lavish summer parties.

  Hearing our approach, the battling bulldogs finally noticed we had a guest. Babka’s smile brightened considerably when she saw the men.

  “Look who’s here! Your rogue ex-husband and your big, hunky fiancé.” Babka clapped her hands and grinned. “I’ve got to hand it to you, doll. You sure do know how to recuperate!”

  “It’s not as pleasant as you might think,” I muttered.

  “Hey, you two!” Babka called to them. “I got a hired limo full of cakes out there. Fetch them, would you? And tell the driver he can go. He’s already on my tab, so don’t waste good money tipping him.”

  I blinked in confusion. “Cakes?”

  A minute later, Detective Quinn was walking through the door carrying four circular bakery boxes bearing the Parkview Palace seal. They were neatly stacked and tied together with blue ribbons. Matt followed with a three-cake stack in each hand.

  “Clare, you’ve got to smell these,” he said excitedly.

  “Smell them!” Babka cried. “Clare and I are going to taste every single one!”

  “There are ten cakes here,” Quinn observed.

  Babka nodded. “According to Chef Fong and his staff, they represent his spin on some of the most popular wedding cake tastes in America.”

  “Chef Fong?” I said, registering the meaning of the Parkview logo. “Is this the wedding cake sampler from the hotel’s kitchen? The same cakes I ate on the night Annette went missing?”

  “It was Blanche’s idea,” Babka explained. “She thought tasting these cakes might help with your memory problem. I’ve got to say the whole idea sounds meshuga to me, but what do I know? I just shill fancy knishes.” She tossed her sun hat on the table. “Of course, Blanche wanted to bring these herself, but—”

  “She couldn’t,” Matt said. “We know.”

  “Then you also know she’s worried about the police watching her for suspicious activity. You think she’s a little paranoid? I don’t know! What do I know?”

  We all glanced at one another.

  “Well, that’s why she sent me. I ordered the cakes myself, told them they’re for a relative having a wedding at my East Hampton house.”

  “Good thinking,” Quinn said.

  “How did you get here so quickly?” I asked.

  “Easy!” She snapped her fingers. “I choppered in!”

  “Well, I’m a big fan of cake for breakfast,” Matt announced, “so I’m going to sample every one of them, too. Just give me a few minutes to brew more coffee.”

  Quinn followed Matt into the open kitchen, where they resumed arguing in loud whispers. For the second time that day I regretted not hiding the knives.

  While Babka and I made small talk, Matt brought out dishes, mugs, silverware, and even linen napkins. He spread the boxes out on the long marble counter and we seated ourselves on the cushioned bar chairs.

  Detective Quinn seemed excited, too, but for a different reason. He whispered that he was hoping for a breakthrough. The intimate combination of his deep voice at my ear with the warmth of his breath brought heat to my face.

  My head swam a little, and I stepped away quickly, feeling embarrassed by my body’s reaction—and then feeling terrible at the sight of Quinn’s crestfallen face.

  “Cake time!” Matt said, proudly pouring his coffee. “Which one do we try first?”

  FIFTY-NINE

  EACH pretty blue box held a mini layer cake made with six-inch pans. Matt took over serving the sample slices, one cake at a time, and he started with the basics.

  Chef Fong’s simple, elegant Vanilla Bean Cake was delightfully delicate, though we all thought the fondant was too thick and sweet. The Deep Chocolate was rich with a bittersweet sophistication, and its icing tasted just right.

  The Luscious Lemon was too tart for my taste, even with the buttercream, which the chef had peppered generously with zest.

  Babka agreed. “Ah, it’s making me pucker like an octopus!”

  Matt tried each cake with us, giving his opinion, rather loudly. Quinn sampled them, too, but didn’t say a word. His mood appeared to have soured worse than the lemon cake, and his stone-faced mask was cemented back in place. Was it because I’d shyly put air between us again? Or was Matt annoying him? Or was it something else . . . ?

  Cheer up, Detective, I wanted to tell him. I don’t like seeing you this way. But I was reluctant to say something so personal in front of Babka. Instead, I refocused on the food.

  Savoring each forkful of cake, I tried to detect some memory associated with the tasting. I noticed Quinn pensively watching my reactions. Once again I disappointed him. Nothing came to mind.

  Babka, on the other hand, was thoroughly enjoying the exercise. “What’s next?” she asked.

  “Bananas Foster,” Matt said. Babka made a skeptical face but took a sample anyway.

  I was wary, too, but pleasantly surprised. The vanilla filling, as rich as ice cream, lifted the banana cake to another level. So did the frosting, a spreadable version of the buttery sauce poured over an actual Bananas Foster with notes of dark brown sugar, cinnamon, and dark rum.

  “Do you like it?” I asked Quinn.

  He nodded. “It’s good—”

  “Next is the Carrot Cake,” Matt interrupted.

  “I know plenty who love it,” Babka said. “Personally, I prefer my vegetables in a salad or a side, not dessert.”

  The Red Velvet was excellent, but like the Carrot Cake, I thought the cream cheese frosting would be too heavy after appetizers and dinner.

  The Grand Marnier Cake was grand but overpowering while the Royal Elderflower Cake, a copy of the one served at Prince Harry and Meghan Markle’s famous wedding, was a delicate beauty.

  The Ginger Spice was layered with flavor and the sweet molasses nicely offset the peppery spices, but I agreed with Babka when she proclaimed it “not right for a wedding.”

  Then came the rustic Italian-style Chocolate Hazelnut Cake with its chocolate-hazelnut frosting. I swooned a little. Quinn stayed quiet, but I could see him nodding with approval after each bite.

  “You like it, too, don’t you?” I quietly asked the detective as Matt busied himself getting another sample.

  Quinn nodded, appearing pleased that I cared what he thought, and I finally, stupidly realized: This was supposed to be our wedding cake. How awful must he feel that I’m not remembering that?

  I was about to apologize to Quinn for the sad situation when Matt broadly announced—

  “This one looks promising!”

  Chef Fong’s Prosecco Cake was indeed the best yet. He’d filled the tender layers with white chocolate and raspberry mousse, and covered the cake with a silky champagne frosting. I had to have a second forkful, and so did Babka. Matt went crazy, as well, and even the stoic Quinn had seconds.

 
Despite all the sensory stimulation, not one flavor evoked a buried memory. By the time Matt opened the final box, everyone had pretty much resigned themselves to the fact that the tasting was a bust.

  Matt didn’t even announce the last flavor. He just plunked the cake on a plate and dropped it in front of me. Everyone had eaten enough by now, and I was the only one who sliced off a chunk with my fork and stuck it in my mouth.

  Pure bliss followed.

  This was Chef Fong’s famous Coffee and Cream Cake! As I savored the delicate layers of coffee-laced chiffon, filled with sweetened whipped cream, and finished with an amazing mocha buttercream, I felt the tiny hairs on my arms begin to tingle.

  Suddenly, I was jolted by the memory of Chef Fong’s proud expression as he described the creation of this cake to me. The coffee he used was not from Driftwood, the Parkview’s less-than-inspiring vendor. Instead, the chef had sourced a fruity East African bean, sold by a cooperative under the name Ladha Nzuri (“Good Taste” in Swahili). He home-roasted the beans himself, especially for the cake.

  Frowning at my long silence, Babka misconstrued the reason.

  “Bupkes, eh, kiddo?” She patted my arm. “My sympathies.”

  I couldn’t reply because I was experiencing the most intense rush of memories yet. They flooded my head, drowning my consciousness, until I feared I was going to black out again.

  Meanwhile, the men resumed their bickering.

  “Of course the tasting was a bust,” Matt said accusingly. “Because Quinn was here.”

  “Me?” the detective blurted. “I hardly said two words—”

  “That’s what I meant. You were here, but you weren’t any help at all. Why didn’t you say something? Help guide her?”

  “Because you were doing enough talking for the three of us!”

  “What’s your problem, flatfoot? Feeling threatened?”

  Quinn stepped up to Matt and poked his finger into my ex-husband’s chest. “Why don’t you do me a favor, Allegro, and—”

  “A favor!”

  I cried out the words and everyone went silent.

  Quinn turned to me. “Clare? What is it?”

  “That’s why Annette staged the cake tasting for me. She invited me to the Parkview because she wanted to ask me for a favor!”

  SIXTY

  SILENT seconds seemed to stretch as everyone stared at me with eyes bigger than the cakes we’d sampled.

  “What kind of favor?” Quinn pressed, gaze intense.

  “A strange one,” I said. “Give me a moment . . .”

  Closing my eyes to block out distractions, I tried to make sense of the whirling bits of memory. Finally, the kaleidoscope in my head coalesced, and I was back in the Gotham Suite.

  I smelled the array of cakes, the sweet apple slices, the fresh roses in the vase. I heard Fifth Avenue traffic through the windows overlooking Central Park and Chef Fong and his assistant tinkering in the kitchenette.

  “It was near the end of the tasting,” I told Babka, Matt, and Quinn, my eyes still closed.

  “I’d chosen to go with a traditional stack cake in three tiers. I wanted Coffee and Cream at the bottom, Hazelnut in the middle, and the Prosecco Cake on top—”

  Matt interrupted. “These details aren’t important—”

  “They are to her,” Quinn snapped. “Let her talk.”

  I swallowed hard to keep from tossing my cakes, and I wondered whether my wooziness was partly induced, not just by the visions, but the amount of sugar I’d just consumed!

  “Go on, sweetie,” Babka urged. “What else do you remember?”

  “After I chose my wedding cake flavors, the chef and his assistant left, and I was alone with Annette Brewster for the first time. That’s when I pitched her on our Village Blend coffee, and she opened up about the death of her husband, and the real reason she’d invited me to the Parkview Palace.”

  I rested my elbows on the marble bar, afraid I’d fall from the high chair. Squeezing my eyes even tighter, I saw Annette as she appeared that night.

  The elegant hotelier didn’t look very different from the thirty-year-old portrait I’d seen in the Gotham Suite. She was still shapely in a tasteful black dress, and her large blue eyes, soft blond hair, and high sculpted cheekbones were striking.

  Madame told me that back in the 1980s, Annette could have been a fashion model. That night, I thought she had all the glamour and poise of a middle-aged movie queen. Her hair was pulled back in a French braid, showing off her slender neck. Her décolletage might have been daring for some women over sixty, yet it appeared natural and right for her.

  Finally, I heard Annette’s voice, speaking as clearly as if she were in this room . . .

  * * *

  • • •

  “CLARE, I’m going to tell you something that very few people know, and I need you to keep it that way. The Parkview Palace is under a cloud, and I want out. That’s why I’m selling it.”

  “What’s your definition of a cloud?” I asked.

  “The worst storm you can imagine, and it may already be too late to stop it.” She took my hands in hers. “The next thing I’m about to tell you is an even greater secret. I haven’t told anyone, because I can’t trust those around me, not even members of my family.”

  I assured Annette that her secret was safe with me.

  “My husband’s death was no accident—though the Suffolk County police ruled it one. Harlan made enemies. Some of them were our neighbors in the Hamptons. Others were ruthless people in powerful positions. He didn’t care. With his money and connections, he thought he was invincible. And he was, until four months ago.”

  “What can I do?”

  “I know your reputation, Clare. I know you’ve helped people in the past. Now I’m in trouble, and I’m hoping you’ll help me.” Annette bit back tears. “I need to know who killed Harlan.”

  “You have no idea?”

  “We weren’t close anymore. Harlan and I had been living separately for years. He had his own place downtown in the Mews, while I lived here at the Parkview. We only saw each other at social engagements, or in our summer home in the Hamptons.”

  “Why didn’t you ever divorce?”

  “The split would have been a disaster for our finances. So we agreed to live separate lives.” She shook her head. “It’s not for love that I care who killed that bastard—it’s fear. I’m worried the person who killed Harlan will be coming for me next.”

  “You should trust the police with that worry.”

  “I can’t—for many reasons. For one, I have no real evidence. And my suspicions are based on . . . well, frankly, things I do not wish law enforcement officials to know about. Harlan’s dead now, but he engaged in activities that the media and the papers would have a field day with, if they ever found out. I don’t want to hire private investigators for the same reason. I don’t trust them. But I trust Blanche, and she trusts you. For years, she’s bragged about your accomplishments. All I’d like you to do is ask around, see what you can find out about Harlan’s so-called car accident. Come to me with whatever you discover. If you think we should go to the police, then we can go together.”

  * * *

  • • •

  ABRUPTLY, I opened my eyes. Blinking against the glare, I found myself back in my ex-husband’s Hamptons house, and realized it was Detective Quinn who caught me before I slid off the chair and onto the floor.

  Matt and Babka stared at me, mouths gaping. But no one was more shocked than yours truly.

  “I told Annette I’d do it. I said I’d learn all I could about her husband’s death. Now why would I say a stupid thing like that? Did I wake up in an episode of Murder, She Wrote?”

  Detective Quinn and Matt exchanged strange glances but said nothing. It was Babka who spoke up—

  “That’s what you’ve been up
to, kiddo. Over the past few years you’ve been doing a helluva lot more than roasting and serving coffee. You’ve been helping out friends, family, and people in the community when they needed it. In the process, you’ve also helped the police put some bad people away.”

  “I have?” Unsure how I felt about this revelation, my gaze fell on Detective Quinn. “Are you the reason? Did you turn me into some coffeehouse version of Jessica Fletcher?”

  Quinn shook his head. “It was all you, Clare, from the start.”

  “You’re just like I was when I ran my East Side place,” Babka said with a proud smile. “A buttinsky—in a good way.”

  “Clare is also a natural detective,” Quinn added. “And I think she’s capable of helping to solve this crime, too—”

  “Wait a second!” Matt said. “This is not her business!”

  “What if Harlan Brewster was murdered?” Quinn argued. “And what if the person who did it came after Annette, as she feared?”

  “Frankly, I don’t give two burps about Annette Brewster,” Matt returned. “The person I care about is Clare—”

  “Hold on,” I interrupted. “I’d like to help Annette, if I can.”

  “Look at it this way, Allegro,” Quinn said. “If we find out what really happened to Annette Brewster, we might find out what happened to Clare, and that might help her fully regain her memories.”

  Matt waved a hand. “My advice? Worry about yourself, Clare, not some rich hotel diva—”

  “No,” I said firmly. “I agree with Detective Quinn. We should investigate Harlan Brewster’s death.”

  “Don’t listen to this guy,” Matt spat. “It’s just his inner cop talking.”

  “It’s reason and logic talking,” Quinn countered. “I’m already here in the Hamptons, which is where Harlan Brewster died. I can at least start looking into it.”

  “Not without me, you don’t,” I said. “It’s my life that got screwed up over this. And I’m the one who promised Annette I’d help. So you’re not doing a thing without me. Got it?”