Brewed Awakening

by Cleo Coyle

  I hurried to the elevator, slipping into my poncho as I moved.

  The car hadn’t arrived yet, and a small crowd had gathered in the waiting area. I mingled with a group of young people, their gazes glued to phone screens.

  Keeping my head down, I entered the elevator with the group, which included Toby Mullins. Mustache Man never even looked in my direction. Like everyone else in this phone-fetish future, his attention was completely focused on his small screen.

  Mullins didn’t leave through the lobby’s main exit. He went to a pair of doors that led directly to the parking area. I gave him a few seconds before I followed—only to get blocked by a dozen raucous partiers entering the hotel through a door that was clearly marked Exit Only.

  Finally, I pushed through the mob and then the doors. Without slowing, I rushed into the cold night.

  In the brightly illuminated parking area, misty droplets shimmered like pearls on the cars around me. There was more fog now than rain, but the air was still heavy and damp.

  I was determined to follow Mullins, and I wasn’t about to do anything stupid. I wouldn’t attempt to approach him, not without Detective Quinn present, but I would find out what make and model car he was driving—and get the number off the license plate.

  As I scanned the lot, I feared I’d lost him. There was no one in sight.

  That was when I heard the gunshot.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  I couldn’t figure out which direction the sound came from. But when a second shot echoed across the lot, a car horn began to blare—and didn’t stop.

  The noise came from a line of vehicles two rows away, and I soon found the sedan making the racket. I also discovered the reason the horn continued blaring.

  Toby Mullins was slumped in the driver’s seat. I only knew it was him because I recognized the tweedy brown sport coat. What was left of his head was jammed into the steering wheel, setting off the horn.

  I saw something else, too. A left-handed woman’s glove sat on the dashboard. It was tan leather and looked exactly like a match for my glove—the one with the bloodstain, the one the police took into evidence after I woke up on that park bench.

  I stumbled backward, until my rear was pressed against another sedan. Then I looked up and saw a man staring at me. He was three car lengths away, and my fake glasses were dotted with raindrops, but I would have recognized Stevens anywhere.

  The head of security at the Parkview Palace hotel stood frozen in place. Then our eyes met, and he bolted like a fat mouse who’d spied a hungry tigress.

  “Stop!” I cried.

  Of course, Stevens didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. And, really, why the heck should he?

  I chased after him anyway, pushing aside the fact that he had a gun and had just shot a man in the head—twice. I was so outraged that I refused to see reason. I just couldn’t let this man get away!

  I didn’t plan on confronting him, but I did intend to see what vehicle he used to drive off. The sooner the police apprehended him, the more likely he’d still have the murder weapon on him.

  I ran as fast as I could. Huffing and puffing and jolting my wig crooked, I was happy to see my effort was paying off. Matt had been correct in his physical assessment of the guy. Stevens had packed on a few too many pounds for this sort of urban sprint.

  In desperation to get clear of me, Stevens ducked behind a Driftwood Coffee supply van and I lost sight of him.

  Certain I had gotten the best of the man, I circled the coffee truck and ran down a short alley that led to a hotel loading dock.

  Abruptly, I stopped in my tracks. I was flanked by overstuffed dumpsters on either side, and the smell was not pleasant. Other than garbage, the narrow dead end was empty.

  I’d made a wrong turn. If Stevens came back, he would discover that I was the one cornered. Heart racing, I spun around and ran back toward the parking lot. As I circled that Driftwood van again, I ran smack into the strong arms of a tall man.

  I was about to scream my head off when I realized the arms belonged to Detective Quinn. Mr. Dante was with him.

  “It’s Stevens!” I cried. “The head of security for the Parkview hotel. He shot a man named Toby Mullins, who was working for Tessa Simmons. I found Mullins dead in his car, shot through the head. Then I chased Stevens, but he got away.”

  I paused for a breath. “Listen. You can hear the horn. It’s still blowing! And a woman’s leather glove was on the dashboard. It looked exactly like the one I lost during the abduction. I’m sure it’s my glove! It’s the evidence we need!”

  The detective seized my shoulders. “Calm down, Clare. You’re safe. It’s over.”

  Quinn was right. I took some deep breaths, and my rapid heartbeat began to slow. My knees were still weak, but I was okay.

  Quinn straightened my blond wig. “Do you feel faint? Should I grab my EMT bag?”

  “No!” I firmly shook my head. “I’m fine.”

  “Good. Dante will get you out of here.”

  “What do you mean? Where should we go?”

  “Back to the Village Blend, where you can hide in plain sight, just like we planned. Keep wearing your disguise. Use the back entrance and the service stairs, and you’ll be fine.”

  “But don’t you need me as a witness?”

  “There are security cameras all over that parking lot. Those cameras are the witness. Now, go.”

  I hesitated. “But—”

  “Dante, get her out of here!”

  Then Quinn was off, calling in the murder while he ran toward the car with Toby Mullins’s corpse.

  EIGHTY-SIX

  “BOSS, you’re back!”

  Esther Best had ducked into the Village Blend pantry for supplies when she saw the back door open and me and Mr. Dante walk through. Before I could utter a word, the barista poet was squeezing me like a Sunkist orange.

  “Take it easy,” Mr. Dante told her. “She just saw a guy get his head blown off!”

  “What?! Omigod! Omigod!”

  Pushing up her black-framed glasses, Esther went from completely freaked to mother-hen mode. Taking me by the arm, as if I were physically and mentally unstable, she insisted on “helping me” up the stairs.

  “Esther, I’m fine,” I assured her.

  And I really was—which did little to douse my burning skepticism about Dr. Lorca’s so-called diagnosis.

  Seeing Toby Mullins shot to death had been highly disturbing. It had rattled my nerves, filled me with fear and dread, and sent adrenaline through my molecules. What it didn’t do was make me woozy or forgetful. It didn’t block any memories, either, at least no more than the original “emotional trauma” that Lorca claimed I’d experienced.

  Traveling back here tonight with Mr. Dante, I recognized the streets of my West Village neighborhood and my beloved century-old Village Blend. But I still had no memories of living and working here—not lately.

  In my mind, it had been a long time since I’d managed the place and roasted coffee in this basement. Though I was being told differently, I still felt as though I should have been returning to the suburbs of New Jersey, where I was a single mother raising my young daughter, Joy, and writing a column for the local paper.

  “Do you want me to call Madame and let her know you’re here?” Mr. Dante asked.

  “Yes,” I said, “but be careful.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t use your name. I’ll be cagey, like your boyfriend.”

  My boyfriend? I was about to ask, and stifled the question. He was talking about Detective Mike Quinn. To everyone around me, Quinn and I were a couple, even though it still felt as though we had met days ago, instead of years.

  As Mr. Dante made his call, I climbed the back staircase with Esther, and waited as she unlocked the duplex door.

  Madame’s furnished guest apartmen
t above the coffeehouse looked as elegant and tasteful as I remembered, though I had no personal memories of living here. When Matt and I were married and raising Joy, we lived in our own little apartment nearby.

  But that was long ago (so everyone told me), and this was my home now. I barely had time to settle in, meet my two cats (whom Esther introduced as Java and Frothy), pull off my blond wig, and freshen up in the bathroom before I heard someone arriving at the front door.

  It was Madame, thank goodness. She was here already, greeting me with open arms.

  EIGHTY-SEVEN

  “OH, my dear, welcome home!” Madame’s hug wasn’t as tight as Esther’s, but her enthusiastic affection was just as touching.

  I had so much to tell my former mother-in-law, and yet . . . I decided to keep the details of my crazy weekend to myself, including its awful, violent end in Long Island City. There would be plenty of time to fill her in. But not tonight.

  Meanwhile, Madame informed me that she was going to help me make things right with the authorities. She said she knew about Detective Quinn’s Monday meeting with a top law firm.

  “And now that you’re back, I’ll be arranging for you to see a reputable psychiatrist. I have several recommendations from a professor I trust. Of course, the law firm Detective Quinn is hiring may want you to see their own doctors, as well, before they take you to the police.”

  I cringed at the thought of going through a grilling—and more physical and mental tests and diagnoses. But, given the way I’d left the hospital, I knew I’d have to endure the ordeal, sooner or later.

  “May I see Joy now? Or at least talk to her by phone?”

  “No, dear. Not yet. The police are watching her. She and I have been in touch with careful conversations, but I don’t think it’s wise for you two to talk just yet. You don’t want to give yourself away. Not when we’re so close to resolving your legal tangle.”

  “All right,” I said—but reluctantly.

  “Don’t be disappointed. You and Joy will be reunited soon. For tonight, try to relax, and see if anything comes back to you. I see your cats have no problem with their feline memories!”

  Purring and brushing my legs with excited affection, Java and Frothy hadn’t left my heels since I walked in the door. Their little paws suddenly reminded me of my ex-husband’s words—pussyfooting around—and I couldn’t help wondering what the next step would be for me and Mike Quinn.

  “I assume Detective Quinn will stop by later,” I said. “In the meantime, would you mind if I roasted some coffee in the basement this week?”

  “Oh, my goodness, I would be delighted! And so would your baristas and all your customers. Guess who filled in for you while you were gone.”

  “Esther?”

  “Esther?! Bah!” She waved her hand. “I filled in for you.”

  “You?”

  “Of course! I asked Dante to help. That young man’s arms are good for more than displaying body art. He did the heavy lifting, but I was the one roasting the coffee. Just like the old days.”

  “You’re the one who taught me.”

  “Make a note, Clare. Dante’s your boy if you want an apprentice roaster. He’s quite interested in the process.”

  “That’s good to know. What’s his first name, by the way?”

  “Whose?”

  “Mr. Dante?”

  “Oh, dear. I think it’s time I tell you. The boy’s full name is Dante Silva. There is no need to use Mister. To us, he’s simply Dante.”

  “And nobody corrected me until now?! Did you think I was that far gone?”

  “Let’s just say that we were very worried about you. We still are.”

  With a frustrated sigh, I collapsed on the sofa—and my two feline roommates jumped all over me.

  * * *

  • • •

  A short time later, Madame bade me good night, and I found myself puttering around the apartment’s rooms, looking at the life I had been living. It was a peculiar way to spend an evening.

  I riffled through unfamiliar clothes, examined curious collectibles, and admired pieces of jewelry that (apparently) I’d had the good taste to purchase. That was when I saw the pristine white ring box. I could guess what was inside. With anticipation, I opened the lid—

  But the box was empty.

  Hmmm, I thought. Another mystery.

  In the kitchen, I found binders with recipes. In the living room, photo albums. I paged through the images, but they weren’t anything I hadn’t seen before. These were old photos of the life I remembered well—as a child and young woman. And then my time with Matt: our wedding day; our honeymoon; and plenty of photos when Joy was born.

  Still too keyed up to sleep, I decided to cook something. I noticed a recipe on the counter and assumed I’d left it there.

  “Chocolate Chip Coffee Cake,” I read aloud, “brown sugar, white sugar, flour, egg, oil, vanilla, salt, leavening, chips . . .”

  The cake recipe looked easy and tasty—and after what I’d just witnessed, I was in need of some home-baked comfort. So I mixed the simple batter and poured it into the pan. When I slid the cake into the oven, I noticed a broad-shouldered shadow leaning against the kitchen doorway.

  It was Mike.

  He’d entered the apartment so stealthily, I hadn’t heard a footstep. By now I had changed into clothes I’d found upstairs, a soft T-shirt and warm leggings. It must have reminded him of something good because his typical icy expression had melted into a puddle of sweet affection.

  “Hi, Clare.”

  “Hi, Mike. Would you like some coffee?”

  EIGHTY-EIGHT

  THE coffee, it turned out, was more than a warm, invigorating beverage. My own house blend tasted comfortingly familiar, and the caffeine seemed to have a positive, head-clearing effect on my mind.

  Could my own roasted coffee be the key to unlocking more memories?

  Detective Quinn doubted it would be that easy.

  He had brought up his EMT jump bag, just in case I relapsed and blacked out, but I was feeling fine and strong. Apart from my memory issue—and missing my daughter—I was glad to be here.

  After I invited him into the kitchen, the detective pulled off his suit jacket and shoulder holster. He hung both on an empty chair, sat at the table, and stretched out his long legs.

  I noticed Java and Frothy were glad to see him, enthusiastically depositing brown and white fur all over his slacks. I liked that he didn’t mind, and he appeared to enjoy scratching their ears and petting their necks as much as they enjoyed the attention.

  “So fill me in,” I said. “What happened at the parking lot?”

  “A small army of uniforms showed up from the local precinct and created a perimeter for the Crime Scene Unit. Then the Queens detectives arrived, and I told them what you would have—about Stevens’s presence at the time of the gunshot, which they’re going to confirm once they get a warrant for the security camera footage.

  “I also let them know Stevens’s connection to the Annette Brewster case. And, thanks to your sharp eyes, pointed out the glove on the victim’s dashboard. I identified it as resembling a match to your glove with the bloodstain—the one we bagged for evidence last week.”

  “Did they find Stevens?”

  Quinn nodded. “They caught up with him in his car, driving to his home on Staten Island. They’re questioning him now. He claims he’s innocent. We’ll know more in the morning.”

  “I’m going to hope for the best,” I said. “That Annette is still alive and Stevens knows where to find her—and who else was involved.”

  “It’s a tangle,” Quinn admitted, scratching the new growth of stubble on his jawline. “Let’s hope it won’t take long to straighten out.”

  I agreed. “There are still so many questions. Were Mullins and Stevens working together for Tessa? Or is
Stevens working for Victoria? Was he trying to frame Mullins with that glove?”

  Quinn drained his cup. “Good questions, Detective.”

  “Good answers would be more helpful, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled. “But I’d say you gave us an excellent start.”

  I was about to thank him for sticking by me—when the kitchen timer went off. As I pulled my chocolate chip snack cake out of the oven, Quinn made a fresh pot of coffee, and we continued talking into the night.

  EIGHTY-NINE

  BY the end of the evening, Detective Quinn and I had agreed that he would sleep in the guest room, and I would take the master bedroom. Then he went upstairs to settle in, and I cleaned up the kitchen.

  As I passed the second-floor bathroom, I heard him starting a hot shower—a good way to dispel the night’s chill. Moving down the hallway, I decided to do the same by starting a fire in my bedroom’s hearth.

  This old log fireplace would be more work to clean than my ex-husband’s convenient switch-on/switch-off gas hearth. But I preferred the real thing—the outdoorsy scent of the wood, the uneven crackling, and unexpected pops. The authentic fire wasn’t as safe or easy, but it gave more warmth to my body and excitement to my senses.

  The smells and sounds also brought back a cascade of powerful memories. Romantic feelings came over me, and I got the strong impression that Quinn should have been here next to me, sipping coffee and relaxing, whispering sweet words before bed.

  Just then I noticed something on the mantel. A phone? It was my smartphone, presumably, the one everyone said I’d left behind on the night of my abduction.

  I turned it on and gazed into the glowing display with a little trepidation. Matt had shown me a photo of Joy on his phone. Did I have photos, too? Would I be looking through the recent years of my life? Should I?

  That was when I saw the thumbnail image titled Mike’s Proposal.