Brewed Awakening

by Cleo Coyle

  “What did you see when you looked through the window?”

  “Nothing. It was stained glass, too thick to see anything beyond whether it was day or night.”

  “And Annette?”

  I shrugged. “I was alone. I only ever saw the Grunting Men.”

  Hands shaky, I drank more coffee. It strengthened my resolve to dredge up this memory.

  “It was nighttime when I escaped, I remember that. I was feeling woozy, like I’d been drugged. I don’t think I could even remember my name at one point. But I remember wanting to escape and testing that bedroom door ten or twenty times a day. One night that messed-up lock malfunctioned, and the door opened for me.”

  I closed my eyes and let the memories flow over me.

  “I sneaked down a flight of stairs to the ground floor. The whole place was dark. One of the Grunting Men was snoring in the tiny living room. I was too afraid to pass him and go out the front door, so I went out the back.”

  “Where did you end up?”

  “The woods, I thought, because I saw trees. But then I quickly realized I was in a courtyard. I wandered around until I found the gate and stumbled out. Then I was on a sidewalk and realized I recognized the street— Omigod!”

  I jumped to my feet, dropping my mug again. Thankfully the porcelain hit the rug and didn’t break. But my poor, long-suffering felines scampered away again, loudly mewing.

  “That’s it. The Mews!”

  “What?”

  “I remember where I was! They were keeping me in a town house at the Washington Mews, right here in Greenwich Village!” I faced him. “I think I can find the place again. The Mews is just one gated street, and that round stained glass window was pretty distinctive. Should we call in the police?”

  “No police,” Mike replied a little too quickly. “Let’s see what we can find first.”

  I studied the man’s stone face. He was holding something back. I was about to press him when he said, “We need hard evidence, Clare. Proof that your story is true. We need—”

  I touched his arm. “We need to find Annette.”

  NINETY-THREE

  THE Washington Mews, where I’d been held, was located on a gated cobblestone street, just one block from the park where I’d woken on a bench with a damaged memory.

  Over a century ago, in the horse-and-buggy era, New Yorkers had built hundreds of mews like these—rows of two-story structures constructed to serve wealthy residents in larger homes. Typically the ground floor would hold stables for horses and carriages, with living quarters for domestics on the floor above. By now, most of New York’s carriage houses have been demolished, but some have survived, becoming chic landmarked town houses for urban residents.

  The majority of properties in this mews were used by New York University for programs on language and culture, but several of the buildings were still privately owned.

  Unless my abductor was a raving-mad NYU professor of romance languages, I was looking for one of the private homes.

  By one PM, Mike and I were walking slowly down the historic cobblestone street when I stopped dead and began to shiver—more from seeing that familiar stained glass circle than from the blustery autumn weather. I pointed to the town house a few doors away.

  “There it is,” I whispered.

  Mike raised an eyebrow. “If you’re sure, let’s see who’s home.”

  “Wait!” I called too late. He’d already pressed the doorbell. Mike rang three more times, without a response. Then he peered through the front window. Thanks to a gap in the curtains, we could see that the interior was all shadows and darkness.

  “Let’s try the back,” Mike said.

  The iron gate to the wooded courtyard was unlocked. Here the wind shook dying leaves loose as I led Mike into the private gardens behind the row of old houses. When we reached the right home, Mike approached the windowless rear door. He knocked loudly, then jiggled the knob and pushed with his shoulder. Finally, he took something from his jacket pocket.

  “Watch my back,” he whispered. “And if an alarm goes off, you run like hell out of here.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Flash my badge.”

  “So, you really are breaking in, then? I thought we were looking for evidence—which will be useless if you enter the house without a warrant.”

  “And I thought we were looking for Annette.”

  Mike fiddled with the lock. After a moment, he cursed, and I figured he couldn’t pick it. I wasn’t sure if I was disappointed or relieved. Then I heard a click and saw his grin.

  As he cracked the door, we both tensed—and didn’t breathe again until we were sure no alarm would sound.

  Mike shook his head. “And people wonder why they get robbed.”

  I pushed him through the door and into a narrow carpeted hallway. The town house was clean and neat, but the air was stuffy, as if no one had been here for days.

  We passed the kitchen and a small bathroom. Both were empty. When we reached the living room, I recognized the couch where the Grunting Man had fallen asleep the night I escaped.

  “I want you to stay down here while I check upstairs,” Mike said.

  He must be reading my mind, I thought, because there is no way I want to see that room again.

  As Mike warily climbed the stairs, I took a closer look at the living room. My eyes were immediately drawn to a wall decorated with family portraits.

  An old Rod Stewart song came to mind, “Every Picture Tells a Story,” and I found a whopper.

  Displayed in plain sight was the history of a family told in photographs. I recognized every person in these pictures, and that’s what shocked me—because no one, including me, had ever guessed they were a family!

  NINETY-FOUR

  BY the time Mike came down the stairs, I had it all figured out.

  “Clare, I saw the room where they kept you,” he said. “It’s exactly like you described. I searched the other bedrooms, but there’s no sign of Annette. We’re back to square one.”

  “No, we’re not. I think I found the key to what’s going on—right here in plain sight.”

  He peeked over my shoulder.

  “Let me tell you this story in pictures,” I said, “starting with the photo of this very pretty, very pregnant woman. This is Victoria Holbrook, and she’s standing in front of Schönbrunn Palace. That’s in Vienna.

  “I overheard Victoria tell Madame that she’d moved to Vienna, and Nora Arany hinted that Victoria might have moved there because she was pregnant. Right, and right.”

  I pointed to a second picture. “Here’s Victoria standing with her child, a boy, maybe four or five years old. I heard Tessa Simmons wonder aloud if she had a first cousin adopted by an Austrian family, and this picture appears to answer that question. Victoria didn’t give away her son. She decided to raise him herself.”

  I moved to the next picture. “A few years after that Vienna photo, Victoria moved from Vienna to Venice—Venice, California. Here’s Victoria and her nine- or ten-year-old son on the Venice Boardwalk.”

  Mike leaned close. “There’s a man with them, but his head is turned, and I can’t see his face.”

  “Don’t worry. The next picture reveals all.”

  I tapped the glass. “That’s Victoria, her son, and the boy’s father. The event is the son’s graduation from UC Berkeley School of Law. The graduate is wearing rimless round glasses instead of the horn-rims, and his hair is longer, but you can clearly see the boy is Owen Wimmer.”

  “And that man beside him?”

  “Harlan Brewster. It looks to me like Owen was his only child, a bastard son who thought he was destined to inherit the Parkview Palace and the family fortune, only to be thwarted.”

  “Slow down, Clare. You’d better explain.”

  “Annette had breast
cancer two years ago and beat it. But Owen probably expected her to die and leave everything to Harlan, who would then leave it to Owen. But it was Harlan who died, giving Annette control of the Parkview fortune, which she intended to pass on to her niece, Tessa.”

  Mike nodded. “And you think Owen snatched Annette. For what purpose?”

  “A copy of Annette’s last will and testament was taken out of the Gotham Suite. That’s the will that names Tessa as the beneficiary. I think Owen wanted to coerce Annette into signing a new one, naming Victoria Holbrook as the beneficiary.”

  Mike Quinn smiled that smile he always displayed right before he collared a perp.

  I removed the graduation portrait from the wall. “You can almost see Owen’s resemblance to his father. I think Annette might have suspected who Owen was. And since there was no love lost between her and Harlan, there is no way Annette would leave a cent to his bastard son, even if it was her sister’s child, too.”

  “This is pretty twisted,” Mike said.

  “As the Parkview’s lawyer, Owen knew what was in the original will, and he also knew Annette intended to sell the hotel out from under his mother before Annette fled to France to be with her old flame, the painter.”

  “Could Victoria be involved with her sister’s abduction?”

  “It’s possible. But then why would she ask Stevens to investigate Tessa? Unless that was part of an elaborate frame job.”

  “Everything you’re saying makes sense, but we have no evidence,” Mike said. “If the police picked up Victoria or Owen right now, they could deny all involvement and the NYPD would have to let them go in twenty-four hours.”

  “I know you found no evidence upstairs, but this property was obviously Harlan’s ‘love nest’ with Victoria. Back at the Gypsy hotel, a friend of Annette’s drunkenly mentioned there was such a place, though she didn’t know where. Well, we found it. And if Owen hired goons to hold me here, he was probably holding Annette here, too.”

  “Yes, but once you escaped, he obviously moved her. The question is where?”

  “Mike, if Owen used Harlan’s property once, why not use it again? Hide her in plain sight, right? I think Owen is holding Annette on the Brewsters’ estate in the Hamptons. And I think I know precisely where. So how about we notify the police, get a warrant, and have the Sandcastle raided?”

  A shadow crossed Mike’s face. “There’s something I didn’t tell you, Clare, but I think you’d better hear it now.”

  Oh, no. I braced myself.

  “When Lori Soles called me last night at the Gypsy, she warned me the FBI was taking over the search for you. And right now members of the Major Case Squad are probably pushing a theory with the Feds that you’re not innocent. That you were involved in either setting up Annette for abduction or taking money to be released in exchange for keeping your mouth shut.”

  I held my head. “I just got my life back, and now you’re telling me I’m facing Federal interrogation and maybe forced hospitalization—or worse?”

  “It’s decision time, Clare. Either we keep the appointment with that law firm, you turn yourself in to the authorities, and we try to convince them of our theory before Annette is either moved or killed. Or we go out to the Hamptons ourselves and find out if Owen is guilty.”

  Mike paused, his penetrating blue eyes gazing into mine. “This is your life, sweetheart. I’ll go along with whatever you decide, but you have to make the call.”

  NINETY-FIVE

  HOURS later, Mike and I were on those dark and dangerous roads again, but I took some comfort in my nonna’s old saying. Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.

  I was lucky in that regard. Michael Ryan Francis Quinn was much more than a friend.

  Good thing, too, because the road back to Long Island was horrendously longer than usual. Multiple accidents on the expressway turned a two-and-a-half-hour drive into a four-hour ordeal, and the autumn sun was well below the horizon by the time we reached the rural lane leading to the Brewsters’ Sandcastle estate.

  While stuck in traffic, I told Mike my plan. It was a desperate scheme that involved breaking in just like we had at the Mews, but through a kitchen window instead of a back door. I’d spotted that partially open window the last time I’d crept around the property in the dark—not something I was looking forward to doing again.

  “Heads up,” Mike said. “Sandcastle is just around the next bend.”

  “Mike! Look there!”

  I pointed out a pickup truck parked on the shoulder of the road. Mike slowed as we drove by, and I read the Ernest Landscaping logo on the door.

  “Who landscapes at night?” I asked.

  “Did you see anyone around the truck?”

  “No.”

  “Then maybe the truck broke down, and Ernest is looking to have it towed. Unless he was one of Owen’s Grunting Men and is inside the mansion right now.”

  “It’s possible,” I said, “although when you and I spoke to Ernest Belling, I didn’t have one of my woozy memory reactions to him. And if he was involved, wouldn’t Owen have opened the gates for him? Why would he want that truck parked on the road for all to see?”

  “You might be right, Clare. But you could be wrong. Keep an eye out for Belling—and if he tries anything, use the Taser I gave you.”

  A moment later, we arrived at the tall wrought iron gates of the mansion.

  “I can see lights through the trees,” I said. “It looks like Owen Wimmer, Esquire, is at home.”

  Following my plan, I ducked under the dashboard while Quinn buzzed the intercom. A minute later, Owen’s reedy voice answered.

  “May I help you?”

  “It’s Detective Quinn. I have several follow-up questions about those letters you showed me.”

  “I’ve already turned copies of all pertinent correspondence over to your department.”

  “I know,” Quinn said. “But I have new information.”

  “Very well, come in.”

  The gates to Sandcastle opened.

  “It’s your plan, Clare, so stick to it. He’ll disarm the security system to let me in. I’ll distract him with BS, maybe get him back to that study again. You’re going to sneak around back and climb through the kitchen window—”

  “If it’s still open.”

  “Are you sure Annette is locked up where you say she is?”

  “I’d bet my life on it. Which, if you think about it, I kind of am.”

  Mike cut the engine. “Good luck,” he whispered.

  “And you be careful. Owen’s plan is desperate, even crazy. Maybe he’s crazy, too.”

  NINETY-SIX

  IMPOSSIBLY, everything seemed to be going as planned.

  Owen greeted Quinn with a handshake and invited him inside. The alarm system had been disarmed, and I found that the kitchen window was cracked enough for me to open it wider and crawl through.

  There was a harrowing instant when I bumped an aluminum pasta strainer hanging under the window—but I managed to catch it before it clattered to the tiled floor.

  Gingerly, I hung it up and proceeded.

  As I moved through the house, I could hear Quinn and Wimmer talking, but I couldn’t make out their words. The voices came from that messy study, far from the part of the house I was looking for.

  Though this massive mansion seemed labyrinthine, it took me only a few minutes to locate the sterile, artless, all-white abattoir of a room with the glass walls facing the night-shrouded woods.

  Though the recessed lighting was dim, I could still make out those five gargoyles on the room’s wall, each one set in a decorative panel. As Madame had done in the Gotham Suite, I pushed on their grotesque heads, one after the other.

  On my third try, the middle panel swung inward. Warily, I peeked inside. The darkness made it impossible
to see anything clearly, but I knew something was terribly wrong from the awful smell. Foul, stale air with the reek of human sweat and worse emanated from that black pit.

  I pulled Quinn’s flashlight from my pocket. The beam revealed a room about the size of the one I had been kept in, minus amenities like a window and a bathroom.

  There was a bed, though, and I gasped at the emaciated figure lying on it. Annette was still wearing the black dress from the cake tasting. Now stained and torn, the garment was loose on her frame. Her blond hair hung in greasy ringlets.

  “Annette, wake up,” I whispered, gently shaking her. “It’s me . . . Clare Cosi . . . I’m here to rescue you.”

  But she was dead to the world, and when I checked her pulse, I feared she was nearly dead.

  I’d never considered this situation. I thought I’d find an incoherent but conscious Annette. It was going to be impossible for me to carry an unconscious woman out of here!

  I discovered why she was so weak when I looked on the bedside table. There were legal documents stacked in a neat pile beside a pen. There was a handwritten note, too—

  Sign your last will and testament and maybe I’ll give you food.

  I didn’t need a signature to know who had written it: A depraved monster named Owen Wimmer.

  I was glad to see Annette had resisted. Those legal documents were unsigned, which was clearly the reason Owen had continued to keep her alive. Thank goodness it was long enough for Quinn and me to find her.

  As I set the papers aside, I heard a resounding clatter from the kitchen—the pasta strainer hitting the floor. I froze, cursing myself for not hanging it properly.

  The dull murmur of conversation between Quinn and the lawyer ceased, too. Next I heard scuffling, then a crash, followed by more silence.