Brewed Awakening

by Cleo Coyle

  I waited a full minute before I left the secret room. Just when I concluded that I was safe, the lights snapped on, and I blinked against the glare. When my vision cleared, Owen Wimmer was standing in front of me, a gun in one hand, a poker in the other.

  I lunged with Quinn’s Taser, but he struck it away with the poker. That’s when I realized it was stained crimson. I had no doubt it was Mike Quinn’s blood.

  NINETY-SEVEN

  MIKE was alive!

  For a moment that was the only thought my mind registered. At gunpoint, Owen had led me into the study, where I found the man I loved sprawled on the hardwood floor. He was unconscious, but still breathing. Owen had taken his gun—the same weapon he now pointed at me.

  I didn’t care about that. I didn’t care about anything but Mike. I wanted to go to him, help him, but a maniac was threatening to shoot us both. He’d already struck me once, knocking my big glasses off my face. Then he tore my wig off, taking some of my own hair with it.

  “So,” he said smugly, “the drug finally wore off.”

  “What did you do to me?”

  “Me? Nothing. Not personally, anyway. You, however, have been a royal pain. I saw through your flimsy disguise that day in the Gotham Suite, but I knew you were still experiencing memory loss, so I wasn’t worried—until this afternoon, when my security app showed me video of you and the detective here breaking in at the Mews. I assumed you’d regained your memory, but you didn’t call the police in, because I’ve been talking to the police and encouraging them to suspect your involvement in dear Annette’s abduction. So you’re a wanted woman now. And since you have no real evidence against me, I simply waited for you both to come here.”

  Suddenly, Mike groaned, and Owen aimed the gun at him. I loudly shifted on my feet so he would point it back at me.

  “I understand why you took Annette that night,” I said. “But why did your goons kidnap me?”

  “I knew Annette planned to ask you to investigate Harlan’s death, and I couldn’t have that.”

  “Why not? Unless you murdered your own father.”

  Owen’s eyes narrowed. “A part-time father is no father at all. My mother was fixated on Harlan—God knows why—but a paycheck is all that man was to me. After he put me through law school, he put me to work in his hotel. But as his only child, he owed me more. Much more. The Parkview and the family fortune should be mine. It’s only right.”

  Owen leaned the poker against the cold fireplace.

  “I’m surprised you and your cop friend were able to trace this all back to me. But then Toby Mullins was on his way to Sandcastle the night I murdered him.”

  “You shot Mullins?”

  “And I successfully diverted attention from myself to Tessa by placing your missing glove in his car. That was my plan all along, to frame Tessa for Annette’s abduction and murder. Then no one would be left to challenge the will. My mother certainly wouldn’t, though she knows nothing about this. I couldn’t trust her not to screw it up.”

  “What are you going to do with us?”

  He gave me a sick smile. “A police detective who loves a woman wanted by the FBI? Why, it’s the perfect soap opera, and in such a melodrama, they would run off together, simply disappear, never to be heard from again.”

  “You plan to kill us?”

  “Not right away. I’ll be torturing you both first, Ms. Cosi, a little fright show to persuade Annette to sign those papers.” He sighed. “You know, my original plan was foolproof. Too bad it was compromised by those incompetent day workers I hired out from under Ernest Belling. They seemed bright enough. But the fools gave Annette too much of the drug, and they allowed you to escape. Frankly, they weren’t worth the money I promised to pay them, so I didn’t.”

  He shrugged. “After I had them move Annette out here, I convinced them to dig her grave on the estate’s property. They never had a clue they were digging their own.”

  Suddenly, an angry roar filled the room, and a brawny figure in a bandanna rushed Owen Wimmer. The lawyer quickly aimed his gun at Ernest Belling. As the shot rang out, I leaped forward and grabbed the demented lawyer’s arm.

  Owen and I wrestled for the gun, while Ernest Belling staggered and dropped to one knee. As I continued my fight, Owen smacked me in the face with the flat of his free hand, and I saw stars. When he hit me a second time, I fell against the fireplace.

  Through a swollen eye, I saw that Owen was about to execute Belling.

  That was when Quinn made his move. Still on the ground, he wrapped his arms around Owen’s legs. The lawyer teetered but didn’t fall. Instead, he tried to aim his gun at Mike.

  I was on my feet in an instant, snatching the poker. I swung it with all my might. The shock of the blow jolted my arms. God knows what it did to Owen Wimmer, who dropped like a rock.

  I let go of the poker and knelt beside my fiancé. “Mike, Mike! Can you talk?”

  He tried to sit up, but I stopped him to examine his wound.

  “How bad?” he asked.

  “You’re going to need stitches, but that thick skull of yours seems to be intact.”

  Behind me, Ernest Belling groaned and sank to the hardwood floor. The bullet had struck his shoulder. I did my best to stanch the flow of blood while Mike called 911.

  “He killed my cousin. He killed Tommy Cole,” Belling gasped.

  “Did your cousin help kidnap Annette?” I asked.

  Belling nodded. “He bragged about a side job with big money. Then I heard the news about Mrs. Brewster going missing and possibly being abducted. When Tommy disappeared, I put two and two together. I thought Tommy might be in this place, doing secret work for Owen. I’ve been watching on the road for days. Tonight, when you guys came, I saw my chance. I hopped the fence, followed you in, and tried to stay out of sight. But when I heard him bragging about what he did to Tommy, I couldn’t control myself.”

  Belling winced as I tied off his wound.

  “Tommy was a lowlife who would do anything for a buck, but he was family.”

  NINETY-EIGHT

  A few weeks later, I gathered my coffeehouse family for a little talk.

  Everyone had questions about what I’d gone through, and what they’d gone through. So—after returning from Washington for a tearful reunion with my daughter—I gathered everyone at the Village Blend for some answers, some coffee, and some good old-fashioned venting.

  The first thing I wanted everyone to know was that my amnesia hadn’t been caused by some hysterical emotional reaction. Against my will, I’d been injected with an experimental drug.

  “It’s called Nepenthe,” I explained. “Dr. Lorca named it after the elixir of forgetfulness that Homer wrote about in The Odyssey.”

  Esther raised her hand. “Ms. Boss, if you’re going to start this story three thousand years ago, I think we’re going to need more coffee.”

  “And more of these,” Sergeant Franco said, reaching for his third Goobers Cookie (our latest hit).

  “I’ll keep it short,” I promised.

  “Talk as long as you like, Coffee Lady. So long as you keep these outstanding cookies coming, I’ll listen.”

  “We’ve got you covered, big fella,” Tucker Burton assured him, “unless you plan on eating our entire pastry case.”

  I cleared my throat. “So, where was I?”

  “Uh-oh, looks like the amnesia’s kicked in again. Next thing you know she’ll be calling me Mister Dante.”

  Beside the tattooed barista, Mike Quinn snickered, until I gave him a look. Bad enough he was wearing a bandanna to cover his head wound, which he probably thought was funny, too!

  “You were talking about that experimental drug, Clare?” Madame prompted, sipping her espresso.

  “That’s right. The drug was developed by Dr. Dominic Lorca to treat victims of post-traumatic stress disorder. I
t sounds like science fiction, but researchers have been hoping to develop a pharmacological memory wipe for some time. The clinical goal is to eliminate the memory of the disturbing incident to alleviate the patient’s distress.”

  I paused to sip my own cup of coffee—my elixir of choice for a very particular reason. “As it turned out, Lorca’s Nepenthe was a bust. It caused wildly different reactions among people, and it eventually wore off. The traumatic memories began to return when the patient encountered memory triggers, especially when consuming natural stimulants like those found in coconut oil, ginseng, tea, and coffee.”

  “Huzzah!” Esther cried, lifting her cup and clinking it with Dante. “Coffee rules!”

  “The drug’s legacy could have ended there,” I said. “But Sergeant Franco uncovered the rest of the story. Manny, do you want to fill us in on your investigation?”

  Franco hurriedly brushed cookie crumbs off his flannel shirt.

  “Yeah, well,” he began, his voice a low rumble, “one of Lorca’s assistants was a graduate student who summered in the Hamptons. He stole some of Lorca’s stash and made big bucks selling Nepenthe to rich punks and frat boys as a reverse roofie—”

  “You mean, roofer?” Madame said, puzzled.

  “Roofie,” Franco repeated. “That’s the date-rape drug, flunitrazepam. When it’s slipped into a victim’s drink, they become drowsy, disoriented. The problem is, when the victim wakes up, they have a pretty good idea they’d been assaulted. But Nepenthe is different. Slip it into your victim’s bloodstream, and they forget the assault ever happened, along with a lot of other stuff—enough to render the victim a useless witness.”

  Franco reached for another cookie but spoke before he took a bite.

  “Dr. Lorca eventually found out what his graduate student was doing. He realized his drug was being sold on the black market. He was desperate to protect his reputation, and he began paying medical personnel in area hospitals to give him early tips on any case of memory loss that turned up in the ER.

  “Everyone thought it was perfectly innocent. They figured the celebrity doctor was just seeking another subject for a book. But Lorca was actually covering up his employee’s criminal behavior to protect himself. He pushed his way into each case, taking charge of the medical records, because he didn’t want to risk other physicians detecting his drug, though their standard screens for alcohol, narcotics, and the like wouldn’t have been able to reveal it. A unique serotonin test was what Lorca used to confirm his suspicions. That’s why he always ordered it and was careful to bury the results.”

  Esther threw up her hands. “How in Buddha’s name did Lorca’s drug end up being used by someone at the Parkview Palace?”

  “Harlan Brewster bought a stash in the Hamptons,” Mike explained. “Harlan saw the drug as an income opportunity, a way for him and his son, Owen, to become fixers for some of the rich, famous, and misbehaving clients at the Parkview, which they monitored through the hotel’s security cameras—including secret cameras set up in high-end suites.”

  “Peekaboo, I see you!” Tucker shook his head.

  Esther shuddered. “No wonder Annette went goofy about turning off all the hotel cameras!”

  “So Harlan was peddling this drug, too?” Dante asked.

  “He was,” Franco replied. “He sold the drug to clients at an astronomical price so they could ‘erase’ their misdeeds. And if they didn’t buy it, Harlan found his payday the old-fashioned way—blackmail.”

  Quinn nodded. “Owen even created a fake Hamptons law firm to shield himself and Harlan from some of their dirty business dealings. Then Owen became resentful. If he was going to keep taking risks, he wanted more from Harlan. Lots more. And one night at the Sandcastle mansion, Harlan and Owen argued about it. In a fit of rage, Owen killed his father with a brass poker—”

  It was Franco who snickered this time. “Wasn’t that the same poker he whacked you with, boss?”

  “Not pertinent to our narrative, smart-ass.”

  As the two detectives took good-natured jabs at each other, I explained how Owen had covered up Harlan’s murder by staging a car accident, one the local police didn’t question.

  “After easily getting away with that murder, Owen set out to claim the legacy he felt entitled to. The plan was to snatch Annette Brewster, confuse her with the memory-wipe drug, force her to sign a backdated will leaving him and his mother the family fortune—and then kill Annette and frame Tessa for the crime.”

  “Did Victoria know about any of this?” Madame asked.

  “No,” I said. “Her son’s scheme was an awful shock to her. She had convinced herself that Tessa was behind the abduction.”

  “What about that tree guy?” Matt asked.

  “Ernest Belling is out of the hospital,” I reported, “but he’s unable to work due to his gunshot wound. So Annette arranged to cover all of Ernest’s expenses, and she wrote him and Flora a giant check on top of that. It allowed him to hire a full-time nurse for Flora, and he’s buying a local greenhouse to set up shop. After what Flora went through with her daughter’s suicide, Annette felt justice was served by paying her the large settlement and letting her know the details of Harlan’s ugly death.”

  “Ahem,” Sue Ellen Bass interrupted. “If you want to see justice served, I’ll do it right now by giving Quinn here a kick in the butt for what he put Lori and me through. We chased our tails across New Jersey and back while Clare was with him the whole time!”

  “Listen, Sue Ellen,” Mike said. “I’m sincerely sorry about that—”

  “Is someone talking?” Sue Ellen asked. “Because I don’t hear a thing!”

  “Make up and play nice,” Lori ordered her partner. “Quinn’s covered our backs enough times. Cut him some slack.”

  “Oh, I’ll cut him slack. I’m just not talking to him for the next six months!”

  “Why don’t you blame Allegro here?” Quinn said, gesturing to Matt. “He started the whole thing.”

  “Hold on a minute—” Matt protested.

  “I would blame Allegro,” Sue Ellen interrupted, looking him over like a juicy steak. “But his butt’s a little too sexy to kick. What do you say, Matt? You used every credit card you own to buy fancy meals up the Eastern Seaboard. How about treating Lori and me to a nice dinner?”

  “I’m not having dinner with him,” Lori declared. “We all know his rep, and I’m married.”

  “Okay, then—” Sue Ellen winked. “I guess it’s just you and me.”

  For the first time in his life, Matteo Allegro looked a little nervous about a woman’s proposition.

  “So what about that creep Wimmer?” Dante asked.

  Quinn answered this time. “He’s facing multiple murder charges, and because he’s a flight risk, there’s no bail. You won’t be able to hire that lawyer to fix anything for the rest of his natural life.”

  “And Dr. Lorca?” Esther pressed. “Don’t tell me he’s going to get away with his cover-up.”

  “Lorca’s facing obstruction charges, and that ain’t all,” Franco said. “He’ll probably lose his medical license. And I suspect some former patients will be lining up with lawsuits, now that the story has gone public of how his drug was used and how he covered it up.”

  “What about Mrs. Brewster?” Dante asked. “Is she going to be okay?”

  Madame smiled. “Annette’s getting out of the hospital tomorrow. And a good thing, too. A painter named James Mazur arrives in the city this week. He’s coming to escort her to Paris.”

  “I never heard of Mazur,” Dante said. “What’s his work like?”

  “Give me a minute,” I said, and retrieved a parcel that had arrived that morning.

  It was Mazur’s Sunset Basket. Tessa and Annette had gifted the gorgeous canvas to our collection at the Village Blend.

  When I unveiled the breathtaking pain
ting, everyone applauded, and I knew in the years to come, whenever I admired its romantic images—the picnic basket in the lush French countryside and the older woman riding her bicycle toward the silver-haired gentleman collecting wildflowers—I would think of Annette and James and how, in all their years of living, of good and bad and ups and downs they had never forgotten their love.

  I would think of them like this, spending their sunset years together, finally claiming the peace and happiness they deserved.

  * * *

  • • •

  THAT evening, Mike came to my duplex after his work at the precinct was over.

  He built a fire to dispel the chill of the autumn night, and we settled down in front of the crackling flames with hot cups of coffee, brewed from beans I’d roasted that morning, and a plate of maple sugar cookies I’d baked that afternoon.

  While Java and Frothy faux-attacked Mike’s feet, his tie, and each other, we talked about our day, how we liked our dinner, and all the other seemingly trivial but ultimately beautiful things that made up our little lives.

  Soon the conversation turned to the past few weeks and my brain fog, which was practically gone. I assured Mike that I was remembering everything now—Joy’s growing up, my moving back to New York to take over the Village Blend, even that first morning when we met, right downstairs in this coffeehouse.

  “I can’t tell you how relieved that makes me,” he said.

  “There’s only one problem. One thing I can’t remember. I discussed it with Madame, and it all comes down to a single question that only you can answer.”

  “Go on, sweetheart.” He leaned close. “What’s the question?”

  “Where the heck is my engagement ring?”

  Mike smiled, as if he’d been waiting for this moment. Then he reached into his pocket, got down on one knee, and reenacted his proposal from memory.

  RECIPES & TIPS FROM THE VILLAGE BLEND

  Visit Cleo Coyle’s virtual Village Blend at coffeehousemystery.com for even more recipes including: