Once Upon a Grind (31 page)

“B
ORIS,
I told you, I don't know where—”

He held up his hand. “Do not lie to me, Coffee Lady. You are harboring my czarina in your apartment upstairs!” He tipped his spikey blond head toward the fireplace. “Nancy let slip the dogs of truth!”

Oh, for heaven's sake.
“Look, Boris, I'm sorry I lied to you. But Esther needed time and space to think things through, and she didn't want to sleep on her sister's couch for a week. I offered her my guest bedroom, and she made me vow to keep it a secret.”

Boris shook his head with despairing heaviness. “‘When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone be-weep my outcast state—'”

“Please try to understand—”

“‘And trouble deaf heaven with my useless cries.'” He thumped his chest. “‘And look upon myself, and
curse
my fate!'”

“Don't curse it yet—”

“‘And in these thoughts myself nearly despising, happily I think on
she
—'” With puppy-dog longing, he gazed at the ceiling. “‘And then my state . . . like a bird at break of day arising, from gloomy earth sings hymns at heaven's gate!'”

Half the coffeehouse fell silent and stared. A few customers lightly applauded.

I blinked. “That's not Eminem, is it?”

He sighed and shook his head.

“Look, I feel for your outcast state. But Esther is confused. She won't even talk to me. If you'll stay away a little longer, give her more time—”

“Nyet!”

I jumped in my seat, along with a few customers.

“Love does not wait for fate! And men of action do not leave things to chance. Esther must be reminded how much we love each other!”

“She knows, Boris. She heard your marriage proposal—”

“
Da
, two days ago! Two very long days. But if I give my czarina more time, she will fill her empty head with blackness!”

“Okay, you've got me there . . .” Given how this whole thing started—with a vague coffee reading and that morbid-running void in Esther's head—I saw no reason to argue the point.

“You must help me,” Boris pleaded. “For absence does not make the heart grow fonder. Absence is the enemy of love.”

“Now
that
my nonna used to say.”

“Is Italian proverb,
da
?”

“
Da.
I mean,
yes
.”

“And Italian is
romance
language!” Boris declared. “You see! You think as I do!”

“But I'm not your problem. Listen, I'm willing to go upstairs and tell Esther her cover is blown and you're down here waiting to speak with her.”

“Spasibo!”

“Don't thank me yet.” I rose and leveled with him. “If she doesn't come down in fifteen minutes, she's decided not to. So let her sleep on it. She has a shift late tomorrow, and you can try to speak with her then, okay?”

“I will wait here.”

“All right, then. Good night, and good luck—and if you value Nancy's life, do not tell Esther how you found her.” Turning, I headed for the back stairs. “By the way, I really liked your poem.”

“Is not my poem,” he called after me. “Is sonnet by William Shakespeare. But English is not best way to enjoy his work. You must read him in the original Russian!”

“N
O,
boss. I do not want to see Boris.”

I found Esther in front of my living room hearth, a quilt tucked around her legs, a book in one hand, a cup of cocoa in the other.

“He's down there waiting for you. Won't you put him out of his misery?”

Esther frowned. “How did he find out I was here?”

How to answer?
Gardner already gave me two weeks' notice. If Esther kills Nancy, I'll have very little staff left—

“I think he saw you through the window.”

“Well, I'm not ready.”

I sat next to her on the sofa. “Are you really confused? Or are you angry with him?”

“I don't know.” She gazed at the fireplace flames. “Yes. I think I am angry with him.”

“Why don't you talk your feelings over with me?”

“If I do, will you stop bugging me?”

“Maybe.”

“Fine.” She slammed her book shut. “Number one. I'm angry that he put me through hell after I asked him to live with me—”

“Is that why you're torturing him now? Payback? You want him to suffer without an answer like you did?”

“No, I just . . .” She studied the ceiling. “Okay, maybe a little. Number two. I'm angry that he made a
spectacle
of our love life. It was mortifying!”

“I understand that reaction. But isn't that what poets do? Share their lives with an audience? Didn't you tell me that's what you do—turn your misery into art?”

“Well . . . when you put it like that, it's hard to argue.”

“Then don't. Put yourself in Boris's basketball shoes. You know what he told me? He said he didn't want to be your roommate. He wanted to be your husband.”

“Three! I'm angry that he proposed marriage. Marriage!” Esther violently shook her head.

“Marriage is a problem, I take it?”

“So? It's a problem for
you
these days. Isn't it?”

“We're not talking about me. We're talking about you and Boris. Don't you want to talk about it?”

“Spare me. That's why I came back to the city. My sister wouldn't stop talking about it. ‘I want to see my little sister married, in a white dress, cutting the cake, moving to the suburbs, having children . . .'”

“Whoa, back up. Is that what you think marriage has to be? White dress, children, suburbs?”

“That's what my sister thinks it has to be.”

“Only because those things are her happily ever after—and she thinks they'll make you happy, too. But you're not your sister, Esther, and marriage doesn't have to be some dark forest where you lose who you really are.”

“What is it then?”

“A promise, a solemn promise by two people to be there for each other—to go into those dark places and bring each other out again. I'm sure that's all Boris wants for you both. But you won't know for sure until you let go of your anger and your fears and
talk
to him.”

Esther fell silent, finished her cocoa, and set down the cup. “He's really down there, just waiting for me?”

“Yes.”

“I have to say, it's nice that he didn't try to barge in, or pressure me. It's good that he's willing to give me my space.”

“Yes, it is—”

“‘With love's light wings I would fly over these walls!'”

“What's that?” Esther frowned. “It sounds like Boris.”

I rose and went to the balcony doors. Boris was standing beneath us, under a West Village streetlamp.

“‘For stony limits cannot hold love out! And what love can do, that dares love attempt . . .'”

I cleared my throat. “I think he's reciting Shakespeare—”

“‘Therefore thy employer is no stop to me!'”

“Translated from the ‘original' Russian.”

A few more lines and he turned on a boom box and lifted it over his head. The music pulsing out wasn't hip-hop. It sounded more like the opening strains of an old love song from the seventies.

Boris began to sing, karaoke style.
“You . . .”

I scratched my head. “Is that . . ?”

“You Light Up My Life!”
Esther screamed and ran up to the guest room.

I sighed, hearing neighbors complain. “Knock it off, Romeo!” A minute later came the red flashing lights and
whoop-whoop!
siren bursts of our local constabulary.

As I watched from above, Officers Langley and Demetrios tried to convince Boris to close his one-man street cabaret and move along. He refused—several times—and they invited him into their nice, clean patrol car.

“‘Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye than twenty of their swords!'”

That I believed.

“‘Good night, good night, my Esther! Parting is such sweet sorrow. That I shall say good night till it be morrow . . .'”

Whoop-whoop!
As the police car carried Boris away, I closed the balcony doors, climbed the steps, and checked on Esther.

Her head was under a pillow. “Did they arrest him?” asked her muffled voice.

“They'll give him a bench warrant and let him go. Get some sleep. I'm sure things will look better in the morning.”

Actually, I wasn't so sure. But I knew she needed to hear it.

Heading for the master bedroom, I felt my cell phone vibrating in my skirt pocket. Checking the caller ID, I suddenly knew how Esther felt.

Though I dearly loved Mike Quinn, he was turning up the pressure on getting me to move to Washington, and it was hard to take. With a tense hello, I answered his call, but after the night I had, all I wanted to do was put
my
head under a pillow.

“W
HAT'S
wrong?” Mike asked.

“All I said was
hello
.”

“It's the way you said it. I repeat. What's wrong?”

“Mike, I'm putting you on speaker so I can undress . . .”

“In that case, how about putting us on video chat?”

For the first time since my switcheroo plan sent the Black Knight's derriere flying, I smiled. Despite conquering Galloway's Gauntlet, I'd come back to Manhattan a loser.

With a sigh I unzipped my knee-high boots, and then my skirt. Finally, I peeled off my tights.

“Are you going to talk to me, Clare? Or should I just listen to you torture me with zipper sounds?”

“I'm sorry. I'm not in the mood to talk tonight.”

“Well, I wish I were there to help. But since I'm not, I'm going to have to insist you tell me why you're upset—and if you don't, I'll be getting on the next express to Penn Station.”

Okay, now he's starting to sound as pushy as Boris.

“Fine, I'll tell you. Just don't start quoting Shakespeare.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Listen, I'm upset because Franco and I drove all the way to Jersey, but we didn't get anywhere with this awful case. And if I don't get somewhere soon, my business partner and the father of my daughter is going to prison for putting Sleeping Beauty in a coma and murdering Red in the 'Hood.”

“You know what, Detective Cosi? I've hit plenty of roadblocks working cases, and so have every one of the officers under me. Frustration is part of the process.”

“The lousy part.”

“Don't whine. It's a waste of energy. The only way to
guarantee
you lose any case is to give up.”

“I'm not giving up. I'm just at a dead end.”

“No, Cosi. The
victim
is at a dead end. You're still breathing.”

I sank down on the bed. Quinn had a point. He also had effective tactics as a police lieutenant. Franco often sang his praises as a supervisor. Now I knew why.

“Okay, loo, what do you think I should do?”

“Other than continue to let me listen to you taking off your clothes?”

I smiled again. “Yes.”

“Every witness, every suspect, even the evidence tells a story—one part of the truth. The investigator's job is to find the whole truth.”

“Go on.”

“You spoke with a suspect tonight, correct? One who was close to both victims?”

“For almost an hour.”

“Maybe you did get somewhere and you don't know it. Talk to me about the interview . . .”

I did, including possible reasons Anya might have gone to a Brighton Beach Russian mob hangout with ten thousand dead presidents. Loan sharking? Blackmail? Intimidation? Extortion?

Was Dwayne Galloway even telling the truth about that?

I couldn't confirm it, although I could corroborate his story about the underground speakeasy. And he certainly confirmed Barbara Baum was no sidelines player. According to him, she ran the place.

“That's valuable intel, Cosi. You can do something with that.”

“Like?”

“Like confront Barbara Baum.”

“Threaten her?”

“Persuade her. If Galloway gave you the information, and you saw the club, she can't deny it. Get her to see that cooperating with you and clearing up Anya's case is in her best interest.”

“Unless she's involved with drugging the girl.”

“If she is, watch her closely—and listen hard. She'll give something away. Take what she gives you and build on it.”

“By all accounts, she's a shrewd lady. Getting her to talk won't be easy.”

“She's a friend of your employer, isn't she? Use that connection.”

“Believe me, I'd like to . . .” With Madame Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois sitting next to me, I'd be dealing with Babka, the kind old granny—and not Baba Yaga, the devilish trickster witch. “I'll have to persuade Madame to help me ambush her old friend. I don't know if she'll do it.”

“Ask her.”

I put Mike on hold and texted Madame:
Urgent. Must question Barbara B. Could get sticky. If UR OK with this, call me in AM to set up lunch at Babka's.

Given the late hour, I was surprised (and relieved) when her reply came almost instantly:
Understand
.
The game is afoot!
Leave it to me!

Madame always did like a good mystery. But this time it was more than a game. She didn't know it yet, but her son's freedom depended on it. And if Franco's warning was true, then a killer was out there somewhere with a needle full of poison for anyone who got in the way—me included.

“I hope that helped,” Mike said.

“You know it did. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

We said our good nights and ended the call. Then I climbed into bed and realized something: For the first time in weeks, Mike hadn't pressured me to move to DC.

Strangely, a part of me now wished he had.

Turning off the light, I snuggled down under the covers and yawned. Silver moonlight spilled in from the window, illuminating the emptiness beside me.

I turned over.

Now that Mike and I had talked, I no longer wanted to put my head under a pillow. What I truly wanted was his head on the pillow next to mine.

*   *   *

“H
ERE
you go, sleepyhead.”

Matt slid a demitasse across the counter.

“I'm sorry I slept through the alarm.”

My ex-husband smiled. “You had a big night—
and
you're currently living with Esther. Master roaster, amateur investigator, and premarriage counselor. That's a lot to manage in one week.”

I shook my head. “Between Esther's drama and Tucker's vacation—”

“Hey, I told you I'd be here for you. And apart from what happened to Anya and her friend, it's been great. I'm loving being in the shop again . . .”

Like the captain of a smooth-sailing vessel, Matt flattened his palms on the counter and proudly scanned the busy shop.

“I've spent so many years sourcing beans and wheeling and dealing them on the international market, I almost forgot what coffee is all about.” He opened his arms. “It's this. The place we've got here, where people can gather, relax, in company or in solitude, share something warm and rejuvenating . . .”

Matt was quoting his grandfather now, part of an inscription on an old photograph of the Village Blend's interior, circa 1936.

After knocking on the counter for good luck, he threw me a wink and left to greet an approaching group of office workers.

As I continued sipping my perfect espresso, I watched Matt laugh with the customers and recommend beans he'd brought back from half a world away.

It started me thinking . . .

Would Matt be willing to consider pulling back on his constant globe-trotting? Maybe drop anchor to manage the shop for a year or so?

If he was, could a temporary move to Washington be such a crazy dream, after all?

*   *   *

F
IFTEEN
minutes and two espressos later, the bell above the front door jangled, and I heard a familiar voice.

“Tucker Burton, center stage!”

As customers hooted and applauded, I turned to take in a happy sight, my long-lost (and much-loved) assistant manager. “Enjoying your vacation?”

“Hardly a vay-cay, CC.” Tuck plopped on the barstool next to me and tossed his floppy hair. “Between my off-off Broadway cabaret and FTF
Storytime
kiddy shows, I'm missing sleep.”

“You're missing messages, too. If you recall, I asked you to do a little spying on Mike's ex-wife at the Central Park Festival. You
never
told me what you saw.”

Tuck leaned close and lowered his voice. “What I saw isn't something I wanted to commit to a text message.”

“It's early Tuck, and I had a hard night. Just tell me what happened.”

Tuck began to speak, but when Matt came over to serve him an espresso, he clammed up. Suddenly he was wearing the same fearful expression he'd worn in Madame Tesla's tent.

I thanked Matt and moved Tuck and I to a corner table for privacy.

“Come on, Tuck, since when do you avoid gossip?”

He glanced around and whispered: “Since it involves one of the most powerful women in this town.” He paused to sip some caffeinated courage. “Look, you wanted the scoop on Leila, here it is, and you
did not
get this from me: While I was working with my cast at the Delacorte, I saw Leila talking to Babka Baum. I didn't hear a word between them, but I did see Babka give Leila a small purple box. They talked quietly for a long time, and then they hugged.”

I already knew about that little box and what it contained. But there was still a mystery here, and it had nothing to do with Leila.

“What was Babka doing at the theater?”

“She's our
Storytime
kiddie show's main sponsor for Fairy Tale Fall week.”

“And
that's
why you were afraid of telling tales on her?”

“Let me put this in perspective for you, CC, remember that VIP I went to meet the night of the Central Park Festival? Well, he's a big producer, and he wants to take my cabaret show,
Goosed,
to a larger venue, a place on Eighth Avenue that's right off the Theater District. The run will be limited, but it's great exposure—for me and especially for Punch.”

“That's amazing for you both, Tuck, congratulations.”

“Thanks, but listen up . . .” He leaned closer. “
Babka
is the one who made that happen. She loved my work for the FTF's kiddie shows, so she made a few phone calls—and suddenly I've arrived.”

“I get it. Babka likes you.”

“Yes, but here's the rub—when Babka
doesn't
like you, ugly things happen.”

Tuck told me the show business legend about a young actor who went from the hottest commodity on Broadway to a weatherman's job at a public access station in Pahrump, all because he took a few jabs at Babka's “old fashioned” menu on a popular talk show.

“Babka ruined the man. He went from a potential starring role in a Hollywood feature to the Fourth Ring of Thesbian Hell. Let me tell you, there's more to Babka than yeast cake. If you want to survive in this town, you don't mess with Baba Yaga.”