Once Upon a Grind (38 page)

N
O!
You are NOT hurting Molly!

My reaction was automatic. I shot off the sofa, body slamming the brunette witch to the floor. An ear-splitting blast filled the living room as the gun discharged, firing a bullet through a window.

As the glass shattered, Molly screamed in terror.

“Run, Molly!” I shouted over a deafening thunder crack. “Get out!”

But Molly didn't run for the front door—as I hoped she would—the little girl ran for the “safety” of her bedroom with Leila racing after her.

Letting them go, Sam punched me in the face and scrambled toward her fallen gun. Like the storm outside, I was raging now, angry enough to fight with everything I had. As Sam moved toward her gun, I body slammed her again and my hands closed around her throat.

Choking, Sam struggled in place, but not to fight me. A moment later, I realized why. A sharp needle prick stung my arm. I looked down, but didn't see a hypodermic.

The ring!

Sam had slid back a large jewel on her chunky ring to reveal a retractable needle. I stopped choking the woman to knock away her lethal hand. A bead of blood appeared on my skin. In minutes, or maybe seconds, I would not be able to fight anymore—but I refused to stop.

As Sam lunged for the gun again, I began to pummel her. But my adrenaline-fueled strength didn't last long. My muscles began to spasm and my vision grew hazy. Now Sam easily broke from my grip, pushing me away like a bored child with a worn-out toy. She stood to her full height and brutally kicked me in the ribs.

“You lose, bitch!” she spat as pain ripped through my body.

Sucking air, I watched helplessly as she gripped the gun.

“Time to clean up your mess,” she said, pushing back loose strands of hair.

I couldn't fight. I couldn't even rise. Tears streamed down my face as I watched her start for the bedroom where Leila and Molly ran to hide.

Except Leila wasn't hiding. Not anymore.

In the haze of my weakening vision, I saw the slight figure of Leila Carver Quinn Reynolds standing her ground in front of her daughter's bedroom. In her manicured hands was something big and shiny. It wasn't a bat, though she held it like one.

Sam was so cocky she laughed in Leila's face. “And what are you going to do with
that
?”

On a jungle roar, the Mother Lioness showed her and swung her prized antique vanity mirror like my Louisville Slugger.

Shocked, Samantha pulled the trigger—and missed.

Leila didn't.

Staggering backward, the stunned She-Wolf raised her gun again. And the Mother Lioness hit her again. With the third blow the mirror shattered, raining shards of gold, silver, and diamonds over them both.

After that, my vision flickered in and out.

I saw Samantha Peel on the floor, out cold; Leila calling 911 while she hugged a crying Molly close.

As the last image of mother and daughter faded, I smiled.

There were sirens, I think, and men shouting, the movement of a stretcher on wheels.

“Aunt Clare, can you hear me? Aunt Clare!”

I felt Molly's hot tears hitting my cheek, then the freezing rain. Finally, the light went out of me completely and the world faded to black.

F
OR
a long time, I saw nothing but darkness. Then I saw lights, dimly at first, trembling little points that slowly grew stronger. Next came the voices . . .

“Can she hear us? Clare, dear?”

“. . . her brain activity . . .”

“Every witness, every suspect has a story . . .”

“I don't give a damn. Try something. Anything!”

“Black, so much black.”

“. . . and I came to read to you today, Aunt Clare. Are you listening?”

“Experimental doses may or may not be . . .”

“. . . between the dark places . . .”

“Once upon a time . . .”

“Wake up, Sweetheart! You can do it. COME BACK TO ME!”

*   *   *

M
IKE?
I couldn't seem to move or speak or even see, but for the first time in what felt like an eternity, a voice wasn't vague or distant or part of some past memory, but loud and clear and real.

It was Mike Quinn's voice.

“Sensory stimulation will help, Detective Quinn.”
(And that was Dr. Pepper's voice!)

“What do you want me to do?”

“Touch her.”

“Oh, I can do better than that, Doctor . . .”

Warm lips brushed mine. The kiss felt soft but urgent. I concentrated on that delightful sensory stimulation, and soon my own lips began to move.

Finally, I opened my eyes—and recoiled from the brilliant brightness.

“Draw the curtains!” Dr. Pepper directed. “It has been eighteen days since her eyes have functioned.”

Everything went dark again and I nearly panicked. “Mike! Where are you?”

I struggled against the sheets until I felt his strong arms around me. “I thought I'd lost you,” he whispered.

“No such luck,” I replied, my voice raw and hoarse from disuse.

As a pair of nurses swung into action, Mike reluctantly released me.

“Soon she will be right as rain, Detective Quinn.”

Even the room's dim artificial lights were too much and I shut my eyes against them. In the darkness, Samantha Peel's words came back to me:
“There is no antidote,”
and I had to ask—

“How did you wake me, Doctor?”

“Thanks to Detective Quinn here, I was able to obtain a small sample of Ms. Peel's ‘Sleeping Beauty' drug. After careful analysis, I synthesized a genetic-specific remedy.”

“Genetic-specific?”

“Yes, remember the DNA sample we took when you visited my lab? Well, I used it to tailor a multiphase drug therapy. For laymen's ears, I call it the Keppra-based Intravenous Sensory Stimulator, though the nursing staff has taken to using its acronym—KISS.”

“You're kidding?”

“I'm quite serious,” Dr. Pepper assured me. “It was my KISS that woke you.”

Mike grunted. “I beg to differ.”

“Well, Detective, I certainly won't argue the point. After all, given the choice, I do believe Ms. Cosi preferred waking up to
your
kiss.”

*   *   *

O
VER
the next few hours, Mike delivered many more of those charming kisses (to my delight). He was less forthcoming about what transpired during the two-and-a-half weeks I'd been unconscious; and by the time the hospital staff served dinner that evening, this patient was out of patience.

“Okay, Mike, I'm sitting up with my first solid food—”

“If you call watery broth, cherry gelatin, and weak tea ‘solid,'” he quipped between bites of his warm pastrami sandwich, deli pickle, and kettle chips.

Normally I'd be salivating for a bite of Mike's meal, but today I could barely handle the bland chow on my tray. “I should slip into a coma more often. I can't believe how much weight I lost. I may need to borrow clothes from Leila—”

“Bite your tongue,” Mike said. “As soon as the docs here cut you loose, I'm taking you for a prime rib dinner at Smith and Wollensky, followed by a trip to Junior's for a slab of New York cheesecake. In the meantime”—he pointed to the meager offerings on my tray—“pretend your feasting on a Per Se tasting menu because I want to see meat on those bones.”

Envisioning Thomas Keller's consommé, I sipped the soup. I even downed the gelatin and tea. “All done,” I said, locking on to Mike's gaze. “I think I can stomach the truth now, so
please
talk to me. And tell me everything, starting with Samantha Peel. Did she survive the thrashing Leila gave her?”

“Three days in the hospital and straight into custody.”

I sighed with relief. “Thank goodness for Dr. Pepper. He not only saved my life, he gave me a lucid dream that solved the case.”

“No, Clare, you're the one who solved it, and the good doctor agrees. He told me he felt like the Wizard of Oz, handing Dorothy's friends what they had already.”

According to Mike, the evidence against Sam was easy to find and overwhelming. “We got the vial of the Sleeping Beauty drug planted in Leila's bedroom; found her maid disguise in the stairwell. And Leila's testimony, with Molly's statement, ended the debate. The grand jury indicted Ms. Peel last week.”

“Sounds like she's in more hot water than the boiling cauldron from my visions.”

“And that water is getting hotter. A DA in Connecticut and another in Jersey are now looking at a pair of suspicious deaths—one five years ago and the other seven. Causes of death were attributed to side effects of prescription drugs. But both victims were former financial rivals of Sam's Wall Street whiz ex-husband. Now that they know the composition of the Sleeping Beauty drug, they can look for evidence of it. More charges may soon be filed.”

“Did the Wolf know?”

“He denies any knowledge of his ex-wife's crimes, but we're looking hard at him.”

“And what about Leila and the kids? Are they okay?”

Mike's eyes flashed at the mention of his ex-wife. He expelled a hard breath. “The kids are fine, but sometimes I think my little Molly is more mature than her mother . . .”

Mike said he nearly lost it when he heard the details of what went down in Leila's apartment. After he got over the violence of Sam's assault—and the jeopardy Leila had put Molly and me in, as well as herself—he focused on Leila's stupendously bad judgment.

His ex-wife had set herself up as an accessory to the fraud scheme that Samantha and Anya had perpetuated on Stuart Packer. Even worse, she was planning on running the same con on her own ex-husband.

Luckily for Leila, her testimony was badly needed by the Manhattan District Attorney's Office and immunity from her crimes was granted.

But she received no such immunity from Mike Quinn.

“I read her the riot act,” he said. “As far as I'm concerned, she's on probation. One more screwup, and I'm going for full custody of Molly and Jeremy. I told her she's now part of Sam Peel's criminal history while I'm a decorated cop who works for the Justice Department. In other words, if I sued for custody of the kids, who do you think would win?”

The reality check left Leila genuinely cowed, according to Mike. Tears in her eyes, she vowed to turn her life around, settle for the terms of her husband's prenuptial agreement, and give up her key to the Prince Charming Club.

“I also suggested she find a job,” Mike said. “Not only to help pay the bills, but to keep her out of trouble. Idle hands and all that.”

I raised an eyebrow. “How did she take your suggestion?”

“Surprisingly well. She says there are plenty of jobs for older models, catalog and commercial work, so she'll be looking up her former agent . . .”

I considered the fall Leila was about to have—from the clouds of Park Avenue down, down, down, to a humble apartment address; from Gold Room caviar to middle-class meals and multiplex movies.

But then I remembered the difference between Dwayne Galloway and Eldar, the Bosnian car service driver; and it seemed to me, wealth and worth were two very different things. In the end, no amount of money could make a true prince.

Mike regarded me. “What are you smiling about?”

“Poor Man's Caviar.”

“I never heard of it.”

“It's something I discovered at a little Queens café. It's very good.”

“What is it exactly?”

“For me? The key to happiness.” Touching Mike's cheek, I leaned in for another kiss. “Tell Leila, when she's ready, I have the recipe.”

“H
AVE
you told her yet?” Matt asked, delivering fresh espressos to our table.

“Not yet,” Madame said.

I eyed them suspiciously. “Told me what?”

“You'll see,” she said then made a shooing motion to her son. “Come back later. Clare and I are still catching up . . .”

As I sipped the sweet crema on my warm
doppio
, Madame briefed me on what I'd missed while I was sleeping.

“Babka's closing her speakeasy,” she announced.

“Why?”

“Oh, my dear, you haven't seen the headlines, have you?”

Apparently, the public story of Samantha Peel's apprehension blew the lid off the Prince Charming Club. Everything came out, including dozens of local, national, and international celebrities who suddenly admitted they knew all about the subterranean hookup party.

“But there is a silver lining,” Madame noted. “Lots of silver, as it turns out. All that publicity helped Babka's aboveground business triple. So she's turning the underground space into a ‘family-friendly theme eatery.' That's how she described it to me anyway.”

“Sounds a little like the cleaned-up Vegas Strip.” I shook my head. “So ends an era.”

“Not quite. You see, Las Vegas was what Babka had her eye on for years. Her foreign investors have finally agreed to break ground on a Vegas resort hotel called
The Secret Ball
, this time with an actual casino inside.”

“Do you think it will work?”

“Oh, yes. To keep the public's interest piqued, Barbara is writing her memoirs. She's going to reveal how she accepted money from her old boss, Wild Bill Donovan, to open the underground club as a place where US intelligence agencies could easily spy on foreign nationals.”

“Has she hired a ghost writer? Or is her ‘writers are moody' rule still in effect?”

“As I understand it, her cowriter is a CIA agent who's about to retire, the very man she contacted for help when she heard about Anya's drugging.”

Stunned, I sat back in my chair. If memory served, Wilson had claimed an “anonymous tip” had brought him back into the underground club. Clearly, Babka had been the tip—and she'd wanted the cold case solved as much as he did.

Madame raised an eyebrow at my reaction. “Clare, do you know who this CIA man is?”

With a clueless shrug, I sipped my espresso—though I certainly knew. Wilson even made a late-night visit to my hospital room three days before, bearing gifts of yellow roses and Belgian chocolates . . .

*   *   *

“I
would have brought champagne,” he'd said, “but I heard you needed fattening up . . .”

Pulling his chair close to my bed, Wilson quietly confided that he'd made quick work of breaking Samantha Peel. Now he was returning to Washington with an official report—and an unofficial feeling of vindication: Faith's true killer was caught, at last, and her heroic story was public, because during his interrogation Samantha had spilled everything she knew about Vasily Petrovus.

“Samantha had been young and vulnerable,” he told me. “The handsome Russian operative had thoroughly enchanted her. In her fairy-tale delusion, the crimes she committed weren't crimes at all, but acts of devotion. The rude awakening came with the revelation that Petrov had a family in Canada. When Petrov mocked her, she snapped, ending his life and framing him for the murder of my Faith . . .”

When I asked about Anya, Wilson informed me that a genetic-specific KISS had awakened her, too.

“Will she face any charges?”

“No,” Wilson assured me, and I was relieved to hear it.

Apparently, Anya Kravchenko deeply regretted her part in Samantha Peel's fraud scheme. The DA's office believed the girl's remorse, and they had no desire to prosecute. Instead, they granted her immunity in exchange for her full cooperation.

For one thing, she was able to clear Harrison Van Loon, Esquire, of any wrongdoing, confirming his claim that he had no idea her story was false. Neither did he know that Samantha Peel was behind the scheme. Anya even produced paperwork that Sam pressured her to sign, making Sam the executor of her will and any trust that resulted from the legal settlement.

“But there won't be any settlement money now,” I pointed out.

“Not from the Wolf,” Wilson acknowledged. “But I'm happy to report Barbara Baum stepped up to help Anya. She's providing funds to secure the release of the girl's mother from custody in Russia. By the way, Anya told me she's looking forward to hugging you in person when she's out of the hospital. And I do believe her mother will want to thank you, too, when her freedom is secured.”

“A happy ending,” I said, though not for everyone.

Rozalina and Faith were two Sleeping Beauties who would never awaken, and their princes-in-waiting would forever mourn them.

But I was awake—and grateful. Given the Wheel of Fortune's turn, I was lucky to be alive, and even luckier to have the family and friends I did . . .

*   *   *

N
OW,
sitting in my coffeehouse across from my beloved employer, I waved good-bye to departing guests. My surprise welcome home party was winding down, and I appreciated the chance to spend a happy afternoon with my staff and well-wishing neighborhood regulars.

Our shop's baker, Janelle, had made a beautiful iced coffee cake, and Gardner had brought in Four on the Floor to fill the Village Blend with live jazz music.

Esther and Boris, who'd come to the party arm in arm, were now
officially
engaged. True, Boris felt he and his czarina should not cohabit before marriage, but Esther did find a new roommate to share the rent— my youngest barista, Nancy Kelly.

Now
that
was a surprise.

An even bigger surprise was my adult daughter. When she'd heard the news of my coma, Joy had taken emergency leave from her restaurant duties in Paris and flown home. When she wasn't sitting vigil at my bedside, Joy was helping her father run the Village Blend.

Unfortunately, there was no happy ending for Emmanuel Franco. Matt refused to forgive the young sergeant for arresting him. No amount of explaining could persuade my ex that Franco was a hero and not a villain.

“Your father can be pigheaded,” I told a tearful Joy. “Let some time pass. He'll come around . . .”
At least I hoped he would
. Until then, Joy was back to seeing the love of her life in secret while Franco was downing energy drinks and avoiding the Village Blend.

That was why I saved the good sergeant a very big piece of Janelle's cake. Joy would be taking it to him this evening—along with my heartfelt thanks.

My own shield-toting boyfriend was already back in DC, patient as ever with our situation. How long that would last, I had no idea, which was why it surprised me to hear my employer say—

“When I saw you in that hospital bed, dear, that's when I made up my mind.”

“About what?”

“Your future . . .”

Madame reached into her purse and placed a plastic bag on the table between us. Inside was an espresso cup—the very demitasse I'd drunk from that night in Central Park.

“I saved it, Clare. And I insist you look at it now.”

We trepidation, I read the grinds. They foretold
difficulties
,
danger
,
a secret enemy
,
travel
, and
a big change
.

“While you were sleeping, I had a dream,” Madame confessed. “I saw you locked in a dungeon, my dungeon. Gardner was in a cell, too. And all you wanted was a key to be released. My dear, today, Matt and I are giving that key to you.”

“What are you talking about?!”

“Your devotion and loyalty to me and my son and this wonderful coffeehouse have kept you from the man you truly love—”

Travel and a big change.
“You want me to leave you?”

“No, and that's the beauty of it, you won't be leaving us at all.” She smiled. “Remember how Babka taunted me at our lunch? Well, I've decided she was right, and we're going to start expanding our business. I'd like you to help Gardner Evans open a second Village Blend shop in Washington, DC.”

“But I thought he was opening a jazz club with his cousin in Baltimore?”

Madame waved Matt over. “My boy and I had a long talk with Gardner. It seems his cousin was content to let Gardner shoulder all the management duties—food, beverage, staffing, bookings. And Gardner realized that if he went into business with his cousin, it would give him no time to devote to his music.”

“That's right,” Matt said. “We talked it over, and agreed that our partnership was better for him . . .” As Matt explained it, I would co-manage the DC coffeehouse with Gardner. I would also be roasting the beans in New York and transporting them down to DC. It would be a reverse commute with me living down there as long as I wanted.

“Matt will take care of the shop in New York for the time being.”

“Seven months tops,” he warned. “Then you'll have to come back or hire a new manager.”

“What about the location?” I asked.

“Gardner's found a few places we can lease in Georgetown, one near Blues Alley,” Matt said. “He wants the Village Blend, DC, to host live jazz in the evenings and serve a light dinner menu. But he needs your help getting the place up and running—like you did in the Hamptons a few years back for David Mintzer. So what do you say, Clare, are you up for it?”

Overwhelmed, I brushed away a tear. “You two need to turn around.”

Matt and his mother shared confused glances. “Why?”

“I want to see your fairy godmother wings.” They both laughed, but it wasn't funny to me. “While I was sleeping, you made my dream come true.”

*   *   *

O
F
course, Quinn was over the moon when I told him. And I was excited, too. But I hadn't forgotten Wilson's cryptic warning—

“The next time Mike Quinn speaks with you about moving down to Washington, listen a little harder, okay? Men like him don't often admit to needing personal backup.”

In Wilson's view, Mike was in some kind of trouble—trouble he either refused to talk about or didn't fully understand. Oh, I'd find out more soon enough. But whatever was wrong, I knew one thing. Mike had taken big risks to be in my corner. Now it was my turn to be in his.

This wouldn't be easy. But then neither were fairy tales. Forests could be perilous; mirrors treacherous; and candy-coated houses built to burn you. In the end, life and its choices were hard, and no matter where we stood on this fast-spinning planet, nightfall would routinely blacken our bluest skies.

But then I considered the heart of a young cop like Franco; the devotion of a boy like Boris; the kindness of strangers like Eldar; even my own deep affection for a blue knight, hardened and weary yet still guided by chivalry; and the words of Esther's favorite Russian poet came back to me—

Blackness was not the whole of it.

“There are bright points of light—so many!—between the dark places. This is what's important. This is where life is.”