SIXTY
SILENT seconds seemed to stretch as everyone stared at me with eyes bigger than the cakes we’d sampled.
“What kind of favor?” Quinn pressed, gaze intense.
“A strange one,” I said. “Give me a moment . . .”
Closing my eyes to block out distractions, I tried to make sense of the whirling bits of memory. Finally, the kaleidoscope in my head coalesced, and I was back in the Gotham Suite.
I smelled the array of cakes, the sweet apple slices, the fresh roses in the vase. I heard Fifth Avenue traffic through the windows overlooking Central Park and Chef Fong and his assistant tinkering in the kitchenette.
“It was near the end of the tasting,” I told Babka, Matt, and Quinn, my eyes still closed.
“I’d chosen to go with a traditional stack cake in three tiers. I wanted Coffee and Cream at the bottom, Hazelnut in the middle, and the Prosecco Cake on top—”
Matt interrupted. “These details aren’t important—”
“They are to her,” Quinn snapped. “Let her talk.”
I swallowed hard to keep from tossing my cakes, and I wondered whether my wooziness was partly induced, not just by the visions, but the amount of sugar I’d just consumed!
“Go on, sweetie,” Babka urged. “What else do you remember?”
“After I chose my wedding cake flavors, the chef and his assistant left, and I was alone with Annette Brewster for the first time. That’s when I pitched her on our Village Blend coffee, and she opened up about the death of her husband, and the real reason she’d invited me to the Parkview Palace.”
I rested my elbows on the marble bar, afraid I’d fall from the high chair. Squeezing my eyes even tighter, I saw Annette as she appeared that night.
The elegant hotelier didn’t look very different from the thirty-year-old portrait I’d seen in the Gotham Suite. She was still shapely in a tasteful black dress, and her large blue eyes, soft blond hair, and high sculpted cheekbones were striking.
Madame told me that back in the 1980s, Annette could have been a fashion model. That night, I thought she had all the glamour and poise of a middle-aged movie queen. Her hair was pulled back in a French braid, showing off her slender neck. Her décolletage might have been daring for some women over sixty, yet it appeared natural and right for her.
Finally, I heard Annette’s voice, speaking as clearly as if she were in this room . . .
“CLARE, I’m going to tell you something that very few people know, and I need you to keep it that way. The Parkview Palace is under a cloud, and I want out. That’s why I’m selling it.”
“What’s your definition of a cloud?” I asked.
“The worst storm you can imagine, and it may already be too late to stop it.” She took my hands in hers. “The next thing I’m about to tell you is an even greater secret. I haven’t told anyone, because I can’t trust those around me, not even members of my family.”
I assured Annette that her secret was safe with me.
“My husband’s death was no accident—though the Suffolk County police ruled it one. Harlan made enemies. Some of them were our neighbors in the Hamptons. Others were ruthless people in powerful positions. He didn’t care. With his money and connections, he thought he was invincible. And he was, until four months ago.”
“What can I do?”
“I know your reputation, Clare. I know you’ve helped people in the past. Now I’m in trouble, and I’m hoping you’ll help me.” Annette bit back tears. “I need to know who killed Harlan.”
“You have no idea?”
“We weren’t close anymore. Harlan and I had been living separately for years. He had his own place downtown in the Mews, while I lived here at the Parkview. We only saw each other at social engagements, or in our summer home in the Hamptons.”
“Why didn’t you ever divorce?”
“The split would have been a disaster for our finances. So we agreed to live separate lives.” She shook her head. “It’s not for love that I care who killed that bastard—it’s fear. I’m worried the person who killed Harlan will be coming for me next.”
“You should trust the police with that worry.”
“I can’t—for many reasons. For one, I have no real evidence. And my suspicions are based on . . . well, frankly, things I do not wish law enforcement officials to know about. Harlan’s dead now, but he engaged in activities that the media and the papers would have a field day with, if they ever found out. I don’t want to hire private investigators for the same reason. I don’t trust them. But I trust Blanche, and she trusts you. For years, she’s bragged about your accomplishments. All I’d like you to do is ask around, see what you can find out about Harlan’s so-called car accident. Come to me with whatever you discover. If you think we should go to the police, then we can go together.”
ABRUPTLY, I opened my eyes. Blinking against the glare, I found myself back in my ex-husband’s Hamptons house, and realized it was Detective Quinn who caught me before I slid off the chair and onto the floor.
Matt and Babka stared at me, mouths gaping. But no one was more shocked than yours truly.
“I told Annette I’d do it. I said I’d learn all I could about her husband’s death. Now why would I say a stupid thing like that? Did I wake up in an episode of Murder, She Wrote?”
Detective Quinn and Matt exchanged strange glances but said nothing. It was Babka who spoke up—
“That’s what you’ve been up to, kiddo. Over the past few years you’ve been doing a helluva lot more than roasting and serving coffee. You’ve been helping out friends, family, and people in the community when they needed it. In the process, you’ve also helped the police put some bad people away.”
“I have?” Unsure how I felt about this revelation, my gaze fell on Detective Quinn. “Are you the reason? Did you turn me into some coffeehouse version of Jessica Fletcher?”
Quinn shook his head. “It was all you, Clare, from the start.”
“You’re just like I was when I ran my East Side place,” Babka said with a proud smile. “A buttinsky—in a good way.”
“Clare is also a natural detective,” Quinn added. “And I think she’s capable of helping to solve this crime, too—”
“Wait a second!” Matt said. “This is not her business!”
“What if Harlan Brewster was murdered?” Quinn argued. “And what if the person who did it came after Annette, as she feared?”
“Frankly, I don’t give two burps about Annette Brewster,” Matt returned. “The person I care about is Clare—”
“Hold on,” I interrupted. “I’d like to help Annette, if I can.”
“Look at it this way, Allegro,” Quinn said. “If we find out what really happened to Annette Brewster, we might find out what happened to Clare, and that might help her fully regain her memories.”
Matt waved a hand. “My advice? Worry about yourself, Clare, not some rich hotel diva—”
“No,” I said firmly. “I agree with Detective Quinn. We should investigate Harlan Brewster’s death.”
“Don’t listen to this guy,” Matt spat. “It’s just his inner cop talking.”
“It’s reason and logic talking,” Quinn countered. “I’m already here in the Hamptons, which is where Harlan Brewster died. I can at least start looking into it.”
“Not without me, you don’t,” I said. “It’s my life that got screwed up over this. And I’m the one who promised Annette I’d help. So you’re not doing a thing without me. Got it?”
Matt sighed and shook his head. “And she wonders how she got involved in snooping.”