Seventeen

Fifteen minutes later, the police and medical technicians were gone, and the alley behind the Village Blend was dark and quiet once more. Outside our wall of French doors, the frigid Manhattan streets looked all but deserted.

At a table near the hearth, Mike stoked the fire, and I set down fresh cups of hot coffee for all three of us along with a plate of Vanilla and Praline Sablés. Our baker made these tender, buttery cookies for our pastry case from Madame’s own recipe. During my pregnancy, she’d baked up dozens of batches to comfort me, and they still conjured up happy memories for us both.

When she saw the sablés, Madame gave me a weak smile. But, as we nibbled the sugar-crusted rounds, she began to share a story from her past that was far less sweet…

“It happened so long ago,” Madame told us. “I don’t remember many of the details. Some things I never knew. But the original Writer’s Block Lounge ended in tragedy—”

“You said there was a death,” I prompted.

“Yes, Clare. And I turned a blind eye to it…”

Madame released a deep sigh of regret. Then she took a long sip from her coffee cup and closed her eyes, as if my rich brew were giving her a warm hug. Seeing the distressed look on her face, I felt like giving her a real one.

“I’m sure you’re being too hard on yourself,” I said softly.

Her eyelids snapped open. “I know you mean well, Clare, but I’m sure I’m not.”

An uneasy silence followed her sharp words, until Mike gently said, “It sounds like what you need, Madame, is to process these events, whatever they were. Try to make sense of them. We’re here for you. We’re listening. Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

I knew Mike Quinn had great affection and respect for my former mother-in-law, but his years of honing that “you can trust me” interview-room purr didn’t hurt, either.

Madame was no pushover, but even she melted into the pools of his concerned blue eyes. With a nod, she patted his hand, and resumed her confession—

“As I told you before, the group formed spontaneously. They first met each other in our coffeehouse. Most of them worked low-paying part-time jobs while they struggled to achieve their dreams. I was happy to serve them…”

I didn’t doubt it. For decades, the Village Blend had been a safe place for artists and performers to gather. Madame had staunchly believed in that mission. It didn’t matter to her whether they were successful, struggling, impoverished, or intoxicated. She mothered and protected them all with hot pots of French roast, delicious food, encouraging words, and (when some needed it) a place to crash.

“After the Writer’s Block members formed their group,” she went on, “they got together regularly to toss around ideas and critique one another’s work. Their gatherings became so boisterous that I asked them to meet in our upstairs lounge to avoid disturbing my other customers.”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “Define boisterous.”

“Nothing sinister, Lieutenant. They were simply young, enthusiastic—and loud. When things were going well, they laughed and joked and talked over one another.”

“And when things weren’t going well?” Mike asked.

“Each member had strong opinions. Sometimes, those opinions clashed.”

I spoke up. “You mentioned being invited to an awards dinner where one of these writers is being honored. Is that right?”

“Yes, Addy’s receiving an award for supporting literacy programs.”

“Addy?”

“A. F. Babcock.”

“You’re friends with Addison Ford Babcock? She’s one of my favorite authors! When I was raising Joy alone in New Jersey, I tore through her New Amsterdam novels.”

“That’s nice, dear, but I’m not bosom buddies with the woman. We’re only passing acquaintances.”

“But you knew her for so many years?”

Madame shook her head. “Addy and I only recently reconnected at a charity event. She claimed to have fond memories of the Village Blend, but when I tried to reminisce, she didn’t recall much. Never fear, however. I shall try to engage her on the subject tomorrow night.”

“That doesn’t sound promising. Is there no one else?”

Again, Madame shook her head. “I knew most of them only on a first-name basis, and to be honest, I’ve forgotten the rest, except one—the very one who recently returned to our shop.”

“Do you mean…?”

“I barely remember him as a young man, but I do recall the distinctive name of one member. It was Jensen—”

“Jensen!” I broke in. “That’s Mr. Scrib’s real name, Jensen Van Dyne.”

“Yes, Clare. Mr. Scrib was indeed an original member of the Writer’s Block Lounge all those years ago. When I gave my statement to the officers and heard his name, my memories began to return. Seeing the blood on the ground and on the dumpster, well, that jarred my memory even more.”

She lowered her eyes. “They stirred up other emotions as well.”

“Go on,” I urged.

“That’s the trouble. I can’t go much further. My memories returned, but I never did know much about what happened in the first place, so some of what I share may simply be speculation—”

“Just talk,” Mike counseled with an easygoing shrug. “You might be surprised at how many details you can recall just by talking.”

Madame took a breath.

“I remember there were arguments, lots of them, sometimes very heated. There were jealousies and romantic entanglements. One night, a young woman from the group fled the coffeehouse in tears and never returned.”

“Do you remember why?”

“They kept their private business among themselves, but the cause was most likely, you know…” She waved her manicured hand. “Mauvais roman.”

“Bad romance,” I translated for Mike.

“Over time, the bigger group whittled itself down to a core of regulars. And as the group got smaller, it became more intense, more focused, less boisterous. They continued to meet upstairs, and I relegated the task of serving them to my best barista at the time, which meant I had less and less to do with the group. At that point, the membership was down to maybe half a dozen. A small, mixed group of people…”

She paused to sip her coffee, taking her time before setting the cup back on its saucer. Mike calmly waited, exchanging a little warning glance with me. Be patient, he seemed to be saying. Give her the time she needs.

“One evening,” Madame finally continued, “the last evening they met in our lounge, they threw a celebratory party of some kind. Someone had a breakthrough success. There was a cake. And they added spirits to the coffee we served them—they often did that.”

“So they were drinking,” Mike noted. “What happened next?”

“There was an argument that escalated to a physical altercation between a few of the people in the group—”

“Inside the shop?” Mike asked.

“Outside, in the alley,” Madame said. “I wouldn’t have known about it except that night I emptied the trash while my baristas were busy with customers and discovered the blood on the dumpster and on the ground.”

Mike leaned across the table. “How much blood are we talking about?”

“There seemed to be a lot of it.”

“Did you find out what happened?” Mike gently pressed.

“The barista who served them told me that two of the men had taken their fight down the back stairs and outside, and more from the group joined them. He swore the scuffle ended with two people getting a bloody nose, and then everyone went their separate ways. After that, none of them came back.”

Mike nodded slowly. “You know, drunken fights were a dime a dozen in the old Village. What you’re describing sounds like a typical Saturday night back then.”

“It does. Except for one thing. Several weeks later, the authorities made a discovery. Human remains in an empty lot in Brooklyn. The victim had been killed elsewhere, moved to that spot, and covered with discarded furniture and loose debris. The timeline of the death put it around the same night as that scuffle in my alley.”

I leaned forward. “And who was this person they found?”

“I can’t recall the young man’s name, Clare, but I remember he was an actor. That’s why the New York Post ran the headline Curtain Call on Columbia Street. I also remember the police came to question me.”

“Why?”

“Because that murdered young man was a member of the Village Blend’s Writer’s Block Lounge.”