Seventy-two

IT was too early on this tense Sunday morning to be staring at fish and chips, but that’s exactly what was displayed on my smartphone screen when I finally opened Mike Quinn’s message—after a long, sad shower and a desperate double espresso.

London was five hours ahead of New York, and Mike had sent me a photo of his lunch. The man’s voice mail message was cheerful, but I was hungrier to hear him speak than view his midday meal.

“I was hoping to hear your sweet voice before I listened to bureaucratese for the next five days, but I guess ‘please leave a message’ will have to do for now. I’m due at Scotland Yard for a meet-and-greet with our NYPD liaison officer. I’ll call again later.”

Pause.

“Oh, I was thinking about our wedding, and I visited a place this morning that would be perfect. It’s called Westminster Abbey, and it just might be big enough to accommodate my family. Think about it, okay?”

Another pause.

“And if it’s too much trouble to contemplate our wedding, then use the power of suggestion to imagine we’re having this delicious pub lunch together. And your Peanut Butter Cookies. Your shop always has them on Sundays, and I think I’m addicted. They don’t have them here,” he relayed with sweet disappointment. “Well, anyway, I’d better go. I miss you.”

I missed him, too. So much. Unfortunately, he didn’t send a selfie, just a pic of the fish and chips, and all that did was remind me of the Fish Squad and make me worry again how last night’s crime scene would impact our business.

By now, I’d decided not to discuss Sergeant Franco’s personal behavior with Mike while he was in London. I didn’t want him to be distracted. And I still wanted answers from the horse’s mouth—even though Franco appeared to be acting like the horse’s other end. So I sent a curt message to the man, asking him to stop by the Village Blend for a talk.

If Joy was too humiliated to confront her boyfriend, I certainly wasn’t. I planned to show the sergeant Matt’s video and demand an explanation. At the very least, I expected him to be straight with me and my daughter.

This lying and cheating was beneath any man of decent character. I would demand he break things off with Joy in a civilized manner and give her the closure she deserved.

As depressing as that prospect was, the morning’s business wasn’t much better. For a Sunday, we were abnormally quiet, other than a few neighborhood regulars and NYU students stopping for coffee while they read the papers.

Tucker and I eagerly devoured the news, too, relieved to find that last evening’s shooting only made one late edition—a police blotter paragraph with no pictures, no mention of the Village Blend, and the victim’s name “withheld pending notification of next of kin.”

Ironically, Carol Lynn Kendall’s fake gun caused a bigger bang in our world than a killer’s real one. With no one uploading mobile phone videos or spouting hashtag opinions on social media, the result was a crime committed in relative silence, and (for the moment) I dared to breathe a sigh of relief.

With Richard Crest gone, could the worst be over?

By eleven AM, it certainly seemed that our luck was turning. Business became brisk and steady. By eleven thirty, more than a few people had come in asking for the pastries or coffee drinks photographed by Sydney’s prepaid crowd and uploaded to the interweb.

About an hour later, there was a mini-rush, with many of the customers climbing the spiral staircase to the upstairs lounge after making a purchase. By one PM that rush became an avalanche—the Village Blend was so busy I pleaded with Esther to come in early to take up some of the slack. A quick text brought Dante here to set up the outdoor tables and heat lamps—because we desperately needed them, despite the chilly afternoon.

As I whipped up drinks behind the espresso machine, I was starting to think Sydney’s plan had actually worked. It wasn’t until later that I learned the real reason for the Village Blend’s revived popularity, and it had little to do with the schemes of Sydney Webber-Rhodes and everything to do with Esther Best.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It was around three o’clock when Tuck and I neared the end of our break, and moved downstairs to get back to work. Suddenly, Tucker cried out and threw his lanky arms wide.

“Carol Lynn Kendall!”