FIFTY-EIGHT

CLARE

I shook my head, watching the men argue. The word pigheaded came to mind again, though this morning they were acting more like alpha dogs. The yapping became so intense, they failed to notice the light knocking at the front door.

Happy for a reason to get up from the table, I left to investigate. Of course, I checked the peephole first (I’d learned my lesson last night). Then I pulled the door open for a visitor I recognized.

“Are you Barbara ‘Babka’ Baum? One of the Gotham Ladies?”

“Hah,” cried the elderly queen of retro cuisine. “Amnesia or not, I knew you’d never forget a gal like me!”

The sunny autumn morning was temperate, with only a slight chill left over from the night before, and Babka had dressed appropriately, in tan slacks and a hand-embroidered sweater under a tailored jacket. Stylishly thin, her jewel-studded glasses dangled from a spangled necklace. Stepping over the threshold, she removed her chic sun hat, to expose wavy hair rinsed mahogany brown with tasteful salon highlights.

“Nobody forgets me, Clare, because I’m unforgettable,” Babka declared. “Why, even my ex-husband says I’m impossible to forget—as much as that bastard would like to!”

Suddenly, I heard Madame’s voice in my head—

“Be careful, Clare. Babka takes offense as easily as she offends.”

I could not recall the time or place of that warning, but I heeded Madame’s advice and allowed Babka to think that I fully remembered whatever we’d experienced together. The truth is, Madame’s remarks about her old friend were about all I recalled—that and Al Hirschfeld’s lighthearted drawing of her hanging in the Parkview’s Gotham Suite.

As short as I was, the petite Babka didn’t have to stoop to cup my head between her hands or kiss both cheeks. Stepping back, hands on hips, she gave me an appraising once-over.

“Clare, you look darn good for someone who’s not right in the kop!” She tapped her head with a finger.

“Err . . . thanks. You look good yourself.”

The legendary New York restaurateur and businesswoman struck me as part swaggering CEO, part meddling grandmother. As I ushered her into the great room, she chattered on about maintaining a vacation home in East Hampton—at least twice the size of Matt’s—where she staged lavish summer parties.

Hearing our approach, the battling bulldogs finally noticed we had a guest. Babka’s smile brightened considerably when she saw the men.

“Look who’s here! Your rogue ex-husband and your big, hunky fiancé.” Babka clapped her hands and grinned. “I’ve got to hand it to you, doll. You sure do know how to recuperate!”

“It’s not as pleasant as you might think,” I muttered.

“Hey, you two!” Babka called to them. “I got a hired limo full of cakes out there. Fetch them, would you? And tell the driver he can go. He’s already on my tab, so don’t waste good money tipping him.”

I blinked in confusion. “Cakes?”

A minute later, Detective Quinn was walking through the door carrying four circular bakery boxes bearing the Parkview Palace seal. They were neatly stacked and tied together with blue ribbons. Matt followed with a three-cake stack in each hand.

“Clare, you’ve got to smell these,” he said excitedly.

“Smell them!” Babka cried. “Clare and I are going to taste every single one!”

“There are ten cakes here,” Quinn observed.

Babka nodded. “According to Chef Fong and his staff, they represent his spin on some of the most popular wedding cake tastes in America.”

“Chef Fong?” I said, registering the meaning of the Parkview logo. “Is this the wedding cake sampler from the hotel’s kitchen? The same cakes I ate on the night Annette went missing?”

“It was Blanche’s idea,” Babka explained. “She thought tasting these cakes might help with your memory problem. I’ve got to say the whole idea sounds meshuga to me, but what do I know? I just shill fancy knishes.” She tossed her sun hat on the table. “Of course, Blanche wanted to bring these herself, but—”

“She couldn’t,” Matt said. “We know.”

“Then you also know she’s worried about the police watching her for suspicious activity. You think she’s a little paranoid? I don’t know! What do I know?”

We all glanced at one another.

“Well, that’s why she sent me. I ordered the cakes myself, told them they’re for a relative having a wedding at my East Hampton house.”

“Good thinking,” Quinn said.

“How did you get here so quickly?” I asked.

“Easy!” She snapped her fingers. “I choppered in!”

“Well, I’m a big fan of cake for breakfast,” Matt announced, “so I’m going to sample every one of them, too. Just give me a few minutes to brew more coffee.”

Quinn followed Matt into the open kitchen, where they resumed arguing in loud whispers. For the second time that day I regretted not hiding the knives.

While Babka and I made small talk, Matt brought out dishes, mugs, silverware, and even linen napkins. He spread the boxes out on the long marble counter and we seated ourselves on the cushioned bar chairs.

Detective Quinn seemed excited, too, but for a different reason. He whispered that he was hoping for a breakthrough. The intimate combination of his deep voice at my ear with the warmth of his breath brought heat to my face.

My head swam a little, and I stepped away quickly, feeling embarrassed by my body’s reaction—and then feeling terrible at the sight of Quinn’s crestfallen face.

“Cake time!” Matt said, proudly pouring his coffee. “Which one do we try first?”