“You’re right,” I joked, forcing a smile. “I’ll be way too busy to miss you.”
Quinn’s reaction wasn’t what I expected. His smile faltered, and he actually looked a little hurt. I was about to clarify that I was joking when his cell went off.
“Excuse me,” he said, checking the Caller ID.
“Police business?”
He didn’t indicate yes or no, just said, “I have to take this.”
“I understand.”
What I didn’t understand was why he didn’t just take the call at the kitchen table instead of leaving the room. I moved to the doorway and cocked a curious ear.
“No. I’m having coffee.” Pause. “Yes, I plan to.” Longer pause. “Yes, I do. I do. I just can’t talk right now.” Pause. “Because I can’t.”
I frowned. The conversation certainly didn’t sound like police business.
Just then, my own phone rang—but not my cell, which was still recharging in the bedroom. This was the landline to the apartment. I picked up the kitchen extension.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mom!”
“Joy!”
Her call couldn’t have come at a better time. Just hearing her voice made me feel grounded again. We talked a little about what she was doing and what I was doing, and then she said she had something to tell me. Her voice suddenly sounded strained.
“I’m really sorry, Mom. Really sorry, but...”
“What is it, honey?”
“As it turns out, I can’t come home for the holidays. I have to work at the restaurant after all. Forgive me?”
My heart went through the floor. For a few seconds, I had trouble finding my tongue. “Sure, honey,” I finally managed to get out. “I’m so busy this year... don’t worry about it.”
A few minutes later, she ended the call, and I went to find Mike. All of a sudden, I felt a little numb. I couldn’t believe it, but this would be the first Christmas, the very first, that my little girl and I would be spending apart.
I needed to tell Mike about it. Not that I expected him to change his plans—but I suddenly needed an empathetic ear, a sympathetic hug. I also needed to reassure myself that he and I were on solid ground. I was afraid he’d gotten the wrong impression from my reaction to his overtime speech.
But Quinn was no longer on his cell in the living room. I found him in the bedroom, fully dressed, shrugging into his shoulder holster.
“You’re not leaving already? I was about to whip up some of my Golden Gingerbread-Maple Muffins—I was thinking of adding a warm glaze with some holiday spice notes. I thought you’d like to sample a couple.”
“Sorry, sweetheart. Save me a few, okay?” His expression was unreadable as he grabbed his badge and wallet off the dresser. “There’s an issue. I have to take care of something.”
“What?”
“Nothing important. I’ll give you a ring later.”
“But I wanted to tell you—”
“Later, Clare. I promise,” he said. And with a too-quick kiss on my cheek, he was gone.
Fifteen
Like most New Yorkers, James Young was not an easy man to contact. For one thing, his phone was unlisted. On the Internet, I found plenty of info about Studio 19, including its address. But the only number I could find was for the general public. A message service answered when I called but refused to put me through directly to Mr. Young—although they did confirm he worked there.
The most maddening part was that I knew the man’s home address, down to his apartment number, but I dared not approach the place. If the Matt-battered doorman saw me again, I was pretty sure he’d find a way to have me arrested, most likely for “harassing” his tenant.
I didn’t have time for some half-assed stakeout of his place (to collar him before he went into or came out of his building), so I decided to contact a partner, just as Quinn advised.
Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois was more than my boss, my landlord, my former mother-in-law, and my daughter’s biggest champion. Madame was my very best friend. She also happened to be the most beloved (and elegantly dressed) snoop in the vicinity of Washington Square Park.
After Quinn left, I dumped the dregs of his java, which had grown unpalatably cold during our long talk, and pulled out my Moka Express pot. In more ways than one, I needed to get some hot jolts into my system. Using Alfonso Bialetti’s stovetop invention, I quickly produced the rustic version of coffeehouse espresso that Italians have been enjoying for nearly a century.
On my third energizing shot of the day, I phoned Matt’s mother and told her everything that had happened—from Alf’s murder to my arrest for trespassing the night before. She started out sounding a little sleepy, but with each new revelation, she became more animated.
“You actually climbed a fire escape in the dead of night and peered through a stranger’s window?” Madame said. “I certainly hope you saw something juicy.”
“Sorry to disappoint. I only saw a photo ID for a man who works at a place called Studio 19. It’s an independent television facility located on Nineteenth Street, near Eleventh Avenue—”
Madame laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“I know all about Studio 19, dear.”
I nearly dropped my demitasse. “What are you? Psychic?”
“Even better. I’m nosy. And a good neighbor.”
“Excuse me?”
Madame laughed again, but she wouldn’t tell me anything more—except to say that she’d “make a few calls” and get back to me.
Thirty-six freshly baked Golden Gingerbread-Maple Muffins and one four-hour barista half shift later, I was sitting beside the silver-haired matriarch, inside the cavernous Studio 19. We’d come to see the taping of one of the most popular television shows in the country, The Chatsworth Way.
According to Madame, an illegal Pekingese is what gained us admission. “There’s a two-pet minimum in my building, you see,” she explained, which still left me confused.
“And how exactly do the rules of your apartment building translate into instant tickets to a TV show with a three-month-long studio audience waiting list?”
“Well, when someone snitched to the building manager,” Madame’s voice dropped conspiratorially, “and I have no doubt that someone was that music producer’s paramour on the second floor, the one who sleeps until noon and parties until four AM. Pooh, what a terror. Bohemians I can tolerate, but her—”
“You were telling me about a Pekingese.”
“Oh, yes. Someone snitched to the building manager that Mr. Dewberry and his wife Enid had a third dog, so I pretended the dog was mine. I walked Ming two or three times a day until the whole thing blew over.”
“So it was Mr. Dewberry who got you these tickets to the taping?”
Madame nodded. “Mr. Dewberry is the major stock-holder in the company that syndicates this program. He was very appreciative of my efforts on Ming’s behalf. So here we are.”
I was appreciative, too.
Now we watched from our front-row seats as technicians crisscrossed a darkened soundstage. Several large monitors dropped from the ceiling to flank the shadowy stage, each with a Chatsworth Way logo on a field of pastel pink or powder blue.
“I have to say it. You’re amazing. Tickets and backstage passes in less than twenty-four hours.”
“You really ought to include me in your sleuthing from the start, Clare,” Madame said flatly. “It’s lucky you caught me today at all, because tomorrow morning Otto and I are off to a charming little bed-and-breakfast in Vermont.”
Otto Visser was Madame’s latest flame. A younger man (at nearly seventy), Otto was an urbane art dealer and appraiser who’d been smitten with Matt’s mother from the moment he “eye-flirted” with her across a French restaurant’s semi-crowded dining room.