Oh, brother.
“That was one of our most popular episodes,” Dr. Chaz replied. “Especially among first wives!”
Madame laughed. I didn’t. (Matt’s wedding was supposed to put an end to that particular argument. From the look on Madame’s face, however, I could see old habits were going to die hard.)
Then Dr. Chaz fixed his eyes on me. “Did you enjoy today’s taping, Miss Cosi?”
“It was, uh, memorable,” I said diplomatically.
He gestured to Heidi, still on the phone, clearly having an intense argument. “It seems you lost your tour guide.”
“She’s got an issue with Simon,” I explained.
“Simon’s a good guy; he’s just busy and can’t do everything for everyone every day,” Dr. Chaz said, rather loudly—loud enough, no doubt, for his wife to hear behind her own star-marked door. Then he changed his tone to a much warmer one. “Is there something I can show you?”
Madame glanced at me. “Well—”
“Actually,” I said, taking the cue. “I’ve come backstage to meet your executive producer, James Young. He and I are... neighbors, as it turns out. Though we’ve never actually met, I’ve, uh, seen him around.”
Dr. Chaz studied me for a rather long moment and then raised an eyebrow. “Lucky for James, he isn’t married.”
“Excuse me?”
He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “You are interested in James, aren’t you? I mean, that’s why you asked, right?”
“Sure,” I said, forcing a smile.
“Phew! I’m glad about that.” He laughed. “Can’t have a ‘relationship specialist’ getting something like that wrong, can we? And I do like a woman who knows what she wants and goes for it.” He winked again. “We’re doing an episode on that next month—maybe you’d like to be a guest?”
“Uh—I don’t think—”
“I’ll be sure to mention it to James.” Then he took my arm and gallantly wrapped it around his. “Let me introduce you two right now. Will you join us, Ms. Dubois?”
“Oh, no,” Madame replied. “I’ll give those two their privacy. I’m content to wait here with young Heidi.”
Dr. Chaz led me down the hall to a faux-mahogany door, on which he knocked once, then walked in. We caught James Young in the middle of removing his tailored sports jacket.
“Someone I’d like you to meet, James,” Dr. Chaz announced. “It seems you and the lovely Ms. Cosi here are neighbors. She’s an acquaintance of Mr. Dewberry, as well.”
“Mr. Dewberry. I see,” James Young said with an understanding nod and extended his hand. “Good to meet you, Ms. Cosi.”
“Call me Clare.”
Dr. Chaz glanced at his watch. “Got to run. Squash at the club. Good luck, Ms. Cosi.” Yet another wink.
Then the door closed, and I glanced around Young’s office. The room was spacious—but it felt small and cramped. The clutter was the reason. Digital recordings, scripts, and mounds of paper packed the room. I wondered how the man navigated through it all.
“Won’t you sit down, Clare.”
He offered me a chair, then sat down behind his desk and coolly steepled his long fingers. “So how long have you lived in the West Village?”
“A few years now—but I’m a returning resident. I managed the Village Blend coffeehouse, on Hudson Street, right out of college. Then I went to New Jersey to raise my daughter. Now I’m back in the city again.”
He brightened at the mention of the Blend. “I know the place. A number of friends in the neighborhood are hooked on your lattes. I’m into tea myself—white tea lately—so I don’t frequent your establishment. Nothing personal.”
“No worries,” I said, realizing this guy’s Rolex wasn’t the only indication he had plenty of disposable income. White tea was among the rarest and most expensive varieties on the planet.
Young looked at me askance, as if he were trying to place me. “You do live in my building, right? Chaz said you were a neighbor.”
“Actually, I live several blocks away. But I’m familiar with your building, and the property around it. It’s usually a fairly safe part of the city, but the other night, there was a murder on your street. You know about that, right?”
Young nodded. “I read about the shooting. Apparently it happened in the alley right outside my residence.”
“I knew the victim, Mr. Young. He was a friend of mine.”
“Oh?” he said. “I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you.”
At the mention of knowing the victim, I noticed a subtle change in the man. His coolness began slowly evaporating and he began to fidget.
“The victim’s name was Alfred Glockner,” I explained. “He was an aspiring stand-up comedian, and he worked as a Traveling Santa. Does his name mean anything to you?”
Young pursed his lips and then frowned. “I never heard of a Mr. Glockner. Should I know him?”
“That’s a question I want answered. You see, I’m privately investigating Mr. Glockner’s murder, and just last evening the police received evidence that proves Alf was on the fire escape, right outside your apartment window, just minutes before he was gunned down.”
Young’s fidgeting form froze. He was silent for a few moments, and then he said, “I’m stunned to hear that. I really am. I mean, I didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary that night. Not even sirens.”
“Well, I was wondering—why do you think Alf was on your balcony?”
Young’s eyebrow arched, a little cruelly. “I guess he wasn’t delivering presents, was he, Ms. Cosi? I mean, I would have expected Santa to use the chimney for that, wouldn’t you?”
“I’m serious, Mr. Young.”
“I know you are, and I’m surprised you’re even asking that question. Burglaries increase during the holidays. That’s one of the things I learned researching today’s show...”
As he spoke, Young glanced several times at his Rolex. His gaze then began darting back and forth between me and his closed office door. Is he hoping for an interruption? Or is he worried who might suddenly walk in and become a party to this conversation?
“I was out much of that day, holiday shopping,” Young continued. “Perhaps this Glockner fellow saw me with shopping bags around the neighborhood and followed me back to my building with the intent to rob my apartment.”
I recalled what the bartender at the White Horse had told me. Alf was there that night. He’d ordered a cranberry juice and then left in a hurry without finishing it. I also recalled the small shopping bags I’d seen on James Young’s coffee table—the ones labeled Tiffany, Tourneau, Saks.
Did Alf notice James Young walking home that night? Was Vicki Glockner right? Was Omar Linford pressuring or threatening Alf over the money he’d lent him? Was Alf so desperate to pay back Linford that he’d turned to burglary? If he had, was James Young Alf’s first try—or had Alf done it before?
The phone on Young’s desk buzzed.
“If you’ll excuse me, Ms. Cosi,” he said, reaching for the receiver. “I have work to do.”
Reluctantly I left James Young’s office to search out Madame again. After thanking Heidi for her help, we flagged a cab on Eleventh.
“What did you find out?” Madame asked as we settled into the backseat.
“James Young is an attractive, confident, financially comfortable man. That’s what I found out.”
“Don’t those sorts of men commit murder, dear?”
“Not my point. If James Young caught Alf Glockner in the act of burglary, would a man like him have gone all the way down to the alley, shot him, and then robbed the Traveling Santa cart to make it look like a random mugging?”
“Patently ridiculous.”
“Agreed. Just last night, Young saw a dark figure on his fire escape—me—and all he did was call his doorman.”