I’d dressed professionally for today’s lunch in a charcoal gray pinstriped pantsuit over a cream-colored camisole. My stacked high heels and belted slate coat looked polished enough, too, but they weren’t very warm. As the arctic air knifed through me, I shivered, from the tips of my pointy toes to the hint of cleavage cresting the V of my buttoned-up blazer.
Esther came around and held the struffoli dish while I climbed out.
“This won’t take more than an hour—right, boss? That’s what you promised.”
“Don’t worry, Esther, I’ll have you back in the city by three for your four o’clock exam. We’ll have plenty of time.”
It was then I noticed the tricked-out SUV in the driveway. With all the Christmas kitsch in the front yard, its garishness wasn’t immediately apparent, but now that I saw it, my jaw dropped.
“What the heck is that?”
As we moved up the driveway, Esther looked over the vehicle with interest. “Tinted windows, electric blue racing stripes, chrome spoilers, and illuminated hubcaps.”
“Are those bullet holes?!” I bent a little to examine what looked like punctures along the side of the vehicle.
“They’re fake,” Esther informed me.
“Fake?!”
“Yeah, it’s a pimped-up ride effect—like that oh-so-tasteful masterpiece along the back.” Esther pointed to the airbrushed scene of Viking warriors sacking a village with half-naked babes thrown over their arms.
I shook my head. “Fake bullet holes. What’ll they sell next? Chalk outlines and toe tags?”
“Probably.”
I shook my head. “Dexter described Omar Linford as a conservative businessman in his fifties. Could this be his car?”
“No,” she whispered. “I’m sure it’s his.”
Esther gestured to a young man in his late teens swaggering out the front door. Tall and plenty big through the shoulders, he wore a studded leather jacket, stressed black denims, and a battered DJ fedora over his thick, wavy ponytail. His complexion was light brown, his eyes darker than French roast, and his chrome-tipped boots clicked as he walked down the cobblestone drive. Finally, the young man noticed us examining his car. He paused and stared, saying nothing.
I waved, but I needn’t have bothered. He just kept staring suspiciously—first at me, then at Esther, whom he looked up and down with a kind of openly wicked leer that made her shift the huge bag on her shoulder.
“I’ve still got my brick,” she whispered to me.
A moment later, the kid turned his back on us and opened the SUV’s door. Before climbing behind the wheel, he brushed his arm across the leather seat, sweeping a tumble of junk food wrappers onto the driveway. Then he slammed the door and gunned his high-performance engine. A moment later, the placidness of the upscale neighborhood was shattered as the aspiring hoodlum roared off.
“What a charming encounter,” Esther said as she kicked an empty bag of jalapeño-flavored corn chips off her boot.
“Who the heck was that?”
“I’m sure it was Linford’s son, Dwayne. Vicki described him to me once. She dated him in high school.”
“Interesting,” I said, then started up the drive again. “Come on, Esther. Let’s see how far that wannabe gangsta’s fallen from the family tree...”
Nineteen
The double front doors of Linford’s home were made of heavy polished oak and decorated with the largest holiday wreath I’d seen outside of Macy’s sales floor. While Esther rang the regal-sounding doorbell, I stood by her, still holding my hand-painted dish of Italian struffoli.
A narrow-shouldered man of average height greeted us.
“Ms. Cosi, I presume? I’m Omar Linford.”
Linford’s light brown skin was the same shade as that of the young man who’d just peeled out of the driveway. But there the resemblance ended. Omar was in his fifties, not his twenties, and he wore his salt-and-pepper hair in a short-cropped style. A small, neatly trimmed brown mustache, threaded with silver, graced his upper lip. A bright red bow tie cheered up an otherwise dowdy three-piece suit—only a tad plump in the vest—and small, round, retro 1930s glasses made our host look more like a museum curator than a shady businessman.
“Please, Mr. Linford, call me Clare. This is my associate, Esther Best.”
“Come in, ladies...”
As we stepped inside, Mr. Linford pointed to my struffoli and his smile widened. “I see you’ve brought a gift! Let me help you with that.”
But Linford didn’t lift a hand. Instead, a mocha-skinned woman in a maid’s uniform appeared at my side, relieved me of the dish, then withdrew as quietly as she’d arrived.
“Delightful to meet you both,” Linford said. “Follow me to the dining room. Everything’s ready for our luncheon.”
The interior of Linford’s sprawling, glass and stone house was as hyperdecorated for the holidays as the exterior. The living room’s gigantic Christmas tree filled the whole floor with the scent of pine. A fortune in antique Victorian ornaments appeared throughout the house, and a much smaller illuminated tree sat in the large dining area.
We paused before a polished mahogany table, dripping with a delicate lace tablecloth and set for three. Beside it, a line of silver service buffet trays rested on a large serving cart. A roaring fire in a brick-lined hearth provided warmth, and a glass wall offered us a spectacular view of the Staten Island Greenbelt and the blue green waters of New York Bay beyond.
“Please make yourselves comfortable,” Linford said, holding my chair.
The maid returned with my dish of struffoli, now neatly placed atop a sterling silver serving tray. The honey glaze I’d drizzled over the tiny balls of fried dough gleamed in the sunlight. Struffoli was traditionally served as a communal after-dinner sweet, with guests tearing off pieces of the confection between sips of hot, strong espresso.
As soon as the maid placed my little Christmas tree in the middle of our table, however, Linford tore off the top and took a bite. “Forgive me for digging in,” he said with a smile. “I forgot how much I loved this!”
After chewing and swallowing, he dabbed the glaze from his fingers and mouth with a white napkin. “Delicious! I can taste a hint of citrus. Did you use lemon halves to position the hot dough when you formed the tree?”
I blinked. “How did you know?”
Linford laughed. “I’ll tell you, Clare, when I was seventeen I went to sea. I was young, so of course I had plenty of romantic delusions.”
“Didn’t we all,” I muttered.
“Well, things didn’t work out as planned. I caught pneumonia in Sicily, and the ship on which I was billeted sailed without me. It would have been a lonely Christmas in a strange land if a fisherman and his family hadn’t taken pity on me.”
Linford patted the modest bulge in his vest. “I must confess that I never ate better in my life.”
“Wow, Sicily,” Esther said, shooting me a pointed glance. “Did you happen to meet any Mafia bosses when you were there?”
It was an awkward, obvious question, but now that it was out, I watched Linford carefully for a reaction. He seemed amused more than anything, shaking his head no and laughing. Then he turned to his maid.
“Cecily, you may serve now.”
Into our crystal goblets, Cecily poured a blend of guava and mango nectars. She then removed the lid from a silver tray and a salty, briny, peppery scent filled the dining room.
“Funky smell,” Esther blurted out. “What is it?”
“Ackee and saltfish,” Linford replied.
Cecily spooned some of the fish and fruit stew onto Esther’s bone china plate.
“Ackee?” Esther whispered to me. “Isn’t this stuff toxic?”