“On the house, Shane,” I said. “It’s the least I can do for a Santa’s helper.”
“Oh, you’re a babe.” He took a few sips and made orgas mic noises. “Sweet...”
I smiled. “Good?”
“Good? Listen, Cosi Lady. After the benefit, I’m coming back here for another. Then how about you and me do a little work in my tool shop tonight?”
Matt rolled his eyes.
“I think you mean toy shop, don’t you, Shane?” I replied.
“No. I meant what I said.”
Oh, brother. “That’s very flattering, I’m sure. But I’m in a relationship with someone special.”
Matt grunted at that. I shot him a look.
“Come on,” Shane pressed. “You don’t have to get serious with me. We can just, you know...” He winked at me again. “Play.”
“Really, I mean it,” I said firmly. “No thanks.”
Shane just smiled wider. “I’ll see you again, Cosi Lady. ’Cause challenge is my middle name.” After yet another wink, he was gone.
Matt smirked. “I thought method was his middle name.”
I shrugged.
“I don’t know,” said Matt. “Maybe you should consider it.”
“Consider what?”
“The elf.”
“Not funny.”
“I’m half serious, actually.”
“Now why would you even half-seriously suggest a thing like that?”
“Because I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“Excuse me?”
“Clare...” Matt looked down at his empty demitasse. When he glanced back up again, he met my eyes. “I don’t think you and your guard dog are on the same page.”
“What page is that exactly?”
“The exclusivity page.”
“Come again.”
“Look, I’m going to be straight with you here. I’ve seen Quinn around with another woman.”
“What do you mean, ‘another woman’?”
“I mean you mentioned to me that the man was doing all this overtime and was so busy. But last week I stopped in at Enoteca’s bar and saw him having dinner with a really beautiful redhead.”
“A redhead?” I stilled, remembering that stunning woman I’d seen in here a number of times. The one with the obvious grudge against me. It can’t possibly be the same woman, can it?
“And then I saw the two of them again, having breakfast early one morning in the East Village—very early. Early enough that I can imagine what they were doing the night before. Doesn’t the man bunk over there?”
“Yeah, his apartment’s in Alphabet City. But there must be some explanation. Maybe she’s part of a case.”
“Quinn was in an intense conversation with this lady both times. It didn’t look professional. It looked personal. And this redhead—she looked familiar to me, too. Then I finally remembered where I’d seen her before. So I looked her up.”
“What to you mean, you looked her up?”
“She was a Victoria’s Secret model about fifteen years ago. Really hot. Cover model material. I keep all the holiday issues. They put her on the cover with a Santa hat, little black boots, and a naughty Mrs. Claus baby-doll nightie.”
“You’re making me want to throw up.”
“Sorry,” Matt said. He blew out air and ran a hand through his short, dark Caesar. “I wasn’t going to tell you, Clare, but the elf actually looks like a good time, and”—he shrugged—“I thought maybe you deserved that. I mean, why save yourself for a guy who obviously wants an open relationship?”
I blinked, dumbfounded for a moment. “You can’t be right,” I finally said. “I don’t believe you.”
“Suit yourself,” Matt said with another shrug. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Hey, boss!” Dante suddenly called. “We can use a hand again! Things are backing up.”
“Okay!” I rose on legs that were suddenly a little shaky. Then I mentally shoved Matt’s claims aside, deciding there had to be an explanation, and went back to work.
Matt departed with a sad little wave. An hour later his mother came in waving, too. But her gestures weren’t sad or little—they were big and frantic.
“Clare, dear!” she called, motioning me to step away from the espresso machine.
“Take over, guys,” I told my two-man crew. “I’ll be right back.”
Madame looked stunning this morning in a jacket of whipped-cream soft suede and matching slacks. A hat and gloves the color of cappuccino foam, both trimmed in fine-spun faux fur, completed the ensemble.
“You look gorgeous,” I said, pecking her cheek.
“Thank you, dear! It’s sleigh-ride couture.” She laughed. “I bought it especially for my little Vermont getaway with Otto.” We sat down at a café table near the fireplace. “We just got back this morning.”
I smiled. “Candy canes by candlelight?”
“Yes, yes—it was all quite romantic, but that’s not what I’ve come to tell you. Something alarming has occurred.”
“Are you talking about the ferry incident? Did Matt tell you?”
“Ferry incident? No, there’s nothing here about a ferry...” She reached into her blond leather tote bag and pulled out a tabloid newspaper. A yellow Post-it marked the Gotham Gossip column. “This is what I’m talking about!”
“Oh my God.”
Splashed across the tabloid’s fold was a series of color photographs, set up frame by frame, showing an intimate moment between Phyllis Chatsworth and her executive producer, James Young. The two were standing in the foyer of a storefront, looking at jewelry. James put his arm around Phyllis and squeezed. She put her head on his shoulder. And in both of their hands were shopping bags—Tourneau, Saks, and Tiffany. The exact same bags I’d seen in Young’s apartment the day after Alf was killed!
“Didn’t Mr. Young tell you he was out shopping the day Alf was murdered?” Madame whispered. “Didn’t he tell you he thought Alf saw him with bags from high-end shops and decided to burglarize him?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what Young obviously didn’t tell you was that a photographer was following him, too.”
I quickly looked at the photo credit. “Ben Tower!”
Madame nodded. “Mr. Dewberry is very upset, Clare. The Chatsworth Way is an important asset for him, and these photos threaten that asset.”
She was right. I skimmed the column, written by a man both Madame and I had tangled with before—scandal hound Randall Knox. Knox speculated whether the married relationship counselors who hosted one of the hottest TV shows on the air didn’t need counseling themselves.
I added it up. “Madame, did Mr. Dewberry approach you with this? I mean, does the man expect you to do something about it?”
“Yes, but I should explain. You see, Otto and I have had a number of very nice dinners with Mr. Dewberry and his wife. They’re very generous people. And Mr. Dewberry has a very good memory. He recalled my mentioning our previous dealings with Randall Knox and Ben Tower, the photographer of record here.”
“You’re dining out on tales of our sleuthing, aren’t you?”
Madame looked sheepish. “Well, they are good stories, dear. Quite entertaining!”
“Okay...” I sat back in the café chair. “What’s your plan?”
“I have a few angles to play with our Mr. Tower—and I wanted to know if you’d like to accompany me. I thought you might be curious, given the timing of his pictures, so close to Alf’s murder.”
“I am curious. Tower may have seen something incriminating. He may even have a proof sheet that shows more...” I quickly brought Madame up to date with Dwayne Linford’s arrest. “But the police still haven’t found a murder weapon or gotten a confession from the kid. So every little bit of evidence is going to help the authorities pin him to Alf’s murder.”
I checked my watch. “I’m going to Alf’s memorial service right after my shift. You go to see Ben Tower and do your thing. Let’s talk afterward, okay? You can tell me what you dig up.”