Holiday Grind (20 page)
Authors: Cleo Coyle
Tags: #Fiction, #Detective, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Coffeehouses, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Cosi; Clare (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction
“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
.
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
—”
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.
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.
“Have you found that ‘perfect’ gift for Otto yet?” I asked.
“What do you buy a man who collects medieval illuminated manuscripts?” she asked with a wave of her beringed hand. “But I thought about it long and hard, and finally settled on a fraud.”
“Excuse me?”
“I acquired an image of the Madonna and Child that appears to come out of a medieval manuscript, but it’s really a forgery perpetrated by the Spanish Forger, a legendary counterfeiter who created hundreds of medieval fakes in nineteenth-century France.” Madame smiled, her gentle laugh lines impishly crinkling around her brilliant blue eyes. “Otto will absolutely adore it, I’m sure. A real conversation piece among his colleagues.”
“It’s certainly unique,” I replied.
“So when is Joy scheduled to arrive?”
I’d dreaded this moment. I hadn’t yet broken the bad news to either Madame or Matt.
“I’m sorry. I need to tell you. Joy phoned me earlier this morning. She’s not coming home after all,” I said. “She couldn’t get the time off.”
Instead of registering disappointment, Madame nodded with a knowing smile. “That’s why I made sure her plane tickets were open-ended.”
Now I nodded knowingly. “You assumed she’d get stuck working.”
“Working?” Madame shook her head. “Joy’s not working, Clare. It’s a boy. She’s suddenly madly in love and can’t bear to be apart from him.”
“She told you that?”
“No! I just know my grandchild. I’m quite sure you’ll discover that she’s fallen for some adorable, flirtatious, irresistibly cocky French cook in her brigade. I can only hope the feeling is mutual, for her heart’s sake . . . What’s wrong?”
“I just . . . never considered that.”
“She’s left the nest, dear. She wants her own life.” She leaned closer. “Don’t you fret now. It was hard for me when Matteo did the same, went off to Europe for an entire summer, but then he came back with you, didn’t he?”
That was the abbreviated version of a much longer summer-of-love story that ended with me pregnant. Without that sweet
bambina
bun in my oven, however, I doubted very much the freewheeling, extreme-sports-loving, twenty-two-year-old Matteo Allegro would have taken me home to Mama.
bambina
bun in my oven, however, I doubted very much the freewheeling, extreme-sports-loving, twenty-two-year-old Matteo Allegro would have taken me home to Mama.
My frown deepened. The momentary glimpse down memory lane left me anxious—now I couldn’t stop wondering whether Joy had been listening during our talks about birth control.
Madame squeezed my hand. “Just remember this, Clare. When Joy gets married and has a child of her own, she’ll need you more than ever.”
An usher interrupted us. He was moving through the audience, handing out a brochure about the show. As Madame leafed through it, I scanned the studio for any man who resembled that ID badge photo of James Young.
“Today we’re going to see a very special seasonal episode about holiday stress,” Madame informed me, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose.
“Timely,” I said.
“It also says here that Dr. Chaz is a trained psychologist born and raised in Southern California. His wife, Phyllis, is a marriage therapist originally from the Twin Cities. They met during college, and
The Chatsworth Way
began as a local program in Minneapolis. The nationally syndicated version of the show is devoted entirely to the subject of mending splitting marriages and healing damaged relationships.”
The Chatsworth Way
began as a local program in Minneapolis. The nationally syndicated version of the show is devoted entirely to the subject of mending splitting marriages and healing damaged relationships.”
“Hmmm . . .”
I glanced at the eager congregation around us. “That might explain why four fifths of this audience is female.”
I glanced at the eager congregation around us. “That might explain why four fifths of this audience is female.”
“Last year
The Chatsworth Way
went into syndication, and it is now the fourth most popular daytime show behind
Oprah
,
Dr. Phil
, and
Rachael Ray
.” Madame arched a silver eyebrow. “And apparently this James Young you’re looking for is the show’s executive producer.”
The Chatsworth Way
went into syndication, and it is now the fourth most popular daytime show behind
Oprah
,
Dr. Phil
, and
Rachael Ray
.” Madame arched a silver eyebrow. “And apparently this James Young you’re looking for is the show’s executive producer.”
Before I could express surprise, a spotlight appeared in the center of the main stage. The beam illuminated a man and woman perched side by side on tall stools. Both were surrounded by a bevy of assistants, several cameras, and a pair of teleprompters. I didn’t recognize the renowned man-and-wife counselors until excited chatter, then a smattering of applause, broke out around me.
“I love you, Dr. Chaz!” a lone woman’s voice cried out from the middle of the studio audience.
“I love you, too!” he replied.
Laughter—mostly female—followed.
While a technician slipped a tiny microphone under his tie, Dr. Chaz continued grinning and returning waves from various women. Tall and fit, he exuded an easy, boyish charm. Adding an air of sagelike distinction to his appearance, the handsome face was crowned with thick waves of prematurely white hair.
In contrast, Therapist Phyllis was a short, slender brunette with a cropped, no-nonsense ’do. Unlike her effusive husband, she completely ignored the audience during the last-minute stage prep. Oblivious to the female adoration her husband was garnering, she remained deep in conversation with a leanly built man visible only in silhouette.
Finally, from a glassed-in control booth, the director ordered the stage cleared. That shadowy figure Phyllis Chatsworth had been speaking with gave her arm an affectionate squeeze. Then the man stepped into the glare of the spotlight.
It was James Young, looking very much like his ID photograph.
A minute later, the show’s upbeat theme song began to play. The digital prompters ordered
APPLAUSE!
and the audience complied.
APPLAUSE!
and the audience complied.
Then came the announcer’s voice: “Husband-and-wife relationship therapists for two decades, Dr. Chaz Chatsworth and Therapist Phyllis will guide you through the pitfalls and pleasures of love, romance, and marriage. And now, the most
understanding
,
compassionate
, and
insightful
couple on television . . .”
understanding
,
compassionate
, and
insightful
couple on television . . .”
The spotlight reappeared in time to catch the couple casually smooching. Then Dr. Chaz and Phyllis pretended to look guilty at being caught in a kiss. They clasped their hands above their heads, jumped off their stools, and faced the audience.
“Bills! Gift lists! Company parties! Prickly family members! Pricklier in-laws! Are you feeling the pressure to create the ‘perfect’ Christmas, Chanukah, or Kwanzaa?” Dr. Chaz asked.
Phyllis stepped forward. “If all this holiday tension is ruining
your
marriage or romantic relationship, stick around. Today we’ll deal with holiday stress, and ask the question, can love survive it?”
your
marriage or romantic relationship, stick around. Today we’ll deal with holiday stress, and ask the question, can love survive it?”
“Our ‘Chatsworth Survival Guide’ may just keep this holiday season from ending in divorce,” Dr. Chaz added, “or worse . . .”
“Worse?” I muttered. “What’s worse?
Homicide
?”
Homicide
?”
Madame chuckled. “It’s
The Chatsworth Way
, dear, not
Nancy Grace
.”
The Chatsworth Way
, dear, not
Nancy Grace
.”
The monitor blinked:
APPLAUSE!
APPLAUSE!
Almost immediately, the show segued into its slick B-roll, showing couples arguing at holiday parties or on shopping trips. Quoting a list of statistics, Dr. Chaz and Phyllis discussed the dangers of high “perfect holiday” expectations versus disillusioning realities. They cited the troubles that come from reuniting dysfunctional families or attempting to work out fair visitation in divorced ones. They spoke about dealing with disapproving in-laws and demanding grandparents, while keeping your sex life from slipping into a coma. By the time the opening segment ended, the audience could come to only one conclusion—
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