A Brew to a Kill (16 page)

“
Artistically
weird, yes.
Socially
weird, check. Not Mr. Smile While I Throw the Constitution Under the Volkswagen Bus weird.”

“Esther, focus!” I opened the folder and spread the photos out on the table. “Look closely. Is this the cargo van you saw last night?”

She stared at the pictures for a silent minute. “I’m sorry, Boss,” she finally admitted. “I can’t be sure. I saw the side of the thing, and I remember the graffiti. That’s it. Unlike men’s tushes, the rear end of one van looks pretty much like another.”

“I think I recognize it,” Dante said, leaning across the table.

“You told the police you didn’t see anything,” I shot back.

“Not last night. But I may have seen this white van before. It looks like Kaylie’s service van to me. When she’s non-mobile for long periods—like festivals and events—she uses it to replenish her stock.”

I knew about the practice of using vans to service food trucks. Bigger vehicles burned a lot of fuel. A service van could keep a large truck replenished for far less money. What I didn’t know was that Kaylie had one—a white one.

“I’ve seen her van come and go a few times while working the Muffin Muse,” Dante said. “I don’t remember the license number, but the police can find out…”

Misreading my troubled expression as one of doubt, he got testy.

“Look, Boss, I know it sounds crazy. I mean, who’d kill over coffee and cupcakes, right? But I really think—”

“Easy, Baldini,” Esther interrupted before I could. “We agree with you about Kaylie, but it’s not about buttercream turf anymore.”

Esther showed Dante the
Times
. After skimming the piece with Lilly’s quotes about plans to regulate vendors, he pounded the table and jumped up.

“That’s it. I’m going to Kaylie’s bakery to find that van—”

I grabbed Dante’s tattooed arm. “You know where she bakes her cupcakes?”

“Sure! She rents a kitchen just down the road in Chinatown.”

I stood up, too. “Let’s
all
go.”

W
E
fast-walked the mile from Hudson to Canal Street in Lower Manhattan. The thoroughfares were crammed, of course, as they were every Saturday when hordes of shoppers from all five boroughs, Long Island, New Jersey, and even parts of New England descended on Chinatown.

They came to patronize the Asian food markets, seafood kiosks, vegetable stands, and specialty stores. They stopped by acupuncture clinics, fortune tellers, noodle shops, tea parlors, and the many bakeries that lined the cramped, crowded, serpentine streets between Canal and the Bowery.

In the heart of the action, we were stalled by a rowdy crowd in front of a popular seafood vendor, where the morning sun glinted off the silver scales of smelts and sardines, and lobsters and crabs waved their slate green feelers from ice-packed wooden barrels. On a leaky table, catfish lay exposed, kept fresh and (disturbingly) alive on beds of crushed ice.

Intricately formed hanzi characters were everywhere, on banners, awnings, and street signs, the bold calligraphy set off by scarlet or gold backgrounds. Nothing escaped the Chinese
influence, not even the local McDonald’s with its façade of ornate columns and a pagoda-like overhang.

Enough English was on display to help tourists, and our resident lady of letters remarked on the amusing collision of Chinese and English that formed the most whimsical “Chinglish” signs: Happy Panda Trading Company, Very Good Fortune Peking Duck, and The Princely Splendor Furniture and Lighting Company, to name a few.

“But this one has got to be my personal favorite,” Esther said, pointing. “I mean, who wouldn’t want to get their eyewear from Golden Mandarin Very Finest Optometrist?”

Our progress picked up when we turned down Mott Street, a cramped, crowded, curved boulevard flanked by century-old four-, five-, and six-story buildings. It was so narrow there was not much room for parked cars, and we kept close watch on passing traffic in hopes of spotting Kaylie’s service van.

Finally Dante stopped us beyond the bend of Mott Street’s gentle curve, in front of the doors to the Church of the Transfiguration. The two-hundred-year-old granite edifice housed a Roman Catholic church; its mass schedule was posted in English and Chinese—three services a day, two in Cantonese.

“The bakery Kaylie rents is on Mosco Street,” Dante informed us, “just around the corner.”

“Let’s go,” I said.

We marched down Mosco—more of an alley than a street, descending at a steep angle. Faux-Victorian lamps dotted the tiny wedge of sidewalk, a futile attempt to make this grim urban stretch seem amicable.

The only signage (other than a “no parking” warning) belonged to a little hole-in-the-wall dumpling shop operating behind a curtain of greasy plastic weather strips.

Seeing no white van, we looped the block
three times
(stopping once to nosh on an order of fried dumplings and a fresh, hot carton of chicken lo mein, and twice to gander at knockoff designer purses) before ending up where we started.

I checked my phone messages, but Detective Buckman had yet to contact me.
What now?

Esther frowned. “Dante, are you sure this is the right street?”

“I’m certain. I came here to work every day for a solid month last year. Look up…”

Dante directed our attention to a building rising above Mott. The wall facing us was adorned with a three-story depiction of a beautifully detailed Chinese pagoda sailing across a sea of white clouds. In the distance, above the billowing mist, the torch of the Statue of Liberty, our Beacon of Freedom, gleamed with golden light.

Esther blinked. “Wow,” she said with no trace of her typical sarcasm. But the mural was, in my opinion, a true
wow
of a piece.

“You did that all alone?” I asked, giving Dante my
proud mama
smile.

“It’s my design,” Dante said. “But I brought in two other guys from the Five Points Arts Collective to help me paint—and share the commission.”

“Five Points has an art collective?” Esther said. “Now that’s downright scary.”

Dante titled his shaved head. “Excuse me?”

“Not much for history, are you, Baldini? A hundred and fifty years ago, Five Points—which is just down the block, by the way—was the most violent community in America. There’s a whole book written about it. Ever hear of
The Gangs of New York
?”

“I saw the movie,” Dante said flatly. “But there’s nothing ‘violent’ about the collective. The only guns we use have paint in them. And as for our work down here, when me and the guys weren’t hanging off a scaffold, we were chowing down on pork buns at that little dumpling shop.
That’s
how I know Kaylie rents ovens on Mosco. The dumpling shop sits right across from the entrance to her kitchen. I saw her coming and going.”

“Show me where, exactly,” I said.

Dante pointed to a green archway beside a steel door painted black. Neither the archway nor the door displayed any kind of sign or business name.

“Through that unmarked archway is a steep flight of stairs. The bakery is on the second floor. Dominic Chin told me the family who owns that kitchen makes the very best egg custard tarts in the city.”

“You know Councilman Chin?” I asked, surprised.

“Sure. He’s one of the sponsors for Five Points. He and his fiancée. I hear she’s a doctor on staff at Columbia University Medical Center, some kind of plastic surgeon. They’re a real power couple, those two.”

“Ugh,” said Esther.

“Yeah, I know,” Dante replied. “Despite the obviously shallow aspects of swanning around the bon ton—and the fact that he’s a politician—Dom’s a pretty cool guy.”

“Dom?” Esther pushed up her black glasses. “My, aren’t we making first-name friends in very high places. Especially if that dude becomes mayor like everyone says he will. A girl’s gonna go far if she marries you.”

Her tone was dripping with irony, but Dante answered straight. “I’m a working artist. Any girl who marries me better be ready to eat a lot of hole-in-the-wall pork buns.”

Marries,
I thought,
egg tarts
…

“That’s it!” I cried.

Esther blinked. “What’s it?”

“Huddle up,” I told them. “I have an idea that will get us into that kitchen—a plan that will let us ask as many questions as we want about Kaylie, her van, and the people who drive it.”

“Sweet! Spill it!”

“Yeah!”

I quickly laid out my scheme.

“Fine,” Esther said after I finished. “I’ll pretend to be Dante’s fiancée. But I’m going to be one disappointed bride. I expected to marry
up
.”

“Wow,” Dante replied. “I can already feel Esther’s unconditional love wafting over me.”

“Come on,” I wheedled. “It’s a solid cover story. You two are the happy couple who want to serve Chinese pastries at
your wedding. I’m the proud mother of the bride, ready to write a big fat check. Of course they’ll talk to us!”

“Maybe if you speak Cantonese,” Dante said. “It’s a family-owned kitchen in Chinatown. That means the family doesn’t hail from Kansas, you follow?”

“Too bad they aren’t from Kansas,” Esther said. “We could call Nancy down to translate.”

“Look, you two, we’re New Yorkers, in the
food-service
industry, the language barrier is an obstacle we live to overcome.”

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Esther said. “On one condition. I want one of those knockoff Coach bags we saw around the corner—and a Buddhist ceremony. It’s my dream wedding, and I
am
the bride.”

Dante stroked his chin. “I don’t know. Mom would be heartbroken if I didn’t have a Catholic wedding.”

“Do we need to rehearse?” I asked, a little worried.

Dante and Esther exchanged glances then shrugged.

“I’m good,” Dante said.

“Me too,” Esther affirmed before slipping me a crafty little smile. “After you, Mother Dear…”

“O
KAY
, here we go…”

With a deep breath, I led Esther and Dante through the unmarked archway and up the steep staircase. As we climbed, the clang of metal pots and trays grew louder, then the buttery, nutty smell of baking pastry hit us, and I knew Dante’s intelligence had been spot-on.

At the top of the landing, I expected to find a locked door with a buzzer to ring, but the long, narrow L-shaped kitchen sprawled right up to the staircase with commercial-sized stainless steel refrigerators and a sink deep enough to float a tugboat.

I heard voices speaking in Cantonese. The sound came from around the corner, and I assumed the mixers, pantry, and ovens were located there. I also reasoned, given the open nature of the space, that this kitchen ran 24/7.

Sweet scents wafted over us, and I recognized the source. Dozens of Chinese almond cookies were cooling on a stainless steel table. These weren’t your average egg-washed hockey pucks brought to your table after a quickie restaurant meal. These weren’t even the more delicate almond rounds that were
essentially an Asian cousin to the French sable or Scottish shortbread. These almond cookies were über crispy, baked so amazingly thin they were practically caramelized into nut brittle.