A Brew to a Kill (26 page)

My heart nearly stopped at his wording. “A death sentence. My god, Josh, how did the girl die?”

“You don’t know?”

I shook my head.

“Her mother killed her.”

“H
ELEN
Bailey-Burke killed her own daughter?” I asked in shock. “Why isn’t she in prison?”

“Believe me, Ms. Cosi,” said Josh, “if it were up to me, she would be.”

Madame and I exchanged confused glances. Then Josh explained his statement. Like a lot of young people, this budding young painter saw things in melodramatic terms, and the story, while awful, was more tragic than criminal.

It seemed Meredith Burke was a lot like Esther—arty, quirky, intelligent, funny. She was also on the Rubenesque side of femininity, with facial features that were strong and full of character—as opposed to delicate and runway ready.

“Meredith’s mother and father divorced when she was little,” Josh explained, “and Meredith resembled her dad. I think that was the biggest issue between her and her mother. Meredith took after her father in so many way, not just looks, that Helen never stopped wanting to change her…”

“Change her into someone more like herself?” I assumed.

“Exactly.” Josh folded and unfolded his arms. His frustration was almost palpable. “She bribed Meredith. Pushed her into
getting this done and that done. Small stuff at first, but then Helen’s plastic surgeon offered this three-in-one thing. Dramatic stuff in one day. Helen told Meredith that if she went through the three-in-one, she’d release a big chunk of money from her trust fund. And we both really wanted that money…”

“Why did you want the money, dear?” Madame asked curiously. “Did you want to travel together, something like that?”

Josh shook his head. “Meredith and I had been drawing a series of comic books for years. They were her ideas and her words—but my art. We did it together, and we wanted to publish them.”

I was already dreading the end of this story. “What happened, Josh? How did Meredith die?”

“Something went wrong after her cosmetic surgery. They said it wasn’t the doctor’s fault. Whatever happened was part of the risk anyone takes when they have surgery done—and that’s why I’ll never stop blaming her mother. Helen may not have shoved Meredith off a cliff, but she sure as hell led her to the edge and bribed her to jump.”

The idea of Helen pushing her child to have herself redone made me sick to my stomach—but also grateful. Madame exchanged glances with me. I knew we were having the same thought.

Thank goodness that woman walked away from our Esther.

I’d grown as protective of my baristas as Madame had of me. And the last thing I’d want is for Esther to have someone as toxic as Helen Bailey-Burke making her doubt herself.

The irony didn’t escape me: Before this discovery, I’d been incensed over Helen’s rejection. Now I was grateful for it. Even my octogenarian employer came away with an inspiring new quest. But life was funny that way. Blessings in disguise were never recognizable—until they were. Like a dark night that gradually lightens until suddenly you realize its day.

I was just getting to feel positive about
this
day when the sound of bickering voices drew my attention. Two women nearby were arguing, and their conflict was escalating fast.

“Not
you
again…”

The first voice belonged to (surprise, surprise) our favorite person, mother of the year Helen Bailey-Burke. Her tone was thick with disdain.

“Let’s not do this, Helen. I deliberately came late, expecting you’d be gone…”

The second voice was one I didn’t recognize. The argument was taking place along the dead-end street. Helen had left our party and was walking toward her parked car when she confronted a statuesque redhead who had just arrived.

Madame gripped by arm the moment she spotted them. “That beautiful redhead—I recognize her from a
New York Now
feature. That’s Dr. Gwen Fischer, Councilman Chin’s fiancée.”

Oh, no. Here we go…

Matt had warned me to watch out for fireworks at our party. With two rival politicos present, he was sure there’d be an explosion. Well, he turned out to be wrong and right. The ugly scene didn’t occur between the principals but between members of their camps.

Chin’s fiancée wore light summer slacks, a sleeveless blouse, and an expression of extreme patience—a challenge in the face of Helen’s raw anger.

“Is it the
guilt
, Dr. Fischer?” Helen asked. “Is that why you don’t want to see me?”

Dr. Fischer ignored the question and tried to step around Helen. But the petite socialite blocked her path

“
Answer
the question,” Helen demanded.

“I have nothing to say because I had nothing to do with what happened—”

“I don’t want your excuses!” Helen cried, her tone growing hysterical.

Despite their remote location, the fringes of our crowd took notice of the loud squabble. They’d moved toward the fence to observe. At least one freelance photographer was among them.

Dr. Fischer noticed the audience and lowered her voice. So did Helen.

The two continued arguing until Dr. Fischer uttered a final comment. Whatever it was made Helen’s cheeks flush nearly the color of Josh Fowler’s hair.

Helen’s response wasn’t in words. Despite the audience (or maybe because of it), she lifted her hand and swung with furious force at Gwen Fischer’s cheek.

Like a gunshot, the sound of the slap reverberated in the dead-end street, off the row houses and chain-link fence. Dr. Fischer reeled back as her cheek reddened.

Helen took a step forward, and I was sure she was going to strike again.

Cameras were snapping now. More people were moving to see what they were missing.

I have to do something…

Rushing toward the front gate, I noticed Matt near our refreshment tables, sipping coffee. He hadn’t noticed the altercation, and I didn’t have time to explain.

“The fireworks have started, Matt. Unlock the warehouse. I’ll meet you there.”

Matt didn’t ask questions. He tossed the cup and took off. I was through the gate five seconds later. By the time I reached Dr. Fischer, Helen Bailey-Burke had climbed into a black sedan and slammed the door.

Mortified, the doctor stood there as Helen drove away. With the people gawking, she seemed unsure what to do or where to go. I took the woman’s shaking arm.

“Come with me, Dr. Fischer. I’ll take you somewhere private.”

W
E
were in Matt’s warehouse now, the loading dock area, a windowless concrete space with a high ceiling and harsh fluorescent lights. But at least it was cool after the heat of the afternoon, and I soon felt chilly in my thin V-neck tee.

“This is a terrible way to meet, but I’m Clare Cosi from the Village Blend. I sent my business partner to find Dominic for you. I’m sure they’ll be here shortly.”

“Thank you so much,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Gwen Fischer, and I’m sorry I caused a scene at your party.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was. I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

Gwen pulled out a compact to check the damage. Her green eyes clouded when she noticed the red handprint on her cheek had inflamed the freckles across her nose. She shook her head.

“Helen caused an equally pleasant scene when we met at Gracie Mansion, but at least she didn’t slug me in front of the mayor. But then…” She threw me a self-deprecating look. “I hear His Honor loves a good catfight.”

We both laughed, and soon Dr. Fischer was chatting amicably as she repaired her makeup.

“So you ran into Helen at the mayor’s office?” I pressed.

“The mayor’s birthday party,” Gwen replied. “It was so humiliating. She accosted me right after the Dancing Mayors act.”

“Dancing Mayors?”

“A dozen Rockettes wearing rubber masks of His Honor and kicking it to ‘New York, New York,’” Gwen shook her head. “Come to think of it, that dance number may have been more embarrassing than my run in with Mrs. Bailey-Burke.”

“What’s Helen’s problem with you?” I asked plainly.

“Her problem is with my late ex-husband, not me.” Gwen combed her scarlet pageboy. “Frankly, I think the woman is unhinged. That’s why I shouldn’t have provoked her. Now I feel terrible.”

“It couldn’t have been that bad.”

“It was shameful. Helen’s daughter died a few years back after Harry performed surgery on her. I’m not in practice with him. I never was—or wanted to be. My plastic surgery work is research oriented, up at Columbia. So I told Helen: if she wanted someone to blame for her daughter’s death, she should look in the mirror. I told her if I were a parent, I never would have coerced my child into having three cosmetic procedures that she never wanted in the first place.”

The door opened, and Matt ushered City Councilman Dominic Chin into our warehouse. Chin’s face was strained, tense, and he didn’t relax until he saw that Dr. Fischer was okay. Their embrace was long and lingering, and Matt and I gave them their space. I needed a moment with Matt, anyway.

“Where did you go with Tanya?”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “Jealous?”

“Curious.”

“I brought Tanya here, actually.”

“You two didn’t—”

Matt shook his head. “Tanya thought there’d be an encore here. I played it that way, long enough to keep her away from Helen Bailey-Burke. I wanted Esther to have a fair shot at her presentation.”

I hated to tell Matt that it didn’t matter, but I supposed he’d figured that out by now. “So how did you finally lose the woman?”

“When the time was right I reminded Tanya that my wife was an influential magazine editor who could ruin Tanya’s career with a single exposé, which she would do if she found out we’d been intimate. Then I showed Tanya to the door.”

“Bravo.”

“People like Tanya enjoy threatening. They’re not always prepared to be threatened right back—but then I learned to deal with people like her from the best.”

“Your mother?”

“Of course.”

“Excuse me, Ms. Cosi? I wanted to thank you.”

Dominic Chin’s hand found mine. “Gwen told me what you did, and we both appreciate it. And thanks to you and Matt for letting us stay here until the press drifts away. And by the way, your coffee is phenomenal.”

Councilman Chin’s summer sports coat had been flung over one shoulder, the sleeves on his white shirt rolled up. Dominic was half-Chinese, half-Italian—a product of the proximity of Little Italy and Chinatown. His district loved him. He had a foot in both worlds and an appetite for both as well, having famously grown up on one grandmother’s biscotti and another one’s moon cakes.

A spot of bright orange on the man’s shirt caught my eye—another Two Wheels Good button.
Warrior Barbie sure gets around.