A Brew to a Kill (38 page)

“I’ll try…” I reclined in the bed again, tucked in close. “By the way, we’re officially out of carnitas.”

“Good, because if I eat another burrito, I’ll grow a sombrero.”

“I’ll have Franco take me shopping after we visit Lilly’s mother. How does chicken sound for the weekend? Roasted whole with a crispy, golden skin and moist, juicy meat flavored with rosemary and lime?”

“Oh, man, that sounds great.” Mike’s callused fingers found their way back to my bare arm.

“And my Fully-Loaded Colcannon…” (It was one of Mike’s favorites.) “Red potatoes, cabbage, and onions like your Irish mama used to make, but sautéed up in olive oil and rendered bacon drippings, with my little Italian kiss of garlic and a big old American-style topping of gooey melted cheddar and smoky crumbled bacon…”

“My mouth is starting to water…”

“Then I’ll bake you up my light-as-air Cappuccino Chiffon Cake. But instead of mascarpone, I’ll do a Whipped Cream Frosting. A forkful of that cake should fill your mouth with the most delicate flavors then dissolve on your tongue as if you’ve bitten into a cloud from heaven. Maybe I’ll add white chocolate ganache for an extra layer of decadence. I’ll spread it warm, just under that fluffy mound of rich dairy cream that’s whipped until it—”

“Stop!” Quinn moaned. “I can’t take anymore! Sweetheart, your food porn is driving me crazy—and, by the way, you don’t have to cook for me. You have a lot on your plate. We can always order take-out.”

“You know I like to cook. It’s my oasis. It comforts me. And it’s something in my life I can actually control. But mostly I like the sounds you make when you eat my food.”

“Funny… I like the sounds you make, too.”

“Oh? When is that?”

His caressing hand shifted its position by a few inches, and I got the idea.

Reveling in the moonlight at last, I let Mike’s skillful fingers play my body until it veritably hummed with pleasure. Then I turned in his arms and covered his mouth with mine. Finally, our lips were moving again, but for this oasis we didn’t need words.

T
HE
next morning, Madame and I nursed cups of my Breakfast Blend as Franco guided our sedan through Manhattan’s shadowy canyons of glass and steel. The AM rush was slow-going, but we soon hit the Williamsburg Bridge, and the world opened up to a dome of brilliant blue.

Crossing the East River’s sparkling chop, our speed picked up and Franco relaxed enough to make his daily query. “So, Coffee Lady, what was it this morning?”

“The shaving cream
again
,” I said, brushing a bit of lint off my charcoal gray dress slacks. I’d worn stacked heels, too, and because of the bruises on my upper arms, I chose a shimmery pearl blouse with bell sleeves that fell past the elbows.

Before I’d selected this outfit, however, I’d woken up to Matt loudly complaining. Apparently, his personal shaving kit included a canister of French beard-softening cream, a gift from Bree, which retailed at $55.00 a pop. In a few short days, the full can was close to empty.

“You’ve been helping yourself to my imported products!” Matt wailed at Quinn.

Peace would not be ours until I inserted myself between the men (a regular occurrence this difficult week).

Quinn acted innocent, but I knew what that little quirk on one side of his mouth meant.
It’s called payback, Allegro. Go sing an aria about it.

Franco snorted upon hearing today’s terrible-threesome tale, then he steered us off the bridge and onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.

That’s when Madame piped up. “You know, Clare, I’ve always heard that ménage à trois is quite a challenge to pull off successfully.”

I literally choked on my coffee. “No, no! You misunderstand. Mike Quinn and I are not, repeat
not
in a ménage à trois with your son.”

“Of course you are. Matteo informed me earlier this week. Oh, he claimed Bree is redoing their Sutton Place apartment, but I know she’s out of town—and when the cat’s way…” She gave a little
oh-so
-
French
shrug.

“I can’t believe you’d think I’d to such a thing!”

“Calm down, dear. Ménage à trois simply means household for three. Clearly, you three are sharing the duplex, aren’t you? And your meals…”

“And a bathroom,” Franco noted from the front.

Madame fluffed her silver pageboy and waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever else you’re sharing really is entirely your business.”

“You know what my grandmother always said?” Franco called.

“What’s that, dear?” Madame asked, leaning forward.

“Two roosters and one hen gets you no eggs—and a whole lot of trouble.”

They laughed, and I frowned. “We have eggs, Franco. But I did promise Mike a chicken dinner. On our way back, we’re going grocery shopping.”

“Yes, Mother,” Franco sang.

Madame hid behind her coffee cup, but I could see she was still laughing.

Gritting my teeth, I endured—but I swore it wouldn’t be for long, because if those drug dealers didn’t contact Matt soon, I was going to fly down to Rio and whack O Negociante myself.

W
HEN
we finally exited the expressway, Franco swung the car into the neighborhood of Jackson Heights, a polyglot section of Queens with Hispanic immigrants to the east and newly minted Irish Americans to the west. From the aromatics alone, I knew we’d landed between them, in Little India.

The spicy smells of curry, coriander, and turmeric mingled with the savory scent of Tandoori chicken and the toasty smell of baking flatbreads. (One sniff and I was feeling the pain of skipping breakfast.)

We rolled by sidewalk carts grilling lamb kabobs, green markets showing off long beans, and stores with Taj Mahal façades hawking saris, gold bracelets, and Bollywood music.

Turning onto Roosevelt, we progressed beneath the elevated section of the Number 7 line, aka the “International Express.” Like an amusement park roller coaster, the 7’s rattling tracks were wide open. No concrete barriers muffled the subway cars, and they roared overhead like a succession of mechanical dragons.

Continuing on, we entered Woodside, the neighborhood Lilly Beth called home, and the aromas here were very different. This part of Roosevelt was the “Little Manila” of the borough. According to Lilly, this community had the highest concentration of Filipinos on the entire Eastern seaboard.

Pinoy restaurants and bakeshops dominated the area, along with Filipino-owned businesses and stores. The amount of air cargo and freight carriers on these blocks was what puzzled me most, until I saw the term Lilly had taught me, right on the signs:
We ship
Balikbayan Boxes.

“Oh, that smells wonderful!” Madame exclaimed.

The aromas hitting us now were unique to this very block. I recognized Amina Salaysay’s special pork bun filling first, then the chocolate from a
champorado
, and finally—

“Brioche,” I told Madame, who’d been enjoying the scent of a yeast-raised dough, rich in butter and eggs, baking to perfection.

Madame was delighted but puzzled. “A French bakery here?”

“No. You’re smelling the Filipino version of
ensaymada
, which starts with a brioche dough. We’ll sample some inside…”

I called Franco’s attention to the big glass widow of Amina’s Kitchenette, and he pulled the car over. The little twenty-four-hour eatery occupied the first floor of a multistory building with a travel agency on one side and a beauty shop on the other.

“Hot
puto
?” Franco read on the awning. He turned in his seat. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“It’s not what you think,” I assured him. “In the Philippines
puto
is a steamed rice muffin.”

“Glad to hear that,” Franco said, “because in the Hispanic world, selling ‘hot
puto
’ would earn you a visit from the vice squad.”

With that, Franco opened our door and wished us luck.

“Sure you don’t want me to come with you, Coffee Lady?” he asked.

“Thanks, but I understand Lilly’s mom is reluctant to discuss certain things in front of the police.”

Well aware of that sentiment, especially in immigrant neighborhoods, Franco nodded and climbed back into his car. Then Madame and I strode inside.

L
IKE
her daughter, Mrs. Amina Salaysay was a petite, attractive woman with a dusky complexion and exotic, almond-shaped eyes. She was heavier than her daughter and threads of gray generously salted her dark cap of hair, but she had that same die-hard immigrant energy of Lilly’s and the same openhearted warmth.

After we greeted her, she invited us to sit down for a visit. The restaurant was cheerful with sunny yellow walls, colorful photos of the Philippine Islands, and mounted curio cabinets with figurines and souvenirs, including little toy “jeepneys”—the name Pinoys gave to former U.S. military jeeps they now painted in wild colors and used for public transport on the islands.

Lilly’s adorable son, Paz, waved hello, then went back to his warm bowl of chocolate rice pudding—that common Pinoy breakfast known as
champorado
.

Filipino cuisine was a unique combination of East-meets-West, and Amina Salaysay’s menu reflected the country’s melting pot of influences from Spanish to Chinese to American. From my last visit, I knew she owned and ran this kitchenette on a twenty-four-hour schedule.

Even with Lilly Beth in the hospital, she came by once in the morning and once at night to prepare her specialties, including those steamed buns filled with spicy-sweet pork called
siopao
and her amazing
ensymada
.

Many tables were occupied for breakfast, the buzz in the air a combination of English and Tagalog. One of her waitstaff served us coffee and a basket of those fresh-baked brioche buns we’d smelled on the street.

Madame sampled hers with great interest. The egg bread was light and tender, the top generously buttered, but also deliciously gooey from an ample addition of melted cheddar cheese along with a light sprinkling of sugar. This unique way of serving the rich, raised pastry reflected the heart of Lilly’s native cuisine—

“It’s sweet and savory,” Madame cooed, “quite a unique combination and absolutely delightful.”

We continued talking and snacking with Lilly’s mother until finally I stated plainly, “We’re here to pay our respects, Mrs. Salaysay, but we’re also concerned about finding the person who put Lilly Beth in the hospital.”

“Yes,” Madame chimed in. “And to do that, we need as much information as we can get about your daughter’s past.”

“Lilly is a good girl,” said Amina, looking suddenly unhappy.

“We know,” I assured her. “But we’re looking for any connection she may have had to a doctor named Land, a plastic surgeon? Did she ever work for him?”

Mrs. Salaysay touched the gold cross at her neck. “Lilly’s always been a good girl, a hard worker. But with our extra expenses…”