A Brew to a Kill (39 page)

She looked distressed, and I got the same feeling Buckman did.
She knows something she’s afraid to share.

“Lilly tried to help me, you understand?” Mrs. Salaysay went on. “Because of the extra payment. Now this… I’ll be honest. I don’t know what’s going to happen to all of us. How we’re going to
pay
.”

Madame and I exchanged glances.

“Pay?” I said. “Do you mean pay the hospital bills?”

Mrs. Salaysay sighed. “That is our burden now, too. We have insurance, but that nice police man—”

“Detective Buckman?”

“Yes, he warned me. Lilly’s therapy bills may become difficult. And we have the extra payment every month. My concern is only for my daughter. If we lose this place, it will break my heart—but Lilly comes first.”

Extra payment?
I glanced at Madame again.
What does that mean?

We went around again, but she wouldn’t explain and we weren’t getting anywhere. Well, that was all right, because I had one last card to play: Lilly’s computer.

Buckman may have searched her computer files and e-mails for a link to Dr. Land, or evidence of a threat. That seemed very basic to me, and I was nearly convinced he’d done it by now.

On the other hand, Lilly’s mother might have been protective of her privacy, and the computer sat in her house. She may have denied him access and he may have been reluctant to strong-arm her with a warrant.

Was I Buckman’s last resort before he had to play hardball with a woman he clearly didn’t want to offend?
Maybe.
Which was why I gave it a shot…

“Mrs. Salaysay,” I said, “the day Lilly Beth was hit, she was going to send me a few recipes. Would you mind if I checked her computer? Once I get those files, I can authorize a new freelance payment.”

Amina Salaysay nodded and checked her watch.

“I must get Paz to school, then I must go to the hospital. I speak with Lilly’s doctors every day.”

“I understand.”

“But I do want to help you…” She thought a moment, then seemed to decide something. She reached into her pocket and took a key off a ring. “This is my house key. Go in and
find Lilly’s computer in her bedroom. Take what you need from it and lock up. Then leave the key here with my girl at the register.”

As we said good-bye to her and Paz, we passed our gifts to them: a Transformer toy for the little boy, and for Lilly’s mom, two pounds of freshly roasted Kona.

“We’ll continue to pray for Lilly,” I assured them both.

She thanked us and Paz did, too. He seemed pleased with his toy and excited to tell us something special.

“The beans,” said the little boy, tugging with determination on the bell sleeve of my blouse.

“Beans?” I asked, petting his soft head.

He pointed to the coffee beans. “If you’re praying for my mom, then you can put beans in her jar.
Opo?
She’d like that.”

I looked to Mrs. Salaysay, who just smiled and shrugged.

Dismissing the cryptic comment as one of those awkward moments in our cultural divide, we politely said good-bye and slipped out the door.

F
RANCO
drove us the ten blocks to Mrs. Salaysay’s two-story row house. The place was modest, well kept, and quiet. We found Lilly’s computer laptop on a desk in her apricot-painted bedroom. While I turned on the device, Madame moved about the room, looking at framed photos and knickknacks.

Getting into her computer was easy, and I started with general searches of her documents using keywords like
Land
,
Dr. Land
, and just plain
Harry
.

That didn’t work, so I tried going to Lilly’s document library, and re-sorted everything by date. But the oldest folder wasn’t old enough.

“There’s nothing here that goes back far enough! Nothing that can give us a clue about the black hole in Lilly’s life—”

“Clare…” Madame’s voice was sharp. “You need to see this.”

Still focused on the screen, I didn’t bother looking up. “What?”

Madame was behind me somewhere, and I suddenly heard the sound of a sliding door being forced all the way open. I spun in the swivel chair to see what she was up to—and gasped.

The right side of Lilly’s closet held neatly hung clothes with shoes lined up beneath. But the other half held a stack of shelves. And on those shelves were jars. Some jars were large, some small. In their past lives they’d held pickles and peppers and all kinds of sauces, but the colorful contents had been emptied out and replaced with a solid wall of black.

“What in the world?” I moved to examine this bizarre find.

“These jars are filled with coffee beans.” Madame opened a lid to show me.

“Every jar is labeled. January, February, March…”

“Do you remember what Lilly’s little boy told you?” Madame asked.

I nodded, recalling Paz’s words: “If you’re praying for my mom, then you can put beans in her jar…”

“So the beans are prayers,” Madame said. “But what is Lilly praying for?”

“How far back do these dates go?” I wondered.

We went through them all, lining up the jars, and soon realized the label dates coincided with that black hole in Lilly’s life—all the way up to the time she was struck by the van.

That’s when it came back to me. The night Lilly was nearly killed, she tried to tell me something before losing consciousness.

What did she say? Think…

“Clare? What’s wrong?”

“Give me a moment,” I told Madame.

Sitting on the edge of Lilly’s bed, I closed my eyes. With a deep breath, I summoned back those painful images from just one week ago.

In my mind, Lilly was lying on the street again, her body broken, twisted, twitching. Then I ran to my friend, dropped to my knees, saw she was still conscious…

“I knew it… I knew this would happen…”

“Did you see the driver coming?”

“No. You don’t understand. This had to happen. I deserve this. It’s my fault…my fault… my most grievous fault…”

“Clare? What is it?”

My body was shaking, one fist crumpling Lilly’s coverlet. “She wasn’t asking for Last Rites. I know that now.”

“I don’t understand?”

“When a Catholic confesses her sins to her priest, she receives penance in the form of prayers. The priest instructs her to recite Hail Marys and Our Fathers, or full rosaries—”

“And rosaries are prayer beads!”

“Yes, they’re a way to count and keep track. A way to add it all up.”

“But we know that already, don’t we?” Madame said. “Paz told us these beans represent prayers.”

“More than prayers. They’re
penance
.”

“Penance for what? What did Lilly do?”

“Help me find the first jar…” I scrambled, looking. “When did this begin?”

Madame found it, picked it up, and we both noticed something buried at the bottom—a small, white square.

“Look, there’s something inside!”

Together, we dumped the dark beans onto Lilly’s pretty coverlet, pulled out the folded square of white. My hands were still shaking, and Madame took the paper from me, unfolded it, and slipped on her reading glasses.

“These are medical records,” she said, scanning the document. “They involve an eighteen-year-old girl… the comments are about her vital signs…”

“What’s the name of the patient?”

“Oh, my,” Madame whispered. “Clare, I know this girl. And so do you…”

I searched the top of the form for the patient’s name. Madame
was right. The patient was the daughter of Helen Bailey-Burke and the best friend of Josh Fowler.

“But Meredith Burke is dead,” I pointed out.

“Then why is Lilly keeping these records?” Madame asked.

“That’s what I want to know.”

O
N
the drive back to Manhattan, I phoned Lilly’s longtime nurse friend, Terry Simone. Taking a chance, I simply asked her to drop by the Blend to talk. She agreed to a one o’clock meeting.

I considered calling Buckman, but decided to wait. Terry could provide answers on what I’d found, and those answers could save the man a great deal of investigative time. So I refocused my mind on work and tried to ignore the clock.

During a lull, I noticed Matt sitting alone in the corner, an empty demitasse in front of him, his gaze fixed on the smart screen of his brand new “thing.”

I pulled two doubles and crossed to his table. Matt accepted the fresh cup, leaned back in his chair, and took a satisfying hit.

“Thanks.”

“How’s it going?” I sat down opposite, took a sip for myself.

“The Red Hook warehouse mess is cleaned up,” he said. “Now all I have to do is sell Nino’s beans.” He shook his head, looking defeated. “Maybe once
this
mess is over…”

“Well, I’m not waiting to sell those beans. I’m taking a stack of your business cards with me tonight. We’re serving Ambrosia to the public for the first time, and—”

“That’s what you’re calling it?”

“Don’t you like the name?”

“I do—and I appreciate your trying, Clare, but you’re no broker. Fifty pounds for a wedding reception is a drop in the bucket.”

“A
sterling silver
bucket,” I pointed out. “Lots of wealthy alphas will be there tonight, Matt. Chefs, journalists, owners of restaurant chains. It’s the perfect showcase for the perfect cup.”

“And the Cup of Excellence?”

“There’s always next year. I mean, face facts, you’re not hot to travel back to Rio anytime soon, are you?”

“You have a point.”

“Give it a chance. Ambrosia is superb. It can sell itself.”

He took another espresso hit, ran his gaze over my shimmery pearl blouse. “You look nice today.”

“Listen, I hate to mention this. But your mother thinks you and me and Mike are…” I could hardly bring myself to say it.

“Are
what
?”

“Are in a ménage à trois.”

He waved his hand. “She’s jerking your chain.”

“No, she really thinks—”

“Mother knows what’s going on, Clare, I told her everything.”

I was surprised, but Matt was firm. “That mother of mine’s been through hell and back, you know that. She survived a war, buried more than one man she loved, even dealt with drug dealers in her day—and kicked their asses. I knew she could handle the truth. Besides, she’s still the owner of this business, and she has a right to know what’s happening in it.”

“Does she have an opinion about how things will turn out?”

“She’s an optimistic person at heart. And she thinks your
Quinn will take care of us, keep us safe. She thinks a lot of him.”

“So do I. And, by the way, he thinks a lot of you.”

“Really?”

“He told me so last night.”

“I don’t know, Clare. I don’t know if I’m worthy of that.” He ran a hand over his face. “I never set out to hurt you. It’s the last thing I wanted. I hope you’ll remember that when this is over.” He shook his head. “You’re never going to forgive me.”

“Matt, take it easy.” I reached out, squeezed his hand. “None of this was your fault. It was a scumbag outlaw who tried to ruin us.”

“Maybe so, but it was my business decision that put the whole thing in motion, and now it’s you who’s going to have to make the sacrifices. I never meant for it to happen, Clare. Never. Please remember that. Will you do that for me?”

“Matt,
what
are you talking about? I don’t like the look in your eyes…”