Holiday Grind

private.”

“Matt was not fondling me,” I clarified. “It was purely medical. He was just making sure—”

But Franco was already striding away. His partner shook his head as he watched him go. Then he turned to me and flipped a page on his detective’s notebook.

“Your name is Coffee?” he asked.

“Cosi,” I corrected. “And you’re Detective Chan?”

“My name is Charlie. Charlie Hong,” he said.

“Not Chan?”

Hong smirked. “You’ll have to excuse Sergeant Franco’s sense of humor.”

While I gave Detective Hong a statement, Matt hovered close by. The process took no more than ten minutes, and through it all my discomfort level grew. The flurries had stopped completely now, but the snow down my parka had turned to water, my side still throbbed, my nose was running, and my voice was raspy from the cold.

Finally, the detective thanked me and closed his notebook. He gave me his card and told me to call if I remembered anything else.

“And what about the footprints I told you about, Detective Hong? What do you think?”

Hong shrugged. “I’m inclined to agree with my partner. What the victim may or may not have been doing in the courtyard is irrelevant. He was confronted, robbed at gunpoint, and murdered in the building’s alley, most likely by the man the police were chasing down Perry Street.”

He offered me his hand, and I shook it. “Thanks for your help, Ms. Cosi.”

As soon as Hong departed, Matt swooped in again. “You should really get your chest x-rayed,” he said, reaching out for me again.

“Forget the hospital,” I said, stepping back. “And my chest. I just want to go to bed.”

“Good idea.”

“Alone.”

Six

Morning came, cold and bright, and I was outside again, but now the snow around me was much deeper than the low drifts of the city. The field I stood in was flat and continuous like an aerial view of unending clouds.

Jingle, jingle, jingle...

The bells surprised me. The cheerful sound swirled across the wind on a gentle gust. Then a voice called my name—an impossible voice—

“Clare!”

“Alf? Alfred?” Filled with hope, I turned. Sunlight struck my eyes. The glare off the snow was blinding. “Where are you, Alf? I can’t see you!”

“Look up!”

I lifted my arm to shield my eyes and finally did see him. Alf was alive, waving at me from the top of an enormous white mountain. He looked small up there, like a tiny Christmas ornament, yet every detail of his being appeared strangely clear to me—the red velvet suit, the shiny black boots, the big white Traveling Santa buttons down the front of his costume—all but one. One button was missing.

“Alf!” I shouted. “I was looking for you!”

“Sorry, Clare! I have to go!”

“No, wait! I’m coming to bring you back!”

I took off across the snow, but when my boots hit the base of the incline, my progress slowed. With every step north, the snow became deeper, the climb more difficult.

Jingle, jingle, jingle...

Alf’s bells kept ringing and ringing! The endless repetition soon made them seem tinny and hollow, until they sounded more like cash registers ringing up sales.

Cha-ching! Cha-ching! Cha-ching!

Slapping my hands over my ears, I kept moving, exhausting every muscle in a sweaty, angry slog. But with every foot closer, Alf seemed to move another yard higher. I felt so thwarted, I wanted to cry. Then I tripped, taking a hard, bruising fall before rolling down the slope in an unending tumble—

“Ahhhhhh!”

I opened my eyes.

My body felt sore; my heart was still pounding, but I was no longer outside. I was inside, lying under a warm comforter, on a soft bed, in a dark room. My bedroom—and I wasn’t alone. Between the two mahogany pillars at the foot of my four-poster, I could see a shadowy figure moving suspiciously. The intruder was male, I realized. The man stood up and then crouched down.

What’s he doing? Searching for something?

Still groggy and disoriented, I swallowed hard and reached a hand out from under the covers. Groping at the side table for any sort of weapon, my fingers closed on the base of a Tiffany lamp—one of Madame’s heirlooms. I didn’t want to break it, but I had no choice.

I slid the lamp base closer, trying to gain a better grip. The slight scraping sound gave me away. The intruder turned quickly, and I sat up, priceless weapon ready.

“Clare?”

I froze, watching a red orange glow suddenly rise up behind the man’s silhouette. That’s when I realized two things: This “intruder” was my boyfriend, Mike Quinn; and his “suspicious” movements were the result of his lighting a fire in my bedroom’s hearth.

Quinn regarded me sitting up in bed, lamp base in hand, arm cocked to bash in his head. “You know,” he said, appearing more amused than alarmed, “if you’re having trouble turning that thing on, you might have better luck using the switch.”

I blinked. “I thought you were a burglar.” Quinn’s dress shirt sleeves were rolled up, his tie pulled loose. I noticed his suit jacket draped over a chair.

He folded his arms. “Did you forget you gave me a key?”

“No, of course not.”

How could I? It was the same key Matteo had handed me the day he’d married Breanne. It had been big of Matt to do that, considering his mother had given us both permission to live rent free in this duplex above the Blend (one of Madame’s many failed attempts to get us back together). Eventually, however, Matt acknowledged my feelings (that I was never going to remarry him) as well as my dilemma (homeless-ness). With rents in the historic West Village among the highest in the city, I couldn’t afford a place of my own close to the Blend, and a commute would be hard on me, given the hours I put in running the place. So after he’d married Breanne, he gave up his key.

“Sorry, Mike.” I set down the lamp. “I had a bad dream.”

Without a word, he moved to the bed, his solid frame depressing the edge of the mattress. I put my arms around him and he pulled me close.

Our embrace was far from glamorous. I wasn’t expecting him, so my nightwear was nothing fancy, lacy, or overtly alluring—just my usual oversized Steelers jersey and a pair of cotton underpants. With his leather holster still strapped across his shoulders, the butt of his service weapon dug into me a little, aggravating the bruise along my rib cage. I didn’t care. We hadn’t slept together in a week, and I missed the feel of him: the affection in his touches; the strength in his muscles; even the smell of his skin, warm and male and slightly citrusy from his aftershave. In a phrase, Mike Quinn felt good—and I liked hanging on to that goodness.

After a minute, he leaned back and I studied him. His pale Irish complexion had gone to the ruddy side—no doubt from the business of starting the fire in my bedroom’s hearth. His dark blond hair was cropped (the usual)