Holiday Grind

Again, my mind started working and I asked Dexter point-blank if he’d been spying for Omar Linford, too.

Dex wouldn’t confirm or deny anything regarding the man, but he did get nervous enough to finally agree to arrange a “sit-down” lunch meeting at one o’clock sharp on Monday so I could ask Linford any questions “straight up” to his face. He wasn’t interested, he said, in being “caught between the diver and the pearl.”

On Sunday I phoned Matt for some kind of explanation on Dexter’s bizarre denials regarding Omar Linford, but Matt couldn’t talk more than a few minutes. Breanne had roped him into a last-minute trip to Connecticut for a “weekend in the country”—not for mistletoe and moonlight but for networking with her magazine’s publisher and his board of trustees.

“I’ll stop by the Blend after we get back on Tuesday,” Matt insisted. “I didn’t know that Dex knew this man Linford or did business with him, but I have a feeling I know what this is about. I just can’t talk about it now.”

“Why not? My meeting with the man is Monday, Matt. Why can’t you just explain it to me?!”

“Because it’s not fit conversation for a cellular line, that’s why!”

Now Esther was guiding my battered, decade-old Honda over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Soon we were passing La Tourette Park, part of the Staten Island Greenbelt that included the woods around Richmond Creek and the manicured lawns of the La Tourette Golf Course. It was frozen and snow-crusted now, but I could still remember how lush and leafy this exclusive landscape looked a few summers ago.

I’d driven out to the Lighthouse Hill area only once before, to get a glimpse of the landmark Crimson Beech house, the only home in New York City designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, one of the many architects I’d admired during my fine arts studies. The original owners had it manufactured fifty years ago in kit form, and fewer than a dozen of these prefabricated houses were ever built.

Linford’s house was not prefabricated. From what I could see of it on my Google map, it had a much bigger footprint than the Frank Lloyd Wright house; the location was a more elite part of the neighborhood as well, one that included a view of the water.

“There’s the turn,” I cried. “You’re supposed to go left!”

Esther swerved so suddenly we nearly tipped onto two wheels. I managed to keep the struffoli upright, but barely.

“Sorry,” Esther said, glancing at my pastry. “What is that mound of doughnut holes, anyway?”

Esther was being flip, of course; the little fried dough balls of the struffoli were more petite than doughnut holes. After drenching them with a honey glaze, I’d molded them into their traditional Christmas tree shape (kind of a rounded pyramid), then fairy-dusted the entire sculpture with rainbow sprinkles, let the whole thing dry, and carefully tented it with plastic wrap.

“Struffoli is actually a very old tradition,” I informed her. “The honey glaze is supposed to ‘sweeten’ family relationships—”

Esther snorted. “Maybe I should bring some to my sister’s this year!”

“Italian nuns also used to make these in their convents and distribute them to noble families at Christmastime—a kind of thank-you for acts of charity.”

“Sort of appropriate for Linford, then,” Esther replied.

“What do you mean?”

“If Linford didn’t actually have Alf whacked, then lending him all that money was kind of an act of charity.” Esther shrugged. “Of course, the dude probably doesn’t see it that way if he expected to be paid back.”

“I didn’t actually think a glazed pile of fried dough balls would end up compensating the man for two hundred thou,” I flatly replied.

Esther turned onto Oceanview Court and we rolled up to the impressive address. We both raised our eyebrows at the man’s front lawn.

Esther glanced at me. “Is this guy into Christmas, or what?”

Every bush and tree had been strung with lights. There were two full-sized sleighs, three animated elves, a big lighted Santa and Mrs. Claus, and eight tiny reindeer trotting across the house’s sloped roof, a scarlet-nosed Rudolph in the lead.

“Add one ginormous electric menorah and this could be my sister’s place in Westchester,” Esther declared. “She married a Catholic guy, so they’re doing the whole ‘multiple traditions’ thing: Chanukah bush, dreidels, Nativity scene. Last year she added some kind of African harvest symbol for Kwanzaa. I’m betting this year I’ll find Tibetan prayer wheels spinning in the front yard, too.”

I released my shoulder strap and popped the door. The frigid December air hit me immediately. I thought the day was cold back in the Village, but up here on the cliffs of Lighthouse Hill, the wind was almost cruel, lashing in off the Atlantic with cutting force.

I’d dressed professionally for today’s lunch in a charcoal gray pinstriped pantsuit over a cream-colored camisole. My stacked high heels and belted slate coat looked polished enough, too, but they weren’t very warm. As the arctic air knifed through me, I shivered, from the tips of my pointy toes to the hint of cleavage cresting the V of my buttoned-up blazer.

Esther came around and held the struffoli dish while I climbed out.

“This won’t take more than an hour—right, boss? That’s what you promised.”

“Don’t worry, Esther, I’ll have you back in the city by three for your four o’clock exam. We’ll have plenty of time.”

It was then I noticed the tricked-out SUV in the driveway. With all the Christmas kitsch in the front yard, its garishness wasn’t immediately apparent, but now that I saw it, my jaw dropped.

“What the heck is that?”

As we moved up the driveway, Esther looked over the vehicle with interest. “Tinted windows, electric blue racing stripes, chrome spoilers, and illuminated hubcaps.”

“Are those bullet holes?!” I bent a little to examine what looked like punctures along the side of the vehicle.

“They’re fake,” Esther informed me.

“Fake?!”

“Yeah, it’s a pimped-up ride effect—like that oh-so-tasteful masterpiece along the back.” Esther pointed to the airbrushed scene of Viking warriors sacking a village with half-naked babes thrown over their arms.

I shook my head. “Fake bullet holes. What’ll they sell next? Chalk outlines and toe tags?”

“Probably.”

I shook my head. “Dexter described Omar Linford as a conservative businessman in his fifties. Could this be his car?”

“No,” she whispered. “I’m sure it’s his.”

Esther gestured to a young man in his late teens swaggering out the front door. Tall and plenty big through the shoulders, he wore a studded leather jacket, stressed black denims, and a battered DJ fedora over his thick, wavy ponytail. His complexion was light brown, his eyes darker than French roast, and his chrome-tipped boots clicked as he walked down the cobblestone drive. Finally, the young man noticed us examining his car. He paused and stared, saying nothing.

I waved, but I needn’t have bothered. He just kept staring suspiciously—first at me, then at Esther, whom he looked up and down with a kind of openly wicked leer that made her shift the huge bag on her shoulder.

“I’ve still got my brick,” she whispered to me.

A moment later, the kid turned his back on us and opened the SUV’s door. Before climbing behind the wheel, he brushed his arm across the leather seat, sweeping a tumble of junk food wrappers onto the driveway. Then he slammed the door and gunned his high-performance engine. A moment later, the placidness of the upscale neighborhood was shattered as the aspiring hoodlum roared off.

“What a charming encounter,” Esther said as she kicked an empty bag of jalapeño-flavored corn chips off her boot.

“Who the heck was that?”

“I’m sure it was Linford’s son, Dwayne. Vicki described him to me once. She dated him in high school.”

“Interesting,” I said, then started up the drive again. “Come on, Esther. Let’s see how far that wannabe gangsta’s fallen from the family tree...”