Holiday Grind

Nineteen

The double front doors of Linford’s home were made of heavy polished oak and decorated with the largest holiday wreath I’d seen outside of Macy’s sales floor. While Esther rang the regal-sounding doorbell, I stood by her, still holding my hand-painted dish of Italian struffoli.

A narrow-shouldered man of average height greeted us.

“Ms. Cosi, I presume? I’m Omar Linford.”

Linford’s light brown skin was the same shade as that of the young man who’d just peeled out of the driveway. But there the resemblance ended. Omar was in his fifties, not his twenties, and he wore his salt-and- pepper hair in a short-cropped style. A small, neatly trimmed brown mustache, threaded with silver, graced his upper lip. A bright red bow tie cheered up an otherwise dowdy three-piece suit—only a tad plump in the vest—and small, round, retro 1930s glasses made our host look more like a museum curator than a shady businessman.

“Please, Mr. Linford, call me Clare. This is my associate, Esther Best.”

“Come in, ladies...”

As we stepped inside, Mr. Linford pointed to my struffoli and his smile widened. “I see you’ve brought a gift! Let me help you with that.”

But Linford didn’t lift a hand. Instead, a mocha-skinned woman in a maid’s uniform appeared at my side, relieved me of the dish, then withdrew as quietly as she’d arrived.

“Delightful to meet you both,” Linford said. “Follow me to the dining room. Everything’s ready for our luncheon.”

The interior of Linford’s sprawling, glass and stone house was as hyperdecorated for the holidays as the exterior. The living room’s gigantic Christmas tree filled the whole floor with the scent of pine. A fortune in antique Victorian ornaments appeared throughout the house, and a much smaller illuminated tree sat in the large dining area.

We paused before a polished mahogany table, dripping with a delicate lace tablecloth and set for three. Beside it, a line of silver service buffet trays rested on a large serving cart. A roaring fire in a brick-lined hearth provided warmth, and a glass wall offered us a spectacular view of the Staten Island Greenbelt and the blue green waters of New York Bay beyond.

“Please make yourselves comfortable,” Linford said, holding my chair.

The maid returned with my dish of struffoli, now neatly placed atop a sterling silver serving tray. The honey glaze I’d drizzled over the tiny balls of fried dough gleamed in the sunlight. Struffoli was traditionally served as a communal after-dinner sweet, with guests tearing off pieces of the confection between sips of hot, strong espresso.

As soon as the maid placed my little Christmas tree in the middle of our table, however, Linford tore off the top and took a bite. “Forgive me for digging in,” he said with a smile. “I forgot how much I loved this!”

After chewing and swallowing, he dabbed the glaze from his fingers and mouth with a white napkin. “Delicious! I can taste a hint of citrus. Did you use lemon halves to position the hot dough when you formed the tree?”

I blinked. “How did you know?”

Linford laughed. “I’ll tell you, Clare, when I was seventeen I went to sea. I was young, so of course I had plenty of romantic delusions.”

“Didn’t we all,” I muttered.

“Well, things didn’t work out as planned. I caught pneumonia in Sicily, and the ship on which I was billeted sailed without me. It would have been a lonely Christmas in a strange land if a fisherman and his family hadn’t taken pity on me.”

Linford patted the modest bulge in his vest. “I must confess that I never ate better in my life.”

“Wow, Sicily,” Esther said, shooting me a pointed glance. “Did you happen to meet any Mafia bosses when you were there?”

It was an awkward, obvious question, but now that it was out, I watched Linford carefully for a reaction. He seemed amused more than anything, shaking his head no and laughing. Then he turned to his maid.

“Cecily, you may serve now.”

Into our crystal goblets, Cecily poured a blend of guava and mango nectars. She then removed the lid from a silver tray and a salty, briny, peppery scent filled the dining room.

“Funky smell,” Esther blurted out. “What is it?”

“Ackee and saltfish,” Linford replied.

Cecily spooned some of the fish and fruit stew onto Esther’s bone china plate.

“Ackee?” Esther whispered to me. “Isn’t this stuff toxic?”

I turned my head, raised the napkin to my lips, and whispered, “Only if it’s not ripe.”

“Excuse me,” Esther said loudly, “is this ackee ripe?”

Linford nodded. “Of course. It’s canned in Jamaica and approved for import by the FDA. It has to be processed correctly. Ackee can be poisonous, otherwise.”

Esther swallowed hard and stared at her food.

“I actually prefer fresh ackee with this particular dish,” Linford told me. “But the fruit is only harvested in the warmer months.”

The ackee fruit had the consistency of scrambled eggs; the fish was firm and resembled the Italian variety of dried codfish called baccala—something I ate as a child, but frankly didn’t miss (an inevitable truth of life: Not every foodie memory is a good foodie memory). Apparently, Esther agreed.

“This reminds me of dag maluah,” she said. “That’s Jewish saltfish.” Then she gave me a private look that said, This sort of stuff is vile in any language.

Luckily, Linford served the saltfish dish with freshly baked hard dough bread and boiled bananas on the side. (I thought at first they were plantains, but Linford informed me that boiled green bananas were also a traditional pairing. The fruit was boiled in its own skin with the tips and sides sliced to make peeling easier after cooking.) Then Linford dug in and so did I. Esther pushed the fish to the side of her plate and ate the bananas and bread— both of which were quite good.

As the conversation lulled, I cleared my throat. “Speaking of ackee, Mr. Linford—”

“Call me Omar, Clare. We have a mutual friend, which makes us friends, too, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, of course. And I understand our friend, Dexter Beatty, purchases import items from you?”

Linford sat back in his chair. “From my company, yes. You are here seeking a purveyor of Caribbean foods for your store, aren’t you? Dexter told me you had questions for me about my Blue Sunshine company. It’s a very reliable source, as Dexter can attest.”

“Actually, I had the impression that you and Dexter were involved in a number of business deals.”

“Dexter and I do have a private arrangement, Clare.”

“Importing and exporting?”

“Surely you’re not here to invade our friend’s privacy. If Dexter wanted you to know what he and I were doing together, he would have told you himself.”

“I’m here, Mr. Linford, to talk about another one of your business ventures. One that wasn’t so profitable.”

Linford’s smile began to slip away. “You’re referring to?”

“Alfred Glockner.”

Linford exhaled. An expression of relief appeared to cross his face, like he’d just dodged a bullet—which made me suspicious of Vickie’s “shady” sobriquet all over again.

He cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to be rude, but how in the world would my private dealings with the late Mr. Glockner concern you?”

“I was Mr. Glockner’s friend. After his murder, someone close to Alf asked me to... step in and investigate.”