Holiday Grind

“New York State law requires that a couple live apart for a year before a divorce can be finalized. We’d just reached that merry milestone when Alf began dodging my lawyers. Not that it matters now.” She sighed. “You see, Ms. Cosi, I met Alf in high school. We married a year after graduation. Vicki was born later—a pleasant surprise after years of thinking we couldn’t even get pregnant.” With a deep breath she rose, crossed to the mantel, and reached for a framed photo tucked behind the others. “We spent more than thirty years together, but this is what Alf truly loved.”

She shoved the framed photo into my hands. It was an old one, showing a younger, slimmer Alf standing under the green awning of his restaurant: Alfred’s. Beneath the name, in much smaller print were the words Steaks, Chops, Fine Wine.

“It was a traditional New York-style steakhouse bordering the La Tourette Golf Course. He borrowed and borrowed and mortgaged this house to open that restaurant. For a lot of years, it was a success. People came because they loved Alf. It was like a party every night—folks around here still tell me they miss it. Not that they did much to help keep him in business...” She fell silent.

“What happened?” I asked. “To Alf’s restaurant, I mean.”

Shelly Glockner took back the picture and stared at it. “The recession. The entire New York financial sector taking it in the neck. That and Alf’s drinking, which got worse and worse as his business declined. Of course, it didn’t help that he hadn’t changed the menu or that dark, imposing decor in fifteen years. Tastes change, and that dump was so old-school! I told him so. Many times. Then Alf finally decided I might be right. He remodeled twice, changed the menu, offered deals, advertised. Nothing helped.”

She set the picture behind the others and faced me. “Stu pidly, I let him continue the farce. Really stupid because we hadn’t saved much over the years.”

“Why not?”

She waved her hand. “Vacations, spas, a pleasure boat, remodeling the house, the hot tub and sauna in the back—”

Plastic surgery for you, I silently added.

“We never expected the Manhattan financial sector to collapse, for heaven’s sake! That it would take down dozens of restaurants all over the city! Anyway, Alf refused to close, tried to keep his place afloat by burning through the small nest egg we did have—which was my hard-earned money as well as his. But then his whole identity was wrapped up in that business.”

“What do you mean his whole identity? He was a husband, a father—”

“Oh, please. That was never enough. Alf couldn’t imagine doing anything but being a restaurateur. When he lost his place, he just”—she shrugged—“lost himself.”

Just then, the phone rang. “Excuse me.” She took the call, standing and staring into space. Then she barked into the receiver. “No! I told both parties that already. If Mr. Ma houd wants to back out, that’s fine. But we keep the deposit. I haven’t had a commission in six months, so I’m not playing here. You just warn him that I’ll see him in court!”

She hung up and faced me again. “Are we done? I have a session with my personal trainer in twenty.”

“Just a few more questions. What happened after Alf spent your nest egg on the restaurant?”

Mrs. Glockner exhaled with obvious impatience. “Alf wanted to take a second mortgage on our home, that’s what happened. We’d just paid off this house after twenty-five years. I wasn’t going to sit still for that, so I put my foot down and refused to allow it. Banks wouldn’t help him, so Alf took out that ridiculous loan from our neighbor.”

“Ridiculous? Why?”

“Because I knew the restaurant was dead by then, that’s why! I knew we could never pay Omar Linford back—not without selling this house! Alf was deluding himself, Ms. Cosi. He was a failure and a drunk, and only digging himself in deeper with that loan. That’s when I knew it was time to move on. So I had my lawyers draw up papers and I asked a judge for a separation.”

I frowned, wondering how I might have fared with a marital partner like Shelly Glockner. Maybe it wasn’t very nice of me to judge the woman, since I hadn’t walked a mile in her cross-trainers. But I was a first wife, too. A bad marriage with an addict could hard-boil any woman’s heart, but it appeared to me, after all those years together— not to mention Alf being a father to their daughter—that Mrs. Glockner was suspiciously unaffected by her husband’s murder.

Once again, I began to wonder about that blackmail letter...

“I just had lunch with Omar Linford, Mrs. Glockner. Are you aware Mr. Linford is alleging that Alf tried to blackmail him?”

“That’s preposterous.”

“I heard the whole story from Mr. Linford himself.”

“And you believe that pirate?”

“Mr. Linford claims he has proof. In fact—” I checked my watch. “I’m headed over there right now to pick up the note and turn it over to the NYPD, where it will be analyzed. With forensic science today, they can determine if the letter was really sent by Alf—fingerprints, fibers, DNA. It’s amazing what they can do.”

Frankly, I didn’t know what the police could accomplish, but I wanted to shake Mrs. Glockner’s brittle little tree, see what might come loose.

It worked. The second I mentioned the NYPD, her face flashed redder than Rudolph’s nose.

“Why are you doing this?!” she demanded.

“I told you, your daughter asked me to find out—”

“It’s Christmas, for heaven’s sake!” She stomped her running shoe. “Why don’t you just mind your own damn business and let Alf rest in peace!”

I locked eyes with the irate woman. “Don’t you have something you want to tell me, Mrs. Glockner? Something that might help the police solve Alf’s murder?”

That did it. Her face went from berry red to almost snow-white. She went quiet and her voice turned low and calm: “You have to leave now.”

“Mrs. Glockner—”

“I have a busy day ahead of me.”

Yeah, with your personal trainer. Then there’s that highly lucrative moment when you sign off on the insurance policy and cash in on your husband’s murder.

I rose. “If you change your mind about talking to me, you can reach me in the city at the Village Blend. Thank you for your time, Mrs.—”

The door slammed behind me, sending the tiny holiday wreath tumbling to the ground.

With a deep breath of wintry air, I retraced my pointy footprints across the snow-covered yard, back to Linford’s sunporch. I was hoping that I hadn’t been missed, but it didn’t work out that way. Approaching the solarium, I paused when I heard angry voices. Peeking around a manicured bush, I spied Omar Linford and young Dwayne arguing in the room that Esther and I had vacated.

“. . . and I’m not going to stop! I told you already!” Dwayne shouted.

“You have to listen to me, son,” the older Linford calmly replied. “This is your life I’m talking about. Your whole life. You’re gambling with your own future—”

“I told you, Dad. I told you all weekend. I’m going to do this my way!” Dwayne shouted, and then he bolted from the room.

“Don’t be a fool!” Linford shouted after his son, then shook his head and sat down heavily in the solarium.

Better not go in that way, I decided, or he’ll know I was eavesdropping.

I turned, moved around the house, and headed for the front entrance instead. Barely a moment after I pressed the bell, the double doors jerked open. Frowning down at me was a big-boned, Caucasian woman with strawberry-blond hair and a line of freckles across her patrician nose.

What’s with all these amazons on Staten Island? Must be something in the water!

“Ms. Cosi?” the woman asked with a slight British accent.

“Yes.”