seen no sign of Linford’s personal secretary, “Mac” MacKenzie, or the blackmail letter he’d promised to hand over to me.
“Sorry, boss, but we’ve got to roll,” Esther said, rising. “My final exam is in one hour. I own this test, but I’ve got to show up to pass it!”
This was the moment I’d dreaded. I knew Esther had to get back to Manhattan, and I even began to wonder if this whole “misplaced letter” wasn’t a ploy to discourage us, force us to leave without the note—something I was not about to do.
On the other hand, my best barista didn’t deserve to fail an academic test over this.
“Take my car and go,” I told Esther. “I’m going to stay and wait for Linford’s secretary to show.”
“How will you get back?”
“Easy. I’ll call a car service to take me down to the ferry.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not leaving here without that letter, if there even is a letter.”
Esther nodded and I called the maid to bring her coat, explaining she had to go but I was staying. As we waited, Esther noticed something going on at the house next door.
“I think that’s Vicki’s mother,” she said, pointing.
A tall, slightly heavy woman with short blond hair, wearing workout gear, running shoes, and a pink headband, was moving down the tiled walkway that bisected the expansive yard. She stooped down, picked up a Wall Street Journal that had been badly tossed onto the snow-covered lawn, and shook it free of snow. With her newspaper retrieved, she rose and stepped back into the house.
“That’s definitely Shelly Glockner,” Esther said. “I met her last year at Vicki’s birthday party.”
I nodded with interest. This was too good an opportunity to pass up. I mean, I’d come all the way from the West Village to Lighthouse Hill; I might as well shake another well-trimmed tree for information.
“Come on,” I whispered after the maid retrieved Esther’s coat. “I want to talk to that woman.”
The sunporch had a door that led to a wraparound cedar deck. A few steps down and I was on the lawn at the side of the sprawling house and already shivering. Away from the crackling fire, sans coat, I really felt the December chill!
“My car’s close to an antique,” I warned Esther. “Make sure you warm up the engine for at least five minutes before you drive away, or you might stall out.”
“I got it, boss. But I still feel rotten leaving you like this—”
“Go!” I gently pushed her. “Take your test. I’ll be back at the Blend in a few hours.”
With a reluctant nod, Esther headed toward the curb where she’d parked my Honda. I cut across the snow-covered yard, leaving little pointy-toed prints on the field of pristine white. Then I carefully stepped over a low row of leafless bushes that separated Linford’s elegant residence from the Glockners’ more modest home.
Of course, the word modest could only be used in comparison. The Glockner house—a split-level brick ranch with a double garage and what appeared to be a built-in pool, freestanding sauna, and glass-enclosed hot tub in back—was quite grand by New York City standards. In this neighborhood, the place could easily command a cool million or more, even in these overleveraged times.
A few moments later, I arrived at Mrs. Glockner’s front door (a single door this time), with a small wreath hanging there the only concession to the season.
I rang the doorbell, waited a polite ten count, then rang again. The curtain on the bay window stirred.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” a woman’s voice called.
I guessed that Mrs. Glockner was making herself presentable. But much more than a minute passed before the door opened. Freezing on her stoop, I counted the seconds.
When Mrs. Glockner finally answered, she was oddly still wearing the same sweats, and her short-cropped yellow hair was still banded by the pink elastic. So what had she been doing all that time?
“Hi,” she said.
“Mrs. Glockner? My name is Clare Cosi. And—”
“Come on in,” she interrupted, giving my hand a strong, no-nonsense shake. “Call me Shelly.”
Good, I thought with relief, at least she’s not going to give me indigestion.
She was a foot taller than me and a bit heavier, but Shelly Glockner’s size didn’t affect her carriage. As she led me inside, she walked with the proud, confident grace of a principal dancer.
Alf had mentioned that his wife was around his age (mid-fifties), but she looked much younger with high, sculpted cheekbones, and—like her pretty daughter—a generous mouth and dimples