I laughed. "Speaking of gelt-you should try our Apricot-Cinnamon Rugelach and Raspberry Jelly Doughnut lattes."

"For Chanukah!" She hooted. "Wonderful!"

"Esther's idea." I smiled, but then glanced at the line again, a little worriedly.

"Come now, Clare, you don't have to entertain me when the shop's this busy. Ask me your question and get on with your day."

I leaned closer. "I need to know if you know a man named Omar Linford."

Madame paused a moment, thinking it over, and frowned. "Now that's a name that does not not ring a bell for me." ring a bell for me."

"Too bad. I'm out of leads and Alf's daughter's theory is actually starting to make sense."

"How so?"

"Alf Glockner was a warm, generous, thoughtful humanitarian. The only way I could see him turning to burglary was if he was pressured or threatened into it. He owed this man Linford a great deal of money. Alf may have turned to crime to get it, but if he had, he obviously wasn't paying Linford fast enough and the man decided to make an example of him instead."

"Have police questioned this man?"

"Yes, but they say he has no criminal record and they don't see him as a viable suspect for what appears to be a random street crime, especially now, when street crime is on the rise."

"Could the police be right, Clare? Perhaps Alf was going to burglarize this nice man James Young, but he had second thoughts and then he himself was mugged and killed-a terrible irony."

"Yes, it could be that simple. But Vicki Glockner herself claims it isn't-"

And although I didn't mention it to Madame, I still had my suspicions about the lead detective in the case. "Generalissimo" Franco's own partner practically called him a vigilante, and his hostile treatment of me, for butting into the investigation, not to mention his oddly intense statement about not "seeing evil" in me left me wondering. The night of Alf's murder, Franco had told me he'd just come on duty. Could he have shot Alf himself in some twisted form of street justice? Or was Franco somehow involved in covering up the real truth about Alf's murder? He wouldn't be the first corrupt cop to take a bribe for looking the other way, especially when it involved the shooting of a man he judged to be a criminal himself.

"I have to talk to Linford," I finally told Madame, "see what I can find out. Even a denial can be telling if the man's not a good liar."

"You'll need a partner for that, too, dear."

"I have to get a handle on this guy first. I know where he lives-next door to Vicki Glockner-but Vicki wasn't very helpful about his background. I need to know more about him, his business, his associates. I need to know how to question him."

Just then, a wiry young man with spiked blond hair and a pale complexion approached our table. He wore baggy jeans, motorcycle boots, and a shiny, outer-boroughs black leather blazer. The young man nodded politely, then struck a slouching hip-hop pose.

"Clare Cosi, Clare Cosi; you're a fresh Village posy; now release my czarina; so with me she can mosey!"

Madame's eyes widened. She glanced at me and addressed the rapper: "And who is your czarina, young man?"

"The Best girl, in the West, girl! That That sweet-booty babe-with-the-chest girl!" The young man lifted his closed fist, shook his pinkie and index finger free, and pointed both toward the espresso bar. sweet-booty babe-with-the-chest girl!" The young man lifted his closed fist, shook his pinkie and index finger free, and pointed both toward the espresso bar.

"Esther?" Madame glanced at me, just to make sure.

"This is Boris Bokunin," I said. "He's a Russian emigre, slam poet, and urban rapper." He was also a hardworking assistant baker in Brighton Beach, but I knew he preferred the other identifiers. "Did I get it right, Boris?"

Boris gave a little bow. "BB Gunn. That's my hip-hop handle! Just ask me ladies and-" He clapped his hands and pointed at us. "I'll light your candles!"

Madame glanced at me, her laugh lines crinkling. "He reminds me of the beats!"

Boris's eyes widened. "You need someone beat down?"

"She means beat poetry beat poetry, Boris," I said. "But that's a whole other century." I rose from my chair. "Tell Esther I'll relieve her in a minute."

BB grinned at that, saluted me, bowed to Madame, then spun on his motorcycle boots and headed for the counter.

Madame touched my arm. "Do keep me informed of the developments on catching Alf's killer. I'd like to help if I can."

I patted her hand. "Have a good trip to Vermont with Otto. The bed-and-breakfast sounds amazing. Your beau certainly knows how to keep the romance in the holiday season."

"Mistletoe and music, my dear." She winked. "Candy canes by candlelight."

I nodded, ignoring a surge of mixed feelings. With Joy away and Mike trying to crack a cold case, this Christmas wasn't going to be a very merry one for me. On a quiet sigh, I bent down and gave Madame a good-bye hug.

I could only hope my daughter was finding the same sort of happiness in Paris that her grandmother was enjoying in New York. Despite the theme of today's Chatsworth Way Chatsworth Way, it appeared the holiday season really could be the most romantic time of the year for some women. I simply wasn't one of them.

EIGHTEEN.

A FEW days after wishing Madame a good trip, I was on my way to Staten Island to have lunch with Omar Linford. I even brought backup. With Madame still away on her long romantic weekend, I tapped my old partner in anticrime, Esther Best.

We finished our morning shifts together and she agreed to do the driving-mainly because I didn't want to burden her with balancing my struffoli struffoli on her lap all the way to Lighthouse Hill. on her lap all the way to Lighthouse Hill.

According to Dexter Beatty, bringing a home-baked gift was a sign of affection. A black cake would have been a better choice, given Linford's Jamaican roots, but I didn't have three weeks to macerate fruit in Manischewitz or travel to Brooklyn and back for a jar of authentic West Indian burnt sugar.

Instead, I made the famous little "Italian Christmas tree" pastry that I'd loved as a child, hoping it would start us out on the right foot (as long as I could prevent the whole thing from ending up on the dashboard, that is).

Esther had been doing fine in the bumper-to-bumper traffic across the Brooklyn Bridge, but now that we'd hit 278, she was tearing down the highway like a Goth out of hell.

"Esther, slow down! We've only gone from Lower Manhattan to Brooklyn Heights. Not to Monaco's Grand Prix!"

"Sorry," she replied, easing up on the pedal. "It's just that this part of the drive is seriously tedious . . ."

As its name suggested, Staten Island was in fact an island, connected to the borough of Brooklyn via the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Commuters without cars took the famous Staten Island Ferry.

"It would have been much easier to take the ferry from Battery Park," Esther pointed out.

It would have, except she knew as well as I did that cars had been banned from the ferry since the 9/11 attack.

"We have no choice. We have to go through Brooklyn."

Esther sighed and hit the gas again. "So, boss. You never told me how you managed to wrangle this invitation."

"It was Dexter's doing," I explained as we zipped along the highway. "I did a little snooping and found out he knew Linford."

"Oh, I see. No big deal, then."

Actually it was a big deal.

I'd started my research on Saturday morning. After typing Linford's name into a couple of Internet search engines, I learned he'd founded and managed a hedge fund called Linvantage. The fund was based in Antigua and had its prospectus posted online. It appeared to be very profitable, and I noticed the minimum investment was high enough to keep the client list exclusive.

Further research uncovered Linford's name on the roster of half a dozen import/export companies, all of them based in the Caribbean.

Of course, when I thought of the Caribbean, I always thought of Matt's friend Dexter-an absolute pillar of the Brooklyn Caribbean community. Any bigwigs from the Islands in the New York area probably made themselves known to Dex at one time or another to purchase authentic West Indian products for a party, family gathering, or traditional celebration.

So I called Dexter that afternoon to ask if the name Omar Linford rang any bells. Strangely, Dex claimed he'd never heard of the man, politely excused himself, and got off the phone. At first I believed him, but that night my research revealed that Linford owned a tiny Jamaica-based specialty food importer called Blue Sunshine.

Back in 2000, shortly after the U.S. Food and Drug Administration lifted its ban on a potentially toxic Jamaican fruit called ackee ackee, I remembered Dexter boasting that he had "a big-up big-up import guy" who sold canned ackee for seventy-five dollars a case. import guy" who sold canned ackee for seventy-five dollars a case.

At such a low wholesale price, Dex was able to peddle the Jamaican staple in his Brooklyn stores for six or seven dollars a can-about half the going rate everywhere else in the United States. Price points like that made Dexter's Taste of the Caribbean stores very popular, especially around Christmas when the price of ackee almost always rose because of increased demand.

"I'm not sellin' that hinky stuff, no neither," Dex had insisted. "Gettin' me the top brands for my customers. Nineteen-ounce tins of Island Sun."

On its Web site, the Blue Sunshine company boasted that it had the lowest wholesale price for Island Sun brand Jamaican ackee on the East Coast. I put two and two together (old-school math this time) and made a pest of myself by phoning Dexter a second time.

"I really put the pressure on during the second call," I continued explaining to Esther. "And Dex finally admitted that he has a 'confidential business relationship' with Omar Linford. Not just the man's Blue Sunshine company, but Omar himself."

"That sounds kind of fishy," she said, arching an eyebrow. "What kind of relationship?"

"Not the kind Vicki Glockner was thinking about. I'm pretty sure Linford isn't supplying marijuana for Dex to sell out of his stores."

"Pretty sure?" sure?"

Esther was right. I wasn't all that sure about anything when it came to Linford's business interests. Even after I'd confronted Dex with circumstantial evidence that he'd been doing business with Linford's company for years, he still refused to come completely clean about the extent of his relationship with the importer.

And while all of Linford's business activities seemed legitimate, so what? If anybody knew how legitimate businesses could operate in a way to mask illegal activity, it was the daughter of the local sports bookie.

In the middle of my second call to Dexter, I remembered how he'd shown up at the Blend-abruptly and unexpectedly-the very same night that Vickie Glockner came to ask for my help in solving her father's murder. Again, my mind started working and I asked Dexter point-blank if he'd been spying spying for Omar Linford, too. 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 struffoli upright, but barely. 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 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. 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-" 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 V of my buttoned-up blazer. of my buttoned-up blazer.

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