On What Grounds (Coffeehouse Mysteries, No. 1) (A Coffeehouse Mystery) by Cleo Coyle Page B

whom she puzzled about on a fairly regular basis. From what I overheard in her conversations with poor Tucker, she was “totally perplexed” as to why the few boys who asked her out were so “hostile” after only an hour or two with her.
    I greeted Esther. She nodded, and then she glanced back to the window, offering one of her characteristic observations—
    “I thought she was supposed to be graceful.”
    Gee, how charitable, I thought with a sigh. “Anabelle is graceful, Esther. She’s a dancer.”
    “I know she’s a dancer. Everyone does. My god, it’s the first thing that comes out of her mouth in case you haven’t noticed—especially with men—‘I’m a dancer!’ But geez, Clare, I don’t call slipping down a flight of stairs and ending up here graceful. I’d call it stupendously klutzy.”
    You know that old saying, If you’ve got nothing nice to say—then slide over here and sit next to me. Well, Esther was definitely comfortable on both sides of that couch.
    “Who’s to say she slipped?” I asked Esther.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “I mean, she may have been pushed,” I said, watching Esther closely for a reaction. “I think somebody pushed her.”
    Esther’s eyes narrowed. “Like who?”
    Okay, so the truth is the New York Police Department’s Crime Scene Unit hadn’t uncovered a darned thing to support my “pushing” theory. The only “physical evidence” they found was that JFK luggage tag from the back alley, which to my chagrin, Quinn handed over for the Crime Scene folks to file (even after Matteo identified it as coming from his luggage) along with Anabelle’s jacket and purse.
    For a grand total of about thirty minutes, they’d inspected the overflowing garbage can above the staircase, as well as every other potentially clue-filled surface. They found the smudged fingerprints of over a dozen people. Clearly, there was no way to get any leads from prints—unless someone who worked at the Blend had figured their prints would prove nothing.
    I cleared my throat and raised an eyebrow to Esther, trying to look shrewd. “I don’t know who pushed Anabelle. But I’m going to find out.”
    Esther rolled her eyes.
    “By the way,” I said, “where were you last night?”
    “At the Words on Eighth poetry reading, why?”
    “Then where to?”
    “Sheridan Square Diner with some friends. Then back to the apartment. Alone.”
    “And when was the last time you saw Anabelle?”
    “What are you? Working for the NYPD now? Those cops already asked me that stuff.”
    “Just answer me.”
    “I last saw her before I left for the poetry reading. She said she was going to the Blend for an eight-to-midnight shift.”
    “And?”
    “And what?”
    “Anything else you can remember? Did she mention seeing anyone?”
    “Like I told the cops. No, nyet, nada , zippo!”
    I sighed, out of questions already, and made a mental note to speak to Lieutenant Quinn about interrogating suspects. Maybe he could give me some pointers.
    I looked through the ICU observation window at Anabelle again. The blond woman moved around the bed to talk to the nurse, and I got the first good look at her face.
    She was distraught, that was clear. And the lines, creases, and shadows confirmed she was a lot older than her youthfully slender body appeared, probably late forties. The hair that fell just past her shoulders was blond but the roots were dark, and she’d pulled it into a tasteful ponytail. The skin was too tan for a New York autumn and her clothes—tight black designer slacks and a white silk blouse—appeared tailored to fit her perfectly.
    “Who’s that woman?” I asked.
    “Anabelle’s stepmother.”
    “Her stepmother? I didn’t know she was in the New York City area. Anabelle’s employment forms say her next of kin is in—”
    “Florida, I know,” said Esther.
    “So what’s with the stepmother?”
    “She came by the apartment a few days ago. Anabelle didn’t look too happy