Dark Roasted to Death

by Nikolett Strachan

  “So, what do you want to know?” he slurred as he settled deeper into the chair.

  “We just want to know if you saw anything suspicious,” I said.

  He took a long draw on his beer bottle. “I don’t remember much, to be honest. It was a hectic day, and I was having a hard time rememberin’ how to make all those fancy lattes,” he said.

  “You did a great job,” Dylan said.

  Jake grunted at his boss, which I’m sure was his way of saying “thanks.”

  “I remember you were all paranoid about Lockwood’s coffee ‘cause of the allergy,” Jake said, pointing at Dylan. “You were all paranoid that no peanut traces got in there. You were goin’ on about how allergic he was.”

  “Right,” Dylan said. “Do you think anyone could have tampered with it?”

  Jake gave a small, stiff shrug. “Could be. It was chaos in there. I was just tryin’ to survive the day.” He coughed out a chuckle. “I remember when that cafe was an old bakery. Owned by Mister Murray.” He sighed with nostalgia and his eyes sparkled at the memory. “Those were good days.”

  “Do you know anyone who would want to hurt Brian Lockwood?” I asked before he went on rambling into a story about the good ol’ days.

  “Oh sure,” he said.

  My ears perked up. “Really? Why?”

  “Well the man was buying up property like it was going out of style. I guess he had plans that rubbed some people the wrong way.”

  “Really? What kind of property?” I asked.

  “Well, the ol’ theater for one,” he said.

  I already knew about the theater. I did the story two years ago about him buying it and hoping to renovate, which he did. The new theater was due to open soon. “What other property was he buying?” I asked.

  “Look, I don’t know, okay? The man also liked to gamble. If you think someone killed him, maybe ask your grandma and her little poker ring. Honestly, I don’t think anyone in Aurora Heights would kill anyone. Intentionally, at least.”

  Dylan swallowed hard, then straightened in his seat. “I just don’t think I was that careless.”

  “It happens. When I first started in the construction business, I made a big ol’ mess of things before I knew what I was doing,” Jake said. Again, he coughed out more chuckles and his glassy eyes looked far away, as if he was taking another trip down memory lane.

  Dylan’s face fell with sadness and hurt. I hated seeing him like this, so I stood up to leave before Jake started rambling about the good ‘ol days. “Thanks for answering our questions, but it’s getting late. We should really get going,” I said.

  “Alright, then. Enjoy yer night,” he said. He took another long swig of his beer but didn’t get up, so Dylan and I saw ourselves out.

  “That was interested,” I said when we made our way back to the car.

  “Was it? Because I felt like he basically said I did it,” Dylan huffed. He still felt guilty about Mayor Lockwood dying, so I let it slide.

  “He also said he’s been buying up property in Aurora Heights, which I didn’t know about. And my grandma said that he had gambling debts.”

  “Do you think the two are connected?”

  “I don’t know. Say, how are you at playing poker?”

  Chapter 7

  I awoke to bright beams of sunlight streaming through the cracks of the partly closed blinds. With a groan, I rolled over and checked the alarm clock on my bedside table. Seven-thirty. I slept in. I pulled myself up and rubbed at my dry, puffy eyes. The world was a blur until I blinked a few times. When everything became clear(ish), I shuffled to the bathroom. A cold shower helped to jolt my tired body awake.

  I spent the night tossing and turning. The last time I glanced at my clock, the time read four thirty. I was too busy mulling over what I was doing to sleep. I was beginning to think more and more that a murder had taken place right under the noses of everyone at the Cozy Cat Cafe. Being confronted with that reality had finally hit me—and shook me to the core.

  My mind raced all night as I thought about who could have done it. Who could have hated the mayor enough to want to kill him? I went through all the residents that I knew were close to the mayor and came up short. As far as I knew, Brian Lockwood was beloved by everyone. He showed up at church every Sunday. He always donated to whatever charity fundraiser was going on in the community. He listened to people’s concerns. He had won every election he ran in.

  The last election, he was opposed only by Esther Sawyer, Dylan’s grandmother and deputy mayor. The woman was stern and orderly, a contrast to Lockwood’s fun, happy-go-lucky attitude. But I couldn’t picture her killing over a lost mayoral race. There’s always a few who live to complain about petty small-town politics, but everyone mostly approved of Brian Lockwood.

  After showering, I dressed for the day and went downstairs to drink lukewarm coffee. “Morning, sleepyhead,” Grandma Gertie teased from the kitchen table. She wore her blue track suit with a matching headband around her head. She sat sipping coffee and reading the morning paper.

  “Hey Grandma,” I groaned as I poured myself a cup of coffee. I took a generous gulp, feeling the bitter of the black coffee work through my system.

  “Boy, you’re a sight for sore eyes. I thought you’d be excited for your big front-page article today,” she said.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” I admitted.

  “Too excited, huh?” She handed me the front page of the Aurora Heights Chronicle with a smile. I took it from her and glanced across the page. There, in large bold letters read Aurora Heights Mayor Dead at 54. Bob’s headlines never left anything to the imagination. Such is journalism, I suppose.

  Beneath the letters was the picture of Mayor Lockwood, hands in the air, smiling as he greeted everyone at the Cozy Cat Cafe. The picture that I had taken with my phone. The last picture of him alive. Beneath that was my byline. Lainey Boggins. It was bittersweet.

  “I just wish a different article would’ve made the front page,” I said, handing the paper back to my grandmother.

  “I know. It’s so sad,” she said.

  “But you’ll set it aside for my portfolio, right?” A front-page story is a front-page story after all.

  She gave me a gentle smile. “Of course.”

  After a quick bite of toast, I pulled on my shoes and decided to walk to work. The morning air was crisp and clean and just a little bit cool. It would be a perfect spring day today and I needed the walk to energize me.

  I would be a few minutes late, but on a Friday, no one would notice. Unless there was urgent breaking news—and in Aurora Heights, even crime took off early—Friday was a day to bum around the office, read the paper and leave before lunchtime. People showed up more out of formality than to do any actual work. I used Fridays as a day to get a head start on my pitches for Monday’s staff meeting. I liked to be prepared. Today, I wasn’t sure if I was in the mood for it, though.

  My walk took me by the Cozy Cat Cafe. The cardboard on the front window was so out of place among the neat and tidy storefronts on Main. It reminded me of an eyepatch. The sign on the door said it was open, but the place was empty. I glanced briefly through the window, but I didn’t see Dylan or Jake. A small, gray ball of fluff suddenly appeared on the ledge of the window. Two large eyes blinked up at me as a small paw pressed against the glass. Fur Ball gave me a muffled meow. I pressed on the glass against his paw and smiled at the cat briefly before being on my way. I wasn’t sure how far my pocket change for coffee would go in supporting his business, but I would have to come back later and try.

  I rounded the corner onto Kensington Street where the Aurora Heights Chronicle office was. The hustle and bustle of yesterday had mellowed to a lazy Friday morning. Marie, the receptionist waved a lazy wave in my direction, then perked up when she realized it was me. “Congratulations on the front-page story Lainey,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said as I waved back.

  I made my way through the double doors past reception
to the newsroom floor. Since the Chronicle was a small paper, every department (except the actual press) was housed together on the same floor, separated only by cubicles. The sales department was on one side of the room along with the advertisement and layout designers while the reporters and editors huddled together in the other quarter of the room. Bob, being the editor-in-chief, was the only one who had his own office.

  “Good job on that Lockwood story,” Tom, the sports reporter said as I made my way to my desk.

  “Thanks, Tom,” I said.

  “Lainey. Your name looks pretty good on the front page,” a voice said behind me. It was Liam, our editorial assistant. Fresh out of journalism school, he was a skinny twenty-something with blue eyes still full of hopes and dreams. He was always in a good mood. Normally, I liked his company, but today I didn’t want to hear his jokes.

  “Someone died so I could have my name on the front page,” I said, gravely.

  I watched his smile fade into a solemn frown. “Yeah. It sucks. Lockwood was pretty cool,” he agreed.

  “It happened so suddenly too,” I said.

  “So, is Esther Sawyer the mayor now? I mean, that’s how it works in politics, right?” He asked.

  “Yes. I suppose she is.”

  “Yikes. I swear that woman could freeze water with one look,” he said and went back to his desk to pretend to work.

  The day was a long and slow one. I tried to keep my mind busy on work, but kept getting distracted by coworkers congratulating me every few minutes. In the end, I left early along with everyone else. A candlelight vigil was scheduled for the mayor in Aurora Park later in the evening. The whole town would be there and I convinced Bob to let me cover it. The death of Mayor Brian Lockwood was officially my beat. The pang of guilt returned. Great for my career, but awful for the town.

  When evening had finally fallen, Grandma Gertie and I walked over to Aurora Park. A sea of bright, warm lights floated around the park and gathered at the gazebo in the middle of the park where a podium was set up. Deputy Mayor Esther Sawyer said a few words about Brian Lockwood, but the ice seemed to drip from her words as she spoke them. A tall, thin woman with a short, gray bob haircut and always in a pants suit, she had the distinct look of a vulture as she scoured the audience. Someone sat behind her—a woman I hadn’t seen before and I wondered who she was.

  “Lainey,” I heard a voice whisper behind me. I turned to find Dylan Sawyer looking solemn, his handsome face warmly illuminated by the glow of the white candle he was holding. “Am I ever glad to see you.”

  “Hey Dylan,” I said. Despite the cool night air, I suddenly felt very flush.

  “I shouldn’t have come. Everyone is staring at me,” he whispered.

  “Don’t be silly,” I whispered back. I did notice a few shrewd glances our way from the others, even a few pointing and whispering, but I wasn’t about to confirm Dylan’s suspicions. He felt bad enough already.

  Esther Sawyer finished her speech and introduced the woman who had been sitting behind her. She was tall with long, golden hair and a smooth, porcelain complexion. Even though she wore simple black trousers and a plain black sweater, they elegantly hung from her slim build. She had the same smiling, blue eyes that Mayor Lockwood had. “Please welcome Brian Lockwood’s niece miss April Lockwood,” Esther Sawyer announced as the woman made her way to the podium.

  “Hello and thank you everyone for the warm welcome,” she said. Her voice was smooth and level as she spoke. Public speaking must run in the family because she looked more than comfortable in front of a crowd. She told stories of her uncle from when she was a little girl, then stories of him moving to Aurora Heights and falling in love with the community. “He had nothing but the utmost regard for all of its residents,” she said. A collective nod of approval rippled through the crowd.

  Finally, the crowd cheered as she made her way down from the gazebo and began shaking hands with those offering their condolences. I pulled out my notebook, checked my phone’s camera and waited patiently for my turn to talk to her.

  “What are you doing?” Dylan asked with a horrified look on his face.

  “I’m covering the vigil for the paper. I have to talk to her,” I said.

  “Are you going to mention the… you know… possible murder?”

  “No. I don’t think we should worry her. Yet.”

  “Good plan,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Do you think I should say something? I mean, he did die at my cafe.”

  “Sure. How about ‘hi, I’m Dylan. I’m the one who killed your uncle’” I teased.

  “Not funny, Lainey.”

  “You’re right. Sorry.”

  Finally, it was my turn to speak with April. My stomach dropped as I approached her. She was even more beautiful up close, and I suddenly had flashbacks of me trying to befriend the cheerleaders at school. “I’m Lainey Boggins from The Chronicle—” I began my usual journalist spiel.

  “Lainey Boggins? You’re the one who wrote that article in today’s paper,” she said. Her voice was soft, but cheery like a breath of fresh, spring air.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “You took that picture of him at the cafe, too?”

  “Yes. I did,” I said.

  “It’s such a lovely picture. I would love to get a copy of it. As a final reminder?” She handed me a business card from her small, black purse. I knew that brand of handbags. They cost more than I made in a year. I took the card. April Lockwood. Attorney at Law in neat, gold lettering on heavy, cream paper was printed in the center. Even her business card was elegant.

  “Of course. I’ll send it right away,” I said. I asked her a few generic questions about her uncle and the vigil. I made sure to keep it light. Bob was wrong. I had all the tact in the world when I put my mind to it.

  “Hi, I’m Dylan. Dylan Sawyer,” Dylan said as he slinked out from behind me. “I own the Cozy Cat Cafe. Where your uncle…”

  “Right. Of course. Thank you for coming,” April said. She gave him a sweet, demure smile, and I watched Dylan’s face relax into his movie star gaze. Something passed between them as I watched them shake hands for just a little too long.

  “I just wanted to say how sorry I am and how awful I feel about—”

  “Please,” April cut him off with an elegant wave of the hand that I found incredibly irritating. “He should have had his Epi pen with him. You are not to blame.”

  “Thanks,” Dylan said while turning a million shades of pink. Was he flirting?

  “And I love the cafe. I hope you get your window fixed soon,” she said.

  “You’ve been to the cafe?”

  “Yes. I was there on opening day, actually. I watched him…” Her voice trailed off, avoiding the obvious.

  “You were?” It was my turn to speak. “I didn’t know Mayor Lockwood had family in town.”

  “I’ve only been in Aurora Heights for a few days. I came to help my uncle with his finances and setting up his will,” she said.

  Interesting. Was she the beneficiary of his estate? I can’t just ask someone outright, can I? I need to be tactful about this.

  “So, I’m guessing you’ll be taking care of all his… stuff?” Okay, not so tactful.

  “Yes, actually.” She was giving me that stink eye people give journalists when they’re asking too many questions, so I dropped it.

  “Okay. Thanks for your time.” I turned and walked away, expecting Dylan to follow. He didn’t. I heard his laugh mix with April’s as I walked through the crowd to find my grandmother.

  Chapter 8

  The poker club wasn’t content on gambling only one night a week. Poker nights were every Wednesday and Sunday night and Grandma Gertie never missed a day. They were usually held Wednesdays at Mrs. Chapley’s little bed and breakfast, The Mount Inn, where they could spread themselves out in the little common areas. Sunday nights were usually at the bookstore that Mrs. Cruikshank owned, The Crooked Book. It was more of a chance to gather and gossip
about each other than to seriously gamble, which made it the perfect place to do some amateur sleuthing.

  I avoided poker nights out of principal. Besides, they always joked that they shouldn’t say too much around me unless they wanted it printed in the paper. I can’t say they were wrong.

  “Don’t worry about those old crows,” Grandma said. She was busy piling freshly baked cookies onto a plate for the meeting. “They’re just teasing you. I’m so happy you’re coming tonight. It’s not exactly a social gathering for the young ones, but I’m glad you’re finally getting out of this house.”

  “I won’t be totally alone. Dylan Sawyer is coming too. He’s meeting us there.”

  “Really?” She said with a sly smile creeping up on her face. “He’s a nice boy. So handsome, too. I’m glad you’re finally putting yourself out there. You’re much too young to be all alone.”

  “Oh, it’s not like that. We’re just… friends,” I said. I hadn’t told her about our little investigation into Mayor Lockwood possibly being murdered. My grandmother was always supportive of me, but I wasn’t sure how she would react to my detective work. I didn’t want to worry her, so I left the details out.

  “You two certainly looked comfortable around each other at the vigil on Friday night,” she said. The sly smile hadn’t left her face, and I felt myself blush.

  “Like I said, we’re just friends. For now.” I tried to hold back a smile, but I couldn’t. Then I remembered the lingering gazes that exchanged between Dylan and April and my stomach dropped. I couldn’t help but think I had serious competition.

  “Well, I’m happy that you have a new friend,” she said.

  She finished plating the cookies, and we were on our way to The Crooked Book. It was a small little shop on Main Street across from the Cozy Cat Cafe and a few shops down. Like the rest of the shops on the street, the bookstore had large windows to display those little things that catch people’s eyes and entice them in. This was Mrs. Cruikshank’s shop, however. She wasn’t a fancy woman and least of all the enticing kind. Her display windows were nothing but a row of small shelves displaying the old classics, which was inviting enough for some people.