Dark Roasted to Death

by Nikolett Strachan

  I could feel my face flush with anger, but I willed it down. I knew that I was on to something, and I wasn’t about to let DeLuca get in my way. He sat there with his stupid smile on that stupid face of his and something in me needed to slap it off right now.

  “You know what’s hilarious?” I asked as I approached his table.

  “More than you playing Sherlock Holmes? I can’t imagine,” He shot back.

  “I can. How about a cop sitting in a donut shop?” His olive complexion tinged a shade of pink. Got him. “It’s a little cliché, even for you. Don’t you think?”

  “Fair enough. At least I’m not going on a wild goose chase.”

  “And how do you know I’m on a wild goose chase?” I shot at him.

  “Come on, Lainey. I’m a detective. I know the difference between small talk and investigating. Just give it up.”

  “No. I’ve got better, more important things to do,” I said, flashing a look at his half-eaten donut on his plate and newspaper sitting beside it. To my horror, he had it open to my article on the bake off.

  “By the way, great piece on the annual bake off,” he said when he noticed me glancing at my work. “It’s riveting. Really.” The sarcasm was unmistakable.

  “Whatever. At least I’m working,” I shot back with more anger in my voice than I intended. Even Allen and the customers stopped what they were doing to look over at us.

  “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m just teasing. Look, I get that you’re bored and need something more interesting to write than who has the best peach cobbler.”

  “It’s Missus Chapley, obviously. It’s always Missus Chapley,” I let out a heavy sigh.

  “Obviously. I swear that woman is some kind of kitchen witch.” A small pause settled as his joke landed between us. I watched the corners of his mouth twitch up and I couldn’t help but give him a smile, too. Damn you face for betraying me.

  I sat down in the empty chair at his table and pulled out the Boston Fudge Bomb from its box. I took a bite and DeLuca picked up the rest of his donut, too. We sat in silence for a few moments, both chewing and revelling in the sweetness. “You have to admit, it’s a little suspicious,” I finally said after my last bite of donut.

  “What? The allergy attack? Not really,” he said, casually waving my words away.

  “Are you kidding me?” My voice came out muffled thanks to the mouthful of donut, but it still made the rest of the shop jump and look at me again. I finished chewing and leaned in closer as I spoke. “I just got back from an interview with Esther Sawyer at city hall. According to Sarah, her assistant, she loves being interim mayor. You know she ran against him in the last election and lost?”

  “So, you think she killed him to be Mayor?” He actually sounded interested instead of condescending, so I had to give him credit.

  “Maybe. But I think it’s deeper than that. Apparently, Lockwood had been buying up property in Aurora Heights with plans to turn the buildings into condos.”

  “So?”

  “So, the Historic Society has been up in arms about it. The last thing they want is a bunch of historic buildings demolished and the town gentrified. And guess who’s the head of the Historic Society?”

  “Esther Sawyer,” he finished my sentence.

  “Then there’s Lockwood’s niece, April. She came here to help change her uncle’s will right before he died. I’m not sure how she fits into all of this yet—”

  “Lainey,” DeLuca interrupted. “That all sounds very… dramatic. And probably very exciting for a small-town reporter like yourself. But all you have is a bunch of coincidences and hearsay. You don’t have any evidence.”

  “But if I could just—”

  “Mayor Lockwood’s death was an accident. Let it go.” His voice was only mildly irritated, but I got the sense that he was trying to do me a favor. “Look, if you don’t believe me, I can take you to someone who will definitely confirm this.”

  “Who?”

  “The medical examiner.”

  Chapter 13

  I begged and pleaded with DeLuca to give me the contact information for the medical examiner. This seemed like a resource a journalist should have, but he wouldn’t hear it. He gave me a spiel about protecting his sources—something I should be well versed in as a reporter, according to him. He insisted on driving me to the police station himself. “So you don’t get into trouble.”

  Reluctantly, I got into his unremarkable car and strapped in. He drove a lot faster than I had anticipated for a cop. “Aren’t you supposed to be a model citizen? You know, being the only detective in the county and all?”

  He glared at me for a moment, then slowed his car down. “You’re right.”

  “I was just teasing,” I said. Still, it was nice to catch a cop doing something wrong, even if it was something as mundane as speeding.

  The station was quieter than I expected a police station to be. Then again, Aurora Heights wasn’t a bustling metropolis. There were rarely any dead bodies for the police to investigate; we consider a cat stuck in a tree a high priority around here.

  He showed me around the station, even introduced me to Trudy, the receptionist. She was a heavyset, middle-aged woman with short, curly, brown hair and kind, brown eyes. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said with a flash of intrigue in her voice. I felt like she was implying something but couldn’t fathom what it would be.

  “Yes, well, come this way,” DeLuca said with a short, awkward cough.

  He led me through a set of double doors and through a bright, white hallway that reminded me of a hospital. He stopped at a door and looked through the small window. “Perfect,” he said and opened the doors without knocking.

  The smell of formaldehyde was overwhelming. It burned my nose and singed my eyes, making them water. “What is this place?” I fought off the scratch that pawed at my throat.

  “Just a place for dead bodies. No big deal,” a woman’s voice casually rang out. “What do you need, DeLuca? I’m on my way out for lunch.” The woman was tall and wafer thin with long, inky black hair spilling down her back, the tips dyed a royal purple. She had a soft, pale complexion which made her skull and snake tattoos down her arms all the more striking. She wore a black tank top and black jeans. She looked like she belonged on stage with a rock band behind her more than a police station. She swiped a glance at me and smiled. “I see you brought me a live one.”

  “This won’t take long,” DeLuca said. “This is my friend, Lainey. She’s a reporter.”

  “Friend is a generous term,” I croaked. The smell was irritating every part of me.

  “I like her already,” the woman said, a smile creeping across her pale face.

  “This is Olivia. She’s the one who ran the toxicology report on Mayor Lockwood. Lainey here is convinced the mayor was murdered by his allergy. I need you to set her straight about it being an accident,” DeLuca said.

  The cold feeling room was a sterile box. A gurney sat in the middle of the white-tiled floor, where I assume many dead bodies had been. A stainless-steel counter ran along one end of the room with various tools, picks, saws. I didn’t know exactly what they were used for, but I was sure it had something to do with cutting people open. I suddenly felt the donuts creeping up my esophagus.

  “Are you sure she should be here? She looks like she’s about to die herself,” Olivia said.

  “I’m fine,” I said. I willed the donuts back into my stomach and gave her a smile I was sure came out as a grimace.

  “All right. Let me see,” she said as she made her way to a stack of gray filing cabinets in the far corner beside a desk. She fished around and pulled out a folder. She shuffled through papers and pulled out what I assumed was a toxicology report. It might as well have been in Greek.

  “What am I looking at?” I asked.

  “These are all the compounds that were in Lockwood’s stomach.” The donuts threatened to evacuate once again. Holding them down took more effort on my part this time. I hoped she di
dn’t pull out any pictures. “Basically, I ran some test on the contents found in his stomach and there were traces of nuts—traces that matched the sample of the coffee he drank. I ran a test to confirm that the man was allergic and yes, he totally was,” she continued. “I’m not sure why he would pick a coffee that was full of nuts. Either way, it was definitely anaphylaxis that killed him because of an allergic reaction.”

  “So, an accident,” DeLuca said, as if the matter was final.

  “No.” I said with renewed determination. “Dylan knew about Mayor Lockwood’s allergy. He said that there might be traces of peanuts in the syrups he uses, so he made the mayor’s coffee himself to make sure it didn’t come in contact with anything that could cause contamination.”

  “Well, it looks like he slipped up. Then again, Lockwood could have already had the peanuts in his system before he got to the cafe. Sometimes, an allergy doesn’t kick in right away. Everyone is different, though.” Olivia said.

  I told her Sarah’s story about the mayor biting into the Peanut Perfection donut. “I don’t think he would have needed to wait for the allergy to kick in. Is it possible that someone could have slipped something into his drink when Dylan wasn’t looking? Like some peanut oil or something? Peanut oil kills, right?” I asked. I wasn’t ready to let Dylan take the blame for this death, accident or no accident.

  “I guess it’s possible.” Olivia shrugged causally, like the death of a mayor was just another Monday for her.

  “Is that so?” I asked, but my gaze was locked on DeLuca. It was more of an I told you so than a question.

  “Don’t encourage her,” DeLuca said with a frustrated sigh. He was hoping to shut me down, but all he did was prove that my theory was plausible.

  “I don’t know.” A sly look flashed across Olivia’s face. I handed her the report, and she went back to the filing cabinet with it. “It seems like I should encourage her if you ask me. In any case, I brought it to Chief Minetta’s attention. He said he’d look into it, so why is a reporter doing all the work?”

  “Thank you,” I said with triumph. “Wait, what?”

  “Yeah. What?” DeLuca’s face contorted with confusion, right along with mine. “Minetta ruled it an accident almost immediately.” If that didn’t ring alarm bells, I don’t know what did.

  “Well, Minetta isn’t known for his efficiency,” Olivia offered, but neither I nor DeLuca were buying it.

  “He should have at least tried to investigate this. At the very least, he should have confirmed that the peanuts came from cross contamination. The mayor’s death is the closest thing to high profile we have around here, and he insisted on personally overseeing this.” DeLuca paced back and forth in the cold, hospital-like room. His nervous energy combined with his quick movements made me feel sick, like I was on a carnival ride. Was Police Chief Minetta involved in this somehow?

  ✽✽✽

  DeLuca bemoaned about his plan backfiring while driving me back to my car at The Donut Jam. The entire time. “Last time I introduce you to reason,” he finally ended his rant.

  “What are you talking about? Something’s up with Minetta. If it wasn’t for you trying to prove me wrong, we never would have found out about this.” I turned to him and gave him my best pleading look. “You have to admit, Chief Minetta looks suspicious.”

  “I know. I’m just angry about it. I can’t investigate my boss, Lainey. Do you know what the guys at the station will do? I’ve only been here six months. They still haze me like we’re in high school.” Cops around here had a weird code of conduct; a brotherhood of sorts. It was almost like a secret society.

  “You would really rather have stayed ignorant about this?”

  “No,” he said with a sigh. “I just don’t know how I will handle this. I’m not the most tactful person.” You don’t say?

  He pulled up to the shop and I slipped out of his car. Before I closed the door, I leaned in and said, “so you finally believe me?”

  “No. I don’t know. I’ll look into this a little more closely. But please, Lainey, I don’t need you going around spreading rumors about this, okay?”

  “Who’s spreading rumors? I’m gathering evidence.”

  Chapter 14

  My interview with Eli Johnson, creative director of the Mountain House Theater was a welcomed reprieve from this investigation.

  The Mountain House Theater was the one and only community theater in town. It used to be an ancient building. I remember the air inside was always heavy with moldy wood and musk. The chairs were small and uncomfortable. The stage creaked when the actors walked across it and was so small that there was barely any room for a set.

  It had undergone some much-needed renovations in the last year. The outside was now a beautiful stark white with high windows that gleamed as the sun hit it. The inside had a very distinct new building smell. The carpet was a lush red and the walls a fresh, warm beige. It all looked very sophisticated.

  I noticed a small picture of Mayor Lockwood hung in the reception area with a plaque underneath that read In Loving Memory. A nice touch.

  “Miss Lainey Boggins. Nice to see you.” The unmistakable sing-song voice of Eli Johnson rang behind me. Eli Johnson was a tall, slender man with thick dark hair and brilliant brown eyes. He was probably the best-dressed man in town. He wore gray slacks and a black button-down that looked tailor made for his body. It probably was tailor made. He was maybe in his late forties by now, but the man didn’t look a day over thirty-five.

  “Mister Johnson, hi,” I said, shaking his hand.

  “Oh please. You know I’m no mister.” He gave me a wink. “I guess you’re trying to be all professional while you’re on the clock.”

  “It’s just a habit, I guess,” I said.

  “And you’ve really grown into your looks. Have you thought about acting?” He said. Eli taught drama at my high school before becoming creative director at the theater. He was always one of my favorite teachers.

  “Thank you, no,” I said, blushing at the thought.

  “Yes, you’re going for the Pulitzer, I guess. Come, let’s go into my office and talk.”

  We went into a room down a hallway and passed the stage doors to the theater. The office was spacious, with a large leather couch against a red accent wall, a glass coffee table, a small filing cabinet in a corner and a large oak desk at the end. The sun lit up the room through a large window behind his desk. “Nice office,” I said.

  “Yes. All thanks to those renovations, I suppose,” he said.

  I pulled out my notebook and turned on my voice recorder. “You must be very excited about the new theater,” I said. It was small talk, but it also signified that our interview had begun.

  “Yes. Everything is state-of-the art. The stage is magnificent, and the chairs are more comfortable. I guess that sort of thing was important to people,” he said and followed it up with a horsey laugh. Eli was famous for having a laugh that rang out loudly. It was infectious. I couldn’t help but laugh, myself. “It almost didn’t happen, you know.”

  “You mean the renovations?”

  “Yes. The Historic Society was really against it. Something about the old building being a historic landmark or something,” he said, waving away the comment like it was nothing. It wasn’t just nothing though. This might be the first nail in Mayor Lockwood’s coffin.

  “Mayor Lockwood owns this theater? Or at least, he did?” Okay, I could have been more tactful with that question. Bob really should give me lessons on this.

  “Yes. He did.” Eli’s answer had a dark tone. It was one of disdain, not of sorrow.

  “I take it you weren’t a fan?”

  “The man didn’t appreciate real theater. If he had, he wouldn’t have started his little construction project right before opening night of my debut as a playwright. We rehearsed for months. I even got a producer from New York to come and see it. It was going to be my big break.” His voice was rising, and I could feel the anger in his words. “A
ll that hard work for nothing.”

  “The play was canceled?” I asked. He replied in a small, sad nod. “I’m sorry to hear that. When is the next show?”

  Eli sighed an exasperated sigh. “I’ll begin casting in a few weeks. I’ve been trying to get a hold of that producer to come back, but he’s not taking my calls. You only get one shot with those people, you know.”

  “Well, I hope everything works out for you,” I said. Something felt off about the man, but I pushed the thoughts away. All this murder investigating had me so paranoid I was suspecting my old high school teacher? Get a grip, Lainey.

  I walked around the new theater, taking a few photos for the story. The main theater really was grand. The new chairs were a plush, red color that matched the carpets in the foyer. The stage was large and deep—plenty of room for the actors and a set. Even if the old building was a historical landmark, the new theater was sorely needed. It was much safer for the actors on stage and Eli could make much fancier productions—something the affluent residents of Aurora Heights would love.

  “Thanks, Eli,” I said as I left. He was standing in the foyer as I made my way out of the theater.

  “No, thank you Lainey. And think about auditioning for the play,” he called after me. I laughed and swatted his suggestion away. No way was I going to get up on stage in public if I could help it.

  Chapter 15

  One more interview before the day’s end and I could regroup with Dylan. I had so much that I wanted to work through with him. First, his grandmother looked unfortunately suspicious. Our suspicions of murder were made plausible thanks to Olivia… okay, and DeLuca. Then there was the bombshell that was Police Chief David Minetta. He was personally responsible for overseeing the mayor’s investigation. So why didn’t he do more?