Dark Roasted to Death

by Nikolett Strachan

  “You think I’m stupid, don’t you?” It came out a question, but it was more of a statement. It sounded ridiculous even to me.

  “No. I think you’re a smart, capable woman. A little naïve, perhaps. But not stupid.” That was as close to a compliment as he had ever gotten. I had no idea what to say to that. “I was wrong. You have a good journalist’s instinct.”

  “You thought my instincts were bad?”

  “Not the point,” he threw the note down on his desk. “I’ll be honest, my first instinct was to give this story to Larry like I threatened.” At this point, I wouldn’t have complained if he did. “But I won’t. I want you to chase this story but keep it on a need to know basis. If the Chief of Police is involved somehow, we need to be very careful.”

  A high pitch that sounded like sirens rang in my ears. My heart quickened as I found a chair in the corner of his tiny office and plopped myself down. “Sorry, I need a minute. I thought you said I need to keep chasing this story.” My voice came out with a laugh that sounded almost maniacal.

  “I did,” he said, his voice steady. Bob Starsman was not a man with a sense of humor. He didn’t tell jokes and certainly never made fun of people. He never laughed. I don’t think the man knows how to.

  “So, you believe me? You think someone murdered Mayor Lockwood?”

  “I don’t know. That’s up to you to find out.” He picked up the note again and shook it at me as he spoke. “I do know one thing. Someone out there knows what you’re doing, and that someone doesn’t want you to be doing it.”

  “So, this threat means that I should keep going?”

  “Lainey, if a journalist isn’t threatened at least once a week, that journalist isn’t doing their job. Keep going and keep me posted. I’ll call DeLuca and tell him about the threat. I want the story, but I also need you to be safe.” He threw the note back to me and picked up his desk phone to dial the number.

  I opened my mouth to ask him not to involve DeLuca. Call the cops, sure, but involve anyone but DeLuca. Bob knew how much DeLuca hated reporters, which is exactly why he had him on speed dial. Before I could say anything, he gave me a hard look and waved me out of his office without giving me a chance to protest.

  I picked up the note from his desk. Bob grunted in reply and I made my way out of the office as I heard him bellow “DeLuca. I need a favor—”

  I couldn’t believe what just happened. Bob Starsman called me smart. And capable. And a woman. Not a girl. Woman. And—most importantly—a journalist. I let myself squeal with excitement just a little as I tapped my feet in a weird little dance.

  “Are you okay, Lainey?” Liam said as he walked by. The poor kid had a concerned look on his face. I didn’t blame him. I probably looked like I was having a seizure.

  “Oh. Yes. I’m good. I just…” keep things on a need to know basis, I reminded myself. “I had a good meeting with Bob is all.”

  “Good. I’m glad. As long as you’re okay,” he said. His smile was more out of pity than anything, but I didn’t care. I was officially an investigative journalist.

  ✽✽✽

  The Cozy Cat Cafe became my little office away from my office. I had the warm comfort of Fur Ball cuddling up beside me, fantastic lattes—as opposed to the stale instant stuff at the office—and eye candy in the form of Dylan.

  I hated to admit it, but it was nice having some quiet time, too. Away from the constant ringing of phones and loud chatter of the open office of The Chronicle, I was much more productive. I finished my story on the new theater opening and got to work researching about peanut allergies. A few tourists had stopped at the cafe, but there wasn’t a steady flow of traffic. Without people bringing their cats in, Fur Ball was the only cozy cat in the place. The excitement of opening day seemed like a distant memory.

  Just before noon, Detective Nick DeLuca came into the shop. I watched him squint up at the menus behind Dylan, trying to make sense out of it. “Um… don’t you serve coffee?” I heard him grumble.

  “Yes. This is a coffee shop,” Dylan said. His voice had an edge to it. He wasn’t too keen on DeLuca, either.

  “What’s a lavender latte?” DeLuca sighed in frustration before ordering a regular drip coffee. “I’m just not one for all this fancy stuff,” he said as Dylan handed him the cup.

  “Not everyone is,” Dylan said. The exchange between them was icy at best. DeLuca wasn’t an easy man to get along with. I understood why he was annoyed by reporters, but what did he have against Dylan?

  “I’m actually here on business,” I heard him say. Naturally, this piqued my interest. I stopped typing and listened intently. “I know who broke your window.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. The footage from the ice cream shop’s security camera across the street showed Nate Cruikshank throwing the brick. Kid thought vandalism was a fun after school past time. I talked to Mary-Anne, and she assured me he wouldn’t do it again, but it’s up to you if you want to press charges.”

  “Hell yeah I want to press charges. The kid set me back at least a grand for a new window,” Dylan said. He was visibly angry as he pointed at the new window.

  “All right, man, but I have to be honest, I’m not sure what good that will do. He just moved here to live with his aunt and that woman isn’t easy to be around, even for me. Maybe pressing charges would just push him into a life of crime?”

  “Why are you sticking up for that delinquent?”

  “Yeah. I thought you were a cop. Aren’t you supposed to be catching bad guys?” I asked. I couldn’t help it. I had to step in and defend my friend. DeLuca turned around and gave me his cop death stare. I immediately regretted opening my mouth.

  “Maybe I know what it’s like to have a tough childhood, all right?” His voice rang around the cafe. He turned to Dylan, and I heard him say, “Do what you want. Just my two cents.”

  He turned and walked towards me. I thought he would sit at one of the tables but to my surprise, he walked up to my table and plopped himself down on a chair across from me. He put his coffee on my stack of loose papers.

  “What do you want, DeLuca?”

  “I had an interesting conversation with your boss this morning,” he drawled.

  “Yeah?” I tried to pretend I had no idea what he was talking about, but I knew this was about the note.

  “Yeah. Congratulations.”

  “On what?”

  “On becoming the most annoying person I know in Aurora Heights,” he said.

  My face seared with anger and a little embarrassment. “Bob thinks it’s a valid story,” I said, defensively.

  “Of course, he does. He wants to sell papers. If it bleeds, it leads, right? Look, you heard Olivia, he could have had the peanut oil in his system at any time. I know you’re bored but you don’t need to be Nancy Drewing all over town about this,” he said.

  “I’m not bored. And it doesn’t make sense. Mayor Lockwood was insanely allergic. The man went into shock just thinking about peanuts. All the more reason for me to do your job for you.” I hoped I sounded tough because I heard my voice wavering just a little.

  “Okay. Do what you need to do. It’s your professional reputation that’s on the line here.”

  “What about Minetta? Isn’t it weird that he said he would investigate and then… just didn’t?” I was getting angry now. After yesterday, how could he possibly still think his death was an accident?

  He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a heavy sigh. “It is weird. I’m still not sure what to do about it but I’ll do something. This is a police matter. Stay out of it, all right?”

  He picked up his coffee and gave me a hard look as he took a long swig. He was trying to stare me down. I picked up my own latte and mirrored what he was doing. I watched him grimace as he swallowed his coffee and I gave him a hard, triumphant smile. He got up and tossed his coffee into the trash before leaving without saying a word.

  “What a dick,” I heard Dylan say.

  “No
kidding. He left coffee stains on my papers,” I said. I picked up the few papers and carefully tried to wipe the coffee off.

  Dylan came over and sat down at my table. “So, Nate Cruikshank smashed my window.”

  “And called you a mayor killer." The proverbial lightbulb suddenly went off. "You know what I think? I don’t think the mayor was the only target here.”

  “What do you mean?” He leaned in as he spoke.

  “Think about it. Cruikshank is always nostalgic about the good old days of Aurora Heights. She hates your cafe and from what you told me, so does your grandmother. By getting rid of Lockwood, the building projects stop, your grandmother is mayor and your cafe goes out of business.”

  “Killing three birds with one stone. Genius,” he said.

  “But only if we can get a confession. Without video surveillance footage, it’s our only shot,” I said.

  “The security company is coming tomorrow. I can’t believe what a mess this is.” Dylan buried his face in his hands and let out a low, frustrated groan.

  “Well, at least we have an excuse to grill Mary-Anne Cruikshank now,” I said. I piled my papers together and shoved them into my bag.

  “We do?” Dylan asked.

  “Yes. You’re going to confront her.” I closed my laptop and shoved it in my bag too. Within minutes, I was up and ready to go. “Let’s get that confession out of her, shall we?”

  Chapter 18

  A long-widowed woman living alone without even a cat to keep her company, Mary-Anne Cruikshank lived in the apartment above The Crooked Book. A prominent senior citizen in town, she regularly took part in bake sales, so I kind of expected the place to smell like Mrs. Chapley’s little bed and breakfast—full of warmth and sugar. I was wrong. The place smelled musty and old, just like her bookstore. It was rumored that she bought all her goods for bake sales anyway, and I was more than inclined to believe that now.

  She had recently inherited her teenage grandnephew, Nate Cruikshank. After his parent’s divorce, he had been getting into trouble, so they sent him to live with Mary-Anne to straighten him out—the family equivalent to sending him to military school. I suspected he would have preferred military school. He was a tall, skinny teenager with shaggy brown hair, baggy clothes and a permanent sneer on his face. He sat slumped on the old, stiff couch, staring at his phone and looking bored in the living room while Mrs. Cruikshank prepared coffee in the kitchen. Dylan and I sat beside him, uncomfortable in the silence between us.

  “It’s not as fancy as the stuff you serve, Dylan, but I hope it’ll do,” she said as she carried a tray of mugs into the living room. She handed a mug to each of us before she sat in a side chair that looked like it might have been older than she was. I took a sip of the coffee and confirmed that no, it wasn’t as good as Dylan’s. “Now, about this vandalism business…”

  Nate shifted uncomfortably beside me as I turned on the recording app on my phone. I wanted to be ready for a confession at any moment. “Does she have to be here?” Nate asked, pointing a finger at me.

  “Yes, why are you here, Lainey?” Mrs. Cruikshank asked.

  “She’s here for moral support,” Dylan interjected. “Now, why did you throw that brick through my window?” Nate crossed his lanky arms across his chest and shrugged in response.

  “Why did you call him mayor killer?” I asked.

  “Isn’t that what he is?” Nate asked.

  I was shocked. Judging by the look on Mrs. Cruikshank’s face, so was she. “Nate Cruikshank, go to your room at once,” she said sternly.

  “Whatever,” the teenager muttered. He got up and sauntered to the back of the apartment where he disappeared in a hallway. We heard the door close with a loud bang.

  Mrs. Cruikshank let out a frustrated shudder and she buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry about him,” she said after she had composed herself, putting her mask of stern looks back on. She sat up a little straighter and smoothed the front of her burgundy sweater. “He’s had a difficult time adjusting to Aurora Heights. And me.”

  “Teenagers will be teenagers,” Dylan said. “Still, that doesn’t excuse that brick. And why he called me a mayor killer.”

  “Brian Lockwood was a hero to that boy,” she said.

  “Really? How so?”

  “Lockwood coached his baseball team.”

  “Mayor Lockwood played sports?” I asked. A small and portly man, he didn’t even look like he knew what sports was, let alone know how to coach it.

  “Oh no, the man didn’t play sports at all. But, when the school couldn’t find a coach after the last one moved away, Brian Lockwood took it upon himself to coach so the kids could still play in those tournaments.”

  “That was nice of him,” I said.

  “Yes. He was a terrible coach, of course. They lost every game they played, but the kids loved him.” So that’s why he threw that brick.

  “That doesn’t excuse the vandalism. People already avoid the cafe like the plague,” Dylan said.

  “You’re right. I understand if you want to press charges but please consider the circumstances. He’s had it pretty rough,” she said. This was a new side to Mary-Anne Cruikshank. She was usually stern and unforgiving but when it came to her nephew, she seemed almost humane. Maybe she did have a beating heart after all.

  “Maybe I can have him in the shop to help out to work off the damage?” Dylan said, reluctantly.

  “That would do him a world of good. And teach him responsibility. Thank you, Dylan,” she said. A flash of what was almost a smile crept across her face.

  “So, you don’t think Dylan is a murderer?” I asked. If I could steer the conversation in that direction, maybe I could get something out of Cruikshank. Just because her nephew brought out something of a soft side, it didn’t mean she wasn’t a murderer.

  “I don’t think Dylan’s a murderer,” she said, sternly. There was the Mrs. Cruikshank I knew and loathed. “What happened at the cafe was tragic. And on opening day, too.”

  “I thought you didn’t like the cafe,” I asked.

  “With all those cats around? Good heavens, no. I’m not a cat person. Or a dog person. I’m not much for animals, period. Too smelly. That doesn’t mean that I don’t like Dylan’s shop,” she said.

  “You like my coffee shop?” Dylan asked. He sounded as surprised as I was by this revelation.

  “Yes. I think it’s great for the tourists. I’m really sorry about that window and it really is awful that someone died on your grand opening. Especially Lockwood. I didn’t care for the man’s politics or his affinity for condo development, but he was a good influence on Nate and I’m sorry he’s gone. I’m just glad I left before Lockwood got there. I would have hated to be a witness to that whole ordeal,” she said.

  If Mrs. Cruikshank left before Mayor Lockwood even got to the cafe, she couldn’t have laced his drink with some kind of peanut substance. And if Mayor Lockwood was such a good influence on Nate, she certainly wouldn’t want the man dead. My theory was falling apart at the seams. But if Mrs. Cruikshank wasn’t Esther Sawyer’s accomplice, then who was?

  Chapter 19

  We crossed Main Street and walked back to the Cozy Cat Cafe, where Fur Ball was perched at the front counter, looking like he was ready to take our order. It would have been cute if he didn’t look so ornery. He gave us an angry meow and jumped to his cat tree by the window. He turned away when I went to greet him, obviously mad about being excluded from the investigation.

  “Come on, Fur Ball, you wouldn’t have wanted to be at Mrs. Cruikshank's, anyway. The woman hates animals,” Dylan said, trying to console his cat.

  Fur Ball grunted a small meow at him, as if to say “fine.”

  “Anyway,” Dylan said, turning to me. “I think Cruikshank is off our list of suspects.”

  “I agree. If she’s telling the truth, that is. She doesn’t really have an alibi,” I said.

  “Do you think she’s lying?”

  I thought abou
t it for a moment. Mrs. Cruikshank was as prickly as they come, but after seeing her with Nate, I wasn’t sure she was capable of murder. “Did you see how motherly she was toward Nate? I don’t think she would have killed Mayor Lockwood even if your grandmother wanted her to.”

  “Right.” His face was grave, as if he was ready to report his grandmother to the authorities right then and there. Suddenly, his face perked up. “Do you have any plans tonight?”

  “Plans? Me?” Just sitting around with my grandmother and watching old crime documentaries for the fourth time but if you’re asking me to dinner and a movie, I might be able to squeeze you in.

  “Yes. I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner?” Oh my god oh my god oh my god.

  “Dinner?” I wasn’t sure if I heard him correctly and I was pretty sure my face was making that weird look when I don’t understand something.

  “Yes. I’d love to have you over tonight.” What is happening right now?

  “Yes. Of course. I’d love to.” My voice came out a little too loud and a little too high pitched. Dylan didn’t seem to notice. He just had a cool look on his face, like having dinner with me was no big deal.

  “Okay, good because I don’t think I could do this without you,” he said.

  “Make dinner? You can’t make dinner without me?” There was a good chance that I had missed something. Had he kept talking while I blanked and silently freaked out in my head?

  “I mean have dinner with me and my family. You said that our best chance of proof was getting a confession, so I thought I’d invite my grandmother to dinner at my place. If we can’t get her to confess, maybe she’ll say something that could point us to a clue or something,” he said.

  Oh. Yeah, that made more sense. “Right. Of course. I’ll make sure I have my recorder rolling.” I’m such an idiot. “So, who’s coming?”

  “Just you and me, my grandmother and my parents,” he said, with a shrug.