Dark Roasted to Death

by Nikolett Strachan

  I felt awful for her. I couldn’t imagine what I would do if my grandmother just up and died the way her uncle did, especially so publicly.

  Chapter 23

  April’s information had set me on the warpath again. Knowing what I knew now, I felt guilty for not looking into Eli more. And for not believing Dylan.

  And for acting like a jealous freak. Dylan and I were nothing but friends. Deep down, I knew he had a thing for April. It was written all over his face. It was the same writing that was all over my ex boyfriend’s face. And just like I did with Ben, I ignored the words on Dylan, too. Delusional? Maybe. I just didn’t want to face it. The high school hunk would never be mine. No matter where I was, I would always just be Plainy Lainey.

  I couldn’t think about that right now. I had a murder to solve. Thanks to April’s information, I could confront Eli. Hell, I could go to the police with it. It wasn’t hard evidence, but it was something.

  Before I did any of that, I had something else to take care of. After leaving the gas station, I turned around and headed back to the Cozy Cat Cafe. I owed Dylan an apology.

  The shops around Main were buzzing with business. The warmer weather always brought more tourists to Aurora Heights. Most were here on day trips to enjoy beautiful scenery or the novelty shops downtown. We were one of the few towns who had successfully fought off most big chain stores and the tourists loved the charm of the mom and pop shops.

  Word had gotten around the neighboring towns that the mayor died at the Cozy Cat Cafe though; Dylan still only had a trickle of the business that the others had. A few out-of-towners came and went but mostly his little shop was a dead zone.

  There was an empty parking stall right in front of the cafe’s doors. I planned on going straight to the theater to confront Eli, so I left my bag on the front seat. I would only be a few moments.

  Jake was pushing the doors open with his big back just as I was reaching for the door handle. He was carrying a large, plastic container of what looked like a salad. I nearly ran into him as he turned.

  “Lainey,” he said, adjusting the container in his hands. “You nearly scared me half to death.”

  “Sorry, Jake. What’s all this? You on a diet?” I asked. The large container was definitely a salad. He had a plastic fork and some small packets of something in his other hand.

  “Yes. I’m heading down to the park to eat this lunch. Doc says I need to lose some weight. Won’t even let me eat salad dressing,” he said, sneering at the food. “Anyway, see ya ‘round.”

  “Have a good lunch,” I said.

  In the cafe, only two people sat in the booths at the back of the place—a young man and woman looking like they were resting from a hike. Their look screamed tourist. I could hear their soft mummers but couldn’t make out their words over the soothing folk music Dylan had put on. He sat behind the counter with his chin on his hands, his eyes drooping and looking bleak. Must be the caffeine crash.

  “Hey, Dylan,” I said, sheepishly at the counter.

  “Hi, Lainey. Look, about this morning—”

  “No. Please. Let me apologize. I was acting like an idiot. I should have listened to you about April,” I said.

  “No. I’m sorry. You were right. I let my attraction to April get in the way of things and I shouldn’t have blurted out our investigation to her. It was the first date I had been on since I came back to Aurora Heights and I was just so nervous that I blurted it all out. But we really made a connection. Anyway, I got carried away. I should have kept it professional. I’m sorry,” he said. His poor eyes strained even under the soft lighting of the cafe.

  “It’s okay. We’re still friends?”

  “Friends.” His smile perked up his face, but not much.

  A heavy feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. It was natural for Dylan would make a connection with April Lockwood. The two looked like they belonged together—the lacrosse captain and the cheerleader. How could I ever think Dylan would see me that way? I was so stupid.

  “I just saw April at the gas station. She told me about Eli.” I hoped that changing the subject would help move me past these feelings that were making my skin crawl. “I would chew you out for being the worst detective in the world. But, if you hadn’t told her what we were up to, she probably wouldn’t have told you about Eli and her uncle.”

  “Isn’t that crazy?” he said. Now his face perked up. “Who would have thought Mr. Johnson was so evil?”

  “We don’t have proof he did it, but it’s a hell of a motive.”

  “He could have done it. I remember him being here on opening day. He was in line in front of Mayor Lockwood. He could have slipped peanut oil in his coffee as I was making it, I guess. Triple non-fat mocha with steamed almond milk and no caramel. I watched Jake’s eyes glaze as he rattled it off.” Dylan rolled his eyes at the mention of Jake.

  After spending some time working from the cafe, it was clear Jake wasn’t the most engaged employee. He walked around, huffing and puffing at having to clean tables and sweep the floor. After seeing his place, the man must have had an aversion to cleanliness. His attitude with the customers could have been a little less prickly, too. Then again, he didn’t exactly fit the description of a barista. Heavy-set, bald and always tired looking, he looked every bit like a man who used to own a construction business. Probably why he was such a terrible employee. Being accustomed to calling the shots at work, he must have a hard time as an employee.

  “When did Jake go on a diet?” I asked. The man looked like he had never even seen salad.

  “Not sure. He always brings one for lunch, though,” Dylan said.

  “Always? As in, since he started working here?”

  “Yes. I think the drinking and the nightly pizza is counteracting whatever good the salad is doing him, though. Still, the man is trying, which is something.” Dylan let out a howl of a yawn. His faced drooped as he crashed over his counter.

  “Why don’t you go get some sleep?” I said.

  “I can’t,” he said. His words were sharp and begrudging. “Nate Cruikshank is coming for his first day. I have to show him around. He’s supposed to be here now, actually.” Dylan looked at the large, oval clock behind him on the wall, then sighed. “Not like I need the help. Those two have been the only customers all day.” He pointed at the tourists in the back.

  The man and woman got up and cleared their table of their coffee. They slung their backpacks onto their backs and headed out the door. “Have a nice day.” Dylan smiled at them. They waved back as they opened the front doors.

  I was hoping that Dylan would come with me. I was going to confront a murderer, after all. But looking at his tired face, I wasn’t sure how much help he would be.

  “I guess I’m off to question Eli Johnson. Wish me luck?” I said.

  “Wait, just a minute.” Dylan reached for a paper cup and got busy behind the counter pouring various liquids into it and stirring before pouring hot, thick, frothy milk on top. “Lavender chai mocha.”

  He slid the cup to me, and I took a sip. It was sweet and spicy at the same time. My taste buds didn’t know how to react. “Wow. That’s something.”

  I raised the cup in thanks and slid out the door. I walked just past his wall of windows to the garbage can by the sandwich shop next door, where I dropped the coffee into it. Dylan was a great barista, but that was just too much flavor. As much as I liked lattes and mochas, maybe DeLuca had a point about plain old coffee.

  “Miss Boggins?” A voice boomed behind me and I froze, the blood in my veins turning cold in an instant. My heart jumped into my throat. I knew that voice.

  “Chief Minetta. Nice to see you,” I said, forcing a smile I hoped looked casual.

  His large body loomed over me, casting me in his shadow. “Is this your car?” He pointed at my little ride.

  “Y… yes,” I managed.

  “Looks like you’ve got a flat.”

  I found my car and knelt down beside it. The back tire
was flat. Very flat. Crouching closer to examine it, I found a very large gaping hole in the side, as if someone had tried to gut the thing. The front tire looked just as flat and when I looked closer, it too had a giant, gaping wound on the side. I stood up, my body still tense as David Minetta loomed.

  “Wow, someone did a good job on that. I don’t think you’ll be able to get that fixed any time soon. You want me to call you a tow?”

  “N… no that’s alright. I can call it myself,” I said.

  “You want me to look into it for you? It looks like someone gutted those tires good.”

  Yes. Someone had not only slashed my tires but gouged all the air and life out of it. “It’s all right. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.” He nodded and I watched as he walked away without all the care in the world.

  Chapter 24

  “Someone did a really good job. There is no way you’ll ever get this thing repaired,” DeLuca said. He examined the tires with all the nonchalance of a cop with nothing better to do than examine slashed tires. “Do you know who did it?”

  “If I knew who it did, I wouldn’t have called you,” I shot at him. “First the note on my car, now my tires are slashed. You still don’t think someone’s after me?”

  DeLuca stood, his broad shoulders towering over me. He crossed his arms at his chest, but his face was pensive. “I told you so” was on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t need to say it. He slowly nodded his head, as if mulling something over. “When did you find the note on your car again?”

  “Earlier this week,” I said. “And get this, Minetta was the one who pointed out that my tires were slashed. He even offered to call me a tow truck.”

  “Oh no, what a terrible guy.” The sarcasm was strong with this one.

  “We know that he’s involved with Lockwood’s death somehow. What if he knows that I’m looking into this and he’s trying to send me a message?”

  “Well, it is suspect. Who else knows about your little investigation?”

  Besides the whole town by now? “Just my boss and Dylan. And my grandmother. And April Lockwood.”

  “Right.” He had the good sense to look apologetic. “Would any of them have a reason to not want you to investigate this murder?” He put air quotes around the word murder. He still didn’t believe me, but at least he was taking the vandalism seriously.

  “No,” I said, with determination.

  “Not even April Lockwood? It was her uncle that died.”

  “I had a conversation with April at the gas station. She told me something interesting about Eli Johnson.” I recapped what she had told me about the blackmail. If DeLuca was shocked, his face didn’t show it. He just nodded as I went on. “What do you think? Suspicious?”

  He mulled my words around for a moment, then shrugged. “It’s suspicious, yes. But I can’t do anything about it.”

  “What do you mean?” My voice came out a little too loud and a little too screechy, but I didn’t care. How could a cop, sworn to protect us ordinary citizens not do anything about blackmail? I knew that DeLuca didn’t think too highly of Aurora Heights. It’s a far cry from the hustle and bustle of the big city’s “real” crime unit he was used to. His sheer indifference and laid-back attitude was annoying on most days but right now, it was downright infuriating. A man was dead. A killer was on the loose. Someone slashed my tires. And he had the audacity to say he can’t do anything about it?

  “It’s better if I have evidence, Lainey.” His voice was gentle, as if trying to calm an angry bear. “I can’t just bust into Eli Johnson’s home with guns blazing. The monthly payments are circumstantial. I can question him, but I’m not sure it will lead anywhere.”

  “Or you just don’t want to,” I said. I looked him square in the eye, doing my best to shoot anger at him with my face.

  “I know you think I don’t take my job seriously but that’s not true. I’m a detective. I have to follow the law. It’s bad enough that I’m asking too many questions about my boss. I’m taking this seriously, believe me. But I have to keep things quiet.”

  “Fine. But if someone else ends up dead, don’t be surprised when I dance around singing ‘I told you so.’” I cringed at my own words. They were insensitive, even for me, so I was surprised when DeLuca flashed me an amused smile.

  Just then, a lanky teenager lumbered his way to us. It was Nate Cruikshank, coming for his first day. “Hey, Nate,” DeLuca said. The teenager grunted a greeting at him. Typical. Then it dawned on me. What if this wasn’t an attack on me because of the story? What if I was a victim of this kid’s mischief?

  “Hey, Nate,” I said. He looked at me, eyes shifting every which way and refusing to look me in the face. “Looks like someone did a number on my car’s tires.”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you?” At only sixteen, he was already taller than me and I had to look up to meet him in the eyes. When I finally caught his gaze, he quickly looked away.

  “No. Why would I?” he muttered as he slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He looked uncomfortable enough to be a liar. Then again, uncomfortable was default mode for this teenager.

  “I don’t know. Maybe because the last time something was damaged here, you were behind it?”

  He couldn’t blame me for suspecting him. Still, he gave me a disgusted look and said, “I didn’t do anything this time, okay? I learned my lesson.”

  “Then why are you late?” I demanded. I sounded like a shrill mother even to my own ears, but I was pissed. I couldn’t afford new tires on a reporter’s salary.

  “I had detention after school. I called the cafe and told Mister Trammel I was going to be late.” He was defensive, which made me even more suspicious.

  “Come on, lay off, Lainey,” DeLuca turned me around to face him. I seethed at his touch, but when he spoke, his voice was oddly comforting. “I know you’re pissed but you have to calm down. I’ll find out who did this to your car. I promise.”

  DeLuca was right. I couldn’t go around accusing everyone without evidence, even if they are teenagers with a penchant for vandalism. I called a tow truck to move my car and headed to the office. My story on the new Mayor Sawyer I proposed was due by the end of today and Bob would kill me if I missed deadline. Thankfully, the walk from the cafe to work was a short ten minutes.

  The place was buzzing with phones and chatter among the advertising department, while the reporters quietly worked away at their desks. It was almost three o’clock now, and I only had an hour to send off my story. With a heavy sigh, I fired up my laptop at my little desk, laying on top of the various papers strewn everywhere. I really needed to clean that desk. I typed away, all the while grinding my teeth at the fact that Eli Johnson could have killed Mayor Lockwood.

  I stopped writing and pulled up the bank statements that April emailed me earlier. Sure enough, every month on the last day, Lockwood made a cash withdrawal of five grand. Smart. If there was any kind of transfer electronically, I could have connected it to Eli. But there wasn’t. He was paid in cash. No paper trail meant no evidence. The only way to connect the money to Eli was April’s word—which wasn’t evidence at all. DeLuca wouldn’t question him about this. Not without a way to point the finger at Eli.

  Sighing in frustration, I closed the documents and went back to finishing my story. I sent it off to be edited, then spent a good chunk of the rest of the day sitting and brooding. With the arrangement only being hearsay, how was I supposed to confront a potential killer?

  I gathered up my things, shoving them in my bag. My brain needed a break from all of this. Just as I was getting ready to leave, Bob called me into his office. Great.

  “How’s the Lockwood story coming? Any leads?” He asked as he typed away at something on his computer.

  “Well yes, but…”

  “But what? What’s the scoop?” His voice bellowed. To anyone else, it might ha
ve sounded angry, but I’ve come to realize that Bob’s voice only had one volume: loud.

  “I don’t know,” I sighed, slumping myself into the chair in the corner. I told him about my meeting with April Lockwood this morning and what she told me about her uncle’s relationship. The extortion. The theater renovations. Everything. “I’m sure he’s the killer. Dylan remembered him at the cafe, so he had an opportunity and he had more than one motive. Aside from the blackmail, he was pissed about having his play canceled.”

  “Sounds like you need to go back to the theater,” Bob bellowed, eyes fixed on the computer screen and still typing away.

  “There’s just one problem. He slashed my tires. I don’t know how but who else could have done it?”

  “So, what’s the problem? Besides having to ride your bike, I mean?”

  Bob took no prisoners when it came to a scoop. Of course, I knew this about him, but something wasn’t right. He was adamant about my safety when I found that note on my car. Now he’s telling me to go digging for evidence? “I can’t just barge in there,” I said.

  Bob stopped typing. He shifted and his chair squealed as he pushed his heavy body up to stand. He closed his office door and went over to the large filing cabinet. He fished around until he pulled out two glasses and a bottle of something brown.

  “Is that whiskey?” I asked.

  “It’s for special occasions,” he said with a shrug. “And stressful situations. This, I think, qualifies.”

  He poured a splash into each glass and handed one to me. I hesitated for a moment. It was barely five o’clock, after all. Still, if the boss is doing it… I took a sip and winced at the sweet burn as the liquid slid down my throat. Bob didn’t even move a muscle as he gulped his down.