by Harper Lin
“Spit it out, Franny. Sandra will kill me if I’m late.”
I had a feeling I wouldn’t survive either if I screwed up Mike’s chances at a reconciliation. I decided I just had to spit it out. “Do you think Pablo could have been murdered?”
Mike put down the box of goodies and his coffee and immediately crossed his arms across his chest with a big sigh. “Seriously, Fran?”
“It’s just that it seems suspicious. He was getting notes in his apron at work and—”
Mike held up his hand. “Stop.”
I stopped.
“Pablo died of a stroke. There was an autopsy. There were witnesses. You were one of them.”
“I know, and that’s how I know how strange it was! He went from perfectly fine one minute to—”
He held up his hand again and closed his eyes like it was all he could do to be patient with me. You’d think he would be used to dealing with me by now. “Fran. That’s how strokes happen. Lots of people die suddenly like that. The fact that he was fine one minute and dead the next doesn’t mean he was murdered any more than it did when your mo—” He stopped, and his eyes widened just enough for me to notice.
My heart had already dropped to my stomach. I knew what he was going to say. He was going to say “when your mother died.”
“Franny, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—I wasn’t thinking—I just—”
“It’s okay,” I muttered.
“No, I—”
“It’s okay, Mike. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”
He exhaled slowly and stared uncomfortably at the floor.
“You better get going. You don’t want to be late.”
“Right.” He turned toward his box of goodies then turned back to me. “Franny, I’m really sorry.”
I nodded without looking at him.
“And about Pablo—if the medical examiner had seen anything at all that indicated murder, she would have told us, and we would have investigated. But she said everything was consistent with it being a stroke.”
I nodded.
“Sometimes these things just happen,” he said and patted me awkwardly on the shoulder.
I nodded again.
He turned around and this time actually picked up his coffee and desserts.
I moved over to the door to unlock and push it open for him. As he walked past me, against what probably should have been my better judgement, I opened my mouth again. “The notes, though. I wouldn’t be suspicious except for the notes.”
Mike sighed. “What are these notes again?”
“Pablo was getting suspicious notes in his apron.”
“He told you this?”
“No, but—”
“Fran—”
“Bill told me about them. And I saw one.”
“You saw one?”
“Well, I think I did. A piece of paper fell out of his apron that night, but he snatched it up before I could see what it was. Like he didn’t want us to see it.”
Mike sighed again, really heavily this time. “So, you didn’t see anything.” It was not actually a question the way he said it.
“No, but—”
“You said Bill saw these notes?”
“Yes. And I heard him say at the funeral that he thinks whoever was leaving the notes killed Pablo.”
Mike raised an eyebrow. “And has he reported this to anyone who could do something about it?”
“No. He said he didn’t have any proof.”
Mike muttered something that sounded like “that’s never stopped you,” but when I asked him to repeat it, he refused. “I’ll talk to Bill about it,” he said instead. “See you tomorrow, Franny.”
I said goodbye and told him to tell Sandra I said hello then went back into the café, locking the door behind me. I went into the back room and sank down into my desk chair. I put my head in my hands.
The notes were suspicious, yes. But Mike’s first reaction had been the same as Matt’s—that people die suddenly sometimes. They were both generally sane, level-headed guys. Not at all the type to leap to conclusions. Not like me, who saw a conclusion somewhere in the distance and off to the left and hurled myself at it as quickly as possible. If they were both so sure that Pablo’s death was exactly what it appeared to be on the surface—an unfortunate and unexpected death of natural causes—maybe that’s what it was.
But something about it bothered me. Something about that night, the way things happened. It wasn’t just that it felt unfair that he could go from so happy to dead in what seemed like the blink of an eye—it was something else. And I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew I wasn’t imagining it. Not when I couldn’t get it out of my head like this.
I got up and wandered back out to the front of the café, grabbing another donut as I passed them. At this rate, I wasn’t going to be hungry by the time Matt got home with dinner. And I wouldn’t have any donuts left to sell in the morning. To avoid that, I arranged them all on a tray, and I slid the tray into the display case. Then, I lucked out, and Matt texted to say that he was on his way, so I grabbed a single donut, dropped it into a bag, and headed for home.
Latte greeted me excitedly when I walked in the door. At first, I thought he was happy to see me and got a warm, fuzzy feeling from knowing that he loved me and had probably been sitting around all day missing me and wondering when I would be home to play with him and take him on a walk. But then I remembered the donut I was holding and realized I wasn’t what Latte was so happy to see walk through the door.
“Sorry, buddy,” I said, holding the bag up over my head, just to be safe. “I don’t exactly think this would be good for your tummy.”
Apparently not interested in my warning about a potential upset stomach, he followed me into the kitchen and stared at the bag as I put it on the counter. The back side of the counter. Latte wasn’t much of a food thief, but I also didn’t want to tempt fate—or him.
I had Latte sit, then shake, then lie down. Once his routine was complete, I poured some food in his bowl—plenty, according to the bag and his veterinarian, but never enough, according to him—and went upstairs to get changed out of my work clothes. I loved the smell of coffee, but the stale smell of it that my clothes acquired after a long day at the café was not appealing. I changed into a pair of leggings and an old Boston Red Sox T-shirt and took my hair out of the chignon I wore it in for work. I shook it out upside down then put it right back up into a messy bun. I was going for comfort, not polish.
Back downstairs, I peeked out the window, looking for Matt. Seeing no sign of him, I let Latte out the back. Standing on the small concrete patio, I watched Latte wander around the backyard. It was dark enough that I could barely make out his shape against the shadows, but his insistent sniffing made him easy to follow across the yard. It was definitely on the chilly side, and I kind of wished I’d thrown a jacket on before I went outside. But I didn’t think Latte would be much longer. Well, I didn’t think that until I heard him turn and sniff his way back across the yard. Maybe I did need a jacket.
I started to turn to go inside when the door opened, just about scaring me out of my skin.
“There you are,” Matt said.
“Sheesh, you scared me!” I swatted at his chest.
“Well, that’s one way to say hello.” He pulled me against him and kissed me.
“Where did you come from? I just looked outside, and you weren’t there!”
“I’m very sneaky.” He kissed me again.
Latte came bounding across the yard toward Matt and started jumping in place in front of him. Matt pulled a treat out of nowhere, told Latte to sit, then tossed it in the air for Latte to catch. (He did.)
“No wonder he likes you so much,” I muttered. Matt just grinned.
We went back inside to eat the burgers and fries that Matt had picked up on his way home from work—so much for any healthy eating I had aspired to for the day—and then I gave him the donut bag with absolutely no explanation.
“I was.”
“So, somebody brought you donuts?”
“Nope.”
He looked at me questioningly, then when I didn’t offer an explanation, he shrugged and pulled out the glazed donut. He looked it over then bit into it, apparently not concerned in the slightest about where the baked good had mysteriously appeared from.
“Holy cow, where did you get this?” he asked with his mouth full of donut. “Franny, you have to try a bite.” He leaned across the table and held the donut out to me.
I shook my head. “I’ve had plenty.”
He didn’t hesitate to take another big bite. “This is so good. Where did you say you got it?”
“I didn’t.” I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I really just wanted him to put two and two together and figure out that I made them. It shouldn’t have been hard. I brought him stuff all the time that I’d baked at the café—stuff that was on the menu, stuff that I was experimenting with, stuff that got messed up that I didn’t want to sell but was still edible. Actually, I’d brought him some things that I personally didn’t think were edible—cookies I’d burned, muffins that failed to rise, vanilla cupcakes that I forgot to add vanilla to—and he’d eaten those, too, so I wasn’t sure how he hadn’t figured it out yet.
He shoved the last of the donut in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed it down. “So, did Sammy pick donuts up somewhere and bring them in? Where do you even get a donut around here?”
I just stared at him and blinked a few times.
“You okay, Franny?”
“Really, Matt?”
He suddenly looked concerned. “What? What happened? What did I miss?”
I stared at him for a few more seconds. “Where do you think I got it?”
“Sammy went somewhere and picked them up? Or Rhonda? Or Ryan? Or—”
“Matteo Cardosi—where does everything I bring you come from?”
He looked at me, then down at the empty bag, then back at me. “You didn’t make it, did you?”
I had to laugh. “Yes! Of course I did.”
“Since when do you make donuts?”
“Since today!” I answered a little indignantly.
“Wow.” He picked up a little piece of the glaze that had fallen on the table and put it in his mouth. “It was really good! You should sell them.”
I squinted my eyes. “That’s why I made them. They go on sale tomorrow morning.”
“Well, good. They’ll be a moneymaker. They’re delicious.”
“Thanks.” I smiled. No matter how good I knew something was, or how many compliments I got on it, Matt’s opinion was the one that mattered most to me.
“Are you going to make other kinds?”
I nodded and told him about the plan Sammy and I had worked out and the varieties I was thinking of.
He smiled. “I’m glad you found a project. I was a little worried about you getting stuck on the whole Pablo thing.”
I hesitated, but I knew I couldn’t keep anything from Matt. “Well, about that…”
Chapter Eleven
Matt wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear that, despite the donuts, I was still thinking about Pablo’s death. And when I told him that I’d talked to Mike about it, I got a real eyebrow raise. I tried to distract him with the news about Mike having dinner with Sandra and the kids, but he didn’t bite.
“So, what did Mike have to say about your theory?” he asked instead.
I shrugged. “He said he’d look into it.”
Matt looked shocked. “Really?”
“Well, I told him what Bill said and…” I trailed off and shrugged again.
Matt still looked like he didn’t quite believe me, but he didn’t argue it any further. “You want to go watch TV?”
I was a little disappointed that he didn’t want to talk through why I thought Pablo’s death was suspicious some more, but I agreed. It had been a long day, and I was ready to spend some time vegging out in front of the TV. I poured a couple glasses of red wine for us and curled up next to Matt on the couch. Latte, of course, saw that as an invitation and jumped up on my lap almost immediately, nearly causing me to spill my wine, but I managed to save it.
Matt took control of the remote and started flipping channels. He briefly paused on a Boston Bruins hockey game, but I vetoed it, and we settled on a rerun of a sitcom we’d both seen at least ten times. In it, the main characters’ neighbor had died in some comical sitcom-style way (funny how sitcoms always seemed to make death comical even though, in my experience, it was far from it), and the couple at the center of the show was bickering about what they should take over as a show of sympathy. She said flowers. He said that flowers died, so they should take something useful. Something they could eat. Like steaks. Or donuts. The wife didn’t like that idea either, but by the time they decided what to take, I’d stopped paying attention. Because they’d given me a brilliant idea.
What do you do when someone dies? You send flowers. Or you take food to the family. And food, especially sweet baked comfort food, was my specialty.
I glanced over at Matt as he chuckled about some antic the couple was getting into. I was pretty sure if I mentioned my idea to him, he’d give me a look about bothering Pablo’s family, so I kept quiet. Besides, I wasn’t going to bother them. I was going to talk to them. Calmly. Politely. Sympathetically. And if they happened to let on who or what Pablo was afraid of, then great—I’d have a lead. But if they didn’t? Well, I’d be right back where I started, with nothing lost but some baked goods, and I had plenty of those.
We finished watching that episode then watched another and another. I yawned and rested my head against Matt’s shoulder. He kissed me on the top of my head, then my forehead, then the tip of my nose, then my lips, and then, well, I must have fallen asleep because I couldn’t say much about what happened after that.
The next morning when I woke up, my new plan was at the forefront of my mind. I just had to figure out how to arrange it. I didn’t know Pablo’s family, so I couldn’t just call them up and ask to come over, and I didn’t know where they lived, so I couldn’t just stop by unannounced either. Mike would know, or would at least be able to find out, but I didn’t think he’d look very kindly upon a request like that. In fact, I was pretty sure his reaction would include an eye roll and a stern lecture on police procedures and ethics.
I used Latte’s morning walk to think it through. Some days, we followed a set path up and down the streets closest to me, but other days, days like today, I just let him lead me wherever he wanted to go. Usually, we ended up at the park or sometimes at the beach—basically, the best places for a lengthy game of fetch. I didn’t even know if he was actually leading me or if I was subconsciously directing our path, but today we found ourselves outside Fiesta Mexicana. That would point to me having led the way, but it was also right on the beach, so I gave Latte credit for that one.
We played fetch on the beach for a long time while I kept an eye on Fiesta Mexicana. There were a few cars in the parking lot, but I wasn’t sure whether they belonged to employees who had gotten in early or to customers who had needed a ride home the night before.
When Latte finally got worn out, we sat on the beach for a little while so he could catch his breath. I pulled my shoes off and dug my toes into the sand. I loved the beach in the early morning. It was so beautiful and so peaceful. There weren’t many other people out, and the few that were there were focused on their own business—fishing, looking for shells, punishing themselves by running through the sand.
When Latte had recovered from his workout, I put his leash back on and climbed back over the dunes to find myself standing in Fiesta Mexicana’s parking lot. I stared at the building for a minute, wondering if I should give it a try. Finally, I decided it couldn’t hurt. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? I led Latte around the back to the service door. I wasn’t sure where it
led, but the kitchen seemed like a good bet. It was cracked open, so I knocked loudly then stuck my head in.
“Hello? Anyone here?” It was definitely the kitchen, and I could hear people banging around, but no one came over to me, and I couldn’t see anyone because of the angle of the door. “Hola?” I wished I’d spent more time learning Spanish from Pablo so I had more useful vocabulary to draw from. It wasn’t like I could call out a taco order and have someone come running. “Hello?”
I leaned as far in as I could without bringing Latte inside. Health code and all that. Believe me, if dogs in the kitchen weren’t a violation, I would have had Latte at the café with me all the time. Maybe I could have even found a way to train him to deliver coffee. A latte delivered by Latte. It would have been great. But the health department wouldn’t exactly look highly upon that. So Latte stayed at home, and he stayed outside while I tried to get someone to come to Fiesta Mexicana’s back door.
I was just about to call out again when I heard voices speaking rapid Spanish then footsteps coming my way. It was Bill whose head popped around the corner.
“Señorita Francesca! What are you doing here? Is there something you need I can help you with?”
“Actually, Bill, there might be,” I said, smiling warmly. “Do you have a minute to talk?”
“Sí, sí.”
I stood back, and he slipped past me out the door. His eyes almost immediately fell to Latte, and he knelt down to give him scratches behind the ears, muttering something in Spanish. I didn’t understand most of it but did catch “buen perro,” which I was pretty sure meant “good dog.” He called something into the restaurant, and within a few seconds, someone came to the door with a bowl of shredded chicken. “It’s okay?”
Even if I’d wanted to say no, Latte had already smelled the chicken and was doing his best “I’m a good dog. Please feed me.” He sat, but his tail wagged furiously, and he kept raising his paw in a desperate attempt to shake. I nodded, and Bill put the bowl down in front of Latte, who was on it in an instant.
“It’s plain, right?” I finally thought to ask. Not that there was much I could do about it now if it wasn’t.