Cappuccino Twist

by Anisa Claire West

  Conspicuously missing from the list of names were exact addresses. Instead, my grandmother had simply written down street names or neighborhood vicinities. Propping myself up on a pillow, I reflected how I truly had my work cut out for me. If any of these men were still living, they would be somewhere in their 70s---or older---and likely grandfathers with large families. How was I going to track any of them down? Shaking my head, I thought how I should have majored in criminal justice in college rather than business and finance.

  “The library,” I whispered the revelation as I remembered the library situated right next to Dario’s shop.

  Fighting back the desire for a cat nap, I took my list and marched down the street to the library. Librarians were always interested in solving mysteries, but if I couldn’t find someone to help me, then I would consult census records and methodically pinpoint each of the men on my grandmother’s list. Heading over to the Reference desk, I approached a sixty something lady with classic Spanish features: twinkling brown eyes, thick gleaming tresses, and a smile warmer than kindling.

  In Spanish, I started to explain my mission to the librarian. “Buenas tardes. I was hoping you could help me find some information. My name is Marlena Falcon and I…”

  The woman peered at me like I was a phantom incarnate. “Falcon? Falcon? You are related to Silvia Falcon?” She shrieked as her rosy cheeks turned alabaster.

  “Yes, she was my great aunt, my grandmother’s younger sister. Did you know her?” My heart thudded against my chest as the woman’s expression transformed from frightened to compassionate.

  “Yes! She babysat me when I was a child. All these years, they have never found her killer. It’s such a tragedy! Silvia was so sweet!” Tears brimmed her eyes as the old wound gushed open.

  “It’s a horrible tragedy,” I agreed gravely. “And it’s one that needs justice. That’s why I’m here in Spain. I’m trying to solve my aunt’s murder.”

  “Finally! Someone is trying to clear Silvia’s name. The police gave up on the case far too soon! They said there was no evidence and too many suspects because…” the woman hesitated before adding quietly, “because Silvia had too many men.”

  “Did you know any of these men?” I asked urgently, handing her the list written in my grandmother’s shaky handwriting.

  She shook her head in despair. “No. I was only 16 when your aunt was murdered. I didn’t know any of these people. But I will help you trace them.” The librarian pulled a chair next to her and gestured for me to sit as she clicked on a database of local residents and entered the names one by one.

  “Thank you, Señora Marquez,” I said, reading the bronze name plate on her desk.

  Browsing through the results, Señora Marquez determined that two of the men on the list were deceased. “Jorge Canton died more than 10 years ago. And David Garcia passed away just last year according to my database. But Marcelo Sanchez is alive and still living in Barcelona.” She grabbed a pencil and jotted down Marcelo’s address.

  “Thank you, but how do we know for sure that these are the right people? There could be men with the same names living all over Spain,” I pointed out, nonetheless tucking Marcelo’s address securely into my purse.

  “There could be. But you’ve only given me very vague information. The only way to know for sure is to talk to Marcelo Sanchez. As for the other two, I can give you addresses for their next of kin.” Avidly, the librarian turned her attention back to the database, searching for living relatives of Jorge Canton and David Garcia. I gazed at her attractive profile, for a moment reminded of my grandmother’s graceful but proud beauty. Swallowing a lump of sadness in my throat, I focused all my energy on the investigation that had waited half a century to begin.

  ***

  Two hours later, my eyes weary from too much time in front of the computer with Señora Marquez, I returned to my hotel for a sorely earned repose. In a daze, I passed the front desk, distantly hearing Talisa’s voice calling after me. “Señorita Falcon! Wait! You have mail!”

  Whirling around in shock, I repeated, “Mail? But no one knows where I’m staying in Barcelona.”

  “No, I mean a letter. Someone left this letter here for you.” She handed me an envelope as I eagerly tore it open, baffled about who would have left me a message.

  Feeling my knees wobble under my body weight, I silently read the two line note that had been penned in red Magic Marker:

  GO HOME. OR CHASE GHOSTS AT YOUR OWN PERIL...

  Chapter 3

  My knees kept buckling until I thought that I would collapse right there in the hotel lobby. Gripping the desk with white knuckles, I steadied myself and tried to whisper, but the sound came out as an urgent gasp, “Who left this here for me?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure. I just started my shift a few minutes ago and it was here when I arrived,” Talisa replied as she winked. “Why? Got yourself a secret admirer?”

  “No!” I shouted, turning the paper so she could read the blood shaded words.

  “Dios mio!” She cried. “Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe it’s not really for you,” she said in a hopeful rush, but as she turned the paper over, we could both clearly see the name Marlena etched in the same angry red ink.

  “It’s definitely meant for me. And I need to find out who wrote it. Doesn’t the hotel have surveillance cameras everywhere?” I prodded, looking up and pointing at one that was recording me as I spoke.

  “Yes, but so many people come in and out of the hotel every day…hundreds…sometimes even a thousand…”

  “Talisa, this is a death threat! It needs to be taken seriously! Where’s the manager?” I clutched the paper in my clammy hand, immobilized with fear. The only time I had ever left the United States was for a business trip to London. And during that excursion, I was surrounded by colleagues and clients who made me feel safe. Now, here I was in Spain, all alone and vulnerable. Immediately, the cold staring man from Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique came to mind. No one else had looked at me with such venom since I arrived in Barcelona. On the contrary, the city seemed to be full of wickedly flirtatious men whose gazes were anything but icy. But how would he know that I was in Barcelona to “chase ghosts?” No one in Barcelona knew about my quest. I shivered, starting to feel like a ghost was chasing me.

  As I was about to reach across the desk and shake Talisa’s shoulders for being so nonchalant, the lobby doors swung open and a woman rushed towards me. Eyes bulging, I recognized the reference librarian who had given me my first leads to solving the murder of Aunt Silvia.

  Breathlessly, Señora Marquez burst out, “Marlena! I hope I didn’t startle you. But I wanted to help you and go with you when you meet Marcelo Sanchez. You shouldn’t go alone.”

  With mild suspicion, I asked, “Did I tell you I was staying in this hotel?”

  “No,” the older woman replied, her breath still coming in uneven spurts, “but I saw which way you were walking when you left the library. And the Alonso Hotel is where most tourists stay in the Gothic Quarter.”

  Her explanation sounded reasonable, and I certainly had no reason to mistrust the grandmotherly figure…but I had no reason to trust her either. I shook my head at myself, worried that I was becoming neurotic far too early in the investigation. If absolutely necessary, I could have a nervous breakdown later on, after the murder was solved. But not before.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I have startled you. I just want to help,” she said, reaching over and patting me on the hand. “Your hands are freezing!”

  “Yes, you’ve caught me at a bad time,” I said sullenly, handing her the note.

  “Ah, this is terrible! Who wrote this?” She shrieked, dropping the note on the desk like it was on fire.

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I said, turning back to Talisa who had finally picked up the telephone.

  Apologetically, she looked up from the phone and informed me, “The manager isn’t on duty right now. He’ll be in this evening.”

  �
�Isn’t there another manager around? Or a supervisor even?” I huffed in frustration.

  She threw her hands up helplessly and shook her head. “Sorry. All the managers are in an executive meeting today.”

  I groaned. I knew all about those executive meetings that take place in posh conference rooms with expensive catered luncheons and nothing but baloney passing between employees. My sales job had required that I attend at least one of those pointless pow-wows on a weekly basis.

  “Fine,” I snapped. “I’ll deal with this later. For now, I want to track down Marcelo Sanchez.”

  “Why don’t we go back to the library and call him?” Señora Marquez suggested. “It might be safer to call him from there rather than your hotel where someone is already watching you.”

  “Call him? I’m not going to call him. I’m going to show up on his doorstep. Why should I let him know I’m coming? He could plan not to be home. Or he could start plotting a story to tell me if in fact he did have anything to do with my aunt’s murder,” I pointed out sharply.

  “Murder?” Talisa echoed, finally catching some of my jitters.

  Walking away from the front desk so the clerk wouldn’t hear the rest of my conversation, I looked Señora Marquez directly in the eyes. Based on her eyes alone, I felt that the woman had a good soul. The warmth in her eyes was the polar opposite of the chill I had glimpsed in the glaring stranger’s. Plus, she knew Barcelona far better than I did. It would help to have a native guide me to the suspect’s house.

  “How do we get to this address?” I asked, pulling out the slip of paper with Marcelo Sanchez’s house number printed on it.

  “Very easy. It’s a 5 minute drive from here. Come, we’ll take my car.”

  ***

  The first thing that struck me as odd was how the old man’s house wasn’t a house at all. It was a tiny apartment inside a multi-story building that we call ‘human filing cabinets’ in Manhattan. The next thing that struck me as unusual was the appearance of the old man as he immediately opened the door to my tentative knock, almost as though he had been waiting all day for company. His face was long and haggard, and his silver hair was straggly as it fell in knots around his skinny shoulders.

  “Marcelo Sanchez?” I presumed as the frail figure nodded eagerly.

  “Si, señorita! I am Marcelo Sanchez!” The octogenarian replied with such ferocious eagerness that I thought he would pull me bodily into his apartment.

  Moistening my dry lips with the tip of my tongue, I suddenly wondered how I was going to go about this face to face interview. The man seemed so desperate for company---and so delicate---that I was afraid I might give him a stroke if I told him the reason for my visit. So, I started out slowly, hoping to ease him into my line of questioning.

  “May we come inside?” I asked, thinking how no one in his right mind in New York would let two strangers in even if they were harmless looking women.

  “Well, yes, I hope you do!” The old man chuckled as he slowly moved out of the way so we could step inside. His back was slightly hunched, and I wondered how many years it had been since he was able to stand up straight.

  I walked into his apartment with the librarian close behind me. It all felt like a scene from the Twilight Zone: waltzing into a stranger’s apartment with another stranger I had only met hours earlier, all in the name of finding justice for a long ago crime covered in cobwebs and an impenetrable film of dust.

  “Have a seat, ladies. This must be my lucky day,” he commented with an endearingly goofy smile as I questioned his state of mind. Was the man senile and would he be able to answer my questions accurately? Moreover, would he even remember Aunt Silvia?

  Señora Marquez nudged me gently on the arm as though to say, ‘Well? Get started! Ask him something!’ But instead of waiting for me to speak, the pushy librarian announced, “We’re here to ask you some questions about a murder that took place in Barcelona 52 years ago.” I wanted to smack my hand over her big mouth, but I didn’t have a chance to react to her outburst as the old man started to tremble from across the room.

  “Are you talking about my Silvia?” He asked in a tormented voice as I overflowed with compassion for him.

  “Yes, I’m her great-niece, and I’ve come to Spain to get information from anyone who knew her,” I quickly explained, not wanting him to shut down and think he was a suspect…even though of course he still was, as much as I pitied him.

  Marcelo Sanchez hobbled over to me and stared me in the eyes, scanning my face as though trying to find some trace of Silvia in my features. “You do have her eyes. And the bridge of her nose. Ah, why have you come back to haunt me? What have I done? This is not my lucky day at all!” Tears pooled in his crinkly eyelids as I struggled to remain business-like and extract all the information I could from him.

  “I’m sorry, Señor Sanchez. I’m definitely not trying to haunt you. I just want to get some information about Silvia…I promised my grandmother…”

  “Margarita?” He cried out as I nodded fervently.

  “Yes, my grandmother Margarita passed away two weeks ago, and I promised her I would come to Barcelona and finally get justice for Silvia.”

  “Ah, everyone around me is dying! I remember your grandmother when she was a young lady of your age! But everyone is leaving me behind! Why?” The man sailed off on a tangent as I glanced nervously at Señora Marquez, then frowned. Her eyes were alight, and she seemed to be enjoying the dramatic spectacle.

  “So you knew my grandmother too?” I coaxed, trying to lead him back to the subject at hand.

  “Of course! I used to see her every night when I picked up Silvia for our dates! Silvia was my girl for two years, you know! I wanted to marry her, but she left me for another man.” The old man’s face crumpled in despair as I raised my eyebrows. Did he realize that he had just incriminated himself by revealing that my aunt had rejected him for someone else? But no, he seemed so tangled up in his buried emotions that he was unaware of anything except the memories flooding his mind.

  “Who did she leave you for?” I ventured. “Was his name Jorge or David?” I asked as gently as I could.

  “It was Jorge,” he seethed bitterly. “I’ll never forget that name. But I refuse to hear it in mi casa! Please, you must be witches both of you, please leave me in peace now. I will call the police if you don’t get out of here!” An agonizing blend of jealousy and despondence racked his frame as he limped over to the door and gestured for us to leave.

  Interrogating the man any further would be futile and possibly fatal, so I ran through the door with the librarian following leisurely. As soon as she had stepped outside, he slammed the door so hard that it rattled like the bones of a skeleton.

  “Well that was a disaster,” I said, still furious with the prying woman for having divulged our intentions so soon.

  Reading my mind, she said, “It’s all my fault! I shouldn’t have said anything. I just wanted to help.” Her face betrayed an expression of shame as she asked quietly, “So where do you go from here?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied honestly. “The information he gave us certainly doesn’t eliminate him as a suspect. But even if he is the murderer, it’s obvious that he would never confess.” I sighed deeply. “I guess it’s time to roll the dice and go to the next name on the list.”

  Chapter 4

  Fifteen minutes later, the librarian curved her car into the local police station. “Thanks for driving me here,” I clipped, grabbing the threatening note and preparing to march it into the station.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” She asked with hopeful eyes.

  “No, you’ve done enough already,” I replied with no small amount of irony. “But thank you, Señora Marquez. I really appreciate the ride.”

  “Come back to the library if you need anything!” She urged, tugging on the sleeve of my tee shirt as I reflexively pulled away.

  “Okay, I will,” I fibbed, making my way out of her car.

  I didn
’t need to look behind me to know that she hadn’t pulled away and was watching me walk into the police station. Why was she taking the case so personally? Could my Aunt Silvia have been that memorable of a babysitter? Or was Señora Marquez just a bored busybody with nothing else to do?

  Forgetting the strange bird for the time being, I stepped up to the dispatch desk and explained my situation in a long-winded monologue that made the attendant so flustered I wondered if her head would start spinning like in a scene from The Exorcist. “And this is the note.” I finally exhaled as I passed the paper underneath a slit below the bulletproof glass.

  “Uno momento, por favor,” she said sternly, lifting up the phone and conveying an abridged version of my epic story.

  “Is a police officer going to meet with me?” I asked as she hung up the phone.

  “Yes. Have a seat,” she replied curtly, turning her attention to a soap opera magazine and flipping mindlessly through the pages.

  Too restless to sit, I paced through the waiting area, longing for a cup of coffee until a police officer finally came out to greet me. Long, attractive, and no more than 30 years old, Officer Calderon towered over me and held out his hand. Confused, I reached out my own hand to shake his as he chuckled. “Hand me the note, please,” he requested as I felt like a huge fool.

  “Oh! Yes, here it is.” I closely examined his rugged tan face as he read the note, but his features bore no reaction whatsoever.

  “This isn’t a death threat, señorita. Seems like more of a prank to me.” He shrugged and handed me the note as I burned like scalding espresso.

  “What do you mean it’s not a death threat?” I cried.

  “Nothing explicit is written in the note. It just says ‘Go home. Or chase ghosts at your own peril.’ Those words could be interpreted in a million ways. Plus, the note only has your first name printed on it. We don’t even know for sure that it was intended for you. You’re not the only Marlena in Spain.” His relaxed demeanor infuriated me even more as I battled to stay in control and not get myself into worse trouble by mouthing off to the arrogant cop.