Cappuccino Twist

by Anisa Claire West

  “Just because the note doesn’t explicitly say ‘I’m going to kill you,’ doesn’t mean it’s not a death threat! Anyone can read between the lines and understand the implied message,” I argued as he pressed his lips together in an expression of disagreement.

  “I’m sorry, señorita. There’s nothing we can do about this note. Again, like I said, we can’t even verify whether the note was intended for you.”

  “Listen, that note was meant for me. I’m absolutely sure of it. Because I am chasing ghosts here in Spain. I’m trying to solve the murder of Silvia Falcon.” Searching the officer’s deep-set eyes for a flicker of recognition, I found none. Of course not. He had still been a generation away from birth when my aunt was killed. I needed to speak to a veteran member of the police department, someone who would vividly remember the aftermath of the crime. “Is there a senior officer here I can speak with?” I demanded impatiently, flaming as the officer smirked at my request.

  “Any officer is going to tell you the same thing, señorita. I suggest you just relax and enjoy your time in Barcelona. Forget about prank notes and ghosts and murder mysteries.” Offering this piece of condescending advice, Officer Calderon disappeared down the corridor, leaving me back at square one with a threatening note, a ridiculously complicated case to solve, and no support system whatsoever. Drawing on an image of my grandmother, I steeled myself against a fresh wave of tears and held my chin high as I left the police station.

  ***

  Bright and too early the next morning, I was back in my apron uniform at Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique. My sleep had been fitful as I kept checking the peephole of my hotel room door to make sure no one was lurking in the hall and about to break in. Even with a deadbolt and double chain lock, I didn’t feel secure. The only “weapon” I carried with me was a Swiss Army knife earned on a Girl Scout camping trip when I was 12. The paper-thin scissors and half inch blade certainly wouldn’t offer me much protection against an intruder.

  “What are you doing, Marlena? This customer wants a double cinnamon latte with skim milk and a sugar straw!” Dario barked at me, whipping me out of my thoughts and back to an equally dreary reality. Unfortunately for me, Dario had decided to rule in person over his dominion that day, and I needed to put up a convincing façade that I actually knew how to brew a cup of gourmet coffee.

  Frazzled, I grabbed the cinnamon shaker and poured it liberally over a hot latte as Dario hawked me from steps away. Sugar straw? What the hell is that? Frantically, I searched for the edible accessory while Dario scolded me harshly.

  “Skim latte, Marlena! Are you deaf?” He hissed just loud enough for my co-workers to hear. “That’s whole milk!”

  “I’ll take care of this. You work the register, Marlena,” Luz intervened kindly as I gave her a grateful look warmer than baked bread.

  “I’m questioning your credentials, Marlena,” Dario said accusingly. “You won’t last very long here if you can’t make coffee.”

  “Sorry. Guess I’m just a little rusty,” I apologized. Never before had I lied to get a job. How ironic that I could reach the executive level in New York without exaggerating a single detail and the only way I could get a job as a barista in Spain was by concocting a whole web of lies. Had my grandmother known what she was getting me into when she made me promise to avenge her sister’s death? Maybe this whole experience was a crash course in channeling inner strength, and Nana had known how difficult my mission would be yet had faith in my capabilities.

  Mercifully, Dario stepped out for a cigarette break that lasted the better part of the morning as I relaxed and managed the cash register. Pouring myself a robust Viennese roast and downing it without any cream or sugar, I watched with mild interest as the handsome man with the clipboard walked through the door.

  “What did you say his name was?” I whispered to Luz as she smiled. “Eduardo?”

  “Yeah, Eduardo. Cute, isn’t he?” She jabbed me playfully in the arm.

  “No, that’s not what I was thinking,” I denied as my nose grew to Pinocchio length.

  “Why don’t you offer him a cup of coffee on the house?” She suggested, clearly not believing me.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m not offering him anything,” I said sharply. Romance was the last item on my agenda…if it was even on the agenda at all. I hadn’t had time for a man when I was an executive in Manhattan, and I certainly didn’t have time for one as a hard working sleuth in Barcelona. But I had to admit that Eduardo was attractive, in a dangerous leading man sort of way. And what was I? A plain Jane in an apron and tennis shoes while a sea of Spanish beauties glided by in designer fashion and strappy heels.

  “I’m going to talk to him for you!” Luz said excitedly as my eyes widened in horror.

  “No you’re not! Stop it! Look, I’m not your age, okay? I’m 29, not 19 and I’m not going to let you make a fool of me! Besides, didn’t you say he’s always talking to blondes? I’m probably not even his type.”

  Luz giggled and shrugged her shoulders. “I guess you really do like him!”

  “How can I like him? I’ve only seen him twice and I’ve never even spoken to him,” I protested as her giggles became louder, eventually erupting into a giant hiccup that startled the whole shop.

  “Are you happy now?” I asked with a smirk as she blushed.

  “I had too much Danish this morning,” she said sheepishly, returning to her post at the cappuccino machine and leaving me in peace.

  My shift ended without any further harassment from Dario or Luz as I trudged back to the hotel for an afternoon siesta. Cautiously, I looked around me on the street, afraid that the man with soulless eyes would appear at any moment and unnerve me with another frigid glare. My gut told me that he was the one who had penned the threatening note. But I had no explanation as to why he would do it, who he was, or how he could possibly know who I was.

  Talisa waved to me as I walked past the front desk, but I ignored her, still angry from how callously she had treated me the day before. Inside my room, I clamored for the Queen size bed and threw myself onto the lumpy mattress. Instead of shutting my eyes and catching some sorely needed zzz’s, I reached for my grandmother’s envelope and reinspected the contents, hoping I would notice something I had overlooked.

  There was nothing new to be found on the list, just the name of a miserable old man and the monikers of two dead men whose families I still had to track down. The idea of employing Señora Marquez’s help again was less than appealing, but so far she was the only person in Barcelona who had shown any interest in assisting me. So I couldn’t rule her out just yet, as irritating and overbearing as the woman was.

  The newspaper clipping practically disintegrated in my hands as I strained to read the faded words. May 2, 1962. Mere days after my aunt had been murdered. Squinting until I was sure I would give myself cataracts, I read the vague words of the article. Then, I jumped in surprise, noting two sentences in the article that had been underlined in fresh blue ink.

  Chapter 5

  The ink color was an exact match with the handwritten list my grandmother had provided. And the underline was squiggly as if someone with a shaky hand had struggled to trace a straight line. In my jetlagged haze, I must not have noticed the key information that Nana had highlighted for me:

  Silvia Falcon was found murdered late Saturday night in her home. At this time, the investigation is ongoing and police are not revealing any further details about the manner of death.

  I let the words marinate in my mind for a few moments as I tried to conjecture why my grandmother had underlined those two particular sentences. It didn’t take me long to deduce that she had wanted to emphasize how no further information had been revealed, which meant that the general public didn’t know if my aunt had been stabbed or strangled…or smothered, which is the scenario that I knew to be true. So if one of the suspects let it slip during my interrogation that he had smothered Silvia to death, that would be the equivalent of a confession becaus
e only the immediate family like my grandmother had been notified about the manner of death!

  Furious with myself for diving into the investigation without a life vest, I wished that I could erase my meeting with Marcelo Sanchez and do it all over again. The right way. Organized, methodical, patient…not like some overeager amateur who just hopped off a plane and was still operating on East Coast time. I contemplated returning to the man’s house to try to extract more information, but his threat of calling the police was like a Beware of Dog sign warning me not to tangle with the Doberman Pinscher beyond the fence.

  I blew out a frustrated breath, brainstorming how I would get Marcelo Sanchez to talk to me again. Undeniably, it would be foolhardy to go back to his apartment today with the disastrous meeting still fresh in his mind. But maybe if I waited a week or so, his short-term memory would fail him and it would be like he was meeting me for the first time. Tucking this idea away, I turned to the second name on my list: Jorge Canton. Although he was no longer living, perhaps his family would talk to me. I glanced at the address that Señora Marquez had printed for me. The residence belonged to a woman named Jacinta Canton, presumably Jorge’s daughter or perhaps granddaughter. It was a shot in the dark, but that’s all I was armed with at this point. Gathering my composure and resolving to approach this next interview more professionally, I scurried out of my hotel room and down to the curb to hail a taxi.

  ***

  In stark opposition to Marcelo Sanchez’s humble abode, Jacinta Canton’s home resembled a Spanish palace. The garden was lined with lush flowers and whispering trees, and the three story house boasted two verandas with wicker patio furniture. A neon blue Mercedes Benz was parked in the winding driveway. Through the home’s broad bay window in front, I could see a young woman relaxing in an Ottoman with a book cradled in her hands. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure the taxi driver was waiting like I had asked him to do, I lifted the heavy brass knocker and tapped it against the front door three times. Nervously, I waited for someone to answer the door, trying not to dwell on how astronomical my cab bill would be if the interview turned into a lengthy visit. But that notion was nothing more than billowing smoke in an absurd funhouse of mirrors because no one answered the door.

  Craning my neck, I could see that the young woman with the book had risen from her chair, and I could even hear her light footsteps behind the door, but she didn’t admit me entrance. Again, I knocked on the door, determined to speak with her and at least obtain some morsel of information. But my knocks went unanswered for several frustrating minutes until I decided I better leave before she had me arrested for trespassing. If the young woman was all alone in the house, then I could certainly understand why she wouldn’t want to answer the door. Shifting into Plan B mode, I vowed to return to the library---when Señora Marquez wasn’t on duty---and find Jacinta Canton’s phone number. Most likely the number would be private. Someone of her wealth wouldn’t likely be sharing her contact information with the world. In that case, I would roll out Plan C and find another relative of Jorge Canton.

  But all of those complications would have to wait, I decided as I walked back to the taxi and asked the surprised driver to take me to my hotel. I couldn’t stall the investigation at the second name on my list. No, I had to move on to David Garcia who, as Aunt Silvia’s illicit lover rather than boyfriend, might be the most likely suspect of all.

  As the taxi pulled up to my hotel, I lingered outside the doors, not ready to retire to my room and spend countless hours in that airless atmosphere. Instead, I started to stroll aimlessly, exploring Barcelona for the first time as a tourist rather than a detective. The whole city struck me as a work of art, and I could understand why it was a haven for painters, sculptors, and other creative souls. Spanish sunlight beamed down on my face, soothing my constantly edgy nerves and making me happy in that shining moment just to be alive.

  In my reverie state, I didn’t realize that someone was standing right in front of me trying to catch my attention. “Aren’t you the new girl from the coffee shop?” A delightfully masculine voice inquired.

  Emerging from my fog, I looked up into the handsome face of Eduardo whose strong features were even more appealing in close proximity. In his toned arms, he carried that mysterious clipboard. “Yes. Hi, I’m Marlena.”

  “Eduardo. Nice to meet you, Marlena. You’ve definitely been brightening up that dull place,” he flattered as I resisted the urge to blurt out, really? More than the blonde roast you were chatting up?

  “Thanks.” I lowered my eyelashes and focused on his clipboard. “What’s that thing all about?”

  “Ah, my clipboard? Yeah, I work for the Environmental Protection Agency. We’re trying to get signatures for a petition.”

  Now my interest was piqued. A beautiful man who cared about the environment? Just the thought made me want to swear off styrofoam coffee cups and invest in a ceramic mug. “What kind of petition?”

  He pointed to a playground across the street. “See that park right there? Kids---and adults--- have been playing there since before you and I were born. But some real estate moguls want to build a new condo complex there and get rid of the park.”

  “Oh that’s awful! Here, let me sign your petition.” I reached out my hand and accepted the pen he offered me. As a New Yorker, issues like these were close to my heart as there was always some Donald Trump wannabe trying to impede on our limited open spaces and construct some new mega money maker.

  “Great! Thank you, Marlena. Where are you from anyway?” He asked curiously.

  I gazed up at him in surprise. “How come you don’t think I’m from Spain?” I asked, slightly offended.

  “Well, you definitely look Spanish. But there’s a little accent in your voice. Not much. But it’s there,” he explained as I grinned.

  “Okay, fair enough. I’m from New York, but my whole family came from Spain.”

  “Are your parents in New York too?” He asked innocently as my eyes clouded over with suppressed grief.

  “No,” I said quietly. I couldn’t bring myself to articulate how I had never known my father and how my mother had vanished like Houdini when I was 7 years old. Couldn’t bear to explain why I had taken my grandmother’s last name, Falcon, because she was the only one who had truly cared for me during my lonely childhood.

  “Oh, okay,” Eduardo said before mercifully changing the subject. “Well since you’re from New York, could I give you a little tour of Barcelona? I’ve been here all my life and know all the best places to see.”

  The single woman in me wanted to say yes, but the grieving granddaughter wouldn’t let her. Touring Barcelona with Eduardo would be a pleasant diversion, but that was the problem. Spending time with a man I found almost irresistibly attractive would derail me from my purpose for being in Spain. And I simply couldn’t let that happen.

  “Maybe another day. Thanks,” I softened my rejection like a doughy biscuit. “I have some things I need to do today.”

  “Okay. Another day it is,” Eduardo replied with a genial smile. “Thanks for signing the petition. I’ll see you around!” He waved to me as he walked away, immediately approaching a passing mother pushing a stroller and launching into a speech about saving the park.

  I tried not to stare at him as I walked away, my plans for exploring the city abandoned. The idea of walking around Barcelona by myself no longer seemed like much fun. Hungry for companionship and conversation, I regretted not accepting Eduardo’s offer. Another day it is. I hoped with all my foolishly fluttering heart that he meant those words.

  ***

  Speeding past the front desk inside the hotel, I grabbed a cup of coffee from the buffet on the way to my room. One horrid sip and I wanted to spit it out like seeds at a summer watermelon contest. Ugh. The coffee must have been sitting in the pot since dawn. Why hadn’t I grabbed a real cup on my way back to the hotel? Grabbing a shortbread cookie from the buffet to wash out the horrendous taste, I opted to take the stairs to my
room. Walking a couple of blocks around the city wasn’t enough exercise for me. Accustomed to intense kickboxing workouts to flush out my stress in New York, I settled for a race up the stairs and a sprint down the corridor.

  The magnetic key card turned green as I slid the door open and slipped inside, just a little winded from my sprint. Plunking my purse down on the armoire, I noticed a sheet of paper lying on the carpet a few inches away from the door. Had I dropped something on my way out earlier?

  Picking up the paper, I almost passed out as the words computed in my head:

  STILL HERE? GLUTTON FOR PUNISHMENT?

  Feeling like I was about to have a seizure, I tossed the paper away from me. Just the sight and the touch of it made me frightened. Had someone been in my room or was someone hiding in my room still? Hastily, I yanked the door open and ran outside, my breath more ragged than it could ever get from the most strenuous kickboxing workout. I raced towards the elevator, afraid to be alone in the stairwell. As the elevator plunged down to the lobby, I contemplated how the passive-aggressive note had realistically gotten there. Maybe someone hadn’t been in my room. Maybe someone had just slipped the note under the door. That seemed to be the more logical explanation, but it was little comfort to me. The fact remained that someone was stalking me and trying to bully me out of Spain. The first note at the front desk had already deeply disturbed me, but finding another mere steps away from where I slept was beyond alarming.

  Rushing to the front desk, I tried to discern the face of the clerk, but it belonged to an employee I had never seen before. “Call the police!” I exclaimed as he peered at me oddly. “Please! You have to take me seriously! Call the police, damn it!”