by Harper Lin
“That’s the best latte Christmas tree I’ve ever seen,” she said. “I almost don’t want to mess it up by drinking it.”
“It tastes even better than it looks.”
She took a sip, skewing the Christmas tree slightly. She nodded as she put it down. “That’s exactly what I needed.” She glanced at the cookie case. “And actually, I think I need one of those snowflake cookies too.”
I slid open the display case and pulled out one of the snowflake-shaped sugar cookies that Sammy had iced in an intricate geometric pattern then dusted with white and silver edible glitter. They were outstandingly pretty. “Do you want it in a bag?”
“Oh, no. I need to eat it before I get home, or I might as well buy a dozen. You’d think we never feed those boys the way they attack anything I bring in the house.”
I handed her the cookie, and she immediately took a bite. She groaned as she chewed on it. “Now, that is a good cookie.”
“Anything else?”
“Oh, I should probably get an Americano for Dan.”
I made her an Americano then put both drinks in a drink carrier for her.
“Oh, what the heck. I guess you may as well give me a dozen cookies. The boys will feel left out if I bring something for their dad and not for them.”
“Christmas presents don’t count?” I asked.
She laughed. “Only on Christmas day.”
I selected a variety of the cookies—gingerbread men and Christmas trees, sugar cookie snowflakes and candy canes, plus a few others, all gorgeously decorated—and handed it to her.
“All right.” She paid and picked everything up. “I’d better go before one of the boys texts to find out where I am.”
“They won’t ask Dan?”
“Oh, no, of course not. That would make way too much sense. They’re probably both hidden up in their rooms, texting or playing video games. But even if they’re not, neither of them actually talks anymore—they just grunt.” She sighed. “You know, when your kids are babies, people joke with you that you can’t wait for them to start talking and then, once they do, you can’t wait for them to stop. And you know what? They’re right. A kid can wear you out like you wouldn’t believe asking ‘why’ every three seconds. But the thing they don’t tell you is that, once they get to be teenagers, they turn into modern cavemen, just pointing and grunting all the time. I’d gladly trade that nonstop chatter they used to do as toddlers for this caveman phase they’re in now.” She shook her head then held up the bag of cookies. “If I’m lucky, these’ll get me a ‘Thanks, Mom.’” She sighed again. “Oh well. They’ll grow out of it. I’ll see you girls Monday!”
Sammy and I watched her leave.
“What were we talking about?” I asked her after Rhonda was gone.
“Have you thought about getting involved in the investigation?” she asked.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not what we were talking about.”
“I know, but I started thinking about it while you and Rhonda were talking.”
“You said it yourself,” I said. “The police already have a suspect. They don’t need my help.” A split second went by before I thought of something else. “Besides, I’ve had enough of amateur police work.”
Sammy nodded, but I could see on her face that she was still thinking about it.
I didn’t want to talk about it anymore, though, so I went back to what we really had been talking about before Rhonda came in. “So we decided on four dozen gingerbread and three dozen sugar cookies for tomorrow, right? Any particular shapes you want?”
“People seem to like the snowflakes. And the snowmen. And the Christmas trees.”
“And the ornaments and the gingerbread men and the houses and—”
Sammy laughed. “Yeah, I guess they’re all pretty popular.”
“I’ll just make a bunch of different ones. Whatever fits best on the cookie sheet.”
“Sounds good.” She looked over at the big wrought iron clock on the exposed brick wall across from us. “Oh, I need to go.”
She hurried to the back for her coat and bag, then we said goodbye and she left.
A few hours later, just before closing, Matt and I were alone in the café. I was baking cookies, and Matt was keeping me company. It was partly him just being a sweet boyfriend—something that came naturally to him—and partly that I was still a little anxious about walking home by myself at night after I’d been followed during the last police investigation I’d gotten myself involved in back before Thanksgiving. It worked out for both of us—I didn’t have to walk alone, and Matt got all the cookies and other goodies he could eat.
I was just about to tell Matt to go ahead and lock the door when it swung open. In with a cold gust of wind came Mrs. D’Angelo.
“Francesca, darling! Have you heard the news?” She was standing in front of me, gripping my arms with her long clawlike red fingernails, almost before I realized she’d come in. For an older woman, she was fast. “Did Matteo tell you? Matteo, have you heard?” I didn’t think I’d ever heard her call anyone anything but their full names. I was Francesca, Matt was Matteo, and Sammy was Samantha. Always.
“I heard about the murder, yes, Mrs. D’Angelo,” I managed to get in. With Mrs. D’Angelo, it wasn’t always easy.
“No, not the murder, Francesca! Of course you’ve heard about that! No, the news! They’ve made an arrest!”
“Already?”
“That Michael Stanton is so good at his job! I wasn’t sure about him—didn’t know if he’d ever amount to anything back when you all were growing up, but he’s really made something of himself. Really done well. And that Sandra. He did well to marry her. His parents should be proud of him for landing a lovely girl like her. Their children are just precious too. What are their names again? Oh, I don’t know. I can never remember! So many little ones running around these days, it’s hard for me to remember all their names. But that’s neither here nor there. I do need to be getting along. I’ve been dealing with preparations for the Ladies’ Auxiliary’s Christmas luncheon all day, and I’m positively exhausted! Good night, Francesca! Good night, Matteo!” She bustled back toward the door, leaving me with what I was sure were deep-red crescents in my arms where she had held them. I realized she hadn’t said whom the police actually arrested.
“Mrs. D’Angelo!” I called.
“Yes, Francesca?” She whirled back around at the door. For a second, I thought she was going to come back over and re-embed her nails in my upper arms, but mercifully, she stayed where she was.
“You said the police made an arrest. Who was it?”
“Oh!” she said. “You’ll never believe it! Ann Crowsdale, dear!” And before I could say anything else, she was gone, leaving nothing but her news and a cloud of her heavy floral perfume in her wake.
Chapter 5
THE MOOD in the café the next day was unusually subdued. The excited, gossipy hum from the day before had been completely replaced by a hushed murmur. People were stunned that Ann Crowsdale had been arrested. I overheard more than one person say that they couldn’t believe it, that she wouldn’t do such a thing, that she was incapable of it. I even heard someone say once or twice that they thought the police had it wrong.
I didn’t know Ann Crowsdale personally, but by all accounts, she was a lovely woman. Well, lovely, that was, except for the thing about possibly being a murderer. I did know Mike Stanton, though, the Cape Bay Police Department’s lead detective. He was the lucky one who got to investigate all the most serious crimes—the murders, the assaults, the art thefts. Despite butting heads with him a few times over me getting involved with his cases, or maybe because of that, I knew he was a good detective and not prone to jumping to conclusions. If Mike had arrested Ann Crowsdale, it was because he had good evidence that she did it.
That didn’t make much difference to all the people who knew and loved her and didn’t believe—or want to believe—that she was a murderer, my staff included. Sammy’s eye
s were rimmed in red, and she was far from her normal bubbly self. She was helping the customers, but her smile was gone. Becky seemed aimless and distracted. She was doing her job but with none of her usual spark and verve. The two of them barely acknowledged me when I came in, with Sammy just giving me a wan smile and Becky a half-hearted wave. Sammy had decorated the cookies I’d made the night before, and they were well done, but they had none of the details she usually included—no sugar crystal sprinkles, no edible glitter, no fine piping that astounded me with its delicacy. Clearly, they were taking Ann Crowsdale’s arrest hard.
When I got the chance, shortly after I noticed a customer had to ask her twice for napkins that she normally would have given them with their order, I pulled Sammy into the back room to talk to her. I wasn’t upset with her—just concerned about how distracted she seemed.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Sammy drew in a long, deep breath and then let it out quickly. She bit her lip and stared into space somewhere over my shoulder. Finally, she looked at me. “Yeah, I’m just—I just—” She sighed. “I’m just a little upset about Mrs. Crowsdale. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be letting it affect my work like this. I’ll do better.”
“Sammy, I’m not mad at you. I genuinely want to know if you’re okay.”
She nodded unenthusiastically. “Yeah, I am. I mean, I guess.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She shrugged.
I weighed my options. On the one hand, I wanted her to know that I was there for her if she wanted to talk. I knew from experience that Sammy, always so sweet and compassionate and concerned for other people, sometimes needed a little push to open up because she didn’t want to burden other people with her problems. On the other hand, I hadn’t actually known her well for all that long, and I didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable.
“Sammy, I’m your friend,” I said, deciding that was encouraging enough if she needed a little push and neutral enough if she really didn’t want to share.
She stopped studying our shoes and looked up at me. “Fran, it’s just that—” She took a deep, shaky breath. “Mrs. Crowsdale was my favorite teacher. By far. She never made me feel bad that I wasn’t a very good writer or I didn’t like to read Shakespeare. She helped me find books I do like to read. She encouraged me to try out for the school plays. She listened whenever I had some teenage problem that I thought was impossible for adults to understand and I could never solve. She was like a mentor. And it wasn’t just me. She did—still does—more to help her students than any other teacher I’ve ever seen. And she organizes the blood drives and the food drives and the toy drives for kids at Christmas.” Her voice broke, and she choked back a sob. “This is the most important week for the toy drive. Who’s going to coordinate everything if she’s in jail? What if she doesn’t get out in time for Christmas? Her husband—her kids—” Sammy covered her face and started crying.
I rubbed her arm and then pulled her into a hug until she calmed down a little.
“I’m sorry,” she said, leaning against the edge of the desk.
“Don’t be. It sounds like she’s a really lovely person, and this has to be a shock.”
Sammy nodded. “I just don’t see how she could have done it. It’s not like her. Not to be angry or violent or anything like that.”
“Have you found out anything about how Veronica Underwood was killed?”
Sammy sniffled. “She was hit in the temple with a tire iron. In the school parking lot. But I just can’t believe that Mrs. Crowsdale would do something like that. I won’t believe it.”
“Sammy, the police wouldn’t have arrested her if they didn’t have good evidence that she did it.”
“I don’t care what the police have! Mrs. Crowsdale wouldn’t have done something like that. She couldn’t have. It’s just not who she is!”
I wanted to tell her that people do surprising things sometimes, things you’d never believe or expect, and for reasons that don’t necessarily make sense to other people. I wanted to say that you never really know what people are capable of until they show you. But I realized it wasn’t the place or the time. Whether Mrs. Crowsdale had done it or not, Sammy was upset, and my job as her friend was to support her.
“Have you talked to Ryan about it?”
“He won’t talk about it. He says it’s because it’s an active case, but I think he just doesn’t want to. I tried to tell him that Mrs. Crowsdale wouldn’t do something like that, but—” She shrugged. “He says it was Mike’s call.” She sniffled again. “I should get back to work.”
I looked at Sammy’s teary eyes and mascara-streaked face. “Do you want to go ahead and take a break for a few minutes? Maybe splash some cold water on your face?”
“Do I look that bad?” she asked.
“No, just—” I drew imaginary tear streaks down my cheeks with my fingers.
Sammy grimaced. “I guess maybe I should take a couple of minutes.”
“I’ll go help Becky. But if you want to talk more later, or if you need an extra break or two, just let me know, okay?”
“Thanks, Fran. You’re a good friend.”
I walked out into the café and quickly stepped aside so Becky could walk by me with a tray of drinks.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! What’s that?” I asked, looking down at what looked like a very small cup of plain coffee.
“It’s an espresso?” Becky said, or asked if you went by her inflection.
“But it has no crema. How long has that been sitting? You can’t serve an espresso with no crema.”
I didn’t think the tone in my voice was anything other than matter-of-fact, but Becky looked up at me, her eyes wide, and started sobbing. She pushed the tray into me and ran into the back room, banging the door closed behind her.
I stood there in shock for a few seconds before I realized that everyone in the café—and I do mean everyone—was staring at me. I tried to smile, even as I felt a flush creeping up my cheeks. “Sorry about that!” I announced to the café. “She’s just having a rough day. Now whose drinks do I have here? It looks like a latte, a cappuccino, an espresso—” A table at the far end of the café raised their hands. Of course. Because the one time all of my customers think I’m an ogre who makes my employees cry, I have to walk past every single one of them to deliver what I was afraid were going to be cold drinks. I took a deep breath and made my way down to the table.
“Okay, I have a cappuccino—”
A man raised his hand, and I passed it to him.
“A latte?” I noticed Becky hadn’t even poured a rosetta into the latte’s crema. It wasn’t necessarily something I required my staff to do, but I felt that we were known for details like that, so I was a little bit disappointed that Becky had overlooked it, especially since I knew she’d been practicing her pour. I passed the latte to the woman who raised her hand.
I looked at the remaining man at the table. “And I’m so sorry, but this espresso has been sitting longer than I’d like it to, so I’m going to get you a fresh one.” I looked at his two companions. “And if either of you aren’t satisfied with your drinks, let me know, and I’ll make you fresh ones also. My name is Fran, and I’m the owner. Please feel free to ask me if you need anything.”
I went back behind the counter to make the man a fresh espresso then delivered it to the table along with a pile of cookies for their trouble. I checked in at several tables to make sure everyone was okay then went to the door into the back room. I was actually a little surprised that it was unlocked.
I tapped on the door and poked my head in. Becky was sitting at the table, her head down, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Sammy sat next to her, rubbing her back.
“Can I come in?” I asked. It felt a little strange asking if I could enter my own office, but it was a strange day.
Sammy looked up at me and nodded.
I pulled up a chair and sat down next to Becky. “Are you okay?”
She looked up
at me. Her eyes were puffy and red, and she had mascara rivers down her cheeks. If Sammy hadn’t already cleaned herself up, they would have been twins. She sniffled and nodded. “Yeah, I’m just—I’m just really upset about Mrs. Crowsdale,” she said through her sobs. “And now you’re mad at me.”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“But I screwed up the drinks! I let that espresso sit too long, and I forgot to put the art in the latte!” She dropped her head and sobbed on my shoulder.
I patted her back awkwardly. I was getting used to managing teenage girls and had dealt with a few tears a couple of times before, but this level of crying was new to me. Well, not the crying itself—I’d shed more than a few hysterical tears when my mother passed away a few months earlier—but having my employee cry like that on my shoulder was completely new. It had been fifteen years since I was a teenage girl, and I couldn’t remember what teenage me would have wanted an adult to do in that kind of situation.
I caught Sammy’s eye. She smiled encouragingly and nodded. Apparently sympathetic patting at the very least wasn’t the wrong thing to do.
Gradually, Becky’s sobs subsided. She sat up and wiped at her face with the heels of her hands, smearing her mascara into something that resembled abstract art.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just the worst day. I didn’t even want to come in today, but my dad said I had to.”
I wanted to tell her that she never had to come in, that if she wasn’t feeling up to it, she could always call out, but I was afraid that would backfire and lead to her calling out a little too often. My previous job had been more about managing egos and the press than employees, so I was still trying to feel out the line between being supportive and being completely lax. I decided to try for neutrality. “Well, I appreciate you coming in and giving it your best.”
I glanced at Sammy. She’d worked with Becky longer than I had—it had only been a few months since I’d come back to Cape Bay to run the café—so I figured she knew better than I did how to handle the situation. She smiled. I was still doing okay.