Coffee & Crime

by Anita Rodgers

  Zelda frowned at the computer screen. "You want to go to a funeral home?"

  I wrote down the address for the mortuary, then closed the laptop. "I'd like to pay my last respects."

  Zelda shuddered. "Those places creep me out."

  I glanced at her. "Have you ever been to one?"

  "Yeah, they made me go when Grams died." She shivered from the memory. "It wrecked me."

  I patted her back. "But you were a little kid then. You're all grown up now."

  Zelda's dark eyes got misty. "Wouldn't you rather remember George the way he was the last time you saw him? Believe me, once you see someone you loved dead, you can't un-see it."

  Maybe she was right but I’d go anyway. "I have to go. Say my goodbyes properly. Besides, I should return the briefcase – I don’t feel right about keeping it."

  Zelda raised her head. "We should open it first."

  "No!"

  "Why not? There could be something in it that we need to know."

  I scoffed. "Like what?"

  "I don't know." She thought a minute then snapped her fingers. "Daniels said Mrs. George thought he was murdered. Maybe she's right. Maybe there's a clue in there. Or some cash?"

  I started cleaning up so we could shut down. "Nice try. But you're not getting anywhere near it. Tomorrow it'll be back where it belongs, with George's family."

  Zelda got up, dumped Ted's dinner dishes into the bus tray, then wiped down the counter. She tilted her head at me. "That reminds me, what did you mean the other night about killing George?"

  I looked away and wiped down the coffee machine. "Nothing, I was over-reacting. I told you that."

  Zelda stepped closer and studied me in profile. "No, I don't think you told me that. I think I told you that. Come on, give."

  I tossed the rag on the counter and looked at Zelda. "It's stupid. And I'm probably wrong." Zelda waited. I blew out a big breath. "When Daniels said George died from a brownie he ate, I immediately thought it was one of mine."

  Zelda gaped. "But the brownies you made for George were specially created for him. No nuts, or nut type ingredients. So how could that be?" I turned off the coffee machine then filled and stacked coffee filters for the morning shift. "Scotti?"

  I moved onto cutting lemon wedges. "George had a standing order for a dozen brownies every week. His office manager Peggy, the girl we met at his office? Usually picked them up on Wednesdays." I glanced at her. “George died on a Wednesday."

  Zelda puckered her lips. "So?"

  I sighed and pointed to the pastry case. "You see the brownies in the case?" Zelda nodded. "Which are nut-free and which are regular?"

  "The nut-free have a chocolate kiss on top. The regulars have a walnut on top." She shrugged. "So?"

  "So, if you took the walnut off a regular brownie and put a chocolate on it, could you tell it apart from the nut-free brownies?"

  Zelda shook her head slowly. "That's what the murderer did?"

  Frustrated, I threw up my hands. "I don't know. But if someone wanted George dead, it would be a clever way to do it. Who'd suspect? Everyone would think it was an accident. He ate the wrong thing. Respiratory failure. End of story."

  Zelda's dark eyes gleamed with interest. "You agree with Maggie Manston?"

  I went to the cashier stand and started counting the drawer. "George was very careful about what he ate." I looked up from the cash drawer. "I never met anyone more careful about their diet than him."

  Zelda sidled over to the cashier stand and leaned on the counter. "You do agree with her."

  I shrugged and shook my head. "If it wasn't an accident, somebody went to a lot of trouble to make it look like one."

  Zelda chewed on that for a while. I put the register tape, receipts and money in an envelope, dated, signed it and slid it into the safe drop slot. I removed the cash drawer with the opening bank in it, placed it in the cabinet below the register and locked the cabinet. Then left the register drawer open so any would be robbers wouldn't break the windows in order to get to an empty register.

  I left the cashier stand and stuck my head in the pass-through. Chewie looked up from the grill, spatula in hand. "We're checking out, Chewie. I'll lock the front door and then we’re out of here."

  He nodded. "Adios chica."

  While I locked up and turned the sign Zelda slumped at the counter. Grabbing our stuff from beneath the counter I asked, "You coming?

  Zelda got up absentmindedly and followed me through the kitchen to the time clock. We punched out, said a final good night to Chewie and left through the back door.

  The lot was wet with rain and surreal in the odd silver light provided by the cloud cover above. Her jeep and my car were parked next to each other. We each went to our vehicles but Zelda stood at her door without getting in.

  I buzzed down my passenger window. "You have to get in the car in order to drive it."

  Zelda glanced at me. "I know what your common bond with Maggie Manston is."

  I waited.

  She nodded and raised her eyebrows. "You both think he was murdered." She climbed into the jeep. "And if you can't bond over that, you can't bond over nothing."

  Chapter Nine

  Brooks & Sons was on Allen in Pasadena and housed in a two-story brick building that looked like it was a bank in a previous life. It had a colonial style with white columns flanking a highly polished mahogany door. And though the lot was generous, parking spaces were few.

  I craned my neck as Zelda trolled for a parking space. "Do you think all these cars belong to people here to see George?"

  Zelda found a space a few rows from the front door, assuring we'd be wet by the time we got inside. She peered through the windshield at the funeral home. "I don't know, looks pretty big to me. There could be lots of dead people in there. And their friends."

  I belted my raincoat and reached into the foot well for George's briefcase.

  "Leave that here."

  I clutched the briefcase to my chest as though Zelda might snatch it away. "No, I'm going to give it to Maggie Manston."

  Zelda sighed. "Look, I'm over the whole let's look inside thing. But you don't know if Maggie Manston is in there. It's not like this is a scheduled event. It's a chance for people to come, pay their respects, and get the hell out. We don’t know who's in there. And second, who brings a briefcase to a place like this?"

  Zelda was right - bringing the case inside would only draw attention to me and I wanted to avoid that. Sighing, I put the briefcase back in the foot well. "Fine."

  We got out of the warm car and into the dreary wet night. When I stepped into the first puddle I regretted wearing heels — likewise, flat-ironing my hair, that frizzed back to its natural shape within seconds. Zelda was smart enough to wear boots and never cared how her hair looked.

  Once inside the funeral home, all cares about my appearance and the rain fell away. The dark wood-paneled walls and heavy drapery immediately reminded me of an old horror movie set. Concealed speakers piped soft music appropriate to grieving and made me painfully aware that I wasn't on a movie set.

  Off the main entrance were several doors with large placards mounted on tripods displaying the name of the deceased in the room beyond. We moved slowly as we read the placards looking for Manston. Zelda spotted it and hooked her head toward the door. "Are you ready for this?" I threw back my shoulders and raised my head. "It's not too late to change your mind."

  I opened the door and stepped inside the room with Zelda behind me. The decor was the same as the lobby — heavy drapes, wood-paneled walls, and depressing vibes. The low lighting gave the room an air of desolation and I felt dizzy as though there wasn’t enough oxygen for everyone in the room.

  Straight-backed chairs for visitors lined the walls on either side. At the front and center of the room were two rows of nicer straight-backed chairs, with a three foot aisle between them, placed for the family and close friends. In front of the family seating was a mahogany coffin set on a low platform. A k
neeling bench was placed below the platform, for mourners whom I presumed wished to pray. Or perhaps for family members who were too grief-stricken to stand.

  Several people milled around, talking quietly and creating a wordless hum. But I recognized no one amongst the mourners with whom I could share my grief – not even Peggy.

  Edging along the wall toward the coffin I spotted Maggie Manston sitting in the front row. She was flanked by two young women, blonde and close in age, which I figured for late teens or early twenties. I recognized one of the girls as Lauren Manston. Except for the blonde hair the other girl didn't resemble Maggie and towered over her even when seated. Her body language seemed to say that others would question her presence there. And while Lauren and Maggie huddled, the other girl remained stoic with her body turned away from them.

  The thought of approaching Maggie Manston quickly evaporated because I realized how inappropriate that would be. Instead, I stepped into the line that led to George's coffin. The closer I got to bidding my final good bye to George the more my body hummed with anxiety. I turned to Zelda for moral support but came face to face with a sad lady in diamonds and designer black. Scanning the back of the room, I spied Zelda hunching in the shadows. I regretted forcing her to come to this place where she was reminded of the only family she'd ever known.

  When I faced forward again, it was my turn to step to George's open coffin. A combination of gasp and whimper caught in my throat when I saw him. He looked like he was sleeping. As though I could tap him on the shoulder and rouse him from his nap. But I knew that in normal light he'd look white and waxy — despite the expert make-up job the technician had done. The man I'd known as George Manston was gone and it was his discarded shell that I looked upon in that gloomy depressing room. I preferred to think of George out in the ether flying free and not trapped in the forever darkness of death.

  Still, I knelt and spoke to him. "Good bye George. I'll miss you." I stood, glanced once more at George, and stepped away.

  The flow of the crowd nudged me toward Maggie's chair to express condolences. I ducked out of the line and hurried to the back of the room where Zelda waited.

  "You ready?"

  I nodded, with a lump in my throat and the sting of tears in my eyes. Once outside the room, I put my hand on the wall and bent at the waist trying to catch my breath. Zelda leaned down next to me and patted my back. "Breathe."

  I couldn't talk or stop the tears. She was right, I’d never un-see George in his coffin. "He's really dead, Zee," I shuddered.

  Zelda gave me a tissue and said, "I know. Can you stand up? We should get out of here before you have another panic attack."

  I pulled myself together and straightened. As we turned to the exit, the front door opened and Jake walked in. He strode in our direction and we turned our backs to him. I was glad when he walked past without recognizing us and ducked into George's viewing parlor.

  But a few seconds later the door opened again and we huddled over my bag pretending to look for something.

  "Hello?" a woman said.

  We looked up and standing before us was the mysterious blonde who'd sat with Maggie and Lauren Manston. Even though she was six inches taller than me, she looked fragile and ethereal. Her long hair was pulled back and her large dark eyes peered out of a pale, drawn face.

  "Hello," I said.

  The girl smiled shyly and took my hand in both of hers. "I wanted to thank you for coming."

  "I'm sorry for your loss," I mumbled not knowing what else to say. Gently I pulled my hand away from her grasp.

  But the girl wanted to continue the conversation. "Were you friends with my father?"

  Zelda's head jerked up. "Your father? George was your father?"

  The girl blushed and her eyes flitted away from intent Zelda's gaze. "Yes, George was my father. I guess he hadn't mentioned me to all of his friends."

  She was an enigma. Almost cold in the viewing parlor, now oozing with kindness and concern. And why hadn't George told me about this girl — his second daughter? "I'm Scotti." I nodded toward Zelda. "And this is Zelda. And yes, we were friends with George."

  The girl bowed her head slightly. "Lily. You're the brownie lady, right?"

  I nodded, a little surprised. "That's right." George had mentioned me to Lily though. Had he also told his wife and other daughter? Maybe Zelda was right — Maggie Manston had intentionally acted as though she didn't know who I was.

  Lily said, "The flowers were nice. Thank you, that was very thoughtful of you." Was she there when we came to the house?

  "Thanks." I shifted my gaze to the door. "We don't want to keep you and we should be going." Nudging Zelda toward the exit, I said, “Nice meeting you."

  "Thank you again, for coming." Lily smiled and went back inside.

  Zelda rushed after me. "What's the hurry?"

  I speed-walked through the parking lot. "It's time for more research."

  "On what?"

  "On who the hell this Lily is."

  Chapter Ten

  After two hours of Internet research and too much coffee, George's daughter Lily remained a mystery. I didn’t understand. George'd told me about Maggie and Lauren, his practice and his medical history but not his extra daughter? George knew my entire life story — foster care, emancipation, Zelda, the diner — even that I'd decided to become a chef when I was ten. Why keep his daughter a secret? What was it about Lily that he didn't want the world to know?

  I closed my laptop and put it on the floor next to the bed.

  Zelda stood in my bedroom doorway, with her back against the frame. "Given up yet?”

  I stood, grabbed my empty coffee cup and squeezed through the door past her. "This whole thing sucks."

  She followed me into the kitchen. "What are you going to do?"

  I rinsed my coffee cup and left it in the sink. "About what? George? The diner? My future?"

  "Have you heard from the bank?"

  I turned and shook my head. "No, but I'm not holding my breath either. They're not going to lend me the money." Tears bloomed in my eyes. "It's over. I don't have the money. I'm not going to get the money. And Manny is going to sell the place to a stranger."

  Zelda started toward me. "Scotti..."

  I backed away. "No! I don't need a hug or a pep talk, Zee." I swiped at my tears like they were poison. "I need to face facts. My life is shit and it's always going to be shit. And no matter what I do, nothing works."

  Zelda smirked. "Yeah you don't need my sympathy since you've got your own pity party going."

  "That's not fair."

  Zelda shrugged. "What is?"

  She walked out of the kitchen and I followed her. "What do you expect me to do?"

  She raised a fist in the air. "Fight."

  "Fight what? Fight who? I can't pull the money out of my ass. My own bank won't invest in me, and there isn't another George out there waiting to write me a check. And Manny has another interested buyer — no point in talking to him." I threw up my hands. "If you've got any ideas, then spit them out."

  Zelda plopped onto the sofa and hugged a pillow to herself. "Just because we haven't thought of anything yet doesn't mean there's no answer." She huffed a sigh. "But if you don't believe in yourself, why should anybody else?"

  "Great, so now you're reciting crap you saw in a greeting card? That's a big help, thanks."

  Zelda jumped to her feet and flipped me off. "Screw you!" Then she stomped to her room and slammed the door.

  I collapsed on the sofa and cried for a while but it only made me feel worse. Instead of turning to the gourmet ice cream in the freezer I went to my room determined to brainstorm the situation and figure out another solution. But it kept coming back to the same solutions I'd already thought of and that wouldn't work. Or going to Maggie Manston with my hand out — which I couldn't do. I threw my pen and pad across the room. "Face it Scotti, you're screwed."

  From my bed I stared at George's briefcase, across the room standing next to my dr
esser. I'd never admit it to Zelda but I was dying to know what was inside too. And I wondered if an answer lie in the brown leather case a few feet away from me. For all I knew, George had left me a check, just in case.

  Slipping out of bed I tiptoed to the door and closed it. I picked up the briefcase and studied it. Hang onto this until I see you again, George had said. He could've given the case to anyone, or locked it away, but he gave it to me. Not his wife or daughter or partner or his lawyer. He wanted me to have it for a reason. Which must've meant that he had reasons he didn't want anyone else to have it. And in my mind that meant whatever was in there had to do with the diner.