Grounds for Murder

by Tara Lush

  “Sorry. Those are for dogs.” I tapped the sign on the jar that read PUPPER BAGELS: $1 EACH.

  He shot me a dark glance and then lifted the mug to his nose, his mouth turning up at the corners. He took a sip. “At least this cup is excellent.”

  He stalked away, leaving the dog cookie behind. Jerk. Didn’t I deserve a medal for not rolling my eyes or hurling the hard cookie at his face? I swept it into the garbage and prepared to take the next order.

  I raked in a deep breath and my eyes landed on a sign I’d put up the other day on the far wall. Our part time barista, Barbara, made and sold the signs, which she cobbled together from four small, weathered planks. There was a word on each perfectly whitewashed piece of wood, and tiny seashells, gathered from the nearby beach, decorated the corners.

  COFFEE

  COOKIES

  BOOKS

  GRIND ON

  Grind on. My new personal motto.

  A woman in a pink bikini top and matching pink shorts shuffled to the counter with her head bowed to her phone. She was one of those former sorority girl types who seemed effortlessly put together and sleek. Maybe the wife of a rich man or a tourist passing through for a bachelorette party.

  I, on the other hand, looked like I’d just rolled out of bed to face the morning rush. Okay, I had stumbled out of bed and walked here in the pre-dawn darkness like a zombie. Hadn’t even bothered to brush my curly hair before gathering it into a ponytail.

  “I’ll have a half-caf, pumpkin spice latteccino. With flax milk.” She didn’t raise her eyes from the screen.

  Flax milk. Pumpkin spice. With artisan coffee? What kind of abomination was this? Not here in my cafe. There were five choices: Americano, espresso, cortado, cappuccino, and latte. All those options came iced. We also had a limited and highly curated tea selection, and a single-origin decaf.

  I drummed my fingers on the counter and studied the brunette. “Labor Day’s a few weeks away. Pumpkin isn’t on the menu because it doesn’t jive with hella hot temperatures.”

  “Okay.”

  “And we don’t carry flax milk. We have soy, almond, oat, coconut, and cow. Sorry.”

  She stared at me, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. “Fine. Well then. I’ll have a coconut latte with a splash of vanilla. Large.”

  Still heresy to a coffee buff like me, but it was her palate. “Large coconut latte, splash of vanilla. Coming up. Name for the order?”

  A haughty expression crossed her face and she flicked her gleaming blonde hair over one bronze shoulder. “Britt.”

  Within two minutes, I’d brewed the espresso and frothed the coconut milk. With a shaky hand, I drizzled the milk into the cup, attempting a foam heart.

  When I was finished, I let out a little grunt of dissatisfaction. Another slobby looking heart.

  “What?” Britt called out. She leaned over the counter, trying to peer around the espresso machine.

  “It’s nothing. I’ve been practicing my latte art. When I started, my hearts resembled Jabba the Hut. If Jabba were drawn by a five-year-old. Now they’re more like something drawn by a particularly proficient five-year-old.” A soft laugh escaped my lips. “It’s also not easy due to the coconut milk. Whole cow’s milk is preferable for latte art because of its fat content. It yields a creamy, airy froth.”

  Why was I rambling? She didn’t care about the backstory of how her coffee was made. She wanted her caffeine hit. I placed the cup on the counter.

  “On the house. It’s been a tough morning. I’m usually in a sunnier mood. Lids and sugar are behind you.”

  “It doesn’t look like a child’s drawing! It totally looks like a heart.” She squealed thanks and pointed her phone at the cup. I must admit, it was probably my best foam heart so far, but that wasn’t saying much.

  The heart shape had taken me days of practice and still confounded me. An absurd metaphor for my life. But tomorrow was Friday, and I’d be seeing Erica. I planned on scheduling her to work as much as she wanted and asking if she’d represent the café in the barista contest, alongside Fab. Maybe I’d be good enough to compete next year. If I was even here next year. Who knew at this point.

  The woman took a sip and moaned. “Yummy.”

  I beamed, relieved. “Thanks. Hey, we have a coffee cupping coming up next month. I do a full tasting—from light to dark roasts—and throw in some varietals as well. If you’re around, come and check it out, it’s twenty dollars per person. And our best barista is supposed to teach an Instagram class for coffee lovers soon, too. You know, how to get the perfect shots for social media.”

  “Really? I love coffee photos. I’m going to Insta this right now,” she burbled.

  Thank goodness she wasn’t going to hold my mediocre latte art skills against me. These days, you couldn’t just serve excellent coffee. Every latte had to be the star of a twenty-first century still life: cozy yet modern, hip yet authentic. Tiresome, but necessary for an indie coffeehouse.

  I began to slowly spell the café’s Instagram handle—PerkatoryInParadise—but she breathlessly interrupted. This was the downside of a service job: absorbing people’s microscopic bits of rudeness. Usually I didn’t mind, and bad manners rolled off me like water on a duck. Today, though, my irritation simmered because I’d had to handle the morning rush alone.

  “I know the name. Love it. Tagging you now. Hey, where’s Fab? The guy with the accent? He sometimes keeps a special stash of flax milk for me.”

  “Excuse me?” I’d have to chat with Fab about this. Flax milk wasn’t a big seller, and I hated food waste. It didn’t make sense to keep a stash around, no matter how badly he wanted to get in her pink pants.

  “You know, the one with all the …” she dissolved into a giggle and gestured to her midsection, “Muscles?”

  Of course. She was one of Fabrizio Bellucci’s groupies.

  “You know? Fab? He’s always here at this hour.” Britt regarded me with hopeful, Bambi-like eyes.

  Oh, sweetie, I’ve seen that look on a half dozen women. He’s probably not that into you anymore. I smiled, tight-lipped. But if you find out where he is, let me know.

  “He’s running late.” Yet Fab was never late. Where was he? It’s not like he had a long commute to work—he lived on the fourth floor of this very building, owned by my family. But he hadn’t responded to any of my texts.

  Britt responded with a tiny squeaking huff. She also stamped her Barbie-doll-sized foot. “Too bad. He makes the best coffee. I mean, this is nice, too. I guess. Thanks a bunch!” She picked up the cup and shuffled away in her pink flip-flops to a table in the far corner. Probably to wait for Fab to waltz in sporting one of his tight T-shirts and toothpaste-white grins.

  Blergh. I turned to wash my hands and wipe down the steamer wand. I had to calm down, Fab or no Fab. A long day stretched ahead of me, and I needed to leave for Miami in a few hours. Which meant I had to solve this staffing problem. This was what managers did. Solve problems; handle a last-minute staffing crisis; try not to alienate customers. A few deep inhales of the roasted coffee aroma grounded me.

  As I bent to grab my phone on the shelf so I could again text my late employee, a voice wafted over my beautiful, stainless steel La Marzocco espresso machine.

  “You’re going to be the death of me with these cookies.”

  I popped up like a meerkat. That gravelly baritone. Those eyes—the color of Grade A maple syrup hidden behind black-rimmed, almost geeky, glasses. The muscled, bronze forearms. The close-cropped black hair. All signs led to yum.

  “Hi, Chief,” I chirped. Somehow my voice always went up a half octave whenever Noah Garcia was around.

  He was the new top cop in Devil’s Beach. Why he chose to come here after working at the Tampa Police Department was a mystery the entire island had speculated about, since his arrival a few months ago. Coincidentally, he’d taken the job not long before I’d returned to town.

  Noah was something of a mystery to me and the rest of our gossipy town. The onl
y thing anyone seemed to know about him was that he possessed a mild, laid-back attitude that matched the island’s vibe, and that he came from an old Cuban family that founded a cigar factory in Tampa during the turn of the last century.

  “Lana Lewis. Good morning. How are things at Perkatory this morning?”

  “It’s been a rough couple of hours. How’s it going with you?”

  He furrowed his brow adorably and reached for two cookies stacked on a platter. Real cookies, not a dog bagel, because Noah could read.

  “Downright sinful. I mean, the cookies. Not the morning. So far, everything’s quiet today.” He bit his lip and my insides turned to caramel goo.

  “Chewy vanilla coconut.” I grinned at him while studying his long, sooty eyelashes.

  “They smell incredible. Only five ingredients?”

  My cheeks flared with warmth, the earlier irritation of the morning dissolving. “As always.” So what if one of the ingredients came from a box mix? A girl could only do so much in the first few months on the job. I was a coffee connoisseur, not a master baker.

  “What’s up? You seem stressed.”

  I tucked a wild strand of curls into my loose ponytail. “It’s been crazy busy. I’m the only one here, and I need to get on the road to Miami pretty soon. Can’t leave the shop unattended.”

  He quirked his right eyebrow. Adorably. “What’s in Miami? Don’t tell me you’re leaving us.”

  Would he care if I moved away? A fluttery feeling in my stomach replaced the stress indigestion. “No, I’m going to a journalism thing. It’s an award ceremony. A chance to see old friends and all.”

  I waved my hand dismissively, feeling suddenly defeated. Who was I kidding? Did I really want to hang out with the handful of ex-colleagues who still worked at the paper, the place I missed more than anything? They’d tell me how amazing life was in the city, pity me for losing my job, then urge me to apply for a position at a low-paying blog for the privilege of living in Miami and paying fourteen bucks for a watered-down cocktail. Why was I even bothering? I was setting myself up for humiliation and heartbreak.

  “Oh yeah? An award? Congratulations. Which story?”

  “Remember that serial killer who was arrested last year? The Miami Ripper?”

  He squinted. “Vaguely. Sometimes all that big-city crime blends together.”

  “He killed women at rest stops on I-95. I wrote a series about the victims and the stories led to his arrest. The articles ran right before I was laid off. But that’s how it is in the news business, you know? You can do your best work and then get canned. Que sera, sera and all that. Now I’m back home.”

  I gestured expansively at the display of whole beans on a painted white shelf, a rack of Devil’s Beach postcards, and Perkatory branded travel mugs nestled in a white wicker basket.

  “And all this is mine. Thanks to my dad, of course.”

  It’s not that I wasn’t proud of the café. I was. But I didn’t want to brag that Dad had insisted I take over the business. Partially because he wanted to focus on his yoga classes and real estate, and because I’d basically hid inside my childhood bedroom after the layoff, binge watching reality TV, eating nothing but store-bought donuts and drinking French press coffee for a solid month.

  Even in my worst moments, I had coffee standards.

  Noah glanced at me for a beat, staring deep into my eyes. I had to give it to him, he had that searching, investigative gaze down pat. He’d get me to confess every one of my sins in under five seconds, that’s for sure. Perspiration bloomed on my neck in response to his heated stare.

  “Well, I hope you win the award. Sounds like a fascinating series. I’ll have to look it up.”

  I grabbed one of the small, laminated drink menus and fanned my face. Everything about the chief was swoon worthy. “Goodness. It’s warm today, isn’t it? Summer’s never going to end.”

  He bit into the cookie and chewed with a half-smile. On some men, that would be impossible. Or disgusting. On Noah, it was a combination of sexy and kind. Lord have mercy. I’d never been attracted to cops when I was a police reporter. Most were either too dominant, too cocky, or too power hungry. I’d had a front row seat to all of those qualities during the final years of my marriage.

  Noah, though … it was a crime how good he looked. That he was also sweet as my cookies, made it even more difficult not to blush and stammer in his presence.

  I cleared my throat and broke eye contact, focusing on the ceramic tip jar with the handmade sign that said TIPS: They’re Like Hugs Without the Awkward Body Contact. “Thanks, Chief. Um, you want your usual?”

  “Yes, my usual, please. And you need to start calling me Noah. We see each other almost every day. I think I see more of you than anyone else on the island. Hey, did I tell you about that sci-fi show I binge-watched?” A hot flash rippled through my body. Was he flirting with me? It sure seemed like it. Hard to tell, though. Like me, the chief—excuse me, Noah—was a bit geeky around the edges. Or maybe he wasn’t, and I was merely projecting that we were secret soul mates. We often discussed our favorite TV shows and books.

  “I don’t think so. What was it?”

  As he described his latest Netflix indulgence, I washed my hands, then grabbed a to-go cup. He was explaining the plot while I imagined us spooning on the sofa, watching movies together. But I was nowhere near ready to date again. Or was I? I’d been single for an entire year.

  I jabbed the hot water spout.

  “Sounds good, I’ll have to check it out. Hang on, let me grab a lemon.” I ducked to open the mini fridge, then popped back up.

  His “usual” was hot water with lemon. It was a big, fat check in the minus column for Chief Noah Garcia. He didn’t drink coffee. How was that even possible? To me, it was tantamount to blasphemy. How could he be boyfriend material if he couldn’t snuggle on a Sunday morning while drinking a mug of robust, life-giving java?

  Freak.

  “Well, I’m a little out of sorts this morning,” I blurted. Out of sorts? What was I? An eighty-year-old woman? An extra on Downton Abbey? I pressed on as I sliced a wedge of lemon. Now I was sweating, disarmed by the chief’s spicy aftershave scent that blended perfectly with my café’s roasted coffee aroma. “I’ve had to handle the morning rush alone. Fab’s late, which is unlike him. And I can’t reach him on his cell.”

  While I twisted the juicy lemon wedge into his cup of water, he leaned in.

  “Uh, Lana? Fab didn’t tell you?”

  I scowled. “Didn’t tell me what?”

  “He’s over at Island Brewnette this morning.” Noah popped the rest of the cookie in his mouth.

  “What? Why? That can’t be possible.” Island Brewnette was the only other café in Devil’s Beach. It was newer, larger, and in my humble and unbiased opinion, nowhere near adorable as Perkatory.

  “What’s Fab doing there?” My voice was cross. “Oh. I know. He was probably having breakfast with Paige. His girlfriend’s father owns the cafe. I guess he was so caught up with her that he forgot about his shift.”

  The chief ran his fingers through his short black hair and swallowed hard. “No. Fab’s working.”

  “What do you mean he’s working?” I scoffed. “He’s supposed to be working here.”

  “I walked by on my way to the station at seven. Saw him behind the counter so I went in to investigate. He was in there telling everyone he’d quit Perkatory. That he’s competing for Island Brewnette in the barista competition that’s coming up. The one that was in the paper today.”

  I pressed my palms into the blonde wood counter. “That can’t be right. Fab wouldn’t do that to me. He’s the one who talked me into entering. And he’s been a dedicated employee. He’s like family.”

  “Oh, jeez, Lana. I wish I was wrong. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I thought you knew. I didn’t buy anything there. Because I’m loyal to you.” He grabbed his cup and a second cookie, then glanced at the clock above my head. “Listen, I have an
eight-fifteen conference call with the Florida Police Chiefs Association. Gotta run. Chin up, cupcake. You’ll find another barista in no time. Everyone will want to work here. It’s the best place on the island, with the best boss. Have fun in Miami.”

  He shot me a sheepish, if not maddeningly gorgeous, smile. Then walked out. I was too incensed to dwell on the fact that for the first time, he’d called me cupcake.

  I snatched my phone off the counter and speed-dialed my most reliable employee. He picked up on the first ring.

  “Dad, I need help. Can you come down and start working a bit early? I’m in a jam.”

  “Dear, I’m headed to beach yoga. Today’s New Moon Yin class. Yesterday you told me to be at the cafe at noon, so I’ve already planned my morning.”

  “Please? I’m alone. Fab isn’t here. We’re about to get the mid-morning rush.” Usually that consisted of tourists getting up late, or tourists coming in from their first session on the beach, needing a break from the sun.

  As if on cue, a family of four, all in matching orange T-shirts emblazoned with a ubiquitous cartoon mouse, wandered in. I slapped my hand on the counter, hard enough to startle Britt in pink shorts and bikini top. Her eyes met mine, then she returned to her phone. Had she been listening to me talk with Noah?

  Had she overheard my conversation with the chief? With Dad? I didn’t want it getting around town that my best barista had jumped ship, so I turned and hunched behind the espresso maker.

  I heard my father take a long slurp of something. Probably his morning green smoothie. Last week I overheard him and Noah talking about whether to put kale or collard greens in a morning drink and almost barfed.

  “Well, call Barbara. I’m sure she’ll want some hours. Fab never takes a sick day, so I’m sure he’s resting,” Dad said.

  Barbara, our part-time barista, was probably out gathering driftwood, shells, and other junk off the beach for her so-called beach collages. “Or perhaps Fab overslept. Did you call him?”

  “Dad, Fab’s not sick. He quit. He’s working for Island Brewnette now. I need to have a word with him. And it won’t be a nice word, either.”