Mug Shot

by Caroline Fardig

  I asked Savannah and Carl to drop me at Java Jive. I had to admit that simply walking through the door to the place at Christmastime immediately melted all my stress away. The coffeehouse always felt cozy, with its dark wood floors and exposed brick walls, but in December, when we covered the place in twinkle lights and garlands, it absolutely glowed with warmth. Being here was exactly what I needed to get my mind off the craziness I’d just had to endure.

  I changed out of my damp dress and got to work with my mostly new team of baristas. After the dust settled from the murder that occurred here a couple months back, I’d had two baristas and a kitchen worker to replace. Good help was difficult to find, and training took time. Needless to say, we were still working with a learning curve here.

  I heard a sputtering noise, and then one of my newbie baristas, Tiffany, screamed at the top of her lungs. It got eerily quiet in the coffeehouse, and everyone looked toward the counter. Already knowing what had happened, I reluctantly headed her way.

  Tiffany was wiping off her arms, whining, “Why does this always happen to me?”

  “Did the steamer try to kill you again, Tiffany?” I asked sympathetically.

  “Yes,” she replied glumly. She had been splattered (for the third time this week) with hot milk. She had a bad habit of yanking the milk pitcher away from the steam nozzle too quickly.

  I very patiently explained (for the third time this week), “You need to turn the steam off before you lift the nozzle out of the milk. Otherwise, when the burst of steam hits the surface of the milk, it shoots out everywhere.”

  “I’m never going to figure this stupid machine out,” she wailed.

  I refrained from pointing out that if she actually listened to the instructions I kept giving her, she would have already figured the stupid machine out.

  Cole, who unfortunately was my best and most experienced night shift barista now, rolled his eyes at her. “Dude, seriously. Why don’t you work the pastry case for a while, Tiff? At least the cookies can’t attack you. Damn.” Ouch. If Cole, of all people, cast doubt on your intelligence and job skills, you were pretty much a loser.

  Pouting, Tiffany slouched over to the pastry case, letting Cole take her spot at the espresso machine. Haley, my other new hire, was at the cash register, watching our exchange through her big, buggy glasses and chewing on a piece of her hair. I grimaced. I couldn’t stand it when she played with her hair while she was behind the counter—it was so unsanitary. Someone was going to end up with her hair in their food at some point. But, every time I said something to her about it, she would dissolve into tears and cause a big scene, and then I had to deal with that. I didn’t have the energy tonight, so I let it slide. At least she was handling money instead of food.

  Near closing time, I went back to the office to do the end-of-day report, and, more importantly, to hide. I was dead tired. I had worked all morning, attended the funeral and the repast, dealt with all of the Hollingsworth drama, and then come back to work until closing. I could think of nothing better than curling up in my bed the minute I got home.

  Cole stuck his head into the office and said, “Juliet, there’s a fancy-looking dude out here who wants to see you.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “A fancy-looking dude?”

  “Yeah. He kind of looks like…that old guy. George Clooney.”

  Stan. I didn’t agree with Cole’s assessment that he looked like George Clooney (mainly because his hair was light brown and he wasn’t old enough to be my dad), but he was undoubtedly every bit as handsome. Puzzled, I wondered why in the world Stan would have come here to see me. The warnings about Stan from Pete and Ryder replayed in my head, and I began to get an uneasy feeling. Did he come here to smooth things over, or did he come here to threaten me to keep my damn mouth shut?

  Warily, I came out of the back hallway. Stan was sitting at a table, looking haggard, which wasn’t like him. His tie was crooked, and his jacket was rumpled. When he saw me, he broke into a tired-looking smile. Ever the gentleman, he stood when I approached his table and offered me a chair.

  We both sat down, and he began, “Juliet, I can’t imagine what you think of me right now, but it’s very important to me that you know I would never hurt my sister.” His eyes were anguished and pleading, something I had never seen from him before. He took my hands in his. His were shaking, poor guy. “I don’t know exactly what you saw, but it’s not what you think. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  I smiled, but regarded him carefully. He seemed truthful enough, but the last two men I dated lied right to my face, repeatedly, and I had no clue. I hated feeling gullible. “I don’t know what to believe, Stan. I didn’t see you up there myself, because I was busy helping Abigail. Do you know how she’s doing?”

  A pained expression crossed his face. “She’s doing as well as can be expected. She twisted an ankle and broke a wrist, and she has a mild concussion. She should be able to go home tomorrow.” He rubbed his eyes. “It happened so fast. You have to believe that I had nothing to do with it.”

  I wondered why it was so important to him that I believed his story. Pete saw him at the top of the landing overlooking the foyer, which was not a point in his favor. Not that it meant Stan pushed her, but something was definitely going on. I certainly didn’t want to put blinders on just because he and I were dating.

  I asked him, “Where were you when she fell?”

  Looking me straight in the eye, he said, “I was there with her, upstairs on the balcony. But I didn’t push her, I promise you.”

  It would take big, brass balls to look someone in the eye and tell a complete lie. It would take more than that to completely convince me, though. “Okay, so she fell without any help from you. If you were up there, why didn’t you try to catch her?”

  He sighed and looked away. “I did. I couldn’t get to her in time.”

  “Why were you two up there in the first place?”

  “I followed her upstairs to talk, and we ended up arguing about our inheritance. I got tired of fighting, so I walked away from her, heading for the back staircase at the other end of the hall. I guess she wasn’t finished, because she continued to jaw at me. She can be quite a hothead. She yelled my name, so I looked back, and she was still pacing and waving her hands around. All of a sudden she caught her heel on the rug and went tumbling down the stairs.” Tears were forming in his eyes. They looked sufficiently real. “I was too far away to help her. Then, when I saw you and Pete running into the foyer, I panicked. After the news spread of how Grandmother had split up her estate, I knew that anyone who saw me on that balcony would think the same thing—I pushed my own sister down the stairs out of spite. I didn’t do it, Juliet. I didn’t.” He put his head in his hands.

  How in the hell should I respond to a speech like that? On one hand, I could be cold and heartless and demand more proof. Or, I could blindly believe him, and quite possibly be made to look a fool. I still didn’t have my mind made up, but I hated to see Stan so miserable. So keeping my distance, I awkwardly patted his shoulder and didn’t say anything.

  He shook his head and admitted quietly, “Cecilia wouldn’t allow me to see Abigail at the hospital. You know how she is. After Pete told her he saw me upstairs, her mind was made up. I’ve always been closer to Abigail, and Cecilia thinks she’s lying to protect me. Mother goes along with everything Cecilia says, so, yet again, I’m the one on the outside.”

  It was pretty bad when your own mother turned on you. Granted, that drunk old bat had probably never been Mother of the Year, but she was still his mother. “I’m sorry they acted that way toward you. That wasn’t fair.”

  “So you’re on my side?” he asked hopefully.

  I was leaning that way, but something was nagging at me. Choosing to ignore his question, I asked, “What did Detective Hamilton say about what happened?”

  Stan shrugged. “He was rather gruff with me.” No surprise there. “He said Abigail told him she tripped and that I had nothi
ng to do with it, so I can’t be charged with anything. He let me know how stupid it was of me to run.”

  “He’s right. It was stupid.”

  He smiled ruefully. “Agreed. You’re not afraid to tell it like it is, are you? I’m used to Southern girls who say one thing and mean another. How real you are is refreshing.”

  “Quit sucking up.”

  Seeming embarrassed, he replied, “Yes, ma’am.”

  I softened a bit, saying gently, “Look, Stan. I have no reason to doubt what you’ve told me, but you have to know how damning this looks for you. What if your sister had died? You’d be a murder suspect right now.”

  “I know, and I don’t even want to think about that. If my own family believes I’m capable of it, what is everyone else I know going to think?” He took my hands again, practically begging me. “That’s why I need someone in my corner. I need you, Juliet.” Stan held my gaze, unblinking. “You’re all I’ve got.”

  My chest got tight, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. That was the saddest thing anyone had ever said to me. Tears stung my eyes as I looked back at him, the first time I had ever seen him raw and emotional. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I said, “Okay, Stan. I’ll stand by you. I believe you.”

  He stood up, pulling me with him. Sweeping me into a crushing hug, he breathed against my ear, “Thank you, Juliet. You don’t know how much this means to me.” Before I could respond, he had his lips on mine, kissing me within an inch of my life. It was a great kiss, but something was missing. Even though I had agreed to be on his side against his family and the entire town, I still wasn’t that into him.

  Chapter 3

  Java Jive had been crazy busy in the month after my cook, Dave, was murdered here. Everyone and his brother had wanted to come in and gawk, even though the murder occurred out back and there was nothing to see. It was good for business, but it was tough on the staff. Two months had passed since the incident, so we were finally getting back to a manageable amount of customers. Unfortunately, that meant revenue was dropping off a little, but I’d made a few changes to our business model that seemed to help, which was what Pete brought me here to do in the first place.

  One of those changes was making pastries from scratch every day instead of buying them from a food supplier like we had done in the past. The customers loved them, and it was great for the bottom line, but unfortunately someone had to come in early to make them. That would be me.

  As a result, I had to drag my tired ass into work by six every morning. This morning in particular, my tired ass was rebelling. I hadn’t slept well, thinking about Stan and worrying if he had played me. Even after two cups of strong coffee, I was a zombie until Pete came in around lunchtime, and then I turned downright bitchy.

  Pete had evidently gotten enough sleep, because he was disgustingly chipper and happy. I hated morning people, although by noon I really should have been over my morning slump. It didn’t even cheer me up when Pete came to the counter singing, “Juliet, what’s up? A bright and clear new summer day.” It was his thing to serenade me with a “Juliet” song, but today I wasn’t in the mood. He plopped down on a seat next to his grandmother, Gertie, at the counter and gave her a big kiss on the cheek. Gertie came in to Java Jive every morning, and had been doing so for twenty years, to support the family business.

  “It’s neither bright nor clear nor summer,” I retorted grumpily.

  He turned to Gertie and gestured at me. “Has this one been out of sorts this morning, Gert?” Pete wasn’t allowed to call her “grandma” because she said it made her feel old.

  Gertie shrugged and winked at me. She’d always had a soft spot for me, and the feeling was mutual. “Seems fine to me. I don’t mind a little piss and vinegar.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, squinting at me. “I think Redheaded She-Devil is out of her cage. Watch out, Nashville.”

  “No, this is just exhausted, pissy Juliet,” I explained. Redheaded She-Devil was Pete’s affectionate name for me when I lost my temper. Nobody wanted to be on the receiving end of Redheaded She-Devil’s wrath.

  “Does exhausted, pissy Juliet serve coffee?” he asked hopefully.

  “Get your own damn coffee.”

  Gertie burst out laughing.

  Pete smiled at me and wordlessly went behind the counter to get his own damn coffee. He knew better than to mess with me too much when I was cantankerous. “Since I think a subject change may be in order, I thought you’d like to know that Abigail is doing much better. Kent and Cecilia are taking her home as we speak.”

  “Kent?” I asked. “I thought Abigail and her meathead husband were separated.”

  “I can’t keep track. They were off again, but after he found out Abigail got hurt, they’re on again.”

  “Whatever.” I smiled. “I’m just happy she’s going to be okay.”

  “Yeah. Poor thing. It’s pretty messed up that her own brother would do something like this to her.”

  “Too bad he pushed the wrong sister,” Gertie grumbled. She did not like Pete’s girlfriend, Cecilia, any more than I did.

  “Gertie…” Pete warned.

  This appeared to be my first test of having Stan’s back, as I had promised him I would. Now was my chance to stand up for him. Too bad it had to be against Pete. It would have been a lot easier to disagree with Cecilia, because I couldn’t give a flying crap what she thought. Pete, on the other hand, I respected.

  Taking a deep breath, I began, “About that…you know, you didn’t see him push her. Maybe it was a true accident.”

  Pete laughed. “Yeah, right. Even his own mother thinks it sounds exactly like something he would do.”

  “You mean the woman who was falling-down drunk all day yesterday? Not a good character witness, I’d say.”

  Gertie interjected, “All of those Hollingsworths are batshit crazy. Always have been. I don’t know why you two got mixed up with them in the first place. Although that Stan is a mighty pretty fellow, if you ask me. Have you let him park his yacht in your harbor yet?”

  Pete groaned and pretended to gag.

  I made a face. “I don’t like him that much.”

  He said, “But still you’re defending him.”

  I shrugged, wiping at a spot on the counter so I wouldn’t have to meet his eyes. “Well…you know…I think it’s sad that everyone is ganging up on Stan without any actual proof.”

  “Jules, I saw the guy running the other way as his sister was crashing down the stairs. Innocent people don’t do that.”

  “I know, but Abigail said herself that it was an accident. She doesn’t blame him, so why should we?”

  He looked at me sharply. “Have you been talking to Stan?”

  “Maybe.”

  Pete smacked his forehead in frustration. “Come on, Jules! I thought you were going to stay away from him. I don’t want him hurting you, too.”

  Although I appreciated his concern, I didn’t need him making my decisions for me. “Have you talked to Stan about what happened?”

  “No. I know what I saw.”

  “It’s not like you saw him push her.”

  He asked exasperatedly, “Who trips and falls down an entire flight of steps?”

  Gertie piped up, “Was she drunk like her mother? I’ve never seen that woman when she wasn’t shit-faced.”

  Shaking my head, I said, “I don’t know whether or not she’d been drinking, Gertie, but you should have seen the heels she was wearing. I couldn’t walk on flat ground in those things, much less down a flight of stairs.” I turned to Pete. “I just think you should take the time to talk to Stan instead of just deciding he’s guilty, like your girlfriend did.”

  “Are you taking his side because you don’t want to be on the same one as Cecilia?”

  “I would,” muttered Gertie.

  “No, but that’s another point in Stan’s favor,” I said.

  Pete looked at me disapprovingly. “I take it this means you guys are still dating.”
r />   “Sort of. I guess. It’s complicated.”

  “Just please think about the situation objectively before you decide to hang out with him alone. And…at the very least don’t take the stairs when you’re with him.”

  I smiled. “I can probably do that.”

  “Good.” His eyes twinkled. “Now how about you get in the kitchen and make me a sandwich.”

  Gertie and I both turned to glare at him, and I snapped, “What did you just say to me?”

  His eyes widened with fear as he realized his joke had failed and he was outnumbered. He backpedaled. “I said, I think I’m going to get in the kitchen and make me a sandwich.”

  I smiled. “That’s what I thought you said.”

  —

  After Pete and Gertie left, it was time for me to start working on the mountain of cookies we had to have ready for the next day’s big Holiday 5K Race. It was an annual event in Nashville, and this year, Java Jive had a tent at the finish line. We would be selling drinks and cookies, and a portion of our proceeds would benefit a local charity that made sure underprivileged kids received Christmas presents. The only thing I wasn’t excited about was that Cecilia was in charge of the event. Although, to be fair, she was easily one of the most generous philanthropists in town. She was always attending a fundraising event or planning one herself. Her dedication was impressive.

  I commandeered Wayne, my assistant cook, and Camille, my favorite of the two daytime baristas, to help me start the baking. They were a couple of great workers, but unfortunately when they were together, they spent a lot of time making goo-goo eyes at each other.

  “Okay, guys. The good news is, to make things easier, I’ve chosen only two types of cookies for us to make, chocolate chip and candy cane. The bad news is, we need to make five hundred of each. So we have to get cracking here. Wayne, you make the chocolate chip dough, and Camille, you start on the sugar cookie dough for the others. I’ll crush the candy canes for you to add later.”