A Cup of Jo

by Sandra Balzo

  'A complexion approaching cherry-red,' Jerome supplied eagerly.

  'Only JoLynne wasn't inside the balloon.' I bursted a bubble of my own making. 'She was just cradled in the cup.'

  Pavlik and Jerome looked at me.

  'I mean, JoLynne was lying at the bottom of the cup, like riding an inflatable boat. She wasn't in the path of any air inflating it.'

  Pavlik seemed tired of talking cop – or 'cup' – with non-cops. 'Listen, I have a lot on my plate. We're not going to know what killed Ms Penn-Williams until her autopsy. It could even be a natural death.'

  I couldn't hold my tongue. 'A healthy thirty-something just keels over inside a giant coffee cup?'

  'And you think the far-fetched part is the natural death?'

  'Maybe it was auto-erotic asphyxiation,' Jerome interjected.

  Now it was his turn to get the look from the two of us.

  'What?' he protested, turning a tad cherry himself. 'I hear things.'

  'But there aren't any ligature marks around her neck,' I said. 'Or plastic bags or—'

  'Not to mention she was fully clothed.' Pavlik's patience had hit the wall. 'Now I suggest you both get back outside and we let –' he nodded at the momentarily forgotten city officer, who was looking bored again – 'the Brookhills Police do their job.'

  The uniform perked right up. 'Yes, sir.'

  Pavlik ushered out Jerome and me. 'Why does that officer call you "sir"?' I asked. 'He doesn't work for you.'

  'It's a sign of what's known as respect,' Pavlik said dryly as Jerome rejoined Kate. 'You should try it sometime.'

  'Yes, sir. I was thinking handcuffs, and—'

  'You're completely transparent, Maggy. Get your mind out of the gutter.' But the grin on the sheriff's face belied his words.

  'Sooo . . .' he resumed after a count of five, 'what are you doing tonight?'

  I glanced around to see if anyone was looking, and then gave him a quick kiss on the lips. 'You, I hope. Just be sure to bring the cuffs.'

  Before he could protest, I whisked myself away.

  The wind had been taken out of my expensive inflatable. And our entire Brookhills celebration.

  'From 'ell and back,' Sarah said as she joined me in front of the stage.

  'I'm not sure of the "back", but it sure is a hell of a mess.'

  'Not hell, Maggy. "L" – like the first letter in lake.'

  'Oh.'

  'Oh, my foot,' Sarah said. 'You don't get it, do you?'

  Well, honestly? No. I was watching Anita Hampton wave Pavlik over to where she and Brewster stood. Wynona Counsel joined them as well.

  As I said, I first met Wynona during my brief, not-so-recent stint as a member of WoPro, an organization for high-powered female professionals.

  Why, you might ask, was I included to start with?

  Damned if I know. As second-in-command to Anita at the bank, I was a mere vice president in a land saturated with first vice presidents, senior vice presidents and executive vice presidents. And don't even get me started on presidents of various types and chairmen and vice chairmen.

  My point is that VPs – in banking, at least – were a dime a dozen. Certainly not typical WoPro material. Still, Anita insisted that I apply. Even sponsored me. This sounds better than it was. I'd hoped for lifelong job security and all I got was this stupid organization.

  After attending a few 'last Tuesday of the month' meetings, I quit, resigned to the fact that I was never going to achieve lofty corporate status. It helped not to give a shit.

  But a lot of people did and, for them, WoPro was able to unlock doors, even drill holes in glass ceilings. Someone knew somebody, who needed something, which had to be provided by a living, breathing person and, hey! Why shouldn't it be a WoPro?

  If the overall effort involved families, it might be considered 'nepotism'. If in government, 'partisanship' or 'cronyism'. For men in general . . . well, let's just say 'golf'.

  For some women, it was a lifeline.

  JoLynne Penn-Williams, for one. She came after my time in WoPro, but I understood that Anita had met Kevin Williams through his staging business and invited Kevin's wife to join the organization. From there, JoLynne had snagged the Brookhills marketing and events position.

  Not that it was all support and sweetness and light. Kate McNamara was a member, too, after all.

  'Hey, Maggy?'

  I held up a wait-a-second index finger to Sarah, as the knot of officials broke up. Evidently, Wynona and Brewster had acquiesced to whatever bill of goods Anita, with Pavlik's help, had been trying to sell them. Brewster turned toward the train door and, as he did, Anita gave Pavlik's arm a grateful squeeze. Anyone not watching carefully might have missed how long her hand lingered.

  Pavlik glanced away and caught me looking. Again.

  Embarrassed, I turned to Sarah. 'I'm sorry. Where were we?'

  Sarah gave me a jaundiced look. 'I don't know where you were, but I was telling you about my entry.'

  Time to admit I'd been lost in space. 'Entry?'

  Anita and Brewster Hampton were boarding the train. Wynona Counsel hung back for a quick chat with Pavlik before she followed.

  '"From . . . L . . . and . . . back."' Sarah emphasized each word. Or, to be accurate, three words and one letter.

  'And what does "L" stand for again?' I asked, still puzzled.

  'Lake, you idiot. "To L and Back". To Lake and Back. It's a play on words.'

  More like a dirty trick on them. The words deserved better.

  'Are you talking about a slogan, Sarah?' Every couple of years, one of the commerce groups in town launched a new campaign aimed at getting people to visit Wisconsin.

  Me? I believe in the old adage that a picture is worth a thousand words. Show potential tourists the lakes and hills, formed by glaciers long-receded. The art and culture of a big city. The charm and friendliness of countless smaller ones. The convenient transportation – especially now. And then there was Lake Michigan . . .

  'Oh,' I said, as the train departed the station. 'The contest for naming the commuter line. You entered?'

  'Yes, and they were supposed to announce the winner here today,' Sarah said. 'This better not screw things up for me.'

  Don't you just hate it when a corpse comes between your contest money and you?

  '"To L and Back",' she continued. 'Nobody's going to top that. Says exactly what the train does. Takes folks to the lake and back.'

  Did I want to explain to Sarah that the subliminal identification she was counting on – 'L', working only when derived from the word 'hell' – was rather negative, and therefore the very last motto Milwaukee County would want? Did I want to point out that a good number of riders would be reverse-commuters from Milwaukee, who might resent the insinuation that everyone would be commuting from west (Brookhills and environs) to east (Milwaukee)?

  Or that TLAB was a crappy acronym?

  Put slightly differently, did I want to suggest Sarah had a snowball's chance in 'L' of winning?

  Nah.

  'Brilliant,' I said.

  When Sarah and I stepped through the main entrance of Uncommon Grounds – the new Uncommon Grounds – the place, thanks be to the Norse gods, was a madhouse.

  We entered facing the service windows, though that characterization had to be taken on faith because of the crowd. I could see only the three original depot clocks set high on the wall behind them. Seattle to the left, New York City to the right and, in the middle, a restored Brookhills clock, indicating it was just past nine a.m.

  Offending just about everyone – getting between somebody and their first coffee of the day is taking your life in your hands – I waded to the counter with an 'excuse me', a couple of 'sorry's and the occasional 'just passing through'.

  'Tien. Are you doing OK?'

  Tien Romano was the only one staffing the order window. An exotic mix of her late Vietnamese mother and Italian father, she held up a scruffy steno pad. 'I didn't know how to run the cash register, so
I borrowed this from one of the reporters. I'm trying to keep track, but . . .' She shrugged.

  We hadn't trained Tien on the cash register, because she was our caterer/chef. Part our employee and part her own, she provided us with baked goods and pre-packaged food that our commuter customers could take to work in the morning or pick up upon their return to have for dinner after a long day.

  Samples of her fresh coffee cake and muffins were served for our Grand Opening this morning, and she had volunteered to work behind the Uncommon Grounds stand outside.

  Sarah and I didn't expect Tien to be pressed into service in the store itself later, but bless her for stepping up and helping Amy.

  I'd thought we'd have a brisk outdoor business and then a fairly light 'lull' introductory morning. Little did I know that we would turn out to be the 'it' spot.

  And a nice surprise, 'it' was. Locals everywhere, interspersed with men and women holding steno pads, smart phones or cameras. Meaning the media, of course.

  The depot building itself is a big rectangle. The service area, with the kitchen, storeroom and office behind it, constitutes a square within the perimeter, aligned in the back right-hand corner. That meant our seating area formed an 'L', the larger leg fronting on Junction Road and the other running at a right angle. That second side led to the door of the train's boarding platform, where the air-compressor was stashed, so as not to interfere with the dedication ceremony.

  The best-laid plans . . . Still, I couldn't complain about the caffeine frenzy.

  'Thank you so much, Tien,' I said, rounding the counter. 'You have gone above and beyond any call of duty. I can take over now.'

  Too late, I realized who was next in line. Kate McNamara. 'I need a medium iced latte and a fat-free bran muffin.'

  Her tone implied 'and I need it now'.

  I looked down at the keys on the new cash register. The codes seemed to be in a foreign language.

  Tien handed me the notebook.

  I took it gratefully.

  'I'll be back later to start tomorrow's food,' she assured me.

  Tien had suggested she use our kitchen after closing. That way, we wouldn't be tripping over each other and, like magic, fresh pastries, sandwiches and soups would await us when we arrived to open at six a.m.

  And, smart woman that she was, Tien wouldn't be interrupted by frantic calls for help out front. While I filed this under 'good problems', in that it meant business was booming, counter service certainly wasn't Tien's responsibility. If needed, we'd add more staff.

  Or, bright idea, train Sarah to open.

  'Uh-hum.' A clearing of the throat from Kate.

  Tien gave me a pat on the shoulder and got going while the going was good.

  I turned back to Ms McNamara.

  She raised her eyebrows at me.

  'Yes?'

  'My order?'

  Apparently Kate had mistaken me for someone with a steel-trap memory that extended beyond the prior five seconds. I poised my pen over the pad. 'That was . . .'

  A put-upon sigh. 'Medium . . . iced . . . latte . . . fat-free . . . bran . . . muffin.'

  I scribbled the latte details and looked up. 'We don't have bran muffins. How about chocolate chip?'

  'Fat-free?'

  'If you don't count the chocolate.' Or the vegetable oil.

  I wrote it down. 'Did you want that for here or to go, Kate?' Guess which I was hoping for.

  'Here.'

  Damn.

  Amy, our young, but uber-experienced barista, was spinning her magic on the espresso machine. I handed her a mug and relayed the drink order.

  'Milk?' she asked.

  'Of course.' A latte is one-third espresso and two thirds milk. Amy knew that.

  My barista gave me a patient smile. 'I meant what kind of milk? Whole? Skim? Two-per cent? Soy?'

  Oh. It had been a while – four months, to be exact – since I'd been behind the counter, resulting, apparently, in losing a yard off my fast-ball.

  I turned to Kate.

  'Skim,' she said. 'And no ice.'

  'No ice in the iced latte?' I asked.

  'It costs the same as a hot latte and ice takes up room.' Kate had been trying to peer out the side window and now turned back. 'Why would I pay for ice?'

  'To make the drink cold?' I hazarded. Espresso was brewed and, therefore, hot. Add cold milk and you have something just this side of tepid.

  'Just swirl a few ice cubes around and then fish them out,' Kate said. 'Amy knows.'

  She does, huh?

  'Got it,' my barista said brightly and started the drink. I was seriously considering a no-ice surcharge.

  'With a Splenda,' Kate added.

  As Amy pulled the shots for the drink, I tonged the biggest muffin in the bakery case and centered the calorie-bomb on a plate.

  'I need a bag, too,' Kate said. 'In case I'm called away on assignment.'

  'Shouldn't you be somewhere working the story right now?' I asked, hope trumping experience.

  'The station wants me to monitor things back here.'

  Kate has the light-skinned complexion of her Irish mother and father. Her emotions showed plainly on her face, like a freckled mood ring.

  And right now the tip of Kate's nose was red. Equals: not happy.

  Wonder why.

  'Really,' I said, probing delicately. 'I have to say I was surprised to see you weren't at the morgue or wherever they took JoLynne.'

  Cheeks went bright pink, in patches, like an invisible Lilliputian was serially slapping her. 'We have a police reporter on that,' she said stiffly. 'Someone needs to be here to follow the "body-found" continuing story, and I'm the one who's most familiar with it.'

  A twist of the metaphorical knife now, even as I laid a real knife and three pats of butter on her plate . 'Local stuff, huh? I understand completely. Station management probably doesn't think you're quite ready yet.'

  Houston, we have lift-off. Kate's entire face erupted into flames. 'I – I . . .'

  'Excuse me.' Amy elbowed her way in and passed Kate the quasi-iced iced latte. I slid the well-equipped muffin plate toward her as well, plus the bag she'd asked for.

  Kate started away and then stopped. 'Oh, and a to-go cup with some ice in it?'

  I opened my mouth, but Amy reached across me and handed her the cup.

  As Kate took her leave, our barista confronted me. 'Maggy, we've talked about this. You know you're not supposed to torture the customers.'

  I shrugged. 'She's just such easy pickings.' And cheap.

  'That's no excuse.' With a stern look, Amy returned to her espresso machine.

  I hadn't seen Sarah since we'd walked in together, but she was my next customer.

  'What are you doing in line?' I asked.

  'Getting a coffee.'

  'You own the place.'

  'I know, but if I go behind the counter, you'll make me work.'

  Damn right, I would. Trained or not.

  'What did you do, jump the line?' The queue had been practically out the door when we came in. There was no way Sarah should be this close to ordering already.

  'Christy let me in.' She slid sideways to let me see Christy Wrigley. Christy taught piano in a small house-cum-studio directly across the road. A germ-a-phobic, she wore yellow rubberized gloves and cleaned compulsively, her keyboard and anything else within reach of her sturdy, laminated hands. Eccentric as a loony bird, but Christy seemed like a good person.

  OK, a good crazy person.

  'Were you away?' I asked her. 'You look like you have a tan.'

  Christy smiled self-consciously. 'Does it look all right?'

  'Great,' I said. The tan took her from bony, pale, carrot-topped territory to bony, tanned and carrot-topped. I'd defy anybody to say it wasn't an improvement.

  'Sarah was telling me about JoLynne. What a tragedy.' Christy's wrinkled-up nose indicated that it was probably a messy, smelly event she was glad to have missed.

  And our germ-a-phobic was right as rain on
that point. Death – violent or peaceful, homicidal or natural – is always a real stinker.

  'You weren't here?' I asked. Admittedly, I hadn't seen Christy in the crowd, but she was a person easily overlooked.

  'No, I wasn't.' Christy's voice dropped to a whisper. 'I was in jail.'

  Pouring Sarah's cup of coffee, I paused in midstream.

  'Christy went to see my Cousin Ronny,' Sarah explained.

  'I didn't know Ronny and you were . . . close,' I told Christy. At least close enough for Ms Clean to brave a place as predictably filthy as a jail.

  Ronny Eisvogel was the son of Sarah's aunt's second husband. Convoluted, I know, but it made him a step-cousin of my partner. I wasn't sure what, if anything, old Ronny could be to Christy.

  'He's being detained pretrial without bail, sharing a cell with this career drug dealer,' Christy said, holding her chin – minimalist at best – high. 'But Ronny's innocent, and I'm going to help him prove it. I've been on the computer all morning, Googling "surviving prison" and "innocence projects", and just a boodle of other fascinating stuff.'

  Ahh, mystery solved. Ronny was Christy's new hobby.

  I looked at Sarah. 'You have tried to talk some sense into this young woman?'

  'Please,' Sarah said, transforming the word into a defeated groan. 'Just look at her. She's probably already learned how to saw through iron bars and tie non-slip knots into sheets.'

  'Don't be silly,' Christy said. 'Even a helicopter escape is nearly impossible nowadays.'

  Nearly. Even tanned and classifiable as a 'good crazy', our neighbor was an odd duck. Hair pulled back tightly, fresh-scrubbed face with no make-up at all, laser green eyes, but eyelashes and brows so light they didn't accent her one outstanding attribute. And then there were the gloves. Christy was rubbing antibacterial cleaner from a small vial into them.

  'Helicopter?' I asked.

  'Shh,' Sarah hissed. 'Do not ask. The woman is probably building one from a kit in her garage.'

  'But why Ronny?' I whispered back to Sarah.

  'Birds of a feather,' she whispered back. 'Or hypo-allergenic down-substitute. Are you going to finish pouring my coffee?'

  I did and slid the cup toward her.

  'What can I get you?' I asked Christy.