A Cup of Jo

by Sandra Balzo

  'Sure you are.' Sarah thrust the paper back at me. 'Read it and weep.'

  Knowing that she would value my perceived envy over my professed congratulations, I didn't argue and took the paper.

  The story went on to explain – for a very long three paragraphs – exactly what 'all' its headline signified, pretty much as Sarah had waxed eloquent with me. The last, blessedly succinct, sentence reported that the train would be known as 'The L' for short.

  Thank the lord. 'Did they interview you?'

  'Nope, they just used the information on the entry form. I sent the photo, too.' Sarah was turning over the 'CLOSED' sign on the door, something we should have done three non-customers ago. 'To be fair, though, there really wasn't time for the CitySentinel to do an interview after Anita Hampton telephoned last night to tell me I'd won.'

  So Pavlik was right: Anita was picking up the slack left by JoLynne's untimely death.

  Before I could comment, the morning rush started in earnest. And I do mean 'rush'.

  At the old Uncommon Grounds, most of our early customers were commuters, too, but they were commuting in their own cars. They came in small, manageable waves, drivers seeming to leave for work on the hour, half-hour or quarter-hour. (Had anyone thought that maybe backing out of their driveways at 7:23 instead of 7:30 might cede them a lead on the pack?)

  The small 'waves' were nothing, though, in comparison to the tsunami that hit us fifteen minutes before the first of the two scheduled trains arrived at 6:50 a.m.

  'Holy shit,' said Sarah as a parade of cars passed our windows and descended into the big commuter parking lot. 'Do we have enough to feed and water this herd?'

  'Not every head of steer will come in,' I said. 'Some of them will go right to the boarding platform.'

  I might have been right, but all I could see were the people coming in our door, folding umbrellas and stamping their wet feet on our wooden floor.

  Since Amy was still the only one who really knew how to run the cash register, she handled the order window and Tien's baked goods. I took the espresso machines and specialty drinks, with Sarah on the express coffee window.

  We'd added the express window so the 'I'll have a medium, black' crowd, didn't have to wait behind the 'triple-shot, extra large, non-fat, no-foam latte' cultists. Still training on the espresso machine, Sarah was the ideal person to serve folks who wanted regular old coffee instead of the more time-consuming specialty drinks. Her 'take it and get out' attitude probably didn't hurt, either.

  Our system, though admittedly overtaxed, proved to be a good one. At first, the two lines were fairly equal, but as boarding time grew short, people migrated to the express line and I moved off the espresso machine to keep old-fashioned coffee brewing.

  'Whew,' Amy said as the second train finally departed at 7:45 a.m. 'This was the morning from hell.'

  'L,' Sarah corrected. 'We need more staff. And machines, both coffee-makers and espresso.'

  'We sure did today, but this was our first experience with the train's regular schedule.' For the fourth time in ninety minutes, I was filling up the creamer on the condiment cart by the door. Good thing I'd sent Amy to the store yesterday. 'What if this morning's early shift was an aberration?'

  'Or morbid curiosity.' Amy, who was mopping up the puddles on our planked floor, gestured toward the window. 'When do you suppose they'll take that down?'

  She was referring to the stage, now empty except for torn remnants of police tape skittering across. Both the rain and our cup/saucer were gone, the former heading east on to Lake Michigan and the latter likely hauled off by the crime-scene unit some time after we'd left the prior day.

  'I'll call Kevin.' I tossed the empty half-and-half carton into the wastebasket under the sink. 'They probably don't know the police have cleared out.'

  'Sheriff's team,' Sarah corrected. I'd noticed she was doing a lot of that, probably fueled by her win in the train-naming contest. 'And Kevin Williams himself may not be there. From what Anita Hampton told me last night, he's your boyfriend's prime suspect.'

  Well, lah-de-dah. And how exactly could Anita know that? 'Really? The only thing Pavlik said to me was that JoLynne died by asphyxiation.'

  'Don't they always suspect the husband first?'Amy asked.

  Or the wife's lover. But I didn't want to think about that. Or start a debate over it.

  Sarah seemed to be counting the empty brewing pots lined up on the counter. 'Anita said the county guys know it was murder and Pavlik is focusing on Kevin. Is there something I should do with these?'

  'Wash them,' I said.

  'How?'

  I pointed at the sink. 'Hot water, soap.'

  'Or you can use the dishwasher,' Amy said gently. 'Here, I'll show you.'

  Thankfully, Amy had patience, because I certainly didn't. At least not today. It wasn't even Sarah's fault. We should have trained her on all the equipment ahead of Dedication Day. Problem was, the last of the paraphernalia hadn't been installed before Monday and we'd opened on Wednesday.

  Amy, though terrific, still had just two hands. Even when Sarah got up to speed, the three of us wouldn't be able to handle long-term the magnitude and urgency of the crowd we'd had this morning. 'I've got a train to catch' wasn't just blowing smoke in this case.

  Would the commuters keep patronizing our shop long-term? I couldn't predict. But I did know we had a very defined – and narrow – window of opportunity to prove we could serve our customers efficiently enough to assure them they'd make their trains. If we failed at that, it wouldn't be long before our 'to-go' cups would be replaced by ones from Dunkin' Donuts and Mickey D's.

  Amy seemed to read my mind. 'It'd be awkward to hire someone only to lay them off if things quieted down. Do you think Tien would consider helping us out as a stopgap in the morning?'

  'Not a bad idea.' Sarah pushed the 'wash' button and, with a pat on the dishwasher's stainless steel head, stepped back proudly. 'We'd need her for only a couple hours.'

  The dishwasher sounded less like a cat purring in appreciation than one hawking up a hairball, as in 'ker-chuk, ker-chuk'.

  Sarah might be on the high side regarding our need for Tien. It was more like an hour and a quarter, from 6:30 to about 7:45, when the second train left. Seventy-five really hectic minutes, though an extra pair of hands could make all the difference.

  'Tien arrives here at closing time to do her baking, so she's not in the way during business hours,' I reminded them. 'I can't very well expect her to come back.'

  'Maybe she'd be willing to work midnight to eight?' Amy asked.

  'I don't know, but I can ask.' I wasn't looking forward to it.

  'It's not such a bad shift,' Amy went on, 'at least compared with what Tien is already doing. If she didn't start work until midnight, she could still go out to dinner or see a movie beforehand. As it is, she'll have no time for any social life.'

  Only someone who has a social life would conceive of such things. I came close to asking Amy to call Tien, but as a partner, it was my responsibility. Or Sarah's.

  The latter, pots now in the dishwasher, had picked up the frothing pitcher and was gazing into it like milk was a foreign substance. My partner had enough on her proverbial plate.

  'Amy, if you show Sarah how to froth milk, I'll go phone Tien right now.'

  And I did just that. Awakening her, of course.

  'I am so sorry, Tien.' I glanced at the clock. Eight fifteen. The calm between the commuters and the soccer moms who, I hoped, would drop their kids off at school and continue on to Uncommon Grounds. 'I didn't even think of what time it must be.'

  'Not a problem, Maggy.' Even half asleep, the woman was perky. 'How's it going so far?'

  'Well, that's what I'm calling about.'

  'Uh-oh. Was something wrong with my food?'

  I should have realized that Tien Romano, as conscientious as she was, would fear I was calling to complain about something.

  'Just the opposite. Your pastries and sandwiches were a
huge hit,' I said honestly. 'We even ran out of coffee cake.'

  'Oh, dear. I knew I should have made two.'

  'No, no, no,' I said sternly, 'you are perfect. Your food is perfect. I am the screw-up who didn't realize we'd be bombarded this morning.'

  'Really? There was a crowd?' Tien's voice was sunny again.

  'Crowd? The line went out the door. We literally could not keep up.'

  'That's wonderful!'

  'Wonderful, yes. But –' worming into my reason for calling – 'it's a problem, too.'

  'A problem?'

  'A "good" problem, Tien. We had a ton of customers, only we couldn't serve them all before each train left.'

  'Oh.' A thoughtful silence.

  I joined her in it, and then: 'I just don't know if this gold rush will last. The novelty of the train may wear off.' Or the novelty of the murder at its dedication.

  Another silence. 'You know, if you wanted me to, I could schedule my work in the kitchen so I can stay later into the morning and help you out.'

  'Really?' I was almost ashamed of myself. Almost. 'Tien, I couldn't ask you to do that.'

  'You're not asking me. I'm offering.'

  OK. Now I was ashamed of myself. 'Honestly, if you can do that, I would be really grateful. And I promise that it won't be for long. Once we get a gauge on things, we'll have a better idea how to staff.'

  'Don't be silly, Maggy. I really enjoyed working the counter yesterday. It made me realize how much I miss the store.'

  Tien and her father Luc Romano had owned An's Foods, the market around the corner from the original Uncommon Grounds. When the plaza that both operations rented in had collapsed, the father/daughter team decided not to reopen in another location. Luc had wanted his beautiful daughter to have a life outside managing a family store. Tien, in turn, said her father needed to stand somewhere other than behind a butcher counter.

  Both of them thought they were giving the other what he or she wanted, but it had turned out like 'The Gift of the Magi' with shopping carts. Luc and Tien each had sacrificed what one loved most for the other. Sticking point: they both loved the same thing, the market that bore the name of Tien's deceased Vietnamese mother.

  'In fact,' Tien continued, 'if we need more help, I bet my father would be happy to pitch in occasionally. I know he misses the socialization our market gave him, too.'

  'And we'd be happy to have Luc,' I said. I hadn't thought about a male barista, shame on me. 'Isn't he enjoying retirement, though?'

  'Of course not,' Tien said flatly. 'You know how he can be. But I'm working on him to get out more.'

  'You know, that might be a side benefit of shifting your hours.' I was now drawing on what Amy had told me. 'You'd be able to go out to dinner, enjoy the night life.'

  'Date, you mean.' She laughed. 'Did you talk to my dad first?'

  'No.'

  'Good, then you've been spared his "next generation" spiel.' Tien was trying to act perturbed, but she seemed more amused than irritated.

  'Luc wants grandchildren, I take it?'

  'Of course.'

  I could picture Tien throwing her hands in the air. If she wasn't holding the receiver in one.

  'After all,' she continued, 'everyone else has them.'

  Not me. Not yet. And, when your only offspring is a gay male, maybe never. But that was OK with me, if it was OK with Eric. 'Sounds like peer pressure.'

  'That's what I told him. All those "if everyone jumped off a building, would you do it?" lectures are coming back to haunt him.' Then her voice changed. 'Umm. Not that having kids is like jumping off a cliff, of course.'

  Yeah. Like Tien had to worry about offending me. 'At three a.m., with a colicky baby and a job to leave for in three more hours, it sure can feel that way.'

  She laughed. 'So, how's this? I won't show up before closing tonight. I'll arrive more like midnight or one a.m. and get my baking done, put together sandwiches and maybe make soup. Then I'll be able to help after you get in at six.'

  'I can't tell you how much I appreciate this, Tien.'

  'Maggy, it'll be fun.'

  I hung up the phone thinking I didn't deserve her. Before I could start pondering less pleasant things I also didn't deserve, I heard a commotion out front.

  Enter the soccer moms.

  At the original Uncommon Grounds, the group had staked out their favorite tables, even their favorite seats around same. On this occasion, though – the soccer moms' first visit to our new location – you'd think we'd just shanghaied them to another planet.

  Ten minutes, minimum, for the ladies to decide on a table. And I thought they'd never find the condiment cart and napkins.

  'Maggy, just lovely,' one of them said, as she went to open the door to finally leave. Since Caron had, in the first incarnation of Uncommon Grounds, a better memory for names than me, I'd never bothered to differentiate among 'the moms'. The whole group knew me, though.

  This mom dropped her voice. 'I thought we'd be here yesterday, but with all the unpleasantness. . .' Hands held out and a shrug.

  Yes. Death could be so . . . inconvenient. Especially for the dead guy. Or gal, in this case.

  'Well, I'm glad you made it this morning,' I said, genuinely meaning it, despite the fact that I sometimes (OK, often) make fun of their foibles. The group had sought us out in our new location, and I really was very grateful. 'Thanks so much.'

  I went to close the door behind her, but it was pulled out of my hands.

  'Sorry, Maggy,' Jerome said.

  He wasn't carrying his camera today, but he did arrive with Kate McNamara, more's the pity.

  'C'mon in,' I said, circling back to my post behind the service window. 'What would you like?'

  'Answers.' Kate slapped a five on the counter.

  I pushed it back. 'I refused to be bought for a ten yesterday.'

  'This is for the coffee.' She shoved it again. 'I don't pay for information.'

  'Kate has journalistic ethics,' Jerome said.

  'And,' Sarah whispered in my ear, 'no slush fund for informants, I'll bet.'

  'OK,' I said to Kate. 'Let's start with the coffee and forget about the answers.' And, please, God, everything else that had happened over the last two days – at least until I could get home for a decent glass of wine, a good think, and a better cry. 'Jerome? What can I get you?'

  'Coffee. Black.'

  'Really? When did you start drinking the stuff straight?'

  The hardbitten videographer waggled his head. 'All right, I'm outed. Iced mocha, extra whipped cream.'

  'Cherry?'

  He looked at Kate, who rolled her eyes, before he said, 'Sure.'

  I'd plop on two.

  'And you?'

  'Coffee. Black.' Kate threw Jerome a withering look.

  Sarah reached for the pot on a bottom burner of the coffee brewer, but I redirected her to one on top.

  Again she whispered in my ear, 'But should we use that? Hasn't it been sitting too long?'

  'Of course. And who else would we serve it to?'

  I slid the inky brew over to Kate. As I feared, instead of carrying it to a table, she stayed put.

  'Your sheriff took Kevin Williams in for questioning.'

  My sheriff. I didn't bother to correct her or, for that matter, rein in my growing anger at Pavlik. Mad, I could still function. Sad, I'd curl up in the fetal position under a table.

  'So they're sure JoLynne's death wasn't an accident?' I knew the answer unofficially, but I wanted to hear it from Kate.

  'An accident?'

  I'd never seen anybody physically project the word 'dumbfounded' before. It seemed a little over the top.

  But, then, so was Kate. 'You're the one who had that inflated monstrosity built. The sides were like four-feet tall.'

  'Five, if you count the saucer,' I corrected.

  Kate was trying to look patient. 'So five feet, even better. It's not like she just "oopsied" and fell in.'

  'Told you.' This from Sarah passing behi
nd me as she went to empty the dishwasher.

  I said, 'Maybe JoLynne first climbed up so she could see into the cup and . . . slipped?'

  'Funny. The sheriff doesn't think a five-foot two-inch woman in a pencil skirt and strappy high heels could have climbed a five-foot high –' Kate checked her notes – '"convex surface" – that means a curved out one.' She showed me a supercilious smile.

  'I know what it means, Kate.'

  'Splendid. And here I thought your former partner was the wordsmith.'

  At this rate, in a minute, Ms McNamara was going to be 'former' – as in formerly able to stand erect. 'OK, so JoLynne didn't clamber in on her own. Could she have had help?'

  'Or a ladder.' Sarah again, now moving the other way.

  'Good guess,' Kate said. 'But there was no ladder in reach.' The smile had gone from supercilious to deprecating.

  Had Kate been practicing in the mirror? What was next? Envy? Lust? Despair?

  Life is short, and it was time for me to cut through the crap. 'Then what do the authorities think happened?'

  'Murder, plain and simple. Someone smothered her and hid her body in your screwy cup.'

  'Why?'

  'Apparently JoLynne was having an affair with someone in county government. Her husband probably found out.'

  Sarah dropped the handful of clean spoons she'd been using to restock the condiment cart. To her credit, she picked them up and kept her mouth shut.

  'Who?' My question came out more like a croak.

  I got 'contempt' from Kate on this one. 'Kevin Williams, of course.'

  'Thanks, but I meant who was JoLynne having an affair with?'

  I didn't want to ask the question and I sure as hell didn't want the answer. My hands were sweating and the top of my head tingling.

  'With whom.'

  I vowed never to correct Pavlik's English again. Assuming I ever talked to him.

  'Fine,' I said through clenched teeth. 'With whom was JoLynne having an affair?'

  'Oh, that.' Kate flapped her hand, like it was inconsequential. 'No one knows. Or maybe they're just not talking. If the person is important enough, there could even be a cover-up.'

  From her tone, I could tell Kate hoped so, just as I did. My reason was that whatever was going on between Pavlik and me, I didn't like to think of him publicly embarrassed. Or run out of town on a rail. Tarred and feathered . . .