by Paula Cox
I walk down the street toward the coffee place. It’s home time for school and kids fill the streets, standing on corners or walking with their bags pulled high on their backs. I watch as three teenagers circle a streetlamp on their BMXs, laughing at some private joke. When I pass them, they snort, clearly trying to get my attention. But not even pain-in-the-ass kids can get on my nerves today. I’m floating on clouds and there’s nothing anybody can do about it. I may as well sprout wings, I think. Sprout wings and soar through the air.
As I approach the coffee place – the Bean House – I force the silly grin from my face. I can’t go into an interview smiling like somebody who’s just taken a whole load of drugs. I brush down my clothes and look at myself in the reflection of the glass windows. I look professional, capable. I look pretty, too. I wonder at the fact that I can even think of myself as pretty. It’s only being with Brody that allows me to do that. With Charley, when I looked in the mirror I saw an old hag, a sickening caricature of a real woman. Now, when I look at myself, I can find something to appreciate. If a man like Brody wants me, I reason, there must be something there.
I walk into the coffee place and go to the counter. It’s busy and the staff runs around, hectic and panicked. Most of them look like high school kids who would prefer to be anywhere but here, forced to work here to earn their place at college, probably. How different they are to me, I reflect. They can’t wait to get out of here. I can’t wait to get in here.
The tall, thin man walks around the counter. “Hello,” he says. He offers me his hand and we shake. “You’re right on time.”
“I’m quite like Gandalf in that regard,” I quip.
I regret it as soon as I say it. What if he doesn’t like jokes? What if he hasn’t seen or read Lord of the Rings? What if he thinks you’re a complete douchebag for mentioning it?
But he chuckles and waves me toward a back room. “My name is Ryan Stevenson,” he says. “I’m one of the managers here.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I reply, as we weave between tables. “My name is Darla Castle.”
He opens a door to a storage cupboard. We walk past crates of bottled drinks and coffee beans and hot chocolate mix and through another door, to a small meeting room. “This is the manager’s office, shared between us. Well, I say us. There’s only me now.” He gestures to the seat opposite him. I sit down and he goes on: “You’ll be interviewing for manager today, Miss Castle, if that works for you.”
I try not to let my shock show on my face. Manager? Manager!
I nod. “That sounds good to me,” I say.
Ryan smiles, as though he’s read the excitement on my face. “Good,” he says. He reaches across to a shelf and takes a few papers. He flicks through them. From the header, I see that a couple of sheets are my résumé.
“I see here that you’ve never been in a managerial position,” he says. “But you do have a great deal of experience. And after you left, I took the liberty of contacting the owner of the Coffee Joint, one of your references. He has nothing but good things to say about you. Dedicated, committed, punctual, intelligent, self-sufficient. These were his words. I think you’d make a great manager, truth be told, and we need a good manager around here. You saw the mayhem out there.” He winces. “Of course, I shouldn’t admit that,” he laughs grimly. “But it seems being a manager is harder than it seems.”
He shakes his head. “My first question is . . .”
He asks me all the usual interview questions, only now geared toward being a manager. He asks me how I would best streamline the operation to increase efficiency. I tell him that based on what I saw out there, I would train a few people specifically for the drinks machine, specifically for the counter, etc., so that everybody is comfortable in their roles and isn’t running around like panicked chickens. And then I would train the best and the brightest on everything and give them the solo shifts. He nods seriously at this suggestion and scribbles something down.
The rest of the interview makes me feel like a batter who keeps knocking it out of the park. Ryan throws a question, I bat it high and long. Again, and I bat it even higher. We talk for around half an hour. By the end of it, Ryan isn’t trying to hide how impressed he is. He fiddles with his papers and smiles at me.
“Miss Castle,” he says. “I can’t officially tell you that you’ve got the job. You understand, that’s not how it’s done. But I can say this. I would be extremely surprised if you didn’t get the job. I’m going to be singing your praises to my superiors and I’m sure that in a week, or less, you will be a manager here. Again, I can’t say welcome on board, but . . .” He laughs. “Welcome on board.”
“That’s fantastic,” I smile.
We stand up and shake hands.
“Let me see you out,” Ryan says.
He leads me through the storage cupboard and then onto the shop floor. It’s even busier and the staff runs around even more frantically. Ryan leads me to the entrance and opens the door for me. “Have a good day,” he says. “It’s time for me to go back to war.”
We both laugh and I walk out onto the street. I head toward the bus stop. When I’m out of sight of the Bean House, I punch the air and let out a whoop. A mother pushing a stroller snaps her head to me and lifts her finger to her lips. Shhhhh. I hold my hands up in an I’m-sorry gesture.
Life is good. Life is great. Life couldn’t get better—
The sirens tear through the air like malicious claws. They seem far too loud, far too close, and that’s when I realize that the police car has stopped right in front of me.
A police officer climbs out, a mustachioed, podgy man with a sweaty forehead and a stern expression. “Miss Castle,” he says. “Would you please come with me? We have a few questions to ask you, concerning two fires you were recently witness to.”
Like a pierced balloon, my walking-on-air happiness blows away.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Darla
“Carl’s just a creep,” I say, so nervous that my tongue takes on a life of its own.
I sit in the back of the police car, gripping my knees and trying to keep my breathing steady. I have never been in a police car and it wasn’t exactly on my bucket list. The police officer just glances in the rearview mirror without saying anything.
“He’s just a weirdo,” I go on, desperate for the officer to say something, anything.
I’m sure this is about Carl. They want me to provide testimony against him. But even before I stepped into the car, I knew I couldn’t do that. He’s weird, annoying, pest-like, but he’s not an arsonist. I think back to the day my apartment blew up. I tried to tell everybody then, but I was too shocked. And then life got in the way and it slipped my mind.
The officer drives slowly to the station, as though he wants to draw out the suspense for as long as possible.
“He’s not an arsonist, I’m sure of it. He’s scared of his own shadow. He’s deluded, sure. But I really don’t think he’d set fire to a building. I mean, why would he? What motive does he have? That’s what the police are all about, isn’t it? Motive and all that?” I realize I’m blabbing but I can’t stop myself. Interrupt me, I think, looking at the officer. Please, for the love of God, just interrupt me! Tell me to shut up! Stop letting me dig my own grave!
“I caught him watching pornography once, okay? In the storage cupboard at work. But he was never violent, never aggressive. I can’t imagine him hurting a fly. He’s just a . . . look, surely you know somebody who’s cracked in the head but is basically harmless. You know, the sort of guy who makes your skin crawl but you know, deep down, is not a threat. I worked with him for a long time. Surely he would’ve shown some sign of violence or—or something—in all that time.”
The officer pulls up outside the station, steps out, walks around the car, and opens my door. He leads me into the station. He doesn’t cuff me, or take my elbow, but even so a feeling of dread grips my chest. Fifteen minutes ago, I was high on life. Now I’m being dragg
ed into the police station to defend Carl. Why is life so strange?
The officer leads me to an interview room with a recorder in the middle of the table, a jug of water, and a stack of plastic cups. “If you could wait here,” he says, the only words he’s said to me since I got into the car.
“Uh, okay,” I mutter, walking into the room.
The door slams behind me and I go to the chair, sit down before my legs turn to jelly and collapse from beneath me. I only realize how badly my hands are shaking when I pick up the jug of water. The water swirls around and then splashes over the rim and onto the table. There are no cloths, so I pat the water dry with my sleeve. On my second attempt, I manage to pour myself a cup of water. I drink it, my mouth suddenly dry, as though I am sitting in the sun, not under dim white lights in a windowless room waiting for . . . waiting for what? To be questioned about Carl? Surely anybody could see that he’s harmless enough! He’s just a freak!
“I wish Brody was here,” I whisper, under my breath.
I wish he was here so that I could wrap my arms around his shoulders and hold him close and ask him to tell me that everything is all right. I wish he was here so he could kiss me on the forehead and trail his fingertips down my spine, making me warm and fuzzy and happy. I wish he was here so I could turn away from this absurd situation and lose myself in him.
With a shock, I realize that I have come to rely upon Brody. Not completely. I have not abandoned myself to him. But being with Brody is so much better than being alone.
I glance at the door. No one. Nothing. I pour myself another cup of water. But I know that no matter how much I drink, my throat is going to stay dry. I swallow and my throat hurts. My tongue feels too big, overfilling my mouth. I let out a long sigh and glance once again at the door. Why would they make me wait? I wonder. I’ll tell them about Carl. I’ll tell them that he’s a harmless insect-like guy who wouldn’t know where to start if he wanted to become an arsonist.
Finally, the door creaks open and a man steps in. He’s short, broad, and wears a loose-fitting blue suit. His face is made up of squashed features, a nose squashed close to his face, lips pressed firmly against his skin, eyes pushed back in their sockets. He waddles into the room and sits in the chair opposite me.
“Miss Castle,” he says. “I am Officer McCrary.” He has a faint Irish accent. “I hope you have been treated agreeably.”
“Not particularly,” I say, doing nothing to hide the annoyance in my voice. “I was having a good day, Officer McCrary, before I was picked up to the sound of sirens. And then the officer in the car wouldn’t tell me a single thing about what is going on. But, don’t worry, I know exactly what’s going on. You want to drag me in here to give evidence against Carl. Well . . .” I fold my arms. “I’m going to tell you right off the bat that Carl is just a weirdo. I tried to tell your friend in the car. Carl is a freak, sure. I get that. But I’ve worked with him for a while now—before the fire at the Coffee Joint and I never once suspected him of anything violent.”
“Hmm,” Officer McCrary says, eyeing my closely. His eyes are an odd shade of orange-brown. I feel like I’m being stared at by a black cat. “You seem utterly certain, Miss Castle, that this fellow isn’t guilty of setting fire to the Coffee Joint or planting the bomb at your apartment, though we have several witnesses who can put him at both scenes. Where does your certainty come from?”
I throw my hands up in frustration. “Because he didn’t do it!” I exclaim. “I don’t know how many ways I can say that! Carl. Did. Not. Do. It. Okay? Unless you have some real evidence, CCTV footage or something, why the hell are you going after him?”
“Hmm.” Officer McCray squints at me. “Miss Castle, could you please walk me through your version of events in the hours preceding the fire at the Coffee Joint?”
I blink at him, blindsided. “Why?” I say.
He waves a hand. “To build a more complete picture,” he says, voice tight.
Sighing, I give him a quick rundown of the day: serving customers, talking with Tracey and Carl, and then going down to the cellar.
“And you were in the cellar when the fire started, were you?” he says.
“Yes. I was trapped down there. I almost died.”
“Our reports indicate that the fire started around a minute before you went into the cellar.”
“Right . . .” I look him more closely in the face. I’m missing something, I think. “I suppose that’s possible. If it started small. But what does that even mean?”
“It means that, say, if you wanted to play the victim, you could’ve set the fire yourself and then descended into the cellar in an attempt to give yourself an alibi.”
Wait a second . . .
“You don’t mean that—” I cut short, almost laughing. “This is ludicrous!” I snap. “You don’t think I did it, do you?”
“We are exploring all avenues of investigation,” Officer McCrary says vaguely.
“And is one avenue that you think I did it?” I press on. “Is that one of your little avenues?” The bitterness and disbelief is plain in my voice.
“Certain persons have stepped forward with the claim that you had motive and opportunity to set fire to the Coffee Joint, yes.”
I do a double take. “What certain persons?” I gasp.
“I cannot disclose that information,” Officer McCrary mutters.
“Whoever it is, they’re talking out of their ass. Why the hell would I set fire to a building and then trap myself in the cellar?”
McCrary’s gaze is unreadable. His black-cat eyes stare without blinking at my face. “Perhaps in an attempt to garner the affections of one Mr. Brody Ellison. Is it not true that after the fire the two of you began a relationship? And isn’t it also true that you’d wanted to do so for quite some time?”
“This is insane,” I mutter. My heart pounds so hard I feel like I’m going to be sick. My throat feels tight. I try to pour myself another glass of water but when I reach for the jug, my hand is too shaky. I rest my hands in my lap, worrying at the fabric of my pants. “I could’ve died that day.”
“That is true,” McCray says. “But it is not unusual for those disturbed in the mind—”
“I am not disturbed in the mind!” I scream, smacking my fist down on the table. The water jug leaps, totters, and then spills over the side. Water splashes onto the floor and the plastic cups are thrown across the room, smacking against the wall. My fist aches and I lean back in the chair, shocked at my anger. Fire-like rage. Lava coursing through me.
McCrary doesn’t react, just watches me. “I would like to ask you about the day of the explosion,” he says.
“The explosion which has already been investigated by my insurance company? You know they’re paying up, don’t you?”
“That is new information and we’ll take it into consideration,” he says flatly.
“Do you always talk in rhymes?” I spit, anger gripping me again. “By the way, where the hell is Good Cop?”
McCrary ignores my question, doesn’t even seem to register that I’ve spoken. “Do you find it at all odd that the explosion in your apartment happened mere minutes after you vacated the premises?”
“Well, I . . .”
In truth, I haven’t given much thought to the explosion. Every so often I’ll think, somebody planted a bomb in my living room. But I’m not a police officer or a firefighter and I’d assumed they were dealing with it. And, anyway, I had insurance and work and Brody to occupy my thoughts. Perhaps it was foolish of me not to give any thought to it, but I had other things on my mind.
“I don’t know,” I say, voice weak. “Really, I have no clue.”
“Quite the coincidence, isn’t it?” McCrary says, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table. “We are trying to figure out who would want to kill you so badly that they’d plant a bomb in your apartment. You have no enemies. You’re well-liked. Why would somebody plant a bomb in a barista’s apartment? That is the question to which we ke
ep returning. But we can’t find a suitable answer. The only one that makes sense is that you planted the bomb in an effort to garner more affection from Mr. Brody Ellison.”
My mouth falls open. I know that I need to speak, but no words come out. If I was soaring with happiness before, now I feel like Officer McCrary has shot me clean out of the sky with a high-powered rifle. With an effort, I close my mouth. I glace at the pool of water on the floor, lips so dry I think about lapping it up like a cat for a mad moment. What the hell is going on?
“Is it true that you have a crush on Brody Ellison?”