Mocha, She Wrote

by Ellie Alexander

  Andy scrunched his forehead. “What news?”

  “It’s about Benson.” I said, stoking the fire in the pizza oven. The smoky aroma of applewood filled the kitchen.

  “What about him? Is he dead or something?” Andy kidded.

  “He is dead.” I tried to keep my tone even. “And the Professor is sure that his death wasn’t from natural causes.”

  Andy took a step away from us. “What? Wait, for real? Benson’s dead? Are you pranking me?”

  “No. He died last night. The Professor is coming over any minute to take your statement.” I returned the iron fire poker to its hook.

  “My statement?” Andy’s brow creased more.

  “It’s standard procedure,” Mom said. “And you may have been one of the last people to have contact with him.”

  “Me?” Andy pointed to his chest. “Why are you both acting weird? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  I looked to Mom who gave me a half nod. “Andy, they found Benson dead in the back seat of an Uber. He had a coffee cup with him.”

  Andy’s jaw dropped. “You think it was the latte I made him?”

  “They don’t know for sure. The Professor said that they were sending it to the lab to be analyzed.”

  As if on cue, the Professor appeared. He entered through the basement stairs. “Ah, how wonderful. You are exactly who I was hoping to find,” he said to Andy.

  “Hey, Professor.” Andy didn’t sound thrilled to see him. He took off his baseball cap and folded it in his palm.

  “Shall we go have a chat?” The Professor ushered Andy over to the seating area attached to the kitchen.

  “He can’t think that Andy’s involved, can he?” I asked Mom.

  Mom stirred warm water and sugar with yeast. “Of course not, but he has to do his due diligence. He can’t ignore procedure, and unfortunately there were hundreds of witnesses who saw Benson belittle Andy and spit out his coffee. You and I both know that Andy is one of the kindest people on the planet, but he has a very obvious motive for wanting to harm Benson.”

  “Right.” I tried to concentrate on creaming butter and sugar for our cookie-dough base, but I couldn’t stop staring at the couch where Andy and the Professor were talking. What were they saying? Had the Professor learned anything new?

  I added eggs and a splash of vanilla. For our daily cookie specials we use the same base—a basic sugar cookie—and then add different ingredients. Today, I planned to add raspberries and white chocolate chips to one batch, chocolate and marshmallows to another, and oatmeal and raisins to the third. It was a quick and easy way to offer variety without having to spend hours mixing different recipes.

  By the time I had dozens of cookies cooling on racks, Andy returned. The Professor asked to speak with Mom outside for a minute.

  “How did it go?” I slid a giant six-inch raspberry white-chocolate cookie onto the rack.

  “Not great. Not great at all.” Andy rubbed his temples.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Professor said he spoke with the lab and they confirmed that Benson had my coffee. It was a honey latte and it was laced with sedatives.”

  “Sedatives?”

  “Yeah, prescription strength.” Andy’s voice sounded distant. He scrunched his baseball cap in his hand. “It’s bad. They think that’s what killed him. He may have had underlying medical issues that exacerbated the issue, but that’s why he died.” I thought Andy might cry. “How did they get in the coffee, Jules? I didn’t put them there. I don’t even have sedatives. The Professor said they’re going to have to search my house. I have to call my grandma and warn her. She’s going to freak out when the police show up.”

  “Was anyone around when you made Benson’s latte?”

  “I don’t remember.” Andy sounded panicked. He ran his fingers through his hair. “I mean there were tons of people hanging around after the event, but I don’t remember anyone right next to my station. I would have noticed if someone tried to touch the drink. I was super careful after the salt incident.”

  “I’m sure you were.” I nodded.

  Andy sighed. He flipped his baseball cap and put it on backward. “I’m going to go practice for the finals. Although who knows if they’ll even happen now.”

  He went upstairs. I thought back to yesterday. While Andy had been making the latte, Diaz and Sammy were at the judges’ table. Could one of them have slipped sedatives into the drink after Andy delivered it to Benson?

  The Professor couldn’t possibly consider Andy a suspect, could he? I refused to believe it. But Mom had a valid point. The Professor had to do his job. He couldn’t simply write Andy off as a potential suspect just because he liked him.

  Suddenly, Andy’s status in the Barista Cup seemed secondary. If there was even the slightest chance that he was a suspect in the Professor’s eyes, I knew that I had to do everything in my power to find the real killer and clear my young coffee protégé’s name.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Professor interviewed Sterling and Bethany next. After he had taken their statements, he called me over. “Juliet, how are you fairing this morning?”

  “Not well. You don’t really think Andy could have been involved, do you?”

  He strummed his fingers on the reddish gray stubble on his chin. “I’m following my heart’s mission and the Bard’s words: ‘Love all, trust few, do wrong to none.’”

  That didn’t exactly answer my question.

  He must have noticed I wasn’t satisfied. “On a personal level, I do not believe that Andy spiked Benson’s drink, but procedure must be followed.” He paused. “It is unfortunate that Andy’s coffee was the vessel for the murder weapon.”

  “So you’re sure?”

  “Indeed. I spoke with the coroner this morning and it has been confirmed. Benson was killed with an overdose of sedatives in the latte. They tested the remnants of the coffee. The evidence is conclusive, I’m afraid.” His eyes traveled toward the wood and iron stairwell that led up to the dining room. For a moment I thought he was going to say more. Instead, he folded his hands and pressed his index fingers together. “The most imperative question for the moment is: How did the drug get in Benson’s drink?”

  “Could someone have slipped it into the cup without Andy noticing?” It seemed like a plausible explanation.

  “Perhaps.” The Professor didn’t sound very convinced. “But, that’s a highly unreliable method of murder. It’s hard to imagine a killer leaving that up to chance. Andy could have made himself a drink. He could have handed that drink to dozens of other people. Unless we’re talking about a serial killer hoping to kill at will, that doesn’t appear to be the case in this investigation. And I have little doubt that Benson was the intended target.”

  “So you don’t think there’s any chance the drink was meant for Andy?” If nothing else that was a relief.

  The Professor shook his head. “No. The one sure fact is that the drink contained a strong dose of sedatives. The coroner’s report revealed some additional information that I’m not at liberty to share. My personal belief is that between the time Andy handed the drink to Benson and Benson entered the car, someone else added the sedatives. There’s a possibility that the killer was aware of Benson’s personal health history and knew that the sedatives would be fatal. There’s also an equal chance that the sedatives were meant as a deterrent or warning of sorts without the intention to kill. My professional role is to prove or disprove every theory that comes across my desk. At this stage of the investigation, I can’t, in good faith, dismiss any involvement on Andy’s part without tangible evidence.”

  No wonder the Professor’s tone was solemn and his face long. He had confirmed what I had feared—Andy was a suspect.

  “I understand,” I replied. “You might not be able to answer this, but it sounds like you suspect that Benson had other medical issues?”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to answer that.” He sounded apologetic.
“What I can say is that Benson had high levels of benzodiazepines in his system.”

  “What are those?”

  “They are a class of sedatives typically prescribed for sleep and anxiety disorders.” He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his nose. “Allergies. I must admit that I’ve begun to wince at the stunning show of color right now. My senses embrace the beauty of summer’s early blooms, that delicate yellow flush of St. John’s Wort and the pink blossoms on the manzanita trees. But oh how my nose defies me.” He folded the handkerchief and returned to the topic of Benson’s murder. “What I can tell you is that we’re pulling video surveillance footage from The Hills to see if we can piece together Benson’s movements from when he left the ballroom to when he got into the car. We’ll be interviewing the staff at the restaurant he patronized as well as the driver. We’ll also be looking into whether anyone met him for dinner or interacted with him before his death.”

  “What does that mean for Andy?” I could hear his footsteps above us and the sound of coffee beans grinding.

  “For the time being, nothing. He understands the severity of the situation and is fully cooperating. Not that I expected anything less. I have no concerns about him being a flight risk.”

  “That’s good.” I let out a sigh. “What about the Barista Cup? Will it continue?”

  “I’m on my way to The Hills now. Unless the organizers or James feel differently, we would prefer for today’s events to continue as planned. It should provide an opportunity to watch some of our potential suspects in action, so to speak.”

  “Wait, does that mean that you have a suspect in mind already?”

  “I have many.” He lowered his voice. “I would like to beg a favor, if I might.”

  “Of course, anything.”

  “Your powers of observation are second to none. If it’s not too much of an inconvenience, I’d ask that you observe today, specifically the competitors. Thomas, Kerry, and I will be watching and observing as well, but another set of eyes never hurts.”

  “Yes, absolutely. I’ll be discreet and let you know if anything or anyone seems off.”

  “Much appreciated.” He returned the handkerchief to his shirt pocket, then clasped his hands together. “I bid you adieu for the moment.”

  Once he left, I took a moment to collect my thoughts before going upstairs. This was not good news for Andy. He was already on edge from stress and exhaustion and now he was a suspect in a murder investigation. Observing the competitors would not be a problem. I would do anything to help my team. Andy was more than a barista, he was family. I couldn’t sit idly by and do nothing.

  With that resolve in mind, I took in a long breath and went upstairs. Sequoia had arrived as had Rosa and the rest of the team. Rows and rows of mini cream puffs, berry galettes, jam biscuits, and hazelnut-and-fig turnovers filled the glistening pastry case. Rosa tended to bunches of daisies on each of the tables in the dining room. A mix of classical and New Age music played softly overhead. I guessed that Sequoia had picked the selection. It matched the slow vibe of Sunday mornings.

  Sundays tended to have an easy flow. We rarely had a long line waiting for their caffeine hit. Guests tended to arrive in waves. Usually the early exercisers, who stopped in for black coffee and egg-and-cheese puffs, showed up first. They were followed by the brunch crowd, who lingered over flat whites and shared plates. Last to arrive were college students, who never made an appearance for straight shots of caffeine until well after noon. I enjoyed the lazier rhythm of Sundays.

  “How’s everything going up here?” I asked Sequoia.

  “Smooth and silky, just like my almond milk latte,” she replied, pouring the creamy liquid into a steaming pitcher.

  Andy was nowhere to be seen.

  “Did Andy already leave?” I asked.

  Rosa placed a vase of daisies next to the cash register. “Yes. He left with the Professor. He said to tell you he would see you at the competition.”

  “Got it.” I glanced out the window and spotted Lance strolling across the plaza in our direction. Lance had become my closest confidant and friend over the last few years. As the Oregon Shakespeare Festival’s artistic director, he had a pulse on everything happening around town and an uncanny ability for getting the latest scoop on gossip. Had he already heard about Benson?

  I met him at the front door. As usual, Lance’s outfit was meticulous. He wore a pair of slim gray slacks with a short-sleeve houndstooth shirt and a skinny black tie.

  “Darling, don’t you look absolutely ravishing this morning.” He greeted me with a kiss on each cheek.

  I glanced at my khaki shorts and simple gray-and-white-striped T-shirt, my typical bakeshop attire. “I think ravishing might be an overstatement.”

  Lance brushed me off with the flick of a wrist. “It’s not always about the outfit, it’s about those glowing, dewy cheeks. I must say that having your devilishly handsome husband in town has done wonders for your complexion.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “Don’t scrunch your face like that. I mean it as a compliment.” Lance was tall and thin with angular features and impeccable taste.

  “You’re up and about early. This seems to be a trend lately. I’m worried about you.” I squeezed his wrist in jest.

  “Don’t get used to it. Arlo has daily doubles with the softball team and I promised him a coffee and pastry delivery, because that’s the kind of guy I am.”

  “How are things going with you two?”

  Lance had recently started dating OSF’s interim managing director. Arlo had been hired to help steer the festival forward after financial setbacks because of wildfire smoke, as well as expand the company’s commitment to diversity and giving voice to playwrights and actors from underrepresented communities. One thing that tourists who were new to Ashland’s theater scene were often surprised by was the wide range of productions staged at OSF’s indoor and outdoor venues. Shakespeare was a mainstay with at least two or three works penned by the Bard produced each season, but there was no shortage of other opinions for theatergoers—from musicals to experimental narratives and immersive interactive shows where audiences played a key role in developing the plot.

  Arlo had caught Lance’s eye from the moment he had arrived in Ashland, and Lance had been smitten ever since.

  “Fine.” Lance didn’t elaborate, which was completely out of character.

  “What can I get you?” I pointed to the pastry case.

  “I already called in an order. You know me, I don’t do lines.”

  I knew he was being sarcastic, at least in part. Lance enjoyed the fact that locals and tourists fawned over him.

  “Do tell, what’s the news this morning? I saw the Professor scurrying around the plaza. Something is amiss.”

  How did he know?

  I considered my options. If I told Lance about Benson’s murder, he wouldn’t be able to let it go; but if he heard the news from someone else, he’d never let me hear the end of it.

  “There’s been a murder,” I confessed.

  Lance gasped and threw a hand over his mouth. “Murder? Did you say murder?”

  I told him about the Barista Cup and Benson’s suspicious death.

  “What are we waiting for? We need to get to The Hills—stat. We have a case, my dearest partner in crime.”

  “Not so fast.”

  Lance held up his index finger and cut me off. “Oh, don’t even. You are the peanut butter to my jelly when it comes to investigating. Not to mention it is our civic duty, and you yourself said you’re worried about Andy. There’s only one way to solve that.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is to insert ourselves into this investigation and solve the case.” He snapped. “I’ll pick up my order. We can drop it off at the softball fields on our way to The Hills.”

  I stood in place, unmoving.

  “Time is wasting. Snap to it.” He made another, exaggerated, snap. “We have a killer to catch.”


  Chapter Twelve

  Refusing Lance was futile, and it was true that I was motivated to clear Andy’s name, so after I grabbed a few things at Torte, I found myself driving to the collegiate softball fields.

  “I’ll just be a moment,” Lance said, as he picked up the box of pastries from the back seat.

  I watched him walk with a leisurely confidence to the dugout and greet Arlo with a kiss on both cheeks. Lance might not know it, but he had met his match with Arlo. They made a handsome couple. Arlo was muscular with dark black skin and a bald head. He was taller than Lance by a couple of inches. His genuine smile and easygoing personality immediately endeared me to him. As did the fact that Arlo wasn’t interested in sucking up to Lance.

  I appreciated that Arlo held his ground when it came to OSF’s future. Lance had grandiose visions for the theater’s evolution, one of the many things that connected him to the company and the entire community. But his artistic goals weren’t always realistic when it came to budgeting or in line with filling seats and attracting new audiences. Lance’s revolutionary lens came with a large price tag. He insisted that each production needed to stand out from the ordinary. “Dramaturgy” became his catch phrase for his exorbitant spending on special effects, intricate set changes, high-flying acrobatics, and massive song-and-dance numbers.

  Thus far, Arlo had found a way to balance Lance’s need to have the stage shape understanding while at the same time making sure that he didn’t blow through his annual budget or alienate OSF’s most loyal patrons. I didn’t envy his position.

  Lance returned to the car shortly. “Who’s ready for an adventure?” He waited for me to respond.

  “Me?”

  “Uh, yes, you. Please, Juliet, a little more enthusiasm if you don’t mind.” He sounded put out.

  “It’s hard. I know you’re teasing, but I’m worried about Andy.” I bit my bottom lip and stared at the flaxen rolling hills on the far side of the valley. The sun illuminated the crest of Pompadour Bluff, casting an angelic light on the striking prominence.

  Lance changed his tone. “Chin up. Consider this car your sacred space. No fear or worry shall consume us. We have a job to do. A duty to our beloved community and barista. Worry will only set us on a dark path. Today we shall shine a light on a killer. Understood?”