Mocha, She Wrote

by Ellie Alexander

  “Now I’m starting to wonder if there was another reason for that.” She dug her nails into the wood tabletop.

  “How so?”

  “I’m starting to think he didn’t want any sort of a traceable trail of our communication. I thought he was quirky. He would take notes on a yellow legal pad and record our conversations on an old tape recorder. He said it was a holdover technique from writing his columns. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I can’t help wondering if whoever killed him is trying to frame me.”

  “Sammy, we need to call the police. Doug, Ashland’s lead detective, is my stepfather and I promise he’s a very reasonable and brilliant detective. If you want, I can call him now and I can sit in on your conversation.”

  “Would you do that?” Her cocky exterior had vanished. I was reminded that she wasn’t that much older than Steph and Bethany and in an unfamiliar place alone, but I still wasn’t entirely convinced about her innocence. She could easily be playing me. The opposite could be true. Maybe Benson decided to back out of the deal. That would explain the lack of any tangible proof that he intended to bankroll her expansion. Either way it was time to involve the police, especially in light of whatever had happened to James. He could be in serious trouble.

  “Let me call the Professor now,” I said to Sammy before getting up to place the call and refill our coffees. It didn’t take long for the Professor to arrive.

  As I had explained to Sammy, he listened carefully to her story, taking notes and stopping her every so often for clarification. When she finished, he flipped his Moleskine notebook shut. “Thank you for being forthcoming. This is quite helpful.” He looked to the clock. “It’s also quite early. I’d like to follow up with you in a few hours. Where might I find you?”

  Sammy rubbed her temples. “I guess I’ll go back to the hotel.”

  “Excellent. I’ll be in touch.” He left without another word. It made me suspect that he believed Sammy’s story. Was he concerned about James as well?

  “How much do I owe you for the coffee?” Sammy asked.

  “Nothing. It’s on the house.” I picked up our empty cups. “Do you need a ride to The Hills?”

  “No. I have my car. I drove here from Spokane. It was cheaper than flying. Plus, I wanted to bring my own gear. It’s hard to fly with CO2 canisters and bottles of simple syrup.”

  “Fair enough.” I smiled. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

  “Thanks. I hope James is okay. I don’t think I can handle another death right now.”

  That was a point I completely agreed with her on. The deeper I found myself in this maze, the more I was determined to do anything I could to help find Benson’s killer and return my beloved Ashland to normal.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Who were you talking to?” Carlos asked when I returned to the kitchen.

  I told him about my conversation with Sammy and the Professor. “This is a very strange case.” He frowned and looked as if he wanted to say more, but stopped himself.

  I tried to focus on baking. The team had arrived and the kitchen was alive with chatter and the aromatic smell of bread rising in the ovens. Having Carlos in the kitchen brought a different, livelier energy. He and Marty cracked jokes, while he and Sterling sautéed veggies and seared steaks in perfect rhythm at the stove. Every day that passed made me more grateful that he had been willing to give us a chance. I couldn’t believe I had ever doubted that Ashland wasn’t right for him. If anything, Ashland had brought out the best qualities in Carlos, and unless I was completely misreading him, he seemed more content and centered. Ashland had that effect on people. I attributed some of that to the healing Lithia waters that flowed through town and the fact that the ancient mountains that surrounded us provided natural grounding, tethering us to the land and those who walked before us.

  “Julieta, you must come try this.” Carlos called me over to the stove after I had finished two batches of almond-and-chocolate-filled croissants.

  Sterling plated the skirt steak they had teamed up on. It was beautifully seared and topped with a brilliant green pesto and a side of herbed butter and sautéed veggies.

  Carlos handed me a fork. “Taste this.”

  The tender steak cut easily with the fork. Before I lifted it to my lips, the intoxicating scent of fresh herbs and garlic hit my nose. “This is heaven,” I said to Sterling and Carlos, savoring the buttery steak. “Don’t change a thing. This is definitely going to be the star of the show for our dinner in the vines.”

  “What do you think about the butter?” Sterling asked. “Too much with the pesto?”

  “No.” I dipped another piece of the tender meat into the ramekin of butter. “Seriously don’t change a thing. It’s perfect. It melts in your mouth and the flavors are out of this world. I love it.”

  Carlos beamed at Sterling. “Give our sous chef the credit. This is his creation. I simply took direction from him.”

  Sterling tried to blow off the compliment, but I saw a spark of appreciation in his crystal blue eyes. “I don’t know about that.”

  “No, no, do not sell yourself short. It is important when you make food as good as this to take in the compliment. It is the cycle. We give a gift of ourselves on the plate and then the customer returns that gift with their thanks. This is the essential way we must cook. We infuse the food with pieces of our soul. That is what we taste in every bite. That is what keeps customers coming back again and again. It is the nourishment of living, of sharing, of coming together around a table and breaking bread.”

  Sterling took in Carlos’s heartfelt words. “Yes, chef.” He gave him a two-finger salute.

  Carlos clapped him on the back. “Well done. I’m proud to be able to cook next to you.”

  Bethany came into the kitchen with an empty tray. “Jules, there’s a call for you on the main line.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I went to my office to take the call. The line was dead when I picked up our land line. “Hello? Hello?”

  No one answered.

  That was odd.

  I waited for a few minutes to see if the person would call back, to no avail. I decided to take another look at the articles I had found about James and Benson’s terrible review. Maybe I had missed something.

  I opened my laptop and did another search. I spent the next half hour re-reading the scathing review and the subsequent stories about the collapse of James’s coffee shop. Reading the review a second time was as painful and cringeworthy as the first. But what did it mean in terms of Benson’s murder?

  Had James staged the threatening note? What if he had made his escape? Reading the articles again reminded me that he had the strongest motive for killing Benson. Maybe the note had been a setup. Perhaps James wanted Sammy and me to find the note and assume that someone was targeting him. What if that was just a way to buy himself more time to get out of town?

  Surely the Professor was already investigating that possibility.

  I did another online search for the Barista Cup. Dozens of links popped up in my search window. I scanned a bunch of them. Most of the articles were about previous competitions and winners. There were pictures of Sammy holding the same trophy that Andy had won, along with a huge check. She posed with Benson and Piper. The photo caption of her first win caught my eye. “Barista Cup organizers and husband-and-wife team Benson and Piper award the champion cup.”

  Husband-and-wife team?

  Benson and Piper were married? Piper had lied. She had said they had a brief fling, which she had called off.

  I read the caption three times.

  If Benson and Piper were married, that changed everything. But why wouldn’t Piper have mentioned it? I thought back to their interactions. They hadn’t given off any cues that they were a couple. Sammy had said that they lived together, but if they had been married, that must have meant their finances among other things were connected.

  The photo was from four years ago. I wondered how long they’d be
en divorced.

  I copied the link and sent it to the Professor. Then I picked up the phone and called him. He didn’t answer, so I left him a message telling him to check his email.

  As if he hadn’t already discovered that Piper and Benson were married. His police database was undoubtedly a better resource than my Google search. I felt slightly silly for having sent him the link and calling, but then again this was a murder investigation and he always said that you never knew what nugget of information might crack a case.

  I closed my laptop and pondered what to do next. I really wanted to get another look in James’s office. The question was how?

  A solution arrived in the form of Lance’s singsong voice in the dining room. I heard him asking about me, and went to the front to greet him.

  “Lance, I’m worried about you. This is quickly becoming a habit. It’s barely after nine and you’re awake and alert.”

  He waved me off. “Don’t give it a thought, darling. Beauty sleep can wait. I’ve had an ah-ha moment and must share it with you.” He looked around the dining room, which was humming with activity. “Not here. Too crowded. Shall we take a stroll?”

  Without waiting for my response, he dragged me out the front door.

  “What is it?” I asked as we moved away from the bakeshop toward A Rose by Any Other Name. Summer wreaths made from crabapple and grapevines, lush with lemons, bay leaves, and green foliage hung on the windows.

  “It’s about Piper.”

  “What a coincidence,” I replied. “I just learned something about Piper.”

  “Oh, well, don’t let me hog the spotlight. Ladies first.” He clutched his chest.

  I knew that Lance loved nothing better than a reveal. “No, I wouldn’t dream of it. You go first.”

  “If you insist.” He launched into his news. “Okay, be prepared to be blown away by this. I kept returning to a conversation Piper and I had shortly after Benson’s murder. She used the word ‘ex’ in a strange way. At the time I didn’t think much of it, but suddenly at seven this morning I sat straight up in bed with a realization—the ‘ex’ she was referring to was Benson.” He looked to me for my reaction.

  “I know! I just found that out too.”

  He scowled and folded his arms over his chest. “Way to steal the spotlight.”

  “Sorry. Go on.”

  “Well, I did some extensive research,” Lance continued. “And learned that Benson and Piper were married for five years.”

  Okay, so he had learned more than me.

  “Where did you find that?”

  “Darling, I can’t divulge a source. What I will tell you is that my theater connections run deep, as in far north to Seattle. Apparently, Piper has a penchant for the arts. She and Benson were quite generous donors to our comrades at Seattle Rep.”

  “How do you know they were married for five years?”

  “Sources. Reliable sources.” He paused momentarily as a group of runners passed by. “My sources say that their breakup was ugly, as in bloodshed ugly.”

  “Bloodshed?”

  “Not literally, of course, but the divorce was nasty. Piper comes from money. Old money. She had to pay a large settlement to Benson and they had to split the profits from the Barista Cup fifty-fifty. Apparently, she was not happy about that. Benson had signed a prenup that somehow ended up being tossed out by the judge.”

  “Wow. You did learn a lot. And, you’re sure this is all real, not just rumor?”

  “O ye of little faith, Juliet.” He pursed his lips in disgust. “Are you suggesting that I would embellish details?”

  “Never.”

  “What are we waiting for then? Let’s get ourselves over to The Hills.”

  “For what?”

  “To confront Benson’s killer of course.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Lance drove with a purpose to The Hills, and when we pulled into the parking lot there were three squad cars blocking the front entrance.

  “An interesting coincidence, wouldn’t you say?” He steered into a parking space.

  “Considering there’s a murder investigation going on, I would say no.”

  “Don’t you dare get sassy with me, Juliet Capshaw.” He turned off the car and opened his door. “Shall we?”

  “What’s our plan?” I pointed to the police officers at either side of the doors. “We can’t exactly barge in.”

  “Of course we can. Don’t be daft. Simply follow my lead. It’s all about looking like you belong.” He strolled toward the entrance with me tagging behind.

  “Good morning, to Ashland’s team in blue. My friend and I have some important theater business here. I assume it’s not a problem for us to proceed.” He stepped closer to the automatic doors.

  The officers looked at each other and shrugged. “Don’t go near any of the areas that are roped off and you’ll be fine. The hotel is open.”

  “Thanks.” Lance shot them a dazzling smile and proceeded inside.

  Not surprisingly, yellow caution tape stretched across the corridor that led to James’s office. Had something happened? Had they found James’s body?

  Lance marched up to the reception desk. “I have a meeting with Piper. Can you call her room please?”

  The clerk asked for her room number, which Lance somehow produced. I looked at him for clarification, he shot me a look to say Don’t ask.

  “I’m sorry, there’s no answer. Would you like to leave a message?” the clerk asked.

  “No. We’ll go check the patio outside. Perhaps she’s already waiting for us.”

  “Feel free.” The clerk pointed toward the pool. “You know the way?”

  “Yes, many thanks.” Lance made a beeline for the hallway opposite James’s office.

  “What are we doing?” I had to jog to keep up with him. Fortunately, I had opted for tennis shoes for a long day of baking. Comfortable shoes are a must for any professional chef. And, they came in handy when running down a potential killer.

  “Trying to find another way into James’s office.”

  “What? You saw that the area is completely closed off.”

  “That doesn’t mean there isn’t another way in, does it?”

  I gave up arguing and followed him outside, past the pool deck, to the backside of the hotel where the large bays for shipping and receiving were. One of the roll-up doors was open.

  “Ah-ha! There’s our opportunity.” Lance yanked me toward the bay.

  “Lance, we can’t go in there.” I pointed to the many signs plastered on the bays that said EMPLOYEES ONLY.

  “That’s nothing more than semantics.” Lance glanced around. A semitruck had pulled away from the bay. He waited for the driver to maneuver the truck out of sight before climbing up onto the platform and reaching a hand down for me.

  “No way. I’m not going up there,” I resisted.

  “We don’t have much time. I can hear the crew unloading the pallets right now. Give me your hand.”

  Lance aggravated me with his outlandish schemes, and yet I found myself stretching out my arm and letting him drag me up into the loading dock.

  “Now what?” I whispered.

  “This way.” Lance pressed his index finger to his lips and tiptoed away from The Hills staff, who were unloading the cases of craft beer and wine that had been delivered. We snuck out of the bay and found ourselves in a long hallway. Given its lack of décor, I could tell that this section of the hotel was only used by staff. A sign to our left pointed to the laundry. Another sign pointed to the kitchens.

  I could hear workers laughing as we scurried past the employee break room. We reached a door marked SUPPLIES. Lance turned the handle then pulled me inside with him. He flipped on the light. “Jackpot.”

  I looked around. There were a variety of cleaning supplies, towels, and toiletries. Clearly this was a space used for cleaning staff to restock.

  Why is this a jackpot? I mouthed.

  “Because we just found our in.” His
eyes drifted to the back of the supply room where at least a dozen uniforms hung in rows. He held up a housekeeping uniform.

  “No. No way.” I shook my head.

  “You’re right. My mistake.” He returned the housekeeping uniform to its spot on the rack and removed a room-service uniform. “We have to stay on brand. You’ll fit right in with this.”

  He tossed the crisp orange uniform to me. “Hurry.” Lance was already slipping on another one.

  This was a bad idea. Why did I listen to Lance?

  “Let’s go. Let’s go.” Lance waved his hands for me to hurry.

  I tugged on the uniform. He handed me a hat. “Wear this. We must stay incognito.”

  “Lance, if Thomas or Kerry see us in room-service uniforms, hats aren’t going to be enough to conceal our identity.”

  “I know. That’s why we’re going to keep our heads down and use this.” He lifted a domed stainless steel plate cover to shield his face. Then he rolled a cart to the door. He opened it with caution. “The coast is clear. Let’s go. Just keep your eyes on your feet.”

  We shuffled down the hallway. Lance pushed the cart. I pretended to be balancing the plate. We made it the side of the hotel where James’s office was located. Surprisingly, no caution tape blocked our entry. The hallway was deserted.

  Lance picked up the pace. When we reached James’s office, he leaned his head against the door. Then he shot me a thumbs-up.

  He opened the door and slipped inside, leaving the cart in the hallway. I did the same.

  “Nothing.” He sounded disappointed as we surveyed the office.

  Everything was exactly as I had found it last night with one exception—the threatening note was gone.

  “What did you think? We were going to find a body in here?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

  “Perhaps.” He tapped his finger to his chin, did a quick sweep of the room. “Well, so much for that. Let’s go.”