6 A Cup of Jo

by Sandra Balzo

  I had a hunch, though, that Kate McNamara actually, genuinely, wanted the opportunity to dig out the truth.

  Jerome, who had been quiet so far, wiped whipped cream off his lip. 'Kate's a great investigative reporter. She'll find out what really happened.'

  That's what I was afraid of. I needed to hear what the woman already knew.

  Maybe throw out some alternative scenarios, keep her busy. 'Could JoLynne's body have been in the cup before it was inflated?'

  Jerome's brow furrowed.

  'Still wouldn't clear Williams,' Kate said. 'He inflated the thing. Who knows what – or who – was in it?'

  'I do.' Jerome turned to face Kate. 'You told me to get there early and film background stuff. I taped Kevin and one of his guys filling the cup.'

  Which, presumably, didn't contain JoLynne's body or Jerome would have seen it.

  'So where's that leave us?' I asked.

  Impatience was now Kate's emotion of choice. 'Just what I said, weren't you listening? Someone killed JoLynne Penn-Williams and dumped her body into your precious balloon after it was inflated.'

  'It's not—' I interrupted myself because a thought suddenly struck me. Turning to Sarah, I said, 'We were on the porch with a clear view of the cup, right?'

  She slid the dropped spoons back into the dishwasher's utensil basket. 'Right.'

  'We stayed until after the thing fell, but what time did we get there?'

  'Seven fifteen,' Amy contributed, coming from the back. 'I saw you pass by the side window –' a gesture toward the tracks – 'as I was filling the second thermal pot of coffee for Tien to take outside.'

  'And when did they inflate the cup?' I asked Jerome.

  'I'm not sure.' He seemed distracted by Amy's appearance, both in the sense of her joining us and her looks.

  Cougar Kate growled at him. 'Jerome?'

  He blinked. 'Uh, sorry. Maybe a little before six a.m.?'

  'Isn't there a time stamp or something on your tape?' I asked as he continued to stare at our barista. Amy might be pierced, dyed and tattooed, but under it all she was a mighty attractive girl.

  Jerome colored up. 'Oh, sure. I can check the counter on my camera, but I'm pretty sure it was about then. Still dark, with that white cup the only thing filmable until County Exec Hampton arrived around the same time to take the train to Milwaukee.' He shrugged. 'Since the engineer was making the run just to take him down and have the train in place for the Milwaukee celebration, even that wasn't very visual.'

  Brewster? Not visual? 'Was his wife Anita leading him?'

  Jerome shook his head. 'She came later. In fact, almost missed her ride. I remember because I got a nice long shot of the locomotive and cars heading off into the sunrise.'

  Anita was probably off somewhere primping. Or sharpening her talons. 'And what time is sunrise these days? Six fifteen?'

  'Roughly,' said Jerome.

  I turned back to Kate. 'Well, there's your timeline. JoLynne could have been put in the cup between six a.m. and when Sarah and I arrived at seven fifteen.'

  The reporter's eyes darted left-right-left, then her mouth dropped open. 'You're right.'

  'Of course she is,' Sarah said. 'We've gotten good at this detection stuff.'

  We? 'Now go tell the sheriff,' I suggested.

  'Sheriff?' Kate virtually spat out the word. 'Don't be silly. I'm taking this to my station. I could get lead story, with a page one follow-up in the CitySentinel.'

  'But shouldn't Maggy get contributing credit?' asked Jerome.

  I waved him off. 'Whatever helps solve the case is fine with me. I don't need – or want – any more publicity from a homicide.'

  And I was being truthful, so far as it went. But my unstated motivation was to have Kate fixate on JoLynne's murderer, rather than the dead woman's paramour.

  Because, I feared, the victim's lover was also mine.

  Chapter Nine

  When they say love hurts, they ain't kidding.

  'Damn.' I was grasping the handle of what used to be a glass coffee carafe, blood dripping from a cut on my right thumb.

  'What did you do?' Amy searched for a towel in the drawer next to the sink.

  We were reaching the end of a day that felt longer than the prior, dead-body one. Soccer moms, the lunch-bunch, even a sprinkling of seniors and home-office types looking for someone, anyone, to talk to. All our usuals had come and gone, bless them, leaving us with just the returning commuter trains left. One at 5:30 and one at 6:30. And they couldn't arrive a moment too soon.

  'Maggy broke a carafe,' Sarah said, gesturing to the shards on the floor. 'Another one.'

  'Another one?' Carefully, Amy traded the towel for the handle, about all that remained of the pot. 'We have the clumsies today, don't we?'

  Clumsies. The pre-school teacher coming into play again.

  'Clumsies is right,' Sarah said. She was watching my blood drip on to the glass. 'You don't see me dropping any carafes.'

  'I didn't drop the thing,' I protested. 'The bottom fell out on its own.'

  'After you banged that carafe against the brewer, probably cracking—'

  'They should be sturdier than that,' I grumbled, going to the sink to run water over my cut.

  'You might get away with hitting the brewer's metal corner once, maybe even twice. But you were at least grazing it every time you put a carafe up there.'

  By 'up there' Sarah meant the top of our tall brewer. The piece of equipment had three heating elements. One below, where you brewed the coffee, and two on top, so you could keep the filled pots warm, while you were brewing a replacement.

  'It's too high.' Oww. The water rushed over the cut, circling pink around the stainless steel tub before draining out. Psycho in a slop sink.

  'You're too short,' Sarah countered. 'You should let someone who can reach the carafes and brewers move them.'

  She meant herself and, when I glanced over my shoulder, I realized my partner was preening – proud of mastering the process. The hell of it? She had. Sarah was even using the 'right technical jargon, like 'brewers' for the machines and 'carafes' for the glass pots.

  'OK,' I said, turning off the water with my left hand. I picked up the towel to dry my thumb. 'You're right.'

  Amy was already standing ready with a Band-Aid. 'Do you think you need stitches?' she asked, ministering to me.

  'Nope,' I said, wiggling the finger. 'It'll be fine.'

  'Good,' Sarah said. 'Because I hear a train coming. You stay at the espresso machine, where you can't break anything.'

  I let her have the jibe, though given my preoccupation that afternoon, I probably shouldn't be trusted with the frothing wand either, lest I scald myself or somebody else with the steam.

  Amy took her position at the cash register, Sarah at the express line and me, as ordered, at the espresso machine. As we did, we could see the train slide to a stop through our side window.

  A second later, the train doors opened and out poured a jumble of people and newspapers, tote bags and briefcases. Chattering student-types had backpacks slung over their shoulders. As the doors slid closed, we braced ourselves for the onslaught.

  Finally, we unclenched.

  'What happened?' Sarah asked. 'Where'd they all go?'

  I pointed out the front window. A parade of cars was exiting the parking lot, heading either south into Brookhills proper or north into lake country.

  In other words, straight home.

  'Maybe they don't know we're open,' Amy said, coming out from behind her counter to look through the panes.

  'Our huge "Now Open!" banner flapping against the side of the building isn't enough of an eye-catcher?' I said.

  'You know what I mean,' Amy said, turning around. 'They know we're open for business, but they don't know what hours. The original Uncommon Grounds closed at six.'

  She was right, of course. And I knew what was going to be the next word out of her mouth. So I said it first: 'Advertising.'

  'What a wonderful id
ea, Maggy!' The former pre-school teacher's tone was along the lines of, See, Kelsey? You can make wee-wee!

  Hoping to head off the clapping of hands and awarding of a gold star, I said, 'Amy, I think you have a good handle on what—'

  'Might be the only handle still intact in this place,' Sarah muttered. She was surveying her domain, which included a slightly diminished inventory of carafes.

  'We need,' I continued, focusing on our barista while ignoring my partner. 'Would you put together some ideas for signage and ad copy?'

  'Of course,' Amy said, delightedly. 'And I can work with Rebecca on the design.'

  Better Amy than me, but I needed to rein the enthusiastic young women in a scosh. 'Sarah and I will need to look at what you come up with, and then you can get quotes from Penn and Ink.'

  'Gotcha,' Amy said, her face still glowing with pleasure.

  Sarah had been rummaging in the drawers. Now she held up a tape dispenser and the back of a menu with large hand-lettering in black Magic Marker. 'Open until 7 p.m.' Moving toward our door, Sarah said, 'In the meantime . . .'

  My partner's sign didn't help much, but at least a couple of people from the second train glanced into our windows as they drove away.

  I did likewise, as I left for home about an hour later.

  It really had been a good start. We were just facing a steep learning curve. How to serve commuters: timing, staffing, inventory.

  And perishables.

  Poor Tien. In addition to her successful luncheon sandwiches and breakfast pastries, she'd packaged two entrées – meatloaf with mashed potatoes and roast chicken over rice – for people to take home for dinner. Soup, too.

  She'd had two customers, at least. Frank and me. The meatloaf for the big loafer and the chicken for . . . yeah, the chicken.

  What was I being chicken about, you ask?

  Well, Fear One: I'd spent most of the day trying not to think about Pavlik and JoLynne. Rather unsuccessfully, given the broken pots – sorry, carafes.

  And if I wasn't chicken, I'd pick up the phone and ask Pavlik, straight out.

  Fear Two: I didn't want to hear the answer I felt I'd get. And, once I got it, Fear Three kicked in: what would I do about it?

  If Pavlik had been having an affair with JoLynne, a married woman and a homicide victim, he certainly shouldn't be investigating his lover's murder.

  It had to be unethical, right? Like insider trading or performing brain surgery on a family member.

  I could see why Pavlik suspected Kevin Williams. The sheriff knew that Kevin had a reason for killing JoLynne. Problem was, that reason was Pavlik himself.

  Also, as we'd discussed earlier at Uncommon Grounds, the police always focus first on the surviving spouse. If Pavlik didn't bring Kevin in for questioning, he'd look careless. Beyond careless.

  But our sheriff also had to be hesitant about raising the possibility that JoLynne was unfaithful to her husband. Unless Pavlik was certain Kevin didn't know who it was.

  Or, who they were.

  Because while the husband might be the number one suspect, the lover(s) would run a close second. I didn't think for a moment that Pavlik was a killer . . .

  No, I knew he wasn't a killer.

  Assuming I 'knew' him at all.

  Which I wasn't so sure of anymore.

  I decided not to think about it. More proof I was chicken.

  A raucous barking pulled me from my metaphysical trance, if all the crap spinning through my brain merited such a highfalutin' term.

  I was sitting in the dark, my Ford Escape now parked in the driveway. On the seat beside me, two dinners. Inside my house, one hungry sheepdog.

  If it had been a long day for me, it had been equally long for Frank. Even longer, since he'd have been counting the sands of time in doggy years and didn't have death and betrayal to distract him.

  I climbed out of the car and went around to its passenger side. As I did, Frank's barking reached fever pitch.

  'I'm coming.' I opened the Escape's door and took out the two, plastic-covered containers. I balanced one of them on the other as I swung the door closed and pressed 'LOCK' on the key fob.

  Cursing myself for not remembering to pick up a replacement for the burnt-out light bulb over the side door, I made my way there more by memory than vision. I had one foot on the bottom step of the porch stairs when a form materialized, looming above me.

  'I've been waiting for you.'

  That's when I lost my dinner – or dinners – literally. With my thumb stiff and throbbing under Amy's Band-Aid, meat loaf went one way, chicken the other.

  The human stayed put as Pavlik stepped out of the shadows.

  'Sorry,' he said, coming down the stairs and giving my forehead a quick kiss. 'I didn't mean to scare you.'

  Pavlik wrapped me up in his arms. 'Hey, you're shaking.'

  I tried to relax against the buttery leather of his jacket – the jacket I loved so. I'd kidded Pavlik that it and I were going to run away together. Now I could only think about how many other women had been pressed against that leather. And wonder how many of them had said they'd loved it. And him.

  Damn right, I was shaking. How in the world do you go from – at least practically – loving a man to fearing he might be a killer? And all in twenty-four hours?

  I didn't know. But maybe, after things resolved themselves, I could write a book about what to do if your husband cheats and then your lover does the same. I'd call it The Idiot's Guide to Being an Idiot.

  I stepped back. 'Not your fault. I should have put a new bulb in the porch light. You just startled me.'

  I leaned down to pick up one of the food containers. The meat loaf. Still intact.

  The roast chicken hadn't been as lucky, but that is the way of chickens. They gets what they deserves.

  My sheepdog had resumed his barking. 'I need to let Frank out,' I told Pavlik, 'but we can't let him eat the chicken.'

  Pavlik nodded. He, too, had a dog – Muffin, the toothless pit bull – and knew that splintered poultry bones could be deadly.

  I unlocked the door and opened it wide, stepping aside so Frank wouldn't bowl me over as he came barreling out. I'd have thought the captivating aroma of our dinners would distract him from his primary objective, but I was wrong.

  He ran immediately up to his sheriff friend for a scratch. As Pavlik obliged, Frank let loose like a fire hose.

  Pavlik did a quickstep sideways, lest his shoes be doused. 'I appreciate the multitasking, but you're a male,' he told Frank. 'You're supposed to lift your leg.'

  'Just be grateful he didn't take you for a tree,' I said, all the while wondering how the surface exchanges could seem so normal?

  But maybe 'normal' was the way to go for now. 'Have you eaten?' I pointed down at the chicken and rice spread far and wide. 'That was supposed to be mine, but I still have Frank's meat loaf.' I held up the container. 'We can split it.'

  Like a ballistic boomerang, Frank was at my side, sniffing Tien's Delight.

  'He doesn't look like he wants to share,' Pavlik said, turning around to pick up a bag from the porch's shadow. 'But I did bring Chinese.' Then a bottle. 'And Shiraz.'

  'Wow,' I said. 'Unexpected pleasures. What's the occasion?'

  'The quick end of a potentially messy case. Late this afternoon, we arrested Kevin Williams for the murder of his wife.'

  Chapter Ten

  Ooh, boy. Now what's a poor girl do?

  'Come in and I'll get out the plates and silverware,' I said as heartily as my troubled soul could manage. Raising my thumb, I hitch-hiked it toward the kitchen counter. 'I cut myself at work. Could you chop up Frank's meat loaf so he doesn't swallow it whole?'

  I began chattering trivially about Chinese food, English sheepdogs and Australian wine. A very different conversation, however, was clattering around my mind: '. . . I'm told Ms Penn-Williams didn't accomplish much in the position.'

  Exactly which 'position' were you talking about, Pavlik? Missionary? Doggy-style?


  'I never said I wasn't dating other people.' People? As in multiples?

  'You never said you were.'

  'You didn't ask.'

  'Shiraz with our Chinese?' I asked out loud. 'I have white chilled, if you'd prefer?'

  Pavlik came up behind me at the kitchen counter and circled his hands around my waist. 'The Shiraz. I know it's your favorite,' he said into my hair. 'With pretty much any food.'

  So intimate, and yet . . .

  'You like reds, too,' I said, 'so that's fine. Great.' I was trying to be cheery, upbeat – natural, even – as I slid out of his embrace on the pretext of getting the corkscrew from the drawer next to the sink.

  Pavlik cocked his head, his blue eyes darkening as he studied my face. 'Maggy, what's wrong?'

  Hmm. Maybe cheery and upbeat didn't reflect my natural state any more than it did Sarah's. 'Nothing. Why do you ask?'

  'Well, I know that you were worried about Uncommon Grounds being liable in some way for JoLynne's death. I thought you'd be happy to know the shop was off the hook.'

  And you? Should I be happy you're off the hook, too?

  I handed him the corkscrew. 'Of course, I am. But I like Kevin Williams, and he and JoLynne seemed to be happy.'

  'You'd be surprised.' Pavlik levered the cork out of the bottle. 'No one knows what really goes on in somebody else's house.'

  Or head.

  'So, what about Kevin and JoLynne? What was happening in their house?'

  Pavlik shrugged. 'Professional jealousy is my guess. No matter what Kevin tried to believe, he never got past being the construction worker from Chicago who still worked with his hands.'

  'That's it?' I turned, holding the cardboard container of moo-shu pork. 'If you're right, there should be an epidemic of husbands killing their wives. And vice versa. You must have some more evidence beyond an inferiority complex.'

  Going to set the moo-shu and a plastic tray of dumplings on the table, I heard Pavlik clear his throat. I waved him and the wine over to the table and sat down. 'So give.'

  Pavlik seemed understandably reluctant. 'I've already told you plenty, Maggy. I—'