6 A Cup of Jo

by Sandra Balzo

  'Great idea to have Tien work mornings,' Sarah said. 'The baked goods are fresh and the place smells terrific. We should patent and package the scent.'

  'You know, I didn't even ask what time she came in,' I said.

  'Well, what were you doing?' my partner demanded. 'Not grinding beans, I see.'

  'Eating sticky buns,' I retorted. 'And grind your own business.'

  'Oh, a coffeehouse joke,' she said, opening a Lucite bin to scoop out the morning's 'featured' roast. 'How very, very droll of you, partner.'

  I got up to help. We usually ground three or four pounds ahead, so we could just dip into the tubs and fill the filters. Smaller quantities of finely ground dark-roasted beans were needed for espresso, since it was brewed one tiny cup, instead of one substantial carafe, at a time.

  All four of us were in our positions and ready to serve when the commuters started to arrive for the 6:50 a.m. train.

  Tien worked at the main window beside Amy, but instead of handling the cash register and calling out drink orders, Tien stayed on the food side. That way she could expound on the fresh breads and pastries and also hawk the lunch sandwiches and dinner entrées.

  By the time 8 a.m. rolled around, we were feeling pretty good. Tired, too, but a 'satisfied' tired.

  'Any more of those sticky buns around?' Sarah asked, dropping into a chair.

  Amy, who was cleaning the glass top of the bakery case, peered in. 'Sorry. All headed for Milwaukee.'

  'Aww, geez,' Sarah crabbed. 'I was really looking forward to one after we got rid of the riff-raff.'

  Otherwise known as our valued customers. 'What do you think? Was the crowd smaller or did we just handle them more efficiently?'

  'Yes to both,' Amy had printed out the transactions so far today on to a cash-register receipt. 'We had ten fewer customers, but toted twelve per cent more revenue.'

  'Yes!' I said, jumping up and punching the air.

  Everybody else just looked at me.

  'Don't you see what this means?' I asked. 'We're on the right track.'

  Groans all around at my painful pun.

  Undeterred, Maggy drives on. 'Having Tien here works beautifully. She's helping us out on the serving end and that provides the opportunity to promote her food.'

  'How do you feel about that, Tien?' Sarah called to the other woman, who was back in the kitchen. 'What time did you start?'

  'I got here about one, I guess,' she said, coming around the corner with a plate.

  'A.m.?' from Sarah. 'That qualifies as the shift from hell. You can't continue for any length of—'

  Tien set the plate down in front of her.

  Sarah practically inhaled the sticky bun. There was only the sound of chewing and swallowing, punctuated by the occasional burp and sigh.

  It was like being home with Frank.

  When my partner finished, she sat back. 'Tien, you must never leave us.'

  'I won't,' Tien said, taking the plate. 'But if you want fresh rolls, you need to get here at six, like Maggy did. I can't promise I'll be able to save you one like I did today.'

  Genius. The woman was a genius. 'And you truly don't mind the hours?' I asked.

  'Actually, I like the hours,' our baker-extraordinaire answered, as the bells on the front door jangled. 'I probably wouldn't if I was going to bed and then getting up at midnight or one, but I'll go home now, and get my eight hours, and I'll be fine.'

  'Like a morning news anchor.' Kate McNamara had just entered. The woman had the ears – or radar capability – of a vampire bat. And a personality to complete the package.

  'Have you ever been an anchor, Kate?' Amy asked, moving to the cash register.

  I knew the answer, but I was waiting for Kate's version. 'I was behind the desk for a short period a few years ago, before I became publisher of the Observer,' she said stiffly. 'I found anchoring very limiting. I much prefer running the paper and reporting from the field occasionally for cable news. Reading from a teleprompter on a daily basis is vastly overrated.'

  Especially if your share of the viewing audience was vastly underrated.

  Still, I had to hand it to Kate. As evasions go, not a bad one.

  She smiled icily in my direction, like she was daring me to differ.

  I didn't. It wasn't worth my time to mention that Kate sucked big-time in the studio, and – gosh, it was so long ago, I could scarcely remember – something further had resulted in her demotion to standing in blinding blizzards and covering pie-eating contests at county fairs. Humiliated, she'd quit, bought the weekly Brookhills paper and made herself both its editor and publisher.

  Jerome came banging in, today laden with camera, wires and equipment case.

  'Geez, Kate,' I said, going to help him. 'Couldn't you have carried something?'

  'That's OK, Maggy,' Jerome said, setting the camera down on a table and the rest of his gear on the floor. 'We came separately.'

  Jerome wasn't quite looking at me as he said it. He did slide a glance toward Amy at the cash register.

  The implication didn't go unnoticed by Kate. 'Jerome, I need you set up. And now.'

  'New assignment?' I asked. I was at the point that I just wanted to wash my hands of her old assignment, that being JoLynne's death and everything related to it. Including Pavlik.

  Fat chance.

  'Actually,' Kate said, seeming a whole lot more eager to talk about it than Jerome, 'it's the second part of the original assignment. The other shoe dropping, if you will.'

  She signaled Jerome and he reluctantly hoisted the camera on to his shoulder.

  'What shoe is that?' I was backing away. A happy Kate meant pestilence and famine were on their way, with locusts to follow – all during a solar eclipse to round out the plagues. Reflexively, I glanced out the window.

  'I'd guess size ten, ten-and-a-half,' Kate said. 'But you'd probably know better, Maggy.'

  Jerome turned on the camera light and leveled it at Kate. Somehow a clip-on microphone had blossomed on her lapel and now she brandished a hand-held one as well.

  'We are in Uncommon Grounds, relocated to Brookhills Junction after, some of you may remember, a freak May snowstorm leveled its original home in Benson Plaza. When that storm cleared, it left bodies behind – murder victims. It seems, more freakably, the bloody legacy has followed this shop here. Charming to look at, though, isn't it?'

  She swept her arm toward the ticket/service windows and Amy dove to the floor as Jerome's camera followed. Myself, I was still stuck on 'freakably'.

  'That charm, however, belies the horrendous crime that took place just two days ago. A young woman, asphyxiated and then discarded like a human stir-stick in a prop meant for the grand opening of this establishment at the dedication of "The L", the new Brookhills-to-Milwaukee commuter line.'

  Sarah slid behind Kate, one hand forming a capital 'L' and the other pointing to herself. Then she smiled and waved.

  Over her shoulder, the reporter tossed Sarah an annoyed look and shifted slightly toward me. The lesser of two evils? 'The prop in question was a giant, inflatable coffee cup, commissioned by shop co-owner Maggy Thorsen. But that's not the strangest thing about this case.'

  She pivoted and thrust the hand-held mic in my face. 'Is it, Maggy?'

  I'm sure my eyes went wide, but I remained calm, relying on my public relations training. I'd done way too many interviews to let this banshee rattle me.

  'I really don't know, Kate,' I replied truthfully. I'd pretty much missed everything following 'human stir-stick'.

  'Then I'll tell you.' A stern expression, now returned to the camera lens. 'In fact, I'll tell all of you. After JoLynne Penn-Williams, Brookhills' event manager, was found murdered, Sheriff Jake Pavlik detained her husband, Kevin Williams, owner of Williams Props and Staging.

  'No one except the sheriff, apparently, knew the motive of Williams' alleged crime. No one, that is, until reports began to surface that JoLynne Penn-Williams had been having an extramarital affair. An affair with a ma
n high-up in our own Brookhills County government.' Kate whirled and again stuck her microphone toward my mouth.

  If the reporter was trying to get a 'surprise!' moment out of me, she failed. After all, I already knew about Pavlik and JoLynne. And I certainly wasn't going to comment on it for the noonday news.

  I said, 'Really?'

  Kate stared at me, apparently trying to decide whether to push it. I'd bested her before and I'd bested better than her as well. And she knew it.

  To her damage-control credit, Kate accurately weighed the percentages and again turned to the camera. 'Yes, Maggy Thorsen. Really.' She moved dramatically toward the lens. Jerome back-pedaled, until his back was literally against a wall. With luck, Kate might show up on the screen as nothing more than a nose surrounded by freckles.

  'But the real shocker,' Kate continued as I walked away, 'learned by this reporter just moments ago, is that the questioner will be answering some questions himself.'

  I froze.

  'Our sources tell us that the Milwaukee County Sheriff's Department has taken over the Penn-Williams murder case. And Brookhills Sheriff Jake Pavlik is now considered "a person of interest" in its investigation.'

  Chapter Twelve

  At the mention of Jake's name, I swung around to see Kate gesturing wildly for her assistant to turn his camera on me.

  Jerome, bless him, was still tight on Kate, hopefully focused close enough now to count enlarged skin pores.

  As for me, I took off for our kitchen, through its store room and into the office beyond. There, I pushed the button lock on the door and swung it closed, none too quietly.

  Collapsing into our office chair, I folded my arms on its desk and rested my chin on top of them, a la nap time in kindergarten.

  I felt about as lost, too. (Kindergarten had been a tough year for me. All that paste. The orange construction paper. And those crayons? Brrr.)

  I lifted my face. I could see the back parking lot through the window above the desk. There had to be twenty or thirty cars in it.

  I counted them, anyway. Just as I reached the end of the second row, another vehicle pulled in and parked in the first. I started over.

  'What, you're counting cars now?'

  I jumped and the chair swiveled. 'How'd you get in? I locked—'

  Sarah punched in the lock button on the knob and closed the door. The button popped back out. 'Gotta secure this baby after you close the door.'

  'Oh.' I resumed my position and the parallel contemplation of the parking lot. The driver's door of the new entry, a white Lexus, was standing open. Nobody had emerged so far as I could tell.

  'Kate still here?' I asked.

  'I can't heeear you,' Sarah sing-songed. 'If you have something to say, sit up straight.'

  Geez. I was back in kindergarten. But, as in that class, I did as I was told.

  'Now repeat what you said,' Miss Sarah demanded.

  Through clenched teeth: 'I asked if Kate was still in the store.'

  'Nah,' Sarah said, uncoiling into the side chair. 'I kicked her tight ass out.'

  Great. 'Jerome capture the moment on tape?'

  'Sadly, no.' Sarah shrugged. 'Jerome was too busy chatting up Amy. And did Katie Cougar ever love that.'

  I still couldn't picture Kate with Jerome. But I'd been naive about so many people.

  'What's Anita Hampton doing here?' Sarah asked, indicating the woman who had finally climbed out of the Lexus. Anita was on her cellphone. 'Maybe she has my award.'

  'Maybe she's just stopping for coffee.' I changed the subject to something more important. My life. 'Pavlik's in trouble.'

  'Pavlik's a sleaze.' Sarah was watching Anita disappear around the corner. 'He was cheating on you, you forget?'

  Suddenly, I found myself defending him. 'To be honest, he and I never talked about being exclusive. I guess I just figured Pavlik wasn't dating anyone else, because I wasn't.'

  '"Dating"?' Sarah repeated. 'Quaint euphemism for committing adultery with another man's wife.'

  'This is Brookhills,' I said. 'We survive on our quaint euphemisms.'

  'Sooo?' Sarah, leadingly.

  'Sooo . . .' I was trying to follow. 'We're deluding ourselves. Living in Peyton Place while pretending it's Sunnybrook Farm.'

  'No, you idiot. I meant, sooo did you see Pavlik last night and confront him with what Rebecca said? Ask him if it was true?'

  If Sarah called me an idiot one more time, I was going to smack her.

  And of course I didn't ask Pavlik. That would have made too much sense. 'No. But I did tell him Kate suspected that JoLynne was having an affair with someone in the county government.'

  'Nice move. What did our sheriff say?'

  'He took off like a scalded cat.'

  'Did he now?' Sarah said, contemplating. 'Guess Kate should be glad she isn't at the bottom of Lake Michigan, wearing concrete galoshes.'

  Involuntarily, a hand went to my mouth. 'Please tell me you don't believe Pavlik would kill someone.'

  'Please tell me you haven't thought about it,' Sarah mimicked me.

  A moment of silence as she rose from the side chair.

  Then: 'My opinion, Maggy? Pavlik is certainly capable of killing someone.' Sarah palmed the doorknob. 'But do I believe that he would physically hurt you or Kate? Or kill JoLynne Penn-Williams? Not for a minute.'

  Sarah opened the door, then turned back to me. 'And no matter how emotionally hurt you are, you don't believe it either.'

  She waved a hand to indicate I should leave first. 'Now, get your mopey butt out there to help. It's nearly Tennis Barbies time and, besides, Anita might be here to see me.'

  In truth, it was still a good half-hour until the Tennis Barbies would finish their matches, air-kiss the opposing team, and get their color-coordinated selves over here. The store was empty. No sign of even Anita Hampton. Amy was at the cash register, breaking open sleeves of coins and putting them in the cash drawer.

  I didn't see Tien. She must have called it a day – or night – and headed home. I hoped our shift-savior would sleep well. Tien had certainly earned it.

  'Did Anita come in?' Sarah asked Amy.

  'Anita who?'

  'Hampton. Brewster's wife. And the events person for Milwaukee.'

  It didn't seem to come up on Amy's recollection screen, so I elaborated. 'Tall and slim? Dresses well, with dark hair?'

  'Ohh, that PR woman?' Amy wrinkled her nose. 'She's not "slim", she's downright skinny. I saw her hustle past. I wanted to toss her a muffin, flesh the beanpole out a little.'

  Look who was talking. Amy didn't have a pound of fat on her. The signpost was calling the rail anorexic.

  Or something like that.

  'Anita has lost a few pounds lately,' I said, 'but the woman never stops moving.' It takes a lot of energy to be a pain in the ass, with the added unfair benefit of the effort reducing the ass of the pain involved.

  Sarah was pouring herself a cup of coffee, seeming to have lost interest in Anita now that she hadn't come into the shop, trophy in hand, for an awards presentation. By comparison, I was curious to know where the woman had gone.

  'I'll be outside.' I pulled open the front door. 'Back in time for the tennis team.'

  Amy waved me along and I stepped on to our wrap-around porch. For sentimental reasons we'd retained the one piece of furniture that had been there when we took over, a battered rocker-recliner patched with duct tape. We'd also moved in lovely white café tables with matching chairs, even a couple of wicker love seats.

  Guess where people always chose to sit?

  Right the first time. And that banged-up chair, rusty hinges and all, admittedly did envelop you when you sank into it.

  It was there that I found Anita Hampton, duly enveloped and snoring.

  'Anita?' I pulled a seat away from the nearest table and dropped my rump on to it, facing her. 'Anita?' This time nudging her recliner with my foot.

  Eyelids fluttered. 'Where . . .?'

  'You seem to have
zonked on the porch of Uncommon Grounds. Are you OK?'

  My former boss jolted awake and darted her feet into Manolo pumps. God forbid Anita should be caught out of uniform.

  'I did have trouble falling asleep last night,' she admitted, levering the chair up. 'And then I awoke early. I was hoping to catch Kevin Williams breaking down your stage. He's not answering his phone and he still needs to finish downtown. We have another Milwaukee event scheduled there this weekend.'

  'But isn't Kevin still –' how to put it – 'a guest of the sheriff's department?'

  'Oh, Maggy, I'm so sorry, I thought you knew. Kevin was cleared and released early this morning.' Anita leaned forward and patted my hand. 'You do know who they're looking at now, don't you, dear?'

  Her tone was meant to show concern for a former co-worker in a difficult time.

  Underline 'show' as opposed to 'feel'.

  'I do.' Rather than give Anita information, it'd be dandy if I could pry some out of her. 'But wasn't the alleged affair –' the last word stuck in my throat – 'thought to be Kevin's motive for killing JoLynne?'

  'Originally, I believe you're right. But witnesses saw Kevin from the time the balloon was inflated until poor Jo's body was found.'

  And damned if I wasn't one of those witnesses. Great for Kevin, not so much for Pavlik, now probably the sole suspect.

  Before I could pose another question, Anita pushed herself up and out of the chair. Her hands bore telltale filaments from the deteriorating Naugahyde.

  'Clap them together like blackboard erasers,' I suggested. 'And don't forget to brush off your clothes.' Hey, comfort and heritage come with a price.

  Anita, always the go-getter, managed somehow to clap and brush at the same time. Then she pointed. 'Finally.'

  I turned to see Kevin's truck approaching. As it passed, I could just make out the burly silhouette of Kevin in the driver's seat.

  'Oh, good,' I said, starting down the porch stairs behind Anita. 'I need to talk to him, too.'

  Anita held up a hand, stopping me. 'In order to save time for both of us, I suggest that I have my discussion with Kevin first.'

  I started to protest, but she kept right on talking. 'Then I will send Kevin to see you. That way you'll be able to be in your store.'