MY FAIR LATTE

by Vickie Fee

  “What was he blackmailing you about?” I asked.

  “Is that really important?”

  “A man’s been killed, and Halley is a suspect. I think you better tell us what was going on.”

  “If I tell you, can I trust your discretion?”

  Kendra and I looked to each other.

  “I see no reason to tell the cops—if you haven’t committed a crime and it’s not related to Vince’s murder. You didn’t kill Vince, did you?” Kendra pressed.

  “Of course not. I wasn’t even at the theater the night he died. Dozens of people can testify I was at the restaurant until after midnight. And security footage will confirm I didn’t leave the building, and Vince didn’t come through our door.”

  “Fair enough,” Kendra said.

  I nodded in agreement.

  “While I did live for a time in England—Basingstoke, Hampshire. I’m not exactly a native-born Englishman.”

  “Where, exactly, were you born?” I asked.

  “Peoria. My friends and business associates would be devastated to learn I’m not English. It could hurt business and I’d be humiliated,” he said, hanging his head and looking pitiful.

  Reaching out and giving his hand a squeeze, Kendra said, “Everyone is entitled to a secret or two—as long as they’re not hurting anyone.”

  He seemed relieved.

  “How much money did Vince take you for?” I asked.

  “He never pressured me for money, just my silence. He wanted me to use my contacts with the historical society to find an expert qualified to authenticate the boot. But he told me if word leaked out to the public or a TV crew about the treasure, my little secret would leak out, too.

  Edgar looked pale.

  “My wait staff will be run off their feet with breakfast customers by now, I really must be getting back.”

  I walked him to the door and locked it behind him, then I asked Kendra, “How many people in town do you think know Edgar’s accent is phony?”

  “I don’t know, I’m sure some people at least suspect. But people here are pretty live and let live.”

  “Trudy is so dedicated to clearing my name, I don’t feel right not telling her about Edgar,” I said.

  “We didn’t promise Edgar we wouldn’t tell anyone, we promised our discretion. I agree with you, I don’t think it would be right not to tell Trudy about Vince’s blackmail against Edgar. But we still have no evidence to take to the police. Anyway, I believed him when he said he didn’t kill Vince.”

  “Me, too. Unfortunately, that doesn’t bring us any closer to figuring out who might have killed him.”

  “Remember what Trudy said. We don’t need to find the actual killer, just a suspect to make the cops lose interest in you,” she said.

  “Right. But there’s still a killer on the loose. Don’t you want to see whoever it is caught and brought to justice?”

  “Of course I do. But I think Vince was probably killed for very personal reasons. Most likely blackmail. It’s not like there’s a serial killer on the prowl. I did a preliminary search in the library archives. I’m going to run back over there now and do a bit of digging before the escape rooms open. Alan, the reference librarian, said he’d help me. Hope you sell lots of coffee and scones today.”

  I walked Kendra to the door, unlocked it and turned over the open sign as she left. I had just made it back behind the counter when a nerdy-looking guy who was trying to camouflage a receding chin with a scruffy beard walked in holding a notebook and a pen.

  “May I help you?”

  “I sure hope so, Miss Greer,” he said, taking a seat on one of the bar stools at the counter. “I’m Clifford Caldwell with the Utopia Springs Sentinel. I’d like to ask you a few questions for a follow-up article in the paper on last weekend’s tragedy.”

  “So far no one else has died here, knock on wood,” I said, tapping against the quartz counter. “And I’ve already talked to the police.”

  “Oh, I know. You’ve also talked to quite a few other people this week, including the victim’s landlady and his pal, the saloon owner.”

  So Vince was friends with Trey.

  Have you been stalking me, Mr. Caldwell? That sounds like a good reason for me to have another chat with Detective Stedman.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m not following you, just observant. And people talk. We may have a lot of tourists, but Utopia Springs is really just a small town at heart. So tell me, what did you learn from the victim’s landlady?”

  I had no intention of answering his questions. “I have a question for you,” I said.

  “Shoot.”

  “Are you going to order something, or are you just loitering?”

  I was leaning against the counter. He stood and leaned across, bringing his unshaven face within inches of my nose.

  “I don’t think you really want an antagonistic relationship with the local media, Miss Greer, seeing as you are a person of interest in a murder investigation.”

  “What’s so interesting about me? Some guy got himself killed and I just happened to be in the vicinity—along with a couple of hundred other people.”

  “Maybe. But according to the autopsy report the victim’s stomach contents contained a brown slurry of coffee and Cracker Jacks, along with a lethal drug dose. And you are the barista here.”

  I was too stunned to reply.

  He gave me a smug smile before he turned and headed for the door.

  “I’ll be seeing you around,” he said, which sounded more like a threat than a farewell.

  Clifford held the door open for two women who entered as he left. Their fanny packs and I-heart-Utopia-Springs t-shirts were like tattooing tourist on their foreheads. They both ordered lattes and scones and made themselves comfortable on one of the plump loveseats in the lobby. I pasted on a smile and tried to put what Clifford had said out of my head. A steady stream of customers came and went over the next couple of hours. Some of them inquired about the calendar of upcoming movies scheduled at the Star Movie Palace, and I realized I needed to get busy making one up. I took advantage of the opportunity to ask people what they would like to see and scribbled down the suggestions on a notepad.

  After the last two customers in the place left, I was about to go lock the front doors when Susie Stoneface marched in. Her usual deadpan expression was animated by a scowl and punctuated with angry eyebrows.

  “Business seems good. Noticed you had gentlemen callers beating a path to your door even before you opened today.”

  “Something I can help you with, Officer Stone?”

  “No, actually I’m here to help you, Miss Greer. Do yourself a favor and accept some friendly advice. If you want to keep time with Nick Raiford or Trey Tilby, be my guest. Or if you and your pal Kendra want to tussle over Joe Chang, fine by me.”

  She walked toward the counter with her chest puffed out.

  “But stay away from Clifford Caldwell. Trust me when I tell you he’s not your type.”

  I should’ve just smiled and kept my mouth shut, but she ticked me off.

  “I haven’t gone near Clifford. He came here, as you are obviously aware. He gave the pretext of seeking information about last week’s tragedy, even though he printed in the newspaper that Vince Dalton had been murdered before the body was even cold. Certainly before the autopsy. He obviously already has a source who’s in a better position to provide that kind of information than I am.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she put her hands on her hips. Clearly I’d touched a nerve.

  “Well, he didn’t hear it from me,” she said, so mad her voice was quavering. “Clifford’s a professional, a top-notch investigative reporter. But playing Nancy Drew and digging into people’s private affairs when you don’t know what you’re doing can be hazardous to your health. You’d do well to remember that.”

&nbs
p; “Is that a threat, Officer Stone?”

  “No, sweetie, just a little friendly advice, like I said.”

  She sauntered out and I hurried over to lock up before another unwanted visitor could appear.

  CHAPTER 18

  I ate the last scone, which was delicious, before cleaning up the bar. I did a quick touch-up in the bathrooms. Then I bought a box of Raisinets and slipped them in my pocket to snack on as I vacuumed the lobby—for the second time today—and cleaned the auditorium. After taking last night’s receipts out of the safe, I went to the bank to make a deposit. I couldn’t get what Clifford had said about the autopsy report out of my head.

  I was dying to talk to Kendra and thought about slipping over to see if I could have a quick word with her. But as soon as I stepped outside I could see she was slammed. I spotted a group of five or six people huddled on the sidewalk across the street in front of the escape rooms and noticed one of them was holding a pager. Kendra hands out pagers to groups the way they do at restaurants for parties waiting to be seated. Curiously the contingent with the pager were all redheads, which made me think family reunion, unless there was a ginger convention in town. In any case, the pager indicated all three escape rooms currently had groups in them trying to puzzle their way out, and at least one group was queued up waiting to go next.

  “Good for her,” I thought, hoping I’d have a line of customers waiting to get in the theater for tonight’s show.

  Since Kendra was tied up, I made the familiar trek down to Mayfield’s Gallery instead, dodging my way through a pretty healthy crowd for a weekday. Now late September, it was a different crowd than when I’d arrived the first of August. Families with younger children had disappeared with school back in session, replaced by couples of all ages and groups of friends celebrating weddings, reunions and girls’ getaways.

  Trudy was behind the counter when I entered. Upon closer inspection I could see she was threading beads onto wire to fashion an earring.

  “How was the coffee business this morning?”

  “Eventful,” I said.

  I briefly told her what I’d learned from Clifford about the autopsy report.

  “That at least partially explains why the cops are so interested in me as a suspect,” I said, feeling like I was carrying concrete blocks on my shoulders.

  “Hon, all that really tells us is that someone slipped something in Vince’s coffee at the theater on opening night. We were already pretty certain of that. You may have made the coffee, but anyone could’ve dropped something in his cup.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I said, the weight of impending doom suddenly feeling much lighter.

  “Oh, and Kendra and I questioned Edgar about taking the boot from Paula and what had really gone on between him and Vince Dalton. He knew the boot was a fake, but hopes he can use it to entice some guy who does treasure hunting documentaries to come to Utopia Springs to film an episode. The treasure Edgar is after is increased tourism dollars.”

  “I wouldn’t object to that myself,” Trudy said.

  “And there was something else. Turns out Vince was also plying a bit of blackmail against Edgar.”

  “Do tell,” she said.

  “According to Edgar, Vince didn’t ask for money but wanted Edgar to get an expert to verify if the boot was authentic—and to keep his mouth shut about some Jesse James loot possibly being buried in Utopia Springs.”

  “Did he say what Vince was holding over his head?”

  “Trudy, I hope you won’t be disappointed, but…Edgar isn’t exactly English. He’s from Peoria. And his British accent is completely bogus.”

  I was concerned there might be tears. Instead, Trudy started laughing.

  “Oh, Halley, I already knew that. But please don’t tell George. I’d like him to go on feeling just a teensy bit jealous of me and Edgar, okay?”

  “Far be it from me to meddle in your marriage,” I said.

  “There was one other thing of note that happened today. Officer Susie came by to warn me to keep my hands off Clifford Caldwell.”

  “Oh my, you did have an eventful day.”

  “Trust me, she’s got no cause for worry on that front.”

  By the time I made it back to the theater, I had to hustle to get everything ready for the Friday night show. Delores was late, as usual. The crowd was okay, but not great. After I closed up I was so exhausted I could barely climb the stairs. I’d have to think long and hard before I ran another feature so long it requires an intermission, although it probably boosts the wine and coffee sales a bit.

  Since the coffee bar wasn’t open on Saturday mornings, at least for now, I cleaned up after last night’s show then decided to catch up on the financials. I carried my laptop down to the office, which I’d mostly cleared out, storing old files in the basement. Uncle Leon had always used ledgers for bookkeeping—definitely not a computer guy. But I knew that system wasn’t going to work for me. Fortunately, Bart had come to my rescue once again. He had set me up with some fairly simple accounting software that’s a good fit for small businesses like mine. I got the books in order and had just made an online payment for the utilities when Kendra phoned a little before ten o’clock.

  “Hey, girl, we’re about to open so I can’t talk long, I just wanted to let you know if you’ve been worried I was jealous of all the attention the detective has been showing you, no worries. He came by first thing this morning to shower some suspicion on me.”

  “Really? About what?”

  “He seemed most interested that I’d been looking through the library archives for Jesse James and treasure stuff, which makes me think the cops must know something of what Vince was up to. More disturbing to me was that he knew what I had been looking at in the library. Maybe Alan, the reference librarian, told the cops, although I have a hard time believing it of him.”

  “What did you tell the intrepid detective?”

  “That I’d started looking at local Jesse James lore almost two years ago, which is absolutely true. And that I’d decided to give it another look.”

  “I had my own up close and personal visit with the local cops yesterday. Susie stopped by to tell me to keep my hands off Clifford Caldwell.”

  Kendra laughed so hard, she started snorting. “Try to control yourself around Clifford, Halley. He’s already taken,” she said, still giggling.

  “Any attention from me toward Clifford is purely in Susie’s mind—or maybe his. But he did let something slip about the investigation.”

  I told her about the autopsy report.

  “Wow,” she said. “I’ll ponder the implications of that while I deal with a rowdy group that’s already lined up here. I’ll talk to you later.”

  After I got off the phone with Kendra, I checked the mail and found the last fragments of my former life in Nashville boxed up and sealed with packing tape. I had mailed final rent to my landlord in Nashville, and asked my neighbor in the building, who had a spare key, to pack up and ship the rest of my clothes, my DVD collection of old movie and my French press to me. I told her to feel free to take or sell anything else in the apartment—which wasn’t much—or to leave it for the landlord, who didn’t return my security deposit.

  More interested in thinking about my new life than dwelling on the past, I wasted a little time fantasy shopping online for stuff to decorate the apartment. I had painted the living room walls and trim with paint leftover from the theater renovations, which freshened things up. I’d bought a new shower curtain and rug for the bathroom. And I’d slipcovered the old sofa, thrown a bedspread over the decrepit loveseat, and hung a couple of pictures. Oh, and picked up a cute lamp at a local flea market. That was about all the decorating I could afford, so far. Other stuff, including buying a real mattress and box springs instead of sleeping in the recliner or on the sofa, would have to wait until I had some cash flow. But it was fun t
o daydream.

  The attendance for the Saturday night show was disappointing, but I knew there was a folk rock concert—a reunion tour of some seventies band—at the outdoor amphitheater that was probably drawing away our clientele.

  Marco phoned Sunday morning to make sure I hadn’t forgotten about our date for Sunday evening. I hadn’t. I was distracted all through coffee and wine service for the matinee, and changed clothes three times before heading to the winery. I drove up the winding mountain back roads, making my way to the winery up the long drive—private road really—past the terraced vineyard. Leaves on the vines were beginning to yellow, following the grape harvest last month, as we eased our way into fall. I’m not exactly the outdoorsy type, but I had been holed up indoors a lot the past several weeks, working to get the theater and coffee bar up and running. I rolled down my window a bit to enjoy the pleasant late-September breeze. The wind on my skin and the rush of fresh mountain air in my lungs felt good.

  I pulled up in front of the large, glass-front contemporary home. I’d barely stepped out of the car when I was greeted by Rafe Carvello, who walked out to meet me.

  “Cara mia, it’s so good to see you again,” he said, clasping my hands and giving me a light kiss on each cheek.

  “I wanted to have you to myself for a moment before my son sweeps you away to the vineyard. He has good taste in women—like his papa,” he said with a chuckle.

  We walked arm in arm through the open living room with soaring ceilings and through sliding glass doors, which offered an expansive view of the vineyards, onto the generous patio where we’d enjoyed the wine tasting on my initial visit. Marco was standing at the table pouring sparkling wine into three flutes. He handed a glass to me and his dad before raising his own in a toast.

  “Cin Cin! You are even lovelier than the view, my dear,” Rafe Carvello said, turning toward me and chinking his glass against mine.

  “Dad, I worry that flirting with beautiful young women could be bad for your heart condition.”