A Cup of Jo (3 page)

'Look out below,' Sarah bellowed.

Both execs obeyed her immediately and saw the huge, white balloon sliding over the edge of the gallows like an avalanche down the wintry slope of a mountain.

Not so, Anita. 'No, no,' she was saying to them. 'Better you pose facing each—'

Brewster dove to the right, Wynona the left.

Anita glanced one way, then the other, before finally looking up herself.

The deflating inflatable missed her nose by maybe eight inches, landing saucer-first with a thud at her feet.

Anita stared down at the now collapsed coffee cup, seeming dazed. 'Joe?'

Talk about dinosaurs.

I might not know what 'chillax' meant, but I was damned if I was going to let my old boss brand my new endeavor a Depression era 'joe-joint.'

'LaMinita ,' I corrected as I climbed to the top of the newly vacated gallows. 'A delicious brew of hand-roasted beans from Costa Rica.'

A hundred faces were tilted up as Sarah joined me on the plywood platform and peered over the edge. 'Wow. Shriveled like that, it looks less like Paul Bunyan's coffee cup and more like his used condom.'

God, what a public relations nightmare. Lynched on our own gallows.

'Sorry,' I said weakly to the crowd below. 'But –' gesturing toward the fallen cup – 'it's not just "joe".'

'Oh, but it
is
.' Anita Hampton ignored the solicitous hand Brewster laid on her shoulder. Delicately, she nudged aside a wall of our collapsed cup with the toes of one impeccably-shod foot.

A tangle of dark hair was exposed.

Not joe.

Jo.

Chapter Two

Missing Brookhills event manager JoLynne Penn-Williams was sprawled in the bottom of our cup. The lip of the still-inflated saucer made her look like a rag doll left behind in an empty kiddy pool.

I felt a full-body shudder, fearing history was repeating itself. Again.

'JoLynne, damn it!' Rebecca Penn said, marching over to look at her fallen sister. 'Must you always be the center of attention?'

JoLynne wasn't rising to the bait. In fact, she didn't look like she was rising, period. Not that it stopped Rebecca.

'Really. Popping out of this cup like it was a giant cake at a bachelor's party?' She leaned down to give her older sister's shoulder a shake. 'Jo, do you have no sense of decorum? No professional pride?'

'Probably depends on the profession,' Sarah observed.

'Slut.' Rebecca pivoted to Sarah and me on our perch above the stage. 'I wouldn't blame Uncommon Grounds for suing your butt, besmirching their business like this.'

'Besmirch?' Sarah blinked. 'I don't feel "besmirched". You?'

I shrugged. 'Besieged, maybe. And beleaguered, with a little bemused thrown in. But besmirched? Not so much.'

Unless, of course, Uncommon Grounds could be sued for personal injury or something. I looked down next to the gallows, but there was no sign of the mime. Apparently he hadn't been injured in his tumble. At least, not sufficiently that he couldn't flee the scene he'd destroyed.

Our Brookhills event manager, on the other hand, wasn't going anywhere for the time being. Could JoLynne be playing possum for some reason? And what in hell had she been doing in my coffee cup, anyway?

'Is Jo OK?' I called down.

No answer, at least from Anita Hampton and company. Anita had nudged Brewster and Milwaukee County Executive Wynona Counsel back, probably to keep them out of the way. Or, more likely, beyond the range of probing television cameras.

Rebecca, though, was still in soliloquy mode. 'Oh, please. Don't give Drama Queen here the satisfaction. Get up, Jo, so we can drag your mess out of the way and get on with the dedication.'

'She's right,' Sarah agreed from on high. 'JoLynne made her cup, now let her lie in it.'

Actually, 'Drama Queen's' husband had made the cup. Which reminded me: Kevin had disappeared. I didn't see a sign of him or his Williams Props and Staging truck.

'Calm down, Becc.' Michael Inkel had crossed the stage to his partner.

'Don't call me "Becc",' Rebecca snapped. 'You know I hate it. And you, of all people, have no right to tell me to calm down about my sister.'

'I told you . . .' Michael spread his hands. 'She and I never—'

'Not relevant,' Art Jenada interrupted, damn him. Not only did he cut Michael off before Rebecca did, but he was standing over JoLynne, effectively blocking our view.

'Hey, Mr Toad,' Sarah yelled down. 'You make a better door than a window.'

Art twisted his undeniably toadish body to glare at her, but it was me he addressed. 'Can't you keep her muzzled?'

'Muzzled?' Sarah sputtered. 'Why, you . . .'

I held up one hand. Miraculously, it silenced both of them. 'Art, what's wrong? Does JoLynne have the wind knocked out of her?'

I'd found in the past that the caterer, though he tended to be a bit of a busybody, could also come through in a pinch.

As to this particular pinch, I was hoping for confirmation that JoLynne was just momentarily stunned. Given the way my life had been going lately, though, I feared betting on it.

Art turned back to the woman lying motionless. 'Can't tell. Should I . . .?' He reached toward her.

'Don't touch her!' Brewster Hampton had stepped forward, despite his wife's efforts to stop him. 'Jo might have a neck injury.'

'Yeah, like it's broken,' Sarah murmured.

God, I hoped not. 'Don't even think that.'

'Paramedics are on their way.' Anita stepped up to join her husband, flipping closed the cellphone in her hand.

'Shouldn't take 'em long.' I gestured toward the red and white Brookhills Fire and Rescue unit I could see parked in front of the depot. Presumably it was out of Anita's line of vision, otherwise she could have just whistled and waved the EMTs over.

One way or the other, though, her message got through and the lights of the unit started to revolve. A med-tech piled out of each side of the truck and, pausing to grab their cases, trotted around the building to the train platform.

As they mounted the stairs, Art moved away. Rebecca still stood to the side giving Michael 'what-for' – for what, I wasn't sure. An imagined affair with her sister? Most likely.

But blood apparently was thicker than water – or other bodily fluids – because the reproachful looks Rebecca had been tossing JoLynne throughout the tirade were increasingly mingled with concern as the EMTs continued to kneel, hunkered over the inert body.

'Dang it,' Sarah said irritably, 'I can't see with all the Yellow Jackets swarming.'

Despite the fact that yellow jackets are a kind of wasp, I knew Sarah was talking about the slickers of the firefighters who had joined the group around the cup. EMTs, firefighters and town police officers were always sent out as a team on a Brookhills' call. Two uniformed officers were at the bottom of the steps up to the stage, keeping the crowd and media back.

Including a pretty ticked-off Kate McNamara. 'What do you mean I can't go up there?' she said, nearly foaming at the mouth. 'I'm a news reporter.'

'And I'm the king of the world.' Sarah puffed out her chest and threw her arms wide like we were in that scene from
Titanic
.

'Hey, watch it,' I said, ducking her flying right hand. To get a better view of our cup on the crowded platform below, we had dropped to the prone position, our heads and shoulders cantilevered over the edge of the gallows.

Kate continued her harangue. 'My camera operator has every right—'

'Oh, yeah? What camera operator?' The cop's facial expression implied he dealt with a dozen Kates per day.

Poor cop.

She looked around. 'Where the . . .?'

'Ouch!'

The cry came from Sarah, so I turned my head to look at her.

There was a foot on her right hand. Not attached, merely pinning it down.

'Oops, sorry. Just getting a shot.'

'Jerome?' I said, as he tried to find a place to stand close enough to the edge to videotape down, but not atop one of our collective body parts.

'Jerome?' Sarah parroted as she sat up and rubbed her hand. 'What was the giveaway? The camera on his shoulder?'

'The feet.' As I recalled, Jerome had huge feet for someone his size. I should have known he was going to grow into them like a golden retriever does its paws. 'They're huge.'

'Tell me about it.' My friend struggled to hold up her injured wing.

Jerome activated the light atop his camera, flooding artificial sunshine over the scene below, shaded until then by the depot. Kate shielded her eyes and waved delightedly.

'Geez, if he's young enough to be your son, he's not old enough to be anything
else
to you.'

'You talking to Kate or to yourself?' Sarah needled.

'Neither,' I retorted, trying to keep my temper. 'I was—'

'Who's that?' Jerome interrupted.

Sarah and I followed the direction of his camera lens. With a view blocked by humanity – both in the form of the firefighters and EMTs as well as an innate moral code – Jerome had swung toward the other players on the stage. The one I guessed to be currently in his sights was female and mid-twenties, with a fresh-scrubbed face in direct contrast to the spiky rainbow hair, tattoos and multiple ear-piercings.

The woman was our barista, Amy Caprese, and her heart was as big as the oversized hoops that swung from each ear. She was standing with Art Jenada, wringing her hands as she watched the paramedics working on JoLynne.

'Beauty and the beast,' Jerome said as he gazed through the viewfinder.

'Art's a nice guy.' I stood up and wiped my hands on my jeans. 'He's just an endomorph.'

'He looks like a russet potato,' Sarah contributed, 'only with just the two eyes.'

Since I'd always thought Art resembled an amphibian, I didn't have much standing to criticize her tuber-take. I noticed Kate looking back and forth between Amy and Jerome's camera lens, trying to figure out what her videographer was shooting.

And then succeeding.

'Jerome,' she yelled, tapping her index finger to her temple. 'Camera eyes on the prize, you got it?'

'Guess that depends on your definition of "prize",' Jerome muttered, but he did as his boss ordered.

'Can you see anything?' I asked him.

'I'm trained on the emergency personnel right now. I don't think it's ethical to shoot a patient while they're receiving medical treatment unless you have their permission.'

The way Jerome said it, Kate and he didn't necessarily agree on that point.

'Sure is taking them long enough,' Sarah said. 'What can they be doing?'

To be honest, they didn't seem to
doing
much of anything. Which I didn't think was a good sign.

Jerome took a step forward. 'Best I can tell, one of them is talking on a cellphone.'

I grabbed the back of his shirt. 'Careful. You don't want to join them down there.'

As I said it, one of the EMTs got up from his knees. Everyone on the stage froze, all conversation halted. Anita Hampton started forward and then, changing her mind, turned and whispered something to Brewster. Probably suggesting he take the lead since we were in Brookhills, but also because both Penn-Williams and the emergency personnel were working for him and/or the county. Brewster shook his head, but then, as always, Anita seemed to get her way.

The Brookhills county executive buttoned his suit jacket and approached the upright EMT. The two of them spoke, the EMT gesturing to JoLynne and then up to where we were. Brewster turned his gaze on us, and then flicked it back down. He nodded and went to the podium.

Adjusting the microphone to lip level, he tapped it twice, producing that electronic thump-thump that indicates an operational sound system.

'Ladies and gentleman –' he was unbuttoning his coat again – 'I am afraid there's been a –' he cleared his throat – 'a tragic accident.'

'No shit,' Sarah hissed in my ear.

I didn't pay attention. The EMTs hadn't attempted to transport JoLynne. Even assuming a neck injury, by now they'd have brought out a backboard, stabilized her spine, and carefully loaded her on to a gurney and truck for the trip to the hospital. They hadn't done any of those things.

'Mrs JoLynne Penn-Williams,' Brewster's voice boomed into the mic, 'our county's coordinator for this event, has been badly injured. We are going to ride with her to—'

He interrupted himself as the coroner's wagon pulled to the bottom of the boarding platform stairs.

A collective intake of breath. Rebecca started to wail, burying her face in her partner's suit jacket, all suspected infidelity immediately forgotten. If not forgiven.

I looked around for JoLynne's husband, Kevin, trying not to think of insurance and liability and all those nasty possibilities you can't avoid considering when someone dies on your property. Or in your property, should that be a giant coffee cup.

'Where's Kevin?' I asked Sarah. 'He went running toward his truck and I haven't seen him since.'

'Good question,' Sarah said. 'But I have a better one.'

Pausing – just, I suspected, to irk me – she gestured first to the coroner's wagon and then to where JoLynne Penn-Williams lay, clearly visible to us now that everyone had moved back as an amorphous herd.

'How'd she die, Maggy?'

Chapter Three

'Blunt-force trauma?' I offered.

Sarah and I had abandoned the gallows' bird's-eye view and I now stood behind the county coroner. Although I'd seen the short, gray-haired man at a number of crime scenes, I doubted my name had ever come to his—

'Maggy Thorsen.' The coroner didn't bother to turn around.

So, my 'Jonah' reputation had preceded me. This did not seem a good omen.

'Yes, sir.' I took a step back. For the life of me, I couldn't remember the guy's name.

Sarah and I had managed to talk our way past a municipal police officer by explaining that our giant coffee cup was involved. He didn't seem to think this was as interesting as we did, but waved us on anyway.

The coroner was squatting and now he pivoted on his Allen Edmonds brogues to face me. 'The sheriff is not going to be happy.'