Cappuccino Twist (2 page)

In the lobby, the front desk staff regarded me curiously as I grabbed a sticky bun from the buffet table and darted out into the pre-dawn blackness.  From down the street I could already see the lights on in Dario’s shop, so I picked up my pace, hoping I wasn’t running late.  I hadn’t even bothered to look at a clock since my alarm jarred me out of my sleep like a vibrating bell tower.

“Good morning.  Are you the new girl?” Asked a chipper college-age gal with a silky raven French braid.

“Yes, I’m Marlena. Dario hired me yesterday.”

“Yeah, Dario is always hiring new people.  No one stays here for very long.  I’m Luz, by the way.  Here, let me get you an apron.” Digging into a cardboard box behind the counter, she produced a plain black apron that made me cringe.  Every day in New York City had been an adventure choosing my outfit to wear to work.  High heels were ubiquitous, and I owned a sophisticated business suit in every color of the rainbow.  Now my wardrobe was being demoted to kitchen staff uniform.  Then, angelically, an image of my grandmother’s shining eyes flashed in my mind, making me forget my shallow desires for a chic wardrobe and eagerly tie the apron around my waist.

“Thanks
Luz.  You said that no one stays here very long?  Why is that?” I asked, fearing that Dario was a dictatorial nightmare to work under.

“Well, you know, a lot of college students come and go.  They just work here during semester break.  But also we get some weird customers in here.” An inexplicable shudder ran through
Luz’s petite frame.

“Really? What do you mean?” I asked warily, remembering the man I had seen yesterday wearing a deadly expression as he sipped his espresso.

“Just some loser guys who have no lives.  They stay here all day.  Dario never kicks anyone out as long as they’re ordering refills,” Luz explained as her shudder became contagious and a chill ran down my spine.

“Oh, well, I’m from New York, so I’m used to meeting all kinds of people.  I’m sure the guys who hang out here won’t bother me,” I said, trying to convince myself as much as
Luz.

“Well that’s good.”
Grinning, she picked up an empty coffee mug and filled it with hot hazelnut brew.  “Here.  You look like you could use a cup.  One of the fringe benefits of working here.”

“Free coffee?” I surmised as I inhaled the rich, nutty fragrance and indulgently tasted it.

“One free cup a day.  50% discount for any other cups,” she informed as I finished my one free cup in less than a minute.  So much for rationing and saving money.  I’d probably spend half my income from the coffee shop
at
the coffee shop.

“H
mmm, well
he
can’t be one of the weird ones.  Or is he?” I asked, pointing to a tall man with a clipboard who appeared to be interviewing a young, flaxen haired girl.

“Eduardo?  No, he’s not weird.  He’s just a
Casanova.  Always in here with that clipboard chatting up some blonde roast.” Luz rolled her eyes, pointing to the girl’s buttered popcorn shaded hair.

“What’s the clipboard for?” I asked.

“No idea.  He doesn’t talk to the staff except to order his coffee,” Luz replied, breaking open a roll of coins and pouring them into the cash register.

In a conspiratorial whisper, I asked
Luz, “Do you think Dario would let me work the cash register today?  I don’t know the menu here yet, so I wouldn’t feel comfortable making coffee.”

“Dario’s off today.  He only comes in a few days a week.  So I’m sure that would be fine.  I’d rather make coffee than count dirty money anyway,” she percolated, clearing a space for me at the register.

Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique started to really buzz once 6 am rolled around, and my shift flew by without my having to brew a single cup of coffee.  Even though my brain had no concept of what time it was, the clock read noon, and I untied the strings of my apron as my shift came to an end.  Waving an amiable goodbye to Luz and my other coworkers, I headed towards the door, invigorated to see that the skies had cleared.  As I stepped onto the sidewalk, my eyes met with the hostile pair belonging to the lone espresso drinker.  Instead of shooting me with another furious glare, he smirked at me as he walked into Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique.  But his smirk was humorless and aggressive, making my pace quicken as I hurried back to the shelter of my hotel room.

***

Flopping on the bed and stretching like a lazy feline, I latched my foot onto the handle of my suitcase next to the
nightstand.  Pulling it towards me with the strength of my toes, I unzipped the bag and rummaged around for the sealed envelope that contained information to help me launch Aunt Silvia’s murder investigation.  To my dismay, the thin envelope contained nothing more than a list of names and a newspaper clipping written in the days after Aunt Silvia’s murder.  How were these specks of information going to help me?  Discouraged, I took a closer look at the list of names.

“They’re all men,” I murmured, scanning the
brief list of three names.  Marcelo Sanchez.  Jorge Canton.  David Garcia.  Next to each of the man’s names was a designation for how he had known my aunt.  The first two were labeled “boyfriend” and the third was categorized as “lover.”

“How many men did Aunt Silvia date?” I wondered aloud, trying not to place judgment on a woman I had never met.  After all, she had been
3 years younger than me when she was murdered and was probably just sowing her wild oats.  Who knows what kind of person she would have become if her life hadn’t been savagely nipped in the bud?

Conspicuously missing from the list of names were exact addresses.  Instead, my grandmother had simply written down street names or neighborhood vicinities.  Propping myself up on a pillow, I reflected how I truly had my work cut out for me.  If any of these men were still living, they would be somewhere in their 70s---or older---and likely grandfathers with large families.  How was I going to track any of them down?  Shaking my head, I thought how I should have majored in criminal justice in college rather than business and finance. 

“The library,” I whispered the revelation as I remembered the library situated right next to Dario’s shop.

Fighting back the desire for a cat nap, I took my list and marched down the street to the library.  Librarians were always interested in solving mysteries,
but if I couldn’t find someone to help me, then I would consult census records and methodically pinpoint each of the men on my grandmother’s list.  Heading over to the Reference desk, I approached a sixty something lady with classic Spanish features: twinkling brown eyes, thick gleaming tresses, and a smile warmer than kindling.

In Spanish, I started to explain my mission to the librarian.  “
Buenas tardes
.  I was hoping you could help me find some information.  My name is Marlena Falcon and I…”

The woman
peered at me like I was a phantom incarnate.  “Falcon? Falcon? You are related to Silvia Falcon?” She shrieked as her rosy cheeks turned alabaster.

“Yes, she was my
great aunt, my grandmother’s younger sister.  Did you know her?” My heart thudded against my chest as the woman’s expression transformed from frightened to compassionate.

“Yes! She
babysat me when I was a child.  All these years, they have never found her killer.  It’s such a tragedy!  Silvia was so sweet!” Tears brimmed her eyes as the old wound gushed open.

“It’s a horrible tragedy,” I
agreed gravely.  “And it’s one that needs justice. That’s why I’m here in Spain.  I’m trying to solve my aunt’s murder.”

“Finally! Someone is trying to clear Silvia’s name.  The police gave up on the case far too soon!  They said there was no evidence and too many suspects because…” the woman hesitated before adding quietly, “because Silvia had too many men.”

“Did you know any of these men?” I asked urgently, handing her the list written in my grandmother’s shaky handwriting.

She shook her head in despair.  “No.  I was only 16 when your aunt was murdered.  I didn’t know any of these people.  But I will help you trace them.” The librarian pulled a chair next to her and gestured for me to sit as she clicked on a database of local residents and entered the names one by one.

“Thank you, Señora Marquez,” I said, reading the bronze name plate on her desk.

Browsing through the results, Se
ñora Marquez determined that two of the men on the list were deceased.  “Jorge Canton died more than 10 years ago.  And David Garcia passed away just last year according to my database.  But Marcelo Sanchez is alive and still living in Barcelona.” She grabbed a pencil and jotted down Marcelo’s address. 

“Thank you, but how do we know for sure that these are the right people?  There could be men w
ith the same names living all over Spain,” I pointed out, nonetheless tucking Marcelo’s address securely into my purse.

“There could be.  But you’ve only given me
very vague information.  The only way to know for sure is to talk to Marcelo Sanchez.  As for the other two, I can give you addresses for their next of kin.” Avidly, the librarian turned her attention back to the database, searching for living relatives of Jorge Canton and David Garcia.  I gazed at her attractive profile, for a moment reminded of my grandmother’s graceful but proud beauty.  Swallowing a lump of sadness in my throat, I focused all my energy on the investigation that had waited half a century to begin.

***

Two hours later, my eyes weary from too much time in front of the computer with Señora Marquez, I returned to my hotel for a sorely earned repose.  In a daze, I passed the front desk, distantly hearing Talisa’s voice calling after me.  “Señorita Falcon!  Wait! You have mail!”

Whirling around in shock, I repeated, “Mail? But no one knows where I’m staying in Barcelona.”

“No, I mean a letter.  Someone left this letter here for you.” She handed me an envelope as I eagerly tore it open, baffled about who would have left me a message.

Feeling my knees wobble under my body weight, I silently read the two line note that had been penned in red Magic Marker:

GO HOME.  OR CHASE GHOSTS AT YOUR OWN PERIL... 

Chapter 3

My knees kept buckling until I thought that I would collapse right there in the hotel lobby.  Gripping the desk with white knuckles, I steadied myself and
tried to whisper, but the sound came out as an urgent gasp, “Who left this here for me?”

“Actually, I’m not sure.  I just started my shift a few minutes ago and it was here when I arrived,” Talisa replied as she winked.  “Why? Got yourself a secret admirer?”

“No!” I shouted, turning the paper so she could read the blood shaded words.

“
Dios mio
!” She cried.  “Maybe it’s a mistake.  Maybe it’s not really for you,” she said in a hopeful rush, but as she turned the paper over, we could both clearly see the name Marlena etched in the same angry red ink.

“It’s definitely meant for me.  And I need to find out who wrote it.  Doesn’t the hotel have surveillance cameras everywhere?” I prodded, looking up and pointing at one that was recording me as I spoke.

“Yes, but so many people come in and out of the hotel every day…hundreds…sometimes even a thousand…”

“Talisa, this is a death threat!
It needs to be taken seriously!  Where’s the manager?” I clutched the paper in my clammy hand, immobilized with fear.  The only time I had ever left the United States was for a business trip to London.  And during that excursion, I was surrounded by colleagues and clients who made me feel safe.  Now, here I was in Spain, all alone and vulnerable.  Immediately, the cold staring man from Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique came to mind.  No one else had looked at me with such venom since I arrived in Barcelona.  On the contrary, the city seemed to be full of wickedly flirtatious men whose gazes were anything but icy.  But how would he know that I was in Barcelona to “chase ghosts?” No one in Barcelona knew about my quest.  I shivered, starting to feel like a ghost was chasing
me
.

As I was about to reach across the desk and shake Talisa’s shoulders for being so nonchalant, the lobby doors swung open and a woman rushed towards me. 
Eyes bulging, I recognized the reference librarian who had given me my first leads to solving the murder of Aunt Silvia.

Breathlessly, Se
ñora Marquez burst out, “Marlena! I hope I didn’t startle you.  But I wanted to help you and go with you when you meet Marcelo Sanchez.  You shouldn’t go alone.”

With mild suspicion, I asked, “Did I tell you
I was staying in this hotel?”

“No,” the older woman replied, her breath still coming in uneven spurts, “but I saw which way you were walking when you left the library.  And
the Alonso Hotel is where most tourists stay in the Gothic Quarter.”

Her explanation sounded reasonable, and I certainly had no reason to mistrust the grandmotherly figure…but I had no reason to trust her either.  I shook my head at myself, worried that I was becoming neurotic far too early in the investigation. 
If absolutely necessary, I could have a nervous breakdown later on,
after
the murder was solved.  But not before.