Grounds for Murder (8 page)

‘Don’t you have somewhere else to be?’ Caron was trying to reach around me for a cup.

‘I thought you wanted help,’ I protested.

‘Competent help.’ Caron added hot water to the espresso for a café Americano. ‘And why are you trying to suck up to the customers? You’re not good at it.’

‘That’s true,’ someone agreed from the back of the line.

‘I liked her better when she was assigning seats,’ another chimed in. Others were nodding in agreement.

‘Hey, listen,’ I said to the assemblage, ‘I’m doing my best here.’

‘Well, it’s not good enough,’ the Customer Formerly Known As Dorothy said. ‘You know who you should hire? That Amy from Janalee’s Place.’

‘Did you hear there was a fire there last night?’ Mrs Doherty piped up from her corner table.

‘There was?’ Caron looked sideways at me.

I nodded. ‘It looked like a complete loss to me.’

‘To you?’ Caron echoed. ‘How did you see it?’

Everybody stared at me.

‘I . . . I drove by on my way here,’ I said. I didn’t need the whole store to know I’d gone there with Pavlik last night. ‘I had heard about it on the news.’

‘Yes,’ Mrs Doherty agreed solemnly, ‘that new girl on Channel Eight was talking about it.’

‘Have you noticed how much weight she’s gained?’ Dorothy/Alice asked, carrying a bagel the size of a Buick to her table.

‘I hear she’s pregnant,’ someone in the back contributed.

‘But she’s not married,’ another gasped.

And off to the races we went from there. But at least they weren’t gossiping about me.

I helped Caron whittle down the line and then made myself a latte for the road. ‘I need to go to the convention center. Make sure everything is set for tomorrow.’

‘Good idea,’ Caron said, wiping a coffee ring off the condiment cart. ‘But first, tell me: how did you really know about the fire?’

I shrugged. ‘I was with Pavlik when he got the call,’ I admitted.

‘With?’ Caron asked, a sly smile on her face.

‘Not in that way,’ I said. ‘We were about to have dinner.’

‘Well, I guess it’s a start.’ She sounded doubtful.

‘He’s cooking me dinner next time,’ I said proudly.

‘Cooking you dinner?’ Now Caron was beaming like a proud mom. ‘You know what that means.’

‘That he’s interested?’ I asked.

‘Even better,’ she said, opening the door to usher me out. ‘He’s intelligent.’

She shut the door behind me.

The banner above the convention center said: Welcome Travel Planners!!

Apparently the travel planners were no longer quite as welcome, though, because workers were undoing the ropes on each end of the banner. As a cluster of people smoking cigarettes watched, the banner was lowered to the ground. Presumably, by tomorrow it would be replaced by one that read: Welcome Java Ho!!

As I passed by the smokers, I thought about Sarah and her nicotine puffer. I hoped this time the fix would stick.

Inside, the big entrance lobby – dubbed the Grand Foyer – was quiet. Just the occasional travel planner scurrying out the big revolving door. When I reached the exhibit hall, though, it was another story.

Booths were being ripped apart, props and travel brochures packed up, tables and chairs folded and stacked, carpets yanked up. The blank walls and concrete floors left behind looked naked and a little embarrassed.

I found a man with a convention center name badge. He was doing his best to direct traffic. ‘I’m sure you have your hands full, but I’m with Java Ho,’ I told him.

He checked his clipboard. ‘Your move-in isn’t until tomorrow a.m.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘But I’m running the barista competition and I was hoping I could see where we’re going to be.’

He pointed toward the far end of the huge room. ‘We have you down there. We’ll bring a temporary wall across to separate you from the exhibitors.’

‘Is it a solid wall? How will people get in?’

‘There’s a door in the wall, plus there’s a separate exit into the corridor by the bar.’

‘Perfect,’ I said. I made a note to have a couple of signs made so people could find us.

‘Do you happen to have the floor plan for the competition area there?’ I asked, peering over his shoulder at his clipboard. I didn’t want to wear out my welcome, but I wanted to make sure Janalee’s instructions had been passed on.

The man – his nametag said ‘Raymond’ – paged through the sheaf of papers and pulled one out.

‘Here it is,’ he said, handing it to me distractedly as he tried to keep tabs on the activity around us.

I looked over the paper. A stage with six six-foot tables for the competitors. Two would form an ‘L’ for each of the three work stations. Electrical outlets for the espresso machines, grinders, blenders and mini-refrigerators. Hand-held wireless microphone for me, so I could move around. A six-foot table for judges on the floor in front of the stage. Bleachers beyond that. Dividers behind the stage to hide the supplies and staging area. Janalee had thought of everything. Almost.

‘Just one thing,’ I said. ‘Could I get another six-foot table on the stage? I’ll need it for trophies.’

Raymond took the floor plan and looked it over. ‘Would an eight-footer work? We’re short on sixes.’

I nodded.

He made a note. ‘Anything else?’

Raymond was looking across the hall at a twelve-foot palm tree that was swaying – and not in the wind. As we watched, the tree crashed to the ground, scattering paper palm fronds all the way from ‘See France!’ to ‘Experience Tokyo!’ and back.

‘You go ahead,’ I said to Raymond. ‘And thank you,’ I called after him as he hurried away.

Raymond waved back. The man was awfully patient considering everything he had going on.

I hoped Sarah would be likewise tomorrow.

But then, I also prayed for world peace every night, and so far that wasn’t going very well either.

Chapter Nine

When I arrived at the convention center at eight a.m. the next morning, I found Sarah already in the exhibit hall, which was in the process of being transformed into a caffeinated paradise. By the time all the vendors got in there, you wouldn’t have to drink the stuff, you could just inhale it.

‘You’re here bright and early,’ I greeted her cheerily.

Sarah pointed at herself. ‘See this face? I haven’t had a cigarette for nearly seventy-two hours. This may be early, but it sure as hell isn’t bright.’

‘OK,’ I conceded, ‘but I’m feeling bright.’

‘Why? Because Amy’s store burned down Tuesday so she needs a job?’

I gasped and grabbed her arm. ‘How can you say something like that?’

Sarah snorted. ‘Yeah, like you didn’t think it.’

‘How did you . . . I mean, why would you think . . .’

She turned around and faced me full on. ‘Because I thought of it.’

‘And just because you think evil thoughts,’ I said indignantly, ‘you assume that I do, too?’

‘I don’t assume. I know.’ She waggled her head and laid her hand on my shoulder. ‘Maggy, Maggy, Maggy. Don’t you know that you are simply me, reflected in a socially acceptable mirror?’

Talk about through a glass darkly. My face must have reflected my horror, because Sarah cackled and dropped her hand. ‘Deny it all you want, Maggy, but I say the things that you only think.’

Damn right, and that’s the way it should stay. I opened my mouth to tell her just that – in a socially acceptable way, of course – but Sarah was already running after a woman pushing an espresso machine on a dolly.

‘What did you do, get lost getting out of bed this morning?’ Sarah screamed at her. ‘You have booth four-fifty, not four-sixty, and you were supposed to be set up by eight . . .’

I put my hands over my ears and retreated to the competition room, repeating, ‘I am not Sarah, I am a good person. I am not Sarah, I am a good person,’ until her voice faded.

Didn’t the fact that I was contemplating buying Sarah a pack of cigarettes just to shut her up prove her point, though?

‘We have eighteen competitors,’ I explained to the assembled judges, ‘so we won’t need to do both semi-finals and finals after the first round. We should be able to winnow the group down to six finalists so we can finish on Saturday. Make sense?’

The two technical judges, the accountants of the coffee world, just looked at me.

One of the sensory judges, a bleached blonde, who must have been a bombshell at one time, nodded in agreement. ‘God, yes. That way we can enjoy Sunday.’

The prissy woman standing next to her gave her a sidelong glance. ‘You mean you can enjoy partying on Saturday night and sleep in on Sunday, don’t you, Barbara?’

Barbara raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t think we want to start talking about sleeping arrangements, do you, Priscilla?’ She looked pointedly from Priscilla to one of the technical judges.

Priscilla turned red. The tech judge just glared at Barbara and pushed his glasses up on his nose, using what Eric would have called his ‘swear finger’.

Geez, what next? Spin the bottle? Short-sheeting beds? And these were the judges I was dealing with. This really did have ‘reality show’ written all over it.

I cleared my throat. ‘The competitors will practice today and get acquainted with the equipment. Then the competition starts tomorrow afternoon at one. The finals are Saturday morning at ten. Everybody got it?’

I took the muted muttering as acquiescence. ‘One other thing, there will be television coverage –’ the judges perked up – ‘by the local cable station.’ Oops, lost them again. They filed out before I could go any further.

Just as well. I didn’t want any of them stealing my idea. As I stacked up my papers, there was a muffled knock on the temporary wall that separated the competition room from the exhibit hall. The wall was padded – something that might come in handy by the time this was all over.

‘Knock, knock.’ Marvin LaRoche stuck his head in.

I thought about giving him a dressing down for not being in time for the judges’ briefing, but, intent on not being Sarah’s dark reflection, I settled for: ‘How’s our chief judge this morning?’

‘Fantastic, thank you.’ LaRoche swept into the room and sat on a corner of the table. He was wearing a suit and tie, but then LaRoche always wore a suit and tie. Even at HotWired. ‘We’re going to have a fabulous function. And are plans proceeding for the coming competition?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘What about your opening address? A spellbinding speech, I suspect?’ Hey, I could be alliteratively effusive, too.

Not that LaRoche noticed. ‘I truly believe so,’ he said, growing serious. ‘The subject of my keynote is cultivating creativity in coffee.’

‘Compelling,’ I offered.

‘Crucial,’ he agreed.

Enough of these games. ‘All alliteration aside, Marvin . . .’ He looked at me blankly, so I didn’t bother to explain. ‘As I told the rest of the judges, the competition starts at one tomorrow, with the finals at ten on Saturday. I’ve confirmed with them that we can do it in two stages instead of three.’ I’d also confirmed that the judges were a bunch of loonies.

‘Perfect,’ he said, standing up and preparing to leave. ‘I’ll put it on my calendar.’

‘Oh, wait,’ I said, pawing through the folders in front of me. ‘Janalee accidentally gave me one of her personal files, could you give it back to her?’

LaRoche looked momentarily put-out at being asked to be an errand boy. Then he must have remembered he was both fantastic and fabulous.

‘Of course,’ he said, beaming broadly. ‘Happy to have an excuse to see my lovely bride.’

As he left, I had to wonder: if Sarah was my dark reflection, whose dark side was LaRoche?

The next arrivals to the competition room were The Milkman and L’Cafe in that order. This was a problem because The Milkman had all the perishable milk, cream and dairy products for the event, and L’Cafe had all the equipment. Including the refrigerators – big ones for backstage and three minis for the workstations on stage.

We finally got it straightened out and by the time the entrants arrived, the three competition stations were set up. Each work area had an identical espresso machine, grinder and blender, plus staples like a knock box for the grounds, trash can and the mini-refrigerator, of course. Everything else had to be provided by the participants, from mood music for their fifteen-minute presentation, right down to the espresso itself.

Janalee had arranged for the entrants to arrive in shifts of three to prepare, and I was surprised to see Amy in the first group.

‘Are you going to be able to compete?’ I asked her.

She raised her bandaged right hand. ‘Luckily, I’m a lefty.’

‘Still, frothing takes two hands, and even holding back the foam when you’re pouring the milk for a cappuccino . . .?’

‘I know it’s a long shot.’ She put down the basket of china she was carrying on her arm. ‘But I’ll do my best. That will have to be enough.’

I liked this woman. ‘It’s all anyone could ask – more, given the circumstances. Any word yet on the cause of the fire?’

I had asked Pavlik the same question via cellphone message, but hadn’t gotten an answer. I suspected he was ducking the subject, but hadn’t a clue why. The most logical reason, of course, was that he didn’t know. Maybe the fire chief had kicked him out after I left and Pavlik didn’t want to admit it. Maybe there was some sort of turf war going on between the fire department and the sheriff’s office. Maybe I watched too much TV.

Amy shrugged. ‘Not that I’ve heard. The place is a total loss, though.’

‘Do you think Marvin and Janalee will rebuild?’ Evil thoughts, unbidden, were starting to run through my mind. Even if they did rebuild, Amy could be displaced for months.

‘If they do, Marvin says it will be a HotWired,’ Amy said. ‘Not Janalee’s Place.’

‘Of course not,’ I said, helping her unpack her supplies. ‘Janalee’s Place had too much personality for . . .’ I slapped my mouth closed. Depending on how much of a cynic you are, you could say I shut up because I didn’t want to bad-mouth my competition. You could also say it was because I didn’t want to offend my prospective barista, Amy.

Either way, I had the sense to shut my mouth.

Still, Amy’s eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. Watching, I was afraid her lip piercings were going to lock up like car fenders in a crash. And if that happened, who would I call for help? A doctor? A dentist? A jeweler?