On What Grounds (Coffeehouse Mysteries, No. 1) (A Coffeehouse Mystery) (16 page)

“S
O
what are you saying?” I asked Quinn. “That in my vision Cassandra is the light, the good mother, and she’s revealed Darla as the bad one—the one who kept Anabelle down and maybe literally pushed her down, as well?”

“We look for motive—and opportunity,” said Quinn. “Well, the motive could be the money she’d get from suing the Blend for a supposed accident. Or she could have been arguing with Anabelle about the five thousand dollars she’d lent her to come to New York. Esther said Darla wanted it back. And if Anabelle didn’t have it, it’s possible Darla pressured her stepdaughter to go back into nude dancing for it. Darla’s obviously too old for that now—so her only quick-fix for absolving the debt would have been to convince Anabelle to go down the low road again. Anabelle could have refused, Darla could have come here to argue further, cornered her, maybe ended up causing her to fall down the steps.”

“That’s motive enough. What about opportunity? Do you know
where
Mrs. Hart was the night Anabelle fell?”

“No, but I can try to find out.”

“That’s your best bet. And don’t rule out other possibilities. A theory might look pretty on its face, but it doesn’t mean you should marry it. I’ve learned that one the hard way, I can tell you, and not just in my work—”

The admission came with a frustrated sigh that surprised me. I wanted to ask about his loaded implication (that his marriage was going badly), but he just continued with his comments about police work, so I dismissed it as some sort of trivial husbandly annoyance over credit card bills or house chores—one sigh didn’t mean his marriage was on the skids, not by a long shot.

“Facts,” he continued. “Facts and evidence. This place was locked up tight. Whoever got out of here had a key. Do you have that list of employee names and addresses for me today?”

I pulled the folded paper out of my jeans pocket. I hadn’t noticed I’d pulled the parking ticket back out too until Quinn had taken the papers from me.

He glanced at the list of names.

“Tucker is my only other full-time employee besides Anabelle,” I told him. “The rest are just part-time workers and full-time students. I already spoke to all of them—Esther face-to-face, and the rest I called late last night to readjust their work schedules, and I honestly can’t see any of them as real suspects. None had a plausible motive for hurting Anabelle.”

Quinn nodded. “I’ll run the names anyway, along with Mrs. Hart. See if there are any outstanding warrants or criminal records.”

“Good. But can’t you do something in the meantime about Mrs. Hart?”

“Do something? Like what?”

“Like keep her away from Anabelle for one? If she hurt her once, she might try to hurt her again.”

Quinn paused a moment. “Anabelle is in the ICU,” he said. “She has supervision around the clock. No one’s going to harm her there.”

“You mean there’s nothing you’re willing to do to restrain Darla Hart? Aren’t you even going to take her down to the precinct and interrogate her?”

“Clare—” Quinn began with a sharp tone. Then he paused a moment and spoke again, this time with the sort of tone you might use when trying to explain calculus to a preschooler. “Clare, you have no evidence to prove she’s guilty of any criminal act. Or even that there
was
a criminal act. So the answer to that would be
no
.”

God, I thought, that tone was insufferable! “Then what
are
you going to do?” I demanded. “Have you at least questioned Anabelle’s boyfriend? I haven’t gotten around to him yet.”

Quinn frowned and shifted in his seat. “To be honest with you, my work on this case—what I mean to say,
official
police involvement in this case—is going to be limited. My superior knows that the Crime Scene Unit found no evidence that Anabelle’s fall was caused by foul play—”

“Yeah, I know. And the rape kit and physical exam proved negative on evidence that there was any attempt at sexual assault.”

Quinn’s blue eyes widened. It was the first moment he’d showed open emotion since he sat down (surprise, followed by annoyance).

“
How
in the world do you know that?” he asked.

“I have my sources,” I said. Mike Quinn grimaced. I added: “I also know that Anabelle is pregnant, which makes her condition even more tragic.”

“And how did you find
that
out, too?”

“I told you, I have my sources—”

“Who,
Clare?”

His cheeks were actually flushing red.

I shook my head. “No way.”

Quinn took a deep breath, exhaled it. “All right, fine. Like I said, there is no evidence of foul play. My boss wants this shut, but he’s willing to let me keep it open while there’s still a chance Anabelle can wake up and give an eyewitness account to some sort of assault. Meanwhile, I’m supposed to be working on another case—a shooting and therefore a clear-cut homicide.”

“So what are you saying, you’re going to help me investigate this, but on the side? Why? What’s it get you? Free coffee?”

Quinn stared at me with no expression, then he looked away, shrugged. “I like your coffee.”

“Really? You didn’t say anything yesterday when I gave you your first cup of our house blend—”

“I don’t gush. Not as a rule. Certainly not over coffee. But I’ll tell you now since you’re asking—it was the best damned cup I’ve had in my entire life of coffee drinking…and that’s a lot of coffee drinking.”

I smiled. “Thanks. What about the latte?” I asked, pointing to the tall cream-colored cup. “Bet that’s your first one, isn’t it?”

Quinn peered down into it. “Never thought I’d like the fancy drinks—they always seemed sort of—well, you know, sort off—”

“Gay?”

He laughed. “What does that make me if I like it?”

“Not gay. Just…oh, I don’t know…
Continental,
I guess. You know like that Dashiell Hammet detective. The Continental Op.”

Quinn laughed again. Then he grew serious. Exhaled. “If my boss gets wind of my helping you out of school, I’m off the case, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

“So whoever your source is, make sure my helping you stays quiet.”

“Will do.”

Quinn looked down at the papers in his hand, noticed the parking ticket beneath the employee list. “What’s this?” he asked, quickly reading it. “A parking ticket—”

“Oh, sorry. You shouldn’t have gotten that. Here, I’ll take it back.”

“One hundred and five dollars? Hydrant violation. What happened?”

“It’s no big deal,” I said, embarrassed. “I mean, I didn’t think I was that close to the hydrant. There was just no other place to put the car for a few minutes. I was going to move it right away, but then I’d found Anabelle, and with all the activity, the car just sat for hours.”

I expected Quinn to return the ticket to my outstretched hand with an accompanying cop lecture about traffic safety or fire prevention. Instead, he shoved the ticket into the pocket of his stained trenchcoat and simply said, “I’ll take care of it.”

“What? No!” I was mortified. The man was already going out on a limb helping me in his spare time. I didn’t need him ponying up to the traffic division for my sake, too. “It’s okay. Really. I didn’t mean for you to trouble yourself—”

“I insist. You were involved in a police action. I can void this for you. Let me.”

I really did hate the prospect of having to either write a 105-dollar check, or take off an entire morning to appear in traffic court.

“You’d do that?” I asked. “It’s no trouble?”

“Well, it’s a little trouble. But it’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“Oh, thank you, Lieutenant, I could just kiss you!” I blurted.

For barely a second, his eyes met mine. Then he looked away, as if he’d suddenly realized he wasn’t supposed to want me to kiss him. Or worse, show me that he wanted it.

Ohmygod,
I thought.
Something just happened. Lightning or fireworks or a radioactive mushroom cloud, but for sure something.

Now it was his turn to fight the awkwardness. He rose quickly from the table, completely draining the cup of latte. “Better go.”

“Would you like one for the road?” I asked.

He eyed the empty cup and nodded. “Sure. Okay.”

I cleared the table, picked up the tray, and walked back to the coffee bar with an extreme feeling of relief—and renewed confidence.

Now that I knew the attraction was
not
a complete schoolgirl fantasy on my part, I could hold my head up. It was really a matter of pride more than anything. I mean, this wasn’t the movies. Simply recognizing an attraction meant absolutely nothing—especially at this stage of life. A flirty spark didn’t obligate a man and a woman to act on it, go to bed, get married, have children, divorce, remarry, whatever, for the purposes of some two-hour family drama.

No, in real life, a man and a woman might flirt until the cows come home. They might appreciate each other, be attracted to each other—but that was the end of it. Boring as all get-out, but that was as far as these relationships usually got.

I knew that was all there was between me and Quinn—a mutual appreciation. I was also sure it would lead to absolutely nothing. It was just gratifying to know I wasn’t the only one wrestling with feelings that made me feel as awkward and giddy as a high school kid on a first date.

I was just finishing up Quinn’s grande latte when the front door opened on a new arrival. Silver-gray hair, rosy cheeks, and a familiar Chanel pantsuit. In black. Still mourning black.

“
Bonjour,
my dears!”

“Madame!” I called. “You look so—” I was about to say “healthy” but caught myself. I’d promised myself not to give away what I knew about her cancer. “—happy.”

“Oh, yes! Oh, yes! I have
excellent
news. Two friends canceled on my charity auction tonight. They already bought tickets—a thousand a seat, which they consider a donation. With my Matteo back, I can pass them on to you both…Where is he, Clare?”

“Is that my mother here to give me grief?” called Matt, cresting the service staircase with a new bag of freshly roasted house blend.

“Giving you grief is Clare’s job, my errant boy,” she said as he lugged the heavy bag behind the coffee bar’s counter. “Yours is to come here and give your mother a proper greeting.”

Matteo swept around the counter, and his mother held out two hands, ready for the customary shake and polite Continental kiss on each cheek. Instead, Matt opened his strong arms and enveloped the frail, impeccably tailored woman in a big old American bear hug.

Madame’s pale blue eyes widened with flabbergasted shock as her Fendi heels left the ground, but then her features transformed into a state of surprised pleasure I hadn’t seen since Pierre had been alive.

“What’s all this?” she asked. “Oh, I know! You need a loan, don’t you?”

“A loan? Sure. How about a million five? I always wanted my own jet.”

“Can’t do,” said Madame. “But I’ll let you have my frequent flyer miles. I think you can get half a coach seat.”

“Nope. It’s my own air bus or nothing.” Matt released his mother then all of a sudden hugged her again. The sight nearly melted my heart.

“Espresso, Madame?” I asked.

“Please—” she said, her expression of happy surprise now changing to one of puzzlement. “Matt, enough!” she cried, downright dumbfounded by her son’s unusual out-pouring of affection. “What’s got into you?”

Matt released her, turned abruptly, and headed back behind the coffee bar. “Can’t a man miss his mother?”

“No,” said Madame, “not when
you’re
the man.” Her eyes narrowed and bored into mine with a
What gives?
look.

I glanced away quickly, finished Quinn’s latte, and handed him the paper cup with the plastic sip lid.

“What do I owe you?” Quinn asked quietly.

“Are you kidding?” I said just as quietly. “You’ve just saved me a hundred and five dollars and all the pleasures of traffic court. Your money’s no good here.”

He nodded in thanks and took the cup. “Hot.”

“Oh, sorry. Here you go—” I snatched a heat sleeve from the pile near the pickup area. The regulars knew the drill, so we saved time behind the counter by putting the sleeves right where the customers could reach them.

“Thanks,” he said, taking it. Then he stopped and stared at the two-inch swath of folded cardboard. “Uh. What’s this?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean—” He turned it around in his hand, staring at it so helplessly I nearly burst out laughing. Clearly, Quinn needed a tutorial.

“Here, let me show you. First you open the cardboard, then you drop the bottom of the cup in. See, it slips right in, a nice snug fit through the hole—”

Quinn looked uneasy. Embarrassed even. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Forget it. I mean, thanks, but I gotta go—”

I glanced back over my shoulder. Matt was standing there, arms folded across his chest, a smirk on his face.

“What?”
I snapped to my ex.

Matt’s eyebrows rose. He lifted his hands, palms up.

Quinn gave Madame a polite nod as he passed, heading for the door.

“You two should come by about eight,” said Madame, leaning on the counter. “The auction starts at nine, but we’ll have some fabulous music and food, of course, and—”

“Matt should go,” I said. “But I can’t.”

“And why not, for heaven’s sake?” asked Madame.

Because the last thing I need right now is to be pushed into a “date” with my ex-husband, thank you very much!

“It’s Friday,” I said. “The Blend will be packed. I should be here.”

“Nonsense,” said Madame with a wave of her wrinkled hand. “It’s only a few hours. And you have reliable assistant managers. At least you told me that you have them. Let that sweet girl handle it. What’s her name? Anabelle—”

I drew in a breath, looked toward the door. Had Quinn left?

Oh, god! I realized he hadn’t. He’d stopped by the door. He’d heard Madame. His eyebrows rose and he looked about to speak. I grimaced at him—gave a few quick silent shakes of my head.
Don’t say a
thing!