A Cup of Jo (6 page)

A twist of the metaphorical knife now, even as I laid a real knife and three pats of butter on her plate . 'Local stuff, huh? I understand completely. Station management probably doesn't think you're quite ready yet.'

Houston, we have lift-off. Kate's entire face erupted into flames. 'I – I . . .'

'Excuse me.' Amy elbowed her way in and passed Kate the quasi-iced iced latte. I slid the well-equipped muffin plate toward her as well, plus the bag she'd asked for.

Kate started away and then stopped. 'Oh, and a to-go cup with some ice in it?'

I opened my mouth, but Amy reached across me and handed her the cup.

As Kate took her leave, our barista confronted me. 'Maggy, we've talked about this. You know you're not supposed to torture the customers.'

I shrugged. 'She's just such easy pickings.' And cheap.

'That's no excuse.' With a stern look, Amy returned to her espresso machine.

I hadn't seen Sarah since we'd walked in together, but she was my next customer.

'What are you doing in line?' I asked.

'Getting a coffee.'

'You own the place.'

'I know, but if I go behind the counter, you'll make me work.'

Damn right, I would. Trained or not.

'What did you do, jump the line?' The queue had been practically out the door when we came in. There was no way Sarah should be this close to ordering already.

'Christy let me in.' She slid sideways to let me see Christy Wrigley. Christy taught piano in a small house-cum-studio directly across the road. A germ-a-phobic, she wore yellow rubberized gloves and cleaned compulsively, her keyboard and anything else within reach of her sturdy, laminated hands. Eccentric as a loony bird, but Christy seemed like a good person.

OK, a good crazy person.

'Were you away?' I asked her. 'You look like you have a tan.'

Christy smiled self-consciously. 'Does it look all right?'

'Great,' I said. The tan took her from bony, pale, carrot-topped territory to bony, tanned and carrot-topped. I'd defy anybody to say it wasn't an improvement.

'Sarah was telling me about JoLynne. What a tragedy.' Christy's wrinkled-up nose indicated that it was probably a messy, smelly event she was glad to have missed.

And our germ-a-phobic was right as rain on that point. Death – violent or peaceful, homicidal or natural – is always a real stinker.

'You weren't here?' I asked. Admittedly, I hadn't seen Christy in the crowd, but she was a person easily overlooked.

'No, I wasn't.' Christy's voice dropped to a whisper. 'I was in jail.'

Pouring Sarah's cup of coffee, I paused in midstream.

'Christy went to see my Cousin Ronny,' Sarah explained.

'I didn't know Ronny and you were . . . close,' I told Christy. At least close enough for Ms Clean to brave a place as predictably filthy as a jail.

Ronny Eisvogel was the son of Sarah's aunt's second husband. Convoluted, I know, but it made him a step-cousin of my partner. I wasn't sure what, if anything, old Ronny could be to Christy.

'He's being detained pretrial without bail, sharing a cell with this career drug dealer,' Christy said, holding her chin – minimalist at best – high. 'But Ronny's innocent, and I'm going to help him prove it. I've been on the computer all morning, Googling "surviving prison" and "innocence projects", and just a boodle of other fascinating stuff.'

Ahh, mystery solved. Ronny was Christy's new hobby.

I looked at Sarah. 'You have tried to talk some sense into this young woman?'

'Please,' Sarah said, transforming the word into a defeated groan. 'Just look at her. She's probably already learned how to saw through iron bars and tie non-slip knots into sheets.'

'Don't be silly,' Christy said. 'Even a helicopter escape is nearly impossible nowadays.'

Nearly. Even tanned and classifiable as a 'good crazy', our neighbor was an odd duck. Hair pulled back tightly, fresh-scrubbed face with no make-up at all, laser green eyes, but eyelashes and brows so light they didn't accent her one outstanding attribute. And then there were the gloves. Christy was rubbing antibacterial cleaner from a small vial into them.

'Helicopter?' I asked.

'Shh,' Sarah hissed. 'Do
not
ask. The woman is probably building one from a kit in her garage.'

'But why Ronny?' I whispered back to Sarah.

'Birds of a feather,' she whispered back. 'Or hypo-allergenic down-substitute. Are you going to finish pouring my coffee?'

I did and slid the cup toward her.

'What can I get you?' I asked Christy.

'Decaf, please. In a to-go cup.'

'Don't trust our dishwasher?' Sarah asked.

'I don't trust anybody's dishwasher,' Christy confirmed. She was pulling a small orange canister from her bag. I assumed it was some sort of artificial sweetener until she popped the top and removed what looked like the strips I'd used to test the chemical levels in Ted's and my pre-divorce swimming pool.

I poured Columbian decaf into her cup and Christy swiftly darted one end of the strip into the coffee, like a hummingbird at a feeder.

'OK, I'll bite. Just
what
are you doing now?' I asked.

'Testing for caffeine.' She continued to delicately hold the tester vertically in the cup.

'It
is
decaf.' I pointed at the pot I'd poured the coffee from. 'See? It has an orange handle so nobody gets confused.'

'I'm sure you're right, Maggy, but I can't take a chance. I'm very sensitive to caffeine. Makes me nervous, you know?'

Sarah made a choking noise, and I was right there with her. If this was Christy
relaxed
, no sane person would want to see her jazzed.

'How long do you need to keep that thing in there,' a man who looked like a reporter asked curiously.

'Thirty seconds,' Christy said. 'For absolute accuracy, anyway.'

'Your coffee will get cold,' a woman in line growled impatiently.

'Hot coffee is dangerous,' Christy said. 'Don't you know that a burn to the roof of your mouth is just an invitation for all kinds of unwelcome bacteria to take root?'

Talk about annoying organisms. And here she was planted in front of my window. 'Sarah, could you help Christy to a table?' I said.

Sarah obligingly took her own coffee and Christy's, so she could gather up her test kit and handbag. As they moved away, I heard Sarah say, 'Oh, yeah? Just like a petri dish, huh?'

Lovely. I turned to the next person in line. 'I'm sorry. Now what can I get you?'

The man who stepped up to the counter was probably a print reporter, since he had a notebook in one hand and wasn't dressed for the camera. Too bad. The guy, around forty, was better looking than ninety per cent of our local on-air talent, male or female.

'First of all, I'd love a cup of coffee,' he said, with a slow grin meant to ingratiate. 'I think I heard you had La Minita?'

'Small, medium or large?' I asked.

'Large,' he answered with a wink. I wasn't sure if he was talking about the coffee or his stir stick. What I did suspect, though, was that the slick patter was meant to befriend me in order to get information.

The fact I knew nothing made it easy to banter back. 'I bet.'

I poured him the La Minita. 'Anything else?'

He slid a ten-dollar bill toward me, but kept his hand on it. 'Some information, maybe?'

'For a ten? Your newspaper's got to provide you a bigger budget.'

'My charm and looks are supposed to make up the difference.'

'Good luck with that,' I said, taking the ten and handing him five back.

He looked down at it. 'Five dollars for a cup of coffee?'

'Plus tax and gratuity. Uncle Sam's got a deficit and – God bless – you're a good tipper.'

He nodded once and stuck the five in his pocket.

'Well done,' the woman behind him said to me. Now
she
looked ready to do a stand-up on the evening news. Lacquered hair, solid-colored sweater in a flattering blue, cute little hat for exterior live-remotes.

She nudged the print reporter aside and lowered her voice. 'Do you know where I can find Kevin Williams from Williams Props and Staging?'

'Why?' Sarah, having safely seated Christy and her caffeine-o-meter, had returned and even ventured to the 'working' side of our counter.

The woman in front of us replied, 'Williams is JoLynne Penn-Williams' husband. We'd like to get his reaction to his wife's death.'

Assuming Kevin knew. Which, come to think of it,
should
have been Brewster Hampton's stated reason for looking for the props man: to tell Kevin he was a widower.

'But nobody seems to know where he is.'

'I do,' Christy said from her table. She was shaking her caffeine stick like it was an oral thermometer and seemed oblivious to us.

'Ignore her,' Sarah said. 'She's on a day pass from the loony bin.'

One glance at the yellow rubber gloves seemed to convince the hat lady. 'So, when was the last time either of you saw him?'

'Listen, sweetie,' Sarah said. 'If we're going to answer questions, they'll be from the police and, so far, they haven't asked.'

'They will,' offered the print reporter, inching back to eavesdrop.

'I know something,' Christy said again.

'That's good, dear,' I said in a sing-song voice. 'I'll be there in a second, so you can tell me all about the nasty caffeine.'

I turned back to the woman in front of me. 'Aside from Tweety-Bird's hallucinations, do you want anything else? And if you're thinking of bribing us, you'd better be packing more than a ten.'

Sarah looked offended. 'A
ten
? Somebody tried to buy our souls for a measly ten bucks?'

'Minus his cup of coffee.' I was keeping an eye on Christy. 'Sarah, can you handle this?'

'Sure.' I waved at Art Jenada, who was next in line, and crossed to Christy's table.

She was taking careful sips of what now had to be very safe, very lukewarm, coffee.

Slipping into the chair next to her, I whispered, 'So you know where Kevin is now?' If she did, I'd call Pavlik and tell him. Maybe it would shorten his day so he could get to my place sooner.

'Not right this moment, silly,' she said. 'I'm here, and he isn't.'

OK. 'Then where? And when?'

Christy said, 'A Williams truck passed me on Brookhill Road when I was driving the opposite direction to go see Ronny.'

Opposite direction. The Brookhills County Jail, where Ronny was being held until trial, was west of us. That meant Kevin had to be going east.

'I wonder if he had to run over to the Milwaukee train station.' Williams Props and Staging was handling the set-up for both the Brookhills and big city dedications. Anita probably had sent Kevin scurrying back to make sure
her
event was going swimmingly.

Meanwhile, ours literally had come crashing down – unbeknownst to Kevin until the train or the news, in whichever order, reached him.

'And you're sure it was Kevin driving?'

'No,' Christy said, placing her cup carefully on the table. 'You really should listen better, Maggy. I said I saw the truck. I have no idea whether Kevin Williams was driving it. I don't think I've ever even met the man.'

Well, that was a big help. 'What time would this have been?'

'About eight or so? Visiting hours start at eight-thirty in the morning on Wednesdays, and I wanted to be first in line.'

I shuddered just imagining the scene: 'Yoo-hoo? I've got dibs on prisoner number 18398476!'

I started to stand, but realized it was a little rude to pump Christy for information and then just bolt. 'So, how was your visit with Ronny?'

At the mention of his name, Christy's almost-chin went up again. 'I'm sorry, Maggy. He asked me not to say anything to you.'

'But telling Sarah was just fine?'

'She's family to Ronny.'

Given how he treated family, I was more than happy to be the odd woman out. Outside their bloodline, that is.

'Christy, I don't want to upset you, but Ronny is—'

She held up her palm to me. 'I don't want to hear anything—'

'I'm telling you this for your own good. And Sarah – Ronny's "family" – will tell you the same. Stay away from him. He's a nutcase loser.'

I'd had my say, but Christy was right about not hearing anything. She'd stuck an index finger in each ear like a four-year-old who didn't want her older sister to burst the Easter Bunny bubble.

Blocking out information you don't want to hear doesn't work. I have recent and relevant personal experience. But neither does trying to penetrate the blockade.

So, I got up.

The coffee line had dwindled, maybe because Sarah had been quietly efficient or maybe because the customers had given up hope and bailed out to find an upper elsewhere.

'Where'd everybody go?' I asked.

Sarah, who was pushing buttons on the cash register, didn't look up. 'The county courthouse. Guess there's some news.'

'Already?' I went to the big track-side window and looked out. Sure enough, only a single uniformed officer remained, standing guard over the deflated cup, now finally cordoned off. The black lettering on the yellow plastic tape strung between the two balloon bouquets didn't read a vigilant 'CAUTION' but instead, an ominous 'POLICE LINE – DO NOT CROSS'.

The officer, though not the one I'd seen earlier, looked equally bored. There must be an awful lot of standing and waiting in cop-dom. Maybe that's where the expression 'flatfoot' comes from.

About to turn back, my attention was drawn to a truck coming down Junction Road, the two-lane street in front of the depot.

From a distance, it looked like Kevin's vehicle, the one that had been parked adjacent to the stage and that I figured Christy had seen heading downtown.

If it was Kevin, did he know about JoLynne? And if not, should I be the one to tell him?

Before I had a chance to answer those questions, the truck braked and turned in next to our building. I left my window and went out the front door and down the steps.

When I reached the truck, I crouched down to get a look at the driver through the tinted passenger side glass. Tall, but not as broad as Kevin.