A Cup of Jo (12 page)

I let her have the jibe, though given my preoccupation that afternoon, I probably shouldn't be trusted with the frothing wand either, lest I scald myself or somebody else with the steam.

Amy took her position at the cash register, Sarah at the express line and me, as ordered, at the espresso machine. As we did, we could see the train slide to a stop through our side window.

A second later, the train doors opened and out poured a jumble of people and newspapers, tote bags and briefcases. Chattering student-types had backpacks slung over their shoulders. As the doors slid closed, we braced ourselves for the onslaught.

Finally, we unclenched.

'What happened?' Sarah asked. 'Where'd they all go?'

I pointed out the front window. A parade of cars was exiting the parking lot, heading either south into Brookhills proper or north into lake country.

In other words, straight home.

'Maybe they don't know we're open,' Amy said, coming out from behind her counter to look through the panes.

'Our huge "Now Open!" banner flapping against the side of the building isn't enough of an eye-catcher?' I said.

'You know what I mean,' Amy said, turning around. 'They know we're open for business, but they don't know what hours. The original Uncommon Grounds closed at six.'

She was right, of course. And I knew what was going to be the next word out of her mouth. So I said it first: 'Advertising.'

'What a wonderful idea, Maggy!' The former pre-school teacher's tone was along the lines of,
See, Kelsey? You
can
make wee-wee!

Hoping to head off the clapping of hands and awarding of a gold star, I said, 'Amy, I think you have a good handle on what—'

'Might be the only handle still intact in this place,' Sarah muttered. She was surveying her domain, which included a slightly diminished inventory of carafes.

'We need,' I continued, focusing on our barista while ignoring my partner. 'Would you put together some ideas for signage and ad copy?'

'Of course,' Amy said, delightedly. 'And I can work with Rebecca on the design.'

Better Amy than me, but I needed to rein the enthusiastic young women in a scosh. 'Sarah and I will need to look at what you come up with, and then you can get quotes from Penn and Ink.'

'Gotcha,' Amy said, her face still glowing with pleasure.

Sarah had been rummaging in the drawers. Now she held up a tape dispenser and the back of a menu with large hand-lettering in black Magic Marker. 'Open until 7 p.m.' Moving toward our door, Sarah said, 'In the meantime . . .'

My partner's sign didn't help much, but at least a couple of people from the second train glanced into our windows as they drove away.

I did likewise, as I left for home about an hour later.

It really had been a good start. We were just facing a steep learning curve. How to serve commuters: timing, staffing, inventory.

And perishables.

Poor Tien. In addition to her successful luncheon sandwiches and breakfast pastries, she'd packaged two entrées – meatloaf with mashed potatoes and roast chicken over rice – for people to take home for dinner. Soup, too.

She'd had two customers, at least. Frank and me. The meatloaf for the big loafer and the chicken for . . . yeah, the chicken.

What was I being chicken about, you ask?

Well, Fear One: I'd spent most of the day trying
not
to think about Pavlik and JoLynne. Rather unsuccessfully, given the broken pots – sorry, carafes.

And if I wasn't chicken, I'd pick up the phone and ask Pavlik, straight out.

Fear Two: I didn't want to hear the answer I felt I'd get. And, once I got it, Fear Three kicked in: what would I do about it?

If Pavlik had been having an affair with JoLynne, a married woman and a homicide victim, he certainly shouldn't be investigating his lover's murder.

It had to be unethical, right? Like insider trading or performing brain surgery on a family member.

I could see why Pavlik suspected Kevin Williams. The sheriff knew that Kevin had a reason for killing JoLynne. Problem was, that reason was Pavlik himself.

Also, as we'd discussed earlier at Uncommon Grounds, the police always focus first on the surviving spouse. If Pavlik didn't bring Kevin in for questioning, he'd look careless. Beyond careless.

But our sheriff also had to be hesitant about raising the possibility that JoLynne was unfaithful to her husband. Unless Pavlik was certain Kevin didn't know who it was.

Or, who
they
were.

Because while the husband might be the number one suspect, the lover(s) would run a close second. I didn't think for a moment that Pavlik was a killer . . .

No, I
knew
he wasn't a killer.

Assuming I 'knew' him at all.

Which I wasn't so sure of anymore.

I decided not to think about it. More proof I was chicken.

A raucous barking pulled me from my metaphysical trance, if all the crap spinning through my brain merited such a highfalutin' term.

I was sitting in the dark, my Ford Escape now parked in the driveway. On the seat beside me, two dinners. Inside my house, one hungry sheepdog.

If it had been a long day for me, it had been equally long for Frank. Even longer, since he'd have been counting the sands of time in doggy years and didn't have death and betrayal to distract him.

I climbed out of the car and went around to its passenger side. As I did, Frank's barking reached fever pitch.

'I'm coming.' I opened the Escape's door and took out the two, plastic-covered containers. I balanced one of them on the other as I swung the door closed and pressed 'LOCK' on the key fob.

Cursing myself for not remembering to pick up a replacement for the burnt-out light bulb over the side door, I made my way there more by memory than vision. I had one foot on the bottom step of the porch stairs when a form materialized, looming above me.

'I've been waiting for you.'

That's when I lost my dinner – or dinners – literally. With my thumb stiff and throbbing under Amy's Band-Aid, meat loaf went one way, chicken the other.

The human stayed put as Pavlik stepped out of the shadows.

'Sorry,' he said, coming down the stairs and giving my forehead a quick kiss. 'I didn't mean to scare you.'

Pavlik wrapped me up in his arms. 'Hey, you're shaking.'

I tried to relax against the buttery leather of his jacket – the jacket I loved so. I'd kidded Pavlik that it and I were going to run away together. Now I could only think about how many other women had been pressed against that leather. And wonder how many of them had said they'd loved it. And him.

Damn right, I was shaking. How in the world do you go from – at least
practically
– loving a man to fearing he might be a killer? And all in twenty-four hours?

I didn't know. But maybe, after things resolved themselves, I could write a book about what to do if your husband cheats and then your lover does the same. I'd call it
The Idiot's Guide to Being an Idiot.

I stepped back. 'Not your fault. I should have put a new bulb in the porch light. You just startled me.'

I leaned down to pick up one of the food containers. The meat loaf. Still intact.

The roast chicken hadn't been as lucky, but that is the way of chickens. They gets what they deserves.

My sheepdog had resumed his barking. 'I need to let Frank out,' I told Pavlik, 'but we can't let him eat the chicken.'

Pavlik nodded. He, too, had a dog – Muffin, the toothless pit bull – and knew that splintered poultry bones could be deadly.

I unlocked the door and opened it wide, stepping aside so Frank wouldn't bowl me over as he came barreling out. I'd have thought the captivating aroma of our dinners would distract him from his primary objective, but I was wrong.

He ran immediately up to his sheriff friend for a scratch. As Pavlik obliged, Frank let loose like a fire hose.

Pavlik did a quickstep sideways, lest his shoes be doused. 'I appreciate the multitasking, but you're a male,' he told Frank. 'You're supposed to lift your leg.'

'Just be grateful he didn't take you for a tree,' I said, all the while wondering how the surface exchanges could seem so normal?

But maybe 'normal' was the way to go for now. 'Have you eaten?' I pointed down at the chicken and rice spread far and wide. 'That was supposed to be mine, but I still have Frank's meat loaf.' I held up the container. 'We can split it.'

Like a ballistic boomerang, Frank was at my side, sniffing Tien's Delight.

'He doesn't look like he wants to share,' Pavlik said, turning around to pick up a bag from the porch's shadow. 'But I did bring Chinese.' Then a bottle. 'And Shiraz.'

'Wow,' I said. 'Unexpected pleasures. What's the occasion?'

'The quick end of a potentially messy case. Late this afternoon, we arrested Kevin Williams for the murder of his wife.'

Chapter Ten

Ooh, boy.
Now
what's a poor girl do?

'Come in and I'll get out the plates and silverware,' I said as heartily as my troubled soul could manage. Raising my thumb, I hitch-hiked it toward the kitchen counter. 'I cut myself at work. Could you chop up Frank's meat loaf so he doesn't swallow it whole?'

I began chattering trivially about Chinese food, English sheepdogs and Australian wine. A very different conversation, however, was clattering around my mind:
'. . . I'm told Ms Penn-Williams didn't accomplish much in the position.'

Exactly which 'position' were you talking about, Pavlik? Missionary? Doggy-style?

'I never said I wasn't dating other people.'
People? As in multiples?

'You never said you were.'

'You didn't ask.'

'Shiraz with our Chinese?' I asked out loud. 'I have white chilled, if you'd prefer?'

Pavlik came up behind me at the kitchen counter and circled his hands around my waist. 'The Shiraz. I know it's your favorite,' he said into my hair. 'With pretty much any food.'

So intimate, and yet . . .

'You like reds, too,' I said, 'so that's fine. Great.' I was trying to be cheery, upbeat – natural, even – as I slid out of his embrace on the pretext of getting the corkscrew from the drawer next to the sink.

Pavlik cocked his head, his blue eyes darkening as he studied my face. 'Maggy, what's wrong?'

Hmm. Maybe cheery and upbeat didn't reflect my natural state any more than it did Sarah's. 'Nothing. Why do you ask?'

'Well, I know that you were worried about Uncommon Grounds being liable in some way for JoLynne's death. I thought you'd be happy to know the shop was off the hook.'

And you? Should I be happy you're off the hook, too?

I handed him the corkscrew. 'Of course, I am. But I like Kevin Williams, and he and JoLynne seemed to be happy.'

'You'd be surprised.' Pavlik levered the cork out of the bottle. 'No one knows what really goes on in somebody else's house.'

Or head.

'So, what about Kevin and JoLynne? What was happening in their house?'

Pavlik shrugged. 'Professional jealousy is my guess. No matter what Kevin tried to believe, he never got past being the construction worker from Chicago who still worked with his hands.'

'That's it?' I turned, holding the cardboard container of moo-shu pork. 'If you're right, there should be an epidemic of husbands killing their wives. And vice versa. You must have some more evidence beyond an inferiority complex.'

Going to set the moo-shu and a plastic tray of dumplings on the table, I heard Pavlik clear his throat. I waved him and the wine over to the table and sat down. 'So give.'

Pavlik seemed understandably reluctant. 'I've already told you plenty, Maggy. I—'

'It'll all be public record.' I had a brainstorm. 'Not to mention TV news. I hear Kate McNamara scored some sort of investigative coup.'

The sheriff had been about to pour wine into my glass, then paused. 'What kind of coup?'

Popping the clear top off the plastic tray, I scooped out a dumpling for each of us. 'Not sure. She just seemed to think it was important. Something about timing, maybe?'

Pavlik visibly relaxed and finished pouring. 'Well, that's easy enough to reconstruct. We have a tape from the television station showing the cup being blown up—'

'Please, "inflated"!' I had enough problems.

'Inflated just before six a.m., no corpse evident. Eight a.m., out tumbles JoLynne.'

JoLynne. Not 'the victim' or 'the deceased', nor even 'Ms Penn-Williams', as earlier. No, instead Pavlik, the ultimate law-enforcement professional, broke protocol to use the first name of a murdered woman he claimed not to know.

Bullshit. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if JoLynne had taken a sudden trip to Chicago earlier this week, staying at the same hotel hosting Pavlik's DEA conference.

He'd finished his dumpling and moved to the moo-shu, first spreading hoisin sauce on a pancake, and then adding shredded pork. 'Which means she was killed and dumped there in that two-hour period before she was found.'

Before I could reply, 'my' sheriff lifted his wine glass. 'How about a toast? To the new Uncommon Grounds. Long may it brew.'

'I'll drink to that,' I said, clinking with him. I took a sip of the Shiraz and carefully placed my glass back on the table. 'I assume Kevin doesn't have an alibi for that time period?'

'Parts yes and parts no, from what we can tell so far.' He was looking at my fried dumpling, lust in his eyes and a fork in his hand. 'Are you going to eat that?'

'Yup.' I speared the thing. The guy had taken my post-divorce innocence. He sure as hell wasn't getting my dumpling, too. 'So by "parts yes and parts no", you mean Kevin's alibi has holes in it?'

Pavlik had returned to his moo-shu. 'He was supposedly setting up the staging and all. But according to my detectives' canvas at the scene, nobody saw him after about seven twenty.'

Hmm. Sarah and I had been with Kevin part of that time. Should I tell Pavlik?

Heck, why not? Maybe even push things a little further. 'I'm sorry to mess up your case,' I said, laying my hand on his this time, 'but Kevin was with Sarah and me between seven thirty and maybe seven forty-five. He went off in search of caution tape to cordon off the stairs and gallows, but Sarah and I were near the base of the cup from seven fifteen until it toppled. We'd have noticed anybody dumping JoLynne's body into it.'