A Cup of Jo (2 page)

'Honestly?' I felt a convulsive shiver. 'I did not.'

No need to see the eye-roll. 'They're both adults. You are
so
naive, Maggy.'

Naive?

I'd been married for twenty years to the same man and, on the day our son Eric went off to college, my dentist husband said he was leaving me for a twenty-I-forget-how-old.

Ted had been screwing his hygienist, and, eventually, she screwed him right back in an entirely different and – at least from my standpoint – infinitely more satisfying way.

Meanwhile, I'd quit my well-paying public relations job at First National Bank in a fit of pique and started a coffeehouse with two friends, one of whom was found dead in a pool of skim milk the morning we opened. The other abandoned me after we'd been forcibly closed by, euphemistically put, an 'act of God'.

Currently, I was reopening Uncommon Grounds in a century-and-a-half-old train station with Sarah Kingston, my insufficiently medicated, bipolar friend, with whom I had stumbled on not one, not two, but at least
four
(give or take) dead bodies in the prior eleven months. Oh, and I was dating our county sheriff, who, understandably perhaps, was beginning to fear he, as a law-enforcement officer, was wooing the female equivalent of a Jonah.

So, naive? I think not. Certifiable? Perhaps.

'C'mon,' Sarah continued. 'You just don't want to accept the "cougar concept" because when you look at Jerome, you really see Eric.'

My son was only – what, three years younger than the camera operator? The thought of someone Kate's age hitting on him . . . ugh. No,
beyond
ugh.

A change of subjects seemed best. 'Look, there's Rebecca.' I pointed out into the crowd. 'Maybe she knows where JoLynne is.'

Rebecca Penn, JoLynne Penn-William's younger sister, was one of our business neighbors in Brookhills Junction. Rebecca and her significant other, Michael Inkel, owned Penn and Ink, a graphics and marketing firm across the street from the depot.

As siblings, JoLynne and Rebecca were eerily identical, except for their respective sizes. If they were pure-bred dogs, JoLynne would be the miniature poodle, Rebecca the standard. Both impeccably groomed, but in different classes.

And with vastly different . . . temperaments.

'You really think Rebecca is keeping tabs on Jo?' Sarah asked. 'I mean, except to keep her away from Michael?'

Rebecca (tall, gorgeous and brunette) was walking next to Michael (taller, more gorgeous and blonde). She was wearing an electric-blue wrap-dress, he a black suit. As usual, Rebecca appeared to be giving Michael hell for something as the two made their way to the stage.

I said, 'Our Rebecca sees red any time Michael so much as talks to another woman. Including her own sister.'

'And you.' Sarah slewed her eyes toward mine. 'Grrrrrrowl.'

'Now,
I'm
a cougar?' I shook my head. 'Sorry, but no. Nor a puma or mountain lion, either. And I'm certainly not interested in Michael. He just likes to occasionally talk to a woman who doesn't give him shit.'

'So where
is
the man you're interested in?' Sarah asked, looking around. 'No Brookhills County Sheriff Jake Pavlik at his own jurisdiction's celebration?'

I checked my cell again for the nth time. 7:51. 'He should be here soon. Pavlik's driving back from a two-day conference in Chicago. He's been gone since Sunday afternoon.'

'Chicago? But that's just a ninety-minute cruise on the Interstate. I'm surprised your Romeo didn't come back last night. You two could have had a sleepover.'

I shrugged. 'Pavlik planned to, but called early evening to say he was beat. He'd checked in with his office and found nothing pressing, so decided to stay for one more night and start back early this morning. You know, to avoid the Tuesday afternoon rush hour?'

'Right. And good luck avoiding rush hour – morning or afternoon. It's round-the-clock for that city.'

Couldn't argue with Sarah's traffic logic, but I wasn't liking the greater implication 'What do you mean by "right"?'

'I just figured you might be skeptical, what with your ex having used his fake "dental conferences" to shack-up with Rachel.'

Rachel. Once Ted's illicit lover and now, for better or worse – mostly worse – his wife. Leave it to Sarah to pinch where she thought it might hurt.

'Pavlik is
not
Ted,' I said.

'Right,' she repeated.

Damn right, I was right.

Glancing around restlessly, I caught sight of the mime scuttling after Rebecca and Michael. The poor guy didn't know what he was getting himself into.

'Why are you so antsy?' Sarah asked. 'There's nothing for us to do before the train arrives. And, speaking of which, your old friend Anita Hampton will be on it with her husband and the rest of the "dignitaries".'

'I'll notify Reuters.'

Anita Hampton, married to Brookhills County Executive Brewster Hampton, was coordinating the Milwaukee celebration at the east end of the fifteen-mile route. Both counties employed event managers – JoLynne for Brookhills, Anita for Milwaukee.

I'd introduced Anita to her husband Brewster when she took over First National's public relations department. Very quickly I'd learned to ignore most of my new boss's hyperactive kibitzing and extract the ten per cent of criticism that made a positive difference.

I could picture Anita now, fashionably slim, tapping one manicured finger on a pursed lip as she contemplated our depot. 'Are you truly satisfied with this, Maggy? Wouldn't moving the entire building just a foot to the southwest make a world of difference?'

'Maggy, shouldn't our lettering have been bigger?'

I jumped thanks to reflexive memory, but the words had come from Sarah. Taking a deep breath, I looked up at the navy-blue stenciling against our signature white cup.

'I'd have preferred bigger,' I admitted. 'Problem is, "Uncommon" and "Grounds" are both fairly long words. Any larger and, even stacked one above the other, they'd wrap around the entire circumference of the cup. All the cameras would see in one frame is "omm ound".'

'Gotcha.' Now, however, Sarah was looking around uneasily. 'Do you see Kevin with his tape? That mime is heading toward us again.'

'Is this a phobia of some kind?' I asked. 'Do clowns scare you, too?' I traced an exaggerated smile on my lips and leered. 'Or maybe the evil doll from those
Chucky
movies?'

'Stop that,' my friend said, swatting my hand away. 'Go take care of your mime.'

'For the last time, he's not
my
mime. Besides, the guy's harmless. He collects a paycheck for pretending he's doing something. Just like a politician.'

'You call that harmless?' Sarah muttered as we watched the red-and-white striped torso approach.

Apparently he'd been sent packing by Rebecca and Michael, who now stood on the stage with Art Jenada. Art ran the catering business next to their Penn and Ink shop. JoLynne must have asked them to participate in the dedication. Or maybe they'd just invited themselves, like Sarah and I had.

'You're not supposed to be back here,' I reminded the pesky performer when he reached us. 'Remember the guy with the muscles?'

The mime nodded solemnly.

'You don't want him to come back, do you?' Yes, I was talking as though he were a two-year-old, but it's hard to take seriously someone in a braid, white face-paint and puce suspenders. Even if he is six-feet tall with a schlong in his short pants.

An 'uh-unh' motion of the head on the issue of Kevin's return.

'Good.' Sarah was standing behind me, like I was a human shield against the big, bad mime. 'Now, depart, foul spirit!'

Ignoring her, the performer put the tips of his right index finger and thumb together, raised them to his mouth and let out an air-splitting, nerve-curdling whistle.

'Isn't that against mime union rules?' Sarah demanded from the far end of the porch's corner, to which she'd bolted at the sound. 'You know: No noise is good noise?'

The mime shrugged, hands palm up, as the media whose attention he had just commanded, converged on us. Apparently satisfied, the mime waved to them and then oh-so theatrically tipped his head waaay back, toward the cup on the gallows above us.

'Don't even think about it.' I started toward him. 'You keep your mitts off my cup.'

Sarah restrained me. 'Relax, Maggy. He's "harmless", remember?'

Do not mock me.
Never
mock me.

The camera operators – including Jerome – had their lenses focused on our wannabe Marcel Marceau, I guessed for want of anything else to film before the train arrived. Maybe I was being short-sighted: Uncommon Grounds could use the publicity.

Arms stretched wide and knees bent, the mime made like he was hefting our coffee cup balloon. Then, crooking his right little finger, he turned toward the media and pretended to take a sip for the cameras.

'Yes!' I called to Sarah, pumping my fist. 'We'll be on every TV newscast in southeastern Wisconsin.'

My last word was still echoing off the depot wall when the wretched mime spit out our make-believe coffee.

'Damn that rat-bastard.' I started for him again.

A train whistle sounded. Everyone turned toward the noise. Everyone, that is, except Mr Mime and me.

I shook my finger at him.

He shook his.

I dropped my hand.

Ditto.

'Stop that.' I stamped my foot.

Guess what?

Sarah sing-songed from the corner, 'He's rubber, you're glue, whatever you say bounces off him and sticks to . . .
you
.'

'Yeah? Well, let's see how he likes being pasted.'

The mime edged away as the train slid to a halt. Since Sarah was on one end of the porch and I the other, he was trapped like a rat at the foot of the gallows framework that held the cup and saucer.

I advanced on him as he made for the depot door Kevin had used.

'Not that way,' I said, catching up with him.

The mime turned back, or at least his head did. One hand held the beret steady so both it and his body were facing away from me.

'Cool trick,' Sarah said, apparently feeling braver now that we had him boxed. 'How'd you pull that off?'

The mime winked one very blue eye at Sarah, looked down at his bulging short pants, and then held his hand to his heart, mirroring the beating with his hand. Thud-thud. Thud-thud.

Sarah giggled, albeit uneasily.

The mime batted his eyes and did a coy finger-flutter, even as the doors of the first train car slid back and dignitaries began pouring out on to the platform.

Mime romance. Sweet. But Sarah and I needed to be on stage to bask in the commuter-rail's reflected glory.

Anita Hampton stepped off the train. She was even thinner and more fashionable than the last time I'd seen her. Her eyes darted around imperiously and then she seemed to catch sight of someone. She gave a little, beckoning head gesture.

Following her gaze, I saw Kevin Williams at ground level, but sans our caution tape. The props guy abruptly detoured to Anita's edge of the stage, where she crouched down to speak to him.

The Grand Inquisitor. Oh, Kevin, wouldn't
this
be better, wouldn't
that
be better? And, true to form, she didn't seem happy with any of his answers, sweeping her hand disdainfully toward the spare set-up of our Brookhills' celebration.

Surveying it myself, I didn't see what she was complaining about. The stage-decorations might consist only of a couple clusters of Mylar balloons, tethering ribbons anchored in pots filled with stones, but the true centerpiece of the event was meant to be the commuter-line. The train itself would provide the backdrop for the television cameras.

With our giant, strikingly photogenic coffee cup and saucer at stage right.

Whatever Anita's problem might be, it better not have anything to do with my cup. The conversation between the two ended with a prolonged handshake, Anita holding Kevin's hand hostage as she spouted further instructions or criticisms. Finally released, the props man loped off in the direction of his truck.

'He'd better be getting that tape for us,' I grumbled to Sarah. 'And
before
he does Her Majesty's bidding. That woman
always
has to be first. And where is JoLynne?
She's
the one who's supposed to be in charge here.'

'Chillax. She'll show,' Sarah said, uncharacteristically mellow all of a sudden.

Unfortunately for Sarah, Anita never failed to put me in a bad mood. '"Chillax"? What the hell is "chillax"?'

'The kids use it. It means chill and relax. Chillax, you know?'

No, I didn't know. Eric was my one lifeline to things current and he now lived three hundred long and, in my case, suffering miles away. So when Sarah exchanged a 'what a dinosaur' look with the mime, it set a match to my already shortened fuse.

'You!' I said, wheeling on him, 'I don't want to see you here again, is that understood?'

At my tone, the mime convulsively stepped back, then back again. Because his face was still toward me, he couldn't see where his body was going.

Whoosh
went Kevin's air hose. Down went JoLynne's mime.

And my giant cup? It shuddered more than shimmied, the jet stream of escaping air itching to topple the balloon off its perch and onto the boarding platform and adjacent stage beneath it.

I began scrambling up the stairs to the gallows. Halfway there, I made a grab for the edge of the saucer. It seemed to be weighted at the bottom and maybe adding my poundage (no wisecracks) could keep the thing in place.

'Are you crazy?' Sarah yelled from two steps behind me. 'That Paul Bunyan-size mug will take you with it.' She grabbed the back of my Uncommon Grounds T-shirt to hold me stable, but even as she did, the overall load of the inflatable shifted, sending the top of the imploding cup tipping over the edge like the leading coil of a Slinky.

Sarah was right. I let go of the saucer.

The two county execs – Brewster Hampton of Brookhills in a neat dark suit, Wynona Counsel of Milwaukee, a conservative slate-gray dress – came off the train and on to the platform as Anita Hampton moved to meet them.