Grounds for Murder (3 page)

I was about to find out.

Caron said, ‘That would be great. One thing, though –’ her smile grew wider as she turned to me – ‘while you’re there, Maggy, I need you to steal us a barista.’

‘To steal a . . .?’

‘Specifically, I need you to steal Amy.’

Chapter Three

Amy.

The name struck fear within competitive barista circles.

I have a tendency to underestimate Caron in things commercial. She’s been out of the corporate world for nearly two decades, having decided to stay home when her son, Nicky, was born. I’d continued to work after having Eric, in part because I loved what I did, but also because Ted was just getting his dental practice up and running and we needed the money.

This was after I’d put him through dental school, of course. Not that I’d minded. It was for our future, after all. Little did I know that ‘our’ future would turn out to be a ménage à trois, with me the trois. Twit.

I’d caught glimpses of Ted and his bit of floss playing tennis at the Brookhills Racquet Club on my way home from Uncommon Grounds recently. My ex-husband looked happy and fit – far from the man who was always ‘too tired’ to take me out on the boat or come with me to the health club. I wondered if Ted had a portrait of the couch potato he’d once been, hidden in the attic. Sort of a pudgy Dorian Grey.

But back to Caron, who was obviously far wilier than me, despite her freckled face and button nose. She knew that the competition was a veritable smorgasbord of baristi, with the best in the business there for the picking.

And we did need a barista. Enough of the long days and lonely nights. And, bless her, not only did Caron know where to find a barista, she had set her sights high.

Amy was legendary. She was more rock star than barista. She had piercings. Lots of them. And racing-striped hair. And tattoos.

Truth is, I admire people who march to a different drummer – or, in Amy’s case, dance to an alternative rock band. I was just stunned that Caron wanted that band playing in our store.

‘Wait a second,’ I said. ‘Remember when we used to hang out at Janalee’s Place?’ That would be back when we drank lattes instead of making them. In other words, the good old days. ‘You told me you thought Amy looked like the Antichrist.’

Caron just grinned. ‘Amy rocks, Maggy.’

There’s something pathetic about a forty-something talking like an eighteen-year-old.

‘Listen, I like her, too,’ I said. ‘But Amy manages Janalee’s Place. For your friend, Marvin LaRoche.’

But Caron’s face was glowing with an unnatural light. ‘Amy’s the best, Maggy.’ She put her hand over her heart. ‘You must get her for me.’

Too weird, but I was starting to understand, at least. Amy was a status symbol for Caron. Like driving a Mercedes or carrying the right handbag. ‘You want a designer barista,’ I said, flatly. ‘What is she? Gucci? Fendi? Prada?’

‘Nah,’ Sarah piped in. ‘Amy’s edgier. Maybe Marc Jacobs.’

I shot Sarah a disbelieving look. I wasn’t sure which was more amazing – that Caron wanted a trophy barista, or that Sarah knew what a designer was.

Caron reached over and took my hand. ‘Marvin LaRoche doesn’t deserve her.’

On that, at least, we could agree.

‘It’s not going to be easy,’ Caron continued, as I tried to take back my hand, ‘Amy has worked for Janalee since she was in high school. But I do hear there’s some friction between Amy and Marvin. You can work that angle.’

‘Why am I working any angle?’ I asked. ‘Like I said, if you think this is such a good idea, you run the competition. Or if all we want is a barista, why don’t you just call Amy and make her an offer?’

Caron and Sarah exchanged looks.

Sarah finally answered. ‘We already have. She refused.’

‘We wanted to get her for you for your birthday,’ Caron added. ‘So you could have sex.’

‘For the record, I’m heterosexual.’ At least so far. My forty-third birthday had been just last week.

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Sarah snapped. ‘We want you to have sex with that sheriff of yours, Pavlik.’

A noble goal. And one that a barista, who could take the occasional early shift, would admittedly facilitate.

‘Besides,’ Caron said, ‘I think you could use some time away from the store. You’re a little . . . intense these days.’

Intense? I was intense?

‘You’ve assigned seats.’ Sarah pointed to the wall where I’d tacked up a notice that read: This seat reserved for Henry. If you’re NOT Henry, keep your butt off.

Henry Wested lived at the senior center across the street from Uncommon Grounds. He had come in once a day since we’d opened, like clockwork. Lately though, he had taken to visiting a second time, forgetting he’d already been there. Or he didn’t come in at all. It worried me.

‘Henry gets confused if there’s anybody sitting in his chair,’ I said, a slightly defensive tone creeping into my voice.

‘And you made Jodi McCarthy and Mary Smith sit together last week,’ Caron said, ‘and you know their sons are competing for starting quarterback at Brookhills High. Jodi and Mary hate each other.’

I snorted. ‘Then they should grow up. Besides, the tennis moms needed a table, and there were four of them. I didn’t want them to walk out.’

‘Like Mrs Doherty did, when she said you were using the froth on her latte to make dirty pictures?’

‘That was Princess Leia,’ I said, through clenched teeth. ‘From Star Wars.’

‘Looked like a schlong to me,’ Sarah muttered, as Caron pushed the button to brew another shot of espresso.

This time it took twenty-three seconds to pass through the grounds. Caron had timed it perfectly. I reached over, took the shot from her and tipped it into the mug.

Sarah waggled her head. ‘Besides, just think of all the people you’ll get to push around at Java Ho.’

‘Don’t you have somewhere else to be?’ I asked her, adding the milk.

‘In fact, I do,’ she said. ‘I need to see Janalee at three thirty. Come with me and talk to Marvin.’

I started to say ‘no’, but figured, what the hell? Why let LaRoche and HotWired hog the spotlight? Managing the barista competition would not only increase Uncommon Grounds’ visibility in the industry, it would also let me keep tabs on LaRoche. Maybe make his life a living hell for the weekend.

Suddenly, this was sounding better and better.

Besides, Caron was right: I did need a change of scenery, and this way I could enjoy the entire barista competition without feeling like I was ducking out on her. In fact, my partner was encouraging me to play hooky.

Sold. I ruined the picture-perfect latte by slopping it into a to-go cup. ‘You win,’ I said, handing the cup to Sarah. ‘Let’s go, so I can be “intense” with LaRoche.’

‘Don’t forget about Amy,’ Caron called after us.

Marvin LaRoche’s office was above his newest store, which meant it would take us all of two minutes to reach it.

‘You know, a little exercise wouldn’t hurt you,’ I said, as Sarah revved up her 1975 lemon yellow Firebird. ‘We could walk.’

She slapped the transmission into reverse. ‘It’s nearly a mile, Maggy. That’s not exercise, it’s insanity.’

‘It’s six-tenths of a mile,’ I said. ‘I measured.’

‘You would,’ Sarah muttered as we pulled out of the parking lot and on to Civic Drive. At the corner, she turned right on to Brookhill Road.

I’d researched traffic patterns and we’d ultimately decided to locate Uncommon Grounds in Benson Plaza, a glorified strip mall on the southeast corner of Civic and Brookhill Road. Brookhill was the main drag into the city and I knew we’d attract commuters who wanted to pick up coffee for their drive to work.

Unfortunately, HotWired’s newest location offered that same convenience, and LaRoche hadn’t needed to do any research to find that out. Not only had I done it, but I’d been stupid enough to tell him about it.

I had met LaRoche at last year’s Java Ho and had considered him the pinnacle of my conference networking. What a find! Marvin LaRoche seemed to know everyone in coffee. He had been our coffee fairy godfather, acting as a sounding board and advising us as we were learning the ropes. After all, LaRoche said, that’s what people in the industry do for newcomers, assuming they weren’t in their market area.

Well, now we were in his market – or more precisely – he was in ours. And I didn’t like it a bit.

We passed Schultz’s Market and my stomach, always open to suggestion, growled. The store was a little pricey, but they had great produce, seafood and wine. Even better, they also prepared what I called TiVo-dinners. Fresh precooked meals you could take home, heat up and enjoy in front of your favorite digitally recorded movies and shows.

Tonight, though, I planned to cook. Given my schedule and lack of funds, I was trying to eat healthier these days. And cheaper. While TiVo-dinners were good, they sure weren’t cheap.

Maybe a nice piece of tilapia. If I blackened it . . .

A red Probe suddenly darted out of Schultz’s parking lot, cutting us off. Sarah slammed on her brakes. The old Firebird didn’t have shoulder harnesses, but since I routinely keep one hand braced on the dashboard when I ride with Sarah, I was able to save my face.

‘Damn it, McNamara,’ Sarah screamed. ‘I have a sixteen-year-old kid who’s a better driver!’

The car windows being closed, this was lost on Kate McNamara, editor of The Brookhills Observer. Nearly deafened me, though.

‘She’s going to HotWired,’ I said, rubbing my left ear. ‘You just watch.’

Sarah glanced over at me. ‘Been losing customers to them?’

I shrugged. ‘Haven’t noticed.’

‘You haven’t noticed?’ She turned into the HotWired parking lot. ‘That’s hard to believe.’

I sighed. ‘To be honest, I’m trying not to notice. Caron says I’m driving people crazy. Sophie Daystrom didn’t come in for a week and I nearly gave her a stroke, questioning her about where she was. Turns out the poor old thing had been visiting her daughter in Florida.’ Sophie was one of the seniors who frequented Uncommon Grounds.

I undid the seatbelt and started to climb out of the car.

‘Sophie has two sons,’ Sarah said.

That stopped me. ‘No daughters?’

Sarah shook her head. ‘Nope.’

Great, not only were the seniors defecting, I’d managed to frighten an eighty-one-year-old woman into lying to me. Mom would be so proud.

I got out, slammed the car door and tried not to look at the other cars in the HotWired parking lot.

‘A Lexus, an Infiniti, two Hyundais and a Jaguar,’ Sarah reported as she got out the other side. ‘Extra points for the Jaguar, right?’

‘Double,’ I agreed automatically. Then I caught myself. ‘But I’m not keeping track.’

I have a nasty habit of counting vehicles in competitors’ parking lots to see how we compare. Sometimes I even factor in make and model (two Hyundais equals one Saab, or half a Jaguar convertible).

Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘You can’t help yourself, Maggy. It’s who you are.’

She had a point, which was one of the reasons I’d avoided the new HotWired until now. I figured if I started counting cars or scouting for our regulars, I’d end up bouncing back and forth between Uncommon Grounds and HotWired like some overly competitive, mathematically deranged ping-pong ball.

‘Kate’s Probe isn’t here?’ I asked. That was a relief, at least. Kate McNamara could be a pain in the butt, but she was a steady customer.

‘She hid it behind the building.’

‘Oh.’

I have to admit: I was hurt. First Sophie, now Kate. It was like when I found out Ted was cheating on me, but this time I’d been tossed aside for a bad cup of coffee. I took a deep breath. As Bonnie Raitt says, you can’t make someone love you. Or your coffee.

‘This HotWired is a carbon copy of the others,’ I said, trying to change the subject. ‘You’d think Janalee would push for a little originality.’

As I mentioned, Janalee had owned the first store of what was to become the HotWired chain long before she ever met LaRoche. Janalee’s Place was located in a big old house on the northern, less chi-chi side of town. That would be my side of town. The comfortably shabby original might be the genesis of HotWired, but it certainly wasn’t the prototype. In my opinion, it had twice the personality of the high-tech, Matrix-meets-mocha feel of the newer HotWired stores.

Sarah locked the Firebird. ‘I said “carbon copy” the other day to Sam, and he said I was dating myself, that nobody uses carbon paper anymore. “Clone” apparently is the in-word.’

‘I think the word “in-word” is out,’ I said. ‘Besides, isn’t a clone, literally, a “carbon” copy?’

As we made for the door, Sarah ignored my scientific input. ‘Besides, if Janalee was going to push LaRoche to do anything, it would be all that natural crap.’

All that ‘natural crap’, as Sarah put it, was Fair Trade and shade-grown coffees, along with dairy products that were free of growth hormones. Fair Trade coffees were beans that were certified grown in a way that was environmentally friendly and also provided fair wages for the people who grew and harvested them. Shade-grown coffees preserved forests that would otherwise be clear-cut to plant coffee.

From its inception, Janalee’s Place had been ‘a coffeehouse with a social conscience’ and Amy carried on that tradition. Social conscience, though, didn’t come without a price, and even if Marvin LaRoche hadn’t tinkered with Janalee’s Place, he’d put his own ‘green’ stamp – the one with dollar signs – on the new stores.

At Uncommon Grounds, there was always an undertone of conversation, punctuated by greetings for new arrivals. When we walked into HotWired, the undertone was the click-clack of computer keys, and the enthusiastic ‘Welcome!’ was followed by ‘You’ve got mail!’

I thought I heard a familiar voice in all the cyber hustle and bustle and turned just in time to see Sophie Daystrom duck behind a computer screen. I saw something else, too. A gray fedora lay on the stool that had been pulled out beside the computer.

‘That’s Henry’s hat,’ I whispered to Sarah. ‘The traitor. How could he do that to me? I reserved his chair. Put up a sign up and everything.’

Sarah grabbed my arm and tried to propel me away. ‘Rise above it, Maggy. Don’t let them know they’ve hurt you.’