by Sandra Balzo
Speaking of entertaining, I should find out if Pavlik still wanted dinner. I tried to stand up to leave, but with Amy, Janalee and Davy taking up the center of the ambulance, the best I could manage was to slide down the bench and slip sideways out the door.
‘Glad you’re OK, Amy,’ I called back in. ‘I’m so sorry about the fire, Janalee.’
The paramedic gave me a sour look as I passed, so I decided to take the low road. ‘Could you tell me where to find Sheriff Pavlik?’
He gestured somewhere in the vicinity of Lake Michigan twenty miles away, presumably because he wanted me and my name-dropping to jump into it. Apparently sleeping with rank – or aspiring to sleep with rank – did not have its privileges.
The paramedic climbed into the ambulance and I went off in search of Pavlik. I found him talking to a man next to a car marked ‘Inspector’. Since the car was red, I assumed it was the fire inspector.
When Pavlik saw me, he held up one finger. Either that meant I was to wait, or that I was Number One. I liked to think both.
Pavlik finished up and came over to me. ‘This is going to take a while. Can I have a rain check?’
‘You’re invited for dinner anytime,’ I said, my heart sinking just a bit. This despite the fact that Pavlik had about as good a reason for missing dinner as anyone I knew. I looked back at the burned remnants of Janalee’s Place.
‘That’s not what I want the rain check for,’ he murmured in my ear.
‘Good thing,’ I said, turning back to him. ‘I’m a crappy cook.’
‘Happily,’ said Pavlik, ‘I’m not. Next time dinner’s at my house.’
Was this man perfect, or what? Dinner at his house. That meant no cooking, no cleaning and – most importantly – no competition from Frank.
I started up on my tiptoes to give Pavlik a quick kiss and then thought better of it. ‘I suppose it’s not proper to kiss the sheriff at a crime scene,’ I said. ‘Though I suppose this is really a fire scene not a cr―’
He leaned down to kiss me, maybe because he liked me or maybe because he wanted to shut me up. Either way, it worked for me. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Perfect.’ I started to walk away and then turned back. Often what Pavlik didn’t say was more telling than what he did say. ‘This isn’t a crime scene right? I mean, the fire was an accident.’
For the first time, I wondered why Pavlik had been called there. Fires weren’t normally in his purview.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ was all he said.
Chapter Eight
When I got home, I nobly ignored Ingmar Bergman’s Through a Glass Darkly, beckoning me from its DVD case on the coffee table. Instead, I did penance for my evil now-Amy-needs-a-job thoughts by settling on to the couch to go over Janalee’s folders.
Disappointingly, the one entitled ‘Competitive Strategies’ was not LaRoche’s masterplan for conquering the coffee universe, but an old folder Janalee had stuffed full of every imaginable fact about Davy, including chronicling what appeared to be each bowel movement the colicky baby had ever had, when he held up his head the first time, the month, day and time he sat up, and the day he stood.
I had carefully preserved a box of growth charts, artwork and assembled memorabilia from Eric’s childhood. The way Janalee was going, though, she would need a semi-trailer by the time Davy was grown. Setting aside the file to return to Janalee as quickly as humanly possible, I moved on to the other folders.
Happily, Janalee had paid the same attention to detail in planning the barista competition that she did to the care and feeding of Davy. Java Ho’s event was designed to be a ‘starter’ competition and, much like a starter bra, the basics were there, but so was an expectation of further development.
The idea was to get our local baristi accustomed to competition, so they could go on to participate in sanctioned events put on by the Specialty Coffee Association of America and the United States Barista Competition. Lawyers and accountants have nothing on us so far as associations go.
Janalee had lined up the prescribed six judges – four of them sensory judges and two of them technical – and asked that they meet me at the convention center on Thursday morning. Her husband Marvin, her notes said chirpily – assuming it was possible for ink to chirp – would be the head judge. That left me as master of ceremonies, which suited me just fine.
As far as I could tell, the competition should be fairly easy to manage. A piece of cake compared with the big events I’d been responsible for at First National. But then, as an exasperated co-worker once told me, I obsessed more over a dinner party for half a dozen than a fireworks show for half a million. Made sense to me: five friends were more likely to complain than 500,000 strangers. It was just a fact of life. Besides, I was a lot more confident of my management skills than my cooking abilities . . .
‘Uh-oh,’ I said out loud, getting up off the couch. Frank, playing dead in front of the fireplace, raised his head a half inch off the floor to watch me run into the kitchen.
The bag from Schultz’s was sitting on the counter where I’d left it while I preheated the broiler. I reached in and pulled out the bag o’halibut.
The fish was floating.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be on your backs?’ I asked the fillets. I was recalling my earlier conversation with Amy.
To think we’d been standing in front of the seafood counter at Schultz’s less than three hours ago, chatting about goldfish. And now the store Amy managed was gone, along with her job, perhaps. I assumed that Janalee would offer Amy something at a HotWired store, but would the rock barista take it?
With the exception of Amy at Janalee’s Place, the HotWired staff members were as interchangeable as their surroundings. Not their fault, really. It was the way LaRoche wanted them. Uniform, efficient and faceless. Amy was anything but faceless, and I wasn’t sure she would fit in anywhere but Janalee’s.
Except Uncommon Grounds, of course.
I tossed the fish in the garbage and walked back into the living room, thinking about what made a place special. The point of differentiation. The people, right? In a coffeehouse, that would be the owners and employees who greeted you by name and knew what you drank. Made you feel at home. Or better than at home.
If we were going to beat HotWired, I thought as I stacked up Janalee’s files, we needed to appeal to people’s hearts, not their wallets. Our pockets just weren’t deep enough to compete with LaRoche’s free drink coupons. ‘We do have big hearts, though,’ I said out loud.
Frank snorted, giving me a momentary glimpse of one eye, and then went back to sleep. Cynic.
I would get an early start tomorrow. First I would check out the convention center so there wouldn’t be any surprises on Thursday morning when I met with the judges. Then I would spend some time at Uncommon Grounds spreading good will. And force Caron to do likewise.
The remains of the Pinot Noir Pavlik had brought was sitting on the coffee table next to the DVD of Through a Glass Darkly. I had been about to pour us more wine when the call about the fire came in.
I picked up the bottle. Just enough left for a glass or two. I glanced over at the clock on the mantle. And just enough time. I poured the wine and slipped the DVD into the player.
Despite the fact I’d paired the wine with a sleeve of crackers and a can of spray cheese, I awoke famished the next morning. Go figure.
I decided to flip my itinerary and go to Uncommon Grounds first, before moving on to the convention center. The reason being free food, of course.
It was nearly eight thirty by the time I walked in the door, so I was surprised to see seven customers in line at the counter. Mindful of my resolution, I made sure to greet each person before I went behind the counter and dug out an almond poppy seed muffin.
‘You are going to help, aren’t you?’ Caron demanded, as she poured a cup of coffee for a customer. ‘I mean, someone besides yourself?’
‘Of course,’ I said, stuffing a piece of muffin in my mou
th. ‘Just needed a little nourishment first. A cup of coffee would help,’ I said, eying the mug in Caron’s hand.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ the woman at the front of the line said. ‘And don’t you be putting any of your dirty pictures on it either.’ She snatched the cup from Caron and scuttled away to a corner table.
Mrs Doherty. The recipient of my one and only attempt at latte art. The woman had no imagination. Or, perhaps, too much of one. Either way, I wouldn’t be winning her heart anytime soon. Best leave that one to Caron.
I turned to the next customer in line, a woman wearing a jacket over tennis whites. ‘Dorothy – it’s good to see you. Your usual, I presume?’
‘I’d prefer Alice’s usual,’ the woman said, shaking her dark hair. It didn’t move. Too much product.
‘Alice’s usual?’ I asked, confused. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know—’
‘Her name is Alice,’ Caron hissed in my ear as she elbowed me out of the way. ‘Not Dorothy.’
‘But Dorothy is the one who wears tennis outfits,’ I said, puzzled.
Caron rolled her eyes and started an espresso shot. ‘Leagues started this week. Everyone is wearing tennis clothes.’
And this was my problem apparently. If they were all going to dress alike, they should have their names on their jerseys.
‘Don’t you have somewhere else to be?’ Caron was trying to reach around me for a cup.
‘I thought you wanted help,’ I protested.
‘Competent help.’ Caron added hot water to the espresso for a café Americano. ‘And why are you trying to suck up to the customers? You’re not good at it.’
‘That’s true,’ someone agreed from the back of the line.
‘I liked her better when she was assigning seats,’ another chimed in. Others were nodding in agreement.
‘Hey, listen,’ I said to the assemblage, ‘I’m doing my best here.’
‘Well, it’s not good enough,’ the Customer Formerly Known As Dorothy said. ‘You know who you should hire? That Amy from Janalee’s Place.’
‘Did you hear there was a fire there last night?’ Mrs Doherty piped up from her corner table.
‘There was?’ Caron looked sideways at me.
I nodded. ‘It looked like a complete loss to me.’
‘To you?’ Caron echoed. ‘How did you see it?’
Everybody stared at me.
‘I . . . I drove by on my way here,’ I said. I didn’t need the whole store to know I’d gone there with Pavlik last night. ‘I had heard about it on the news.’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Doherty agreed solemnly, ‘that new girl on Channel Eight was talking about it.’
‘Have you noticed how much weight she’s gained?’ Dorothy/Alice asked, carrying a bagel the size of a Buick to her table.
‘I hear she’s pregnant,’ someone in the back contributed.
‘But she’s not married,’ another gasped.
And off to the races we went from there. But at least they weren’t gossiping about me.
I helped Caron whittle down the line and then made myself a latte for the road. ‘I need to go to the convention center. Make sure everything is set for tomorrow.’
‘Good idea,’ Caron said, wiping a coffee ring off the condiment cart. ‘But first, tell me: how did you really know about the fire?’
I shrugged. ‘I was with Pavlik when he got the call,’ I admitted.
‘With?’ Caron asked, a sly smile on her face.
‘Not in that way,’ I said. ‘We were about to have dinner.’
‘Well, I guess it’s a start.’ She sounded doubtful.
‘He’s cooking me dinner next time,’ I said proudly.
‘Cooking you dinner?’ Now Caron was beaming like a proud mom. ‘You know what that means.’
‘That he’s interested?’ I asked.
‘Even better,’ she said, opening the door to usher me out. ‘He’s intelligent.’
She shut the door behind me.
The banner above the convention center said: Welcome Travel Planners!!
Apparently the travel planners were no longer quite as welcome, though, because workers were undoing the ropes on each end of the banner. As a cluster of people smoking cigarettes watched, the banner was lowered to the ground. Presumably, by tomorrow it would be replaced by one that read: Welcome Java Ho!!
As I passed by the smokers, I thought about Sarah and her nicotine puffer. I hoped this time the fix would stick.
Inside, the big entrance lobby – dubbed the Grand Foyer – was quiet. Just the occasional travel planner scurrying out the big revolving door. When I reached the exhibit hall, though, it was another story.
Booths were being ripped apart, props and travel brochures packed up, tables and chairs folded and stacked, carpets yanked up. The blank walls and concrete floors left behind looked naked and a little embarrassed.
I found a man with a convention center name badge. He was doing his best to direct traffic. ‘I’m sure you have your hands full, but I’m with Java Ho,’ I told him.
He checked his clipboard. ‘Your move-in isn’t until tomorrow a.m.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘But I’m running the barista competition and I was hoping I could see where we’re going to be.’
He pointed toward the far end of the huge room. ‘We have you down there. We’ll bring a temporary wall across to separate you from the exhibitors.’
‘Is it a solid wall? How will people get in?’
‘There’s a door in the wall, plus there’s a separate exit into the corridor by the bar.’
‘Perfect,’ I said. I made a note to have a couple of signs made so people could find us.
‘Do you happen to have the floor plan for the competition area there?’ I asked, peering over his shoulder at his clipboard. I didn’t want to wear out my welcome, but I wanted to make sure Janalee’s instructions had been passed on.
The man – his nametag said ‘Raymond’ – paged through the sheaf of papers and pulled one out.
‘Here it is,’ he said, handing it to me distractedly as he tried to keep tabs on the activity around us.
I looked over the paper. A stage with six six-foot tables for the competitors. Two would form an ‘L’ for each of the three work stations. Electrical outlets for the espresso machines, grinders, blenders and mini-refrigerators. Hand-held wireless microphone for me, so I could move around. A six-foot table for judges on the floor in front of the stage. Bleachers beyond that. Dividers behind the stage to hide the supplies and staging area. Janalee had thought of everything. Almost.
‘Just one thing,’ I said. ‘Could I get another six-foot table on the stage? I’ll need it for trophies.’
Raymond took the floor plan and looked it over. ‘Would an eight-footer work? We’re short on sixes.’
I nodded.
He made a note. ‘Anything else?’
Raymond was looking across the hall at a twelve-foot palm tree that was swaying – and not in the wind. As we watched, the tree crashed to the ground, scattering paper palm fronds all the way from ‘See France!’ to ‘Experience Tokyo!’ and back.
‘You go ahead,’ I said to Raymond. ‘And thank you,’ I called after him as he hurried away.
Raymond waved back. The man was awfully patient considering everything he had going on.
I hoped Sarah would be likewise tomorrow.
But then, I also prayed for world peace every night, and so far that wasn’t going very well either.
Chapter Nine
When I arrived at the convention center at eight a.m. the next morning, I found Sarah already in the exhibit hall, which was in the process of being transformed into a caffeinated paradise. By the time all the vendors got in there, you wouldn’t have to drink the stuff, you could just inhale it.
‘You’re here bright and early,’ I greeted her cheerily.
Sarah pointed at herself. ‘See this face? I haven’t had a cigarette for nearly seventy-two hours. This may be early, but it sure as he
ll isn’t bright.’
‘OK,’ I conceded, ‘but I’m feeling bright.’
‘Why? Because Amy’s store burned down Tuesday so she needs a job?’
I gasped and grabbed her arm. ‘How can you say something like that?’
Sarah snorted. ‘Yeah, like you didn’t think it.’
‘How did you . . . I mean, why would you think . . .’
She turned around and faced me full on. ‘Because I thought of it.’
‘And just because you think evil thoughts,’ I said indignantly, ‘you assume that I do, too?’
‘I don’t assume. I know.’ She waggled her head and laid her hand on my shoulder. ‘Maggy, Maggy, Maggy. Don’t you know that you are simply me, reflected in a socially acceptable mirror?’
Talk about through a glass darkly. My face must have reflected my horror, because Sarah cackled and dropped her hand. ‘Deny it all you want, Maggy, but I say the things that you only think.’
Damn right, and that’s the way it should stay. I opened my mouth to tell her just that – in a socially acceptable way, of course – but Sarah was already running after a woman pushing an espresso machine on a dolly.
‘What did you do, get lost getting out of bed this morning?’ Sarah screamed at her. ‘You have booth four-fifty, not four-sixty, and you were supposed to be set up by eight . . .’
I put my hands over my ears and retreated to the competition room, repeating, ‘I am not Sarah, I am a good person. I am not Sarah, I am a good person,’ until her voice faded.
Didn’t the fact that I was contemplating buying Sarah a pack of cigarettes just to shut her up prove her point, though?
‘We have eighteen competitors,’ I explained to the assembled judges, ‘so we won’t need to do both semi-finals and finals after the first round. We should be able to winnow the group down to six finalists so we can finish on Saturday. Make sense?’
The two technical judges, the accountants of the coffee world, just looked at me.
One of the sensory judges, a bleached blonde, who must have been a bombshell at one time, nodded in agreement. ‘God, yes. That way we can enjoy Sunday.’
The prissy woman standing next to her gave her a sidelong glance. ‘You mean you can enjoy partying on Saturday night and sleep in on Sunday, don’t you, Barbara?’
