The Devil Drinks Coffee

by Destiny Ford

  “I shouldn’t have,” she agreed, “but I’ve been worried about Chelsea for months. I’d like to know what happened, and why her life ended in such a heartbreaking way.”

  I nodded, stood up, and opened the door. “Please let me know if you find out anything,” Martha said.

  “I will.”

  I got into my Jeep and started it, letting the air conditioning blow the trickles of sweat away from my hairline while I stared absently out the window. I kept thinking about my conversation with Martha, and the politician’s son who Chelsea had supposedly been dating. Why had Chelsea kept their relationship a secret? I shoved my SUV into gear and added “find out more about Chelsea’s relationship” to my research list.

  Immediately after I got to my desk at the Tribune, I started to take my fitted jacket off, grateful for the cool air circulating in the building. The heat outside had left a dry, dusty taste in my mouth. The extra layer of cotton was making it worse. As I stripped the jacket from my arms, I noticed Spence leaning on the doorway to his office.

  “Are you supplementing your income with exotic dancing?” he asked.

  I didn’t think yanking my jacket off like it was full of angry bees was very erotic, but to each his own. “Have you seen my paycheck? It was that or a job in fast food. Stripping seemed more exciting.” I put my jacket over the back of the chair and smoothed out my camisole. I grabbed a glass from my desk and filled it at the water cooler. I heard the front door open as I took a long, cold drink.

  “I hope you’re willing to travel,” Spence said. “I’m not sure you’ll get much business around here.”

  “Lookin’ good,” a deep, familiar voice said.

  “I take that back,” Spence said. “It looks like your first client just walked in.”

  I glanced up and saw Drake standing at the front counter. He was dressed in a short sleeve dark blue shirt with a collar and was wearing a watch with a face as big as an orange. When Drake’s not in a suit, he looks like the men’s department of Macy’s exploded on him. Not that it’s a bad thing; it would just be nice if he took the time to buy something that wasn’t already preselected for him from a catalog—or by an ex-girlfriend.

  I ignored Drake and nodded in Spence’s direction. “I think Drake’s flirting with you, Spence.”

  “I’m out of his league,” Spence deadpanned.

  Drake ignored Spence’s comment and looked straight at me instead. “Have you eaten yet, Katie?”

  My eyes widened in shock. I had already decided Drake and I weren’t compatible in any capacity—apparently he hadn’t received the message. “Did you come here to ask me to lunch?”

  “Maybe,” he answered. “I told you I’d stop by to catch up. I was hoping we could start . . . a friendship.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. You’re a Republican. We can’t be friends.”

  His lips curved into that charming smile of his. “If you base your friendships on political parties, you must not have many buddies in Branson—or Utah for that matter,” he said. “Besides, I’m so moderate that I’m practically independent.”

  I tilted my head as the corners of my mouth slid up. “So, you’re saying you play the Republican card because it’s the only way to get elected around here, but you’re really a closet liberal?” I raised my eyebrows. “Can I quote you on that?”

  “No,” he answered with a mischievous smile. “You can’t.”

  We stared at each other for a minute without saying a word. As I watched him, I remembered Martha’s comment that Chelsea had been dating a politician’s son. “Hey,” I said, trying to sound casual, “you don’t happen to have a kid, do you?”

  He narrowed his eyes like I’d lost my mind. “Not that I know of. Why?”

  I shrugged. “Just asking. With your reputation, you never know.” Drake let the statement slide as I quickly moved on to another question. “How well do you know Brian and Julia Bradford?”

  Drake tapped a pen on the counter. “Well enough. Brian Bradford’s an entrepreneur and his wife, Julia, is one of The Ladies. They had three kids but as you know, their oldest daughter, Chelsea, just died.”

  “Have you heard anything about her death?”

  Drake wrinkled his brow. “No more than you, I’m sure. The police ruled it an accidental drowning. That’s all I know.”

  I widened my eyes and looked at Spence. “There’s already an official cause of death?”

  Spence nodded. “I got confirmation from the chief of police about an hour ago.”

  I was stunned. “They didn’t even take a day to investigate it!”

  Drake’s eyes tracked from Spence to me. “Was there something that needed investigating?”

  I didn’t want word to get out that I was looking into Chelsea’s death until I knew more, and had enough information to decide if she was really murdered. I ignored Drake’s question and asked him one instead. “What were you doing at the lake yesterday?”

  “I was speaking with a few other politicians. It was a meet-and-greet event. You should have gotten a news release about it.”

  I vaguely remembered seeing something like that. Drake’s name wasn’t listed on it though. I definitely would have noticed. “Were you there when Chelsea’s body was found?”

  “I was. Some kids noticed something floating in the water. A few people went to check it out. When they realized it was a body, they called the police.”

  “Did anyone touch the body before the police got there?”

  “Not that I know of. It seemed pretty apparent the person was dead.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “All right. Thanks.”

  He leaned his arms on the counter, studying me. “I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  I smiled instead of answering.

  He watched me for a few seconds more. “I have meetings at the capitol during the next week, so I’ll be in and out of town. If you decide you need help with anything” —he pulled a business card from his wallet and wrote something on the back of it— “that’s my personal cell phone.” He pointed to the writing. “Not many people know that number.”

  I laughed out loud. “Uh huh, and by not many, you mean only every available girl in the state and probably some unavailable ones too.”

  “You’re too young to be so cynical, Katie.”

  “Years of dealing with men like you has made me that way.”

  Drake gave me another slow stare. “I’ll have to do something to remedy that,” he said, and walked out the door.

  I noticed that Spence had been leaning against the wall watching the exchange between me and Drake like an over-protective brother. Now he glared at the door Drake had exited and pushed off from the wall. “You’re just making it more fun for him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Drake loves the game and you’re playing it with him.” Spence shook his head. “I bet he hasn’t had this kind of resistance from a woman in years, maybe never.”

  I laughed. “He reminds me of my ex. I learned my lesson the first time. I resist because I’m not interested.”

  Spence watched me with an assessing expression. “Then you’re the first.” He turned and walked back into his office.

  My mind wandered back to my final encounter with my ex. I’d come home early from a freelance job in New York to find him trying to recreate scenes from a popular erotic novel. Our relationship had been full of problems, but watching my significant other spank my perky naked neighbor was the last straw. He’d wanted a quiet partner who would accept his indiscretions. I wasn’t that woman. He moved out, and a few months later, Spence had called offering me the Tribune editor job. There are things about Branson I don’t like, but the familiarity of the place I grew up and people in town who care about me was too appealing to turn down.

  A bing from my email inbox pulled me from my thoughts. It was information about Chelsea’s funeral. I couldn’t believe the police had already given an official cause of death.
No interviewing people, no investigating. If Hawke could see possible defensive wounds after only looking at Chelsea’s body for a few minutes, why didn’t the police and coroner? Or was there another reason they’d ruled the death an accident so quickly?

  Were Hawke and I the only people in town who thought Chelsea’s death might have been murder? And even more disconcerting, was a murderer walking around Branson, looking for another victim?

  Hawke said he’d stop by the office later this week, but since it seemed we were the only people investigating Chelsea’s death, we didn’t have that kind of time. I picked up my phone and called Hawke.

  My phone call with Hawke yesterday had been short, but it did the job. When I walked into work this morning, I found Hawke sitting at my desk, his legs stretched out in front of an office chair that was much too small for his body. He was wearing a black muscle shirt with tan cargo pants and matching leather boots that looked like they could cause serious damage in a shit-kicking contest. “Hey,” I said, putting my purse down on my desk. “What are you doing here?”

  “The autopsy will be done today,” he said. “I wanted to let you know.”

  I pushed my eyebrows together. “Isn’t it strange for an autopsy to be done so fast?”

  “In bigger cities it takes weeks, but this is a small town so the coroner can get to it quickly. The fact that Chelsea belonged to a prominent family doesn’t hurt either.”

  “Her death was ruled accidental,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee. “Why are they doing an autopsy?”

  Hawked paused. “It was probably the coroner’s call.”

  “Do you think we’ll be able to get a copy of the coroner’s report?”

  “We can try,” Hawke said.

  I called the coroner’s office. After a lengthy conversation that went nowhere and some begging, I hung up the phone. “They said Chelsea’s autopsy is going to be sealed. Only her family will have access to the records. Most of the autopsy is done, but the official report won’t be finished until the coroner gets some blood work back next week.”

  Hawke stood up.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To make sure we get a look at the coroner’s report when it’s finished.”

  I stared at him blankly. I’d been on the phone for at least thirty minutes trying to do the same thing with no results. I wasn’t sure why Hawke thought his outcome would be any different. “So you think you can just stroll in there and take the report?”

  He gave the hint of a smile. “When I want something, Kitty Kate, I usually get it.”

  He walked out the door. I stared after him, wondering when he’d be back and what I’d done to make him think I was cat-like. Oddly enough, the nickname didn’t bother me nearly as much as when Drake called me Katie.

  Spence came out of his office, sat on the side of my desk, and folded his arms across his chest as he gave me a disapproving look. “Kitty Kate?”

  I could feel the blood seeping into my cheeks. “I guess it’s just his thing.”

  “His thing?”

  “Maybe he likes to give people nicknames?”

  Spence gave me a look that said I should know better. “Uh huh.”

  I tried to change the subject. “It’ll be great if Hawke can get the autopsy report.”

  Spence closed his eyes, nodded, and opened them again. He seemed to be analyzing me. “I get the feeling,” he said, “that you’re the type of girl who’s attracted to men she should probably stay away from.”

  I leaned back in my chair, returning his gaze. “Well, you’re right about that,” I said. “I’m attracted to more fictional characters than I care to admit. And I should stay away from them because real men can’t compete.”

  Spence put his hands on the side of my desk, a slow smile forming on his lips.

  I gave him a curious look as I flipped on my computer. I needed to work on the articles about Chelsea. “What’s the smile for?”

  He pushed up off my desk and stood. “Nothing. I just think you’re probably right.”

  I’d been revising Chelsea’s feature article for an hour when a static voice came over the scanner. “All fire and emergency units respond to George Davidson’s. His corn field is on fire.”

  I didn’t wait to hear the rest of the information. Spence was out of the office. No one else could cover the story. I rushed to my SUV and sped down Main Street, passing Branson’s four fast food restaurants, two gyms, furniture store, and the town library. I hoped Officer Bob wasn’t hiding out between buildings again. Since he wasn’t, it only took me ten minutes to get to the Davidson’s farm. As I approached the scene, the scent of smoke filled the air as ashes rained down with water from the fire hoses. It looked like every ambulance, police car, and fire truck in the county had answered the call.

  I pulled onto the side of the road, grabbed my camera and notebook, and approached an officer I didn’t recognize—I hadn’t been back long enough to know who everyone was. I flashed him my press identification. He didn’t seem impressed. “I’m Kate Saxee, editor of The Branson Tribune. Can you tell me what happened here?”

  “There was a fire.”

  Hmm, you don’t say. “Can you give me any details about the fire? Do you know how it started?”

  “The incendiary device was a truck.”

  “What started the truck on fire?”

  The officer was about to answer when I heard someone call, “Kate! Kate, I’m so glad you’re here!” My mouth gaped as I turned toward the voice. “I could have died! I could’ve been burned up in that dang truck.” I hit the palm of my hand against my forehead. “I’m calling the manufacturer as soon as I get home. No engine should get hot enough to shoot sparks just from giving it a little gas.”

  I shook my head as I walked over to the ambulance where she was being treated for minor burns. I should’ve known she’d be involved in something like this. Sophie Saxee was the queen of calamity. “Exactly how much gas did you give it, Mom?”

  “Enough to try and get out of the mud I was stuck in.”

  I did a visual check of my own to make sure she was all right. The pink and white floral print dress she wore accented her curves and fell just below her knees while her chocolate colored hair spiraled in soft curls to her shoulders. Her clothes and hair had survived the fire far better than her truck.

  The paramedics were attempting to treat her, though they were in physical danger given how fast her arms were moving while she spoke.

  “Why were you stuck in the mud?” I asked.

  “Oh, it was silly,” she said, waving a hand. “I missed the turn for the Davidson’s house and drove into their field instead. They’d just watered and I don’t have four-wheel drive in reverse so I decided it would be better to just drive the perimeter of the field instead of trying to back out. I almost made it too! That one extra muddy spot by the gate got me though. But I can always get unstuck using four-wheel drive, so I gassed it. I was making progress until I started to smell something burning. I got out of the truck to open the hood. The engine was on fire! Can you believe that? Since when do car companies make engines that explode? And it wasn’t a little fire either. Sparks were jumping all over the place. I got my jacket from the truck and tried to put out the flames, but that just made the sparks jump further. Before I knew it, the Davidson’s fence was on fire. It’s a good thing they’d just watered their corn field or they would have had popcorn.”

  “Why were you using your jacket?” I asked in complete disbelief. “Last time you started a vehicle on fire Dad got fire extinguishers for every car you drive!”

  “I couldn’t find it,” she said sheepishly. I narrowed my eyes at her; Mom wasn’t very good at lying. “Okay, okay,” she said, putting her hands up, “maybe I didn’t look too hard. Those extinguishers are confusing. I was trying to think fast and get the fire out.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger and closed my eyes. “Are the burns on your arm serious?”
/>   One of the paramedics—a tall woman named Annie with short, jet black hair—answered for her. “We’ll put some cream on the burns and wrap her arm. The burns should heal in the next few weeks.”

  “Wonderful!” My mom clapped. “Kate, when you’re done taking photos, can you give me a ride home? The police are towing the truck. Oh, and let me pose for a few of the pictures. The neighbors always like proof that I’m alive after an adventure like this. Do you think this will be one of those times your dad laughs when I tell him what happened, or will he shake his head and go work on the Mustang?” My dad recently bought a silver 1966 Mustang to restore as stress relief. Considering the frequency of my mom’s bad luck, he was getting quite a bit done.

  While my mom was being tended to at the ambulance, I talked to the fire chief and the Davidsons. The fire chief had no explanation for what had happened. He said he’d never seen an engine catch fire and spread so quickly before. My mom’s truck was a charred black frame. The Davidson’s fence didn’t fare much better. After I got all the quotes, pictures, and notes I needed, I found my mom waiting patiently by my Jeep.

  She smiled like her truck bursting into flames was an everyday occurrence. She’d grown immune to the chaos she caused, but I’d been away so long I’d forgotten about it. “Thanks for the ride,” she said as we got in the Jeep and drove away from the remains of the fence and her truck. “This means I get to go truck shopping soon!”

  That’s my mom, always looking on the bright side.

  My parents live on the west side of Branson in the same area as most of The Ladies. My dad, Damon, is an electrical engineer. My mom is a housewife involved in more charities than Angelina Jolie. At one point, The Ladies tried to recruit my mom but have steered clear since they found out about her knack for attracting trouble wherever she goes. I couldn’t complain, though. If it wasn’t for my mom, Branson Falls would be even less exciting.