The Devil Drinks Coffee

by Destiny Ford

  We pulled into the driveway of their three-thousand-square-foot gray brick home. The grass was emerald green with the yard accented by plants all in a shade of red. Blood red petunias, hot pink weigela bushes, and crimson roses surrounded their front yard waterfall made from Redrock my dad got on a trip to southern Utah. The stunning colors almost made me stop wishing for the winter cold and snow. Despite the summer heat, Mom’s flowers were flourishing. It’s a good thing her bad luck doesn’t extend to her plants.

  The garage door was open, my dad’s legs sticking out from under the Mustang. He was six feet tall and resembled a tank: strong and capable of anything. I was surprised he fit under the car. The fact that he was already working on the Mustang meant he must have heard about the fire and the dead truck from the police scanner he’d bought several years ago to keep track of his wife. My mom saw him too and grabbed her purse, which she’d managed to save before the truck was completely engulfed in flames.

  “You better come with me,” Mom said. “This is a Mustang situation.”

  I nodded as we got out of the car, and followed her into the garage.

  My mom walked up to the edge of the Mustang. She looked down through the engine compartment, trying to see my dad through all the parts under the hood.

  Mom had a wide variety of emotions to pull from depending on the level of chaos she’d caused. For fire, she generally chose timid. “Hi, honey,” she said. When she didn’t get a response she continued, “Now I’m sure you probably heard about this on the scanner, but I just want you to know that I’m fine, and it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t get hurt much, and everything is okay.” The only sound that came from under the hood was the noise of a ratchet-wrench. “Well, not everything exactly, we need to go truck shopping again soon, but until then, the insurance company should give us a rental.”

  This time there was a disbelieving grunt from the garage floor. We stood there for a minute waiting to see if the grunt would be followed by anything substantial. When it wasn’t, Mom decided on another tactic. “Anyway, Kate got to cover the story, isn’t that exciting! And since she was already at the scene, I didn’t have to bother you to come pick me up.”

  Mom waited again. Finally my dad rolled out from under the car, wrench in hand. He pointed the wrench in my direction. “I’m glad you didn’t get your mother’s disaster genes.” He turned to my mom, looking her over, his eyes softening as they lingered on her bandages. “I did hear about it on the scanner. I was just hoping it wasn’t you. Wishful thinking. I’m glad you’re not seriously hurt. Not your fault…” He snorted and shook his head. “You get to explain this to the insurance company.”

  And with that, he slid back under the car.

  Mom smiled, knowing the argument was over. “Come on inside,” she said to me.

  I followed her in and sat at the cedar dining table while my mom went into the kitchen. She’d recently convinced my dad to do a home renovation—a direct result of the kitchen fire that started after she put a piece of thick bread in the toaster and the toaster exploded. It’s still a matter of contention whether the toaster incident was an accident, or something Mom did on purpose to get the three-inch thick black granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and Brazilian cherry cabinets with matching hardwood floors.

  She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a large glass pan. From this distance, it looked like it contained a lot of potatoes, butter, and cheese. I recognized it as “funeral potatoes,” a popular Utah dish topped with everything from cornflakes to bread crumbs, and given to families dealing with a death. My mom, who liked to be on the cutting edge of culinary crafts, used crushed Cheetos for her topping. The unexpected bright orange garnish made the potatoes look nuclear. “I need to take this casserole to the Bradfords,” she explained. “Julia shouldn’t worry about cooking right now.”

  I didn’t know the Bradfords, but apparently my parents did. “Are you friends with them?”

  “Of course we are! They just live around the corner.” I’d lived in an apartment during all four years of college, and for another three years after that. I couldn’t remember the name of even one of my old neighbors, let alone claim them as friends. But, small towns are different. My mom paused as she snapped a lid on the dish. “What happened to Chelsea is just awful.”

  “Did you know her?” I asked, curious.

  “I’d see her once in a while. She always had friends over and they’d have parties a lot. Cathy Young down the street said she thought Brian and Julia should be stricter with Chelsea though. Cathy used to stay up late watching out the window to find out when Chelsea was coming home—a lot of times it was after midnight.” She said ‘midnight’ like it was a naughty word. I snickered. She looked up and pointed at me. “Don’t you laugh, young lady. You know the devil comes out after twelve A.M.”

  My mom’s reaction surprised me since she’d been so trusting when I was a teenager. “You didn’t think that when I was Chelsea’s age.”

  “Oh, I thought it all right, but you wanted out of Branson Falls so bad that your dad and I knew you wouldn’t do anything stupid to jeopardize your chances of leaving.”

  Huh. Good to know. At least my parents had trusted me; that’s more than I could say for a lot of the parents in Branson. “So you think Chelsea was doing something stupid?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know what she was up to, but people talk. A lot of the boys in town were interested in her, but that doesn’t mean she did anything wrong.” This was the second time I’d heard someone mention Chelsea and boys. I needed to find out who she’d been dating. My mom continued, “She had a lot going for her, so her death has been a shock. What a horrible accident.”

  “Yes,” I agreed with my mom, “it was horrible.” Covering a death is always difficult for a reporter. I wanted to ask the Bradfords about Chelsea, but didn’t want to be insensitive either. I looked at the casserole dish and thought it might be a good way to make a connection with the Bradford family. “Can I take this to the Bradfords for you?”

  My mom smiled. “Sure, honey,” she said, handing me the pan. “That would be nice.”

  I took the potatoes out the garage door, past my dad who was still under his Mustang, and walked around the corner to the Bradford’s house. It was one of the few homes in town that actually looked like a mansion. It was red brick, and at least four levels with large turrets, a veranda that wrapped to a two-story deck at the back of the house, and sweeping views of the eastern mountains. The landscape was a rainbow of colors, though the various roses in red, pink, and orange took attention away from almost everything else.

  I stood on the front porch and rang the doorbell. I was greeted by the sound of a tenacious dog that, when the door opened, was much smaller than his bark had prepared me for.

  “What a cute puppy!” I bent down, rubbing the brown and black Yorkshire terrier behind the ears. He jumped with excitement, returning the ear rubbing favor by licking my hands. Apparently the dog’s job was only to notify of, not stop, potential intruders.

  I glanced up. Mrs. Bradford had perfectly coiffed shoulder-length blonde hair with caramel highlights. She wore white pearl earrings with a matching necklace over a baby blue cashmere shirt and cardigan. Her pressed gray pants complemented her gray and black high-heels. She smiled at me, playing the part of a good host. “His name is Cuddles. If I’m not mistaken, you’re Kate Saxee?”

  I nodded, standing up. “I am. My parents live around the corner. My mom asked me to bring this over and tell you our family is very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the dish. She glanced down at the potatoes, her brow wrinkling for half a second.

  “They’re Cheetos,” I said, feeling the need to explain why my mom’s funeral potatoes were neon. “My dad swears it’s the best potato topping ever.”

  Mrs. Bradford smiled. “My husband likes me to use crushed potato chips, so I’m sure he’ll like this.” She held open the door. “Won’t you come in?�
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  I furrowed my brow. For someone who had just lost a daughter, she didn’t seem too affected. I wondered where the grieving mother was . . . though I guess everyone deals with death differently. “Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t want to interrupt you or your time with your family.”

  She gave a pleasant smile. “You’re not interrupting.” She opened the door wide, gesturing with her hand. “Please, come in.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bradford.”

  “Call me Julia.”

  I followed Julia to her sitting room. The walls were canary yellow with cream accents, and her furniture looked antique. Her Book of Mormon and Bible were sitting on a side table. The scriptures, combined with a gold framed picture of a Mormon temple, let me know the Bradford’s were devout Mormons. I sat on an Italian, brown leather couch so plush and soft I didn’t know if I’d be able to get out of it without the Jaws of Life to extricate me.

  “Would you like something to eat or drink?” Julia asked, still standing.

  “No,” I smiled, “but thank you for asking.”

  Julia sat across from me in a chair and crossed her legs. With how far I’d sunken into the couch, I couldn’t cross anything.

  “You’re the editor of the Tribune now, correct?” Julia asked with another practiced smile.

  I nodded. “I know this isn’t a good time, but when things settle down, I’d like to talk to you more about Chelsea. We’re working on some stories for the paper. It would be nice to have input from her family members.”

  “I’m happy to answer your questions now,” she said.

  To be honest, I was a little stunned. Her daughter’s body was found two days ago. I wasn’t sure why she’d want to talk to me now. “Are you sure? I can’t imagine how difficult things must be for you. I can come back another time.”

  Julia shook her head slightly, giving me a tight lipped smile. “Talking makes it easier to deal with.”

  I wasn’t going to judge her way of grieving, and I did want to ask her some questions, so I decided to take the opportunity. “I heard she moved away five months ago. Is that right?”

  Julia gave me a slight nod. “She had a wonderful opportunity to live with some family friends and travel. She wanted to go so badly that we just couldn’t say no to her.”

  I tilted my head. “Despite the fact that it was her senior year of high school? Couldn’t she have finished school and gone on the trip later?”

  Julia gave me an assessing gaze before answering, “No. The plans were time sensitive and we didn’t want to deprive her of such an amazing experience. Opportunities to travel the world don’t come along very often.”

  “Even though it meant she wouldn’t get her high school diploma?”

  Julia gave me a smile that clearly indicated my questions were rude. “You’re only young once. We thought she should have the experience while she still could.”

  I nodded in understanding. “What were her plans after the trip?”

  Julia thought for a moment. “She was supposed to come back here and get her GED. After that, she was going to start college.”

  “So she came back from her trip early?”

  Julia held her hands tightly in her lap. “Kate—may I call you Kate?”

  “Of course,” I answered.

  “I was hoping that in talking to you it would help stem the gossip about Chelsea’s death. However, I’m not sure where exactly your questions are going. Chelsea was out of town, then came home and had an accident that caused her death. It’s as simple as that.”

  I smiled to reassure her. “I’m sorry, Julia. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Julia stood, her shoulders square and tense. “I appreciate that,” she said. “Perhaps it was a bad time for me to discuss this. Please tell your parents thank you for the casserole.”

  I nodded, using both hands to push myself out of the grip of the couch, and followed Julia. “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me.”

  Julia walked me to the door. As I stepped onto the porch, I turned. “If you’d like to talk some other time, you can reach me at the Tribune.”

  Julia’s mouth formed a strained smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Thank you,” I said again, and Julia Bradford shut the door.

  I went back to the office after picking up my Jeep from my parents’ house. I sighed as I walked into the cool Tribune office. Between the heat from the fire and the wrath of Julia Bradford, the air conditioning was a welcome relief. Spence’s voice came out of his office. “I heard about the fire on the radio, thanks for covering it. What’s the story?”

  “The story,” I said, taking my bag off my shoulder and setting it on my desk, “was my mom.”

  Spence leaned back in his chair. He put his hands behind his head as his mouth broke into a huge grin. “What did she do this time?”

  I walked across the room to Spence’s office. “She got her truck stuck in the Davidson’s field, and burned up the engine and the Davidson’s fence trying to get out of the mud.”

  Spence’s laugh started low and got louder.

  “Yeah, I know, she’s a hoot,” I said. “Anyway, I took a lot of notes so you or one of the Tribune correspondents can write the article.”

  Spence waved me off. “No, I want you to write the story.”

  This went against everything I’d learned in my media ethics class. “I can’t. She’s a relative. How will I prove I’m being objective?”

  “Kate, if we didn’t have your mom, we probably wouldn’t have a paper. She’s the subject of most news around here—at least the crazy stuff. Being away couldn’t have made you forget what a Catasophie she is.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Catasophie?”

  “That’s our nickname for her because wherever Sophie Saxee goes, a catastrophe follows.”

  “Oh, she’ll love to hear that,” I said.

  He ran a hand through his short brown hair. “Don’t tell her. She’ll probably come in to cuss us out and end up burning the office down.”

  I nodded my head as I leaned against the door to Spence’s office. Spence was probably joking, but with my mom even the most absurd things can become reality at any moment. “I had to take my mom home after the fire and ended up having an interesting discussion with Julia Bradford.”

  Spence’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. “How did that happen?”

  “I took them a casserole from my parents. She invited me in to talk about Chelsea. It was strange.”

  “What do you mean?”

  A crease formed between my eyes as I thought about all the things that had seemed off. “Usually when someone dies, especially someone so young, the house is full of family and friends and the grief is almost palpable. The Bradford’s house wasn’t like that. Julia seemed to be the only one home, and she was acting like nothing had happened—though she did get upset when my questions were more detailed than she expected.”

  Spence sat up, resting his elbows on his desk. “That’s odd. I think there’s a lot about Chelsea’s death we don’t know yet. I’ll see if I can find out more about the Bradfords.”

  I nodded in agreement and started to walk to my desk.

  “Kate, wait.”

  I turned around.

  “I don’t want to tell you what to do,” he paused like he wasn’t sure if he should keep talking, and then decided to press on, “but have you committed to working with Hawke on this story?”

  “Yeah. He got me into the crime scene, and today he’s convincing the coroner to give him the autopsy report. He’s been really helpful so far.”

  Spence picked up a file from his desk and started thumbing through it. “Be careful. Hawke isn’t some easy-going naïve guy who grew up in Branson Falls.”

  I wrinkled my brow, not sure where this conversation was heading. “Neither are you,” I pointed out.

  Spence gave me an annoyed look. “But I’m an open book. If there’s anything you want to know about me, you just have to ask. Hawke is
different. The rumors I’ve heard indicate he’s been everything from a Navy Seal to a drug lord. I think the only reason he’s not in prison is because of the information he has about important people. That, and he has a reputation for taking care of things other people won’t—he’s not afraid of anything.” Spence took a deep breath, chewing on his lip. “The bottom line is that he’s dangerous and only cares about getting what he wants.”

  Hawke, dangerous? Well, it wasn’t hard to figure out where those rumors got started. I’d only known him a couple of days and already pegged him as mysterious, intimidating, and scary—when he wanted to be. Hearing the laundry list of Hawke’s potential former jobs intrigued me even more. For some reason the knowledge that Hawke was fearless and multi-talented only made him sexier. I suddenly had the urge to envision him in the role of some of my favorite fictional crushes. I sighed a little as I daydreamed. Spence cleared his throat, bringing me back to reality.

  “Sorry about that,” I said. “I didn’t hear you. What were you saying?”

  Spence rolled his eyes—clearly my thoughts were written across my face. “I said to be careful about trusting him.”

  “Sure, no problem.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “So why do you think he’s dangerous?”

  “Drake said as much when Hawke moved to Branson a couple of years ago.”

  “You got your information from Drake?” I asked incredulously. “What makes him an expert on Hawke?”

  Spence tapped a pen on his notebook. “Ask Drake yourself. I’m sure he’d be more than willing to talk to you about it.”

  “Thanks, but the less I have to deal with Drake, the better.”

  “It’s up to you, but I’d suggest doing some homework on Hawke before making him your new best friend. He hasn’t lived in the area long and people rarely see him. I’ve heard he has houses in other cities too—not just the U.S., but around the world. He seems to travel a lot, and hasn’t really participated in town events or tried to get to know people. He keeps to himself. He’s so covert about his presence that most people don’t even realize he lives here.”