The Devil Drinks Coffee

by Destiny Ford

  “He has a pretty fancy car for someone trying to stay on the down-low.”

  Spence shrugged. “I’m just telling you what I’ve heard. Don’t let him convince you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

  The idea of letting Hawke convince me to do those things was actually pretty appealing. “I’ll do my best,” I said, sitting down at my desk and opening my email.

  Spence nodded once like we’d reached some sort of agreement and stood up, grabbing his wallet from his desk. I did a double-take. I’d never noticed before, but the dark brown and red linear check design with brown leather trim almost looked like the latest Burberry. He wasn’t a woman, so I had a hard time believing he’d spent three-hundred dollars on a wallet. Maybe he got it on sale, or just didn’t realize it was designer. Spence interrupted my thoughts, “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. I’m going to grab us some dinner.”

  The thing I like most about my friendship with Spence is that it just feels comfortable. And truthfully, it’s nice to have a comrade who isn’t already married with babies. I’m pretty sure I’m missing the mom gene because I don’t find potty training and bed times remotely interesting. The fact that I’m twenty-five and unmarried is scandalous—around Branson I’m considered an old maid. I leaned back, shifting my eyes away from the computer screen. “That sounds really good.”

  Spence walked out of his office throwing his keys in the air and catching them. “One grilled cheese and an Oreo shake to dip your fries in, coming up.”

  I smiled. Between working on stories, editing, and doing the paper layout each week, Spence and I often ate our meals in the office. I had a specific order for each restaurant and my order never changed. “You know me so well.”

  Spence grinned. “I’ll be back.”

  I was working on my mom’s exploding truck story when I heard the bell on the front door ring. I looked up and saw Ella making her way to the archive room.

  “Ella, what are you doing here so late?”

  “I forgot my dang glasses again,” she said, slapping her hand on the top of a desk.

  “How have you been getting around without them?” I asked, slightly worried.

  “Well they’re just little reading glasses, it’s not like I need them to walk,” she said as she bumped into a chair.

  I steadied her, pushing the chair out of the way. “You sure about that?”

  “Course I am! They’re in the back room. I’ll be gone in a jiffy so you can get home.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m working and Spence will be back soon with dinner.”

  Ella stopped and turned. “Did you say Spence? You’re havin’ dinner with him?”

  “Yeah. We’re working late so he left to get some food for us.”

  Ella’s mouth morphed into a sly little smile. “Maybe you’re just the thing he needs to get all the women around here to stop callin’ him a menace to society.”

  I shook my head as I rearranged some papers on my desk. “I’m pretty sure Spence and I share the same opinion on relationships. I think we’re both happy to just have a friend who isn’t hell-bent on getting hitched.”

  Ella stared at me with an assessing expression. “We’ll see,” she called in a sing-song voice as she walked away to retrieve her glasses.

  I hit save on the Mom-torches-truck article as Ella came back into the room. “Did you park out front?” I asked.

  “Yep,” she answered.

  “I’ll walk you out,” I offered. I followed her, and was about to ask where her car was parked when I saw it: a cherry red Lexus convertible sitting on the sidewalk in the newly installed disabled access curb. “Ella!” I cried. “Why is your car on the sidewalk?”

  She shrugged and kept walking. “I needed to park but there weren’t any open spots. This was plenty big enough.”

  “This,” I gestured toward the lowered area of curb with both arms, “is for disabled people to get on the sidewalk.”

  “I didn’t see any of ’em. I looked. I knew I wouldn’t be here long and figured if anyone needed to get on the sidewalk, they could either wait, or go to the end of the block.”

  I closed my eyes, sighing. “I think you’re missing the point of the curbing.”

  “No harm, no foul,” she said, opening her door.

  “You’re lucky Officer Bob didn’t see this,” I said, pointing to her car.

  She waved my comment off. “Even if he did, he wouldn’t have bothered me about it. I make him key lime pies to get out of tickets.”

  Geez! Was the whole town bribing the Branson Falls police force? I could add that to the list of stories I needed to investigate. And since I was already thinking of investigations . . . “Ella, do you know Chelsea Bradford’s parents well?”

  Ella folded her arms on top of the Lexus’ soft roof. “I know a fair bit. Her mom’s one of The Ladies.”

  I nodded. “I’ve been doing some research about Chelsea. You said her parents took her out of school so she could travel, but the timing seems strange. She left Branson right before she was supposed to graduate from high school.”

  “Yep, that’s what I’ve heard.”

  “And until her body was found, no one had seen her since she left.”

  “I think I’m the one who told you that,” Ella answered.

  “Did you know she was dating a guy? He’s supposed to be some politician’s son.”

  “Heard that too.”

  I stared at her as I heaved an exasperated sigh. “Is there anything else you’ve heard that I should know?”

  Ella tilted her head, thinking. “I’d try to find out who the boy is if I were you. I don’t know much about politicians, but I can tell you someone who does. Dylan Drake. And from what I’ve heard, you two are practically dating.”

  My mouth dropped. “What? Who told you that?”

  “The Ladies were all talkin’ about Dylan whisperin’ in your ear at Emerald Lake. None too happy about it, either. They don’t want one of the most eligible bachelors in the state to go off the market. Some of them aren’t married right now. You’re messin’ with their husband huntin’ plans.”

  “We are not dating! In fact, before two days ago, I’m pretty sure he didn’t even know who I was.”

  “That’s not true,” Ella said. “Before you got back to town Drake came in to the office to place an ad and was askin’ Spence about the new editor. Spence mentioned your name and Drake recognized you.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “That’s impossible. He must have mistaken me for a cheerleader. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’re not dating. Not at all. Let The Ladies know.”

  Ella nodded. “If you say so.” She took her arms off the car. “But Dylan Drake is your best bet for findin’ out who Chelsea Bradford’s boyfriend is.”

  I wrinkled my nose. I really didn’t want to ask Drake for help. “Do you think any of The Ladies would talk to me . . . other than you, I mean?”

  Ella shrugged as she got in her car. She poked her head out of the window. “You can try, but don’t expect to get much information. Most of The Ladies keep things quiet, and they’re good at protectin’ their own.”

  “Was that Ella?” Spence asked a few minutes later, as he walked in and put our food on the treat table by the water cooler.

  I grabbed some napkins and took the food out of the bag. “Yeah. She forgot her glasses.”

  Spence shook his head, smiling. “She was probably trying to get information about you for The Ladies.”

  I looked up at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re the new girl in town. And you have a couple of pretty eligible bachelors who can’t seem to leave you alone. Next to your mom, you’re the most interesting thing to happen around here.”

  I rolled my eyes as I sat. “Speaking of that, Ella seems to think I might be the girl who takes you off the “menace to society” list.”

  Now Spence was the one to stop and stare. “What?”

  I popped a
fry in my mouth. “You know, because you’re over twenty-five and still not married. In Utah, and especially Branson, that makes you dangerous.”

  Spence snorted. “Not to women,” he mumbled. Then he froze, realizing he’d spoken out loud. I understood how he felt because I occasionally had the same problem with words that didn’t stay in my head.

  A realization suddenly hit me. “Oh my gosh! Spence, are you gay?”

  He pursed his lips tightly, looking at everything but me.

  “So that’s why our flirtation never got anywhere!” His expression said he wasn’t excited about this conversation. At all. “Good Lord! Why would you choose to live in a place like Branson? People here still believe they can shock the gay out of someone! Why aren’t you in Salt Lake at least?”

  Deciding I wasn’t just going to let this go, he finally met my eyes. “I wanted to be a newspaper publisher, Kate. It’s not every day a person gets a chance to buy a paper people still actually read.”

  Okay, I could see that, but still. “I assume no one else knows?”

  “Not anyone here.”

  And for good reason. People would stop buying the paper if they found out. Well, first they’d try to “fix” him. When that didn’t work, he’d probably be harassed and run out of town. “So, you’re going to keep this secret for the rest of your life?”

  “For the immediate future at least.” He took a deep breath. “I’m hoping people will become more open-minded.”

  I didn’t want to discourage him, but I get harassed for drinking coffee. Sodomy is far higher on the Branson sin list than hot drinks.

  “Does it bother you?” he asked me.

  I stared at him, shocked. “No way! I don’t care about that. I don’t think it’s right to judge anyone, and I’m a huge supporter of equal rights.” I smiled. “I’d be a bigger supporter if I got a bigger paycheck.”

  He laughed, the lines of tension around his eyes and mouth falling away.

  “Hey, I’m just happy to have a gay friend to consult with again. I miss that. And in case you haven’t noticed, between the Ladies and Drake and Hawke, I need all the help I can get.”

  “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “you know my feelings on Hawke. But,” he paused and grinned. “As far as sex goes, I don’t think you could go wrong with either one of them.”

  I gave him a light punch to the shoulder. “It’s really too bad you’re not in the running. I have a thing for Daniel Sunjata.”

  He smiled. “I think it’s helped having you here. You and I have good chemistry. People see that and don’t wonder as much about why I’m not in a relationship.”

  I totally understood that line of reasoning. “Well, we’ll keep up the charade for as long as we can.”

  He stared at me. “You don’t mind?”

  I shrugged. “No. I’m not in a relationship. It’s not hurting me, and it helps you.”

  Spence seemed stunned at first, but smiled as he replied, “You’re definitely a catch, Kate Saxee. If I weren’t gay, I’d be fighting for you too.”

  I smiled and leaned back in my chair, enjoying the rest of my milkshake, and the company.

  Later that night I was watching reruns of The Office while I checked my email. When I finished deleting the latest chain letter from my mom, the thought crossed my mind that maybe I should take Spence’s advice and try to find out more about Hawke—especially since it seemed like he knew so much about me.

  I typed “Ryker Hawkins” into Google. After wading through some websites that had nothing to do with Hawke, I came across his name in a photo. He was dressed in a completely black suit, wearing black sunglasses, and looked like a member of the Secret Service. He was surrounded by four other men who seemed just as intimidating as him. According to the photo caption, Hawke was shaking hands with the ambassador of Spain. An article accompanied the photo on the left side of the screen. I read through it and found out Hawke had spoiled an assassination attempt on the ambassador. The man was thanking Hawke in the photo. My first thought was, Holy hell! Who is Hawke?

  I found a few more stories about him: Hawke receiving an award for civic service, Hawke volunteering for the Special Olympics, Hawke reading to patients at a children’s hospital. Everything I saw made my opinion of Hawke shoot higher. I couldn’t figure out what Spence—and apparently Drake—had against him, but decided it didn’t matter. I didn’t need Google to tell me Hawke was one of the few good men still left in the world. I’d be happy to be his partner anytime he wanted me to.

  Chelsea’s funeral was scheduled for three days after her body was found. I wasn’t sure why the Bradfords were pushing to have everything done so quickly, but in a small town it’s not unheard of. The viewing was held before the funeral at the Gregory Mortuary, a white brick building in the middle of town.

  The inside of the mortuary is decorated in earth tones; caramel colored paint matches carpet on the floor in shades of brown and white. I stood in a corner taking in the light, sweet scent of flowers from the arrangements scattered throughout the viewing room. I watched as people moved through a long line past Chelsea’s pink and black coffin and paid their respects to her family. The high school students in line were clearly shaken by Chelsea’s death. As soon as the teenagers finished speaking with Chelsea’s family they moved toward the back wall of the mortuary where they stood in a circle consoling each other.

  I noticed the girl from the high school office standing in the group of teenagers. She had streaks of mascara running down her cheeks. Her hair was pulled up in a French twist, highlighting the makeup that had streamed off her face with her tears. She was being comforted by a tall boy with auburn hair who had his back to me. He held the girl from the office tightly with his arm around her back as she cried into his shoulder. Another blonde girl held her hand, trying to console her. The office girl’s reaction was typical of someone going through heartbreaking grief. She must have been close to Chelsea. I thought back to a couple of days ago when I’d been asking her about Chelsea’s school records. No wonder the girl had seemed quiet. She was still getting over the shock.

  I turned my attention to the Bradfords, watching who they talked with. So far, it was a typical viewing. No suspicious behavior to speak of.

  Once viewing hours were over, Chelsea’s body was moved to the Mormon Church around the corner for the funeral service. I followed the crowd, slowly walking to the church. Martha Chester was there, as well as other people I knew. I nodded to them in acknowledgment and they nodded back, respecting the somber tone. I felt a strange connection to this girl I’d never known, but still, I didn’t feel like I had a right to be at the final celebration of her life. I found a seat in the chapel, on the back pew.

  There wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Several young girls were sobbing uncontrollably. The Ladies were there to support Julia Bradford and several men in expensive suits kept patting Brian Bradford on the back, offering condolences. As the service was about to start, I felt a hand on my shoulder and a large body slide in next to mine. Hawke was wearing a charcoal suit with a cut so tailored and fabric so rich it was clearly from a designer. His tie had an alternating pattern of black, green, and silver that brought out the color of his eyes. He looked mouthwatering. I took a moment to discreetly check my chin for drool. He leaned toward me whispering, “We need to talk to those kids.”

  I stared at him, completely shocked at his lack of emotion for the girl who had died so young. “Seriously, that’s the first thing you think of?” I hissed.

  He gave me a look. “We’re not here to grieve. We’re here to find out what happened. You’re a reporter; you’re not supposed to have scruples.”

  “Nice stereotype.”

  He shrugged. “Prove me wrong.”

  I shook my head. “Where did you come from anyway? I haven’t seen you all day.”

  “I’ve been here . . . watching, just like you.” He scanned the crowd in front of us with the precision of a sniper. I wondered if maybe that was one of the jobs
in his repertoire. “I particularly liked the view when you dropped your purse.”

  I gasped and punched him in the shoulder. A few people sitting in the pew in front of us turned around to glare. “Sorry,” I whispered to them. I noticed the corners of Hawke’s mouth twitch a little.

  I leaned in so my mouth was right next to his ear. “Did you learn anything from your sneaky spying?”

  He didn’t look at me as he answered, “Aside from the fact that you don’t have visible panty lines?”

  I considered punching him again. “I don’t want to hear any more about my ass…or my underwear. I want to know about the story.”

  “I’m still spying,” he said, his eyes resting on the group of teenagers all sitting together six benches in front of us. “I’ll let you know if someone hits me over the head and says they killed her.”

  The service started with a prayer and some words from members of Chelsea’s extended family. There was a musical number, a reading from The Book of Mormon, a eulogy, and then the microphone was opened up for members of the audience to share their memories of Chelsea. I was surprised by this since Mormon funerals are usually pretty structured and only people who have been asked by the family are allowed to speak. As people got up and told stories of the girl they had known, I couldn’t help but feel like I knew her too.

  At first, only friends of Chelsea’s parents spoke, but after a while, kids from the group of teenagers got out of their seats. One boy spoke about Chelsea and a group of friends toilet papering the yard of one of their favorite teachers. A girl smiled as she recalled how much Chelsea had loved being on the dance team. Another girl mentioned Chelsea’s acting skills and amazing voice.

  Hawke and I both listened intently to the things the teenagers were saying. I had a feeling if we were going to get a break in the story, the information would come from one of these kids. Teenagers who, like all other kids their age, probably knew Chelsea better than her parents did.