I stopped at The Cozy Cat Cafe on my way to work. The doors were open, but the place was deserted—a far cry from the hustle and bustle of yesterday’s grand opening. Fur Ball was perched on top of a cat tree in the back corner of the place. He gave a small meow in greeting.
“A customer brave enough to drink the coffee here and of course it’s Lainey Boggins,” Jake Trammel said from behind the counter.
“Good morning, Jake. I see business isn’t so booming today,” I said. I ordered a latte and watched as Jake fumbled with the coffee making.
“I guess people don’t want to visit the place where Lockwood died." His voice was gruff and emotionless.
“I don’t blame them. Everyone loved the mayor.”
“Yeah, sure. He was a real prince,” he grunted as he slid me the latte. The disdain in his voice was unmistakable. Jake Trammel wasn’t the friendliest man on a good day, but sarcasm caught me off guard.
“Is Dylan around? I have a few questions for him.”
Jake dialed numbers on a phone on the wall behind him. In a few seconds, Dylan stumbled through a doorway behind the counter. His hair was tousled to the point of disheveled. His shirt was wrinkled and his eyes drooped. He looked like he hadn’t slept. “Hi Lainey,” he said, perking up.
“Hey. Do you live here?” I asked.
“I live in the apartment upstairs,” he said, trying to sound better than he looked.
He made himself a cup of coffee and we sat in an empty booth by the door. I tried to make small talk, but he wasn’t in the mood. He wasn’t taking Mayor Lockwood’s death well, unsurprisingly.
“So, I heard from Nick DeLuca. Mayor Lockwood died because of an allergic reaction,” I said. His face dropped in shock, then confusion spread across his face. “He was severely allergic to peanuts, and they found traces in his system.”
“Are you sure?” His face contorted in a confusion.
“That’s what the detective said. I doubt he would lie about something like this to a reporter,” I said.
“It’s just that… well… I made that coffee myself…”
“I’m so sorry, Dylan. It was an accident that could’ve happened—”
“No. You don’t understand. I knew about his allergy. That’s why I made that coffee myself. With all the fancy nuts in some syrups, I wanted to make sure that none of it came in contact with the mayor. Someone must have slipped it into his coffee when I wasn’t looking.”
“Do you honestly think someone would do that? Everyone loved Mayor Lockwood,” I said. Then I remembered my exchange with Jake. And the money he owed Neil Dunn. “Almost everyone loved Mayor Lockwood.”
Chapter 5
The Aurora Heights Chronicle had been at the forefront of breaking news since the town’s inception. From elections to local bake offs, the paper was still a trusted news source. Sure, some younger residents may have gone paperless with their news, but Aurora Heights was deeply rooted in tradition, and with that comes expectations.
The paper would print tonight, which meant that it would be a busy day for everyone in the office. Phones chimed over the loud chatter of the office. Everyone was busy making calls, fact checking and putting the final touches on everything before going to print.
By now, the news had broken about Mayor Lockwood’s demise, mainly through the local grapevine since his death was a very public one. Still, it was front page material. When I got into the office, Bob was already at my desk pestering me for the story.
“Can we hold off on Mayor Lockwood? I need to do more digging,” I said as I sat down at my desk and fired up the computer.
“Hold off on the death of the Mayor? You can’t be serious Lainey. Have they determined cause of death yet? Is it suspicious?” He bellowed. He was always more stressed than usual on production day.
“Anaphylaxis. He was allergic to peanuts,” I said.
“What’s there to dig? Just write the story and have it to me as soon as possible,” he said and turned to leave.
“Wait. There’s more,” I said. This stopped him in his tracks. He motioned for me to follow him to his office. He closed the door, and I told him about my conversation with Dylan this morning.
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at,” he said. He was busy typing away at his computer while I talked. Always the multi-tasker.
“I’m saying that maybe it wasn’t an accident.”
Bob stopped typing. He leaned back in his chair as he crossed his arms over his chest, his chair squealing in protest as he did so. I could see a smile being concealed by his mustache. “I think you’re getting a little too excited about this. I know this story is big for you, but don’t you think you’re fishing for something that isn’t there?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, defensively.
“When you see the mayor die a very public death, it’s bound to be jarring. I get it. I saw my fair share of jarring things when I was a war correspondent in Afghanistan. I get why you think there might be more to this, but if the cops say there’s no foul play, I think you should respect that,” he said. His voice was stern yet gentle. This was one of his teaching moments where he imparted his wisdom on me from all his years of experience. Normally I appreciated these talks, but not today. My gut told me that in this case, he was wrong.
“But Dylan said he was careful,” I protested.
“Lainey, sometimes these things just happen. Just leave it alone. The cops know what they’re doing. If they say it was an accident, then it was an accident.”
“Right. Because dirty cops aren’t a thing?” I said with more snark than I intended.
“In Aurora Heights?” He had a point. This was the craziest thing to have happened to the sleepy little town in—ever.
With a defeated sigh, I left his office and went back to my desk. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was getting a little too excited. This was a big deal, after all. This was going on the front page and my name would be on the byline. My first front-page story. The excitement coursed through my veins like an electric shock.
I called the funeral home to see if I could get in touch with some family members—who all lived out of town. Mr. Cooper said the family wished for privacy at this time. I wasn’t surprised. I wouldn’t want to talk to a reporter at this time, either. I finished the brief story and sent it off to Bob to edit.
The rest of the day went by in a haze as everyone rushed to meet deadline. I helped with line edits and fact checking, something normally reserved for more junior reporters. After two years, I would’ve liked to have a little more responsibility at the Chronicle. Then again, my story would be front and center tomorrow, so I kept my complaining to a minimum.
This time.
Finally, at five o’clock, Bob announced the paper had been “put to bed”—all the stories were edited, all artwork had been finalized. The only thing left was for the printer to do its job. I packed up my bag and left the office with everyone else. I usually stayed behind and searched through various emails from locals sending in tips for news. A bigger newspaper wouldn’t consider any of them to be a big deal, but in Aurora Heights everything was a potential story. Today, I didn’t have it in me.
Something else kept nagging at my mind.
Instead of going home, I headed to the cafe. Something about the whole coffee situation felt off to me. Maybe it was my journalist senses tingling. Or maybe it was wishful thinking. Maybe Bob was right and Dylan was in denial about what happened to Mayor Lockwood. Still, I had a strange, nagging feeling about the coffee and the peanuts. What if someone wanted Mayor Lockwood dead and was trying to make it look like an accident? But who would do that?
As I rounded the corner to Main Street, I saw Nick DeLuca’s car parked in front of the empty cafe. Did he have the same unsettling feeling as I did? When I saw the front bay window of the cafe smashed, I knew that he wasn’t there to talk about the mayor. I got out of my car and examined the wreckage on the street. Tiny bits of sharp glass sc
attered around the sidewalk, glistening in the late afternoon sunlight. More glass littered the floor inside. A mangy brick lay innocently by Nick’s foot as he talked with a visibly agitated Dylan. Dylan waved a piece of paper in his hands as he talked frantically.
I went inside, careful to avoid the glass. Fur Ball slinked toward me from his post on a cat tree. I grabbed him and clutched him to my chest to keep him safe from the glass. I gave him a scratch behind the ears as he purred like a motor.
“What happened here?” I asked Dylan.
“Someone threw a brick through my window with this attached.” Dylan handed me the paper he was angrily waving in Nick DeLuca’s face. I took the crumpled paper from him and there in red crayon, the words Mayor Killer were written in large letters diagonally across the page. With an exasperated sigh, Dylan pulled up a chair and sunk into it. Fur Ball meowed at his owner and I set him down on the table so he could console his human.
“First the mayor dies, now the place is getting vandalized? What the hell, DeLuca?” I said, turning to the detective.
Nick’s jaw visibly clenched as he glared at me. As usual. “It’s probably just some kids thinking they’re funny,” he groaned.
“Did Dylan mention that he was careful about the mayor’s coffee yesterday?” Placing my hands on my hips, I tried to make myself as big as possible. Next to his commanding stature, I had my work cut out for me, but whatever. He was going to have to deal with me.
Nick waved my comment away like it was an annoying fly buzzing around his head. “We’ve already ruled it an accident. It happens sometimes. And kids are jerks. This is hardly newsworthy,” he said.
“Then why is a detective here?” I asked, eying him with suspicion.
His jaw relaxed as a small, sly smile crept across his face. “It’s a slow day and I’m bored, alright? Quit looking for crime where there is none. There are better ways to impress the captain of the football team.” My skin turned hot, and I felt my cheeks turning a million shades of red. I wanted to say something—anything—but words caught in my throat.
“For your information, I was captain of the lacrosse team,” Dylan said, dryly.
“Whatever. I’ll call you if I have anything,” Nick said and sauntered out of the cafe.
“What happened here? Are you alright?” I pulled up a chair and sat down by him.
“Yes, I’m fine. I don’t know what happened. I had my back turned when I heard the window smashing. I ran outside, but I didn’t see anyone.” With a hefty sigh, Dylan buried his face in his hands. “What am I going to do? How did I become the town pariah?”
“I’m sure it’ll blow over,” I lied. Small towns had a habit of holding onto these kinds of things for a very long time.
He looked at me with strained eyes, but that movie-star smile spread across his face. He took my hand that rested on the table and gave it a gentle squeeze. My skin prickled and the heat in my cheeks returned, but for a different reason this time. “Thanks, Lainey,” he said.
“Listen,” I said, taking my hand away before it melted in his palms. “I was thinking about what you said earlier. About how careful you were with the coffee. Something in my gut is telling me that there’s something more to Mayor Lockwood’s death than just an accident.”
“As in murder?”
“I don’t know. But I think it’s up to us to find out.”
Chapter 6
“I’m not sure I’m qualified for this kind of detective work.” Dylan stood up and walked behind the counter to fish out a broom. He began sweeping up the broken glass, careful not to scratch the polished hardwood floor.
“Which is exactly the reason why we should investigate this. How many people do you think would willingly talk to DeLuca without a lawyer present?” I thought about Nick DeLuca and his strong body that was probably shaped at the gym seven days a week. His chiseled jaw was so sharp it looked like it could cut through butter. The man was more than intimidating.
Dylan bit his lower lip as he thought about what I said. He was still focused on sweeping up the mess, but I could see a spark igniting behind his eyes. “You might have a point. Besides, the last thing I want is a reputation for being a mayor killer. I would love to clear my name.”
“So, you’re in? You want to find out what happened to Mayor Lockwood?” My body buzzed with excitement. I was going to be a real investigative journalist.
Dylan stopped sweeping. His hazel eyes sparkled an almost emerald green as the sunlight hit his face, illuminating his handsome looks. After a pause that seemed like forever, he said “okay. Let’s find out what happened to Mayor Lockwood.”
I squealed with happiness as I jumped up and did a small celebratory dance. Dylan laughed as I punched the air victoriously while shuffling my feet. I didn’t care if I looked dumb. If I could prove that something more nefarious happened than a simple mistake, my journalism career could skyrocket. Plus, I get to spend time with Dylan frickin’ Sawyer, captain of the lacrosse team. And do I even need to mention how sweet it would be to rub it in DeLuca’s smug face when I prove that I can do his job better than he could?
Then again, this was all coming at the expense of a man’s life. The pang of guilt in my stomach made me stop my dance. Brian Lockwood, mayor of Aurora Heights had ceased to exist. Flashes of the man’s life being snuffed out by coffee came at me and I fought off tears.
All the more reason to find a killer.
I spent the rest of the afternoon helping Dylan clean up the broken glass from the store, then swept up the small shards on the sidewalk. Aurora Heights prided itself on having pristine sidewalks. The streets in this town were so clean people joked that you could eat off of them. No one actually would, but it sure impressed the tourists.
We found cardboard to patch up the hole in the front window. “That would have to do until I can get it replaced,” Dylan said as he put the last bits of tape on the cardboard to hold it in place.
The cardboard window was so out of place against the shiny new flooring and gleaming tabletops. The exposed brick gave the cafe that old world charm that tourists loved about the town. Mixed with the warm yellow lighting of the large light bulbs that hung from the ceiling, the cafe felt cozy, yet modern; vintage chic is what I heard people call it. It would be a shame to see this place close down before it had a chance. Tourist season was almost under way and the cat cafe would be such a hit.
As I was admiring the high ceiling of the place, I noticed the security cameras hanging strategically between the light bulbs. Of course. “Dylan? I think I know just where to start our investigation,” I said, pointing to the security camera hanging above me.
“Oh. Right,” he said, though with less enthusiasm than I was hoping for. His eyes shifted away from me quickly and he ran his fingers through his hair, stopping to give his head a nervous scratch now and then. He was hiding something.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Well… the thing is… it’s not exactly hooked up.”
“What do you mean it’s not hooked up?”
“I mean I haven’t had a chance to get the security company to come out and get the cameras recording. I’ve been so busy with the opening, it got away from me. I thought I would have a chance when I got into a normal routine. I didn’t think anything major would happen until then, anyway. I never anticipated someone dying in my shop.”
“Good point,” I said. And here I was, thinking we had our first lead. “Okay, let’s think. Who would want Major Lockwood dead?”
“No one,” Dylan said with a snort.
I wasn’t as convinced. Grandma Gertie mentioned something about gambling debts. Then it hit me. “Jake. We have to talk to Jake.”
“I told you, I was the only one who touched the coffee. I told Jake about the Mayor’s allergy and to make sure no syrup goes into the coffee. Besides, do you really think Jake Trammel could have something to do with this?” Dylan said.
I remembered his surly attitude to news of Lockwood dying. He d
idn’t seem all that sad about it. “I don’t know, but it’s a start. Maybe he saw something suspicious.”
“Okay. Let’s go talk to Jake Trammel.”
✽✽✽
Dusk had settled on Aurora Heights. The soft golds and pinks peeked through the mountains in my rear-view mirror as we drove to Jake Trammel’s place. He lived in the trailer park about a mile past the old quarry. We drove on a dirt road, kicking up dust at the setting sun behind.
Jake’s trailer looked a little run-down and worn compared to some of the others in the area, which all had clean siding and well manicured lawns. In the evening air, Jake’s property had a sinister feel to it with all the old construction equipment littering the front of his place. A poorly maintained place didn’t make him a killer, though.
We knocked on the door and heard Jake shuffling about before he answered. The smell of liquor wafted from the place like it was a brewery as he opened the screen. “Wacha want?” Jake barked as he poked his head out. He glared at us through glassy, red eyes.
“Hi Jake,” I said, giving him my best smile. “I’m working on a story about what happened at the cafe yesterday. We were just wondering if we could sit down and ask you a few questions?”
“I didn’t kill the mayor if that’s what yer askin’” he said and gave a hearty laugh that people laugh when they’ve had too much to drink.
“No, we don’t think that,” I said, as if the idea was preposterous. I hadn’t even mentioned foul play and he was already jumping to conclusions. “We just want to know if you saw anything.”
Jake waved us into his trailer and we followed him through the tiny foyer into his living room. He sat down in a worn, old, yellow armchair that was stained with years of being used as a dinner table. A shabby brown couch was next to it; it too had seen better days. We slinked onto the couch as Jake turned off the small television he had been watching. Paper plates and old beer bottles littered the thin, rough carpet beneath us. The only light in the place was the low dim of a lamp on the side table; it cast shadows on the old, drunk man that aged him at least ten years.
Dark Roasted to Death Page 3
