by D. J. Lutz
“Oh, Winnie. This will sound bad, I know, but, I was almost hoping you wouldn’t be here.”
“Frannie, I work here, remember? If you were trying to hide from me, you picked an awful spot. Listen, my grandmother made you some special tea. Want some? The cinnamon will make you feel better.” I poured the fresh tea into the cup already at the place setting. I didn’t bother to wait for an answer.
“It will take more than cinnamon, I think. You wouldn’t have a spare gallon of vodka around somewhere, would you?”
“I’m afraid we are fresh out, but the tea will help. I’m no expert on the subject, Fran, but people say tea can warm your heart. Try it. Just a sip. Please? What can it hurt?”
“Well, it can’t hurt any worse. Can tea mend a broken heart?”
We had arrived at the root of the problem much sooner than I had expected. The empty chair across the table told me everything I needed to know.
“I’m guessing things didn’t work out with you and Tricia?”
Francine took a sip of tea and straightened her back, bringing her blank stare back up to my eye level.
“How did you find out?” she asked. “I thought we had been very discreet.”
I slid into the empty chair. “You only booked one room at the Seagull’s Nest, and I’ve been there before. I know there is just one bed in each room. I assumed you were the happy couple. Maybe not, I see now.”
“We’ve been the happy couple for over a year now. I started out as Tricia’s assistant but, well, you know, she’s nice, and attractive, and just a few years older than me, and we like a lot of the same things. It sort of just . . . happened.”
The tears flowed again. I offered Fran a cloth napkin. By the time she finished wiping her eyes, my white linen was streaked with the last remnants of her mascara. I stole another napkin from the adjoining table. Might as well be prepared, I thought.
I had a lot on my agenda with the job fair, plus the minor little detail about my grandmother being charged with murder, or soon to be, at least. But Fran was my friend, and my grandmother’s advice kept gnawing at me. My former roommate needed to be the priority at that moment. Everything else was beyond my control for the time being.
“So Fran, if everything was going so well, what changed? Is there another woman, or man?”
“I’m just not sure what all is going on. All I know is that everything was great until we packed up our recruiting booth at the Richmond job fair. Oh, and I don’t think we, I mean Tricia, is still planning on that job fair here at your place. I’m so sorry we wasted your time, Winnie.”
“You did not waste my time, Francine. Had none of this happened, you would have driven to your office in D.C., and I would not have sat down and chatted with you again. Whatever the reason this has all happened, I am glad we are here, right now. I’m ready to listen whenever you are ready to talk about it.”
“You were always a good listener, Winnie. Maybe you should talk to Tricia. I bet you could get the truth out of her faster than I could. I tried asking her what the problem was, and she cried, saying we had to break it off. Then she left. Gone. Like we never happened.”
“So she’s gone? Really gone? Where’d you last see her?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer to my last question. It was not as if I had time to solve another mystery. But Fran was my friend, my best friend, and I would just have to find a balance somehow.
Fran took a sip of tea; I could see her loosening her shoulders down from the tight hunch they had been holding for who knew how long.
“Tricia went outside to get something from the car and never came back. When I went out to see what happened to her, I found a note and an envelope full of cash sitting on the front seat of the car. I drove around for over an hour, figuring she would walk out to the highway to hitch a ride. No sign of her.” Francine’s eyes welled up again. “Then I ran out of gas and had to walk back to town. I can’t even look for her now!”
I glanced at the envelope. It was a normal business reply envelope, a number 9 in size. An embossed watermark adorned the back flap. Below, someone scribbled a few words:
I’m so very sorry—T
I wasn’t sure what the watermark meant, since it wasn’t a traditional set of initials, or a company name. The emblem seemed to be a pair of diamonds, laterally offset about 30 percent in a bizarre Venn diagram. The cash? A payoff from someone. My guess, at least. I didn’t know how involved Fran and Tricia’s relationship had become. Joint bank account? Too soon, maybe. Then I laughed. Not a big laugh, but enough to elicit a response from my guest.
“I’m surprised you think this is so funny.” Francine had a scowl that could stop freight train in its tracks.
“Oh, it’s not you. I was thinking of something else.”
Before Fran could put sense to my words, I explained, taking her hands in mine and telling her the news she wanted to hear.
“The good news is this: Tricia still loves you. I think she did what she did only because she thought it was the best thing to do, perhaps the only thing to do. Give it some time, Fran, and I bet we can get you two back together.” I didn’t know this to be fact. I was just confident in my not–so–educated guess. My fingers crossed themselves.
“Do you think so? I mean, the only place I think she would have gone is the office, but she left our only car. But then again, she could have walked anywhere, I suppose.”
Panic resurfaced. “Winnie, you don’t think she would hitchhike somewhere, do you? That’s so dangerous. And besides, can you even afford to take time off right now?”
To her point, Fran was right. I knew leaving the area to search for Tricia, even for a few days, was neither practical nor wise. The looming probability of seeing my grandmother sent to prison made me think twice.
I couldn’t ignore the bread and butter of the café, either. Money had to come in somehow, and lawyers aren’t cheap. This would complicate my response to Mint Street Bankers, assuming they would ever call back. I hadn’t realized it, but I had palmed my cell phone again to check for new emails. I didn’t really want the office job, but their paycheck would come in handy.
“Winnipeg Marie Kepler! Snap back to reality, will you?”
I knew I had lost sight of my priorities when my best friend had to resort to the middle name call–out.
Fran didn’t let up. “Well? What do you think? Is this wishful thinking on my part? Am I left with nothing?”
“It’s not happening,” I said, answering my own internal question as my response to Mint Street, assuming they would call again.
“Oh, I see,” Francine said, looking down into the teacup, hoping that the leaves would tell her a new fortune. Not finding a swizzle stick, she stirred cinnamon sticks around the edges of the teacup as she bit her lower lip. Fran was in fight–or–flight mode and had chosen the latter. She reached down for her purse, starting an impromptu exit plan.
“Fran, I’m sorry. I’m just not that good a listener right now.”
I had to re–establish a connection with my friend. The cell phone had to go away, and I needed to focus on Fran, her problems. The job could wait. She was a good friend; and like Velma had taught me, she was a good friend for a reason. I couldn’t lose her now.
“What I meant to say was—”
Even Fran looked surprised at my inability to articulate my thought. I spewed the only words my brain could muster.
“Fran, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean you. Can you forgive me?”
Fran gave me the look; the same look she gave me when I tried, against her advice, those shots of tequila before our first Phi Delta Sigma meeting. I knew the look. She had forgiven me, but Fran also wanted me to know she had the old “I told you so” ready to go at any moment.
Fran muted her words enough so others couldn’t hear, which was odd in my mind, since there were no other customers. “So, me. And Trish? You were saying?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” I said. “I think you two still have something as far as a relati
onship goes. And I think we can get it right again, but going to her office isn’t the best idea right now. I don’t think Tricia is there. May not be safe.”
The entirety of the situation, the murder, the unannounced visit of Fran and her now–missing friend; it all pointed to one conclusion. Time was now running short.
“Where else would she go?”
“The answer may be right in front of us,” I said, giving the plain envelope another glance. “Tell me about Richmond. How were things going? Meet anyone interesting there? Maybe someone Tricia spoke with, but you didn’t?”
“We have a system, Winnie. At the job fairs, I chat up the college kids who are not sure what they want to do in life. And there are tons of them. The pre–meds and pre–laws? Not worth our time. We go for the liberal arts majors. Art history, music, even English majors. They’re smart kids but not easily mixed into the business world. Anyway, they’re still kids, just a few years younger than us, and that means they’re hungry.”
“Oh Fran. I understand the hunger for the right career. Velma has had me shopping at that deli for over a year now.”
“Well, yes, figuratively,” Fran said. “But what I meant was hungry, as in they wanted something to eat. I’d let them know we had coupons for free food at our booth. Once they heard the word free, they would come over in droves.”
While Fran was explaining the intricacies of bait–and–switch recruiting tactics along with the follow–on data mining exploitation, I kept looking at the embossed image on the envelope. No ink, just the raised edge of some corporate icon. Not even a return address. I had seen this image somewhere before, I just couldn’t place it. Yet.
“Fran, when you were walking around, did you pick up any literature from the other vendors?”
“Oh, sure,” she said. Francine opened her black leather portfolio, showing me a jumble of business cards and company brochures. “I try to find something from every company we come in contact with. You never know when we may need a contact name, and it helps if I can converse about something we all have in common. What better opening to a conversation than mentioning I liked their booth at some job fair? Anything look of interest to you?”
I felt like a newly–deputized Agatha Christie as I paged through pamphlets from accounting firms, government contractors, and more temp agencies than I cared to count. “Francine, did someone from this company come over to your booth?”
I pulled a fancy brochure from the pile and handed it over to Francine. Their logo matched the embossing on the envelope.
“Why, yes, but not at first. In fact, since they had such a huge booth, more like a small store, we didn’t even think to stop by and see them. These guys had their own hiring department and recruiting staff, so we figured they would not need our services. They wandered over, but they only spoke with Tricia.”
“Why would a huge corporation take an interest in your little recruiting company if they had their own hiring department? Perhaps they wanted to offer you both jobs, you know, get rid of the competition by bringing them into the fold. Why do you think they did that, Francine?”
Before she could answer, Velma walked up. “Winnie, someone from a coin company just called. They wanted to speak with you but I told them you were busy. He left a number, though.”
“A coin company? I don’t know anyone from a coin company. I only collected stamps as a kid.”
“They said something about coins, I’m sure of it.”
“Was it Mint Street Bankers? I never gave them the business number, just my cell phone.” This put a whole new light on my priority list. Lawyers cost money, and a job with Mint Street could be instrumental in saving Velma from a long prison sentence.
“‘Mint,’ that’s right, like minting a coin.”
The news started my hand twitching again with nervous excitement. The job offer must have been superb if someone went to the trouble of finding out where I worked and then placed the call anyway.
“Winnie, you go on. At least talk to them.” Francine said. “Who knows? If your train is at the station, maybe you should get on board before it leaves.”
I then had one of those moments of clarity. Francine had solved the mystery. At least, one of them.
Almost dropping the teapot, I said “Francine, you’re a genius. I know where to find Tricia.”
I slid my phone into my back pocket. There was just enough time. I hoped. Walking over to the cash register, I took out a few twenty–dollar bills. “Come on, woman. You’re taking a little trip.”
We went outside, stopping at the curb. I looked across the street, and with a simple wave of my hand, Operation Reunion started. I hailed a cab from the taxi stand outside the old Northampton Hotel, one block away. The driver was in front of us seconds later.
“Where to, Miss?”
“Oh, I’m not the one needing a ride today. But my friend here? She does. Needs to be at the Harbor Park Amtrak station in Norfolk before the next train leaves. Can you get there in time?”
“The next train leaves in an hour,” he said. “We should be able to get there just before the Northeast Regional leaves for all points north.”
Turning toward Fran, I said, “Go to the train station. Once you get there, walk up the ramp to the platform and move to the far right where the business passengers will be standing. Work your way down about four cars from the end. You’ll find Tricia there. My guess is you will find her in the ’Quiet Car’ between the business class and coach sections. She’ll want to cry in silent peace.”
Fran was almost crying herself. It was all she could do to drop herself into the cab and buckle her seatbelt. I knew it would soon get better, much better, for my friend. And her friend.
I forked over three twenties to the driver. “This should be enough to get there, and then bring her and her friend back here to Seaview. If it’s not, come into the café. The next meal is on me.”
As I watched the taxi leave, the backseat occupant kept looking through the rear window. I could see the mismatch of emotions in Francine’s eyes. Happiness on the one hand, fear of emotional torment on the other. Crossing my heart, I prayed I had made the right choice.
Velma had been watching the two of us with a keen interest. She asked if the Cat and Fiddle was now subsidizing the local transportation industry. I guess I had not been too slick, or slick enough, when I nicked the cash out of the register. At least she waited until Fran left before she brought the subject up.
“Just greasing the squeaky wheels in a matter of the heart,” I replied.
“Sometimes no amount of money can stop that kind of noise, Winnie. I hope it all works out. But what about that phone call? Weren’t you expecting it?”
The phone call. Will I choose an office or a lunch counter as my career and future? And can I keep the friendship of Francine?
“Yes, grandma, but about that call. What I mean to say is yes, I’ll get right back to them. But like you said, no amount of money can stop anyone’s heart from squeaking. Breaking, however, may be a better word for it, I guess. And Francine’s wheels have been squeaking badly. The bank can wait.”
12
Bright rays of sun crossed the floor, pushing the shadows of the tables and chairs into long, thin slivers. The day was not over, but time was moving away from midday. It was already time to prep for dinner, and I wanted to get everything done so I could walk back to the Seagull’s Nest. Suspect number two was next up on the menu. I had my priorities, and the bank was still not at the top of my list.
On most days, I could take my time prepping the food for the next meal. First, I would put the pot roast on the stove to slow cook throughout the afternoon, and then boil the potatoes. But today was different. I had taken the time away from my normal duties to bird–dog George in the morning, and now the dishwasher and aspiring chef Cosmo Finnegan was about to cook for the judges. I couldn’t miss the opportunity to size him up as a suspect.
I tried my best to finish the prep work, but some things just di
d not get done. As I walked out to the front sidewalk, I picked up a dish rag to erase a few items off the chalkboard menu by the front door. Why advertise it if you can’t serve it, right? Velma walked out to see what I had done. We had a short planning meeting where we agreed that Velma was comfortable handling the rush without me. As I was leaving, Velma reminded me that she had kept the place going just fine by herself before I came home from college. Well played, Grandma. Well played.
I had no spare time. The walk to the Seagull’s Nest would be just long enough for me to review the facts as I knew them. Unfortunately, my plan did not survive the first contact with the enemy.
I walked by the ice cream store and spied Chef George inside, ordering a large waffle cone sandwich. With three scoops of homemade ice cream crammed between the two made–to–order warm waffles, I knew the man wasn’t going anywhere soon. Why not stop to see how things had gone after I had left? I checked the time. There would be enough for a quick chat as long as a few neighbors didn’t mind me cutting through their yards to get to Cosmo.
George was gracious in his greeting as I walked into the store. After the usual pleasantries, he mentioned how both he and his kids were okay with the results, but he hedged his positive attitude by saying that the salt episode had thrown his overall confidence out the window.
I helped the man retrace his steps from the moment he arrived at the kitchen that morning. It was to no avail, however. We couldn’t determine how Cosmo had switched the sugar out of all the containers, replacing it with salt. It had to have been an inside job, we agreed.
“So you never saw Cosmo this morning?”
“No, he had cleaned all of last night’s dinner dishes before he left for the evening. And I was with him the whole time. He couldn’t have done anything shady then. This morning, he called in, saying he didn’t think it was good form to be in the kitchen while I was competing. Cosmo wanted to remove all chance of impropriety.”
I thought through the logistics of such a switch. Access would have been the first problem for an outsider. I pressed George for more information.
