“Mr. Connors. I was meaning to call you, but—”
“Save it, Ms. Powell.”
“I’m not sure where the hostility is coming from because this is hardly my fault and—”
“Isn’t it?” The accusing tone was spread thick. He and Lyddie should really get together. They had so much in common. Imagine both thinking Sam was guilty of murder. She flashed Lyddie an evil eye just because she could.
“No, Mr. Connors, it is absolutely not my fault. And the men from WE DO FLOORS are here to repair the—”
“I can read, Ms. Powell. The van is parked in front. And while I appreciate the problem is finally being attended to, it’s not why I’m here. I need to see you—alone!”
With the utterance of the forceful statement, all work was suspended and attention placed on the man in the designer button-down shirt with alligator embroidery detailing on the pocket.
“Someplace private,” he added in a voice loud enough for the assemblage to hear.
“Sure … sure … of course,” she replied, moving aside.
There was a clearing of throats as the work crew was treated to a cold, hard stare. The snapping of her fingers like castanets got her point across.
Work resumed.
She and Connors retired to her office, where her landlord took a seat.
Please not the lease.
It was a real concern. She hadn’t read the contractual obligations and didn’t know if having a homicide committed on the rental property constituted eviction. No, it couldn’t. In all the stories she’d read in the news, not one murderer was ever evicted.
Now she was doing it!
She was not a murderer!
She closed the door and sat, focusing on the figure in front of her. The legs of his khaki pants were pulled up to reveal white cotton-socked ankles. The expression on his face read anger, but even if he were furious at her, he had to admit the furniture was comfortable—and stylish. It was hard finding affordable seating that multi-tasked, but she’d done it.
Why did she get the impression he didn’t notice—or care?
His right hand latched on to the ankle crossed over his knee.
An ankle grabber, eh?
It was those kinds of details that Sam took note of, but then she was a double Virgo. Double Virgos noticed everything. It was why she couldn’t believe she didn’t spot the inferior repair job.
How was it possible?
They’d used enough nails to impale a vampire. She’d even counted.
Thirty-two.
It was more than enough. In fact, it was—
Overkill.
“Is the floor repair the reason you’re closed today, Ms. Powell?”
Second time he’d spat her name. This was not looking good.
Not good at all.
“Yes. The police gave the legal okay to open, but I couldn’t have customers tripping over holes—or staring at the bloodstain. Took hours to get that out.”
“And you actually believe there would be customers?”
KAPOWEE!
Despite being hit with both barrels, she went on breathing. She squirmed in her seat, blanching and fighting the impulse to check between her eyes for bullet holes.
But the question was fair, and that was what made it hurt.
“I don’t know, Mr. Connors. I mean, I think there would be a few patrons, but the bottom line is whether the amount would match the numbers of opening day, I honestly don’t know … I don’t.”
“At least you’re being truthful,” he begrudgingly admitted, the scowl that smelled of censure not going away.
“Would you like some coffee? I made a small pot … for me and … whoever …”
His leg went down, a shake of his head shooting down the offer. With the soles of expensive moccasin-style loafers on the ground, the grimace vanished. A finger scratched at his brow before he adjusted his glasses.
“Look, Ms. Powell. I have nothing personal against you, but this … this … three-ring circus … or whatever this is … I can’t have it … I won’t.”
“B-but I have a lease … and there was no way I could anticipate a previous tenant breaking in and being killed …” She paused, tapping her temple. “Wait a minute … that could mean that a second person also broke in … maybe before her? Or was it after? I’m so confused,” she said as she grabbed the end of a large chunk of hair and started twirling it into a spiral.
It was a nervous habit that went back to childhood. Connors looked unimpressed.
“It’s the lease I’m talking about … the lease,” he repeated in harsh tones. “How in the world are you going to be able to live up to your end of the bargain? I’m speaking monetarily. You are a fairly nice person, Ms. Powell, but this is business. I’m not foregoing being paid because you’re occasionally polite.”
Fairly? Occasionally?
Had he really qualified her niceness? The gloves were off.
“I never expected you to do that, Mr. Connors,” she retorted. “I have never asked for special favors and don’t intend to. I just need time to make this work.”
“How much time?” he queried.
“You keep asking me things I don’t know, but I will do it. That’s how I got where I am. I don’t give up. I work tirelessly towards a goal, and the goal is to keep this shop operational and in the black.”
“With no customers?”
He wasn’t making this easy.
“We don’t know that. And even if there aren’t any because of the bad publicity, will they always be inclined to stay away? We have the best coffee in town. I’m a connoisseur and I’ve test-tasted our competition, and there isn’t any comparison.”
A palm went up.
“Save it, Ms. Powell. Coffee is coffee. It all tastes the same to me, and I’m sure to a lot of people.”
WHAT? A man with no palate?
He was one of those people she crossed streets to avoid.
“The people who will become my customer base won’t agree with that statement. In fact, I can assure you they won’t. There are forums devoted to discussing the subtleties of beans and how to blend them to make the perfect brew. There are thousands that follow and subscribe to newsletters to educate themselves on what notes constitute what bean so they can—”
“Are these subscribers in Mountain Valley? That’s what we’re discussing, no?”
“There are no demographics to support they are located here, but—” she mumbled.
“As I suspected!” he interjected, cutting her off yet again. How would she convince him of anything if she couldn’t get a complete sentence out?
“Well, I’m not going to give you any kind of concessions. If you fall behind and become delinquent, I’ll take legal recourse. I’m successful because I keep a line of demarcation between what’s personal and what’s business. So while you’d be an entertaining dinner guest to sit next to, this is not a party.”
She exhaled heavily.
“Mr. Connor, do not speak to me as if I’m a redundant child.”
“I’m only trying—”
It was her turn to interrupt.
“I let you speak. Be respectful enough to let me have my say.”
Nodding, he settled back as she shifted in her chair.
“I think I can assuage some fears. I am not the idiot you seem to have pegged me for. I do have some business acumen and put away an appropriate amount of funds to ensure bills are paid and—”
“Until when?”
“The end of the year. The first year of a business is the toughest. It’s make-it-or-break-it time. Herd mentality advises owners to have sufficient finances to cover the precarious nature of getting started and that’s what I did.”
“And after that?”
“That’s where my work ethic comes in. That and savvy marketing that includes a PR campaign that will shift opinion. I trust this allays your misgivings?”
“Not entirely. I don’t have the faith in your abilities that you seem to. You’re no magician,
Ms. Powell. If you were, you wouldn’t have gotten yourself into this mess. Mark my words, this kind of incident spells disaster. I’ve been in business a long time and can read the signals, and—”
“But—”
“But nothing! You must have dealt with similar situations when you were in real estate. If a tragedy occurs on the property, the home is considered unsellable—cursed.”
Cursed?
“Not in my world, Mr. Connors!” she shot back. “‘For every pot, there’s a lid.’ It’s an old Dutch saying, and it applies to finding a spouse as well as a buyer for a home. I was never so gullible as to believe any residence was cursed because there’s no such thing. It’s that mindset that made me successful—and I will be again. I’ll curate my customers, Mr. Connors. I just need a chance.”
“Fine. You’ll get your chance. But only because you were wise enough to put away that nest egg to draw from and not from a misguided expectation of receiving charity from me.” Fidgeting with his collar, he glanced at the Rolex on his wrist. Licking his lips, his eyes bounced around the room for a half a second before stilling. “But about Doris Cunningham …” he said in a softer tone. “What were you saying about her breaking in?”
“You didn’t know? The lock on the back door was broken and the damage could only be assigned to her.”
“Then you have no inside information? The police didn’t tell you anything?”
Laughing, she leaned back in the swivel chair and grabbed at the edge of the Lucite desk.
If only he knew.
As if Detective Death would tell her anything except that she was under arrest.
“No, I’m afraid I’m not privy to the inner workings of the investigation … but wait …” She paused, taking time out to take a sip of water from the half-empty bottle. Now that she wasn’t being pressured into admitting guilt for a crime she didn’t commit, her brain was working far more efficiently than yesterday. There had also been that menacing police presence sabotaging any attempt at thought, but—
Quiet.
The silence and the memory of Detective Death opened the floodgates. An ominous feeling swept over her.
“Were you planning on finishing that statement?” Mr. Connors prompted as he leaned forward.
She rose like a ninja, putting a cautionary finger to her lips.
“Of course I’m going to finish it!” she blurted in a heightened volume as she tiptoed to the door. “I’m going to finish it because this coffee shop is the most important thing in my life!”
Her shouts baited the hook that was about to reel a big one in.
“Besides, I know who the murderer is!” she blasted as her hand clutched the knob. “The murderer is—”
In one swift movement, the door was open, and a gaggle of eavesdroppers tumbled to the ground. Lyddie and the team from WE DO FLOORS were splayed at her feet.
Shame of shame, even Barrows was involved in the skullduggery.
Five pair of eyes colored by guilt averted her gaze. Her hand went to her hips as a withering stare did more damage than a fully-loaded automatic Glock 18. Barrows was the first to recover his wits.
“Come on!” the business owner bellowed. “On your feet—all of you! It was only a quarter I lost and not worth wasting time looking for.”
As if losing a quarter by pressing their ears against the door was an effective cover story.
They hustled back to the hole that was covered and only needed more nails shot into the plank for it to remain that way. Her bestie was caught wrong-footed and so Sam had time to assail Lyddie with another bone-chilling glare that froze marrow. The shop owner shook her head and closed the door before striding back to her desk.
“Sorry about that. Now where was I …”
“Something about the investigation … and Doris …” he reminded.
“Right … right … right … Doris breaking in … I guess my question relates to what I said earlier … about two people breaking in and not just her.”
“Why?” he queried.
“I’m thinking that maybe someone saw the opportunity and took it.”
“Like a thief?”
“Exactly like a thief. He might have thought Doris was me … well, not me me … but the owner … I mean, I am the owner … but he thought it was an owner … an owner he didn’t know and followed her in to rob her. So if Doris left the door open after she broke in, then …”
“Yes … yes, I can see that.”
“Or!” she exclaimed too enthusiastically. It was understandable. Her thought processes were running on all cylinders. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? “The thief could have been the one to break in! What if Doris came to see me and found the door ajar?”
“Okay …” Connors allowed. ”But why would she have come to see you?”
“For whatever reason … to wish me luck … give me advice … warn me about you …”
She felt malevolently grand about sliding that one in. Connors’ face deflated.
Meanie!
“She goes to the back door, finds it open, and assumes it’s me. She doesn’t realize it’s been jimmied and broken … which reminds me ... that locksmith should be here any minute …. but back to yesterday morning … the door’s open … she figures I’m setting up, which I’m not, and … and this … this thief hears her and is in here … waiting,” she continued, her voice going low and melodramatic. “He’s crouched down … hidden … or under a table … and when she calls out … wham! … he whacks her over the head!”
Connors twisted his mouth and rubbed his chin. His eyes fixed on her as she leaned back, happy with the new theory advanced.
Let’s see Detective Death do better than that!
“Interesting, but you’re leaving out a third possibility.”
“And what would that be?” she said, taking another couple of gulps of water.
“That this sneak thief might have known who the owner was,” he stated as his eyes narrowed. “He might have thought he was killing you.”
CHAPTER 7
Lucky for her, it was only water.
Water didn’t leave stains, so no damage done. The spraying of it all over herself had been a kneejerk reaction to Mr. Connors’ disturbing comment, but—
No one wanted her dead … did they?
Sam went over the list of her friends, acquaintances, enemies, and frenemies in her head. The latter now included the girl caught listening at her office door.
“Out! Out! Out! Get out of here and never darken my coffee shop door again, you, you, sparkly eavesdropper, you!”
Those were the words Sam had hurled at the girl artfully encased in a yellow silk butterfly-winged dress. After the insult was spewed and was left suspended and floating in the universe somewhere, Lyddie had bolted, the golden sandals on her feet clipping as she disappeared into the haze of the matching light of the sun.
Sam had no regrets.
In her opinion, the sixteen-year-old friendship had expired of natural causes.
Unlike Doris.
Sam’s thoughts returned to murder. Hers. How could they not? There was a lot to consider in compiling a suspect list, but the handful of customers who showed up today could be eliminated. They’d come for nothing more lethal than designer brew and she’d served them, having already given her three employees the day off with pay.
The place had been all but empty, and she’d used that solitude to sit at a front table and think. The small group of gawkers on the other side of the plate glass didn’t help with concentration, but she wished them no harm. So what if they were curious and wanted to know more?
So did she.
Before she knew it, the sun was setting. Looking down, she realized she’d been nursing the same cup of coffee she’d poured after the WE DO FLOORS crew left. After thwarting the workers in their act of espionage, it hadn’t taken them long to finish. Firing forty-six nails into the plank gone rogue had to be some kind of record. The wood was mostly metal now, but there was another
important distinction.
This time, there was a witness.
Rudy Connors had stuck around for the few more minutes taken to complete the repair. He’d agreed with her assessment that it was A-Okay, which was something she didn’t have going for her the first time around.
Would have been nice.
Barrows and the three workman had packed up their tools and skadoodled to screw up another job and, most likely, land another hapless entrepreneur in jeopardy of being sued. The locksmith appeared on the heels of their departure and was the next to go, followed by the scene with Lyddie. At least Sam had the decency to wait until they were alone. She doubted her ex-friend would have enough class to afford her the same courtesy.
And now?
Now she was hunkered down at the primo table that gave the best view, and stared into the sky, trying to make sense of what seemed like a senseless crime. Was this really the outgrowth of bad timing? Or—
“He might have thought he was killing you.”
Yeah, that right there was a gamechanger. It was why she was trying to compile a list of who might wish her harm, but the comprehensive approach couldn’t abate the shivers running up and down her spine. Every time she thought that it might have been her laying in a pool of blood and not Doris, it caused the tingly sensation to kick up in earnest. After all—
Although she didn’t resemble Doris … Doris could be mistaken for her in the dark.
The troubling aspect preyed on her mind and she was finding it remarkably easy to get lost in murder. She fixated on the sun sinking below the horizon and turning the sky a brilliant shade of red.
A shade akin to Doris’ blood.
Knock, knock, knock.
The banging on the glass inches from her face got her attention. Startled, she jumped as she connected the dots of who was rapping their knuckles on the brand new plate of glass.
Detective Death.
Jabbing his forefinger in the direction of the back door, she reluctantly pressed to her feet and shook off the fog contemplating one’s own murder can induce. This encounter was going to be: (1) painful … (2) awkward … or … (3) worsen the day exponentially …
No, the correct answer was (4) all of the above.
Hadn’t he asked her all the ridiculous questions he could think of yesterday? Had he actually come up with more inane queries to harangue her with? By the smirk on his face, he evidently had. Ignoring his greeting, she replied to his divine-looking partner.
Hammered Page 5
