by Harper Lin
“Are you sure that wasn’t because his leg was bothering him? He said the cold weather had been bothering it lately.”
“No, it was not his leg. It hurt, but he wouldn’t take the good parking spot because of it. He always says the customer comes first and tells us all to park in the back.”
I nodded slowly. “How many of these notes were there?”
“How many? I don’t know. I saw four, maybe five. But I think there were more.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“A few weeks. Maybe one month. And Pablo seemed more scared.”
Footsteps came echoing down the hallway, accompanied by low voices. Now Bill looked scared. “I go now, Señorita Francesca. You’re coming to the restaurant? You and Señor Matteo?”
“Yes, we’ll be there.”
“Good, I see you then.” He started walking past me, but I caught his arm.
“Do you have any idea who was sending the notes?”
“If I knew that, I would have something to tell police.” He pulled away and hurried down the hall just as two of the parish priests crossed in front of the archway we’d been standing behind, speaking to each other quietly. It was their footsteps and voices we’d heard. But Bill had been afraid enough of who it could have been that he ran away. He was so certain that whoever had been slipping those notes to Pablo was dangerous that he didn’t want to get caught telling me about it.
I leaned against the wall to think for a minute. Pablo had been getting suspicious notes at work—slipped into his apron no less. They frightened him enough that Bill was frightened as well, and he’d only seen one note. But did mysterious notes necessarily lead to murder? Couldn’t the notes have been completely separate? Pablo was getting notes, and nothing to do with that, he happened to have a stroke? But even if that were the case, if someone could get close enough to slip a note into Pablo’s apron without Pablo noticing, they could probably also get close enough to drug Pablo without him noticing. It sounded like a spy movie plot, but they had to get the idea from somewhere, didn’t they?
“Franny?” Matt’s voice echoed down the hallway of the empty church.
I poked my head through the archway into the main hall. “I’m right here.”
“What are you doing?”
I leaned back against the wall as he walked through the archway. “Thinking.”
“About?”
I looked at him for a second, on the border between telling him and not. “I’m not sure you want to know.”
“Oh no. What is it?”
I decided to go for it. “I think Pablo was murdered.”
“Again, Franny? Come on. We’ve already been through this. People have strokes. They die. It happens every day.” His voice was somewhere between tender and exasperated. I appreciated that he didn’t just outright tell me I was losing my mind to be thinking about murder again.
“I know, but Bill told me something that I think changes things.”
“And what is that?”
“Pablo had been getting suspicious notes slipped into his apron at work.”
“And that means he was murdered?”
“It could.”
“Or it could mean some kids were playing a joke on him. Or that there was absolutely nothing strange about them.”
“But Bill said that Pablo looked like he was scared whenever he found one.”
“That doesn’t rule out either of the things I just said,” Matt said patiently.
I sighed. Sometimes his levelheadedness was really annoying. “It doesn’t mean they weren’t threatening either. Bill said that one said, ‘We know where you work.’”
“Well, obviously if they slipped it into his work apron.”
I glared at him.
He stepped toward me and put his hands on my waist so I couldn’t escape. “Look, Franny, I know you want there to be something more to this than just bad genetics or poor health, but there isn’t. Not this time. I think you’re letting all these murders we’ve had lately get to you. You’re seeing a murder mirage.”
“A murder mirage?”
“Yes, a murder mirage. It’s a thing. I just invented it.”
I giggled. Leave it to Matt to make me laugh when I was trying to be serious. “If you say so.”
“I say so.” He grinned and pulled me into his arms. “So no more murder talk, okay? Not unless it’s in a movie or something. And even then, you better not go overboard with it, or I’ll have to restrict you to kids’ movies.”
“There’s a surprising amount of murder in those if you think about it. The Lion King, Anastasia, Bambi…”
“Sports only then.”
I shuddered. Matt would be only too glad to have an excuse to watch all his beloved sports teams all the time. He already watched enough of them. I didn’t know how there were so many sporting events available to watch all day, every day. Didn’t the players get tired? I couldn’t have that. “Okay, no more murder talk,” I agreed. But privately to myself, I considered that our bargain only covered murder talk—not thoughts or investigations.
Chapter Nine
With Pablo’s funeral over, it finally felt like things were getting back to normal. Aside from the murder investigation, of course. But I hadn’t had much time to spend on that, and no more clues had been forthcoming anyway, although I did keep my eyes and ears open at the reception. Still, I didn’t spot any mysterious notes being passed or any victorious-looking tough guys wandering around either. Although why I thought I would see either of those, I didn’t know.
So I was back at the café, working alongside Sammy and enjoying getting back into our routine. There were fewer people coming in just to gossip, but our regulars were popping in and out, and the people who brought their laptops and settled in for a long stay were nestled in their out-of-the-way corners.
It was early afternoon, and I was working behind the counter when a man in a suit came in. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. That wasn’t unusual though. Cape Bay was small enough that almost everybody was either someone I knew or someone I recognized, even if it was only sort of vaguely.
“Can I help you, sir?” I asked, putting on my best pleasant café-owner smile.
He scanned the menu board and the display case. “Sure, uh, I’ll just get a double shot of espresso. Is there any place around here where I can get a donut? I’ve been craving a good Boston cream.”
“No, no donuts, but you’re in the right neck of the woods for a good Boston cream. You said you live here, or you’re just visiting?”
“Both, actually. I live nearby, but I’m spending some time in Boston for a conference and training on our new products.”
I gave him his espresso. “So, you’re a sales rep? What do you sell?” I’d learned over the years that chitchatting with the customers made them feel welcome and encouraged them to come back. Plus, it could be pretty interesting.
“Pharmaceuticals. Heart medicine, mostly.” He took a sip of the espresso. “That’s good. Just right. Now I know where to come. I don’t know why I haven’t been in here before.”
“I don’t know either, but I’m glad you’re here now!” I gave him my warm, welcoming smile again. “You said you’re just in town for a few days before you have to go back?”
“Yeah, a good friend of mine passed away, so I came back for the funeral and to help his family get everything sorted out. I’ll be heading back up next week.”
That’s when it clicked who the man was. “You’re Pablo’s friend!” He was the one who delivered the eulogy.
He looked at me for a second before nodding. “Sure am! You knew him?”
I smiled. “Everybody did. He was a great guy.”
He looked sad. “He sure was.” He stared down at his hands for a minute then extended one. “I’m Fitz, by the way. Gary Fitzgerald, but everybody calls me Fitz. Even my mom has mostly given up on calling me Gary.”
“Fran.”
“Any relation to Antonia?�
�� he asked, gesturing out toward the front where the sign over the door proclaimed Antonia’s Italian Café. It wasn’t the first time I’d gotten that question, and I was sure it was far from the last.
“Her granddaughter. The café’s been in the family for three generations now.”
“That’s a good track record these days.”
“It is.”
He glanced at his watch. “I better get going. I’m trying to get a few office visits in while I’m in town. Make sure no one else horns in on my territory.” He chuckled and headed for the door.
“Come back in to see us before you head out of town again.”
“Sure will.”
Sammy, her blond ponytail swinging, came out of the back room just as he walked out the front door.
“What do you think about adding donuts to the menu, just for fun?” I asked her.
“Sure!” Sammy’s eyes lit up. “Absolutely. One hundred percent. They’d fly off the shelves. It’ll go great with the coffee, and Ryan would love it!”
I laughed. “I know he would.”
“Would you bake them?”
“Depends…”
Just then, a customer left, and the swinging of the door let in a huge burst of frigid air. We were in the middle of yet another cold snap. No matter what the calendar said, Massachusetts was determined to hold onto winter just a little bit longer.
“Maybe updating the menu will convince spring to actually come.” Sammy giggled.
“We can only hope.” I sighed.
She nodded in agreement but kept staring up at the menu board. I could tell that her mind was formulating the new design she’d use on it.
I drummed my fingers on the counter. “What’s the closest place to get a donut?”
Her forehead wrinkled, and she pursed her lips. She drummed her fingers against her cheek. “Uhhh, I’m not sure. Nowhere in town, I know that.”
“What’s your favorite kind?”
“Boston cream, of course!”
“Of course,” I agreed. I went to the back to get the laptop and set it up on the counter. I glanced around to make sure all the customers were okay then started looking. Sammy joined me, and together we scoured what felt like hundreds of recipes. None of them seemed like exactly what I was looking for, but I was pretty sure I was a good enough baker to fine-tune them to my tastes. After all, I did almost all the baking for the café. Sammy, of course, was in charge of most of the fancy decorating. Even my skills with icing weren’t quite up to par.
By the end of Sammy’s shift, with several breaks to take care of customers, of course, we had a good list of promising recipes to start from.
“I think we should start slow,” I said, scanning the list. “Just one or two kinds. That way we don’t get overwhelmed. And we can make sure they actually sell before we go too crazy with it.”
Sammy laughed. “They’re going to sell, Fran. Trust me. I know our morning customers, and they are going to just devour these.”
“Well, that’s the goal anyway!”
We worked through our plan. We’d start with two kinds and make two batches of each. Every night before I left, I’d make sure there was one batch of each ready so that there would be some available as soon as Sammy opened the café in the morning. She’d start the second batch of each so that there would be fresh, hot donuts available a little later. If they sold well, we’d expand. Either our selection or quantity. Or maybe both. But our cupcakes, cookies, and other desserts were huge sellers, so we didn’t want to crowd those out. Thinking about that made me think that maybe we needed to expand our savory-food options. We sold a few sandwiches and salads, but maybe if we expanded those as well, we’d sell even more. I shook my head. I had too many ideas. One thing at a time, Fran. One thing at a time.
Sammy left, and I dealt with the late-afternoon rush. I was just getting ready to leave when I got a call from Matt saying that he was going to be late but would bring dinner to make up for it. That worked for me. Of course, now I had no real reason to rush home since I had snuck out right before Sammy left to let Latte out and knew he’d be asleep for at least another hour, lazy dog. I looked around the café, wondering if there was anything else I should take care of before I left. Everything was neat and clean, but my eyes landed on the pile of recipes I’d printed out.
I’d planned to make the first batch the next day so that I didn’t have to rush, but… now that I didn’t have to rush, why not go ahead? I dropped my bag, took off my coat, and started baking.
I decided on a simple recipe to start with—plain glazed. Not much to go wrong there. I measured and mixed, and soon the smell of fresh donuts was wafting through the air. I couldn’t help myself—I tried a piece of the first one before I even put the glaze on. It was delicious just by itself. I poured the glaze over and tried it again. It was so good. Mouthwateringly good.
I jumped when someone knocked at the locked café door. My first feeling was fear, but when I turned to see who it was—thinking it was best to check before I started screaming or called the police—it was my friend, who happened to be a police officer. Donut in hand, I walked over and unlocked the door to let him in. “You have to have one of these donuts,” I said immediately.
“I haven’t had my dinner yet.” He walked into the café, and I locked the door behind him. “Are you keeping captives and force-feeding them donuts now?”
“What?” I asked around my mouthful of donut. Manners be damned, that thing was delicious. “No, we’re closed,” I said, realizing he was referring to me locking the door.
“You are?” He looked at the big wrought iron clock hanging on the café’s exposed brick wall. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even realize.”
“Why did you think I had the door locked?”
He shrugged. “Safety?”
“It might be safer but probably not very good for business.” I walked around the counter and started a pot of drip coffee, knowing that if Mike was in my café, that’s what he was looking for. “What can I get for you? Large black coffee?”
“If you’re offering,” he said with the sideways smile that was about the extent of enthusiasm he ever showed. “But I actually came for some desserts. I, uh, I’m having dinner with Sandra and the kids tonight and told her I’d bring dessert.”
“Really? You are? That’s great!” I came around the counter to give him a hug. He and his wife had separated a few months earlier, but I knew he was hoping to work things out. A family dinner was a great sign.
He shrugged. “Well, we’re trying to do this co-parenting thing, and family dinners are a part of it. But I’m hoping that if it goes well…” He trailed off and shrugged again.
“Treat her like you did when you guys first got together, not like she’s the mother of your children. Well, treat her like that, too, but remind her why she fell in love with you.”
He shoved both hands in his pockets and looked at the floor. I thought I saw a hint of a blush creeping up his cheeks too. Romance wasn’t really a Mike-style topic of conversation. Which was probably why we needed to have it.
“Anyway, your desserts will be outstanding,” I said, sensing he needed the conversation to go in a different direction.
“Do you have anything without too much sugar? Sandra doesn’t like the kids to have too much sugar.”
“Sure do,” I said and pulled some cookies out of the case that were surprisingly low in sugar but still really popular with kids. “Any other requests?”
“She likes those chocolate-peanut-butter cupcakes.”
I pulled out a couple of those, along with a few other things I knew Sandra liked, and loaded up a box with all of it. I put some of the fresh, warm donuts in a bag and handed them to him as well. “Take these too. We’re trying them out. Brand new. Not even on the menu yet.”
Mike grinned. “The guys down at the station will be happy about that.”
“Those are for your wife, not the guys down at the station.”
“Yes, ma’a
m,” he said with that sideways smile again.
I handed him his coffee along with everything else. “You got all that?”
“Yeah, I think so. Thanks, Fran.”
“Anytime,” I said, really meaning it. I would be thrilled beyond words if Mike and Sandra worked things out. They’d been together since we were all in high school. If they couldn’t go the distance, what hope did the rest of us have?
Near the door, Mike turned around. “Oh, hey, do I look okay? I wasn’t really sure what I should wear—”
It was the least confident thing I’d ever heard Mike say. He had on a button-down and jeans. Typical guy outfit, but it fit him well and looked nice. “Yeah, you actually look really good.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You hitting on me, Franny? Do Matt and I need to have a little talk?”
“Oh, get out.” I swatted at him and shooed him toward the door. Just before I unlocked it, I thought of something and stopped.
“What?”
I hesitated. Mike already didn’t think highly of my antics getting involved with murder investigations. He definitely wouldn’t be excited about me investigating a murder that didn’t officially exist. But still. He was right here, and if I was going to figure out what happened, I needed to get a move on. I took a deep breath. “You knew Pablo, didn’t you?”
Chapter Ten
Mike eyed me suspiciously. If he hadn’t been holding the big box of desserts and his coffee, I’m sure he would have crossed his arms across his chest. It’s what he tended to do when he got stuck talking to me about murder-type things. “Why do you want to know if I knew Pablo?” His tone was more than a little suspicious.
“Well, I—I just—I—” I couldn’t put more than two words together. I’d hoped for—and expected—him to answer a little more pleasantly, but really, I shouldn’t have been surprised that he immediately jumped to the conclusion that I was up to something.
