5 From the Grounds Up

by Sandra Balzo

  'Both.'

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It wasn't until we were in the kitchen the next morning that Pavlik and I returned to the subject of the accidents at the Junction.

  'Should have brought your razor.' I set a mug of coffee in front of him, then ran my hand over the stubble on his chin.

  'You sure it's five o'clock shadow?' he asked as I sat down across from him with my cup. 'Maybe it's the bruise from when you clocked me.'

  'It's more like a nine a.m. shadow,' I said, 'and I'm sorry about jumping up like that.'

  'What were you so excited about?'

  I tried to think back. God, a little sex, and it pushed everything else out of my mind. We had talked about Patricia's family, and then Pavlik . . .

  I had it. 'You called the offing of Sarah's Firebird an accident.'

  'It collided with a building. What would you call it?' He took a sip of coffee.

  I leaned earnestly toward him. 'Sarah says that she parked across the street next to the piano teacher's place.'

  'Right.' Pavlik was dumping cream into his mug. 'She told the police officers that.'

  'But what she didn't tell them was that she pulled forward into the spot. How did the car end up across the street and turned a-hundred-and-eighty degrees?' I crossed my arms and sat back.

  Pavlik took another taste and started piling sugar into the cup. 'Don't take this the wrong way, but Sarah might not be the most dependable chronicler of her activities these days.'

  Now how could I take that the wrong way? Sarah, on the other hand, she might. 'I know Sarah's been a little--and unusually--emotional,' I said. 'But I think she'd remember parking her "baby".'

  'Maybe.' Pavlik shrugged and tried the coffee one more time. 'Whoa,' he said making a face. 'Both cream and sugar, yet this stuff still tastes like pencil lead.'

  Now that, I could take the wrong way. 'What do you mean?' I said, lifting my cup. 'This is Kenyan. It's one of my . . . ugh.'

  'Pencil lead, right?'

  'I don't understand,' I stood up and went to the coffeemaker. 'It tastes like it sat all night, but I just made it this morning.'

  'Did you empty out what you brewed last night?'

  'Last night?' I stopped short. Of course. I had started the coffee last night, but we'd gotten side-tracked. And front-tracked. And . . .

  'I always set up the pot the night before,' I said, dumping the coffee grounds and starting over. 'This morning when I came down, I just hit the "brew" button, but there was nothing in it. This must have sat all night.'

  I poured water into the reservoir, fresh grounds into the basket and punched the button again. Then I turned to Pavlik. 'So, what is Sarah on?'

  'What do you mean?' He was looking me straight in the eye, still answering a question with a question.

  I gave it right back to him. 'Are you saying you don't know what I mean?'

  'Didn't I say that?'

  I was out of questions. So I tried a simple noun. 'Lithium?'

  Pavlik flinched, a first for me.

  I sat down across from him. 'I saw it in your notebook, along with the other notes you made when I was in your office. At first I thought it was Lithuania and had something to do with where they thought the cocaine might have come from. But you had written "flour" and "talcum" on a different section of the page.'

  'The talcum is why the guys on the scene suspected cocaine,' Pavlik said. 'They could pick up a slight flowery scent and thought the cocaine had been cut with it. As it turns out, the "cocaine" was flour, just like you thought. Smart.'

  I had no intention of letting Pavlik distract me with compliments, so I just folded my arms. 'And the lithium? They found it in Sarah's drug test.'

  'I can neither confirm nor deny.' Pavlik sat back and folded his own arms.

  God, don't you hate it when your body language is quoted against you? 'But you did suggest I keep an eye on her.'

  Lithium was used to treat bipolar disorder, but that was pretty much the extent of my knowledge. I took a shot. 'Sarah is bipolar. I thought you knew that.'

  Pavlik's jaw dropped. 'How long have you known?'

  'Maybe two seconds.' I was thinking about Sarah's behavior over the last week or so. Certainly more mood swings than usual, but Sarah was always a little unpredictable. 'What do you know about bipolar . . .ity?'

  'Bipolar disorder,' Pavlik corrected. 'Previously called manic-depression. My ex-wife suffers from it.'

  Pavlik had been divorced about a year when I met him. His ex Susan and their young daughter lived in Chicago.

  'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I didn't know.'

  'Five million people in the US are bipolar,' Pavlik said. 'Susan was misdiagnosed for nearly five years.'

  'How can that be, if it's so prevalent?'

  'Unlike some people who get nasty during the manic stage, Sarah felt great. It was only when she was depressed that she saw the doctor. It didn't occur to either of us that the good times were the other side of the same coin. That she might be too happy or too energetic. We just figured the meds were working. Little did we know that the anti-depressants were probably fueling the manic swings.'

  'And lithium somehow treats both the manic and depressive sides?'

  'It's a mood stabilizer, though it has more effect on the manic stage. It helped Susan a lot.'

  'I'm glad.' I reached across the table and covered his hand with mine. 'I hope it does the same for Sarah. How long will she have to take it?'

  'Bipolar is a lifetime illness, but there are some types that are more severe than others. Susan has Bipolar Two, which is milder than One. Even so, she'll need to stay on lithium until the grave.'

  As might my friend. 'So it would be good if Sarah had Bipolar Two, like your Susan.' By good I meant better than B-One.

  'Hey.' Pavlik turned his hand over and took mine. 'She may even have Cyclothymia.'

  Sounded like something you caught from bicycle seats. 'Cyclo-what?'

  'It's a bipolar-like disorder. You still have the mood swings, but they're relatively mild. Most people who have it are never diagnosed. They just come off as well, moody.'

  'Cyclothymia, thy name is Sarah.' Or so I hoped. 'But do they still prescribe lithium?'

  'I think so, though some people don't have to take anything.'

  'Could the lithium--or the disorder, itself--make Sarah forget to set the parking brake? Or that she backed the Firebird in?'

  'I don't know, honestly.' Pavlik shrugged. 'I'm no expert on lithium or bipolar, Maggy. But you are an expert on Sarah. That's why I thought you should keep an eye on her.'

  And I'd abandoned my post. For what?

  Oh, yeah. I ran my fingernail across the palm of Pavlik's hand.

  'If the lithium is in her bloodstream, it should be helping, right? She seemed better yesterday.'

  'We actually found traces in her urine. Lithium therapy takes a couple of weeks to kick in, but yes, it should help. Don't worry.' His eyes were that unreadable gray this morning. 'She'll be fine.'

  After Pavlik left, I loaded the dishwasher and then sat down at my computer. I googled 'bipolar'.

  The first article I clicked on was useless, but the second had some good information and seemed to be from a reliable source.

  The manic phase of bipolar apparently could exhibit itself as irritability, overspending, euphoria or even hypersexuality, among other things. Depression could range from being 'a little down' to inexplicable grief and thoughts of suicide.

  'It can be everything and anything,' I said to Frank as he plodded in from the corridor and laid his big fuzzy head on my lap. I rubbed between his ears. 'No wonder it's not diagnosed. How am I going to be able to tell what's normal for Sarah?'

  Frank lifted his face and yawned.

  'Last time you get onions with your steak,' I said, fanning the air.

  Frank sighed and padded away. He circled twice and then settled down on the fireplace hearth, butt toward me.

  'I know, I know,' I called after him. 'Nothing y
ou do is ever right. I'm ungrateful.'

  And talking to a sheepdog. Maybe I was the one who should be on medication.

  I slipped the list of symptoms out of the printer tray and read it over. Irritability was pretty much a given for Sarah. The others I'd rarely if ever seen her exhibit, except for grief over Courtney, Sam and the Firebird this week. And that 'grief' was 'explicable'.

  'I've got it,' I called to Frank. 'If Sarah is anything but irritable, I'll worry. Simple.'

  Frank lifted his head in obvious agreement. Then he went back to sleep.

  I turned my attention to the other things I needed to accomplish today. It was too bad that the problems had shadowed the re-opening of Uncommon Grounds, but we were moving forward thanks to Ronny.

  Which reminded me, I had to give him the list of equipment and furniture we salvaged from Uncommon Grounds and stored at Caron's. She and Bernie had extra garage space now that their son was away at college. Me, my house was about as big as Caron's garage and my garage the size of their golden retriever's doghouse.

  I double-clicked on a document entitled 'Inventory', and there it was:

  5 tables, one with a broken base

  9 chairs

  1 coffee brewer, dented

  8 Lucite bins for coffee beans

  A 12-pack of toilet paper

  4 sleeves of to-go cups

  2 sleeves of lids for to-go cups

  I'd better bring one hell of a lot of expertise to the partnership, because I sure wasn't bringing much else. I printed out the list to give to Ronny and checked my watch.

  A little before noon. With luck Ronny would be at the depot.

  Since it was Saturday, the Junction was quiet as I pulled up.

  I caught a glimpse of Christy through her front window, but Penn & Ink was dark. As I slowed to turn into the depot's driveway, I could hear the faint strains of jazz coming from Art's place. At least the street wasn't completely deserted.

  There were no other cars in the lot when I parked. That meant that Ronny either wasn't working today--understandable for a Saturday--or had run out to lunch. I'd had the foresight, though, to put the list in an envelope with his name on it. I'd stick it in the door.

  As I walked up the driveway to the front of the depot, I glanced toward the flower shop.

  Still no indication anyone was taking care of it. The strip of what was supposed to be grass between our drive and the other building was a mass of yellow dandelions and thistles, a hose snaking through the weeds. A spigot dripped rusty water down the brick siding. Not exactly great advertising for a floral designer.

  I reached in to twist off the faucet and pick up a couple of roof tiles that must have blown off during the storm earlier that week. Rounding the shop, I leaned the tiles against the front door and stepped back to survey for other damage.

  The windows were grimy, with the exception of the one farthest from the depot and partially obscured by a flowering shrub. As I got closer, I realized that the window wasn't clean, it was mostly missing.

  I edged in behind the bush and balanced on my tiptoes. As I peeked in, I was careful not to cut myself on the shards that still framed the opening in a sunburst of glass.

  The window hadn't blown out in the thunderstorm. A rock was lying on top of one of the two grocery bags sprawled in the corner. A big rock, capable of both breaking the window and pummeling the bag where it had landed.

  'Now why would someone do that?' I said.

  'Just being assholes.'

  The voice startled me. I peered out from behind the bush to see Art Jenada. His hands were balled and on his hips as he surveyed the window. 'This place is a deserted eyesore, an open invitation to vandals.'

  'Who owns it?' I asked, coming out to join him.

  'Got me. That good-looking florist was renting it, but she's been gone for a year.' Jenada picked a fragrant blossom out of my hair and handed it to me.

  I stepped back, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. 'Is there any way of finding out?'

  'The owner, you mean? Mike might know. He seemed mighty interested for a while.'

  'Mike? You mean Michael Inkel?'

  'He prefers either Mike Inkel or Michael Ink. Michael Inkel isn't--I don't know, classy enough.'

  'I guess I can understand that. He is a writer, after all. A name is important.'

  'A tech-writer. He writes catalog copy and the instructions that are folded into the box. They don't put the author's name on the front of those.'

  I'd been in public relations and written my share of news releases and copy, so I bristled a bit at that. 'It's good work and it pays well.'

  'Did, when Mike worked for a corporation. Now that he's freelancing and things are tight, he's trying too hard to keep up appearances. Drives Rebecca crazy.'

  Whatever drove Rebecca crazy was OK by me. 'Why?'

  'Didn't you hear him when he introduced the two of them to you?'

  'Sure. He said she's a graphic artist and he's a writer.'

  'Correct. The implication being that she's picking typeface and drawing taco ads. The reality is that Rebecca has exhibited her watercolors all over the country.'

  'But not anymore?' I knew we were getting far afield, but I'm a sucker for neighborhood gossip.

  'It's hard to make a living at it. And don't get me wrong, she's not ashamed of the commercial work. She just doesn't think Mike should be either.'

  Or promote himself at his partner's expense. 'Did you say they were looking into buying this building?'

  'More than a year ago. And I had the feeling he was more interested in the florist than the shop.'

  I was impressed. Rebecca wasn't the only creative one on the block. Jenada had raised gossip to an art form.

  'Why? Are you looking to expand your empire?' He waved at the depot. 'With that place and the florist shop, you'd have the whole block. Once the commuter train starts running, it should be a goldmine for you and your friends.'

  The same thing Ronny had said, but all of a sudden I didn't like Jenada's tone. 'A coffeehouse and a florist shop? Neither is exactly a license to print money.'

  'I'm talking tear-down,' Jenada said and then looked sorry he had. 'I mean, any business might be a goldmine, what with the train coming back and all.'

  I followed his finger to the railroad tracks where Kornell had died and where Sarah's car had been parked. There was no baking flour on his hands. Now.

  The Junction was the only commercially zoned area in town, with the exception of Brookhill Drive where Uncommon Grounds had been. The rest of Brookhills was residential, the only 'tear-downs', the original ranch-style homes, making way for mini-mansions.

  But a whole block, that would be room enough for most anything, including even a hotel or training center. Maybe one that catered to the business trade. There was plenty of parking and the new train would provide easy access to downtown.

  Jenada was right. A full block could be very valuable to anyone who could get his floury hands on it.

  'You climbed into Sarah's car, didn't you?' I asked abruptly.

  I hoped that stating the non-sequitur question as fact, like when I told Pavlik I knew Sarah was bipolar, would yield results. Confirmation.

  Jenada took a step toward me. Apparently he hadn't read the script. 'What are you talking about?'

  I held my ground, despite growing trepidation. I did, however, back-pedal in a different way.

  'Sorry,' I said with my best self-effacing smile, 'I tend to jump subjects. I meant when the Firebird crashed into the depot. I thought you told me the emergency brake was on.' God, I was good.

  'The brake?' Jenada rubbed his forehead. 'Let's see. No, in fact, I'm sure it wasn't.'

  OK, so he was good, too.

  'Besides,' Jenada continued, cocking his head, 'the brake had to be off. How else could the car have rolled across the road and up on to the porch?'

  All right. So he was really good.

  Jenada let it hang there.

  I cleared my throat. 'I thoug
ht it might be possible the brake failed or maybe was burned out. Could you tell if the gearshift was in "park"?'

  'That I'm not sure of,' Jenada said. 'The transmission stick is between the seats, so I couldn't see it without getting in.'

  'Which you didn't.'

  'Correct.' He had a little smile on his face. 'Why would I?'

  He was right. If he had disengaged the brake, turned the car around, put it in neutral and, maybe, for good measure, given it a push, why would he get back into the car after the crash?

  Which, of course, raised the question of how the flour--his flour, I was sure--had ended up on Sarah's driver's seat.

  After Jenada left me, I walked slowly to the front door of the depot.

  Art Jenada had been angry because Kornell Eisvogel hadn't renewed the lease for his catering business.

  I knew how that felt, though I hadn't killed my landlord over it. Somebody else had, but that was a whole different story.

  I didn't think that the lost lease would be sufficient reason for killing Kornell. It might be enough, though, for Jenada to haze us. If you could call a classic car totaled on your front porch and a sabotaged deck railing 'hazing'.

  Let's say Jenada wanted a business near the commuter station. He already had that. There was nothing to stop him from opening a competing restaurant across from us in the space he was currently leasing. God forbid.

  On the other hand, maybe the stakes were higher. Maybe Jenada did want the whole block. But even if he dissuaded us from re-opening Uncommon Grounds, even if Sarah decided to put the depot on the market and he bought it, he still wouldn't have the rest of the block.

  I stopped short and turned back to look at the florist shop.

  Unless Art Jenada already owned it.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I intended to shove the envelope containing the salvaged inventory from the original Uncommon Grounds under the door. 'How can a place this old not have a crack somewhere,' I said under my breath.

  'Weatherization.' Ronny was behind me. 'Back in the seventies, they were so concerned about energy efficiency that people were getting sick because the houses were too snug.'

  I handed him the envelope. 'Hey, do you know who owns the place next door?'