by J. R. Ripley
‘Quiet, Milky,’ she said, though with more affection than conviction.
‘My name is Maggie Miller,’ I said. ‘Your husband was my landlord.’
The name didn’t seem to ring a bell or set off any alarms, at least none that showed up as I watched for signs in her eyes. ‘I own Maggie’s Beignet Café on Laredo.’
Recognition came quickly. She pulled her chin up and her hand clutched the doorknob. Her eyes shot up and down the street. ‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice had turned hard. ‘I know all about you. The police have been here, you know.’
Oh, great. Probably Detective Highsmith himself coming to spread or rather smear my name all across town. I could only imagine the unkind things he might have had to say about me. ‘I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for your loss.’
A tall, white pickup that proudly labeled itself a four-by-four pulled up at the curb and stopped, honking once. A big guy in a tan cowboy hat jumped down from the cab. He looked rather uncomfortable in a charcoal suit, white shirt and black tie, which he tugged once or twice as if checking to see if it was still there. A small woman came around the other side.
He stomped up the front walk in polished black cowboy boots. The small woman in a simple elbow-length A-line black dress followed at his side, taking two steps to his every one. She balanced an aluminum foil-covered casserole dish in her hands.
He pushed out his chest. ‘Good morning, Patti.’ Dang, he was big. Did this guy keep a wine barrel behind all those buttons? He looked down at me. ‘Everything OK here?’ He removed his hat and held it against his chest.
I stepped away from the door. This guy was big as a brontosaurus. I did not want him accidently stepping on me. I’d be reduced to a smudge on the sidewalk.
‘Yes,’ answered Mrs Wilbur. She waved a hand in my direction. ‘This is a client of Rick’s. She came to express her sympathy.’ She looked pointedly at me. ‘She was just leaving.’
I held out my hand to the quiet Asian woman. Her brown hair fell to her waist. Those long locks had to be murder in this climate, not to mention the potential for neck and spinal injury due to the weight of all that hair trying to tip her over. ‘I’m Maggie Miller. I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you,’ the woman replied quietly. She passed the casserole dish to Patti Wilbur and lightly pressed my hand, then dropped it as she looked up at the giant beside her. ‘This is my husband, Bill. I’m Suki.’ She looked like she’d been crying, which was more than I could say for Mrs Wilbur.
‘Family?’
‘Bill is Patti’s brother.’
Did that mean these were Tommy’s parents? I certainly didn’t see any family resemblance.
‘That’s enough,’ growled Bill with a voice like gravel bouncing around in one of those cement mixer thingies. ‘We’re here to pay our respects.’
And chow down on what smelled like chicken and pasta casserole judging by the smells wafting my way. If I were either of these two ladies, I’d grab a plateful before Big Bill laid his meaty hands on that casserole and laid it to waste.
I was left standing on the veranda as Patti moved aside and Bill and Suki entered. Bill closed the door behind them after giving me one last look that very clearly said, What are you still doing here?
I asked myself the same question and left. Time for a cup of joe.
I hoofed it over to Karma Koffee for my midmorning coffee fix. Not to mention I wanted to have a chat with these guys. Plus, I could keep an eye on my own place across the street, see if Highsmith and his henchmen were done rooting around so I could get back to business.
Karma Koffee was bustling so I got in line and waited. By the time my turn had come, I’d pretty much memorized every detail of the place. The store was a beauty, too. I’ll bet they paid some hotshot interior designer to do the layout and decorating. Me, I’d taken over an empty deli, shoved a few things around, had new signage painted on the window and called it a day.
Karma Koffee had shiny glass cases filled with fat-inducing yummy-looking pastries, cookies and muffins. And whatever it was they were brewing up smelled fantastic. These guys were going to be tough competition. Suddenly I was wondering if I should have checked them out a little more closely before signing the lease on the place right across the street.
I’d been in such a hurry though, so eager to sign on the dotted line. And Mr Wilbur had told me several other parties were interested in the space. I’d had to act quickly. I’d agreed to the terms right then and there.
As I drooled over the offerings handwritten on the chalkboard behind the young lady at the counter, I got the feeling I may have acted a bit impetuously.
‘How can I help you this morning, ma’am?’
First off, she could stop calling me ma’am. I couldn’t have been ten, well, OK, fifteen years older than the strawberry blonde behind the counter. She wore a fern-green logoed Karma Koffee polo shirt, matching visor and light brown khaki shorts. All the employees were dressed the same, the two out front and the three I caught a glimpse of in the back.
Karma Koffee had really pulled out all the stops when it came to branding. I counted shirts, visors, T-shirts, coffee mugs, travel mugs and coffee blends for sale. I even spotted A History of Karma Koffee and the Koffee Experience book for sale alongside some fancy-dancy fair trade chocolate bars.
More food for thought. Speaking of food, I figured it couldn’t hurt to sample the competition. Plus, I was famished. I ordered a large coffee that had some exotic African name. I couldn’t pronounce it; at least, I was afraid to try for fear of sounding silly, so I’d simply pointed to it on the menu board. I mean, how were customers supposed to pronounce something like Karma Irgachefe?
The barista smiled and called out the order. ‘Will there be anything else?’
‘What flavor are those muffins there?’ I pointed toward a stack of something labeled Heaven’s Building Blocks.
‘Oooh, those are totally my favorite,’ she bubbled. ‘Maple glaze, raisins, walnut and cinnamon in a pumpkin flour base.’
‘I’ll take one,’ I said. I may have smacked my lips, too, as I watched the young woman remove a piece of wax paper from a small tissue box and use this to pick up my muffin.
‘Will this be for here or to go?’
‘Let’s make it for here,’ I answered. There was an empty table right at the window. I could scope out my café perfectly from there – after I spoke to whoever it was that owned this place, assuming they were even on the premises. It could be this young woman. Then again, it could be some multinational conglomerate or absentee owner. There was only one way to find out. I broke off a corner of the muffin and tasted. OMG. These guys were good. I wondered if they did the baking themselves or had these things made for them. Or were they actually shipped down daily from heaven?
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I was hoping to have a word with the owner.’ I made a show of looking around as if I’d know them if I saw them, which, of course, I wouldn’t. I arched an eyebrow. ‘Is that you?’
‘Oh, no,’ the strawberry blonde answered quickly. ‘You want Rob and Trish. They own Karma Koffee.’ She gave me my total.
I winced as I paid the exorbitant sum the girl named. The inside of my wallet was looking rather thin. ‘Are they around?’ I lifted my Karma Koffee to my lips and took a tentative sip. Rats, this was great too!
She nodded. ‘Let me check.’ She asked some guy named Lee to man the cash register and disappeared in the back.
I retreated to the table at the window with my late-morning snack and sat down. I could see a few of the boys in blue in my shop across the street and thought wistfully how this was supposed to be the big Maggie’s Beignet Café grand opening celebration. Here I was, instead, sipping coffee and munching on a muffin at the café across the street – my ‘sort of’ competition.
I kept reminding myself, as I savored the brew and munched on my own little piece of heaven, that we weren’t really in competition. I was selling New Orleans-style coffee and beigne
ts. No competition at all.
This was a mantra I decided I’d better repeat over and over. After all, if you say it enough times, it has to be true. I’m pretty sure that’s in the Constitution somewhere. I think Thomas Jefferson slipped it in.
‘Hi, we’re the Gregorys.’ The thirtysomething man extended a strong brown hand. It was warm to the touch. ‘I’m Rob. This is Trish, my wife.’ His fingernails were clipped short and neat and looked twice as polished as my own. They were a handsome couple as far as competitors go, I had to admit grudgingly to myself. If they stood any closer to each other, they’d be conjoined twins. Talk about lovey-dovey.
Neither of them seemed to be carrying around any extra pounds and I wondered how they managed that feat with all the goodies around here. He had short, wavy brown hair with sun-bleached streaks at the temples that fell casually around his rectangular face. His hairline appeared to be receding, slowly though, not like it was the Bay of Fundy of hair or anything extreme like that.
Trish’s hair was two shades darker than his and about shoulder length, though it was pushed back now behind her unadorned ears, held in place by her own Karma Koffee visor. A few light freckles dusted the bridge of her nose. Like the girl behind the counter, the Gregorys sported green Karma Koffee polo shirts and khakis as well.
They both displayed healthy, glowing tans and looked like they spent a lot of time outdoors. Red Rock Country is a hotspot for nature-loving outdoor types, and they were apparently no exception. Owning a coffee and pastry shop didn’t seem to keep them stuck indoors all that much.
Some come to Table Rock for the weather, some for the natural beauty, others for the aliens. Some for all three, I imagine. I pictured perky couples in matching, tight-fitting nylon bike shorts, pedaling through the red rock wonders surrounding Table Rock in blissful search of alien vortices and the great Mother Ship.
Please, somebody beam me up.
Trish looked to be about my age, with light wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She stretched her arms over her head with a cat-like grace. The edge of her shirt rose and I caught the flash of a silver navel ring. In my opinion, nobody over the age of thirty-five ought to be sporting one of those. Then again, I’m not all that comfortable flashing my belly button, period.
‘Peace,’ said Trish, flashing a waist-high peace sign. She wore purple fingernail polish with tiny, intricate sunflowers painted on the centers of her thumbnails. I smelled patchouli. She probably kept a drawer full of love beads in her dresser at home.
Oh, brother.
‘Thank you for coming to Karma Koffee.’ Rob inhaled deeply. ‘I see you’re trying the Karma Irgachefe. Good choice.’
I smothered a frown. Of course, he could pronounce it, it was his coffee. Still, everybody hates a show-off, me included.
He laid his hands across the arched back of the empty chair across from mine and glanced toward the register where the line was now four deep. ‘Aubrey tells us you wanted to have a word?’
Some of those customers might have been mine if I’d been able to open today as advertised. It was just my luck that all that advertising I’d paid so dearly for prior to opening might have had an unintended consequence – bringing people to Karma Koffee when they had come up Laredo Street for my grand opening only to be turned away by the police. Not a pleasant thought. I smothered that, too.
I took another sip of my coffee. Not bad, slightly acidic but full-bodied, with earthy and spicy undertones. Next time, I’d try the Karma Kameleon. That I could pronounce. Wait a minute. What was I saying? There would be no next time! ‘Yes, I’m Maggie Miller.’ I pointed, paper cup in hand. ‘I own Maggie’s Beignet Café across the street.’
Dark clouds passed over both their faces. I had a feeling they weren’t all that happy about my moving into the neighborhood. ‘Great coffee, by the way,’ I said, holding my cup out toward them. I watched their faces. A reddish-brown crumb spilled from my chin to the table. ‘And muffins!’
Nothing. Except for some weird look that passed between them. What? Were they plotting which of them was going to hold me down and which was going to slit my throat? I cleared my throat. ‘You did hear what happened, I suppose?’
Now Rob smiled. Sure, nothing like a guy in a box to break the ice, get the smiles started.
‘You mean about the police finding Rick Wilbur’s dead body in your walk-in cooler?’ He pushed a hand through his hair and seemed to bristle.
Trish tugged her husband’s sleeve. ‘Now, Rob …’
‘What?’ he said by way of reply. ‘The man was a jerk – a thief and a liar!’
‘It wasn’t my walk-in cooler,’ I replied, suddenly getting a little hot under the collar. ‘He was in a box in my storeroom.’ I wasn’t sure why that fact and that setting this clown straight was important to me but suddenly it was. ‘And the police didn’t find him, I did. Then I called the police. Well, after I called Information, that is.’
‘Now, now, Rob,’ replied Trish. ‘We must maintain our inner chi.’ She centered a fist in front of her chest.
He scowled, nodded and took a breath.
‘Yeah, you don’t want to knock your chakras out of alignment.’ I had no idea what I was saying but it sounded good at the time. Besides, even if I didn’t know what I meant, I was betting that Rob did.
Trish said, ‘Remember what you tell your students.’
‘Students?’ I inquired, my mouth filled with pumpkin muffin. Dang, this thing was good. I couldn’t keep it away from my lips. Had somebody implanted some sort of pumpkin spice magnet in my lips while I slept? If so, it sure beat Botox.
Maybe Trish and Rob would be willing to trade recipes sometime. I had some great beignet recipes they might like. If not, there was always Donna’s veggie haggis recipe I could swap them for.
‘In addition to owning this shop, Rob teaches yoga part-time. We have a classroom upstairs.’
‘Oh, yeah? Yoga, huh?’ I snatched a bit of muffin crumb off my lip using the tip of my tongue. ‘Hey, you should talk to my mom, Miriam Malarkey, sometime. I’ll bet the two of you have a lot in common. She teaches yoga, too.’
There, I’d said it. My factory original surname was Malarkey. I’d considered going back to my maiden name after the divorce, but for obvious reasons stuck with Miller. Not that I was thrilled that there was a newer, younger Mrs Miller running around down there in Phoenix. But it seemed to beat the alternative.
The name Malarkey is Irish, I’m told. I’d taken enough ribbing as a kid not to want to go back down that path. ‘Margaret Malarkey full of malarkey, walks like a turkey.’ Ugh, I could hear the singsong taunts of the boys in my elementary school running around in my skull even now – them and Gillian Goodeve.
She’d been a real thorn in my side all through my school years and such a tomboy. She’d chided me almost as much as the boys had. I’d heard she’d joined the army after high school and I pictured her as a master sergeant hounding and ridiculing new recruits, year after year; bringing them to their knees in agony and humility. Yeah, she’d be perfect at that.
And can I help it if I had a funny walk when I was a kid? I blame it on Mom always buying whatever shoe was the cheapest rather than what fit best. That often meant living with a pair of shoes two sizes too small or three sizes too big. I’m a grown woman now. I buy my own shoes. OK, I still walk a little funny. If I can’t blame my mother, I’ll blame it on shoe manufacturers everywhere. Why can’t they build a decent pair of flats for under fifty bucks?
‘What kind of yoga does your mother teach?’ Rob asked.
Huh? I squished up my face. ‘The bendy kind?’ I said, pushing my elbow out like a chicken.
Rick rolled his eyes. Either he was trying to make some sort of point or it was one of his yoga moves. ‘Vinyasa, ashtanga, kali ray tri?’
I was dumbfounded. What was this? Some secret language he and Trish shared? Was he speaking in tongues? ‘I beg your pardon?’
Trish ran a hand along her husband’s arm. ‘If you
’ll excuse me, I’d better lend Aubrey and Lee a hand.’ Trish left to help out with the customers who continued to pile up at the counter, leaving a patchouli, coffee and pastry cloud in her wake.
I rubbed my nose. ‘So, I’m guessing you and Rick Wilbur weren’t golf buddies.’
Rob’s face betrayed confusion.
Sheesh, how dense was this guy? ‘I mean, I get the feeling the two of you weren’t friends.’
‘No, we weren’t friends. He was my landlord.’ Rob Gregory crossed his arms over his chest. ‘And a lousy one at that.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that. I wasn’t acquainted with Mr Wilbur long, but he always seemed very nice to me.’
Rob smiled wickedly. ‘That’s because he was trying to get you to sign a new lease. That was his job. He knew how to turn on the charm then. Oh, he was a great salesman. But after …’ He let his words fall away.
‘After what?’
Rick hesitated, then started speaking in a sudden flurry of words and emotion. ‘After he gets you to sign a long-term lease, he gets real hard to find. In the beginning, it’s if there’s anything you need, just call Wilbur Realty. If something breaks, call Wilbur Realty. If you’ve got a problem—’
‘Call Wilbur Realty,’ I finished. Got a dead body in a box in your storeroom? Don’t call Wilbur Realty.
Rob nodded. ‘Yeah, but when he’s got your money and you want the man, he’s never anywhere to be found. Nothing gets fixed, nothing gets cleaned like he says and then, even though you’ve signed a lease promising you exclusivity, promising that he won’t lease one of his properties within two blocks of yours selling the same product, he goes and rents the store directly across the road,’ he pointed angrily, ‘to you.’
His eyes flashed. ‘Speaking of which, I see two policemen heading this way. Either they’d like a decent cup of coffee, or,’ he said, scorching me with those dark gray eyes, ‘they’re looking for you.’ Now he pointed even more angrily at me.
