A Whole Latte Murder

by Caroline Fardig

  I am yours; take my heart.

  Join me on this journey: a brand-new start.

  I’ll be waiting for the day when I hear you say

  You are mine.

  Longing for your touch,

  I need you so much.

  I’ll be waiting for the day when I hear you say

  You are mine.

  Stafford was kind enough to stand with his back to me during the song, but as soon as I strummed the last chord, he turned around with the biggest grin on his face. “That was amazing! I knew you could do it.”

  My heart still pounding from the sheer terror of performing in front of an audience, I managed to say, “Thanks.” I set my guitar down, breathed a long sigh of relief, and hopped down off the stage. “I’m glad that’s over.”

  Giving me a reassuring pat on the shoulder and leaving his hand there for a moment, he leaned in and said, “See? You survived. Next stop, the Ryman.”

  I glanced up at him dubiously. “Even if I hadn’t quit performing when I did, I still don’t think I’d be Ryman-worthy anytime soon. By the way, why are you here in the first place?”

  He chuckled and took a step back. “I’m starving. I came over for a late dinner, but you closed early on me.”

  “Sorry. School breaks are bad for business. It was empty in here, so we let our staff go home.” Noticing the bummed expression on his face, I added, “But I’d be happy to make you something.”

  His face brightened. “I wouldn’t be putting you out, would I?”

  “Not at all. I owe you one, right?”

  —

  Stafford and I talked like old friends while I made us both something to eat. I told him all about my short music career, and he entertained me with me several funny stories about ridiculous situations he’d had to deal with when he was a rookie beat cop. In the middle of his story about a guy trying to urinate on his shoes, I got a phone call.

  Frowning at the caller ID, I showed Stafford my phone. “Think I should take this one or ignore it?”

  “Cromwell? I think you better take it,” he said uneasily.

  “Hello?” I answered, wary of what shitstorm was about to befall me if Cromwell himself was calling.

  “Ms. Langley, I’m sorry to call so late, but I need your help.”

  “Well that’s a first.”

  “Can it,” Cromwell ordered. “I’m over at the Beer Sellar watching your boyfriend make an ass of himself. He’s had a few too many, and no one can get through to him. He’s going on about his wife, and I think he mentioned your name somewhere in his drunken rant.” He lowered his voice. “The only way I’m going to get him out of here is in handcuffs, and I don’t want to do that to him. Besides, I have a meeting at the station shortly, so I don’t have time to babysit. Can you come try to talk some sense into him?”

  “Of course,” I said, on the verge of tears at hearing how out of control Ryder was. I had texted him and called him several times since this afternoon, but he’d never replied. I desperately wished he’d talked to me instead of trying to find solace at the bottom of a bottle. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  When I hung up, Stafford put his hand on my arm, a worried expression on his face. “What’s wrong?”

  I didn’t feel like getting into it. I simply said, “I need to go.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “It will be,” I replied as a tear slipped out and ran down my cheek.

  He tightened his grip, but his voice was kind. “Let me help you. Tell me.”

  Easing out of his grasp, I wiped my eyes. “It’s fine. I just need to go pick up Ryder. He’s been drinking and needs a ride home.” I hurried into the office to get my jacket and purse.

  Stafford followed me. “I’m going to say it again—let me help you. If he’s drunk, you might need some assistance getting him home. Where is he?”

  “The Beer Sellar.”

  “That’s on my way back to the station. I’ll follow you.”

  I knew I couldn’t manhandle Ryder by myself. It wouldn’t be a terrible thing to have a little backup. “Okay, thank you.”

  —

  By the time Stafford and I both drove downtown to the Beer Sellar and found parking spots, Ryder was being unceremoniously thrown out the front door. Cromwell followed him out, shaking his head, his face a mask of irritation.

  The old detective grumbled to Stafford and me, “Good. You’re here. I’m out.” After giving Ryder one last glare, he added, “Good luck,” before storming down the street.

  Ryder, swaying unsteadily, peered down at me. “Hey, babe. Wanna go hit another bar with me? I’m done with this one.”

  I smiled, hoping to keep things friendly. “No, thanks. Not tonight. I came here to take you home.”

  He put his arm around my waist and pulled me to him. “Oh, so you want more of what we started this afternoon? You never could get enough of me.” His hand slid down and grabbed my ass.

  Stafford barked, “That’s enough. Let’s go, Hamilton.”

  Ryder released me and spun toward Stafford, nearly losing his balance. “You’re not the boss of me, Detective Goody Two-Shoes. Run along home and shine one of your medals, you asshat,” he slurred.

  I could see why Cromwell had called me. Ryder was not himself. Honestly, I’d never seen the man drunk before. Sure, he put back a few beers every now and again, but he never allowed himself to get out of control.

  Sensing this could get real ugly in mere seconds, I stepped in between the two of them. Like I was trying to cajole a child, I said, “Ryder, why don’t you come with me, sweetheart? I’ll take you home, maybe make you some coffee and get you feeling better. Okay?”

  “As long as we can leave Captain America here. He’s a buzzkill,” he sneered.

  I glanced at Stafford, who seemed to be fighting to keep his cool. “Yes, we’ll leave Captain America here. Can you walk a block to my car?”

  Ryder hooked one arm around my shoulders and gave Stafford the finger. I winced, mouthing “sorry” at Stafford, then steered Ryder down the sidewalk.

  Stafford called, “You’re sure you’ll be okay with him?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I replied, glancing back to see his troubled frown.

  I wanted to admonish Ryder for being such a dick to Stafford, but I figured it would be a waste of breath. He was so far out of it, he’d never remember anything that happened tonight. I managed to get him into my car. The hard part, however, was keeping him awake on the ride home while simultaneously fending off his attempts to grope me as I drove. I kept reminding myself this was not him, that the alcohol mixed with the stress of the last week was controlling the real Ryder.

  I got him to his front door and let us in. He was heading for the couch, but I was able to catch him and give him a push toward his bedroom. Taking it totally the wrong way, he grabbed my hand and pulled me with him, down onto his bed.

  “You look really pretty tonight,” he said, giving me a sloppy kiss.

  I smiled. “And you’re really drunk.” I got out of his clutches and stood up, removing his shoes and placing a blanket over him. “Now you’re going to sleep it off.”

  His eyes heavy with sleep, he patted the bed next to him. “But I want to do other things, Amanda.”

  Poor guy. At first his drunken antics had amused me, even when he was feeling me up and calling Stafford an asshat. Now I was heartbroken for him. Brooke’s vicious attack had opened up old wounds from his wife’s murder like they were brand new. I couldn’t imagine going through something like that over again. His eyes closed, and his breathing became deep. I crawled into bed next to him and held him while he slept.

  —

  I finally managed to drift to sleep, only to be woken what seemed like minutes later by the alarm on my phone. I reached over, but Ryder was no longer next to me. Dragging myself out of bed, I found him sitting on his couch, head in his hands.

  Quietly, I asked, “How are you feeling this morning?”

  He d
idn’t look up. “Like shit. What do you think?”

  He certainly looked like shit. Hangovers did not suit him. I went over and sat next to him. I placed my hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.

  “Do you have to work today?”

  “I have to work every day,” he replied curtly.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Just go.”

  “Okay,” I said gently, getting up. “You know where to find me.”

  —

  I went through the motions of going home to shower, opening Java Jive, and making the pastries for the day, the whole time waffling between worrying about Ryder and fighting to stay awake. A nap was probably going to be a necessity again today. Once the staff arrived and seemed to have everything up and running, I went to the office and caught a couple hours of sleep.

  I set an alarm this time, not wishing to have Pete catch me sleeping on the job again. During the lunch rush (again, not so much of a rush) I helped out in the kitchen, surprisingly only burning my hand once after zoning out several times while cooking some chicken.

  Camille came to the kitchen, finding me at the hand sink running cold water over my fresh burn mark. “There’s a couple here to see you, Juliet.”

  “Thanks. Please tell them I’ll be right out.”

  I stuck a Band-Aid over my wound and hurried out to the dining area. When I saw who was waiting for me, I rushed over to them and was instantly enveloped in a group bear hug.

  “Hello, Juliet,” said Bonnie Marchand, Ryder’s former mother-in-law. “We couldn’t come into town without visiting you.”

  “That’s right. And I couldn’t leave town without some of your famous cookies,” said her husband, Ed, chuckling.

  “I’m so happy to see you both,” I said warmly, and I meant it.

  I loved Amanda’s parents. They were some of the nicest people I’d ever met, having welcomed me into their family with open arms. Not a lot of parents would do that for the new girlfriend of their widowed son-in-law, but Ed and Bonnie’s only wish was to see Ryder happy. They loved him like one of their own children.

  I gestured to an empty table. “Please, sit. I’ll get you some coffee and cookies.”

  After running over to ask Camille to fill a carafe of “leaded” coffee, as Ed called it, and make a plate of his favorite oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, I sat back down with the Marchands. “What brings you to town?” I asked. They owned a farm just outside of Nashville, so it wasn’t a terribly long drive to get here, but they always made a huge deal out of “coming to the big city.”

  Bonnie’s face fell and Ed frowned. He said, “Ryder asked us to meet him. He wanted to tell us there’s been a possible development in Amanda’s murder case.” He hung his head. “I almost wish there hadn’t been.”

  Bonnie grabbed his hand, her eyes tearful. She said to me, “We’ve made peace with what happened to our daughter. Of course we want to see her killer behind bars, but not at the expense of Ryder’s well-being. Or his sanity.”

  I nodded. “I know. This news of his friend’s attack has him thrown for a loop. I’m sorry it’s brought back painful memories for all of you.”

  Bonnie replied, “When we saw him today, he put on a brave face for us, but we could tell he’s hurting. Has he opened up to you at all?”

  “No, not really. I’m worried about him, and he’s doing his best to push me away.” I paused as Camille set down our drinks and cookies. “We’ve, um…We’d been arguing and were sort of taking a break from each other before this happened.”

  Ed wiped a hand down his face. “Oh, no. I thought you two were so solid.”

  I hated the look of disappointment on both their faces. “I still care about him, and we haven’t given up on each other yet. The problem is, right now he’s not letting me in. He’s trying to shoulder this all by himself, and he’s not doing such a great job of it.”

  Bonnie put her hand over mine. “He’s as bullheaded as they come, but eventually he’ll come around. Keep trying.”

  I smiled. “I will.”

  Ever the optimist, Ed said, “It’ll all work out. I’m sure of it. Right now, I want to concentrate my energy on this plate of cookies.”

  Bonnie and I chuckled along with him, then we settled in to chat like we normally did when they came by to visit me. Their grief still hung heavy in the air, but they (and I) were making a point to keep the conversation light and positive. We said our goodbyes, and they left, a definite sadness still evident in their eyes and their posture.

  Chapter 21

  Pete came in after he got off work, a big smile on his face as he sang, “ ‘I know I’m asking a lot. You’re the only good thing I’ve got, Juliet.’ ” I smiled back, but before I had a chance to reply, he said, “I have an idea,” and pulled me with him to the office. Once we were inside, he said, “I want us to check out that escort agency.”

  “Huh? Did Gertie finally convince you to get a prostitute? And what’s this ‘we’ business? You know I’d do nearly anything for you, Pete. But I’m not, nor will I ever be, down for a threesome.”

  He groaned. “Seriously? I was talking about doing some sleuthing, genius.”

  “Oh,” I breathed, relieved.

  “This thing with Kira is really bugging me, Jules. I’m afraid she’s into something way over her head.”

  “I agree. So—”

  He interrupted me. “I’ve been thinking about it all day.” I could feel the excitement radiating off him. Usually I was the one raring to do something stupid like chase bad guys around, and he was the one trying to rein me in. “It’s the perfect plan.”

  —

  Why did I keep letting people drag me into their stupid plans?

  Pete had gone to his house to change into a suit while I went home to shower the restaurant smell off me and to put on something escort-y. Even before I said yes to his ridiculous idea, he’d already called and got me an interview later at this escort shop, or whatever it was called. He was going to pose as a rich new client.

  When he knocked on my door (looking razor-fine, I had to admit), I answered it, asking, “What do you think?” I did a twirl for him.

  “I think you look like a beat-up crack whore. Try again.”

  I had on a thin tank top I normally wore as an extra layer under sweaters and a too-tight miniskirt from a bag I’d filled to drop off at Goodwill. He hadn’t exactly given me any direction. And I hadn’t even put on makeup yet.

  I narrowed my eyes at him and ushered him inside. “Maybe you could give me a look to shoot for, then. How about you pinpoint somewhere in the range between crack whore and Julia Roberts dressed for the opera in Pretty Woman?”

  He cracked a smile. “How about Juliet Langley going to a fancy party?”

  “A fancy regular party or a fancy sex party?”

  “A regular party. Show ’em you’re a classy hooker.”

  “I hate you so much right now.”

  I went back to my bedroom and changed again, this time donning a dress I’d actually worn to a party before. It was rather low-cut, so I’d always worn it with a silky shawl to lessen the effect. This time, though, the shawl went into my purse rather than around my shoulders, in case I got cold. Or came to my senses.

  After I applied makeup to my fading bruises, I came out again and asked, “Better?”

  Unable to rip his gaze from my breasts, Pete said, “I like it, but there’s way too much boob showing.”

  “Dude. I’m interviewing to be an escort, not a librarian.” I gestured to my face. “Eyes up here.”

  Pete reluctantly obeyed, and we headed to his car. We went over the plan again on the way.

  When we pulled into a parking space down the block from the Genesis Building, I said uneasily, “This isn’t going to work, Pete.”

  “Come on. You’re always so confident about our little undercover missions.”

  “Yeah, when it’s my idea—aka a good idea.”

  He frowned. �
��You don’t like this because it’s my idea?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yeah, you kinda just did.”

  “Fine.” I hesitated for a moment before I told him my concern. “I think it’s weird that we’re both going in at the same time.”

  He sighed, irritated with me. “I told you I’d give you a fifteen-minute head start.”

  “Fine. What’s my fake name again?”

  “Boobs McGee.”

  I flung my hand out and slapped him across the chest, which only made him laugh.

  Between chortles, he said, “Sorry, but you had that one coming. Your hooker name is Lana Cruise.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Lana Cruise? Like they’re not going to figure that one out.”

  “Only if they’ve seen Risky Business.”

  “Everyone’s seen Risky Business.”

  He handed me a manila folder. “Well, it’s too late, because that’s what I put on your résumé.”

  “Hookers have résumés now? What did you put for my work address—the corner of Second and Broadway?”

  Pete chuckled. “I’ve never seen a prostitute on Second and Broadway. Besides, I said you were going to be a classy hooker, remember? You’re a twenty-four-year-old student trying to pay your own way through med school.”

  I glared at him. “One, that’s a horrendously clichéd backstory. Two, I’ll never pass for twenty-four.”

  “You do realize this isn’t a real interview, right? All you have to do is hold their attention until I get in there, and then you can excuse yourself and go snooping through their files to find out if this is the place in the Genesis Building where Kira has been disappearing to.”

  This was never going to work. “That’s only if their office isn’t all just one big room, they don’t have their computers password protected, and they don’t lock their file cabinets.”

  Pete took my hand. “You’re too tense. Just go with it. If we crash and burn, it’s not the end of the world. We’ll figure something else out.”

  I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay. We can do this,” I said, trying to convince myself.

  “Damn right we can.” His eyes crinkled at the corners and his voice softened. “You look beautiful, by the way, Jules.”