A Whole Latte Murder

by Caroline Fardig

  He shook his head. “Jules, it’ll be a miracle if you don’t kill yourself before your ankle heals.”

  —

  I made a face. “Yeah, maybe it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to stay away from stairs this time.”

  —

  “I don’t think you want this. I’m not a good patient. I’m going to get grumpy and needy and frustrated and—”

  Pete cut me off. “Zip it and lie down so I can tuck you in.”

  I had wanted to sleep on Pete’s couch, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Instead, I was in his bed, wearing a T-shirt and pajama bottoms of his. And he was very kindly tucking me in. It was nearly more than I could handle. I managed my feelings by complaining.

  I lay down, but I didn’t quit talking. “And I’m starving.”

  “That’s why I ordered a pizza from one of the late-night joints. It’ll be here soon, princess. I want you to rest until then.”

  “See? You’re already regretting your offer. I can tell by your tone.”

  “There’s no tone. Quit trying to pick a fight.”

  Before I could come up with a snappy retort, the doorbell rang. Pete ran for it, muttering, “Saved by the bell.” Returning moments later with a huge pizza box, he hopped onto the bed next to me. He opened the box and offered it to me. I gratefully took a slice and bit off a huge mouthful of the cheesy goodness.

  We ate in silence for a while, until he said, “I’ve been worrying about something.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, my mouth full.

  He regarded me for a moment, almost seeming to be debating whether to tell me or not. “What if…What if the accident was no accident?”

  I swallowed. “What do you mean?” I thought I knew what he meant but didn’t really want to consider it.

  “We’ve been running around ruffling feathers the last couple of days. Maybe we hit a nerve somewhere and someone’s trying to send us a message.”

  Suddenly my pizza didn’t look very appetizing. I threw my half-eaten slice back into the box. “That’s pretty dark, Pete.”

  “So is kidnapping and murdering young women.”

  I thought for a moment, running through the cast of characters we’d done our best to piss off lately. “Who do you think we ruffled the most?”

  His face was grave. “Jack.”

  “Do you seriously think Jack would risk trying to run us over? I mean, if he’d done a better job, we’d have been splattered all over his windshield. There are cleaner and quieter ways to kill people. Besides, the car’s lights weren’t on, so the driver probably didn’t even see us. We live in a party town full of drunks. That’s probably all it was.” Probably.

  “Still, I told the cops about Jack’s threats from earlier tonight.”

  I shrugged. “Then it’s their problem.”

  “It’s kinda still our problem if someone is after us.”

  “In that case, I say we hang up our sleuthing caps. Kira clearly doesn’t want our help, and I can’t run around town pretending to be a hooker anymore looking like this. I’m out.”

  Pete wrinkled his forehead. “Is that the painkillers talking? You never back down from a challenge.”

  I yawned. “I think it’s time I let someone else save the world. I’m looking forward to some well-deserved rest. I haven’t slept in over a week and I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.”

  He glared at me in response.

  “What, too soon?”

  —

  I was running, trying to get there in time. Jack, in his Lexus sedan, barreled down the street, lights off, straight toward Pete. I couldn’t get there. It was as if my legs had become mired in some kind of clingy, gloppy slime I couldn’t escape, no matter how hard I tried. I cried for him to watch out. He didn’t hear me. I screamed as Jack’s car made direct contact.

  “Jules. Jules!” Pete said, his hand on my shoulder.

  “No! Pete!” I cried, tears streaming down my face.

  He gave me a gentle shake. “You’re dreaming. Wake up.”

  I opened my eyes to see Pete standing over me, his face full of concern. I glanced around. We weren’t back out on the street. We were in Pete’s bedroom. I breathed a sigh of relief, reaching my arms up and pulling Pete to me in as tight a hug as I could manage with my throbbing, scraped-up arm.

  “I thought I lost you,” I blubbered, the dream still all too vivid in my mind. “Jack ran over you. And I couldn’t get to you. I tried…I just couldn’t make it—” I broke down, sobbing.

  “Shh. Don’t cry, Jules. It was only a dream.” He leaned back. “I’m sorry you got so scared. But you know, that was exactly how I felt when I saw you get hit, if you wonder why I’ve been mothering you all night.” He wiped my tears away. “You’ve given me a few scares in my lifetime, but this one was by far the worst.”

  I smiled. “I’ll try to cut it out.”

  “You better.” He straightened my covers and pulled them back under my chin. “Get some sleep. And no more dreaming about me—good or bad.”

  As he turned to leave, I said, “Pete?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Will you stay with me?”

  His face softened. “Of course.”

  I knew I was playing with fire, inviting Pete of all people into bed with me, but I was still shaking from my nightmare. It was more than I could handle alone. He slipped in next to me but stayed way over on the other side of the bed.

  His voice sounding a bit nervous, he said, “I’ll stay as long as you don’t get frisky with me.” I didn’t expect any less from Pete than making a joke to try to relieve the tension.

  I laughed, rolling over on my non-injured side to face him. A pain shot through my left leg when I moved it. “Ow. Trust me. I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

  Chapter 26

  After my nightmare, I didn’t sleep well at all, which again was no surprise. I woke up groggy and grouchy, with my leg tingly and stiff and my arm on fire again. I downed a pain pill from the bedside table, chasing it with the water Pete had left for me. Pete was already up and out of bed. I gingerly put my feet on the floor and tested putting some weight on them, but even a slight pressure shot a pain through my left knee. I sat back down on the edge of the bed, struggling with whether I should swallow my pride and ask for help to get to my crutches, which were across the room, or take my chances at hurting myself and hop all the way over on my other leg.

  My stubborn streak won the battle, so I hoisted myself onto my right leg and started hopping in the direction of my crutches. I didn’t think it would take so long to hop across a room. Halfway there, I started getting light-headed, but I had to keep my wits about me and especially my balance, because I didn’t think my poor body could stand another fall. Finally reaching the point where I could grab the dresser for support, I stopped for a moment to take a breather. I had no idea I was being watched.

  Leaning lazily against the doorframe leading into the bedroom, Pete said, “What are you doing?”

  Still short of breath, I panted, “What does it look like? I’m getting my crutches.”

  He gave me a disappointed frown. “You should have called me for help.”

  “You shouldn’t have to wait on me. I’m not an invalid.”

  He walked past me and retrieved my crutches. “Actually, you are,” he retorted, handing them to me.

  “I don’t have to act like one,” I muttered, putting the crutches under my arms and heading out of the room.

  At the doorway, I realized belatedly that I hadn’t properly negotiated the doorframe, and my left crutch caught it. I started to pitch forward, but luckily Pete was right behind me. He caught me with his good arm and kept me from falling headfirst into the hallway. Maybe I did need a little help.

  Once he had guided me down the narrow hall, he said, “You were saying?”

  I responded by sticking my tongue out at him. A few more limping steps and I made it to the couch, covered in sweat and completely exhausted. I sank down onto the cushions an
d groaned. “This is not going to work for me.”

  He chuckled. “I figured as much, but you’re stuck for a day or two. After that, the doctor said your knee would start feeling better, but only if you follow the home treatment he prescribed—ice and rest and all that jazz.” He came over and flopped down next to me on the couch. “And today, at least, I’m going to make sure you do exactly that.”

  “What, are you going to call me incessantly from work to find out if I’m being a good girl?”

  “Nope. I’m taking the day off to spend it with you.”

  I shook my head. “No way. I’ll be fine. There’s absolutely no need for you to waste one of your days off on me.”

  “Too late. I already called in. You’re stuck with me.”

  “If you leave now you’ll only be a few minutes late. Please go. I feel bad enough about missing work myself.” A wave of panic hit as a thought struck me. “Who’s going to make the pastries this morning? We’re not going to have any—”

  “Would you relax? I asked Camille and Rhonda to come in early. Other people can bake besides you, you know.” When I frowned at him, he continued, “And it wouldn’t hurt you to take a few days off, Jules. You work way too much.”

  “But if I’m not there—”

  “They’ll get along without you.”

  My shoulders slumped. “I feel like I’m letting the place down.”

  “What would you do if you went over there? Sit on the couch and bark orders? The staff would love that.”

  I sighed. “Fine. You’ve made your point. But what are we going to do all day?”

  He grinned. “We’re going to watch a lot of bad TV, listen to some good music, and take a much-needed rest. We could both use a whole day of downtime.”

  Put that way, it didn’t sound so bad. Before we were too far into a horrible movie about killer mutant tarantulas, Gertie showed up with a container of her pineapple chocolate chip cookies, a brutal hug, and a tearful thank-you for saving her grandson from being run over. She hung out with us and watched the end of the movie, then went on her way. Pete continued to hover over me, rewrapping my compression bandage, bringing me ice packs, massaging my knee, getting me stuff to eat and drink—basically doing everything but going to the bathroom for me. Instead of fighting him, I let him do it, finally having gotten it through my thick skull that he was only trying to do what he could to somehow repay me for pushing him out of the path of that car.

  When we bored of movies, we switched to music, and Pete played me a bunch of new tracks he’d recorded for several famous artists. I loved listening to music Pete had a hand in engineering—the sound always had a little something to it that made you sit up and take notice. He was truly a master at what he did. Even though I was enjoying my free day, my mind still wandered to how things were going at Java Jive.

  “Are you zoning out or what?”

  I snapped my head toward Pete. “Um…evidently I was. Did you say something?”

  He shook his head. “Never mind. You’re sitting there worrying over the coffeehouse, aren’t you?”

  “You know, in your spare time you could get a job as one of those phone psychics.”

  Pete laughed. “I can only read you.”

  I put on a pleading face. “Can I call and see how things are going? I don’t know where my phone is.”

  He cut his eyes away from me. “I don’t know where your phone is, either.”

  “Wait.” I studied his face for a moment. “You’re lying.”

  Still not meeting my gaze, he replied, “I’m not.”

  “Liar.”

  “You seem to know something I don’t. Maybe you should be the phone psychic.”

  “Pete, what did you do with my phone?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Still lying.”

  He sighed and looked over at me apologetically. “I put it on silent and hid it because several reporters called. They’ve been bugging me, too. I didn’t want you to have to deal with that on top of everything else.”

  I smiled and reached over to squeeze his hand. “You’re sweet. Thank you. But what do they want to know? People get hit by cars every day. Why do they care?”

  “Well, it’s not every day that someone who’s found two murder victims in one week gets run over. Your name has been on the front page of every edition of the Gazette since you found Chelsea, and after our close call last night, there’s a whole new wrinkle in the overall story.”

  I made a face. “Damn Don Wolfe. But really, no one reads the Gazette.”

  “Enough people read it that other news outlets have figured out who you are. Before you woke up, I got an offer for us to be interviewed on a local TV station.”

  “I hope you said no.”

  “Of course.”

  “So can I have my phone now?”

  Pete’s jaw dropped open in surprise. “You listened to the conversation we just had, right?”

  “Yeah, and I appreciate that you’re trying to shield me from the media, but I still want to call in and check on our staff.”

  “If I give you your phone, you’re not going to get upset over all the messages from prying reporters?”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Most likely…not…”

  “Now who’s the liar?”

  “Let’s just call me intrigued by my new ‘celebrity’ status.”

  He shook his head and went to the kitchen, retrieving my phone from one of the drawers. He was about to hand it to me, but at the last moment pulled it away. “You’re sure you’re not going to go all Redheaded She-Devil about this?”

  “Promise.”

  He handed it to me, eyeing me as I scrolled through the list of callers. There were several unknowns, which I assumed were various media, with matching messages I only intended to listen to for entertainment value. I also had texts from Stan, Lucinda, Maya, Trevor, and Stafford asking how I was feeling and one from Dean kindly offering medical help if I should need it. Bad news evidently traveled fast around here. Nothing, though, from Ryder. Could he really not spare a moment to tell me he was happy I wasn’t dead?

  “You’re frowning. You promised you wouldn’t get mad,” Pete said.

  “I’m not.”

  I didn’t really want to tell Pete I was bummed over the fact that Ryder hadn’t bothered to check in on me. For one, it sounded rather high school-ish to worry about something so insignificant. For another, Pete would not be happy I still had enough leftover feelings about Ryder that something like this would upset me.

  “Are you constipated, then?”

  I reached over and slapped him on the leg. “My bowel health is none of your business.” I made an effort to wipe the frown off my face. “I was only concentrating on reading several kind texts from my friends.”

  “You have friends?” he said, feigning surprise.

  I made a face at him. “Very funny.”

  —

  Even though Pete tried his best to keep me entertained, by late afternoon I was bored and cranky, and also in need of a shower. He offered to go to my apartment to get me some clothes (or to get away from me for a while) while I cleaned up. Even though I kept my bandage on for an extra layer of protection, my road rash did not appreciate even the lightest of water pressure. To make matters worse, once I got done, my wound needed to be re-dressed, and I couldn’t do it with one hand. Pete didn’t have full use of his left hand because of his cast, plus he couldn’t quit gagging long enough to help me, so I made a call to my favorite wound expert, Dean. I thought having a second opinion on this angry mess wouldn’t be a bad thing, either.

  Within the hour, the doorbell rang, and when Pete answered it, Dean and Stan were both outside, Stan with a huge bouquet of flowers.

  “Hi, guys,” Pete said, welcoming them into his house. Maybe “welcoming” was a stretch. He didn’t bother to veil his visible disdain for Stan, giving him the evil eye and, judging from the pained expression that crossed Stan’s face, a ridiculously firm handshake.

&
nbsp; Stan came over to me and handed me the flowers. “For you.”

  “Thank you, Stan,” I said, accepting them and breathing in their sweet fragrance.

  “Feeling better?”

  My arm still stinging from my shower, I said, “Not yet.”

  Dean smiled sympathetically. “Juliet, I’m happy you took me up on my earlier offer for help.”

  “I doubt you make many house calls in your normal line of work, so I very much appreciate you coming over to help me.”

  Stan chuckled, giving Dean a good-natured punch in the arm. “Oh, Dean makes his share of house calls, if you know what I mean.”

  Dean grimaced at Stan’s joke, but only I saw it. I shot him a sympathetic smile, making a mental note to take Stan aside and speak to him about Dean’s interest in Stan’s sister Abigail. In a matter of moments, Dean had my arm cleaned, slathered with antibiotic ointment, and redressed as well or better than the hospital originally had done it.

  “Your arm looks good. It’s clean and not excessively red. You’ll still want to keep it covered until it starts healing quite well.”

  “Thank you so much, Dean. I appreciate it,” I said.

  “No problem at all. I’ll be happy to look at it anytime.” With a glance at Stan, he said, “I’ve got to run. I’ll see you soon.”

  Once Pete saw Dean out, he disappeared into the back of the house. His dislike of Stan ran deep, not that I blamed him. Stan had been quick to point the finger at Pete for his sister Cecilia’s murder, and Pete never forgot it.

  Stan came to sit beside me on the couch. “That’s a monster of a scrape you have there. Dean said you were involved in a hit-and-run? He said it was all over the midday news.”

  I grimaced. “It’s true. I was hoping it wouldn’t be the big story today.”

  “Heroism should always make the news, in my opinion. Why wasn’t your supposed friend Pete watching out for you instead?”

  Clearly, the disdain was mutual.

  I shrugged. “The driver came out of nowhere. There was no time to react.”