by Sandra Balzo
Wait a minute. I was on Twitter?
'Your life is like an old-time radio serial.' Sophie gestured toward the pot with her cup. 'We can't wait for the next episode.'
And who was 'we'? 'But I'm not on Twitter.' At least I didn't think so.
'You don't have to be.' Sarah took the carafe away from me and filled Sophie's waiting cup. 'People just use the network to report where they see you.'
'I'm here.' This senior stalking was creeping me out.
'I know,' Sophie said. 'I've already reported it.'
With a shiver, I glanced toward the big front window just in time to glimpse a woman with steel-gray hair peer through the glass. When she saw me looking at her, she ducked sideways and disappeared with a dull thud.
'Oh, dear,' Sophie said, grabbing a cover for her cup and hurrying to the door. 'Teresa has toppled again. I keep telling her that she should bring her walker instead of a cane on stake-outs. More stability, of course.'
Stake-outs. 'Of course,' I repeated woodenly.
I turned to Sarah as the door closed behind Sophie. 'What was that all about?'
'The senior book club. They read a novel about this detective agency and decided to try it themselves.'
'Using Twitter?' And twitting me? And Pavlik?
Sarah shrugged. 'What can I say? The geezers in residence at Brookhills Manor are more technologically advanced than we are. Rodney Houston "friended" me on Facebook the other day. Said he's "in an open relationship" and wants to hook up.'
My head began to spin. 'Rodney has got to be eighty-five.'
'But not dead, apparently.'
'Apparently,' I said, feeling a little sheepish. 'And so long as people like Sophie and Henry and Rodney keep busy and occupy their minds, they'll stay sharp. Vibrant.'
'No,' Sarah said. 'I meant literally. Rodney's not dead. The Brookhills Observer accidentally ran an obit on him last week. Complete with "X's" for where his age should go when he finally does kick.'
'Rodney must've had a pretty impressive life for the paper to have a death notice already written and waiting.' That kind of pre-planning at media outlets was usually restricted to public figures or celebrities.
'Nah, Caron is writing them for everyone in town.' Sarah pulled a napkin toward her and made a note on it. 'I have to remember to let her know when I win the train contest.'
'If you win . . .' Wait a minute. 'Caron?'
Caron Egan was my former partner in Uncommon Grounds. Not the deceased one, but the woman who pulled the plug on our partnership because of 'employment stress', as she put it. 'Caron is working again? For Kate at that rag?'
'Don't trundle your undies into a bundle,' Sarah said. 'She's just working at the Observer part-time. I think Kate needs the help because of the moonlighting she herself's doing for cable news.'
Caron and I had met years ago in the marketing department of First National. Luckily for Caron, that was pre-Anita Hampton. At the time, Caron wrote advertising copy and I'd managed special events. When she married her lawyer-husband Bernie, and I got hitched to his college room-mate, Ted, the four of us became 'couple friends'.
The relationship with Caron had survived my divorce, our partnership and that partnership breaking up. She and I remained tight, but . . . 'This is the first I've heard that Caron hadn't adjusted very well to the "life of leisure".'
'Maybe she needs a new challenge,' Sarah said.
'Writing obits?' And before people died?
'You're right.' A dry reply. 'Pales in comparison to pouring coffee.'
I could debate Sarah on the subject. Expound on the challenges of running a small business. Extol the rewards of financial self-sufficiency.
Nah.
My new partner was looking a little hurt. 'Why do you care, Maggy? It's Caron's life.'
'You're right,' I said, sensing Sarah was looking for reassurance. I rested a palm on her shoulder. 'And things have worked out for the best. I could never top you as a partner.'
Sarah looked at my hand.
I removed it and cleared my throat. 'Anyway, things were so busy when I came back in that I didn't get a chance to tell you: JoLynne stuffer . . . I mean, suffocated.'
'That was quick. How'd you find out?'
'One of Kevin's guys. Apparently his boss told him.'
'If I was the deceased's husband,' Sarah said, 'I'd stop talking and start running.'
'Why?'
'Why not?' Sarah picked up a dish towel and started to wipe the counter. 'Rebecca maintains her sister is – OK, was, but always had been – a slut. Maybe Kevin got tired of it.'
'Aren't you making a lot of assumptions?' I asked. 'We don't even know JoLynne was murdered.'
Though that determination sure would be easier on our umbrella insurance policy. At least, I didn't think you could be held liable for Person A murdering Person B. Unless, of course, Person B died because of your negligence. Like not having the damn inflatables roped off . . .
'Not murder? Please.' Sarah snorted. 'What was it then, suicide? JoLynne presses a pillow over her face and then cannon-balls into a giant coffee cup?'
'I concede that suicide is a stretch. But it could have been an accident.'
'You mean like she fell into the cup and hit her head, had a seizure and choked on her tongue?'
Sarah was a tough audience.
'Not "falling",' I said. 'That might mean we didn't take reasonable precautions. Like not putting a fence around your swimming pool.'
'Well,' Sarah seemed unconcerned, 'that'd be Kevin's problem, right? He's the contractor.'
She had gone back to her wiping, doing a yeoman's job of rearranging the bacteria. I pulled a spray bottle of disinfectant from under the sink.
My partner accepted it with a long-suffering look and started over on the thick granite counters. The serving windows of Uncommon Grounds were formerly the ticket windows of the historical depot. 'Formerly', because the travel-by-rail process was now completely computerized. Stick your charge card in the kiosk on the corner of our porch, choose a route and out comes your train ticket.
Stepping back, Sarah surveyed her work. 'What I want to know is why JoLynne was up there in the first place.' With a glance at me, Sarah sprayed and wiped the same surface area again.
'Got me.' I pointed. 'You missed a spot.'
Wordlessly, though rather stiffly, my partner handed me the towel and the bottle. Sometimes, even Sarah Kingston doesn't trust herself to speak.
The day continued in like manner. That is, Sarah did something, I corrected it – only to make her better, of course – and she left me to do the task myself.
Finally, I got smart and asked Amy, who'd returned from the grocery store, to deal with Sarah and the customers, so I could go back to the office. I was riffling through the papers on my desk, in search of the bill for the damn cup, when Tien stuck her head in the doorway.
'You're back,' I said, finding the invoice I was looking for. $953, including tax. Kevin had thrown in the saucer for free – I'd been fully prepared to go saucerless, in order to keep the tab under a grand.
Tien smiled brightly, lifting the loaded plastic grocery bags she held in each hand. 'Got all my supplies and I'm itching to cook.'
'Whatever you do, don't show Amy those plastic bags. She hounded me about our old foam cups, so we switched to cardboard.'
The cups were more expensive and less insulating, but they qualified as eco-friendly. The landfills and our 'progeny' would thank me, Amy had said.
'Oh, I know.' Tien set down one hand's worth of bags and pulled out a folded-up tote. 'She's already given me a "reusable".'
She shook the cream-colored fabric to open it up.
'Uncommon Grounds' in dark blue letters on the front of it, matching navy handles.
Tien swiveled her wrist like a baton-twirler to turn the bag around. A picture of the earth adorned the back.
Huh. 'Nice.'
'Really nice,' Tien agreed, stashing it and picking up her groceries. 'And brilliant c
onvergence, too. Grounds/Earth? You're a genius, Maggy.'
Was I? Because if I'd ordered the reusable tote bags, I'd misplaced the memory, not so unusual these days. But when had I done it? And from what supplier?
Like I said, Huh.
Tien continued into the kitchen and I abandoned the bills to return to our service counter. Though I'd heard a number of customers coming in and out, thanks to the sleigh bells that hung from our front door, no one was there at the time.
I looked at the clock. Six twenty.
Amy and Sarah were standing at the espresso machine, my partner tamping finely ground powder into a portafilter, a small metal basket, handle attached.
Sarah frowned. 'Now what, Amy?'
'You twist it on . . . here.' Our barista was pointing to one of two fittings on the machine.
Sarah looked at her.
Amy smiled. 'Like this.' She took an empty portafilter, held it up to the fitting and then twisted to engage it.
'Ah.' Sarah followed suit. 'That was easy. Next step?' She threw me a look that said, 'Now here's a natural teacher.'
'OK. Cup below the spout.' Amy pointed at a miniature metal pitcher and Sarah placed it under the portafilter's basket. 'Just push the button.'
Uncertainty crossed Sarah's face, but she complied.
'And voila!' Amy's big hoop earrings swung as she nodded in approval.
'Is the milk already steamed?' I asked. Usually we poured milk into a full-size version of the metal pitcher and frothed the liquid so it could rest as the espresso was brewed. That way you didn't get a cupful of milk-flavored hot air that would dissipate the moment you left the shop, leaving you with half a drink.
'Maggy, this is a system of building blocks.' A warning expression on Amy's face. 'Today we learned how to make espresso, right?'
But Sarah, seemingly oblivious to my critique, was busily focused on pouring her 'baby' into a tiny porcelain cup. 'Uh-huh.'
'Tomorrow,' Amy continued, 'I'll show Sarah what else she can do using the espresso.'
If Sarah didn't wipe the Cheshire Cat grin from her lips, I'd show her what to do with it.
As my partner moved away to get a matching, miniature saucer, I turned to Amy. 'Don't tell me. You were a kindergarten teacher?'
Before answering, she checked Sarah's position. 'Pre-school. You wouldn't believe how often it comes in handy.'
I nodded at our cash register. 'Think you can run me through Money and Change 101?'
Amy appeared puzzled. 'But the installer showed us, remember?'
'Yes, only I've pretty much forgotten everything he said.' I opened the drawer under the register and rifled through. 'I don't even know where we keep our list of codes.'
'Right here.' Amy slid the card out from below the register itself.
'Genius,' I said. Which reminded me. 'Hey, when did I order the Uncommon Grounds tote bags?'
'You didn't. I did.'
'But I'm the boss.' I glanced quickly at Sarah who was now sitting, sipping her carefully-constructed espresso. 'OK, we're the boss. But you still should run these things past one of us.'
'You were busy.' Amy pointed at the bag displayed on the wall. 'We've already sold nearly a dozen.'
Well, that was good. 'But still . . .'
'You like them, right?'
'Of course.'
'Anything you'd change? We can do that next order.'
'Nothing, but . . .' Oh, the hell with it. The bags were great and so was Amy.
Before I could tell her so, though, the floor trembled, the air rumbled and then came a distant whistle.
The Death Train Returneth.
Chapter Six
'I don't know why you're calling it that,' Pavlik said. 'Unlike the last incident, this train didn't actually kill anyone.'
'Other than our business, potentially. Not a single person got off when it made its return run tonight.'
'You know as well as I do that the commuter line wasn't running a regular schedule today. Tomorrow will be better.'
'It better be,' I grumbled. 'And I still like my nickname better than the train's official one.'
Pavlik had arrived at my house around eight with a pizza. The box was on the kitchen table, my sheepdog Frank positioned on the floor next to Pavlik, waiting for his piece of the pie. As high as the beast's head reached, he might as well have been in a chair like we were.
'Chin off the table, Frank,' I ordered.
'You don't like the name of the train or you don't like the fact that Sarah won the contest?' Pavlik tossed the sheepdog a frisbee of pepperoni.
Perfect. If Frank wriggled his way into my bed, I'd be greeted by a canine depth-charge when I rippled the covers.
'Both,' I conceded. 'My heartache began the moment I caught the scroll-line under the news. It's probably already been added to her obit.'
Pavlik seemed shocked. 'Sarah's obituary?'
'Long story, but not a big deal,' I said. 'My point is, I'll likely be Sarah's next call, so she can crow.' A sideways glance at Pavlik. 'Assuming the news has reached her, of course.'
'Sarah'd be told before it was released to the media, wouldn't she?'
I shrugged. 'JoLynne Penn-Williams was running the competition. With her gone so suddenly, who knows what might have slipped through the cracks?'
I let it hang there, but Pavlik didn't comment.
'I understand the cause of JoLynne's death came back,' I tried. 'That was fast.'
'The preliminary cause of death,' our sheriff corrected. Frank was on his haunches begging and when Pavlik turned his head, he came face to muzzle with my shaggy dog.
My beau fanned the air between them. 'I think Frank could use some mouthwash. Industrial-strength.'
'I tried brushing his teeth last week. Not a happy experience for either of us.'
A mournful howl as confirmation.
I wanted to corroborate Ragnar's story. 'So, what is the preliminary cause of death?'
'Asphyxiation.'
'Is that the same thing as suffocation?'
'Asphyxia is simply not getting enough oxygen to sustain life. Suffocation can be a cause of asphyxiation. Because there are no apparent signs of ligatures, bruising around the neck or hanging, it looks like suffocation. Maybe even choking on a piece of food, though Doc didn't find anything obstructing Ms Penn-Williams' airway.'
'An asthma attack, then?' I'll take 'Natural Causes' for $500, Alex.
Pavlik fed Frank a chunk of mushroom, mozzarella cheese yo-yoing from it. 'You've gotten all you're going to get from me tonight, Maggy.'
Well, that was no fun. I was about to ask if he'd brought the handcuffs when my cell rang. By the time I dug through my bag and came up with it, all I had was a voicemail. Which was OK. I usually preferred those to talking with actual people.
Hi. How are you? Good. And you? Great thanks. How about the family? And on, and on, and . . .
Then I saw the missed call came from my partner's home phone. 'That was Sarah,' I told Pavlik. 'Do you mind if I listen to her message?'
'Not at all,' he said, a hint of 'smirk' tickling the corners of his lips.
I pushed 'SEND', waited and then punched in my code. Finally Sarah's recorded voice came on the line: 'Told you so, told you so! My "To 'L' and Back" is the Grand Prize winner. Hah!'
End of message.
'Sarah knows.'
'So I suspected. And heard. Why does she even bother using the phone? We probably could've heard her through an open window.'
Sarah's house lay a mile away from mine, but still an apt comment. 'I wish I could figure out how to turn down the voice volume on my cell. I don't mind your listening in, but not necessarily the rest of the world.'
'I don't like that, either. I can show you the adjustment sometime.' A pause. 'You going to call her back?'
'Nope. Sarah will lord it over me tomorrow ad nauseam. Her gloating will give us something to share if business is slow again.'
'One thing I didn't hear. Did Sarah say if it was Anita
Hampton who notified her?'
'No. Why?'
'Just wondering if she's taken over Ms Penn-Williams' duties.'
'Maybe temporarily, but with Brewster being the Brookhills County Exec, I doubt Anita would be allowed to work long-term for her own husband. By the way –' I reached across the table and ran my palm over Pavlik's beard stubble – 'Anita was getting mighty friendly on that stage this morning. She better not let Brewster catch her flirting.'
'Friendly?' Pavlik looked surprised. Didn't stop him from adding onions to the toxic soup steeping in Frank's stomach. 'With who?'
'Whom,' I corrected automatically.
Now Pavlik gave me a look with no surprise in it at all.
'Sorry,' I said. 'But the "to whom" is you. She was rubbing your arm.'
'Why bring it up?' Pavlik pushed back a bit from the table, a grin on his face. 'Are you jealous?'
'Of course not.' At least I didn't think I was. Until now. Shit. Should I be?
'Good.' Pavlik reached over to lay his right hand on mine, which, in turn, had hold of a triangle of pizza. 'Because I'm not interested in Anita. I'm interested in you.'
'I like that.' I gazed down at the pizza, my first slice trapped under our hands. Much as I loved the reassurance, I was hungry and the pizza supply was rapidly dwindling. 'Anita and Brewster make quite the power couple.'
'They do, indeed,' Pavlik said, leaving his right paw on mine, but picking up a piece of pizza with his left. 'Though I'm not sure what the attraction is.'
I tried to slide my hand back a little. 'Besides him being handsome and powerful?'
'No, I meant what's the attraction for Brewster. You used to work with Anita, right?'
'For her,' I corrected.
'I'm not sure there's a difference. She treats everybody like minions. And it's starting to rub off on Brewster.'
I traced my thumbnail along the side of his hand. 'Have you needed to work with her?' I asked.
'Not much, though that may change.' Pavlik took another bite. 'The two county execs just announced an initiative that would have involved both JoLynne Penn-Williams and Anita Hampton.'
'What kind of initiative?'
'Drugs. We're focusing primarily on heroin and cocaine in the city and marijuana and crystal meth in the countryside. That's what the regional DEA conference the last two days was all about.'
