Morning Cup of Murder

by Vanessa Gray Bartal

  Copyright © 2011 by Vanessa Gray Bartal

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Barbara Blake was home, although she had a hard time thinking of the tiny one-horse town of her birth as “home.” In fact, no place had ever felt like home, and now she knew why. She had been wrong about everything.

  Never having been one to admit her mistakes easily, it had taken a long time to arrive at her conclusion. Now that she had, she wasted no time in self-recrimination. Instead, she did what she had always done: she made a plan and decided to carry it out. And this time she would do it right.

  She looked around her parents’ hovel with a sneer of disgust. She should really do something about this place. A pre-war bungalow, it was small, but it had good bones. If she knocked out a few walls and did an extensive renovation, it could be quite cute. But she wasn’t going to do that. She had bigger fish to fry. Soon she would have something of her very own, something no one could take away from her.

  When a knock sounded at the door, she smiled in gleeful triumph. Dance, little puppets, dance, she thought. All the players were arranged, and Barbara was about to have some fun. Unlike when she had lived here before, she now had money and power-- the two things she had craved for so long, and the two things that made the world go round. Also unlike before, she now knew how to wield them both to get what she wanted. She was just a hairsbreadth away from having it all, and no one was going to stop her-- certainly not the rubes in this town who had always done whatever she told them to do.

  Barbara opened the door and her smile slipped and died. “Oh, it’s you,” she said with no warmth or welcome. With this person she had never had to pretend to be someone else. “What do you want?”

  “Hello, Barbara. I thought we could have a little talk and catch up. For old time’s sake.”

  Barbara shrugged and gave a humorless little chuckle. “Sure, why not? You can tell me all the ways your life hasn’t changed.” She turned and led the way inside and to the kitchen. Maybe it would be fun to play hostess for a little while. She could catch up on all the latest gossip in town. Her visitor knew everything about everyone but had never been very forthcoming with mindless chatter.

  If she was really going to play the hostess bit, she should probably offer something to eat or drink. “Would you like some…?”

  Her words turned to a cry of alarm as she caught the flash of a knife slicing through the air. Instinctively she put up her hands to protect her precious face and the expensive plastic surgery she was so proud of. But it wasn’t her face that needed protection; it was her heart. With one sickening slash the blade was in her chest, and Barbara’s life was fading away.

  She sank to her knees and onto her back as death came slowly. Now the person standing over her wore a smile of triumph.

  “I hate you,” her visitor said. The attacker twisted the knife, and those were the last words Barbara Blake ever heard.

  Chapter 1

  “Bad day at the office?”

  Lacy Steele looked up from her laptop and wished she could crawl under the table. Jason Cantor stood in front of her, swirling a cup of coffee and staring down at her from his superior height. Why had she decided to visit the coffee shop in jogging pants and an oversized t-shirt? Would her trace of eyeliner and lip gloss work to perk up her tired-looking face?

  “The internet crashed at home,” she said. A mismatched wooden chair sat opposite her. She used her foot to push it out. “Sit.”

  He shook his head. “I get tired of sitting in the cruiser all day. I like to stand when I can. Plus, the vest is uncomfortable when I sit. Makes it hard to breathe. Or drink.” He took a sip of his coffee and stared at her in that unnerving way he had lately.

  She returned his look and allowed her eyes to stray to his uniform. Hopefully he would think it was because he had called attention to his vest, and not because she had trouble taking her eyes off him. “How do you eat while you’re on duty?” She allowed her eyes to linger as if she were studying the structure of his bullet-proof vest when in reality she was picturing what was underneath. Last week she happened to see him washing his car, shirtless and dripping wet. The stubborn vision refused to leave her mind, and now it leapt to the forefront. Her cheeks turned a subtle shade of pink and finally gave her reason to tear her eyes off him. She pretended to blow on her now cold coffee before taking a sip.

  “I don’t. I skip lunch and eat when I get home.”

  “Don’t you get cranky? I thought it’s sort of universal that men are cranky when they’re hungry.”

  “Cranky men make intimidating cops,” he answered. His flirtatious, teasing tone caused her to look at him again. Things had been strange between them ever since she returned home. The fact that he was talking to her was contrary to their previous relationship when he ignored her completely and she looked down on him for being a jock. But then that had been a long time ago in high school when she was a chubby band geek and he was the king of the school. Now she was the late bloomer who finally shed her baby fat, lost her braces, and gained contacts, and he was the small town cop with devastating good looks. She still wasn’t sure she was in his league. She couldn’t be considered a beauty by anyone’s standards, but she was interesting with her red-gold hair and green eyes.

  A month ago she ran into him on the street and he looked at her like he had never seen her before, and then he looked again and his eyes had lingered in the new way she had never expected. She had no idea he was even still around here. He had been Mr. All-American--homecoming king, salutatorian, and quarterback. If she were honest with herself, it was a bit of a letdown to see him hanging around their dead-end town, barely making ends meet as a cop whose biggest responsibility was to give tickets to the passersby who drove through the highway at the edge of town. On principle she wanted nothing to do with him. She had lived in New York City, after all. She had no taste for small town boys who were most likely reliving their glory days, but despite her best intentions she found herself drawn to him, almost captivated by him. Besides his surreal good looks there was a boyish charm and sincerity she never expected to find.

  But there were also her own insecurities to overcome. After all, he had spent most of their lives pretending she didn’t exist. Why now was he suddenly showing some interest? Was it because there was no one else around? Or was he a player, intent on making a conquest and then moving on?

  So now instead of giving in to her temptation to flirt outrageously she simply studied him as he studied her. Finally his radio crackled. A female voice spit out what sounded like random numbers, but they must have meant something to Jason because his face puckered into a frown. He pressed a button on his lapel, spoke into the microphone there, and gave Lacy an upward nod.

  “See you, Lacy.”

  “See you, Jason,” she said. She watched him exit the coffee shop and get into his cruiser. Could he feel her eyes following his every move? She hoped not.

  Reluctantly she dragged her attention to the words on the page. They swam indistinctly together, a mess of letters and punctuation. Freelance writing was turning out to be not as romantic as it had sounded in college. Sure, she could set her own hours, but it was a constant battle to make enough to live. Most of her days were spent trolling the internet for possibilities while her afternoons were spent in research and writing. Thank goodness for the generosity of her grandmother or Lacy might very literally be out on the street. Or living with her parents in Florida. She shuddered and tried to focus once more on the screen in front
of her.

  Living with her grandmother in her tiny hometown was bad enough. Living with her parents at their retirement community in Florida was akin to wearing a giant, flashing sign labeled, “Failure.” At least now she had the excuse of offering her grandmother some help. The tiny sum she paid each month for rent wasn’t much, but it was enough to supplement her grandmother’s meager income. And Grandma enjoyed the company. Lacy knew because she told her a dozen times a day. If Lacy was being honest, she would admit she enjoyed her grandmother’s company, too. Life was lonely these days with only her laptop for a companion. On the days when her college friends posted their most recent successes on a social networking site, Lacy found comfort in whatever her grandmother was baking. She didn’t have to be a genius to know she was going to start packing on the pounds if she found friends in food, but for now cookies were all she had. Cookies and Grandma, she amended.

  How did it come to this? she wondered. For years she had hated this town and everything it represented. It was a dead end. Everyone in high school knew that and made plans to get away. Lacy’s star had been brighter than some. Not only was she a gifted student, but her writing received several awards and earned her a scholarship to a prestigious university. And then came New York.

  She shook her head and stood to refill her coffee. She wouldn’t think about that now. She couldn’t. She would simply go on putting one foot in front of the other and things would somehow work themselves out. Right? Isn’t that what people always said? Good times followed bad, or so the saying went. Lacy was due for her share of good times any day now. She couldn’t envision what they would look like, but she was anxious for their arrival, nonetheless.

  Unbidden her thoughts turned to Jason, but she banished them as soon as they appeared. While having a fling might prove amusing, it would no doubt leave her heart in tatters. She couldn’t afford to have that happen again. Having your heart ripped out twice by the age of twenty six was too much for any one person to live through. No, instead she would concentrate on figuring out her next step and in the mean time she would work to rebuild what had been lost since college.

  She sat again and sighed. So much had been lost; how could she ever get it back again? Was she supposed to feel so weary at such a young age? Her friends appeared to be having the time of their lives, but Lacy felt only defeat and something like despair. The walls were closing in, and she had nowhere to go. This was officially her dead end. Could things possibly get any worse? The answer to that, of course, was a resounding yes.

  Chapter 2

  The threat of poverty gave Lacy the focus she needed to finish the article. She filed it with the editor and wished her payment would come immediately instead of in two to four weeks. She caught her name on the signature and grimaced. Lacy Steele. An editor once asked her if it was a pseudonym. Sadly, it was not. She readily admitted her name sounded either like a defective manufacturing material or a character from a cheap romance. What had her parents been thinking? But when she considered changing it, at least for the purpose of her career, she didn’t have the heart. Her family was so proud of her. Her mother collected every story she wrote, even the obscure ones no one else read. It would crush them if she used any name other than her own.

  She stretched, yawned, closed her laptop and packed it up to go home, glancing around the crowded coffee house as she did so. Her yawn was cut short by a chuckle as she took in her surroundings. Unlike the trendy coffee houses in New York this one was homey and provincial, and so were its customers. In fact she was the youngest person in the room by far. It was no wonder they were always sold out of bran muffins here. While most big city coffee locales were stuffed with laptop-toting twenty-somethings like herself, this one resembled a geriatric convention. And almost no one had intricate French or Italian drinks. All the blue and gray heads were sipping plain old coffee, reading actual newspapers, and eating their ubiquitous bran muffins. A few people caught her eye and nodded. One of them was her old high school principal, Mr. Middleton. He gave her a nod that could either be approval or disapproval, and she returned it. He was one of those people who, though elderly, could still inspire a certain amount of fear and awe by a narrowing of the eyes.

  “See you tomorrow?” Peggy, the elderly cashier, said it as a question as Lacy filed past her.

  “We’ll see,” Lacy returned. She had become such a frequent visitor that the two were almost friends now. At least they exchanged friendly pleasantries a few times a day. Lacy had the uncomfortable feeling that she was seeing her future stretch out in a dizzying array of days just like this one until she would be one of the white haired regulars, sipping her coffee and eating her bran. No, no, no, she told herself. Just because she didn’t have a plan right now didn’t mean she never would. Eventually she would think of something to do with her life and then she would do it.

  Her vague life plan left her feeling restless and dissatisfied. What was she doing here? How did she wind up in the one place she swore she would never be? And, most importantly, how could she get out?

  The scent of sugar and cinnamon hit her as soon as she opened the door and worked to ease some of her anxiety. And then she saw her grandma standing at the sink and she smiled. Without asking her if she was hungry her grandma cut a slice of cake and slid it onto a plate. And even if she wasn’t hungry she would eat the cake. Over the years prune cake had become her number one comfort food, and her grandma knew it. For as long as Lacy could remember her grandma had used it to try and cajole her out of whatever silly sadness she was suffering, and for as long as she could remember it had always worked. How her grandmother knew when she needed it remained a mystery. She had always seemed to possess a sixth sense about Lacy’s moods.

  “Thanks,” Lacy said, and then she tucked into the cake. It was still warm from the oven, and the caramel topping stuck first to her fork and then to her teeth. Her eyes closed as comfort washed through her. “Grandma, you’re spoiling me,” she said as soon as she could safely talk.

  “That’s what grandmas are for,” her grandmother answered, and Lacy had to agree with her because she had never known different. Her grandma was soft and plump and white-haired, just like a grandma should be. And she always smelled like a combination of peppermint and vanilla. All of Lacy’s memories of her involved food in some way, but that was her grandmother’s way. For her food was love. And the more fattening or sugar-laden the food the more she loved someone, which was probably why her grandfather had died at a rather young age from a variety of ailments all relating to high cholesterol and diabetes. One might think that knowledge would deter Lacy from eating the calorie-laced goodies, but one would be wrong. Her jeans were starting to become uncomfortably tight lately, but she still couldn’t stop herself from indulging in her grandmother’s treats. She told herself it was because she didn’t want to hurt the sweet, sensitive woman’s feelings, but in reality they just tasted too good to pass up.

  “Another piece, honey?” her grandmother offered, alerting Lacy to the fact that she had practically licked her plate clean without even noticing.

  Yes. “No, thank you,” she made herself say, although she stared wistfully at the cake. “Maybe I’ll go for a quick run before supper, Grandma.” She paused on her way out of the room and turned to look back. It was their standard routine for her to ask to help with supper and her grandma always made a blustery refusal. But just as she opened her mouth she paused and studied the older woman. What was that strange, unknown expression on her face? Sadness? Concern?

  “Grandma, are you okay?”

  Her grandmother looked up and forced a bright smile. “Of course, honey. You go for your run now. Supper’s running a little behind anyway.”

  “Is there…” Lacy started to say her usual, “Is there anything I can do to help?” but her grandmother cut her off with a shake of her head.

  “It’s all under control, honey. Go ahead and have your run. Pretty young girls like you have to stay in shape if they want to catch a man.�
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  Lacy waited until she left the room before allowing her grimace to show. What was the older generation’s obsession with marrying off everyone under the age of fifty? Some of her earliest memories were of her grandparents teasing her about boys in her class, boys she had detested at the time, but they had laughingly called them her boyfriends. It used to make Lacy furious and embarrassed. Some of those old feelings returned to the surface now. She had carefully explained to her grandmother why she wasn’t ready to date anyone just yet, but her grandmother’s only response had been to nod, smile and say, “I’m sure you’ll find a nice young man who will change your mind.”

  Her thoughts muddled as she exited the house and pounded the pavement. In books and movies people ran because they enjoyed it. To Lacy those characters were far-fetched. She ran because it was the most expedient way of burning calories, but she hated every painful, burning step. Who in her right mind wouldn’t hate the hard slap of concrete underfoot, the sweat trickling down her back, and the stinging stitch in her side? She had never developed a graceful stride. Instead her yellow jogging pants made her look like an injured duckling trying vainly to return to the water. The sound wheezing from her open lips didn’t help matters; it was reminiscent of faint, pained quacking.

  For some reason she thought of Jason and her discomfort increased. He was one of those naturally gifted athletes who made running look simple. Many times she had seen him cruising down the football field during their Friday night games in high school. Of course she had always watched from the bleachers along with the rest of the marching band. Running for exercise had never occurred to her until her freshman year of college when she suddenly tired of being chubby. Never obese by anyone’s standards her extra poundage had been labeled “baby fat.” Most girls that first year of college gained fifteen pounds. Lacy and her roommate, Kimber, lost that much and then some. She could still remember the first day she and Kimber decided to start jogging to lose weight. They had to stop halfway through their run, not only because they were out of shape, but also because they were laughing too hard to continue. Kimber wasn’t an athlete, either.