Morning Cup of Murder

by Vanessa Gray Bartal

  She wondered if she should wake him and send him down the hall to her room so he would be more comfortable, but didn’t want to disturb him. She did risk covering him with her afghan and removing his boots, though. How he could sleep in work boots was beyond her; he must have been absolutely exhausted when he finally returned home last night.

  As evidence to his exhaustion, he didn’t stir when she unlaced his boots and removed them from his feet. Lacy resisted the temptation to linger, watching him a while longer. Instead she went down the hall to the bathroom, took a shower, and put herself back together.

  She was pale. She had always been pale, but emotional trauma or exhaustion made her seem paler. Now she looked almost translucent, especially with the dark circles under her eyes that spoke of her lack of sleep. A dusting of powder and a smattering of lip gloss were her daily routine, but today she was going to have to go the whole nine yards with blush and eye shadow. Usually when she spent so much time on her makeup, she also straightened her hair for some special occasion, but not this morning. The weather was humid; if her hair remained straight for five minutes, it would be something for the record books. Instead she scrunched it as it dried, allowing her waves to pull into spirals. It wasn’t her favorite look, but at least she was embracing the humidity instead of fighting it.

  Jason was still asleep in the living room when Lacy tiptoed to the kitchen. The two rooms adjoined, so she tried to be as quiet as possible as she prepared a pot of coffee. When the coffee was finished, she poured a cup and took it to the living room. Even though Jason was asleep, remaining in the kitchen felt lonely. She resumed her position on the couch and reread the journal while she sipped at the warm brew.

  “Do I smell coffee?” Jason asked.

  When Lacy looked up, his eyes were still closed, but he was smiling. “How do you take it?” she asked. “I’ll pour you a cup.”

  “Cream and sugar,” he replied.

  She was surprised, but she didn’t say so. Somehow she thought tough-guy cops always took their coffee black. When she returned to the living room after retrieving the coffee, he was sitting on the couch. She sat next to him as he reached for his coffee and inhaled.

  “I used to hate coffee before I became a cop,” he said. “But then you start working so many crazy hours it becomes a necessity.”

  “I’ve always liked coffee,” she said. “Neither of my parents drink it. I picked up the habit from my grandparents.”

  “You’re really close to your grandma,” he stated.

  “I’m probably closer to her than I am to anyone on earth,” Lacy said.

  “Why? Is something wrong with your parents?”

  “No. I love my parents, but I’ve always had a special relationship with Grandma.”

  “You have a little sister, too, don’t you?”

  She wrapped both hands around her mug and stared at the murky contents. “Yes I do.”

  “Is she as close to your grandmother?”

  “No, she’s closer to my parents.”

  He read something in her tone, but he didn’t press the matter. He just wanted to have a nice, normal morning with her without any arguing or tension.

  “Did it ever bother you, being an only child?” she asked.

  “I wasn’t always an only child,” he said, surprising her. “I had a little brother. He died when I was five, the year I started school.”

  “Jason, I’m sorry. I had no idea. What happened to him?”

  He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “One night he had a sore throat, and the next morning he was gone. It was a freak case of Quincy; his tonsils swelled so much they cut off his airway in the night.”

  “That’s horrible. That must have been devastating.”

  He shrugged one shoulder again, and she understood the subject was closed.

  “So we’re both oldest children,” she mused into the silence.

  “I guess that explains why we butt heads so much,” he said.

  “I thought it was because you were wrong all the time,” she said.

  He squeezed her knee and leaned back against the couch, smiling at her. “You look very pretty today.”

  Lacy wasn’t expecting a compliment. She felt her cheeks heat with a blush. “Thank you.” She, too, leaned back against the couch. They regarded each other in silence a few minutes. Not for the first time, she was regretting her “no kissing” rule when Jason spoke.

  “This is nice,” he said. “Just to sit here and talk without any pressure. I’m enjoying this friends thing.”

  “Yes, it’s super,” she said, stuffing down her disappointment. Apparently she was the only one thinking about kissing. “Want some breakfast?”

  “I’ll cook this time.”

  “You cook?” she asked in surprise.

  He gave her a knowing smile. “It kills you that I’m blowing up all the stereotypes you’ve harbored about me, huh?”

  If only that were the case. While he was tied up in the neat little package she had created for him, he was safe. But when he started to challenge the precepts she had constructed, he became dangerous. How was she supposed to deal with a guy who saved her life one night, cooked her breakfast the next morning, and was still obviously grieving the little brother he lost twenty years ago?

  He used six eggs to make two omelets that were just right--light, fluffy, and filled with the perfect amount of cheese.

  “Where did you learn to cook?” she asked.

  “A guy’s gotta eat,” he replied.

  “Your girlfriends don’t feed you?”

  “Occasionally.” He flipped the omelet in the pan and placed it back on the burner. “But I prefer to be self-sufficient.”

  Lacy pillowed her head on her arms, resting her arms on the table. He was aggravatingly mysterious, and he wasn’t supposed to be. He was supposed to be simple. She had always thought him straightforward--athletic guy who likes action and girls. Now he was morphing into someone else. Finding out he was afraid of commitment hadn’t come as a shock; she had always assumed he was afraid to be tied down. Finding out he was afraid of everything else was a huge surprise. Jason liked things simple and predictable, like his job, for instance. He seemed terrified to buck the system and stand on his own, even though Travis had told her he was well-liked and respected, a shoe-in for the next promotion.

  She also hadn’t expected him to be a loner. In high school, he had always been surrounded by a bevy of adoring fans, both male and female. The girls wanted to date him, and the guys wanted to be him. She had assumed that since he continued to live in their hometown his life would still be one non-stop party. But he was straight-laced and serious and very much alone. And not just alone but lonely, she realized with astonishment. He was a loner who didn’t like to be alone, as confusing as that thought was.

  The insecure part of her thought Jason wanted to be with her for his own amusement. She was new and therefore interesting. But maybe he wanted to be with her because the alternative was to be alone.

  “Where are your parents?” she asked. “I haven’t heard you mention them.”

  “They moved away a few years ago,” he said.

  “Do you ever see them?”

  “Occasionally,” he said. He plated their omelets and set them on the table.

  He was being very cagey about his life. She would have called him on it, but he looked so happy. And that was what had been missing since her return- Jason’s happiness. Now that she understood the contrast, she realized he had been subtly sad since her arrival. She continued to study him, owl-like, wide-eyed and unblinking, until he looked up and returned her stare.

  “What is it?” he asked, his fork paused in midair. “Is the omelet bad?”

  “No, it’s great. It’s perfect, in fact. I’ve never made an omelet this good in my life.”

  “Then dig in, Red. I like to see a girl who enjoys her food.”

  His command had the opposite effect of causing her to eat. “What did you call me?”


  “You heard me.”

  “I don’t think I did because my hair’s not red; it’s strawberry blond.”

  He dropped his fork and picked up a lock of her hair, holding it in midair between them. “Red.”

  “Jason, I know what color my hair is.” She jerked her head, removing her hair from his grasp.

  “You’re in denial. What’s so bad about red, anyway?”

  “Nothing. I’ve known a lot of perfectly nice redheads. I’m just not one of them.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short; you’re nice enough.”

  “Maybe you’re colorblind,” she said. “What color is your hair?”

  “Brown,” he said.

  “See? That proves it. Your hair is black.”

  He chuckled. “Lacy, you’re crazy. My hair is dark brown.”

  “It is not. It’s black.” She reached her hand up and sifted her fingers through his hair. “In fact, I think I see some spots that are going gray up here. Brown hair doesn’t do that at such a young age.”

  She expected an argument, but he was strangely silent. She looked at his face, now very close to hers, and froze. She watched while he set his fork on his plate and pushed it out of the way, and then he reached for her. His left hand pushed her hair off her shoulder while his right hand settled on her waist.

  “How are you after last night? We never really talked about it,” he said. His left hand remained at her shoulder, twining in her hair. She felt a little ridiculous with her hands still stranded in his hair, but for lack of a less-awkward resting place, she left them as they were.

  “I was shaken up after you left, but I’m fine now.”

  “Lacy, you have to admit this has gotten out of hand. I think it’s time to get rid of the journals and give up this crazy pursuit.”

  “Not until my grandma’s name is cleared,” she said. “Try to understand, Jason.”

  “I do understand, but I’m worried about you. Try to understand, Lacy.” He smiled at her and plunged his left hand into her hair at the hairline, his thumb gently caressing her jaw.

  Somehow that small gesture changed the tone of things between them. The tension that had been absent all morning returned full force. Lacy tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. She thought covetously of the orange juice sitting just a few inches away. Maybe if she had something to drink she wouldn’t feel so odd. Maybe she wasn’t really attracted to Jason; maybe she simply had low blood sugar.

  The phone rang, but she made no move to answer. The machine picked up, and Tosh’s voice spoke.

  “Lacy, it’s me. I was thinking maybe you and I should spend the evening together so we don’t break our streak. Plus, I’m worried about you. I think I should have stayed last night. Call me back so I know you’re still alive. I can’t believe I’m talking to an answering machine; I feel like I just went back in time. Later.”

  Jason slowly sat back, removing his hands from her as she withdrew from him. They finished their eggs in silence and he downed the remainder of his juice before he spoke.

  “Let me just say one more time, and for the record, that I don’t trust that guy.”

  “Why not?” Lacy asked.

  “There’s something not right about him. I’m not buying his whole peasant pastor routine. He’s not what he seems.”

  That much was true; Tosh wasn’t a peasant, he was stinking rich. But Lacy didn’t feel like she should share Tosh’s story with Jason. Not only because it felt like gossip, but also because she sensed that learning Tosh was wealthy would make Jason dislike him more.

  “He may be unorthodox, but his heart is sincere,” Lacy said.

  “How do you know, Lacy?” Jason asked.

  “I just do,” Lacy answered. For reasons she didn’t understand, she was uncomfortable talking about Tosh to Jason or vice versa.

  “Fine, I’ll let it go. It’s your life.” He drummed his fingers on the table a few times. “So are you going to go out with him tonight?”

  “I don’t know. I have a lot to do today.”

  “Like what?”

  “I want to gather my grandma’s friends together and ask them to try and help me make sense of Barbara Blake’s journal. What are you going to do with your day off?”

  “How did you know today is my day off?” he asked.

  Because since I arrived home I’ve been watching you obsessively. “I’m observant, I guess.”

  “Well, I was going to see if you wanted to spend this evening with me, but it sounds like you have a previous invitation. I suppose I could still ask you out and make you choose.”

  “Friends don’t play head games on each other,” she said.

  “All right, I won’t make you choose.” He leaned closer and picked up her hand, gently toying with her fingers. “But if I did, which one would you pick? The stranger you barely know, or the guy you’ve known since kindergarten?”

  “I find it interesting that you think longevity would be the deciding factor,” she said.

  “If not longevity, then what?” he asked.

  In answer, she gave him an enigmatic smile before standing to clear the dishes.

  Chapter 17

  Two hours later, Lacy found herself sitting on Gladys Smith’s sofa, shifting uncomfortably every time the plastic covering stuck to a new area.

  The entire group of friends was there: Rose, Gladys, Janice, and Maya. Lacy felt awkward without her grandmother as a buffer. She had never spent much time alone with the other women, instead always seeing them at some church function, usually a funeral. Now they faced her in a semicircle of silence, as if she were the teacher and they were awaiting her lecture.

  “Thank you for meeting me today on such short notice,” she began. “As you know, Grandma is still in jail. I tried talking to the detective about her alibi, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “What’s her alibi?” Maya asked.

  “She baked me a prune cake during the time of the murder.”

  They nodded together. Only a group of like-minded baking grandmothers would understand how much time and effort went into baking a scratch cake.

  “I’m sure things will work out,” Janice said weakly.

  “Frankly, I’m beginning to have my doubts,” Lacy said. “The detective in charge doesn’t want to listen to reason. He wants to blame Grandma, and he won’t investigate any other possibility.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Rose said, dabbing at her lip with her ever-present hankie. “Everyone knows Lucy is the kindest, gentlest soul on the planet. She’s never done one regrettable thing in her life.”

  The three other women shifted nervously in their seats. Lacy thought if they had been close enough, they might have jabbed their friend in the ribs with their elbows. Instead they darted her quelling glares until she relaxed into her chair, subdued and silent.

  “I agree with you,” Lacy said. “But I also feel like it’s up to me to make Grandma’s case and prove her innocence. That’s why I called you here this morning. I need your help.” She pulled the three journals from her bag. Was it her imagination, or did the tension in the room heighten a few notches as the four women leaned forward and focused their gazes on the books.

  “I found these in the course of my investigation,” Lacy said. When no one commented, she continued. “They seem to be some sort of record of things people gave her, but the names are in code. Here, for instance.” She opened the oldest book, flipping to the back, and began reading.

  “‘The Flakes- house.’ Obviously they were her parents because I know they left her the house, but these other entries are a mystery. Do they mean anything to you?” She passed the journal into the group and watched while they huddled together over the book. After a minute of silent perusal, Janice slammed shut the book and handed it back.

  “No, not a thing. We have no idea. There’s nothing in those books that’s familiar to us. I have no idea what any of it means. It’s a mystery. There’s no telling with Barbara. She was an odd bird. Could be anything. We h
ave no idea. She probably became mixed up in something bad in New York.”

  Lacy blinked at her. “Okay,” she drawled. “It’s just that everything started and ended here. I can’t help but feel like this town is connected with her death, and I think something in these journals might hold the key.”

  The four women remained silent, staring frozenly at Lacy as if she were holding a gun on them.

  “Maybe if you took another look,” she began, but Maya cut her off.

  “We don’t know anything,” she said.

  “Do any of the names ring a bell with you? Are there any clues that might help me figure out who these are talking about?”

  “She did like to give people nicknames,” Rose squeaked.

  “Rose!” The other three women hissed her name and turned to look at her.

  Lacy’s mind was beginning to fill in the missing pieces of the puzzle. “Did she have nicknames for you four?” she asked, focusing all her attention on Rose.

  Rose nodded. A tear trickled down one cheek.

  Lacy glanced at the book, skipping to the section she knew by heart. “Prim--that’s you, isn’t it, Rose?” Rose didn’t answer, but from her baleful look Lacy knew she had guessed correctly. “President, is that you, Maya?” Her maiden name had been Grant.

  Maya nodded, her lips pressed tightly together in mute defiance.

  “And Strings, that must be Janice.” Janice’s maiden name was Harpest. “I guess that means Gladys is Radish. Why, though?”

  “She said it rhymed,” Gladys snapped, the anger in her tone revealing just how much she had hated the nickname.

  “I don’t understand. Why did you keep this from me? From what I’ve been able to learn, lots of people gave her things.”

  Rose’s tears increased, and now the other three women looked in danger of joining her. “We didn’t give her those things from our own houses,” Rose said. The other women tried to shush her again, but she hurried on as if, now that she started, she had to get it out. “We stole them.”

  Lacy tried and failed to hide her shock. Besides her grandmother, these four were the most upstanding and law-abiding people she knew. “What happened? Tell me the whole story,” she commanded, and for some reason they complied. Piece by piece, person by person, they began to tell their tale.