Death by Vanilla Latte

by Alex Erickson

  “Why are you with Rita?” I asked in a whisper as Dad joined me.

  He looked confused when he answered. “She called this morning and offered me a ride in when I told her I was still holding the signing. Since she was coming here too, she offered to stop by on her way in.”

  “My house isn’t on the way from Rita’s,” I said. “In fact, she had to go well out of her way to get you.”

  He shrugged. “She was just being nice.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “How nice was she being?”

  His brow furrowed before he realized what I was implying. He chuckled and gave me a hug. “Don’t worry yourself, Buttercup. She’s just a friend.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, wanting it to be true, but I was afraid he was only trying to ease my mind. He had said he was looking to get back into the dating market. “I can’t see myself calling Rita ‘Mom.’”

  He laughed again, finding humor in my discomfort. “I don’t think I could ever date someone who was a fan of my work before I met them. I’d always wonder if they were interested in me as a person, or if they only cared about my writing.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “But why does she have your phone number?” I asked.

  “She’s your friend and she works with the authors in town. I figured I’d give her my number in case she needed me for anything while I was here. Despite how the evening turned out, I did enjoy the writers’ group meeting.”

  Okay, that made sense. I took a deep breath and stepped back, glad I wouldn’t have to watch my dad walk down the aisle and marry Rita. My life was already complicated enough, thank you very much. I liked Rita and all, but I didn’t see her as stepmom material.

  “You sure you want to do this today?” I asked, changing the subject so I wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.

  “I’m sure.” He glanced at the table. “Speaking of which, I should start setting things up. I want everything just right.” He paused, and looked sad for a moment before saying, “Rick would have wanted it that way.”

  I left him to it and headed downstairs to finish up my own work. Rita passed me on the way, carrying two cups of coffee. Dad might not think there was anything between them, but I could tell by the gleam in her eye that Rita didn’t feel the same way. I hoped she wouldn’t take it too hard when Dad let her down. In fact, I hoped he wouldn’t even have to do that. He was going to have to go home, and there was no way she was going to follow him. She could remain here and cherish the memories of their time together in Pine Hills, limited as they might be.

  Jeff arrived and paused to let Cameron in before taking his place behind the counter. I waved at the newly minted agent and was rewarded with a warm smile and a wave. It didn’t appear as if he was going to hold my transgressions against me or my dad. A big part of me was relieved. If he turned out to be innocent, and Dad did take him on as his agent, I thought we could eventually become friends.

  I turned away just as the door opened yet again, and Paul Dalton walked in.

  My mind immediately leapt to the worst-case scenario. Why would he be here if he wasn’t about to arrest someone? And who else would he come to Death by Coffee for, but me or my dad?

  I stomped over to him. “What do you think you’re doing here?” I demanded.

  He stepped back, startled. “Hi to you, too,” he said. “I came in for a cup of coffee, if you still serve it.” He glanced around the room, eyes lingering on where Dad was arranging his books, before looking back at me.

  “A cup of coffee?” I almost laughed, thinking it ludicrous, but then realized we were standing in a coffee shop. “Okay, that’s fine.” I felt bad for snapping at him.

  “Why else would I be here?” he asked, blue eyes smoldering with something I didn’t want to think about. It was like he was trying to tell me something with that stare, to reach into my brain and not just leave something behind, but sort through the jumble of emotions that had me practically stammering every time I looked at him.

  “I don’t know,” I said, forcing myself to look away before I completely lost it. “I thought maybe you’d come to arrest Rick’s murderer.”

  He shook his head and frowned. “Honestly, we aren’t making much progress. No one saw anything, or at least, no one is talking. There wasn’t much evidence we could use at the scene, either.” He sighed. “But we’ll figure it out. I promise you that.” His eyes once more strayed to Dad. I couldn’t tell if there was an accusation there or not.

  “So, you have nothing?” I asked, disappointed. While I didn’t want him coming to arrest Dad or me, I’d hoped he’d made some sort of progress because, quite frankly, I was getting nowhere.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “We have some leads, but I can’t talk about them now.” He glanced past me, eyes lighting up. “Thank you.”

  “No problem,” Lena said, handing him a to-go cup. “It’s your usual. Someone has already paid for you.”

  An older man by the counter saluted as both Paul and I looked. Lena gave me a wink before heading over and handing the gentleman his own coffee.

  “Well, I hope you figure it out,” I said, turning back to Paul. “Rick’s killer needs to be caught. I knew him.” I stopped short of saying he was a friend.

  “I’ll get him.” He clasped me on the arm with his free hand. It was warm, comforting, and reminded me of all those times when we’d been alone. The spark I was trying hard to deny lit between us. Before it could fully ignite, Paul stepped back. “I’m glad you’re staying out of it this time.”

  I reddened and covered it up by looking at my feet. “I’m trying.”

  Paul chuckled. “I’m glad.” He heaved a sigh. “I’d better get back to work. You be good, all right?”

  I nodded, refusing to look up again until I heard the door open and close. I watched Paul get into his cruiser, his slacks hugging tight to his hips and butt. It was times like these I wished life had a slow-motion button. And maybe a rewind. Yeah, I could definitely go for that.

  I cleared my throat and looked guiltily away. I was going to have to do something especially nice for Will after those traitorous thoughts. While there was nothing wrong with looking, I knew I wouldn’t like it if Will were to ogle every good-looking woman that passed. And with how my body felt all warm and tingly where he’d touched me, I was pretty sure I was doing more than simply looking.

  Turning away from the door, I returned to my place behind the counter. I didn’t meet anyone’s eye, though Lena tried. She knew there was more to our relationship than I wanted to admit. I, for one, didn’t want to see confirmation of it in her gaze.

  The doors opened. Guests started pouring in, which took my mind off Paul and my confused feelings for him. It was early, but people had already started to head upstairs to shake hands with Dad and pick up copies of his books. It wouldn’t be long before he’d come downstairs and begin reading to what I hoped would be a room full of his adoring fans. I didn’t have time to worry about my personal life anymore, and for that, I was thankful.

  26

  After the reading, Dad’s line was steady through the afternoon, as were the lines at both the downstairs and upstairs registers. It took two hours before they tapered off, allowing all of us to take a breather. There were still quite a lot of people milling around, many simply wanting to talk to the semifamous author who’d decided to pay a visit to our quiet little town. I’d seen book signings where only five or six people showed up—and they were often friends or family of the author. Today, however, it felt like nearly the entire town had stopped by.

  Dad took it all in stride, smiling practically nonstop as he shook hands and chatted with those who’d taken the time to visit with him. I did my best not to take any of it personally, but come on, it was my dad we were talking about here. I was proud of him, and was proud to be his daughter. There was nothing wrong with basking in his glow while I could, even if it might be a little tacky.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I told Jeff and
Lena, who’d been handling most of the serving behind the counter. I filled a coffee cup and carried it upstairs to Dad.

  “Thanks, Buttercup,” he said, taking a sip. He was still smiling, but it was becoming strained. I could see the exhaustion building behind his eyes. Between our not-so-official murder investigation and the book signing, he had to be running on fumes by now.

  “You doing okay?” I asked him, holding up a hand to the woman who’d come up to the table with at least ten books in her arms, ready to be signed. She huffed, but waited.

  “I’m fine. Hand’s getting a little sore, but I’ll make it. It’s been a while since I’ve had to sign so many books at once.”

  “If you want a break, just let me know. I can make up a sign real quick and set it up.” This earned me some hard looks from a few nearby fans.

  “No, I’ll be fine. I figure I can break for a quick bite to eat in about an hour.” Knowing Dad, he’d completely skipped lunch before the signing started. “I might come back for a little while after that, but we’ll see how I feel after I eat. I may need a nap.” He chuckled.

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  “I am.” He smiled, winked, and then turned to the waiting woman, who immediately broke into a spiel about how important his books were to her.

  Dismissed, I stepped away from the table with a frown. Dad was putting on a strong face, but he was tired. He wasn’t as young as he used to be. It was clear it was wearing on him, but he was too proud to admit it. I just wasn’t sure how to convince him that stopping wasn’t a sign of weakness.

  I was on my way back to the counter, thinking I might call the signing done in the next half hour, when I noticed Joel Osborne sitting alone at the table by the stairs. A quick glance at Lena and Jeff told me they weren’t busy, so I made a detour over to him.

  “Hi, Joel. Get a book signed?” I asked, knowing he had. He was holding what looked to be a first edition of Dad’s first Bobby Drake book, The Withered Sparrow.

  “I did.” He beamed at me as he flipped to the first page, where Dad had scrawled not just his name, but a short personalized message. “I can’t express how happy I am about this.” He reached up and touched his fedora. I was beginning to wonder if he would ever take the thing off.

  “It must be nice to meet someone whose books you love.”

  “It is.” He closed the paperback and hugged it to his chest like it was his most prized possession. “I hope that I’ll someday have a novel published as well. I’ll send Mr. Hancock a free copy, just to show him how much I appreciate all he’s done for literature. Without him, I’d never have considered writing.”

  “It’s a shame about his agent, though,” I said, mentally wishing I’d had a better line, but it was the best I could do.

  Joel frowned. “I’d hoped he would take me on because then I would have been represented by the same agent as the man whose novels I love. But now”—he shrugged, eyes going to Cameron—“I suppose he’ll have to do.”

  “You aren’t interested in being represented by Mr. Little?”

  Joel sighed and sat back, a look on his face like he was actually thinking hard about the question. It struck me as odd since he’d just said how much he wanted to publish a novel.

  “I guess it wouldn’t be all bad,” he said after a moment. “But Mr. Wiseman was the agent to James Hancock. There’s no beating that.”

  “Well, Cameron might be taking Dad on,” I said. “So, if it’s important to you, there’s still a shot at being represented by the same agent.”

  “I suppose.” He didn’t sound as excited by the prospect as I thought he’d be. “It just isn’t the same. Mr. Wiseman was the one who placed these novels.” He looked down at the book in his hands. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him. He was my best chance of getting published the traditional way. There are some authors here who are now considering the self-published route. I’m not one of them.”

  I was about to ask him who he might be referring to, though I wasn’t sure how it would relate to Rick’s murder, when I caught a glimpse of one man I’d been wanting to talk to since this whole thing started. He looked as if he was getting ready to leave, and I didn’t want to miss my chance yet again.

  “Thank you for your time,” I told Joel, who immediately went back to admiring Dad’s autograph. “Harland!” I called, hurrying over to the fat man. “Hold on a sec.”

  He glanced at me and scowled, but at least he didn’t walk away. “What?”

  “I was hoping to talk to you. I haven’t had a chance since that night at the meeting.”

  “So?” He crossed his arms, glare deepening.

  Okay, so this wasn’t going to be a friendly conversation, no matter how nice I was trying to be. “I was curious to know how you’re holding up. You took a manuscript to Mr. Wiseman before his death, didn’t you?” I wasn’t sure why I asked, considering I hadn’t seen one beneath the bed.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “So? Everyone did.”

  Hmm. Interesting. “Were you upset with the way he treated you? Rick wasn’t very nice to many people.”

  Harland licked his lips slowly, eyeing me. “And? He was a busy man. You think I killed him, don’t you?”

  “Did you?” No sense in hiding it. There were tons of people in Death by Coffee, so if he tried anything, I was pretty sure someone would leap to my aid.

  “Why would I?” he asked. “I gave him my novel. He was my best chance out of here. I might have called him a name or two, but not to his face. The guy owed me for how he treated me, and I expected him to pay me back in the form of representation. It was the least I deserved.”

  Cocky much? I decided to go for broke and play my ace card. “You went back to Rick’s room after the murder, didn’t you?”

  I expected Harland to go motionless, or to break into a sudden rage, having been caught. Instead, he simply shrugged. “So?”

  “Why go back?” I asked him. “Did you kill him and then realize you left something behind that could tie you to the murder?”

  He snorted. “You’re not that bright, are you?” Before I could form a response, he went on. “I went back because I gave the bastard the only copy of my manuscript. I needed it back to give to that bozo.” He jerked a thumb toward Cameron. “I wasn’t going to let another opportunity pass because the idiot went and got himself killed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more important things to do than stand around answering to the likes of you.”

  I watched Harland go, really wanting him to be the killer. He was one of the most unpleasant men I’d ever met, but that didn’t make him a murderer. His story rang true, even if it was a bit selfish. I mean, who in their right mind would walk into a dead man’s room and take something, even if it belonged to them?

  Of course, this was a man who typed up his novel on an old typewriter, rather than a computer. You didn’t see that very often these days. I could see why he would want his manuscript back.

  I turned and found both Theresa and Barrett Drummand walking away from Cameron. Since I was on a roll, I figured I might as well go for broke and bother them, too. Maybe they’d have something interesting to say.

  When Barrett saw me coming, he took Theresa’s arm and tried to steer her away. I managed to trap them between the stairs and where Joel sat.

  “I just want a few moments,” I said when Barrett tried to turn around and walk away. “Please.”

  Barrett sighed and turned back to face me. Theresa lowered her own gaze and wiped at her eyes.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked, directing the question at her.

  “She’s fine,” Barrett said. “It’s been a stressful couple of days. We’d like to go home now so she can get some rest.”

  Theresa looked up long enough to give me a wan smile, and then nodded her head ever so slightly, as if thanking me for asking. She went right back to looking at her feet.

  I pressed on. “I was wondering if either of you happened to speak to Rick Wiseman before
he died? You left your manuscripts with him, didn’t you?”

  Theresa nodded, but it was Barrett who answered. “Theresa did. A lot of good it did her.”

  “But not you?” It tracked with what I’d seen. “Why not?”

  “I changed my mind,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with that.” His hand tightened on Theresa’s arm, and she sucked in a breath. “The man wasn’t worth the time or effort.”

  “I thought you left yours, too?” Theresa spoke at barely above a whisper.

  “I didn’t.” Barrett tightened his grip even further, causing her to squirm. “I gave my copy to Mr. Little. You can ask him if you’d like.”

  “Excuse me.” We all glanced down at Joel, who was still sitting where I’d left him. “Barrett, I swear I saw your name when I turned in my own manuscript.”

  “You must be mistaken.” Barrett spoke through clenched teeth.

  “No.” Joel stood, book still clutched at his chest. “No, I don’t think I am. I saw your name as plain as day. It was right there on the top of the stack.”

  “Barrett?” Theresa stepped back from her husband, his hand falling limply away. “What is he implying?”

  Barrett laughed, but it was a strained, forced sound. “Never you mind him,” he said. “I didn’t leave my novel there. I only gave it to Mr. Little. You saw me do it.”

  “I also saw you place yours on top of mine.” She said it at a near whisper, as if she was afraid he’d hurt her for contradicting him.

  “I found a rubber band,” I said, cutting in. “It was outside Rick’s window, right where there were marks indicating someone had jumped.”

  Theresa’s eyes widened as she looked at her husband. “Barrett? Did you . . . Could you have . . . ? When you left, I thought you were going for a walk. And when you said you’d fallen and gotten dirt on your jeans . . .”

  Barrett looked from his wife, to Joel, and then, finally, to me. Death by Coffee had fallen deathly silent. Even Dad had stopped signing and was standing at the top of the stairs, watching us.