Uncommon Grounds

by Sandra Balzo

  “I take it Pavlik made an appearance at Caron’s?”

  He smiled and I cracked a little one back at him. “You could say that. The man certainly knows how to hold an audience.”

  I told Gary what Pavlik had said and how he’d said it.

  He listened, his face stony. “He’s just trying to scare you, Maggy. That kind of stuff probably works in Chicago.”

  “But why me?” Shades of Nancy Kerrigan.

  Gary shrugged. “He’s probably not interested in you any more than he’s interested in David or Caron. Just somebody who’ll give him a quick solution and make him look like a big shot.”

  “So you don’t think—”

  Gary stood up. “You didn’t do anything, Maggy. So there’s no way he can prove you did.”

  I opened my mouth and he raised his hand. “Forget it. If he gives you more problems, you let me know and I’ll take care of him.”

  I smiled. “My hero.”

  Gary laughed and pulled his hat off the file cabinet. “You bet, and your hero’s hungry. Let’s go to Goddard’s for butter burgers.”

  Leave it to Gary to realize I needed comfort food. Goddard’s Pharmacy boasted an old-fashioned lunch counter specializing in The Better Butter Burger: A quarter-pound hamburger on a toasted Kaiser roll topped with a slab of melting butter. Thick malts and shakes were served up in old-fashioned metal cups that got all frosty on the outside. A veritable feast of cholesterol and fat. How could I say no to that?

  But first, I had to make a call. I used Gary’s phone to call L’Cafe. The woman who answered had heard what had happened to the last espresso machine, and efficiently arranged for a tech to pick up a loaner and meet me at the store with it at three.

  That arranged, Gary and I headed over to Goddard’s, which was on the opposite end of the strip mall from Uncommon Grounds. I’d heard that Mrs. Goddard had been worried when Way announced we were moving into the mall. She probably felt we would give them a run for the coffee dollar. She needn’t have worried. Goddard’s was where the seniors in town met daily and, personally, I didn’t think they could be blasted out of their booths.

  Sure enough, the stragglers from breakfast were still there at nearly noon, nursing their bottomless cups of coffee. Rudy was in the “power booth” in the corner, talking animatedly to someone I couldn’t see. In the next booth over, Pastor Shepherd sat with Henry Wested, a resident of Brookhills Senior Manor. The senior living facility backed up to Poplar Creek and served as the dividing line between upstream and downstream. Neutral territory, like Switzerland.

  People were staring at Gary and me, and why not? Here was the number one murder suspect dining with the police chief. Who knew what could happen? There might even be an arrest. What a bitter Butter Burger that would be to swallow.

  Gary and I waved to the assembly and took a booth in the back, careful to avoid the seats that were invisibly, yet indelibly, earmarked for the regulars. I had once seen four-foot ten-inch Sophie Daystrom and the rest of her octogenarian posse run a tourist who had innocently settled into “their booth” clean out of the lunchroom.

  Safely seated, I ordered a Better Butter Burger with extra fried onions (just let Pavlik try to get near me again) and a chocolate shake. Gary had the Better Butter Burger Biggie plate with fries and a pineapple shake.

  “I assume you had a chance to talk to Caron before Pavlik arrived?” Gary asked.

  “Yes, and thank you for that,” I said.

  He wasn’t going to let me off that easily. “So what did she have to say for herself?”

  Eh, a moral dilemma. I hated to lie to Gary, but even if Caron had done something stupid—adultery, not murder— Bernie shouldn’t have to suffer public humiliation because of it. Normally, I’d trust Gary with this secret, but I knew his professional ethics would take precedence over friendship. Gary took his moral obligations very seriously.

  Me, less so. “She said Roger left something there on Friday and she let him in on Saturday to get it.” And she had said it. It just happened to be a lie.

  “Roger was there Saturday, too?” Gary’s voice rose and then fell, as heads turned. “Why in the world didn’t she say anything?” he whispered.

  “I guess she didn’t think it was important. She’s pretty upset, you know.” I leaned across the table. “Gary, we both know Caron didn’t kill Patricia. And certainly not with an espresso machine, for God’s sake.”

  Our food came then and Gary didn’t answer as our waitress slapped the heavy white plates onto the table. Reaching into her apron pocket, she thumbed carefully through a stack of grease-stained checks before finding the right ones and dropping them on the table.

  We salted, ketchuped and mustarded our burgers in silence. Gary picked his up, flipped it upside down and took a bite. I took a long, fruitless pull on the straw of my chocolate shake and waited. The quiet was thicker than the shake.

  Finally he spoke. “Maggy, let’s face it, anybody killing someone this way is unbelievable. But somebody did do it.”

  “But not Caron,” I said stubbornly. “I know Caron.”

  We went back to eating in silence. There really wasn’t much else to say anyway, I guess. Finally, Gary wiped his mouth with the paper napkin and picked up his check. “I have to get back.” He pulled two singles out of his pocket and tossed them on the table.

  As he started to slide out of the booth, he hesitated. “Did you hear about the robbery attempt at First National’s main office?”

  “They left a pipe bomb, didn’t they?” I asked. “Just like the other one.”

  The “other one” I referred to was the robbery four years ago, the one that had likely cost Gary his job. In that case, the pipe bomb had exploded, demolishing half of the front lobby and killing two people. One was a sixty-two-year-old female bank teller. The other was a man, but there wasn’t enough left of him to identify. Gary had hypothesized that the unidentified male had been holding the bomb when it exploded and was one of the perpetrators.

  “They were luckier than we were,” Gary was saying. “Pastorini says the pipe bomb was bigger than ours. If it had gone off...”Heshook his head.

  Ours. We had our own bomb, Gary and I did. And it had been haunting him for years.

  Louis Pastorini had been Gary’s assistant and was now head of First National security. “You did everything you could, Gary.” I touched his sleeve and he looked at me. “You know that, I know that and Pastorini knows that.”

  “It wasn’t enough, though, was it? Two people died and the bank lost four million dollars.”

  And you lost your job, I thought. “The funds were insured,” I said, instead. “No one lost any money.”

  Gary just shrugged and stood up, his face reverting to his “police chief” persona. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me, Maggy. If you’re going to nose around in Patri-cia’s death, and I know you are,” he held up his hand to silence my protest, “be careful. I’ll help you as much as I can, but I’m not sure what good that will do you with Pavlik.”

  After he left, I took another hard pull on my shake. Gary was right. I was hiding Caron’s affair from him and I was going to nose around. It was either that or let Pavlik persecute, and potentially prosecute, Caron and/or me. Gary seemed powerless to help us under the circumstances—a fact I sure didn’t want to remind him of. He had enough on his plate. I looked over at the remains of his burger and copped a fry.

  As I nibbled the fry, I eyed the people around me, trying to spot someone who knew Patricia well. Of course. Langdon. The spindly, gray-haired pastor seemed to be preparing to leave. I dropped the fry, grabbed the check and pretended to head for the cash register.

  Langdon and Henry’s table was en route. I stopped at the end of Langdon’s bench, trapping him in the booth.

  “Langdon, Henry, how are you?” Langdon, ever the gentleman, tried to rise. The result was sort of a bent knee bow. I backed off so he could shuffle out of the booth sideways.

  He took m
y hand. “Maggy, Maggy, we’ve suffered a terrible loss.” He patted my hand. “God has a reason for everything, my dear, we mustn’t question His wisdom. All things work together for good to them that love God.”

  I nodded, refraining from pointing out that if God really wanted someone to get frothed to death, He had a very strange sense of humor.

  “I’m sure you’re right, Langdon.” I gave in and patted back. “But the fact remains that Patricia has been taken far too soon.”

  He patted. “It’s a reminder to us all, Maggy, that we must love each other while there’s still time.”

  Judging by Ted, Caron and Roger, that idea was taking root in Brookhills. “I understand Patricia was very active at Christ Christian,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll miss her terribly.”

  “She’s been a tireless worker for God. We’ve been so lucky to have her—organizing fund-raisers, teaching Sunday School, chairing the Education Committee. Though in the last few months, she had resigned a number of her posts with the church, she remained faithful in her attendance.”

  “I suppose with the store and the town election, something had to give.”

  I had said it a little off-handedly for Langdon’s taste. Behind his thick glasses, he winced. “Perhaps. Blessedly, though, David has always been a tower of strength. He’s financial secretary for the congregation, as well as head of our Men’s Bible Study. I only wish he would let us provide comfort to him now in his time of grief.” He shook his head dejectedly. “He seems to be avoiding me.”

  I pictured Langdon, Bible in hand, chasing down poor David in order to comfort him.

  “We all find solace in our own way, Pastor.” 1 Maggy, Verse Trite.

  Langdon raised a bony finger as a thought struck. “I must remember to call Sarah Kingston. Sarah doesn’t speak about her emotions, but she must be suffering greatly.”

  Sarah, Patricia’s campaign manager.

  Sarah was a no-nonsense type. So much so, that I’d wondered at the friendship between the two women: Patricia, the consummate suburban matron. Sarah—blunt, outspoken and, if you could believe it in Brookhills, absolutely no fashion sense.

  A thought struck me now. Maybe Sarah would give me the lowdown on Patricia. Why hadn’t I thought of her myself?

  But first I had to deflect Langdon, so I could get to her first. “I’m not sure if it’s my place to tell you, Langdon,” I started, “but Kate McNamara was very agitated the last time I saw her.” It was true. She’d nearly tackled me in the Town Hall parking lot.

  “Really?” Langdon said thoughtfully. “Kate isn’t a member of our congregation, but perhaps I should stop by The Observer when we’re done here.”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea,” I said. “Good to see you, Langdon. Henry.” I smiled at both of them and then smiled my way right through the cash register line and all the way out the door.

  I love helping people.

  Chapter Seven

  Sarah Kingston’s office was across the street from Town Hall. She was on the phone and waved me to the visitor’s chair. “No, I won’t present an offer like that, Evan. My client won’t entertain it, that house is worth three-fifty if it’s worth a dime. Don’t waste my time with this lowball shit.” Slam.

  She turned to me. “Can you believe that? Beautiful house on Cardinal Lane, priced right, and they offer twenty-five percent below asking. It’s a goddamn insult.”

  Sarah was a real estate agent. With her baggy jackets, pleated trousers, sensible shoes and blunt manner, she neither looked nor acted like a member of the Whatever Million-Dollar Sales Club, at least in a town like Brookhills. But she had been, for more years than I could remember.

  “By law, don’t you have to present any offer you receive?” I asked.

  She snickered. “Yes, and when I do receive that offer from Evan, it will be twenty thousand dollars higher than if we hadn’t talked. Now what do you want?”

  Like I said, blunt. I decided to be equally blunt and to appeal to the business instincts of a woman who had made it on her own.

  “Listen, I know Patricia was your friend and I’m sure you want to find out how she died as much as we do.”

  “The morning paper suggests that you had something to do with it,” she said, pursing her lips.

  “I didn’t,” I said flatly. “And neither did Caron.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I don’t know, and neither does the sheriff, obviously. Gary, who might have a chance at figuring it out since he at least knows the people around here, has been taken off the case.”

  “So that leaves you? The defender of truth and justice?” She was laughing at me.

  I squirmed. “I need to defend myself,” I admitted. “And I need to defend Caron. I don’t want to sound mercenary, but if this whole thing isn’t settled soon, we could lose the busi-ness—or worse.”

  Sarah pushed back her chair and peered at me through glasses that rode low on her nose. “Mercenary, shmercenary. If you were a man, no one would be giving you shit about wanting to re-open your business.”

  She had a point.

  “Does Pavlik think you and Caron zapped Patricia to get the business?” she asked.

  I got a sick feeling in the bottom of my stomach when she mentioned Pavlik’s name. “I think he realizes neither of us has much to gain, but he may be looking for the easiest solution. At this point that’s us, either separately or together.”

  “What about Roger Karsten?”

  I nearly choked. How did Sarah know about Caron and Roger? “What about Roger Karsten?” I echoed.

  Sarah looked speculative. “Ah, so they don’t know about the affair. That’s interesting. I assumed it was common knowledge—to everyone but her husband, of course.”

  And her best friend. “I don’t know how common it is, I just heard this morning. How did you find out?”

  “I guess she had to tell someone.”

  I felt a twinge of jealousy, like in the fourth grade, when Debbie Spence told everyone Cindy Kuchenbacher was her best friend. But what about me?? Did all those years of sitting in alphabetical order mean nothing? “I didn’t realize you two were that close,” I sniffed.

  Sarah shrugged. “We got fairly close during the campaign. She really didn’t have a lot of female friends.”

  Waaait a second. “Campaign? Are you talking about Patricia or Caron?”

  “Patricia.”

  We looked at each other aghast.

  “Now let me get this straight,” I said. “Patricia and Roger Karsten were having an affair?”

  “Had. Patricia ended it about two weeks ago.” Sarah was too quick, though, to let my reference to Caron pass. “And I take it, Roger was also screwing Caron. Now that’s a fine kettle of fish, isn’t it?”

  I was practically speechless. Practically. “First Ted, then Caron, and now Patricia. What is this? ‘One Flew Over the Cuckold’s Nest?’ ”

  Sarah laughed uproariously and lighted a cigarette. Virginia Slims Menthol. I didn’t even know they still made them. But Sarah was a seventies kind of woman. “Grow up, Maggy. It happens all the time.”

  Like I didn’t know it.

  “Anyway, it seems to me you’re missing the point,” she continued. “If Roger was fooling around with Patricia and Caron, maybe Caron found out and—”

  I interrupted. “No,” I said decisively. “Caron told me she ended the affair.”

  “And you believe her.”

  “Yes, I believe her. And Roger would make a much better suspect anyway.”

  “How so?” Sarah asked, blowing a smoke ring.

  I watched, fascinated, as it billowed up toward the ceiling. Cool. But I could be cool, too. I quirked one eyebrow. “You said that Patricia ended things. Maybe Roger didn’t like it. Maybe Roger killed her. He not only had access to the espresso machine, but with his background he had the capability to rewire it.” I was perfectly willing to throw Roger to the dogs, the slimeball.

  Sarah wagged her cigarett
e at me. “Hmm. Roger isn’t such a bad idea.” She smiled widely, exposing huge front teeth. Combined with her abnormally long face, the teeth gave her an equine look. “Maybe we can pin it on him.”

  Sounded good to me. Sarah pulled a pad of paper toward her. “Let’s list the suspects and possible motives. First we have Roger.” She tapped her pen on the desk. “I suppose Patricia could have given him trouble, without exposing herself, so to speak.” Her laugh sounded suspiciously like a neigh to me. “Maybe he was taking kick-backs and Patricia found out.”

  I was surprised that a woman as practical as Sarah was prone to flights of fantasy, but I was happy to fuel them, if it would take her mind off Caron. “And what about Rudy? Maybe he was so worried about the possibility of losing the election he killed her. And,” I pointed out with a flourish, “his barbershop backs onto the same hallway as Uncommon Grounds. It wouldn’t have been a problem for him to get in and out without being seen.”

  Sarah looked skeptical, but wrote it down anyway. “I can’t see Rudy with an espresso machine. A straight razor maybe, but—”

  “Who knows what people are capable of,” I said eagerly. “And what about David, don’t they always suspect the...” I stopped, ashamed of myself for treating this like a game when the sight of David’s face when he saw Patricia was still so fresh in my memory.

  Sarah shook her head, voicing what I was thinking. “I know David Harper. He did not kill his wife.”

  “Then there’s Way,” I suggested, trying to get us past the awkwardness. “He was awfully eager to tell Gary he’d seen Caron at the shop on Saturday.”

  Sarah hadn’t heard about that, so I filled her in. She listened and then sighed, her long face regretful. “I know you don’t want to hear this, Maggy, but Caron had both motive and opportunity.”

  “Motive, what motive? Roger dumped Patricia for Caron, so why would Caron kill her? Besides, I don’t think Caron knows about Patricia and Roger even now.” I checked my watch. It was nearly 2:00.

  Sarah pushed a strand of hair off her face and grinned. “Are you sure there was nothing going on between you and Roger? You’re the only one left.”