Uncommon Grounds

by Sandra Balzo

  Forget that thing about Sarah being a romantic. “No, no, no. If Roger was cheating on Caron” (who was cheating on Bernie) “with Patricia” (who was cheating on David), “then Caron would have killed Roger, not Patricia.”

  Sarah was typing away. “Not if she loved him. She’d kill her rival to keep him.”

  “But she dumped him. She went back to Bernie and confessed, for God’s sake.” Maybe bringing Sarah into this was a lousy idea after all.

  “Sure. Covering her butt. Okay, opportunity we got, too. She could have done it anytime on the weekend. Or even come in early on Monday.”

  “No, she—”

  “Okay, okay. On to our last suspect, David. What’s his motive?”

  “Maybe he found out about Roger and Patricia.”

  Sarah looked thoughtful. “It didn’t look like he knew at the funeral.”

  “How can we find out for sure?”

  “If he doesn’t know now, he’s probably the only one in town. Maybe we should talk to Sam.”

  “Sam? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  But Sarah was nodding decisively. “Sam’s working on my car. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Sam’s working on your car?” I didn’t let Eric touch my car—at least not the innards—and he was three years older than Sam.

  “Sure. He and David take care of Patricia’s Jag and Da-vid’s Mercedes. Those cars are nearly twenty years old and they run better than the new ones you buy today.” She entered David’s possible motive on the spreadsheet. “Opportunity?”

  I’d filled her in on my sugar packet theory. “I guess he could have used Patricia’s key on the weekend and tampered with the machine. Then maybe he came into the store with her on Monday morning, asked for a latte and...”

  “Zap.” Sarah finished typing and sat back. She ran her hand through her hair, looking old suddenly. “You know, Patricia wasn’t perfect, but she considered me a friend. One of the few she had. I’ll do whatever I can to find out who killed her.”

  With that, she printed out a copy for each of us and we went in to have dinner and to talk about something—any-thing—else.

  After dinner, we went back to the computer, but to explore this time. I didn’t have high-speed access yet and was still using a dial-up modem for my already outdated three-year-old computer. A bunch of options were available in Brookhills, offered by everyone from the telephone company, cable TV people and cell phone folks, to a car dealer down the street. Sarah was going to show me the ropes so I’d know what to look for.

  Her laptop had all the bells and acronyms: CD-ROM, CD-RW, DVD, LAN, and, I was happy to see, the same e-mail program I had. At least I’d make one choice that met with her approval.

  We hopped on the Internet, so I could see how she performed on the highway. Sarah logged on using her e-mail address, RealNag. Now here was a woman who had no delusions about herself. She typed in her password, and a “Welcome RealNag!” board came up.

  “Look at this garbage,” Sarah said, as she scrolled through her list of mail. “ ‘Get rich, surfing the Internet.’ ‘They’re here! Aliens reach earth.’ ‘Hot, hot, hot! Free live sex!’ ” She deleted each without reading it and we were off and surfing. Sarah’s prowess with her high-speed access was impressive. For fun, I had her do a search on a new kind of South American coffee Caron and I were considering. She found the information I needed in probably a tenth of the time it would have taken me.

  “Great, can you forward that to my e-mail?” I asked.

  “Sure.” She copied and pasted the page we were looking at into a document and started to type, “maggyt.” The rest, “horsen,” filled in as if by magic.

  “Whoa,” I said, “that’s my old e-mail address, where did that come from?”

  Sarah backspaced, deleting the address. “You’re on my mailing list for the agency. Once I send you an e-mail, the program auto-adds you to my address book. Isn’t that how yours works?” She looked sideways at me.

  Darned if I knew. “I guess I haven’t really paid much attention. I have an address book?”

  Sarah groaned. “Never mind, that’s for another lesson.

  What’s your new address?”

  “Noted—n...o...t...e...d.”

  “No Ted, huh? Cute,” Sarah said, typing it in. “Was that your e-mail declaration of independence?”

  “Uh-huh. I was sick of getting his Viagra and porno ads, so I opened a new account.”

  “Everybody gets that stuff,” Sara said, clicking “Send.” “There, it’s gone. When you get my e-mail, just respond to it and you’ll automatically add me to your address book.”

  Wherever that was.

  Sarah did another coffee search and somehow we landed on a chat board. Mostly English was being spoken, sprinkled with other languages I couldn’t readily identify. Some of the speakers seemed to be inside the countries they discussed. The talk centered on rebellion, retaliation, and death.

  “My God.” I sat back and watched the scrolling messages. “Can they say those things? Aren’t they afraid of being tracked? Especially now?”

  Sarah shrugged. “They’re probably using remailers. Remailers are services that strip the return addresses off messages and then send them on to their destinations. That way people can write freely without fear of reprisal. We used to think that was a good thing. After 9/11, we’re not so sure anymore.”

  I had a sudden thought. “But we didn’t use a remailer. Couldn’t we get in trouble for being here?”

  Sarah shrugged. “Last time I checked, the Bill of Rights still protected free speech or, in this case, free surfing.”

  I shivered. “Let’s get out of here anyway.”

  Sarah looked at me. “You think that’s scary? Watch this.” She typed in the address of another website. “This is a people locator. See what happens when I type in your name?”

  She did, and clicked on “Find.” Within seconds, screen after screen opened. Some said, “Sorry, try search again,” but others listed my name, address and phone number. Some were my old address, but most were up-to-date. One even gave my old e-mail address and offered to find out what high school I went to.

  “That’s amazing,” I said. “You could find anyone, anywhere.”

  “Pretty much,” Sarah agreed. “A Big Brother of our very own making.” She was busy typing again. “Here—here’s Ted.”

  Sure enough. Again, both the old information and the new came up.

  “Let’s invade someone else’s privacy,” I said. “Try Pavlik.” So I was curious. Sue me.

  A few seconds and there it was. Pavlik’s old address and phone number in Chicago. And some new information, to me, at least: A Susan Pavlik at the same address. Maybe he hadn’t been asking me out, after all. Maybe he had just been hungry. It was an ego-bruising thought, especially for an ego that already had been stomped on by four-inch stiletto heels.

  “Ah,” said Sarah, “wife or ex-wife, do you think?”

  Well, there was that, I supposed.

  Another window opened. Pavlik’s new address. Sans Susan. My self-worth perked right up. Then I took a look at the address. “Springwood Village—that’s the complex where Ted lived when I met him. Bunch of single guys looking for action.” Or at least that’s the way it was a quarter of a century ago. “And, he lives in the same building Ted did, practically next door.”

  “Small world, huh?” Sarah said, knocking an ash off her omnipresent cigarette.

  Way too small for my money and, thanks to the Internet, getting smaller every day.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next day was Saturday, our first Saturday at Uncommon Grounds, and we had no idea what business was going to be like.

  It turned out to be brisk. We were scheduled to open at 8:00, but people were already waiting outside when we arrived at 7:30. Make a note: Open at 7:30 on Saturdays. Of course, then they’ll be waiting at 7:00. I filed that under “Good Problems” and went to work.

  The store was packed w
ith coffee drinkers when Gary came in about 10:00. He looked tired. Since there wasn’t a seat to be had in the place, I pulled him back to the office and made him sit down.

  Setting his coffee cup on the desk, he rolled the chair back a couple of feet until he literally had his back against the wall and then stretched. I watched, hoping the chair wouldn’t flip over on him. Not that there was room.

  “Hear about the Midwest robbery?” he asked.

  “Midwest Bank? They were robbed, too?” I guess I’d been a little preoccupied lately.

  “Yup, but no explosives this time. It still may be the same guy, though.”

  “Is the video helping at all?” I had been catching glimpses of the surveillance tape from the First National robbery on the news, but hadn’t been able to get a good look.

  Gary shook his head. “It’s pretty grainy. It could be anybody: medium height, medium build, beard, maybe real, maybe not. And to top it off, Pastorini says they managed to skirt Midwest’s surveillance cameras.”

  “Witnesses?” I asked.

  “You know witnesses.” Gary shrugged. “The guy had a stocking cap on so they couldn’t see his hair; he was medium height and had loose clothes on so they couldn’t see his build. One thing, though, he didn’t have a beard.”

  “But you said the beard in the first robbery might have been fake.”

  “Yeah.” Gary looked down into his coffee for a moment. Then he looked up and smiled sheepishly. “Funny, even now I can’t quite let go. Pastorini must think I’m an awful pest.”

  “Are you thinking these robberies might be connected with ours? But you figured our dead guy, the one who was blown up, wasthe...”

  I couldn’t think of any word but “perp,” and that sounded too much like a TV show. I’d already been accused of that. “...bad guy,” I finished lamely.

  Gary grinned at me in the little boy way he had sometimes. Like when he asked me to water his plants while he was away and “forgot” to mention that there were fifty-eight of them, give or take a seedling. He’d been smiling for weeks after that, and he had a great smile. I just hadn’t seen much of it lately.

  “Bad guy, huh?” He laughed out loud and then sobered all too quickly. “There was more than one person involved in our robbery, I’m sure, but in answer to your question: No, I guess I don’t seriously think it’s the same people, it’s just...”

  He shifted in his chair and shifted subjects at the same time. “So how are things going with you?”

  Boy, was that the wrong question to ask. Despite my best intentions to leave him out of all this, I unloaded with everything I knew, or even thought I knew, including my suspicions of David.

  “I feel terrible even thinking this,” I finished up with.

  “You saw David with Patricia Monday morning. Was that an act?”

  Gary took a swig of coffee and thought for a moment. “I didn’t think so. But you know, Maggy, the spouse is always suspected in a case like this. Pavlik’s already looking at David, I’m sure. It probably wouldn’t take much for him to bring him in for questioning.”

  And that would be a nightmare. For David and for Sam and Courtney.

  “Over a couple of sugar packets?” I protested. “I’m probably making way too big a deal of this.”

  “Probably.” Gary stood up and drained his cup. “But so might Pavlik.”

  I took the cup from him. “Listen, I have no intention of saying anything to Pavlik about this. You won’t either, will you?”

  Gary hesitated, then shook his head. The sheepish expression was back. “Truthfully, Maggy, if I bring Pavlik something like this, he’ll think I’m nuts. I already have enough problems with him.

  “But,” he held up a finger, “if you come up with anything else that supports this, you need to tell me and I need to tell him.”

  I promised and followed Gary out into the store where the line was out the door and Caron was looking panicky. I was already pouring coffee as Gary slid past the crowd and out the door with a wave.

  I went back to work, wishing I’d kept my big mouth shut.

  After we closed, I went over to the library to check with Mary about my taxes. April fifteenth was a little more than a week away. She assured me that she would have them done, but said she couldn’t talk right now. She had to fill in for the children’s librarian and was about to do four-year-old story hour. Better her than me.

  I moved on to Sarah’s office. I was feeling bad about my conversation with Gary. I never should have told him something I didn’t want him to pass on. It put him in an awkward position. But what made me feel worse was that Gary didn’t even want to pass it on, afraid that Pavlik would embarrass him.

  That wasn’t Gary.

  Not my Gary.

  Someone was in the office with Sarah when I got there. That someone was Sam Harper, and he was crying. I slid to a stop at her door and tried to back out discreetly.

  Sarah stood up behind her desk and practically whistled me down. “Maggy! Come in here!”

  I couldn’t believe she could be this insensitive. Figuring Sam would feel even worse if I turned and ran out the door, I came in and gave him a hug. “How are you, Sam?”

  “I’m okay, Mrs. Thorsen.” A well-brought-up child.

  Sarah stepped in. “Sam and I were talking about Roger Karsten.”

  My stomach tied in knots. I said nothing.

  Sam spoke, bravado showing through the tears now. “I’m glad you’re looking into my mother’s murder, Mrs. Thorsen. That stupid sheriff won’t listen to anything I say. I told him that Karsten killed my mother.”

  “Why do you say that, Sam?” I asked gently, shooting Sarah a dirty look.

  “Because I saw them together,” he burst out. “I told my mother I saw them together and that she was sinning. I told her to stop.” He was crying in earnest again.

  “What did she say?” I tried to imagine this young man, a kid really, confronting his mother.

  Sam was hunched over in his chair, pulling at his knuckles which already were raw. He looked up and met my eyes. “She said she had ended it. She said he hadn’t liked it, but she had told him it was over. She cried.” His voice broke, but he pushed on. “She begged me not to tell Dad. I told her I wouldn’t.”

  I hadn’t realized Sam called David “Dad.” “So your dad doesn’t know?” I asked, following his lead.

  “He does now. This morning...”Hewas crying so hard he could barely speak. “I...I didn’t mean to...but, he didn’t...didn’t...”

  I put my arms around him again and he put his head on my shoulder and sobbed. I looked helplessly at Sarah over his head.

  Sam’s tears finally subsided into huge gulps. Sarah got him a Coke, and then asked, “Did your father have any idea?”

  Sam shook his head miserably. “It was like I’d hit him in the gut with my fist. He’d been talking about forgiving Mom’s killer and forgiveness being divine and all that bullshit. I couldn’t stand it any more. I said it. I told him.”

  “Where is your dad now?” I asked him.

  “Praying.” He spat out the word. “He told me he needed to think. Needed to pray. That’s his answer for everything. He’s not like...”

  He stopped and stood up, trying to play man. “Okay, Mrs. Kingston. I’ll have your car finished tonight. You want me to bring it by?”

  Sarah, to her credit, went along. She stood up, too, and shook his hand. “Thank you, Sam. I’d appreciate that.” Then he was gone.

  My sidekick dropped her head on the desk. I got up to get us each some caffeine, which I needed like a hole in the head.

  Sarah lifted her head as I put the can of Coke on her desk.

  She picked it up, wiped the wet ring off the desk with her hand and placed the can on a coaster. “God, that was awful. I am so sorry.”

  I sank into a chair. “I don’t know—maybe he needed to talk to someone.”

  “Maybe. But with kids these days you never know if they’re going to go off afterwards and bl
ow their brains out.”

  “Sarah!”

  “Well, look at the papers, for God’s sake. Some kid gets bad grades and he hangs himself. God, I feel awful.” She took a swig of Coke from the can and promptly got the hiccups. “I hate that,” she muttered.

  “Do you think we should go find him?”

  “I’ll go to the house when we’re done here. You can drop me off.”

  I nodded. “So...what does this do to our suspects? We know that David didn’t know about the affair.”

  “It still leaves us with that mysterious call to the town attorney, though.”

  “Who was a personal friend,” I added. Our eyes met. “You don’t think that she and Diaz...”

  “I can’t believe she’d do that after Sam gave her holy hell,” Sarah said.

  “Maybe she called Diaz to end it.”

  Sarah shrugged, but didn’t answer. I knew what she was thinking: Nothing seemed impossible at this point.

  “So where does this leave us?” I asked again.

  “Nowhere.” She stood up. “I can’t concentrate. I have to check on that kid. Can you drop me off now?”

  I said I could, and I did. Then I picked up a bottle of wine and went home to Frank. Sometimes a drink with a good friend fixes you right up. That my good friend was a dog, didn’t escape me.

  * * * * *

  Before opening the bottle of wine, I sat down at the desk in the kitchen, undid the phone line and plugged it into the side of the computer. The dial-up modem took forever compared with Sarah’s high-speed access, but eventually I was on e-mail.

  I clicked open the e-mail from Sarah and printed the coffee information to show Caron. Then I hit “Reply” and sent back a “Thanks.”

  Sarah had said her e-mail address would automatically be added to my address book when I replied. But she’d forgotten to tell me where the address book was. I clicked on “Write Mail” and typed “Re,” intending to send her another message asking that question, and the “a-l-n-a-g” filled itself in. Well, wherever the address book was, it was working the way Sarah had said it would.

  I had typed in the message and sent it off to her, when an instant message popped up. “hi ma.”