Cufflinks in the Cappuccino: Coffee House Clairvoyant: Book 4

by Kelty Kells

  “Them?” I lean forward. “The people in that picture?”

  “Aye, and their kids and grandkids.” He hands the booklet over at last. It’s open to the photograph I saw after dinner. Men and women, all staring out with dark eyes, all motionless and expressionless. It’s chilling, actually, especially when I catch sight of an odd, eerie shape in the window of the bed and breakfast’s door. The figure is distorted thanks to the design in the stained glass, but it’s not hard to tell that it’s probably a person—or, a more chilling prospect, a ghost.

  I run my fingertips across the photo again, partially hoping for a new vision. When I only get the sense of chemicals once more, I turn the page. The other photos are similar, but show my grandfather with his wife and a few other people from around town. Most of the images are innocuous. They don’t seem to hold much special meaning, which is frustrating.

  I was so sure the album would be caked with memories, but barely anything clings to it. That could be due to any number of factors. Being stored outside definitely didn’t help, as evidenced by some of the photos being nothing but a few whispers of sepia or gray shapes on white.

  Where are all of the memories? Of anything in this house, this booklet should contain the most direct memories of my great grandfather.

  Yet almost nothing remains. It’s almost like there’s a void clinging to these pages.

  At last, I turn back to the group photo. “It really feels like this is a secret order of some kind.”

  “Aye, and I agree. That’s why I think Cole knows more n’ he’s lettin’ on.” Uncle Angus shakes his head. “I weren’t allowed around most of those meetings. First I thought maybe he was gamblin’, but when I were a teenager, I’d follow Pa downtown after getting off work up at the pass.”

  “Did you ever hear anything? See anything?”

  “Not a bit. Had all them windows in the basement covered with black paint or something. Couldn’t see in, couldn’t hear nothing. Tried a few times to find a cracked window or some way to eavesdrop, but that didn’t work out so well.”

  I set the booklet down, frowning. “Why not?”

  “Oh, I got caught.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Pa walloped me good for that, and I stopped following him around. That’s about when Eva and I started seeing each other anyhow. Didn’t leave me much time for foolin’ around on whatever secret my pa had. Just so long as he weren’t cheating on Ma, I didn’t much care. If he was gamblin’, then well, it weren’t my problem.”

  It’s a lie. I know it right off the bat. Uncle Angus did care. He still does. The more I learn about my great grandfather, the more I suspect that my uncle yearned to be a bigger part of his father’s secret life. He knew about his father’s powers, and not having them himself probably made him feel disconnected from the only real father figure he has ever had in his life.

  The pain at being punished and then told off must have been terrible. He wanted to be there, wanted to be part of his dad’s life, but . . .

  It never happened. Not in the ways that mattered.

  I know a little about my great uncle’s early childhood. He was the youngest of seven kids, and by the time he was eight, most of his siblings were already working at the wood mill or down at the docks. He was pretty lonely during that time and wasn’t close with his brothers and sisters, so his parents were, in a way, his closest friends growing up.

  Considering how long ago that was, friend isn’t the right word to describe them. He had chores and was made to do anything necessary to keep the family afloat. After all, a family of nine isn’t cheap to raise. I’m sure he started working a lot earlier than he lets on.

  The connection he had with his father ran deep, though. And it wasn’t just my great grandfather’s powers that brought them together. So not being allowed in meetings, not being able to spend time with him because he himself lacked those powers . . .

  It must have been very lonely.

  I reach over and rest a hand on his. “It’s okay. I’m curious, too. Do you really think Cole has the answers?”

  “Must have at least some,” he replies with a slow shrug. “Might be I’ll never know what happened in that basement or why. I expect that’s the case for a lot of what happened in my folks’ lives.”

  “Do you know who all of the people in the photo are?” I don’t recognize, well, anyone if I’m honest. I couldn’t even say which woman is related to Shannon.

  “A couple.” He stands to join me on the couch and leans in to point at the first person. “That there’s Mrs. Kullerstrand. She were the school teacher, down at the elementary school. Taught most of the kids in Mooring Cove, from childhood all the way up ’til we could work. I liked her well enough.”

  Mrs. Kullerstrand. As far as I know, there aren’t any families with that name in town anymore. She’s probably one of the ones who left.

  The thing is, though, she looks oddly familiar. I can’t place where I’ve seen her sharp jaw and long nose before, though. Possibly on another person who may have been in Mooring Cove when I was a kid.

  Hmm . . .

  Uncle Angus points to a gentleman in the back row. He’s tall with a round belly and mutton chops. “That there’s Mr. Bill Wiley. He worked down at the general store, a’fore Alberta worked there.”

  I frown. Mr. Wiley actually looks a little like Alberta. “Are they related?”

  “He were her pa, I reckon.”

  That’s interesting. “And this woman?”

  “Ah, Ms. Annette Risotto. Now, she were an inneresting character. Lived up in the Vics when they was first built. Never came out much that I recall. A spinster, I think.”

  Risotto. It’s not hard to tell where her family ended up. If she was a spinster, then she must have had a sibling. “Wait . . . is that her brother, you think?”

  “Aye. Dino Risotto. You know he’s the one what founded that pizzeria you like so much.”

  I grin at that. Well, that explains a few things. No doubt he’s Beatrice and Annalisa’s grandfather. “Dang. I didn’t realize that Dino was a real person.” I’d always just assumed the restaurant was named after the Flintstones’ pet dinosaur. Guess childhood me really thought everything revolved around cartoons.

  Maybe that’s why my life feels like an episode of Scooby Doo. I try not to chuckle at that.

  We go through a few more people. Most of the names are, as expected, not ones I recognize or know. It turns out that of the fifteen or so people in the photograph, maybe five or six stayed in town. The rest all left sometime in the seventies.

  I lean back as a connection hits me. “They all left around the same time, didn’t they?”

  “Aye.”

  “Even Shannon’s grandmother?”

  He nods, playing with his dentures as he considers the question. “About that time, I think so.”

  “Why?” Even though I’m asking, I feel like I already know the answer. It has something to do with the cufflinks and the night that my uncle is avoiding talking about. The one where someone shot someone else and Cole’s grandfather was killed. “Was it because of . . . because of that night?”

  Angus’s shoulders slump. Exhaustion all but bleeds from him, seeping into me. I’ve kept him at this for hours, and he’s not going to be able to stay up much longer from the looks of it. “I’d . . . rather only have to go through this once.”

  Even though I’m dying to know what happened, I understand. Whatever it was, it’s hard for him to talk about. After all, someone died that night, someone it seems he was at least somewhat close to.

  It’s time to let him rest. Tomorrow’s another day, and with Cole bringing my uncle by, we’ll have plenty of time to talk in private.

  I rest a hand on his arm and gently squeeze. “It’s okay. I understand.” I lean over and kiss his cheek. “Thanks for telling me everything you have. Cole said he’ll come by tomorrow to get you, and we can talk then, okay?”

  “Sounds good.”

  With that, he closes the album and
gently squeezes my arm, bidding me a silent farewell before heading to his bedroom.

  As I leave my parents’ house that night, I catch sight of a car idling just a few houses down. Odd. The vehicle doesn’t look like anything anyone in this neighborhood would own. It’s a rather nice new Infiniti of some sort, all decked out in deep purple with chrome accents. The SUV’s headlights are off, but the fog lights glow orange in the darkness.

  After I slip behind the wheel of my 4Runner, I adjust my mirror so I can get a clearer look at whoever’s inside.

  All I can make out is a single silhouette in the driver’s seat.

  “What in the world?”

  For a few seconds, I debate climbing out and confronting whoever’s in the vehicle. Even though I can’t make out their face, their eyes are on me. I sense it in my bones.

  Just as I open the door, though, the headlights flip on. The SUV clunks into gear, and a few seconds later, the driver is making a U-turn.

  “Hey!” I shout, running toward the car. “Hey, wait a second!”

  Before I can glimpse who’s behind the wheel, the SUV speeds down the street.

  Chapter 9

  With the town’s Christmas celebration coming up, I end up being pretty busy the following day. Work’s absolutely bananas. Not just because of last-minute orders, either, but because a number of people stop by throughout the day to pick up odd gifts to give others during the festival. See, one of the biggest traditions in Mooring Cove is to give out little gifts from local shops. Everyone buys a couple, then we all exchange and mingle while sipping spiked eggnog or hot cocoa. It’s sort of like a massive white elephant exchange, only the gifts tend to be useful and thoughtful or unique and fun.

  Our shop is one of the busiest during this time of year. After all, who doesn’t love a good book? People come in all day looking for their favorite book to give to someone else. It’s actually really nice, and for the majority of the day, Dr. Elea stands up front with me, helping customers and making sales.

  The pace in the shop changes in the days leading up to the festival. It has every year, and I’m silently kicking myself for agreeing to meet Cole and my uncle this afternoon. There’s a good chance I’ll still be working.

  For the next two or three days, Dr. Elea won’t be in the lab much and will be staying late, which leaves even less time for me to meet with them. Not to mention the other things I need to take care of. Our restoration customers are important, but during this week, we always time things a little differently on projects so that we ensure both the townsfolk and our restoration customers are happy.

  Heck, I haven’t even had a chance to go in the back today. Before the shop opened, I had to do a ton of stocking to prepare for the week. I haven’t had the opportunity to do any restoration work since Monday.

  As I wrap up a set of three books by Brandon Sanderson for a college student visiting family, the warmth of holiday cheer slips into my core, making me fuzzy and giddy. Despite everything going on with my family and Cole, this is a nice change of pace. I need this. I need time with other people in town, preparing to celebrate one of my absolute favorite seasons.

  I need a distraction from everything Uncle Angus told me, too.

  During a brief lull in the wave of people coming and going, I shoot a quick text to Cole.

  Can you wait until after the shop closes to bring my uncle by? We’re slammed, and I just won’t have a chance until then. Five thirty should be good. Or six.

  My phone vibrates less than five seconds later. The response is a simple thumb’s up emoji.

  I’ll need to call my uncle on my next break, but at least now I don’t need to worry about trying to have them here while helping customers.

  Sometime around noon, business drops as people break off from shopping for lunch. I turn to Dr. Elea. Last night in the photo Uncle Angus showed me, I couldn’t place Mrs. Kullerstrand’s face, but now I do. Dr. Elea has the same narrow jaw and long nose she did. It’s remarkable how much alike the two of them look.

  I’m not sure how to broach the subject of recognizing her or if I even should. Likely, she was Dr. Elea’s mother. It still makes me a little uneasy, though. I always assumed my boss came out here to retire because Mooring Cove is so quiet, but now . . .

  Now I can’t help wondering if maybe he grew up here and left like the others in that photograph. Maybe his mom had enough of whatever was going on in town, just like so many of the others.

  Well, I won’t know until I ask. “Hey, Dr. Elea.” I try to keep my voice even and nonchalant as I straighten the area around the register. “I was wondering something. Why’d you come out to Mooring Cove for retirement?”

  His bushy eyebrows jump toward his thinning hairline, but before he can answer, a group of people approach and line up with their festival purchases.

  Later, then. I’m not exactly patient about having to wait, but I can’t do much about it right now. Business comes first, after all.

  He reaches across the counter to accept a stack of books from the first customer in line. “Did you find everything okay?”

  The customer beams, and the two fall into an easy conversation about the upcoming holiday.

  I’m quick to jump into helping the next customer in line.

  As we work, the question fades to the back of my mind, never truly leaving, but not being addressed before the day is over, either.

  Dr. Elea stays until things slow down around four thirty, but once the customer influx has trickled to a light flow, he packs up and heads out. This has been a long day for him. With just the two of us in the shop this week, he’s probably going to be pretty worn out. The last two Christmases I worked with him were the same. He never hires anyone extra to help us, but sometimes I wish he would hire a temp for the holiday season. At least then I wouldn’t work such long hours for so many months, and I’d be able to focus more on my restoration work.

  When five o’clock rolls around, I finally close up the shop, ushering the last few customers out the door with their new and used books.

  I lock up and step away, giving myself some physical distance so I can breathe.

  Whew. What a long day.

  I run my fingers through my frizzy hair, tugging my worn scrunchie out as I head back toward the counter to check a few things over. At this point, orders for the holiday are done. I literally can’t send anything fast enough to reach its destination. Even overnight air won’t guarantee an order will arrive on time.

  It’s sort of a relief, actually.

  I’ve been filling orders and packing them up for the last several months, and now . . . now it’s almost time for a rest. It’s almost time for our slower season, the few months a year where I get to focus on what I love most: book restoration.

  A few new orders came through while we were tackling the seasonal rush. Even though I pack them up for shipment, I send form response emails to the recipients, letting them know that these orders won’t make it in time for the holiday.

  I glance at the time. The clock’s hour hand creeps closer to six. Angus had been fine with the change in time, and he and Cole should be arriving soon. All I can do now is putter around the shop, cleaning while I wait. As time inches closer to the hour I’ve been waiting all day for, though, my stomach flips and my heart pounds.

  This is terrifying.

  I’m still not entirely sure why, since my uncle answered a lot of my questions last night. Maybe it’s because Cole will finally, finally give me some darn answers. I can’t say that it’s been easy getting him to open up. It still probably won’t be, if I’m honest. That aspect alone is pretty darn frustrating. I don’t want to spook him or anything, but I’m tired of these games. I want to know how things keep ending up in my drinks, why, and what role he’s playing in all of this.

  Finally, at just a few minutes to six, I lock up the register and shut the computer down. I head up to the front of the shop to wait for them to arrive.

  Freezing rain started up in the last hour, a
nd it has since turned into a messy, slushy sleet. The sidewalk is covered in ice, and knowing Uncle Angus already has issues with his balance, I head out into the cold with a bag of deicing salt. I shuck a bunch of it across the pavement, going up and down the sidewalk to get as much of the ice cleared away as possible.

  Most of the shops on Main Street are closed, but some—like Mocha Amore and Bean There, Done That—are still open. It’s best to make sure people bustling around won’t slip and fall. At least not in front of the readery.

  While I work, I spot that same purple SUV down the street. I frown at it, wondering if I should go and talk to whoever’s inside.

  Although my role as a local celebrity has died down for the most part, I still catch reporters tailing me from time to time. No doubt this is one such person.

  I set the bag of salt down, ready to go and confront the person.

  Just as I step toward them, though, a silver sedan pulls up to the curb. It’s sleek and beautiful, even with the undercarriage and sides covered in dirty slush. The headlights cut, casting the street in darkness. Cole opens his door and steps into the cold.

  A quick glance down the street shows that the SUV is gone.

  Great. Hopefully that’ll be the last of it, then. Maybe they got spooked, or—better yet—maybe I’m just imagining things. That seems way more likely.

  For now, I push the strange non-encounter to the back of my mind. I can deal with it later.

  “Hey,” I call, hurrying over to open Uncle Angus’s door. “Thanks for picking him up!”

  “No problem. Let’s get inside. It’s cold out here.”

  Uncle Angus heaves himself from the car, resting against it while he gathers his cane. “Hey, girlie. Little Baltic out, ain’t it?”

  “Just a little,” I reply, smiling widely and wrapping an arm around him. It’s both to hug him and to help him across the wet sidewalk.

  Finally, the three of us step into the shop, evading the cold for the time being.

  Cole shuffles next to the door, shaking the damp from his shoulders. Ice clings to his hair and coat. Uncle Angus and I don’t look much different, and I brush my fingers over my frizzy, damp hair to get rid of most of the ice.