by Sandra Balzo
'Decaf, please. In a to-go cup.'
'Don't trust our dishwasher?' Sarah asked.
'I don't trust anybody's dishwasher,' Christy confirmed. She was pulling a small orange canister from her bag. I assumed it was some sort of artificial sweetener until she popped the top and removed what looked like the strips I'd used to test the chemical levels in Ted's and my pre-divorce swimming pool.
I poured Columbian decaf into her cup and Christy swiftly darted one end of the strip into the coffee, like a hummingbird at a feeder.
'OK, I'll bite. Just what are you doing now?' I asked.
'Testing for caffeine.' She continued to delicately hold the tester vertically in the cup.
'It is decaf.' I pointed at the pot I'd poured the coffee from. 'See? It has an orange handle so nobody gets confused.'
'I'm sure you're right, Maggy, but I can't take a chance. I'm very sensitive to caffeine. Makes me nervous, you know?'
Sarah made a choking noise, and I was right there with her. If this was Christy relaxed, no sane person would want to see her jazzed.
'How long do you need to keep that thing in there,' a man who looked like a reporter asked curiously.
'Thirty seconds,' Christy said. 'For absolute accuracy, anyway.'
'Your coffee will get cold,' a woman in line growled impatiently.
'Hot coffee is dangerous,' Christy said. 'Don't you know that a burn to the roof of your mouth is just an invitation for all kinds of unwelcome bacteria to take root?'
Talk about annoying organisms. And here she was planted in front of my window. 'Sarah, could you help Christy to a table?' I said.
Sarah obligingly took her own coffee and Christy's, so she could gather up her test kit and handbag. As they moved away, I heard Sarah say, 'Oh, yeah? Just like a petri dish, huh?'
Lovely. I turned to the next person in line. 'I'm sorry. Now what can I get you?'
The man who stepped up to the counter was probably a print reporter, since he had a notebook in one hand and wasn't dressed for the camera. Too bad. The guy, around forty, was better looking than ninety per cent of our local on-air talent, male or female.
'First of all, I'd love a cup of coffee,' he said, with a slow grin meant to ingratiate. 'I think I heard you had La Minita?'
'Small, medium or large?' I asked.
'Large,' he answered with a wink. I wasn't sure if he was talking about the coffee or his stir stick. What I did suspect, though, was that the slick patter was meant to befriend me in order to get information.
The fact I knew nothing made it easy to banter back. 'I bet.'
I poured him the La Minita. 'Anything else?'
He slid a ten-dollar bill toward me, but kept his hand on it. 'Some information, maybe?'
'For a ten? Your newspaper's got to provide you a bigger budget.'
'My charm and looks are supposed to make up the difference.'
'Good luck with that,' I said, taking the ten and handing him five back.
He looked down at it. 'Five dollars for a cup of coffee?'
'Plus tax and gratuity. Uncle Sam's got a deficit and – God bless – you're a good tipper.'
He nodded once and stuck the five in his pocket.
'Well done,' the woman behind him said to me. Now she looked ready to do a stand-up on the evening news. Lacquered hair, solid-colored sweater in a flattering blue, cute little hat for exterior live-remotes.
She nudged the print reporter aside and lowered her voice. 'Do you know where I can find Kevin Williams from Williams Props and Staging?'
'Why?' Sarah, having safely seated Christy and her caffeine-o-meter, had returned and even ventured to the 'working' side of our counter.
The woman in front of us replied, 'Williams is JoLynne Penn-Williams' husband. We'd like to get his reaction to his wife's death.'
Assuming Kevin knew. Which, come to think of it, should have been Brewster Hampton's stated reason for looking for the props man: to tell Kevin he was a widower.
'But nobody seems to know where he is.'
'I do,' Christy said from her table. She was shaking her caffeine stick like it was an oral thermometer and seemed oblivious to us.
'Ignore her,' Sarah said. 'She's on a day pass from the loony bin.'
One glance at the yellow rubber gloves seemed to convince the hat lady. 'So, when was the last time either of you saw him?'
'Listen, sweetie,' Sarah said. 'If we're going to answer questions, they'll be from the police and, so far, they haven't asked.'
'They will,' offered the print reporter, inching back to eavesdrop.
'I know something,' Christy said again.
'That's good, dear,' I said in a sing-song voice. 'I'll be there in a second, so you can tell me all about the nasty caffeine.'
I turned back to the woman in front of me. 'Aside from Tweety-Bird's hallucinations, do you want anything else? And if you're thinking of bribing us, you'd better be packing more than a ten.'
Sarah looked offended. 'A ten? Somebody tried to buy our souls for a measly ten bucks?'
'Minus his cup of coffee.' I was keeping an eye on Christy. 'Sarah, can you handle this?'
'Sure.' I waved at Art Jenada, who was next in line, and crossed to Christy's table.
She was taking careful sips of what now had to be very safe, very lukewarm, coffee.
Slipping into the chair next to her, I whispered, 'So you know where Kevin is now?' If she did, I'd call Pavlik and tell him. Maybe it would shorten his day so he could get to my place sooner.
'Not right this moment, silly,' she said. 'I'm here, and he isn't.'
OK. 'Then where? And when?'
Christy said, 'A Williams truck passed me on Brookhill Road when I was driving the opposite direction to go see Ronny.'
Opposite direction. The Brookhills County Jail, where Ronny was being held until trial, was west of us. That meant Kevin had to be going east.
'I wonder if he had to run over to the Milwaukee train station.' Williams Props and Staging was handling the set-up for both the Brookhills and big city dedications. Anita probably had sent Kevin scurrying back to make sure her event was going swimmingly.
Meanwhile, ours literally had come crashing down – unbeknownst to Kevin until the train or the news, in whichever order, reached him.
'And you're sure it was Kevin driving?'
'No,' Christy said, placing her cup carefully on the table. 'You really should listen better, Maggy. I said I saw the truck. I have no idea whether Kevin Williams was driving it. I don't think I've ever even met the man.'
Well, that was a big help. 'What time would this have been?'
'About eight or so? Visiting hours start at eight-thirty in the morning on Wednesdays, and I wanted to be first in line.'
I shuddered just imagining the scene: 'Yoo-hoo? I've got dibs on prisoner number 18398476!'
I started to stand, but realized it was a little rude to pump Christy for information and then just bolt. 'So, how was your visit with Ronny?'
At the mention of his name, Christy's almost-chin went up again. 'I'm sorry, Maggy. He asked me not to say anything to you.'
'But telling Sarah was just fine?'
'She's family to Ronny.'
Given how he treated family, I was more than happy to be the odd woman out. Outside their bloodline, that is.
'Christy, I don't want to upset you, but Ronny is—'
She held up her palm to me. 'I don't want to hear anything—'
'I'm telling you this for your own good. And Sarah – Ronny's "family" – will tell you the same. Stay away from him. He's a nutcase loser.'
I'd had my say, but Christy was right about not hearing anything. She'd stuck an index finger in each ear like a four-year-old who didn't want her older sister to burst the Easter Bunny bubble.
Blocking out information you don't want to hear doesn't work. I have recent and relevant personal experience. But neither does trying to penetrate the blockade.
So, I got up.
The coffee line had dwindled, maybe because Sarah had been quietly efficient or maybe because the customers had given up hope and bailed out to find an upper elsewhere.
'Where'd everybody go?' I asked.
Sarah, who was pushing buttons on the cash register, didn't look up. 'The county courthouse. Guess there's some news.'
'Already?' I went to the big track-side window and looked out. Sure enough, only a single uniformed officer remained, standing guard over the deflated cup, now finally cordoned off. The black lettering on the yellow plastic tape strung between the two balloon bouquets didn't read a vigilant 'CAUTION' but instead, an ominous 'POLICE LINE – DO NOT CROSS'.
The officer, though not the one I'd seen earlier, looked equally bored. There must be an awful lot of standing and waiting in cop-dom. Maybe that's where the expression 'flatfoot' comes from.
About to turn back, my attention was drawn to a truck coming down Junction Road, the two-lane street in front of the depot.
From a distance, it looked like Kevin's vehicle, the one that had been parked adjacent to the stage and that I figured Christy had seen heading downtown.
If it was Kevin, did he know about JoLynne? And if not, should I be the one to tell him?
Before I had a chance to answer those questions, the truck braked and turned in next to our building. I left my window and went out the front door and down the steps.
When I reached the truck, I crouched down to get a look at the driver through the tinted passenger side glass. Tall, but not as broad as Kevin.
The silhouetted figure inside the truck saw me looking. I waved. He gave a finger-wave back, vaguely familiar.
I gestured for him to come out.
He pointed to himself, as if saying, 'Who, me?'
'Yes, you,' I called back. The guy and I must have met, given the grief he was handing me.
But when the door finally swung open, out came a Nordic-looking blonde stranger.
'Hello,' I said, walking around the truck to him. 'Do you work for Williams Staging?'
'Yah. I am Ragnar Norstaadt. I come to do pick up. And you are?'
Charmed is what I was. My grandparents had been born in Norway, making all Scandinavian accents subliminally attractive to me.
'Maggy Thorsen,' I said, extending my hand. 'I own Uncommon Grounds, inside. But I don't think I saw you here earlier.'
'It is good to meet you, Maggy Thorsen,' said Ragnar, taking my hand in his. He had a smidge of white shaving cream clinging just south of his right ear.
I was dying to wipe it off. Or run my fingers through the curly blonde hair springing out from under the 'Williams Staging' cap. I settled for the more universal greeting and shook.
'Kevin ask me to tell you that he is very sorry,' Ragnar continued as we walked up to the depot's front porch, 'but he will not today return here. He is . . . detained.'
Detained? 'By the police?'
'Please?' Ragnar looked puzzled.
'You said that Kevin wouldn't be here? That he is . . .'
'Detained.' Seeing that I didn't understand, Ragnar seemed to search for an alternate word. 'Busy is better, maybe?'
'Yes,' I said, feeling silly for jumping to conclusions.
Detained. I had been hanging around cops and coroners way too much. Though that did remind me. 'I assume Kevin knows about his wife?'
'That she is late?' Ragnar asked.
Late. Who knew that so many perfectly serviceable English words could result in such ambiguities?
'Late?' I repeated, feeling my way. 'You mean as in . . .'
'Dead,' he said solemnly. 'Mrs Kevin, she is dead.'
'Yes. I am so sorry,' I said. 'Have they told Kevin how JoLynne died?'
Ragnar seemed surprised. 'It is here.' We'd reached the porch.
'Around back, but—'
'She was in the, how you say . . .' Ragnar held out his left hand, palm up, to form a bowl, then used the right hand to indicate holding a handle.
I could feel my eyes narrow. The pinky sticking out. The loose-fingered wave. The blonde curls that could be pulled back into a braid. It finally came together.
'Cup,' I supplied. I reached over and swiped at the 'shaving cream' on his neck. 'Face paint,' I said, holding up my finger for him to see. 'You're the mime.'
'But, yes.' Ragnar looked so innocent. 'You did not know?'
'No, I did not.' I was still ticked about his spitting out my imaginary coffee, but given the circumstances, it would have been pretty petty of me to bring it up.
'I am very sorry,' Ragnar said. 'But I must remain on character when performing.'
'In character.' But I got the point. Mickey Mouse and Cinderella couldn't very well go out drinking together after a hard day's work in the theme park.
'So, are you an actor?' I asked.
Ragnar nodded eagerly. 'I am, yah. But acting does not pay so well the bills.'
Especially this far from the legitimate stage in New York and the sound stage in Los Angeles. Though our northern climate probably made him feel right at home.
'You work for Kevin, then?'
'It is a good putting together. Clients sometime need performer and, when I am not that, I can help the display work with Kevin.'
He pointed to the white-clothed table from which Tien had served coffee. The eight-foot table had been pushed up against the building, empty except for a cluster of Mylar 'Celebrate!' balloons tethered to a clear round bowl filled with pink and white quartz for ballast.
'Pretty,' I said. 'There are two more on the stage.'
'Thank you. The police say I must leave those for now.' Ragnar thumped the balloons with his thumb and middle finger. 'I must have this bowl, but you keep the balloons. They are good still.'
'No, thank you.' The metallic floaty things lasted forever. When my son was little, I'd resorted to skewering 'Barney' balloons with a letter opener after Eric was in bed, so I could finally get rid of the dang things.
As Ragnar took the bowl to the truck, balloons trailing, I, in turn, trailed after them.
'I know you talked to Kevin,' I said. 'Did he say whether JoLynne had been sick or anything?'
'Sick?' Ragnar carefully put the breakable bowl on the passenger seat, pushing down the balloons like a deputy guiding the head of a bad guy into a police cruiser.
'Yes. I'm wondering why a healthy young woman would die so suddenly.' And without dignity. In a giant coffee cup.
'Kevin tell me only JoLynne is killed.' Ragnar closed the passenger door and now moved on to the rows of folding chairs in front of the stage. The cop-as-sentry gave a nod to let him know he could clear them but was still being watched.
I lowered my voice so the officer couldn't hear. 'Ragnar, killed, as in "murdered"?'
'Kill, murder – is all the same, yah?'
'Yah,' I replied, my own Norwegian coming back to me. 'And yah, not.' I collapsed a chair and put it on the pile Ragnar had started. 'Killed could also mean accident.'
'I do not know.' Ragnar said, picking up the stack. 'All they say is Mrs Kevin was. . .'
He lifted his burden into the back of the pick-up and looked around to see if anyone else was within hearing range.
I did, too. Nobody.
Ragnar Norstaadt lowered his voice anyway. 'Mrs Kevin was stuffercated.'
Chapter Five
In normal towns, the fact that the south-west side of our building was a crime scene would ward people off.
In Brookhills, though, notoriety served as a doorbuster special. By noon the tidal wave that had receded when the press left had been rehydrated by locals. It was now about three in the afternoon, however, and the trickle was down far enough for me to send Amy for milk, cream and other staples we were running low on.
I drew the line at asking her to also pick up kibbles for Frank and a light bulb for my porch.
'It might be good for business,' I said to Sarah, who was back to poking at the cash register like it was going to bite her, 'but it's too bad tragedy brings out the ambulance
chasers.'
I looked at octogenarian Sophie Daystrom, our sole customer at the moment. 'Present company excepted.'
'Oh, fudge, Maggy,' Sophie said. 'I chase ambulances with the best of 'em.'
'Fudge?' Sarah echoed. 'That's not up to your usual swearing standards.'
Sophie shrugged. 'Henry is giving me shit . . . sorry, crap over what he calls profanity. So, I'm trying to clean up my act.'
I didn't think Henry, Sophie's current old-goy boy-toy, meant she should turn to a thesaurus in search of synonyms for excrement. Henry was a true gentleman and, much as I loved Sophie, the old bird admittedly had a mouth on her.
Even as I had the thought, a staccato birdsong pierced the room, sending Sophie frantically digging through her handbag.
Finally, a cellphone found, button punched, and screen studied. 'Hmm.'
'Aren't you going to answer it?' I asked.
'It's a tweet,' Sarah said.
'What do you mean?'
'The bird call? Tweet? Get it?'
For the second time today, I didn't. 'Sure.'
'You like it?' Sophie was pushing buttons as she spoke. 'That ringtone was as close to a "tweet" as I could find without actually having to pay extra.'
Ahh. The birdsong must be Sophie's ringtone for Twitter updates. I didn't know much, but I did know that Eric always seemed to know things before I did. Hell, before the TV news did. Downside? Rumors could spread like wildfire.
'So, what's the news?' I asked Sophie, pouring coffee into a ceramic Uncommon Grounds white and blue cup. No matching saucer, but aside from that, it was a small-scale model of the one in which JoLynne Penn-Williams had been found. I hoped no death-junkies noticed, or they'd start filching the things for souvenirs.
But Sophie warded me off the pour, pointing at our to-go cups. 'Put it in one of those,' she said. 'There's been a "sheriff sighting".'
I reached for a to-go, but held up. 'My sheriff?'
It might seem presumptuous, but Pavlik and I had, after all, been together for nearly eighteen months now.
'Yes, "your" sheriff,' Sophie said, scoring a cup from the top of the stack herself and holding it out for me to fill.
'But why would you want to follow Pavlik?' And was he on Twitter?
'Same reason we track you,' she said. 'Things happen wherever Maggy Thorsen goes.'
