Flat White

by Sandra Balzo

  ‘She said to say she was sorry she couldn’t stay,’ I fibbed, retrieving the same towel from the closet to mop up the snow that had blown in when I’d held the door open. ‘She just finished a night shift at the hotel.’

  ‘I think it’s so exciting, owning a hotel like that,’ she said. ‘Every day is new people, new adventures.’

  New problems.

  ‘Speaking of people, or lack thereof,’ I said, leaning over to pick up the towel. ‘We’re probably in for a slow morning, given the snow. If you want to lea—’

  ‘I could do some more cleaning,’ Christy interrupted brightly. ‘It always cheers me up.’

  ‘Why would you need cheering up?’ I tossed the towel into a pile in the office that I planned to take home to wash. ‘You just got off the phone with Barry.’

  ‘I’m sad because I’m no longer on the phone with Barry,’ she said, opening the utility closet to pull out a bucket. ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow, you know.’

  It was. Pavlik had been in New York last week, but it did not make me want to clean. It made me want to sit on the sofa and binge movie classics, accompanied by red wine, spray cheese and Ritz Crackers. Sweet.

  But that was just me. ‘Listen, I have to ask. When you were on the phone with Barry, you told him you made a transfer of some kind. I know it’s none of my business, but—’

  ‘But you want to know if I’m giving him money. Wiring it out of my account to his. Exactly how stupid do you think I am?’

  Sarah would have had fun with the ‘exactly’ part, but I answered honestly. ‘You are not stupid, not at all. But maybe … naïve?’

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ she said, folding her arms over her scrawny chest. ‘Not naïve and not giving him money.’

  She could shame me for asking, but I was not about to give up without a direct answer to my question. ‘So the transfer?’

  ‘Barry’s money, Barry’s account, if it’s any of your business,’ she sniffed. ‘Which it’s not.’

  ‘He gave you his account information?’ I asked, curiosity piqued even more.

  ‘The man travels. All around the world,’ Christy said, waving her hand in a circle over her head. ‘You know how hard it is to manage your finances across different time zones?’

  ‘He’s never heard of Internet banking?’

  ‘Shows what you know, Maggy. Trades have to be done when the market is open.’ She jutted out her jaw. ‘Nine to four eastern time.’

  Not having money to invest in anything beyond my house and dog food, I didn’t know if that was true, but I was still worried. ‘Promise me you’re not giving him access to your money.’

  ‘Of course I’m not. But I am honored he trusts me with his.’

  And I was astonished. Though I had to admit I had never known Christy to be anything but straight-up honest despite how odd she could be.

  So I dropped the subject against my better judgment. ‘I don’t suppose shoveling cheers you up?’

  ‘Shoveling? Like outside?’

  I hesitated, not knowing what she would find inside to shovel. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said, going to the front window. ‘I have my boots and all.’

  In order to cross the road, as we knew. ‘It’s just the front sidewalk and steps up to the porch and the front door.’

  ‘But what about the parking lot? And the train platform? Do we have to clear that, too?’

  ‘The county is responsible for shoveling the train platform and plowing the parking lot, though I don’t know where they’ll go with the snow.’

  The snow cleared from the parking lot and street so far this winter was piled against a light pole between the front of our building and the train tracks. If it got much higher, they’d have to bring in a front-loader to shovel it into trucks and dispose of it. Somewhere.

  ‘They used to dump it in Lake Michigan, I think.’ Christy was reading my thoughts again. ‘During bad snow years, I mean. But the salt and sand they use on the roads in the winter plus all the other pollutants from cars and trucks is bad for the lake.’

  Which was, after all, where Milwaukee got its drinking water.

  Christy was peering out at the heavily falling snow. ‘The steps are already drifted shut. And … oh, no. There goes my driveway.’

  I joined her at the window to catch a garbage truck with a giant plow blade attached to its bumper blast past, sending plumes of snow up toward Christy’s studio on the opposite side of the street.

  ‘Ugh,’ I said as the roar of the snowplow receded into the distance. ‘I hate digging out the end of the driveway after the plows come through. If you want to go do it now, before it freezes—’

  But Christy was craning her neck. ‘Bury?’

  ‘Bury what?’ I asked, trying to see past her. ‘Your car? Are you parked on the street? You should move it if you are. There’s a snow emergency, so they’ll tow anything—’

  ‘No, no.’ She was rolling up on and off of her tiptoes, like a toddler trying to see. ‘I could have sworn I just saw Barry getting out of a black SUV.’

  Oh, that kind of Barry. ‘But he just called from … where exactly was he?’

  ‘Heathrow. That’s the airport in London.’ She turned, her face alight. ‘But what if he just said that? What if Barry was already in the States getting ready to surprise me.’

  The States. Our little girl had grown so continental. ‘He called what? An hour ago? And in the middle of a blizzard with the airlines canceling flights. He’d have to—’

  ‘Mitchell International is still open for now,’ Christy said, not ready to give up her dream of a surprise visit from her long-distance lover-to-be. Maybe. ‘He could have flown in last night even.’

  She cocked her head, her chin lifted. ‘That’s when flights from Europe arrive, you know. Afternoon or evening. Because of the time difference.’

  The ‘International’ in Mitchell International pertained to flights from Canada, Mexico and the Caribbean, as far as I knew. ‘There are no direct flights from Europe to Milwaukee.’

  ‘Not to Milwaukee, of course. But to Chicago O’Hare. So, it makes even more sense that Barry flew into O’Hare yesterday and then either flew or drove up here this morning. He could even have taken a ride-share.’

  From Chicago – that would cost a fortune. But who was I to dash her dreams? ‘Do you really think it was him? Would you recognize him?’

  ‘Of course.’ She turned to me with her chin inching even higher. ‘You saw the photos and all—’

  The sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs interrupted her and, as Christy turned breathlessly toward the door, it swung open sending the sleigh bells crashing.

  ‘Can I get a quick coffee? Whatever you got.’

  Harold Byerly, one of our regular trash collectors, was standing on the rug, snow and slush clinging to his boots.

  ‘You’re melting,’ Christy snapped, disappointment on her face.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ Harold said, lifting one and then the other of the boots, like he hadn’t noticed he had them on.

  ‘Not a problem. Stay there and we’ll bring it to you.’ I leaned over the counter to reach a newly brewed pot to fill a to-go cup. ‘Plow duty today?’

  ‘Yup, drew the short straw,’ he said, nodding gratefully. ‘What do I owe you?’

  ‘Coffee’s on the house,’ I said, handing it to him. ‘Just try not to block our parking lot entrance.’

  ‘Or my driveway,’ Christy added.

  ‘Deal,’ he said, now rocking back and forth on his boots. ‘Umm, could I use your restroom? I had—’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, waving him on before we had more than just snow on the floor.

  Without another word, he shuffle-ran/sprinted around the corner with the coffee. Happily, the restrooms were just down the hall across from the train platform door.

  ‘He could at least have wiped his feet,’ Christy said, still pouting. ‘And he took his coffee in there. Eeeew.’

  ‘I’m sorry Haro
ld wasn’t Barry,’ I said, retrieving my towel from the dirty pile and using it to wipe up the snow and slush trail. ‘But he is a customer.’

  ‘A non-paying one.’ Christy, sounding remarkably like Sarah, had returned to the window and now did a double take. ‘See? There!’

  ‘There where?’ Even without Harold’s plow adding to the white-out by throwing up the already fallen snow, it was nearly impossible to see.

  ‘Across the street,’ she said, pointing. ‘I think, yes, he’s coming this way.’

  A man emerged from the storm.

  ‘Barry, Barry!’ Christy was waving her arms in front of the window, trying to get the man’s attention.

  ‘And you’re sure it’s him?’ I was squinting, trying to see between gusts of wind that were taking the snow nearly horizontal.

  ‘Of course I am,’ she said, now balling her fist to pound the base of it against the window. ‘Who else would it be?’

  Some random customer who is going to think you’re nuts, was my thought. It honestly seemed more likely than having the man we’d just spoken to in London appear on the doorstep.

  ‘Stop,’ I ordered as she raised her hand to hammer the glass again. ‘You’re going to break the window and he can’t hear you above the storm anyway.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she said, dropping her fist and craning her neck to see. ‘I think he’s coming this way.’

  How she knew that, I had no idea. I could see nothing and nobody out there. ‘He has your address, right? Won’t he go up to your house?’

  ‘I suppose. Though I did tell him I was working just before I put you on the phone.’

  ‘Did you tell him where?’ I asked. ‘Or explain that the coffeehouse was across the street?’

  ‘Of course.’ Comprehension flooded her face. ‘That’s why Barry called this morning. To find out where I was.’

  ‘And here you are.’ I don’t think I said it facetiously.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I should go to him.’

  ‘Yes, you should.’ Whoever he was.

  She stopped with her hand on the doorknob. ‘But look at me. I can’t meet the love of my life for the first time dressed like this.’

  Christy was wearing a navy Uncommon Grounds apron over a cappuccino-colored Uncommon Grounds T-shirt which she had unwisely paired with black dress pants. The look, such as it was, worked best with jeans.

  Not that I had ever seen Christy Wrigley in jeans.

  ‘You said yourself that he knows you’re working,’ I pointed out. ‘And, besides, you look fine.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘As long as you didn’t send him a picture of Sophia Loren or somebody and tell him it was you.’

  ‘Sophia?’ Christy asked, untying her apron and tossing it toward me. ‘Is that Ralph’s daughter?’

  Not knowing the apron was coming, I missed it and had to bend to retrieve it from the floor. By the time I had straightened up, I’d worked out that Christy was talking about the designer. ‘No. Ralph Lauren’s daughter isn’t named Sophia.’

  ‘But same last name, right?’

  ‘Wrong.’ But I didn’t bother to literally spell it out, instead leaving it at, ‘Sophia Loren is a long-time actress. Incredibly famous, very beautiful.’

  ‘And I look like her?’

  Sure, let’s go with that.

  But Christy already had moved on. ‘He must have gone up to the house because he’s coming back down the driveway.’ Christy was nervously running a hand through her red hair.

  When the hand balled in a fist again, dangerously close to my plate-glass window, I shoved the door open with a jangle. ‘Catch him now then.’

  But the little redhead stepped back – distancing herself not only from the cold and snow blowing in, but the man standing across the street in it. ‘I’ll ruin the surprise.’

  ‘Not as much as if he doesn’t find you,’ I pointed out, letting the wind slam the door shut. ‘He’ll leave.’

  Christy considered that for a moment before stepping up to the door and shoving it open again. ‘Barry!’

  The man, who had hesitated on the sidewalk across the way to pull out his phone, now turned, slipping his phone back in his coat pocket. ‘Yes?’ he called.

  ‘It’s me!’ Christy stepped out onto the porch now, arms crossed against her chest in the cold. I followed.

  Barry held a hand to his ear, bracing himself against the wind as he crossed the street to us. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It’s me, Christy,’ she tried again.

  ‘Christy Wrigley?’ It seemed clear that whatever Barry had expected, she was not it.

  And she wasn’t even wearing the creepy yellow rubber gloves.

  Still, I felt horrible for her. ‘I’m Maggy,’ I said, trying for polite in the face of the man’s rudeness. ‘Why don’t you come in for a coffee? You must be freezing.’

  ‘Yes. Please.’ Christy was advancing down the steps. The snow was falling in giant flakes now.

  ‘No way.’ His voice was half an octave higher than I had heard it earlier and he was backing away even as Christy advanced. ‘I didn’t expect this.’ He waved his hand at Christy in her UG T-shirt, pants and sneakers. ‘Whatever this is.’

  Ass. ‘That’s just plain rude,’ I said, coming to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Christy, a united front on the bottom step of our porch. ‘I suggest you leave before I call the police.’

  Or freeze to death.

  ‘Maggy, no.’ Christy was sniffling next to me.

  ‘You’re going to call the police?’ He stumbled backwards down off the curb as he dug into his pocket and came up with the phone. ‘Let me do the honors.’

  A gust of wind blew, carrying his words horizontally away from us along with the snow. We were in a near whiteout now.

  ‘Trust me,’ I said to Christy as the cacophony of howling wind blended with that of snow removal equipment. ‘You don’t want this man in your life.’

  ‘Shh,’ Christy said, though there was no way Barry could hear me as the din grew. Nor could we hear what he was saying into the phone as he was eerily illuminated.

  ‘Barry, come!’ I ordered, like the man was my sheepdog. ‘Come here now!’

  I should have known that Barry would do exactly what Frank usually did. Ignore me. Even if Frank were equipped with opposable thumbs, though, I like to think he wouldn’t throw me the finger.

  Which was exactly what Barry was doing as the snowplow mowed him down.

  FOUR

  ‘Flat.’ Sarah’s phone-slash-camera was focused on the light pole where the plowed snow of this winter had been piled. It was here that the snowplow had come to rest. Sarah had already snapped photos of where Barry Margraves had been struck by the plow blade and then run over by the tires of the truck itself. ‘White.’

  We were standing on the porch of Uncommon Grounds, both of us in parkas and knitted hats. The snow was still coming down in great handfuls piling up on the bright blue tarp that covered Barry’s body.

  ‘That’s kind of tasteless, don’t you think?’ I said, looking sideways at her.

  ‘What?’ She put the phone away. ‘Taking pictures?’

  That, too. ‘Flat white. As in the man was run over. And snowed upon.’

  The ambulance crew lifted the tarp-covered body onto a gurney, snow falling off in clumps as they half-wheeled, half-lifted the cart into the ambulance. The vehicle’s destination would be the morgue, not the hospital.

  ‘Flat white. As in I’m freezing my ass off and want one.’ She pulled open the door. ‘I can have a latte if you think that’s in better taste.’

  I glanced back at where the body had lain, outline already being blurred by the snow, and followed her in. ‘Have what you want. Just don’t say “flat white” in front of her.’

  I chin-gestured toward the table where Rebecca Penn sat with Christy, the latter’s red head next to the former’s dark one. I’d had to physically restrain Christy from going to what was left of Barry’s side. I le
ft her sitting on the top step of the porch and made my way to his body on the street while dialing 911.

  The man had been hit and run over from left to right as we had watched. I’d leaned down to check for a pulse, though the astonished, vacant eyes already told me there would be none.

  Standing up from Barry’s body, I’d surveyed the empty street. No looky-loos or helpful neighbors emerging from the surrounding buildings. The storm meant everybody was inside and probably unaware of anything but the passing of the snowplow. The eerie blanket-like quiet of the storm was broken only by Christy’s sobbing and the rhythmic engine noise of the still-running truck sitting plow-end into the snow pile.

  I had started toward the truck to check on the driver when the first Brookhills County squad car pulled up and Deputy Kelly Anthony emerged. I’d told Kelly that Christy’s friend had been hit by the plow and she, in turn, pointed out that I was not wearing a coat and would freeze to death if I didn’t go in. Getting Christy to her feet, I’d taken her inside Uncommon Grounds, wrapped her coat around the shivering shoulders and let her cry.

  I’m not much good with emotion-fraught situations, so when Christy had quieted a bit, I asked if there was somebody I could call to be with her. She’d sobbed something that sounded like ‘Ruh … ruh …’ and that was good enough for me to go looking for Rebecca Penn’s number on her phone.

  I had found it and dialed Rebecca for her and Sarah for me. Not that Sarah was so much a comfort as a familiar thorn in my side. Being right across the street, Rebecca had been there straight away, not even bothering with gloves or a hat. Sarah had filled her gas tank and picked up her dry cleaning on the way.

  Now back inside with Sarah, I slipped off my boots, hung up my jacket and padded sock-footed over to Christy and Rebecca at the table.

  ‘… and I just don’t understand,’ Christy was saying. ‘Am I so ugly that he … he—’

  ‘Stepped in front of a snowplow?’ Sarah was shrugging out of her coat even as she disappeared around the corner to the service area. She popped out behind the ordering window, peeling the cap off her head. ‘Nah.’