Cappuccino Twist

Cappuccino

Twist

Anisa Claire West

This is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and events depicted in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any similarity to actual people, either living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

Prologue

New York City

Brownstone on East 73
rd
Street

“Promise me, Marlena, promise me,
mi amor
!” The strength had drained out of my grandmother’s voice, but her will was stronger than ever.

“I promise you,
Nana, I will find out who killed your sister.” I gazed into her warm cocoa eyes that had transformed from lustrous to dull over the past few weeks of her pneumonia.

Accepting a few ice chips that I offered her,
the dear woman who raised me wet her throat as tears moistened her eyes.  “I always thought that I would be the one to solve Silvia’s murder.  How can I leave this world without knowing who killed my sister?!” Her voice was scarcely more than a raspy whisper mingled with a cough.

“Stop tormenting yourself,” I urged, squeezing her wrinkled hand.  “You’ve done everything you can to solve Aunt Silvia’s murder.  But
she was killed in Spain.  You’ve been in New York City for the past 50 years.  It would have been a miracle if you had been able to solve the crime from here.” I offered her a tiny wedge of fresh orange, but she waved it away.

“That’s why you m
ust go to Spain.  Go to my home in Barcelona.  My land holds many secrets that you must uncover! Please!  No matter what it takes!  And bring this envelope with you.  It will help you.” She pointed to the mahogany nightstand where a sealed envelope sat waiting for me to claim it.

I picked up the envelope and tucked it close to my heart. 
“Yes, I will go to Spain, Nana.  And I won’t come back to New York until I find out who killed Aunt Silvia.  That’s a solemn promise.”

Gently, I pressed my lips to her forehead as she sighed and her eyes fluttered closed like butterfly wings.

Chapter 1

Barcelona, Spain

2 Weeks Later

As the plane slid o
nto the runway at Barcelona El-Prat Airport, torrents of rain hammered down with it.  I had cried my last tear somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean and wore a stony face as I yanked my carry-on out of the overhead compartment.  Grieving for my grandmother wasn’t an option; I had a homicide to solve and needed to veil my emotions until my mission was complete.  Faces were a blur as I stood in the cramped aisle waiting to get off the plane and catch a whiff of fresh oxygen.  After the 8 hour flight from New York, my cascading mocha ponytail was caked in grease and my eyes were blotchy from crying.  Feeling like a zombie, I squeezed my way off the narrow jetliner and wheeled my suitcase down the long corridor towards the front of the airport where taxis were queued up.

Immediately, a tax
i driver swept my luggage out of my hands and gave my figure a brazen perusal.  “
Bienvenidos a Barcelona, Señorita
.” He gawked at my slender body as he spoke.

“
Gracias
,” I replied curtly, sliding into the cab and hoping he wouldn’t try to make conversation.  I had grown up speaking Spanish with my grandmother and could easily converse with anyone in the city, but I was in no mood to speak
any
language with some leering cab driver. “Take me to the Alonso Hotel in the Gothic Quarter. 
Por favor
,” I requested, hoping the middle aged man would take the quickest route so I could get out of his suffocating cab.  I desperately needed a shower and a huge glass of iced coffee.

Trying to ignore the lewd glances the driver kept tossing me in his rearview mirror, I reflected on all that I had left behind in Manhattan.  At 29, I had just been promoted to Vice President of Sales at my job
at BoldTech, making me the youngest VP in the history of the company.  My friends had all agreed that I was making a colossal mistake by quitting to go chase ghosts from half a century ago, but I needed to honor the promise I had made to my grandmother.  The woman had sacrificed more than enough since my mother abandoned me when I was 7 years old.  Now it was my turn to sacrifice for my grandmother and find out who had murdered her younger sister in 1962.

“Are you here on vacation?” The driver asked in Spanish.

“No,” I stated the syllable in a monotone, staring out the window at the Medieval buildings that whizzed by in a rainy haze.  

“Then what brings you to Barcelona?” The cab driver asked in a jovial tone that made me seethe.  Why couldn’t he just understand that I didn’t want to talk to him?  In New York, there’s a sign on the back seat of
every yellow taxi that proclaims one’s right to a “silent ride,” but clearly things were different in Barcelona.

“I’m here on business,” I evaded, scowling deliberately so he could see me in the rearview mirror.

“Ah, a business woman,” he mused as my scowl intensified.  “Well, you must find some time for pleasure as well during your stay in Barcelona.  How long will you be here?”

“As long as I need to be,” came my unfriendly reply. 
“If you don’t mind, I’m not feeling very well after my plane ride and just need to sit quietly.” My eyes met his in the mirror, and I could tell that he was offended, but I really didn’t care.  If he knew how grave the reasons for my trip to Barcelona were, then he would understand why I needed peace and quiet.

Long minutes later, we arrived at the Alonso Hotel as I tipped the driver fairly and rushed with my bag to the reception desk.  “
Buenos dias
.  I have a reservation under the name Marlena Falcon,” I announced to the bubbly front desk clerk.

“Yes, I see here
, Señorita Falcon.  I’ll need to see your passport, please.” The young girl smiled at me as I smiled wanly back and handed her my identification.

“Do you know where I can get a really good cup of coffee around here?” I asked, hearing the desperation in my own voice.  “All they gave us
on the airplane was some nasty, stale instant brew.”

The girl, whose name tag read Talisa, replied with a soft laugh, “Yes, right down the block there’s a
great place called Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique.  Best coffee in Barcelona in my opinion.”

“Mmmm, I can smell the coffee beans roasting now,” I murmured, rubbing my hands together in anticipation of a strong, frothy cup of java.

Taking my room key, I wheeled my suitcase to the elevator, trying to prioritize the rest of my day: Coffee first.  Shower later.  Opening the door to my room, I frowned at the depressing décor all shaded in maroon and beige.  The walls could use a new coat of paint, and the furniture was in dire need of shampooing.  Oh well.  I wasn’t going to be spending much time in my hotel room anyway.  Armed with nothing more than my grandmother’s sealed envelope and my own intuition, I was sure to be spending countless hours combing the city for Aunt Silvia’s acquaintances…if any were still living.  Knowing that the crime’s age was my one biggest obstacle, I nonetheless was driven to figure out who had smothered my aunt to death when she was just 26 years old.

Dumping my suitcase on the floor and freshening up in the bathroom for a grand total of 30 seconds, I grabbed my umbrella and scurried out of the room in search of Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique.  Outside, the rain felt refreshing and I drank in the cool April air like nourishment.  Quickly, I spotted the coffee shop Talisa had suggested,
perching on the corner next to a public library.  Swinging the door open, I scanned the dull interior made even more unattractive by retro 1970’s furniture.  Was everything in Barcelona bathed in gray, and was the color a bad omen for the case I was trying to crack?

The aroma of fresh roasted espresso beans wafted through the café, instantly making me forget the
gloomy atmosphere.  Teenagers giggled and sipped big mugs of hot chocolate drowning in whipped cream as couples chatted intimately over shared cake slices.  Taking my place in the long line, I stole another breath of the coffee-scented atmosphere.  For a caffeine addict like me, it would be heaven to work in such an environment.  I had a good amount of money saved from my job in New York, but I didn’t want to blow my whole nestegg in Barcelona.  If I could get the owner to overlook the tiny little issue that I didn’t have a work visa in Spain, then maybe I could indulge my coffee passion
and
earn some money to defray the cost of the hotel. 

Finally, I reached the front of the line and placed my order.  “Large iced coffee please.  With an extra shot of espresso.”

The harried cashier snatched my Euros and hustled me towards the coffee bar where a barista who looked no more than 17 whipped up my drink.  “
Muchas gracias
,” I said as the wavy haired boy handed me my drink.  “Hey, do you know if they’re hiring here?”

“
Si
, I think so,” he answered.  “They’re always hiring.”

“Okay, great,” I replied, taking a mighty gulp of my iced coffee and exhaling in audible pleasure.  “Who can I speak to about that?”

Instead of answering me, the boy called over his shoulder, “Dario! Job applicant!”

Emerging from the cappuccino machine was a bearded man who
appeared to be in his mid 60’s.  Regarding me warily, he reached out a hand and gave mine a weak shake.

“Do you have
any experience working in a coffee shop?” He asked as I quickly concocted a story in my head.

“Um, yes, I do.  In college, I worked for 4 years at a coffee shop in New York City.” Dario didn’t need to know that it had only been 2 years…and an ice cream parlor…that I had worked in. 

“How busy was it?  How many customers every day?” He grilled me as my brain conjured another fib.

“Very busy.  It was in lower Manhattan, so there was constant traffic.  Easily 100 people an hour.” I felt a twinge of guilt at my lie as Dario’s expression softened and he seemed genuinely impressed.

“That’s perfect.  Are you American? You speak Spanish very well.”

“Yes, I am American, but obviously fluent in Spanish.” Lowering my voice as though I were about to reveal a horrific scandal, I added, “I don’t have a work visa.”

“That’s no problem.  I deal in cash.  Come, give me your contact information.” He handed me a slip of paper as I scrawled the hotel’s address, hoping that my nomad status in Spain wouldn’t be a deal breaker. 

“I’m staying right down the street.  It will be very easy for me to get here, and I’ll work any shift you want,” I employed my sales skills from my faraway office days in New York, hoping I could sell myself as well as I
had sold computer parts to international electronics distributors.

“Okay, I think this could work.  Customers always like to see a pretty girl behind the counter,” Dario said with a flirtatious wink that unnerved me.  Growing up in a Spanish family, I knew how f
risky Latin men could be, but I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to handle constant sleazy overtures.  “You know, you look kind of familiar.  Have I seen your face before?”

“I don’t think so,” I answered coolly.

“Then I guess you just have a common face.” He shrugged.  “Anyway, you’re hired.”

“Great.  Just let me know when I start,” I said
with mock cheerfulness.

“Tomorrow.  5 am,” he informed as I cringed, wondering how I was going to wake up so early
when my jet lag was just starting to set in.

“Okay, I’ll be here at 5 am. 
Mañana
.” I extended my hand as Dario gave it another limp shake and I headed towards the door.

Sipping my iced coffee, I glance
d across the café and noticed a brooding man sitting alone with a cup of espresso.  His eyes locked on mine, but he didn’t grin or wink or flirt as the other men had done since I landed in Barcelona.  Instead, he fixed me with the hardest, coldest stare I had ever seen before shooting out of his chair and disappearing into the rainy day.

Chapter 2

My mouth felt so dry the next morning that I thought someone had snuck into my hotel room in the middle of the night and stuffed it full of cotton balls.  Groggily sitting up in bed, I couldn’t recall a time when my head had felt so heavy.  The jet lag felt worse than a hangover as I stumbled out of bed and pulled open the dark drapes.  The sun hadn’t risen yet and every bone in my body told me to crawl back into bed and sleep until the roosters crowed at dawn.  But I dragged myself to the shower and hastily scrubbed up for my first shift at Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique.

Donning a threadbare pair of jeans and comfy cotton tee-shirt, I contemplated how I was going to survive the day.  Even though I loved coffee more than fresh air, I wasn’t used to brewing the beverage from scratch.  Before work every morning in Manhattan, I would just jog down the block to the closest Starbucks and order my favorite Caramel Macchiato.  But the drinks were different in Spain…and I was going to have to make some!  Lacing up my sneakers, I schemed to persuade Dario to let me work the register instead of the coffee bar.