Death Before Decaf (4 page)

It was late, so I started collecting the trash. I hauled all of the bags to the back door and threw them down the steps, then I went out to deposit them into the dumpster. I opened the lid, but stopped short. There were several white bags right there on top. Someone screwed up and put the recycling bags in the garbage. Oh, the horror. I could imagine Jamie having a hissy fit over this, so I dutifully plucked the recycling bags out and placed them into the smaller, recycling dumpster.

When I looked back into the trash dumpster to make sure I had them all, my stomach lurched and my breath caught. I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to get the image of what I saw out of it. I took in a shaky breath and let it out. Convincing myself that my stressed-out, tired mind was playing tricks on me, I took another look into the dumpster. It was Dave, and Dave was dead.

I choked back a sob and backed away from the dumpster. Away from Dave. Poor Dave. We didn't get along, but he certainly didn't deserve to be thrown in a dumpster like a piece of garbage. I needed to do something, but I didn't know what, and I was suddenly stricken with terror. There was a lot of blood. Everywhere. Dave didn't just stumble into the dumpster and die. He'd had help, and what if the person who had helped him was watching right now?

I turned and ran as fast as I could back into the coffeehouse and locked the door behind me. I sprinted around to every door, double-checking to make sure that they were all locked. For good measure, I grabbed a chef's knife from the kitchen and locked myself inside Pete's office. I shakily dialed 911.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” the dispatcher answered.

Trying to control my sobbing, I cried, “I found…one of my workers…He's dead.”

“Where are you, ma'am?”

“At Java Jive Coffeehouse.”

“Do you need an ambulance?”

I choked out, “No, I'm not hurt.”

The dispatcher hesitated for a moment. “For your worker, ma'am. Are you sure that he's dead?”

The image of Dave's dead-eyed stare still haunting me, I replied shakily, “Yeah, I'm pretty sure he's dead. Please hurry…I don't know if the killer is still here or not.”

“Are you in a secure location?”

“Yes, I'm in the office, with the door locked.”

“Good. Stay there until the police arrive.”

That wouldn't be a problem for me. “Okay.”

“What is your name?”

“Juliet Langley. I'm the manager.”

“Juliet, would you like for me to stay on the line with you until the officers get there?”

Not really. I felt dangerously close to freaking out again, and I didn't want to do that in front of anyone. Plus, frankly, the dispatcher wasn't terribly personable. And I needed to call Pete and break the news to him. “No, I'm okay,” I lied.

“All right, ma'am. Stay where you are, and the police will be there shortly.”

“Thank you,” I said, and hung up.

Still shaking, I dialed Pete's number.

Pete answered happily, “Hey, Jules! Why are you calling me from the coffeehouse? Don't tell me you're still there. You know managers don't get overtime, right?”

“Pete,” I said, on the verge of tears again. “It's Dave. He's…” I couldn't hold myself together any longer. I wailed, “He's
dead
!”

“What? How?”

“Just…can you come over here, please? I need you.”

“I'm on my way.”

After talking to Pete, I curled up in the corner, clutching my chef's knife and bawling until I heard sirens outside and a rapping on the front door. I wiped my eyes and tried to compose myself. Knife in hand, I unlocked the office door, slowly making my way toward the front. I could see two cops in uniform standing at the door, so I felt safe enough to unlock the door to let them in.

They must have noticed the knife, because their hands immediately went for their guns. “Drop the knife! Drop it
now
!” one of them barked, pointing his pistol at me.

Now even more frightened than when I found Dave's body, I threw the knife down onto the floor and raised my hands over my head. I was trembling all over, never having had a gun pointed at me before. Relaxing a bit, the two officers holstered their weapons and came in.

One of them picked up the knife and placed it into a bag, and the other one said, “I'm Officer Wallace. Are you Juliet Langley, and did you place a 911 call from this address?”

I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. It didn't work. “Y-y-yes.”

“And where did you find the body?”

“It's…out back. In the dumpster. Through the back door.” I pointed toward the back of the coffeehouse.

“Please take a seat here, ma'am.”

I obeyed, struggling to keep from crying again. The other officer disappeared into the back hallway, and Officer Wallace stayed with me.

“We'll need you to stay here for a while so that we can get your statement.”

I nodded.

Just then, the door burst open, and Pete cried, “Jules, are you okay?” He ran straight toward me, and I leaped out of my chair to meet him. He embraced me in a crushing hug, and that was enough to unleash another flood of my tears.

“Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to wait outside,” Officer Wallace warned.

Not making a move to let go of me, Pete bristled. “I own this place, so I think I have a right to be here.”

Officer Wallace blew out a disgruntled breath. “Then I guess we'll need your statement as well. Stay put.” He walked toward the back and began conferring with the other officer, who had just returned.

Pete stepped closer and looked at me intently. “Oh, Jules, what happened? You're not hurt, are you?”

I shook my head, trying to get my sobbing under control. “I went outside…to take out the trash.” Drawing a shuddering breath, I continued, “And then I found Dave…and he was…”

My stomach suddenly lurched again as I replayed the scene in my mind. I ran for the nearest trash can and vomited. Pete was right there with me, holding my hair, just like he always had in college when I'd had too much to drink. He was a great best friend. Once I was finished, he handed me a napkin. I wiped my face and blew my nose, and he hurried behind the counter, returning with a bottle of water. I drank a little of it and let him lead me to one of the overstuffed couches by the window. He sat down next to me.

“I'm so sorry you had to deal with this alone, Jules. Anything you need, I'm here for you.”

I laid my head back against the couch. “Thanks.”

He sniffed. “Man, I can't believe Dave's gone. He's been with us here for five years. He and Pop were pretty close.”

My heart sank. Sure, I had cried over Dave's tragic passing, but if I were truthful, most of those tears were for myself over what I had witnessed. I didn't stop to think about how Dave's death would affect the Java Jive staff, especially Pete.

I patted Pete's arm. “I'm sorry. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to think about how all of this would make you feel.”

Pete sighed. “Just add it to my list of stuff to work through.”

We sat there quietly for a while, watching as emergency vehicles and personnel began to descend upon Java Jive.

An older man wearing a trench coat walked in and headed toward us. “I'm Detective Cromwell, MNPD Homicide.” His voice was gruff. He nodded to me. “I have some questions for you, Ms. Langley. Is there somewhere we could speak privately?”

“Yes,” I replied, standing up. “The office. It's in the back.”

Pete stood and gave me another hug. “You can do this,” he whispered in my ear. “I'll be right out here if you need me.”

“Thanks.” I showed the detective to the office and we each took a seat. I could see the dumpster out the window, which made me a little ill. “Could we close the blinds, so I don't have to look at
that
?”

Detective Cromwell nodded and moved to close the blinds.

“Ms. Langley, what time did you find the body?” he asked, sitting down again and getting out a small notebook. He reminded me of those old crusty, stereotypical detectives on TV, down to his bristly mustache and cynical glare.

I took a deep breath. I really didn't want to relive tonight, but I had no choice. “About a minute before I made the 911 call. I guess it was around…eleven-thirty.”

“The victim, David Hill. What was your relationship to him?”

Our relationship was terrible, but he probably meant for me to explain how I knew Dave. “He's the head cook here, and I'm the manager. This is my first day on the job, so we just met this morning.”

He nodded, writing in his notebook. “And why were you here by yourself, so long after closing?”

In my opinion, that sounded a little accusatory, but still, it was a valid question. “Today is my birthday, and I received a new guitar as a present. I couldn't wait to try it out, so I let some of the staff go early so I could play it in private. I spent around an hour playing, and then I decided to finish closing up and take out the trash. That's when I found Dave.”

“When did you last see David Hill alive?”

“It was a little after seven, maybe? It was right after open mic night started. I took a break shortly after that, and when I got back, the kitchen staff said he was gone.”

“As in dead?”

“No, as in his shift was over and he left.”

“What time was that?”

“I was gone about an hour, so it was probably around eight.”

“Who told you that Mr. Hill had left?”

“It was…Shane Emerson, one of the cooks.”

“I see,” Detective Cromwell said, still writing furiously in his notebook. “And where did you go while you were on your break?”

“I walked around the neighborhood for a while.”

“Can anyone corroborate your story?”

Okay, now that sounded
a lot
accusatory. “No, I don't think so. Am I in trouble here?”

His eyes were steady on me. “Well, ma'am, you did find the body.”

“And that makes me a suspect?”

“Let's call you a person of interest.”

Great. I'd barely been back in this town for twenty-four hours, and already I was a “person of interest.” I wanted to go home. I put my head in my hands.

His voice a little kinder, Detective Cromwell said, “Can you walk me through your evening, from the last time you spoke to David Hill until you called the police?”

I sighed and began the long story, trying not to leave out any details, except maybe the one about Dave and me having a fight in the kitchen. That didn't matter, though, did it? I certainly didn't kill him, so who cared if we had a little argument? My stomach churned as I described finding Dave in the dumpster, but I managed not to vomit this time.

When I was done, the detective sat back in his chair. “Is that everything?” he asked.

“I think so. Wait, Detective. How did Dave die?”

“Stabbing is our preliminary cause of death.”

I shuddered. How awful. That meant he was up close and personal with his murderer. I couldn't imagine.

Detective Cromwell stood and shoved his notebook into the pocket of his jacket. “We'll have to collect fingerprints and DNA from you, mostly to take you out of the equation when the CSIs process the dumpster. Someone will be here in a few minutes to swab and fingerprint you.”

I groaned inwardly. I'd never had so much as a parking ticket, and now I was being treated like a common criminal for alerting the police to a tragedy. See if I tell them the next time I find a dead body.

The detective opened the door, saying over his shoulder, “I'm done with my questioning for now, but I may need to speak with you again. Don't leave town.”

Shit. I just got the old “don't leave town.” My life officially sucked.

After a few minutes, a much nicer lady, wearing a jacket with
FORENSICS
across the back came in to gather my DNA and fingerprints. She swabbed the inside of my mouth, gently explaining what she was doing. I was happy to find that instead of having all my fingertips inked, I only had to place them on a handheld device for her to scan my fingerprints. With the same machine, she also swiped my driver's license. Then she got out a special light and shined it on my clothes and hands. She didn't explain why, but I had watched enough TV to know that she was looking for traces of blood. Once she was done, I was allowed to leave.

As soon as Pete saw me coming down the hall, he jumped up from the couch and hurried over to meet me. “Let me drive you home,” he insisted.

Even though I only lived a couple of blocks away and intended to walk to and from work every day, I gladly accepted. I hadn't realized it, since I'd been holed up in the office so long, but it had become a media circus around here. There were several news vans and lots of reporters, but luckily the police were keeping them contained on the other side of the street. We hopped into Pete's BMW and zoomed away before any of them could stop us for an interview. The last thing I wanted was to be on television. We drove the short distance to my apartment in silence. I was wiped out, and it seemed like Pete was (for the first time in his life) at a loss for words.

When we got to my apartment building, he asked, “Do you want me to walk you up?”

“Absolutely not.” He gave me a wounded look, so I explained, “My apartment is a hole. No one is allowed to see inside it.”

“It can't be that bad.”

“It can, and it is.” I have exactly two pieces of furniture: a futon and a desk. My parents bought me the futon for my birthday, and the desk was the one from the tiny office in my café. I don't even have a TV.

“Fine. I'll take your word for it. Hey, the police said we have to be closed tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “I mean today.”

“Seriously? All day?” That would cost us a lot of business, to be closed even one day.

“Yeah, they want us closed all day, but they said that we should be able to get in there around noon.”

Thinking about Dave and his less-than-sanitary care of the kitchen, I said, “I guess that will give us some time to give the kitchen a good cleaning.” If we had to be closed, I might as well use the time to sanitize the kitchen to my heart's content.

“I'll pick you up in the morning, and we can go to breakfast first.”

“Don't you need to go do your real job?”

He smiled. “I have some vacation time coming, and after what's happened, I don't think I'd be able to concentrate anyway. You get some sleep, okay?”

“I'll try.” I sighed, not looking forward to going into my crappy apartment alone, especially with the disturbing image of Dave seared onto the back of my eyelids. Every time I closed my eyes, even for a moment, that was all I could see.