Uncommon Grounds (7 page)

I nodded.

“The whole espresso machine was live. Somebody had rewired it. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I? You were there.”

“There?” The word caught in my throat.

“At the store, when Kevin took apart the machine. You were there.” He was watching me closely.

I nodded again.

He wasn’t done. “You shouldn’t have left so soon. You didn’t see the most interesting part.”

He pulled a thick black electrical wire from his coat pocket. It was in another plastic bag. He pointed to a small green wire. “See that? It’s the ground wire.” He put it up to my face. “If you look real closely, you can see it’s been cut. Between that, the rubber mat being moved, and the skim milk we found on the floor...”

He shrugged and put the bag back into his coat pocket, his eyes never leaving mine. “She was able to start making her drink because the handles on those portafilters of yours are plastic. And so are the buttons she had to push to brew the espresso. She probably didn’t even realize anything was wrong. Not until the moment she pulled out that frothing wand with her left hand, while picking up the metal pitcher from the stainless steel counter with her right.”

His eyes were so dark now I couldn’t see the pupils, his body so close I could feel him breathe. “You see, the electricity entered her left hand, shot right across her body through the heart and then exited her right hand.”

He traced the path up my left arm, across my shoulders and down my right, matching his words. His hand lingered on mine. “It probably blew the pitcher right off the counter.”

His face was no farther than three inches from mine now. He turned and his cheek, rough with stubble, brushed me. His mouth was close to my ear. His voice, low.

“Just how long do you suppose she hung there, Ms. Thorsen, before her heart finally stopped? Before she finally died, and her muscles released so she could fall? What do you think? A minute? Five minutes? Ten?” His breath was hot against my ear.

I jerked back, nearly knocking the silk flower arrangement off the hall table.

Just then, Caron breezed into the foyer. She looked like a different woman. Hair brushed, makeup repaired. “I’m sorry, I was on the phone. I’m Caron Egan.” She offered Pavlik her hand.

He smiled and took it as if we had been making polite small talk while we waited for her. “Mrs. Egan, I’m Jake Pavlik, the county sheriff. Might I have a moment of your time?”

Caron nodded and smiled back. “I recognize you from your campaign literature, Sheriff.” Before my very eyes, Caron had gone from trapped animal to coquette.

As for myself, I needed to get out. And now. I flung open the door and started down the walk, talking to Caron over my shoulder as I went. “I’ll call L’Cafe to see if we can get a loaner installed this afternoon. The sheriff says we can get back into the shop around two.”

I was at the van, fumbling to get my keys out of my purse, when Pavlik called my name. I had to force myself to turn and look back. He and Caron still stood in the doorway. Caron had a puzzled look on her face.

Pavlik smiled politely, a different man than the one who had mentally assaulted me just now. “Ms. Thorsen, where will I find you later?”

I struggled to control my voice, show a little bravado even. “L’Cafe or Uncommon Grounds maybe. You’ll just have to find me.”

Pavlik raised his eyebrows. “Oh, believe me, Ms. Thorsen, if I want you, I will.”

Chapter Six

After Caron and Pavlik closed the door, I sat in my van trying to get the shaking under control. I must have sat there for twenty minutes before I finally reached for the ignition, and then only because I didn’t want to still be there when Pavlik came out.

I put the van into reverse. My foot was trembling so badly on the accelerator that the Caravan bucked all the way down the driveway. Stopping at the end, I waited for traffic on Pleasant to pass.

Damn Pavlik. And damn me. I’d fed him just the reaction he’d probably been after. But did he really believe I’d killed Patricia? The whole idea was ridiculous.

Melodramatic.

Scary as hell.

So what did he expect me to do now? Run?

I stepped on the gas and the van shot backwards out onto the street right in front of a Lexus. The Lexus’ horn blared and the driver swerved around me, taking the time to throw me the finger as he did.

I waved back and drove myself to the police station. Gary took one look at my face and led me back to his office, where I sat as he poured us each a cup of coffee.

“Milk?” Gary asked, handing me a mug.

Having experienced Gary’s idea of coffee, I nodded. At Uncommon Grounds, our policy was to dump any pot that sat on the heating element longer than thirty minutes. Gary, on the other hand, preferred his coffee “aged,” like fine wine. But who was I to look a caffeinated gift horse in the mouth?

Gary went to his fridge and pulled out a red and white half-pint of whole milk that looked suspiciously like he’d filched it from Brookhills Elementary the last time he did his “Stranger Danger” talk. I wondered how long ago that had been.

Apparently so did Gary. He dumped half the carton into his own mug and peered into its depths before declaring the milk “okay” and sliding it over to me.

It was sort of like having a royal taster in times of yore. Or a canary in the mines. I used the rest of the carton in my coffee, transforming it from black sludge to gray sludge, and took a sip.

“Better?” Gary asked, watching me.

“Much, thank you,” I said hoarsely.

“I take it Pavlik made an appearance at Caron’s?”

He smiled and I cracked a little one back at him. “You could say that. The man certainly knows how to hold an audience.”

I told Gary what Pavlik had said and how he’d said it.

He listened, his face stony. “He’s just trying to scare you, Maggy. That kind of stuff probably works in Chicago.”

“But why me?” Shades of Nancy Kerrigan.

Gary shrugged. “He’s probably not interested in you any more than he’s interested in David or Caron. Just somebody who’ll give him a quick solution and make him look like a big shot.”

“So you don’t think—”

Gary stood up. “You didn’t do anything, Maggy. So there’s no way he can prove you did.”

I opened my mouth and he raised his hand. “Forget it. If he gives you more problems, you let me know and I’ll take care of him.”

I smiled. “My hero.”

Gary laughed and pulled his hat off the file cabinet. “You bet, and your hero’s hungry. Let’s go to Goddard’s for butter burgers.”

Leave it to Gary to realize I needed comfort food. Goddard’s Pharmacy boasted an old-fashioned lunch counter specializing in The Better Butter Burger: A quarter-pound hamburger on a toasted Kaiser roll topped with a slab of melting butter. Thick malts and shakes were served up in old-fashioned metal cups that got all frosty on the outside. A veritable feast of cholesterol and fat. How could I say no to that?

But first, I had to make a call. I used Gary’s phone to call L’Cafe. The woman who answered had heard what had happened to the last espresso machine, and efficiently arranged for a tech to pick up a loaner and meet me at the store with it at three.

That arranged, Gary and I headed over to Goddard’s, which was on the opposite end of the strip mall from Uncommon Grounds. I’d heard that Mrs. Goddard had been worried when Way announced we were moving into the mall. She probably felt we would give them a run for the coffee dollar. She needn’t have worried. Goddard’s was where the seniors in town met daily and, personally, I didn’t think they could be blasted out of their booths.

Sure enough, the stragglers from breakfast were still there at nearly noon, nursing their bottomless cups of coffee. Rudy was in the “power booth” in the corner, talking animatedly to someone I couldn’t see. In the next booth over, Pastor Shepherd sat with Henry Wested, a resident of Brookhills Senior Manor. The senior living facility backed up to Poplar Creek and served as the dividing line between upstream and downstream. Neutral territory, like Switzerland.

People were staring at Gary and me, and why not? Here was the number one murder suspect dining with the police chief. Who knew what could happen? There might even be an arrest. What a bitter Butter Burger that would be to swallow.

Gary and I waved to the assembly and took a booth in the back, careful to avoid the seats that were invisibly, yet indelibly, earmarked for the regulars. I had once seen four-foot ten-inch Sophie Daystrom and the rest of her octogenarian posse run a tourist who had innocently settled into “their booth” clean out of the lunchroom.

Safely seated, I ordered a Better Butter Burger with extra fried onions (just let Pavlik try to get near me again) and a chocolate shake. Gary had the Better Butter Burger Biggie plate with fries and a pineapple shake.

“I assume you had a chance to talk to Caron before Pavlik arrived?” Gary asked.

“Yes, and thank you for that,” I said.

He wasn’t going to let me off that easily. “So what did she have to say for herself?”

Eh, a moral dilemma. I hated to lie to Gary, but even if Caron had done something stupid—adultery, not murder— Bernie shouldn’t have to suffer public humiliation because of it. Normally, I’d trust Gary with this secret, but I knew his professional ethics would take precedence over friendship. Gary took his moral obligations very seriously.

Me, less so. “She said Roger left something there on Friday and she let him in on Saturday to get it.” And she had said it. It just happened to be a lie.

“Roger was there Saturday, too?” Gary’s voice rose and then fell, as heads turned. “Why in the world didn’t she say anything?” he whispered.

“I guess she didn’t think it was important. She’s pretty upset, you know.” I leaned across the table. “Gary, we both know Caron didn’t kill Patricia. And certainly not with an espresso machine, for God’s sake.”

Our food came then and Gary didn’t answer as our waitress slapped the heavy white plates onto the table. Reaching into her apron pocket, she thumbed carefully through a stack of grease-stained checks before finding the right ones and dropping them on the table.

We salted, ketchuped and mustarded our burgers in silence. Gary picked his up, flipped it upside down and took a bite. I took a long, fruitless pull on the straw of my chocolate shake and waited. The quiet was thicker than the shake.

Finally he spoke. “Maggy, let’s face it, anybody killing someone this way is unbelievable. But somebody did do it.”

“But not Caron,” I said stubbornly. “I know Caron.”

We went back to eating in silence. There really wasn’t much else to say anyway, I guess. Finally, Gary wiped his mouth with the paper napkin and picked up his check. “I have to get back.” He pulled two singles out of his pocket and tossed them on the table.

As he started to slide out of the booth, he hesitated. “Did you hear about the robbery attempt at First National’s main office?”

“They left a pipe bomb, didn’t they?” I asked. “Just like the other one.”

The “other one” I referred to was the robbery four years ago, the one that had likely cost Gary his job. In that case, the pipe bomb had exploded, demolishing half of the front lobby and killing two people. One was a sixty-two-year-old female bank teller. The other was a man, but there wasn’t enough left of him to identify. Gary had hypothesized that the unidentified male had been holding the bomb when it exploded and was one of the perpetrators.

“They were luckier than we were,” Gary was saying. “Pastorini says the pipe bomb was bigger than ours. If it had gone off...”Heshook his head.

Ours. We had our own bomb, Gary and I did. And it had been haunting him for years.

Louis Pastorini had been Gary’s assistant and was now head of First National security. “You did everything you could, Gary.” I touched his sleeve and he looked at me. “You know that, I know that and Pastorini knows that.”

“It wasn’t enough, though, was it? Two people died and the bank lost four million dollars.”

And you lost your job, I thought. “The funds were insured,” I said, instead. “No one lost any money.”

Gary just shrugged and stood up, his face reverting to his “police chief” persona. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me, Maggy. If you’re going to nose around in Patri-cia’s death, and I know you are,” he held up his hand to silence my protest, “be careful. I’ll help you as much as I can, but I’m not sure what good that will do you with Pavlik.”

After he left, I took another hard pull on my shake. Gary was right. I was hiding Caron’s affair from him and I was going to nose around. It was either that or let Pavlik persecute, and potentially prosecute, Caron and/or me. Gary seemed powerless to help us under the circumstances—a fact I sure didn’t want to remind him of. He had enough on his plate. I looked over at the remains of his burger and copped a fry.

As I nibbled the fry, I eyed the people around me, trying to spot someone who knew Patricia well. Of course. Langdon. The spindly, gray-haired pastor seemed to be preparing to leave. I dropped the fry, grabbed the check and pretended to head for the cash register.

Langdon and Henry’s table was en route. I stopped at the end of Langdon’s bench, trapping him in the booth.

“Langdon, Henry, how are you?” Langdon, ever the gentleman, tried to rise. The result was sort of a bent knee bow. I backed off so he could shuffle out of the booth sideways.

He took my hand. “Maggy, Maggy, we’ve suffered a terrible loss.” He patted my hand. “God has a reason for everything, my dear, we mustn’t question His wisdom. All things work together for good to them that love God.”

I nodded, refraining from pointing out that if God really wanted someone to get frothed to death, He had a very strange sense of humor.

“I’m sure you’re right, Langdon.” I gave in and patted back. “But the fact remains that Patricia has been taken far too soon.”

He patted. “It’s a reminder to us all, Maggy, that we must love each other while there’s still time.”

Judging by Ted, Caron and Roger, that idea was taking root in Brookhills. “I understand Patricia was very active at Christ Christian,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll miss her terribly.”