1 Uncommon Grounds Page 11

  “It was unlikely that either of you was the target for the same reasons it’s difficult to believe that Mrs. Harper was: How could the killer know who would use the machine first?”

  It seemed like we were going in circles. Nobody could have done it, because no one would have done it. “But Patricia was killed.”

  “So maybe it was sabotage gone wrong.”

  “You think we have our competitors worried?”

  He glared at me and continued. “Or someone knew Mrs. Harper well enough to be sure she would go in early and make herself a latte. Now you and Mrs. Egan, arguably, knew her well enough, and her husband knew her well enough. Maybe even Sarah Kingston.”

  I thought that was a stretch. Actually, all of it was a stretch and I told him so. Then I asked him pointedly what he wanted to know about David.

  “Everything. I can’t find anything on him.”

  “I’m not surprised, David is about as white bread as they come. He owns his own consulting firm. I think he’s in market research, Patricia said. Consumer goods. David couldn’t—”

  “How long have they lived here?” Pavlik interrupted.

  “Let’s see. David’s been in Brookhills forever, but Patricia and the kids moved here three or four years ago when she and David got married.”

  “Mrs. Harper was divorced?” Pavlik perked right up and even I got excited at the thought of a bitter ex-husband running around out there.

  Then I remembered. “I’m pretty sure Patricia is a widow,” I said. “Caron would know for sure.”

  “Mrs. Egan doesn’t seem to want to talk to me anymore,” Pavlik said, making a note. “Her husband’s an attorney?”

  I nodded. Bernie’s specialty was patent law. Pavlik had better watch out or Bernie might slap him with a trademark. I didn’t tell Pavlik that, of course, I was still steamed at his crack about Gary.

  “I assume Mr. Egan knows about the affair between his wife and Mr. Karsten by now.”

  I nodded. “Caron told him.”

  “But from the civil way they spoke at the funeral, I don’t think that Mr. Harper knows about his wife’s affair with

  Karsten.” He was watching me carefully.

  “I don’t think so either,” I said slowly.

  “But,” he continued, still watching me, “the son, Sam, certainly doesn’t care for Karsten.”

  So Pavlik had seen the exchange, or the lack of exchange, between Sam and Karsten, too. But he couldn’t seriously suspect Sam. He was just a kid. “You don’t think Sam killed his mother, do you?” I asked incredulously.

  “If it was Karsten who was dead, I might look at the kid. But not his mother. Not like this.”

  I nodded in agreement and we sat in what might have been mistaken for companionable silence for a moment. Then I stood up. “If you don’t have any other questions, Sheriff, I have some things to get done tonight.”

  Pavlik stood as well. “I think that’s all for now.” He hesitated. “I was going to stop for a sandwich on the way home. Would you like to maybe go...”Helet it trail off.

  It had been a long time, but I was fairly certain Pavlik had just asked me out. My mouth fell open. “Umm, thanks, but I don’t...”

  “Eat?” Pavlik grinned. “Okay, I guess I’ll just have to go it alone.”

  After I’d seen him out, I leaned against the door until I heard the engine start and then moved aside the curtain to watch the car pull away.

  I don’t eat?

  Swift.

  Admittedly, not my finest moment. But, still, wasn’t this a teensy bit odd? I mean, in three separate conversations, the man had accused me of being, in turn, manic, schizophrenic and a murderer. And then he wants to do dinner?

  Why?

  Well, regardless of his motives, I wasn’t ready for interspecies dating—and I was quite certain Pavlik was a whole different kind of animal than I was used to.

  The animal I was used to gave me a nudge with his nose.

  I let the curtain drop. “Want to watch a little TV?” I asked.

  Frank barked.

  He was right. First we needed to order a pizza.

  By the time the news and Letterman’s monologue was over, Frank was snoring and the pizza box was empty. Hey, it was a medium and Frank loves sausage and green olives.

  I went to throw the box away and stopped with my hand hovering over the kitchen trash.

  The wastebasket.

  Patricia drank her lattes without sugar, so why were there two empty sugar packets in the wastebasket at the shop the morning she died?

  I set the pizza box on top of the basket and wandered out to the front window. In my mind’s eye, I could see David picking up the two sugars yesterday as he left the store carrying an identical drink to the one Patricia usually drank. Identical, that is, except that David took sugar in his.

  So maybe, I thought, Patricia wasn’t making a latte for herself. Maybe she was making one for someone who was with her. Someone who used sugar. Like David. It would be so easy to ask her to make him a latte, just like he’d ask me to do yesterday, and then...

  Then what? David just stood back and watched Patricia die? But even if you bought that, why would he kill her? She was having an affair, but he didn’t seem to know about it. And even if he did, would he kill her for it? He was a stalwart Christian, after all. But what did that mean under these circumstances? An “eye for an eye?” Or divine forgiveness? Depended on which part of the Bible David read, I supposed.

  The sound of multiple car engines turning over nearby heralded the exodus of a stream of cars from Christ Christian. Must be big doings downstream, I thought, as the parade passed me by, David’s car among them. Could he have been at the church all this time?

  So what did I do now? Call Pavlik? He’d laugh at my playing...what did he call it? Bad TV private eye?

  And, granted, two small pieces of paper in the trash weren’t much to go on. But combined with a motive, like if David had suspected Patricia was having an affair...

  I watched as the last taillights disappeared down Poplar Creek Drive.

  Well then, that was something altogether different.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning while I was brewing coffee, I decided I needed to find a Watson.

  Even Sherlock Holmes, in his opium-induced stupor, enjoyed talking to someone beside himself. Like Holmes, I needed a sounding board, a sidekick—an Archie to my Nero Wolfe, a Pancho to my Cisco.

  Caron, who would have been the logical choice just a week ago, was tuning in and out like a car radio trying to pick up a weak signal on a country road. At the moment, having refused my help with a five-pound bag of Guatemalan, she was strewing beans all over the floor as she struggled to pour it into one of the Lucite display bins.

  The cover of the bin flipped down and I moved to lift it, getting a snarl for my efforts. No, Caron wouldn’t do.

  Continuing down the hierarchy of friendship, we came to Gary, who, being the police chief and all, would have obvious ethical problems with getting involved. Then there was Frank, who was a dog.

  Laurel, I hated to say, was too much of a talker, much as I loved that about her. Mary, same thing.

  That left Sarah. The problem with Sarah, though, was that she was a bulldozer. I wasn’t sure I could control her.

  The only other person who came to mind was Kate McNamara. Hmm. No, that was ludicrous. Not only wasn’t she a friend, but she was pushy, conniving, smart-mouthed and...coming in the door.

  “Morning, Kate,” I called. Just call me perky.

  Kate stomped up to the counter and slapped her notebook on the bakery case.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “Latte?” I hazarded a guess.

  “Information. It’s your turn. What was the sheriff doing at your house last night?”

  There weren’t a lot of people in the store, but the ones who were—Henry and two women in jogging suits—turned to look at me. Caron kept spilling the beans. I motioned for Kate to
meet me in the office and crunched my way across the floor to get there.

  Our office is so tiny the desk and a single chair nearly fill it. I perched on the edge of the desk, while Kate loomed in the doorway.

  “So what’s the deal, Maggy? What did Pavlik want?” Her expression turned wily. “Or was this a personal call?”

  Did Pancho ever ask, “Hey Cisco, you gettin’ any?” I didn’t think so.

  “No, it wasn’t a personal call. He had some questions— nothing that you don’t already know.” Okay, so I lied. And I was getting better at it. “Have you found out why Patricia was going to see Diaz?”

  Kate rubbed her nose and reflected, eventually deciding to answer my question. She was way too easy. “All he would say was that Patricia called him on Saturday to set up an appointment. She didn’t say why.”

  “On Saturday, hmm? So she called him at home? Or was he at the office?”

  “Home. I understand they’re personal friends.”

  “So if they were friends, why didn’t she tell him what she wanted?”

  Kate eyed me. “I know what you’re up to. Just like last time, you’re going to pump me for information and then take off before I get a chance to ask you anything.”

  “But this is my store,” I said, reasonably, “I can’t take off this time.”

  She gave that some thought, too. I had never realized how gullible the woman was. “He said she didn’t seem to be able to talk. She was very business-like, simply asked for an appointment on Tuesday afternoon and that was it. She could have been making a doctor’s appointment for as personal as it was, he says.”

  Maybe she wanted anyone who overheard to think she was making a doctor’s appointment. Like David? I nodded to show Kate I had heard, and tried to find a tidbit of information I could feed back to prime the pump. I certainly couldn’t tell her about Patricia and Roger.

  “You know, Way Benson has plans to develop the property where Summit Lawn School stands,” I offered feebly. “Maybe the missing ballot—”

  Kate snorted. “Are you still obsessing about that? There was no vote for chairman on it. Neither name had been checked. It means nothing.” She started back into the store. “You are absolutely useless as a source.”

  I followed her out front. “Wait. How could you know that? Did they find it?”

  She shook her head. “I asked the other poll workers. One of them saw it before Sophie Daystrom locked it up.”

  “Who?”

  “Him.” Kate pointed across the store at Henry, who was working on a cup of Mocha Java and a piece of coffee cake, and flounced out the door.

  Damn. Here Henry was sitting in my own store every morning and I had to find this out from Kate.

  The two women in jogging suits had gone—presumably to jog, though you couldn’t be sure of that. Shopping was considered exercise in Brookhills, too.

  I picked up my coffee pot and slithered over to Henry. “Henry,” I said to get his attention. “I understand you saw the ballot that Sophie locked up.”

  He nodded. “Much ado about nothing. Top part was blank. Told the sheriff that yesterday.”

  Double damn. Pavlik had known and he hadn’t told me either. “You’re absolutely sure?”

  Henry looked affronted. “Course I’m sure. Don’t think I can see with my own eyes? Voted for five supervisors, the fool. Clear enough. People just don’t read.”

  I filled his cup and retreated.

  I was ticked. Pavlik expected information from me, had even asked for my help. Heck, he even asked me out to dinner! But he had known the entire time that the missing ballot had nothing to do with the case and hadn’t said a word. But...ifthe ballot were meaningless, why had someone taken it?

  Is a puzzlement. I needed to talk this over with someone, and it sure wasn’t going to be Kate.

  I looked over at Caron, who was now trying to dig out the coffee scoop she’d left in the bottom of the bin before she poured in the beans.

  Sarah it was.

  I was afraid to leave Caron in the store alone while she was still getting transmissions from another planet, so I called and asked Sarah to dinner. She countered by inviting me to her house. Being a lousy cook, I accepted gratefully.

  After closing, I ran home to let Frank out and then headed straight over to Sarah’s house.

  Sarah Kingston lived in the same neighborhood as Patricia and David, just a few blocks over. I parked on the street and strolled up the sidewalk, enjoying the nighttime view of the house. It was a Painted Lady, a beautiful Victorian-style home dressed in shades of cream and rose. It was gorgeous, a truly genteel lady.

  Which was why it was such a shock to be received by Sarah in her baggy jacket and trousers rather than a Victorian lady, or even a Brookhills Barbie. The contrast between Sarah and her house intensified as she showed me into the parlor, painted a clear shade of yellow and decorated in multiple floral patterns.

  “Did you—” I started.

  “Of course not. Do I look like Martha Stewart?” She looked around. “Have to admit, though, I like what the decorator did.”

  I must have looked surprised.

  “You dress a house like you do a person, Maggy,” the lady of the manor said. “Appropriately. Putting contemporary furnishings in a house like this would look as ridiculous as putting a frilly dress on an old horse like me.”

  I choked back a laugh, then realized Sarah already was laughing. She asked if I wanted a drink. I took a glass of wine and she made herself a rum and Coke. Then she lit a Virginia Slim.

  Rum and Coke? Virginia Slims? I was caught in a time warp. I couldn’t help but like Sarah’s disregard for the fashion of the day, though, whether it was in clothes, drink or smokes. It was refreshing. Especially in Brookhills, where people were entirely too full of themselves. Myself included, sometimes.

  I relaxed for what seemed like the first time in days—four days in fact. “I need to talk,” I said.

  She didn’t ask about what. She just nodded and I went ahead and spilled everything. As I went, Sarah asked questions, seeming to organize the facts in her head as I spoke.

  When I was done, she recapped. “Okay, so we have the same five suspects. Rudy, Way, Roger, David and Caron.” She waved down my objection at Caron’s inclusion. “Shush. Just be glad you’re not on the list.”

  “I would trust Caron with my life.” Or I would have, before she went crazy, I thought.

  “Nice dramatic, sweeping statement,” Sarah said, stubbing out her cigarette in an antique ashtray. “But don’t ever do that.”

  “Do what?” I’d missed the segue somewhere.

  “Don’t ever trust anyone with your life.”

  Oh, that, I thought.

  Sarah was still talking. And stubbing out that damn cigarette like it was a bug that wouldn’t quite die. “You are the only one you can count on, haven’t you figured that out by now, Maggy? You trusted Ted with your life, didn’t you? And see where it got you?”

  Geez, and I thought I was a cynic. Compared with Sarah, I was Pollyanna meets Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.

  I took the ashtray away from her. “It got me a good kid.”

  Her face changed. “There is that, isn’t there?”

  “I guess we need to look at each of our suspects for motive and opportunity, don’t we?” I ventured in the uncomfortable silence that followed.

  Sarah stood up. “It will be easier on the computer.”

  She whisked me into her office, which was dominated by an antique cherry desk and the gorgeous matching gun cabinet behind it. “You shoot?” I asked.

  “My father taught me,” she said shortly, pulling a black laptop computer out of her briefcase and firing it up. “Those were his guns.”

  I wondered if she had trusted him.

  Before long, Sarah had a page set up for each suspect with space for motive and opportunity.

  “Wow,” I said, as I watched her from the side chair, “I feel so...”

  “Useless? You s
hould.” She tabbed over to “Motive” next to Rudy’s name. “What’s Rudy’s motive?”

  “Patricia’s election would have meant an end to his position as town chairman. And possibly any kickbacks that go with the job,” I supplied.

  Sarah sat back in her chair. “But Patricia didn’t win. And we don’t know if there were any kickbacks.”

  “Just put it down,” I said crossly.

  “Fine. Opportunity?”

  “His barber shop is right down the hall from Uncommon Grounds. He could have snuck in over the weekend.”

  “With all that fornicating going on?” Sarah snickered and typed it in anyway. “Okay,” she continued, “for Way, we have pretty much the same stuff, for what it’s worth.” She typed furiously.

  “Except that Way owns the strip mall and has a key to the store,” I pointed out.

  “True. I’ll put a plus sign next to ‘Opportunity.’ Now we come to Roger. You said he said he broke up with Patricia because she wouldn’t leave David. Right?”

  I agreed.

  “So maybe he killed her because of that. If he couldn’t have her, no one would.”

  A romantic. Who would have thought it of Sarah? “Do people really do that?” I asked.

  “Sure, all the time.” She was busy filling in the “Motive” blank. “Now, opportunity.”

  “Simple. He was alone there on Friday afternoon when I went to the cleaners.”

  “Would he have had enough time?”

  I considered. “It was about fifteen minutes or so. Maybe.” I was questioning myself now. “Or I suppose he could have done it on Saturday.”

  “And what was Caron doing, watching or writhing in ecstasy?”

  I ignored her. “Maybe she gave him a key. Maybe he got there early on Monday.”

  “Maybe you should ask Caron. Maybe she’ll tell you.”

  I gave her a dirty look, but she was on to the next suspect, Caron herself.

  “Okay. Caron’s motive is obvious. She was pissed because her boyfriend had been screwing Patricia. We only have the two lovebirds’ word that Patricia was last week’s meat. Maybe he was screwing them both.”