1 Uncommon Grounds Page 15

  Damn. I was hot for the sheriff.

  I lifted my head and tried to step back, but his arms were still around me. I looked up at him as he turned his head toward me. Our eyes met and I felt a tiny, almost imperceptible charge—a charge I hadn’t felt since the day I met Ted. And we know how well that worked out. I stepped back.

  Pavlik dropped his arms and did likewise.

  We just looked at each other.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. Then, “Thank you. I’m okay now.”

  Pavlik cleared his throat. “Good.” He was messing with his tie. “Umm. I came here to ask you a few questions.”

  Of course. I waved him back to the couch and took the chair on the other side of the room, as far away as I could get. It wasn’t far enough.

  Pavlik reached inside his coat for his notebook. I cringed as he tried not to notice the slime on his shoulder. He flipped open the book. “First, did you know the Harpers were having financial difficulties?”

  I shook my head. “No, I couldn’t believe it when Gary told me.”

  His eyes went dark gray and ominous, suddenly. “Donovan told you that?”

  Aww, geez—talk about walking on eggs. I tried to backpedal gently. “Well, he didn’t really say that. He just said they hadn’t paid their taxes. I told him to forget what I’d said about the sugars yesterday, and—” Oh blast.

  His eyes were almost black now. Black and boiling, like the clouds on the leading edge of a Wisconsin electrical storm. “Yesterday? Donovan knew about this sugar thing yesterday?”

  Oh Lord, let me say the right thing to cover Gary’s tail and defuse Pavlik before he goes off. “Not really. I mean, I just mentioned to him that I wondered why there were empty sugar wrappers in the basket when Patricia didn’t use any sugar. And that David does take sugar. I was stupid to even bring it up.”

  He was just staring at me.

  I continued to try to explain. “You were absolutely right. Those kids lost their mother and then their stepfather and there I was playing TV detective. All I cared about was getting the store open...”

  Dang it, I was crying again. This time, though, Pavlik just watched. He sat impassively, arms crossed, on the other side of the room while I fought to get my breathing back to normal so I could talk. My throat felt like a rock the size of my fist was jammed down it—something I should have thought of doing when I opened my mouth in the first place.

  What’s worse, I had nothing to show for all this emoting. No sympathy, no cashmere shoulder, nothing. Except the slobber. Pavlik stood up finally and got me a paper towel from the kitchen. He practically radiated anger.

  “You’re right,” he said standing over me. “It probably doesn’t mean anything. But I needed to know about it. Me. Not your friend Donovan. Me. I’m the one in charge of this investigation. Don’t forget it.”

  And he stomped out the door.

  I remembered those pit bulls Pavlik had been talking about. Their trainers alternating between affection and mistreatment to make them fight. Pavlik seemed to be using the same technique on me; one moment he was asking me to dinner or giving me a shoulder to cry on, the next he attacked. It kept me off balance. Just another version of the good cop/ bad cop thing?

  How could I have been attracted to him, even for a second? A man like Pavlik could only be trouble. Some women found those brooding Heathcliff types attractive, but I’d seen too many of them turn abusive. And cops were probably control freaks to begin with.

  Though that wasn’t true of all of cops. Look at Gary.

  Speaking of Gary, since I’d gotten him into trouble, the least I could do was warn him. I tried calling the office, but he wasn’t back yet. On a hunch, I tried the Harpers and got him there.

  He just laughed when I told him what had happened. “Don’t worry Maggy. Pavlik can’t do anything to me. I’m elected by the voters. The worst he can do is endorse the other candidate when election time rolls around. If there is another candidate. He’s just making noises to scare you.”

  And it had worked. Again. But, more importantly, what was this change in attitude from Gary all of a sudden? “Where did you take the kids for lunch?” I asked.

  “McDonald’s down on the highway. They didn’t want to see anyone they knew.” We were both silent for a moment.

  “Are they—”

  “They’re doing as well as you’d expect. I don’t think either death has sunk in for Courtney yet. It’s going to be tough going for them. I told Sarah I’d try to stop by again. Anyway, Maggy, I have to run now.”

  He sounded cheerier than I’d heard him in a long time. That made one of us.

  The next day was Monday. That meant arriving at 5:30 to open in Patricia’s place. Caron got there just before 6:30, singing a happy song. Things must be okay with Bernie.

  I asked her and she smiled. “It’s wonderful, Maggy. I haven’t felt this close to Bernie in years.” She leaned over and whispered, “I get horny when I look at him.” She giggled and started to fill the cash drawer.

  Horny? I hadn’t heard “horny” since the days when Caron and I hung out at the bar across from the office and drank Tom Collins. “Horny, huh?”

  She giggled again and I went to open the front door and flip the sign.

  The day passed quickly. It was a cool, cloudy April Monday and business was brisk.

  I served vats of Scandinavian, a smooth full-bodied coffee, to commuters. People were bubbling over with the news of David’s death, discussing it amongst themselves as they waited in line. Once they reached the front, though, the subject was dropped.

  Rudy came in looking sour. I wondered why and asked Laurel when she stopped in a few minutes later. “What does he have to be upset about? The recount didn’t change anything. He won.”

  Laurel laughed. “You’re going to get a lot of old sourpusses today. Goddard’s coffee brewer sprang a leak, so they’re all coming over here.” She waved her hand toward the tables that were normally empty in the early hours, when our main trade was commuters. The tables were filling up with older folk.

  I groaned. Not that I didn’t appreciate the business, but I was anticipating the clash between the senior crowd who would settle in for the long haul, and our tennis moms who would show up in their whites around 10:00, expecting to find their regular tables available. I could already hear the whining and gnashing of dentures.

  Laurel looked around to see if anyone was listening. They were, of course. It didn’t stop her. “What is going on around here? First Patricia, now David. The rumor is it was suicide.” She shook her head sadly, made me promise to call her soon and took off.

  After the drive-time crowd thinned, the drink of choice changed from regular coffee, and plenty of it, to specialty drinks—more time consuming, but better profit margin. I was just twisting a portafilter off the espresso machine to knock out the old grounds when Kate McNamara walked in. I smacked the grounds out a little harder than I intended and sent them flying.

  Kate, not one to stand in line, walked around the machine and watched as I tried to corral the wet grounds with a dry cloth. I gave up, filled the portafilter and brewed a shot while she stood there breathing down my neck. I poured the single shot into a cup, topped it off with an equal amount of steamed milk and froth and placed a tiny spoon on the saucer. I handed the single cappuccino to Caron to serve, and turned. “What?”

  “What? You ask me what? You knew about David’s drowning yesterday and you didn’t call me. We had a deal.” I could almost see the steam coming out of her ears. If the frother ever broke, I knew who to call.

  I was exhausted, mentally and physically, and I’d had enough of Kate McNamara, even if she had a point. I pulled her into the office, leaving Caron to serve the tennis moms, who were making for the door after having played bumper cars in the parking lot with their SUVs. I didn’t understand people who played three sets of tennis for exercise, but were unwilling to walk more than ten feet from a parking spot.

  “Listen Kate,” I said.
“I spent yesterday over at the Harpers’ with Sarah. Do you have any idea what those kids are going through? Do you even care? There was no way I was going to excuse myself to call a reporter with an exclusive.”

  Kate’s nose turned red.

  “Besides,” I continued, “you cover the police band on the radio. You know as much about it as I do.”

  “Did he leave a note?”

  Everyone seemed sure David’s death was a suicide. Maybe I could do some good here after all. “You’re assuming that he jumped?” I asked. “Isn’t that a little premature?”

  Kate’s eyes widened in surprise. “No one has suggested anything else. His wife was murdered, then he found out she had been cheating on him and, if that’s not enough, they were going broke.”

  “Where did you hear the ‘broke’ part?”

  Kate went all mysterious. “I have other sources, you know. Good thing, because you haven’t been any help.”

  “Well, it’s obvious you don’t need my help. Although I think you’re wrong. I don’t believe David committed suicide.”

  “So what happened? He got careless and toppled over the bridge railing?”

  I shook my head stubbornly. “I don’t know what happened, but he didn’t commit suicide.” Now I was starting to sound like Sarah.

  Kate’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying somebody pushed him?”

  I’d been resting one knee on the desk chair; now I rolled the chair away and straightened up. “I’m not saying that, Kate. I just think that before you print something, you had better check your facts.”

  I pushed past her and went back into the store. The tennis moms were starting to look good to me.

  Chapter Seventeen

  By 5:00, my legs and back were aching and I was anxious to get home. We had served ninety-two specialty drinks and who knows how much coffee. The battle between the seniors and the tennis moms had been averted when the seniors, realizing they only were entitled to a single free refill instead of the bottomless cup at Goddard’s, stood en masse and stormed McDonald’s.

  I was hanging up my apron in the office when Bernie came in looking for Caron.

  “She’s putting the trash in the dumpsters. Monday is her day to close.”

  He rubbed his bald head. “Oops. I thought she opened on Monday and you closed. I guess last Monday threw me off because you all went in early. For the opening, you know.” There was a moment of awkward silence.

  Bernie cleared his throat, trying to make conversation. “But you’re right, you know. Caron didn’t get out of bed until after six this morning.” The smile that crept onto his face made me think he had a reason to remember what time she’d left. Personally, I’ve never understood the appeal of sunrise sex myself. Morning breath and a full bladder. But maybe it was just me.

  Caron came back in then and I was halfway out the door when the phone rang. Bernie, who had started to wash up the counters at Caron’s direction, answered it. The call was for me. Bernie handed over the phone and snapped his towel at Caron’s rear end. She giggled. I wanted to gag. I think I liked them better pre-Roger.

  It was Sarah on the phone. Could I come over for dinner? My back and legs screamed, “Hell no!” The rest of me asked what I could bring.

  “Just get your butt over here.” She hung up.

  I called my neighbor and asked him to let Frank out, said goodbye to Caron and Bernie, who barely noticed me, and went to my van. Pulling it around the corner I waited for the light to turn green so I could turn left out of the parking lot. At rush hour, the traffic lights favored the cars on Civic, meaning about a three-minute wait. I knew because I had timed it.

  It only seemed like an eternity because the rest of the day the light would change almost immediately, stopping traffic on Civic so you could get right out. It made me wonder what strings Way had pulled to get a stoplight placed there solely for the convenience of his strip mall customers.

  When I finally made it to the Harpers’ colonial I pulled up the driveway and parked next to David’s midnight blue Mercedes. As I got out, I noticed the left front fender and headlight of the Mercedes had been bashed in and the bumper was hanging.

  When Sarah answered the door, I pointed to the car. “You weren’t hurt, were you?”

  She peered at me. “What?”

  “David’s car. The front fender is smashed.”

  “Goddamn it! Sam!” She dashed out the door and rounded the car. Standing with both hands on her hips, Sarah surveyed the damage. “Sam!”

  I shooshed her. “Keep it down. You want all the neighbors over here? What does Sam have to do with this?”

  Now she was scrabbling around for something in her pockets. Her cigarettes, of course. When she finally came up with the pack, she knocked one out and stuck it in her mouth.

  Her hand shook as she lighted it.

  She saw me looking. “Can’t help it. I’m trying not to smoke in the house.” She exhaled slowly, appreciatively. “Second-hand smoke isn’t good for the kids.”

  I waved away a cloud. “Or for me. And first-hand smoke isn’t good for you either, though it hasn’t stopped you.”

  She was puffing furiously now as she walked around the car. “I knew this would happen. Sam!”

  Why was she blaming this on Sam? “Wait a second, Sam doesn’t even have a driver’s license. He’s fifteen.”

  She gestured with her cigarette, the ash from it barely missing my shoulder as it fell. “Exactly my point. But he said his father let him drive.”

  “So you believed him and let him drive the Mercedes. Have you lost your mind?”

  The shakes seemed to be going away. “I know, I know. But we were out of milk this morning, andI...”

  “...was too lazy to go yourself,” I finished for her.

  But Sarah was back in control. “Well, no use crying over spilled milk. Sam must be up in his room. I’ll talk to him later.”

  I followed her into the house. She’d ordered in Chinese and Courtney was opening the cardboard boxes and inserting serving spoons. Sam was nowhere to be seen. “Is Sam in his room?” Sarah asked her.

  “Yes.” Courtney looked at us through Patricia’s blue eyes. “He said he wasn’t hungry.”

  I could understand that. The three of us sat down and picked at Sweet and Sour Chicken, Vegetable Fried Rice and Spicy Crispy Beef. I asked Courtney if she had gone to school today. She had, and that was all I got out of her. Finally, she politely excused herself and went to her room to watch television.

  “Has she talked to you about her mom and David?” I asked.

  “A little.” Sarah shrugged. “Langdon was over to see both of them. I don’t know how much to push. It seems like I’m always asking them how they feel. I don’t think either of them knows how they feel yet.”

  “They’re going to need professional counseling,” I ventured, “and the sooner the better.”

  Sarah sighed and started to pull out the spoons and close the cardboard containers. “I know, I was talking to Gary about it, too. Did I tell you he stopped by this morning?” She held up a white box. “Do you think it pays to keep Sweet and Sour Chicken? It always looks like lumpy orange Jell-O the next day.”

  I ignored the change in subject. “Maybe Sam and Courtney’s pediatrician can give you some names.”

  She set the box down. “I guess I don’t want to make them talk to a stranger about what happened.”

  “Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger.”

  Sarah silently stacked the cartons and stuck them in the refrigerator. She turned when she closed the door. “You’re right, I guess. Better they should talk to someone without all the emotional baggage we have. So what have you got for me?”

  The abrupt change in subject signaled, I thought, the return of the old Sarah. Bossy, self-assured, obnoxious. I’d missed her. Sort of.

  “Not much,” I admitted. “Pavlik is mad because I told Gary about the sugar packets and not him.”

  “Pavlik thinks it’s important
?”

  “I don’t think it’s so much that he thinks it’s important, as that he thinks he walks on water. How could Gary not have told him? Why didn’t I tell him? And on and on.”

  I was following Sarah into the family room with a Diet Coke in my hand, when the doorbell rang. Since I was closest, I set down my Coke and went to answer it. It rang again before I got there.

  “I’m coming!” I swung open the door.

  Pavlik. He seemed to be behind every door these days. The wind was cold and rain was falling beyond the porch where he stood. A spring rain in Brookhills often turns into sleet, freezing rain or snow as the temperature drops overnight. It looked like freezing rain for tonight.

  Pavlik’s coat collar was turned up and the porch light reflected in the droplets on his dark hair. My heart gave a little twitch. Or maybe it was another body part. Whatever, I compensated for the betrayal by inviting him in brusquely.

  I tried to see his eyes in the dim entryway light, looking for some clue to his mood. They were neutral tonight, gunmetal gray, which didn’t help me much.

  Sarah came into the foyer. “Sheriff. Is there some-thing...”She trailed off.

  “Could I speak with you?” He glanced over at me. “Both of you, I guess. Somewhere the children can’t hear us.”

  This didn’t sound good. And he didn’t seem especially happy to see me there. If I thought he was omnipresent, he probably felt the same about me.

  Sarah led the way into David’s den and closed the door. We all stood staring at the chair behind the desk and the two guest chairs. Where to sit, where to sit.

  Pavlik made the decision for us. “Why don’t you take the chair? I’ll stand.”

  Sarah and I sat in the guest chairs, and Pavlik perched on the edge of David’s desk, apparently trying to put us at ease. He looked down at his tie before he spoke. “I don’t know if this qualifies as good news or bad news.”

  He looked back up at us. “Frankly, I don’t know if there can be good news in a case like this. But here goes. We think we’ve solved Mrs. Harper’s murder.”