1 Uncommon Grounds Page 17

  “About the kids. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you care about them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want them shuffled off to a foster home or shoved

  down the grandmother’s throat?” “No.” “Patricia wanted you to raise Sam and Courtney, and the

  paper she signed gives you that right. It seems pretty black and white to me. Good night, Sarah.” I hung up the phone and smiled at Frank, who smiled back.

  Very early the next morning the phone rang just as I was

  walking out the door. “What Sarah?” “You really think I can do this?” “Of course,” I said. Could Sarah raise two kids? Sure.

  Would they all live through it? Who knew? But I didn’t see a better solution for two kids who needed to be loved and cared for, than a woman who—despite the front she put up— seemed to need the same. “Gary was really impressed with how much the kids care about you and how comfortable they seem with you.”

  “He was?”

  I was getting out my keys. “Um-hum. Did David have insurance? Will it pay, even if the death is ruled a suicide?” “He didn’t have insurance. Neither did Patricia.” I shouldn’t have been surprised. Does a guy who doesn’t

  pay taxes pay his insurance premiums? “So what happens? There will be funeral costs when they finally release the body.”

  “I’m talking to Pavlik this morning to see when that will be,” Sarah said. “I wonder if I can get access to any accounts David and Patricia had. They must have money somewhere, though most of it probably will be taken in back taxes.”

  “But you don’t have any legal standing. Patricia’s mother is probably the only person who has. Is there a will?”

  “Not that I’ve heard of.” Sarah sounded thoughtful. “Maybe I should call her. Do you think Gary would give me her number?”

  “I think you can count on it,” I said, and rang off.

  It was about 5:10 when I flipped on the lights in Uncommon Grounds. I hoped I wasn’t too late. I went in the office to get an apron and, sure enough, the words, “Move It!” were framed in my display window when I came back out. I went to the door and let Pete, who had just climbed out of his rig, in.

  His smile was broad. “Opening early, huh? Guess your boss took my advice.”

  These days the thought of having a boss again—besides Sarah—was looking pretty good. “Come on in and sit down. I don’t have anything brewed yet, but I’ll make you a custom cup. Is Guatemalan okay?”

  He nodded, staying put at the cash register. He watched me as I ground the beans and ran the hot water into the filter. “That’s pretty cool,” he said. “You mean I don’t need my Mr. Coffee?”

  I added a little more water. “All you need is hot water, a filter and grounds. Mr. Coffee just puts it all together for you.”

  I set aside the cup and leaned on the counter. “Listen, Pete, didn’t you tell me you went past here last Monday?”

  He nodded, probably wondering why I wasn’t handing over his coffee.

  “You said that you were stopped at the stoplight on Civic at about five-fifteen.”

  He started to look wary. Like he thought I was going to slap handcuffs on him and read him his rights. Or, worse yet, not give him his coffee.

  I went on. “So, if you were stopped at the light, that means somebody was coming out of the parking lot, right?”

  The light bulb went on and he saw what I was getting at. “I’ll be darned. You’re right, somebody was at the light.”

  Thank God. Finally, something concrete. “Did you happen to see what the car looked like? Model? Color?” Please. Pretty please.

  Pete was smiling now. “That wasn’t just a car.”

  Even better. “What was it? A truck. A van?”

  “No, ma’am, that was a classic. They don’t make Mercedes like that anymore. Early nineteen-eighties, I’d say. Looked like it was in mint condition. Dark color, probably blue or black. Prettiest car I’ve seen in a long time.” He reached past me to grab his coffee and was gone.

  I trudged back to the office and collapsed with my head on the desk. Old Mercedes. Blue or black. Mint condition—at least until a couple days ago. It all added up to David. David leaving the store about 5:15, right around the time Patricia had died.

  Sarah called me later and I broke the news. There was silence on the other end of the line. Then, “So it’s true.”

  I let my breath out. I’d expected her to argue. “I honestly can’t see any way around it.”

  “Yeah.”

  There didn’t seem to be too much to say after that, even for Sarah. We talked about David’s funeral, which she said couldn’t be held until at least Monday, since the police weren’t releasing the body before Friday or Saturday.

  “Sunday’s good,” I said. The store would be closed and both Caron and I could attend without a problem. Attending funerals was getting to feel like a habit. I asked Sarah if she had spoken to Patricia’s mother.

  “No. I haven’t gotten hold of Gary yet. I’ll call over to the station later.”

  I agreed that was a good idea and hung up to get a little old lady a caramel latte. I’d noticed a few seniors defecting from Goddard’s and McDonald’s over the last couple of days. Taking a walk on the wild side.

  Being Wednesday, it was my turn to close. As I vacuumed, I saw an unmarked gray sheriff’s car pull into the parking lot. It hovered for a second and then turned and tucked itself neatly into a parking space. The driver got out. It was Pavlik. It was always Pavlik.

  I turned off the vacuum and went to the door. As Pavlik stepped in, I noticed he’d had his coat cleaned. I locked the door behind him, then changed my mind and unlocked it again.

  He stood with his coat open, hands in the pockets. “Now that the case is over, I wanted to apologize.”

  I didn’t have the energy anymore to fight with him over whether or not David had committed suicide. David was a murderer. Whichever sin he rotted in hell for was okay by me. “What are you apologizing for?”

  He gestured, hands still in his pockets. “Losing my temper when you told me you had talked to Donovan and he didn’t come to me.”

  I shrugged. “That was my fault. I asked him not to. I told Gary as my friend, not the police chief.”

  He took a step closer and pulled his hands out of his pockets. “That wasn’t fair to him. He’s a cop, foremost, and you put him in the position of having to decide whether to pass on information you had given him as a friend.”

  I looked away. “I know. I guess I just didn’t want to accuse David then...”I trailed off.

  Pavlik tilted his head sideways. “Are you okay? You seem...down,” he ended lamely.

  Down? Was I down? Damn right I was down. I sighed. “Okay. I have something to tell you. Something I just found out this morning.”

  Pavlik waited.

  “Pete—he’s a mover who comes in here—told me last week that he was stopped at the light on Civic at about five-fifteen last Monday.”

  “Last week? You’re saying he saw something?” Pavlik was getting out that blasted notebook again and looking irritated.

  “Oh, stuff it.” I’d had enough of bruised egos. “He said the backlights were on, but he didn’t see anybody inside. You knew Patricia was here about that time. What difference did it make?”

  Pavlik started to answer, but I waved him down. “Anyway, that’s not the point. I realized last night that if Pete was stopped at that light, it meant someone was coming out of this parking lot.”

  Pavlik’s mouth was hanging open.

  “You see, that light stays green on Civic unless a car from the parking lot trips the signal. So there had to be a car coming out.”

  Pavlik had closed his mouth and was writing again. He looked up. “Did he see the car?”

  I nodded. I hated to tell him because I knew it would only confirm his theory. “A dark-colored Mercedes, an old one in mint condition, he said.”
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  “Harper. That fits. You say this guy’s name is Pete? What moving company?”

  I told him and he wrote it down, then flipped closed his notebook. “Well, I have to get back to the office. I just wanted to apologize and say goodbye. Thanks for the information.” He held out his hand.

  I took it. It was warm and firm. Mine was cold and clammy. What was it about this guy that made me leak? “Goodbye.”

  He let go of my hand and, to his credit, didn’t wipe his on his coat. He turned when he reached the door. “That information you put together about the traffic signal? That was a good catch. I’d missed it. I’m only sorry it didn’t turn out like you hoped.”

  Yeah. Me, too.

  Chapter Nineteen

  By the time I finished closing, I was totally depressed. I went home, changed into sweats and took Frank out for a run. I hadn’t run for years and the look of astonishment on Frank’s face as I broke into a gentle trot made me laugh. “You and I, young sheepdog, must get in shape.”

  We didn’t run far, maybe a mile, but I imagined we both felt better for it. When we got in, Frank went for his water dish and I headed for the shower.

  After we were both watered, we settled down in front of the television for some of that mindless entertainment I love. I was determined not to think about Pavlik or the store or Patricia or David or anything tonight. By the time the “Ten O’Clock News” rolled around, I already was nodding off.

  “New tonight,” the announcer said. “Attempted robbery at First National Bank averted as the perpetrator is killed by his own bomb.”

  See? They said, “perpetrator,” I thought sleepily.

  “According to Brook County Sheriff Jacob Pavlik, the lone bank robber was apparently the same man who robbed Midwest Bank and attempted to rob First National recently.”

  Jacob?

  The picture switched to Pavlik. “We believe the bomber, identified as Ed Groschek, was a member of a Chicago militia group that is also mounting tax protests in the area and has been tied to other anti-government activities,” Pavlik was saying.

  Back to the anchorman. “The suspect, seen here in security footage from the earlier First National robbery attempt, was evidently killed as he fled with an undisclosed amount of money and attempted to deposit a pipe bomb in the alley adjacent to the bank. In the earlier attempt at First National, a bomb identical to today’s was planted, but was not detonated.”

  I was wide-awake now, watching the grainy video from the First National robbery. The man on the tape wore a stocking cap and had a bushy black beard, as Gary had said. I moved closer to the TV. As the robber gestured at the teller, he glanced toward the camera and then I was sure.

  Ed.

  Our L’Cafe technician.

  The man who had installed the espresso machine that killed Patricia was also a bank robber. Perhaps L’Cafe should do better background checks, but beyond that, who better to booby trap our espresso machine than the man who installed it in the first place?

  But when? And why? What connection could there possibly be between suburbanite Patricia Harper and Ed the Tech Guy who, according to Pavlik, was involved in a militia?

  When had the first robbery attempt on First National been made? I went into the kitchen and pulled out my recycling bin. Luckily, I’d been too lazy to take out last week’s newspapers. Digging down to the bottom of the pile, I finally found what I was looking for.

  There it was, the Saturday before Patricia’s death. The headline blared, “Attempted Robbery at First National Bank, Pipe Bomb Left.” The still photo that accompanied the story was taken from a frame of the surveillance tape and was tough to make out. The article said the robbery had taken place Friday afternoon.

  I grabbed the phone and dialed. “Caron? I’m sorry to— Yes, but it’s only ten—

  “Yes, of course I know what time you have to be up tomorrow. Listen, that Friday night when we were at Patricia and David’s, you said they were having a fight about the television, right? Okay. Yes. All right, go back to sleep. Thanks.”

  I hung up the phone. Caron thought that Patricia was angry about the television being on. But maybe she was mad about something on the television. Could Patricia have seen the tape from the robbery on the news and recognized Ed? But why would that have caused a fight between Patricia and David?

  I got out pen and paper and sat down at the table. What did we know about David and Patricia?

  Patricia was having an affairPatricia was filing for divorce

  They had a beautiful house in the suburbs

  David was a marketing consultant

  They didn’t pay their property taxes

  They didn’t pay income taxes

  They didn’t have any insurance

  David’s car had been seen leaving Uncommon

  Grounds the morning of the murder

  I thought for a second and added:

  Their son says they let him drive without a driver’s license

  I picked up the phone again. This time to call Sarah, who likely wouldn’t bite my head off for calling at 10:30 at night.

  “Sarah, listen to me. Could David and Patricia have been involved in some kind of anti-government group? A militia or

  something?”

  There was silence at the other end.

  “Sarah?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Did you hear me? Is it possible?”

  “I heard you, Maggy,” she said in no-nonsense tones. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re serious.”

  “Listen Sarah, you’ve read the papers, you know about these groups. They don’t pay their taxes, refuse to get Social Security numbers, drive without driver’s licenses.”

  “Oh come on. Just because Sam—”

  “Do you think he lied? Or do you think David really let him drive the car?”

  Silence again. “I don’t think he lied.”

  “So you think it’s possible?”

  “Anything’s possible, I guess.” I could almost hear her shrug. “This is a very conservative town, Maggy. There are probably a dozen Republicans for every Democrat.”

  “I’m not talking about Republicans. I’m talking about the far-right fringe. People who distrust the government, protest taxes and bomb banks.”

  “We all protest taxes...My God. Are you talking about the bank bombing this morning?”

  I was getting cold all of a sudden. In fact, I could scarcely keep my teeth from chattering. I recognized the symptoms from the last crisis in my life, the day Ted had left. Nerves, shock, whatever. “Listen, I have to go. I’ll call you in the morning when I’ve had a chance to think.” And stop shaking.

  I hung up the phone, went into my room and crawled under the covers. I thought and shook, shook and thought. A militia in Brookhills? Impossible. Besides, militias were sort of old hat. We had terrorists to worry about these days.

  Pulling my old chenille bedspread off the bed, I wrapped it around my shoulders. “C’mon Frank, let’s make sure the house is locked up.” I tangled my hand in the thick fur at his neck and we made a tour of the house, my making comforting sounds like “eek!” and the occasional “oh-my-God” to keep Frank calm.

  When we were done, I allowed him up on the bed and wedged myself under what was left of the covers. A hundred pounds of smelly sheepdog practically on top of me, I tried to organize my thoughts.

  So what was I thinking here?

  I was thinking that David might somehow have been involved with Ed. That maybe Patricia had recognized Ed in the news footage and confronted David. Maybe that’s why she decided to divorce him. After all, according to Roger, Patricia had no intention of leaving David before that. And when David found out what she had planned, he...Hewhat? Killed her? Or had Ed kill her? Or both of them had killed her?

  No matter what, Pavlik’s theory still held up. David was the killer. Or one of the killers.

  I went around and round all night. I wished I knew more about militias. Weren’t they wild-eyed fan
atics who accused the government of bugging their homes and their dentists of bugging their teeth? Guys wearing fatigues and carrying Uzis in the north woods staging protests and chaining themselves to cars in Chicago? Could they possibly be the nice family down the street?

  Another sleepless night. I jumped every time I heard a noise and Frank barely moved, which created friction between us, as you might imagine.

  About the time the sun was coming up, I made a decision. I would call Pavlik. I’d prefer to talk to Gary, but I wasn’t about to incur Pavlik’s wrath again and jeopardize Gary’s career. Besides, I had to admit I wanted to see Pavlik again.

  I was separated, not dead.

  When I called the sheriff’s number from the store later that morning, I asked his voice mail to meet me at home at

  7:00 tonight. The day dragged and so did I, from both nerves and lack of sleep. About 3:00 Henry came in, walking a little slower and stiffer than usual.

  I cleared a table for him and brought over a big piece of coffee cake, cinnamon butter streusel. “Coffee or a cappuccino today, Henry?”

  He folded his creaky body into the chair. “Espresso, please. A double.”

  “Need a little caffeine today?”

  Henry took off his hat and set in on the chair next to him. “I’m still having trouble sleeping nights.”

  Aren’t we all?

  Wait a second, hold that thought.

  I made the double espresso and brought it to him. Then I moved his hat, a gray felt job with a red feather, and sat down. “You told me before that the kids playing ‘Cowboys and Indians’ at Poplar Creek were disturbing you. Have you ever actually seen them or have you just heard them?”

  Henry looked surprised. “Please join me.”

  Since I already had, I just thanked him and repeated the question.

  He ducked his head to take a sip from the tiny espresso cup before he answered. “It’s not always them yahoos that keep me up every night, sometimes it’s the runs.”

  Lovely. I tried again. “But when they are down there, is it kids?”

  He sighed. “Suppose so. It’s too dark to see much and I have some night blindness from the war. But one thing,” he raised a gnarled finger, “if it’s kids, it’s big ones. Not the little ones. It’s ones old enough to know they shouldn’t be out raising a ruckus and shooting firecrackers at eleven o’clock at night.”