1 Uncommon Grounds Read online

  He held up a booklet. “I already have. You might as well come in, though. I have some questions for you, Mrs....”He let it hang.

  God help me, I wanted to stick out my tongue like a five-year-old and say, “You tell me, if you’re so smart.” The idea of him going through our cabinets to find the schematic, which had been in the back of the bottom drawer, next to the box of emergency Tampons, really ticked me off.

  I behaved myself, though. “Thorsen, Maggy Thorsen. And it’s Ms.” I automatically asserted my pending independence and then, just as automatically, felt silly. I stuck out my hand to hide my confusion.

  He ignored it and stepped back. “Please come in, Ms. Thorsen, and take a seat. I’ll be with you as soon as I’m free.”

  I sat down to wait. Pavlik returned to the group that was still conferring near the condiment cart, and I turned my attention to the spot where we had found Patricia barely three hours ago.

  Her body was gone, evidently having been photographed, poked and prodded sufficiently. The scorch mark remained on the counter just to the left of the sink, along with the puddle of milk on the floor. The pitcher sat on the counter, encased in a giant plastic bag, the gallon of vitamin D milk next to it and Patricia’s latte mug next to that. All nice and neat. Patricia would have approved.

  Pavlik was finishing up and the group dispersing. A young man who looked like he was wearing his father’s suit took the schematic from the sheriff and went over to the espresso machine. A gray-haired woman with a camera and a man who looked like a present-day Ichabod Crane started out the door.

  Pavlik called to one of them. “Steve, hang on a second.” Ichabod stopped at the door. Pavlik pointed to me. “Get her fingerprints before you leave.”

  I really hate being called “her”—a carryover from my relationship with Ted’s mother, who called me “her,” “she,” “your wife” or “your mother,” depending on whom she was addressing. And all with me in the room.

  Steve loped over and fingerprinted me, politely asking my name and recording it before he repacked his case and left.

  Now I read mysteries, I watch TV, I know the police needed my fingerprints to eliminate mine, which belonged there, from others that didn’t. It still irritated me. By the time Pavlik finally deigned to speak to me, I was primed:

  “I don’t know how you treat people in Chicago, but here you’ll get a whole lot further with a little common courtesy.”

  Pavlik raised one black eyebrow at me. “I apologize.” He pulled out the chair across the table from me and sat down, flipping open his notebook. “Now, Donovan said there are three partners: Mrs. Harper, you, and...” He checked his notes. “Caron Egan.”

  He glanced up, his eyes suddenly looking steely blue instead of dirty gray. Weird. “Ms. Egan was with you when you found the body?”

  “Yes, Caron was with me.” She was there before I found the body, too; but if he wanted specifics, he could ask for them.

  “Uh-huh. Tell me about the partnership.” This time I raised my eyebrows at him. He shifted in his chair. “In other words, how is it set up? If one partner dies, for example, what happens to her share of the business?”

  I felt like I had stumbled into a bad movie. “Her interest would go to her next of kin. The remaining partners retain the option to buy that person out at a market value to be determined by an independent audit,” I said parroting the partnership agreement. “But since we rent the space and haven’t opened yet, we have no market share and no name recognition. The only thing we do have is the equipment, which is worth considerably less today than when we bought it two weeks ago.”

  Pavlik moved on. “Mrs. Harper evidently was here very early. Her husband says he was still asleep when she left home. Do you know what time she was planning to arrive?”

  “We all wanted to be in early since this was our grand opening. Five-thirty, latest, so we could be ready to open at six-thirty.”

  He just nodded.

  “I was late,” I admitted for the second time that day, “and got here around six. I’m not sure what time Patricia came in, but it was likely before five-thirty.”

  Pavlik raised the other eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

  I swallowed. “Patricia is—was—very precise. That’s why she handled the books and the scheduling.”

  “Do you have other employees?”

  “No, we’re covering all the hours ourselves, at least for now. Patricia mapped it out so two of us work each day. One is the set-up person and starts at five-thirty. The other comes in just before we open at six-thirty, and stays to close. Patricia was supposed to do set-up today and Friday. Caron has Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I have Wednesdays and Saturdays. Each of us has every third day completely off.”

  Pavlik looked bored.

  Not that I cared. “Anyway, my point is that Patricia was the kind of person who wouldn’t have wandered in at five-thirty today. I’m sure she came in early to make sure everything was exactly the way she wanted it.”

  Pavlik shifted gears again. “How long have you known Mrs. Harper and Mrs. Egan?”

  “I’ve known Caron for years; we worked together at First National Bank about twenty years ago. We’ve been friends ever since. I met Patricia through Caron when we decided to open this place.”

  “Let’s talk about today. What would Mrs. Harper have done when she came in this morning?”

  “We have a check-list, it should be taped inside the cabinet door by the sink.” I got up to get it and hesitated. “Can I go over there?”

  He stood up. “I’ll do it.” He found the list and brought it over to the table.

  A.M. Checklist

  1.Turn on backlights

  2. Plug in and turn on coffee brewers (need 15 minutes to heat)

  3. Turn on digital coffee scale

  4. Grind coffee for brewed coffees of the day (one regular and one decaf—see schedule) on “regular” grind

  5. Grind decaf French Roast for espresso (“fine”)

  6. Cone grinder filled? Grind first lot

  7. Run blinds for espresso

  8. Run plain water through both brewers

  9. Post names of brewed coffees (better to do the night before)

  10. Fill bud vases and put on tables

  11. Fill creamer and put on condiment cart

  12. Brew coffees of the day

  13. Fill baskets in bakery case

  14. Put cash in cash register

  15. Bring in newspaper (should arrive around 6:15)

  16. Turn on front lights, music, flip sign and unlock door at 6:30

  Pavlik whistled as he looked the list over. “I see what you mean. She was a little over the top, wasn’t she?”

  I felt my face flame. “Well, actually, I put together that list.”

  He sat back and clasped his hands behind his head. “Now, tell me if I’m wrong here, okay?”

  I nodded.

  “This is a coffee shop, right? You make coffee. You serve some rolls. But you need a seventeen-step checklist to open in the morning? I think NASA uses a shorter countdown for a shuttle launch.”

  I bristled. “Sixteen, and this is not just ‘a coffee shop.’ We serve two brewed coffees every day, chosen from the twenty-five types of whole beans we stock. We also do custom brews—customers can pick any of the beans, and we’ll make them an individual cup, even if we’re not brewing the flavor that day. Then there’s espresso, which has to be brewed a shot at a time, and lattes and cappuccinos, both of which can be flavored. And we don’t just sell ‘rolls,’ we serve muffins, scones, Kaisers, croissants and tarts.”

  I wasn’t done. “And as far as the list is concerned. I make lists. That’s how I stay on top of things so I’m not the one coming in at four a.m. to make sure everything is okay.”

  Pavlik leaned forward. “So is that when she got in? Four a.m.?”

  I wanted to scream. “How do I know? I wasn’t here, I told you that.”

  “Right. Well, let’s start with the list. C
an you tell me how far she got?” He spun the sheet around so I could read it.

  I didn’t bother with the list, I had the thing memorized. I stood up and looked around. First, the backlights. They’d been on when I came in and I told Pavlik so. I continued down the list to the brewers. “Can I step behind the counter?”

  He nodded. “Just keep out of Kevin’s way.” Kevin, the technician, had the top off the espresso machine and seemed to be preparing to dismantle it.

  I slipped by, giving the espresso machine and the puddle on the floor wide berth. Reaching the brewers, I found that they were both plugged in and switched on. “She turned on the brewers.”

  The digital scale was winking at me. “The scale is on, too.” I checked the three cans we used for fresh ground coffee—one for the regular coffee of the day, one for decaf and one for decaf French Roast. All full, as was the cone grinder next to the espresso machine.

  “She was making a latte,” I said, “so she would have run the blinds for the espresso, and she had started brewing coffee,” I pointed to the pot sitting on the heating element of the brewer, “so she must have run the clean water through.”

  “But these other things.” Pavlik was looking at the checklist. “The bud vases and the creamers. They’re listed before brewing the coffee and they haven’t been done.”

  I just shrugged and Pavlik gave me a smirk. “Good help is hard to find, huh?”

  I didn’t answer and he got up and came over to where Kevin was still working on the machine. “Tell me how this thing works.”

  Still smarting from my checklist being violated—and by Patricia of all people, the queen of quality control—I pointed at the cone grinder standing next to the machine. “That’s the grinder we use for regular espresso. We keep it filled with beans. Patricia ground some, see?”

  I showed him the ground espresso in the dispenser below the whole beans. “When you’re making regular espresso, you just put the portafilter under here, pull the lever twice and it dispenses enough ground espresso to brew one shot.”

  Pavlik was writing this all down. “Porta...what?”

  “Portafilter.” I spelled it for him and pointed at one. “The portafilter is that small metal coffee filter with the black plastic handle attached. It has a very fine mesh and you fill it with espresso, tamp it down and twist it onto the espresso machine. The steam from the machine is forced through the ground espresso and creates ‘essence of coffee,’ as Patricia called it.” I smiled at the memory.

  “So Mrs. Harper was making an espresso?”

  I shook my head. “She was brewing espresso, but she was making a double latte. There was a gallon of milk out and a large mug with two shots of espresso sitting in front of the machine when we found Patricia.”

  “So a latte is...”

  “One third espresso and two-thirds steamed milk. Topped with a little froth.” I was giving him Coffee 101, but he seemed to find it helpful. Or at least he wasn’t sneering.

  “Would it be unusual for her to make herself a drink before she finished the checklist?”

  “No, not really. If she were here early enough, she would have had plenty of time. Patricia always said she needed a latte to get going in the morning.” Unexpectedly, I choked up. The counselor I’d seen after the break-up with Ted had warned me if I continued to suppress my emotions, they might pop out at less appropriate moments. Guess this was what she meant.

  Pavlik didn’t seem to notice. “She must have gotten here very early in order to have time to make herself a drink.”

  I nodded, blinking back the tears.

  “And you got here very late.” His eyes were dark now, probing.

  “I think I already said that.” Tears, the angry kind I’m more comfortable with, pooled in my eyes. I looked down at the table, trying not to let him see he had upset me.

  Pavlik excused himself to talk to Kevin, who was gesturing wildly in an effort to communicate something he didn’t want me to hear. I stood up to get a napkin. As I wiped my eyes, I surveyed the store.

  We had planned the layout of Uncommon Grounds very carefully. The road cups were next to the brewers, the spare filters and pots to the right of them, next to the sink. On the other side of the sink was the dishwasher, with the espresso machine next to that. At a right angle to the espresso machine were the bins of coffee beans. Next to the beans were the grinders.

  A place for everything, and everything in its place my mother would say.

  But it wasn’t.

  There was the milk on the floor, of course, but something else was out of place. Only...what?

  I moved around the end of the counter to get a better look. Then it hit me. The mat. The rubber mat that was supposed to be in front of the espresso machine, where Patricia had fallen, was now in front of the sink.

  I rounded the counter and tapped Pavlik.

  He looked over his shoulder. “I’m not through with you, Ms. Thorsen. If you’ll just sit...”

  “The mat.” I pointed. “It’s been moved.”

  He turned all the way around this time. “What?”

  I pointed again. “The mat by the sink. It’s supposed to be in front of the espresso machine to catch spills.”

  Patricia had fought us on this seemingly insignificant item. She thought the mat looked tacky, but Caron and I had insisted, since the steam from the frothing wand could make the tile floor slippery.

  “It was there when I left on Friday afternoon, although I suppose Patricia could have moved it this morning.”

  Pavlik was examining the mat. “Or someone else could have,” he muttered.

  I didn’t get it at first. Was Pavlik saying that Patricia’s accident had been set up? That someone had moved the rubber mat so she would be electrocuted? But who? And why? Not to mention, when and how?

  Pavlik was conferring with Kevin again. I edged closer and stood on tiptoe to look into the machine from the public side of the counter.

  “See,” Kevin was saying, “this wire doesn’t belong here. It connects the two-twenty-volt current to the frothing wand and makes the whole machine hot. She could have touched any metal surface and zap!”

  I jumped and my eyes met Pavlik’s above the innards of the machine. “Ms. Thorsen, have a seat,” he said flatly. He sent Kevin back to his examination and followed me to the table, where he picked up his pen. “Just one or two more questions, if you don’t mind. You said the mat was in front of the espresso machine on Friday when you left. What time was that?”

  “Around five-thirty.”

  “Was anybody else here with you?”

  I shifted uneasily in my chair. “Most of the time. In the morning, Patricia, Caron and I practiced on the new machine.”

  I explained the installation of the machine on Thursday, as well as the trial run. “Patricia and Caron left about two o’clock. Patricia was having us over for dinner and wanted to get ready and Caron had some errands to run. I stayed to wait for the building inspector to do the final inspection at three. It couldn’t be done until the espresso machine was wired in.”

  “And did he come?”

  I nodded. “He—”

  Pavlik interrupted to ask the inspector’s name.

  “Roger Karsten.” I spelled “Karsten.” “Anyway, Roger was late. He showed up around quarter to five.”

  “Almost two hours late? What did you do all that time?” He was watching me carefully.

  Oh nothing. Just kept myself busy re-wiring the espresso machine. Busy hands are happy hands. I tried to answer with more calm than I was feeling. “I cleaned up and retyped the check list you so admire.”

  He ignored that. “I’m surprised you waited that long for him.”

  “Well, our building inspector is a bit...difficult.” Actually, he was an egotistical young jerk. “We needed him to do the inspection and give us an occupancy permit or we couldn’t open. So I thanked him nicely for coming when he finally got here, and then raced out to pick up my dry cleaning before they closed at fi
ve.”

  “Did you make it?”

  I shook my head. “No, but they let me in anyway. Then, they couldn’t find my dress. When I finally got back to the shop, Roger was gone so I had to go to Town Hall to get the occupancy permit on Saturday morning.”

  “Everything passed inspection?”

  I shrugged. “I assume so. Roger issued the permit.”

  Pavlik rubbed his head. “So let me make sure I have the timeline straight. You used the machine on Friday morning with your partners. They left at two. You were here alone from two until quarter to five when the inspector arrived.”

  I nodded warily.

  “The inspector, Roger Karsten, came at quarter to five and you left just before five to go to the dry cleaner.”

  I nodded again.

  “You came back to the shop at what time?”

  Was it just me, or had we already been over this? “It was at least five-fifteen. The dry cleaner is just around the corner, but it took them a while to make sure they had lost my cleaning.”

  “And when you came back at five-fifteen, the inspector was gone.” I nodded yet again. “Was the door locked?”

  I thought back. “Yes, the dead bolt on the front door was locked. He must have gone out the back door. It locks when you pull it closed behind you.”

  This time, Pavlik nodded. “That exit leads to the service hallway that connects the rest of the stores in the strip mall.” He wrote something down. “What did you do then?”

  “Swore because I had missed him, turned off the lights and left by the front door, locking it behind me.” I was tired now. I’d had enough and I wanted to leave. I stood up. “Is that all?”

  “Just one more question, Ms. Thorsen.” His gray eyes suddenly twinkled. “Don’t you think this coffee thing is a fad? I mean how long can you bamboozle people into paying four bucks for a buck-fifty cup of coffee?”

  Chapter Four

  Bamboozle?

  Despite his quaint choice of words, Pavlik had managed to zero right in on my insecurities.

  Were lattes and cappuccinos here to stay? Or would they eventually end up—along with oat bran and sun-dried tomatoes—in the big breadmaker in the sky? The thought was unsettling. Both of mind and stomach.