Coffee & Crime (8 page)

Once inside the funeral home, all cares about my appearance and the rain fell away. The dark wood-paneled walls and heavy drapery immediately reminded me of an old horror movie set. Concealed speakers piped soft music appropriate to grieving and made me painfully aware that I wasn't on a movie set.

Off the main entrance were several doors with large placards mounted on tripods displaying the name of the deceased in the room beyond. We moved slowly as we read the placards looking for Manston. Zelda spotted it and hooked her head toward the door. "Are you ready for this?" I threw back my shoulders and raised my head. "It's not too late to change your mind."

I opened the door and stepped inside the room with Zelda behind me. The decor was the same as the lobby
—
heavy drapes, wood-paneled walls, and depressing vibes. The low lighting gave the room an air of desolation and I felt dizzy as though there wasn’t enough oxygen for everyone in the room.

Straight-backed chairs for visitors lined the walls on either side. At the front and center of the room were two rows of nicer straight-backed chairs, with a three foot aisle between them, placed for the family and close friends. In front of the family seating was a mahogany coffin set on a low platform. A kneeling bench was placed below the platform, for mourners whom I presumed wished to pray. Or perhaps for family members who were too grief-stricken to stand.

Several people milled around, talking quietly and creating a wordless hum. But I recognized no one amongst the mourners with whom I could share my grief – not even Peggy.

Edging along the wall toward the coffin I spotted Maggie Manston sitting in the front row. She was flanked by two young women, blonde and close in age, which I figured for late teens or early twenties. I recognized one of the girls as Lauren Manston. Except for the blonde hair the other girl didn't resemble Maggie and towered over her even when seated. Her body language seemed to say that others would question her presence there. And while Lauren and Maggie huddled, the other girl remained stoic with her body turned away from them.

The thought of approaching Maggie Manston quickly evaporated because I realized how inappropriate that would be. Instead, I stepped into the line that led to George's coffin. The closer I got to bidding my final good bye to George the more my body hummed with anxiety. I turned to Zelda for moral support but came face to face with a sad lady in diamonds and designer black. Scanning the back of the room, I spied Zelda hunching in the shadows. I regretted forcing her to come to this place where she was reminded of the only family she'd ever known.

When I faced forward again, it was my turn to step to George's open coffin. A combination of gasp and whimper caught in my throat when I saw him. He looked like he was sleeping. As though I could tap him on the shoulder and rouse him from his nap. But I knew that in normal light he'd look white and waxy
—
despite the expert make-up job the technician had done. The man I'd known as George Manston was gone and it was his discarded shell that I looked upon in that gloomy depressing room. I preferred to think of George out in the ether flying free and not trapped in the forever darkness of death.

Still, I knelt and spoke to him. "Good bye George. I'll miss you." I stood, glanced once more at George, and stepped away.

The flow of the crowd nudged me toward Maggie's chair to express condolences. I ducked out of the line and hurried to the back of the room where Zelda waited.

"You ready?"

I nodded, with a lump in my throat and the sting of tears in my eyes. Once outside the room, I put my hand on the wall and bent at the waist trying to catch my breath. Zelda leaned down next to me and patted my back. "Breathe."

I couldn't talk or stop the tears. She was right, I’d never un-see George in his coffin. "He's really dead, Zee," I shuddered.

Zelda gave me a tissue and said, "I know. Can you stand up? We should get out of here before you have another panic attack."

I pulled myself together and straightened. As we turned to the exit, the front door opened and Jake walked in. He strode in our direction and we turned our backs to him. I was glad when he walked past without recognizing us and ducked into George's viewing parlor.

But a few seconds later the door opened again and we huddled over my bag pretending to look for something.

"Hello?" a woman said.

We looked up and standing before us was the mysterious blonde who'd sat with Maggie and Lauren Manston. Even though she was six inches taller than me, she looked fragile and ethereal. Her long hair was pulled back and her large dark eyes peered out of a pale, drawn face.

"Hello," I said.

The girl smiled shyly and took my hand in both of hers. "I wanted to thank you for coming."

"I'm sorry for your loss," I mumbled not knowing what else to say. Gently I pulled my hand away from her grasp.

But the girl wanted to continue the conversation. "Were you friends with my father?"

Zelda's head jerked up. "Your father? George was your father?"

The girl blushed and her eyes flitted away from intent Zelda's gaze. "Yes, George was my father. I guess he hadn't mentioned me to all of his friends."

She was an enigma. Almost cold in the viewing parlor, now oozing with kindness and concern. And why hadn't George told me about this girl
—
his second daughter? "I'm Scotti." I nodded toward Zelda. "And this is Zelda. And yes, we were friends with George."

The girl bowed her head slightly. "Lily. You're the brownie lady, right?"

I nodded, a little surprised. "That's right." George had mentioned me to Lily though. Had he also told his wife and other daughter? Maybe Zelda was right
—
Maggie Manston had intentionally acted as though she didn't know who I was.

Lily said, "The flowers were nice. Thank you, that was very thoughtful of you."
Was she there when we came to the house?

"Thanks." I shifted my gaze to the door. "We don't want to keep you and we should be going." Nudging Zelda toward the exit, I said, “Nice meeting you."

"Thank you again, for coming." Lily smiled and went back inside.

Zelda rushed after me. "What's the hurry?"

I speed-walked through the parking lot. "It's time for more research."

"On what?"

"On who the hell this Lily is."

After two hours of Internet research and too much coffee, George's daughter Lily remained a mystery. I didn’t understand. George'd told me about Maggie and Lauren, his practice and his medical history but not his extra daughter? George knew my entire life story
—
foster care, emancipation, Zelda, the diner
—
even that I'd decided to become a chef when I was ten. Why keep his daughter a secret? What was it about Lily that he didn't want the world to know?

I closed my laptop and put it on the floor next to the bed.

Zelda stood in my bedroom doorway, with her back against the frame. "Given up yet?”

I stood, grabbed my empty coffee cup and squeezed through the door past her. "This whole thing sucks."

She followed me into the kitchen. "What are you going to do?"

I rinsed my coffee cup and left it in the sink. "About what? George? The diner? My future?"

"Have you heard from the bank?"

I turned and shook my head. "No, but I'm not holding my breath either. They're not going to lend me the money." Tears bloomed in my eyes. "It's over. I don't have the money. I'm not going to get the money. And Manny is going to sell the place to a stranger."

Zelda started toward me. "Scotti..."

I backed away. "No! I don't need a hug or a pep talk, Zee." I swiped at my tears like they were poison. "I need to face facts. My life is shit and it's always going to be shit. And no matter what I do, nothing works."

Zelda smirked. "Yeah you don't need my sympathy since you've got your own pity party going."

"That's not fair."

Zelda shrugged. "What is?"

She walked out of the kitchen and I followed her. "What do you expect me to do?"

She raised a fist in the air. "Fight."

"Fight what? Fight who? I can't pull the money out of my ass. My own bank won't invest in me, and there isn't another George out there waiting to write me a check. And Manny has another interested buyer
—
no point in talking to him." I threw up my hands. "If you've got any ideas, then spit them out."

Zelda plopped onto the sofa and hugged a pillow to herself. "Just because we haven't thought of anything yet doesn't mean there's no answer." She huffed a sigh. "But if you don't believe in yourself, why should anybody else?"

"Great, so now you're reciting crap you saw in a greeting card? That's a big help, thanks."

Zelda jumped to her feet and flipped me off. "Screw you!" Then she stomped to her room and slammed the door.

I collapsed on the sofa and cried for a while but it only made me feel worse. Instead of turning to the gourmet ice cream in the freezer I went to my room determined to brainstorm the situation and figure out another solution. But it kept coming back to the same solutions I'd already thought of and that wouldn't work. Or going to Maggie Manston with my hand out — which I couldn't do. I threw my pen and pad across the room. "Face it Scotti, you're screwed."

From my bed I stared at George's briefcase, across the room standing next to my dresser. I'd never admit it to Zelda but I was dying to know what was inside too. And I wondered if an answer lie in the brown leather case a few feet away from me. For all I knew, George had left me a check, just in case.

Slipping out of bed I tiptoed to the door and closed it. I picked up the briefcase and studied it.
Hang onto this until I see you again
, George had said. He could've given the case to anyone, or locked it away, but he gave it to me. Not his wife or daughter or partner or his lawyer. He wanted me to have it for a reason. Which must've meant that he had reasons he didn't want anyone else to have it. And in my mind that meant whatever was in there had to do with the diner.

I carried the case to my bed and set it down. Sitting next to it, I studied it more. It wasn't the case he usually carried
—
a black soft leather valise with brass buckles and his initials embossed on the front flap. This case was a dark brown rectangle with combination latches at the top. Plain and unassuming – the type that thousands of people carry. Not a lawyer’s briefcase. I slid the release buttons to pop the latches but they didn't open. Locked. Did that mean that George only wanted me to hold it for safekeeping? Or did he assume I'd guess the combination?

My cell buzzed and I jumped. It was after eleven and I didn't recognize the number so I let it go to voicemail. A few seconds later the phone buzzed again, signaling a message.

I'm superstitious about leaving messages for later, so I dialed in to my voicemail account. The call was from Marsha Conroy, a caterer I occasionally worked for. She had a big event on Thursday and wanted Zelda and I to cover for a couple of regulars who'd left her in the lurch. While I mulled it over the phone buzzed again.

"Persistent, aren't we?" I said and answered the call. "Hey Marsha, I was about to call you back."

"Scotti, it's Ted Jordan."

My hand went to my tangled and frizzy hair, as though he could see me. And I didn't remember giving him my number. "Hi Ted," I croaked.

"Is this a bad time?"

"It's a little late."

"Is it too late?"

"For what?"

"A chili dog?"

Ted took me to Pink's on La Brea, in Hollywood. It was almost midnight on a soggy Tuesday but the line to the tiny hotdog stand went halfway down the block. Since they have the best dogs in town, I wasn't surprised that it took twenty minutes to reach the counter and order. I got a chili-cheese with sauerkraut and a Dr Brown's diet cream soda
—
Ted had a Royal and a Yoo-Hoo, and ordered a side of onion rings to share. The inside dining room was closed, so we ate under one of the umbrella tables in the back lot.

Ted zipped up his gray rain jacket, pulled a wool watch cap out of his pocket and put it on. "You sure you don't want to eat in the car?"

My parka kept me warm enough but the rain on the bench had soaked through the seat of my jeans, so there was no reason to move to the car. I poised my dog to ensure a bite of everything piled on top. "No, this is fine. It's kind of like camping out."

Ted’s face lit up. "You like camping?"

"No, I hate it." I sunk my teeth into the dog and murmured yum-yum sounds. "Damn, this is good."

"How's it going with the diner?"

I wiped a big glob of mustard from the side of my mouth with a napkin. "Fine, I guess."

He touched my hand to get my attention. "What I meant was when do you take ownership?"

I took a slug of cream soda. "Oh, that."

He leaned in closer with that sweet concerned look of his. "Something wrong?"

I shook my head and focused on my hotdog. "Not wrong. A little wrinkle is all."

Ted cocked his head. "Wrinkle?"