Death Before Decaf (2 page)

Pete and I spent the better part of an hour going over Java Jive's accounting practices (archaic), employee rules and expectations (too lenient), and food cost and expenses (astronomical). My head was spinning. George had run a great business, and he'd run it his way, which had somehow worked for him. But with the outrageous increase in the price of food lately and the still-crummy economy, George's outdated business model would have to go. And I needed to run things my way.

Back home in Indiana, my café was a well-oiled machine with advanced accounting software, efficient workers, and rock-bottom expenses that I had spent a lot of time haggling with vendors to obtain. The only glitch in my plan was that I put my dickhead fiancé/business partner's name on the bank account. With no warning, he wiped out every penny we had right before a payday, and all of my staff's paychecks bounced. I had put my life savings into the place and rarely took a paycheck for myself, so I couldn't even contribute any cash to help get my café back on its feet. I tried desperately to keep it afloat, but I just couldn't get ahead. Finally, I had to close the doors, and it nearly killed me. I was not going to let that happen to Java Jive.

“I know that look,” Pete said, breaking me out of my thoughts.

“What look?” I asked, a little taken aback to catch Pete studying my face so intently.

“The look you get when you're freaking out about something but are trying to be nice and not say anything.”

“I was not aware that I had a look, but yeah, that's exactly what I'm doing.” Pete and I had been friends for so long, he could sometimes read my mind. I wasn't sure if I liked it or not. “Pete, I'm going to have to make a lot of changes in the way things work around here,” I said apologetically.

Smiling, he took my hand and reassured me. “That's why I brought you here—what we're doing now isn't working. I trust you completely, Jules. You know that. I'm giving you free rein to do what needs to be done to make sure this place doesn't go under.”

“Thanks. I just want to do your dad proud.” I didn't let on to Pete, but all of the faith he had placed in me was stressing me out. I knew that I could make the business work on paper, but I had absolutely no control over whether or not people actually came through the door. That was what scared me the most. What if I did everything in my power, but it just wasn't enough? If I failed Pete, and his father's memory, I couldn't live with myself.

Pete sighed, his eyes getting misty. He looked down at our hands as he said, with obvious effort, “Pop put his heart and soul into Java Jive, and that's what made it work. You're so much like him—you never do anything half-assed. There's no one Pop would have wanted to run his place more than you. He loved you, you know.”

My heart was already aching over missing George, and Pete's words nearly broke it. I squeezed his hand and whispered, “I know. I loved him, too.”

Never one to wallow in self-pity, Pete let go of my hand and wiped his eyes. “Now, get to work, Langley. That coffee isn't going to pour itself.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, hurrying from the office before Pete could see the tear that had slid down my cheek. Stopping outside the door, I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall. I could almost hear George saying his famous catchphrase, “That coffee isn't going to pour itself.” I hadn't expected how empty Java Jive would feel without him.

I found an apron for myself and tied it around my waist, ready to jump in with both feet. The lunch crowd was beginning to show up, and Camille and Rhonda looked like they could use some help out front.

Rhonda spied me coming and frowned. “Are you here to help or to watch?”

Her tone irked me, but I chose to let it slide. No reason to break out the Redheaded She-Devil on the first day. “I'm here to help, Rhonda,” I answered patiently. “What would you like me to do?”

I noticed the evil glimmer in her eye when she nodded toward the diner counter. “Those people need their orders taken.”

Choking back a groan, I replied, “I'm on it.”

Generally the coffeehouse's patrons got their drinks and pastries at the cash register and took them to a table to eat. Lunch and dinner orders were made at the cash register as well, and customers picked up their food at the counter when their names were called. However, George wanted to make sure that his older and/or high maintenance clientele were also taken care of. That's why he had several stools at an old-time diner counter, where the baristas waited on customers just like in a sit-down restaurant. You NEVER wanted to be stuck with counter duty. It was either crotchety old folks who couldn't see the menu board (so you had to read it to them, loudly), slimy dudes trying to hit on you, or sipsters: people (generally hipsters) who would park there all day for the free refills on coffee.

I put on my brightest smile and headed over to take care of two old, nearsighted men who had obviously left their hearing aids at home. They were sweet, but after repeating the menu for the third time, my voice was starting to get hoarse. Once they finally gave me their orders, I moved on to refill coffee for the two chatty women who had been sitting there since I walked in this morning.

As I was returning the coffee carafe to the warmer, I heard a man's voice say smoothly, “Ooh, you're new here.”

Blech. And there was the slimy dude, right on cue. I still had my back to the counter, so I grimaced and took a deep breath. Plastering my smile back on, I turned to greet him.

Holy crap, was he handsome! And muscular. And my age. However, he
was
sitting at the counter, so there had to be something wrong with him.

I cleared my throat and swallowed. “Yes, it's my first day.”

He smiled at me. Stellar smile. “I know. I'm a regular. My name's Seth.” He held out his hand.

I took his hand and shook it. The guy had nice hands and a firm grip, plus his hand wasn't sweaty or clammy. Maybe he wouldn't turn out to be slimy after all.

“I'm Juliet.”

“Ah, Juliet, the new manager. I've heard all about you.”

Puzzled, I asked, “From who?”

“My girlfriend.” Damn. I knew there was something wrong with him.

Trying not to look disappointed, I asked, “Do I know her? I just moved here yesterday.”

“Her name's Gertie, and she thinks you hung the moon.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, relieved that he was kidding around about having a girlfriend. “Gertie. Yes. She's wonderful. But I had no idea she was such a cougar,” I joked.

Seth laughed easily. He had a nice laugh, too. “Yeah, she's a hoot. Sometimes she can make even me blush with what comes out of her mouth.”

Hmm. Handsome, great smile, nice hands, good sense of humor, kind to old ladies. Seth was definitely worth getting to know.

Before I could turn on the charm, there was a commotion in the middle of the restaurant. There was a loud
crash,
sounding like a plate had shattered. I looked up just in time to see a man fall limply out of his chair and onto the floor.

Several people gasped, and then the room became eerily silent, except for the wheezing noises being made by the man on the floor. I sucked in a gulp of air, realizing that someone had keeled over in what was now officially my restaurant, and it was up to me to do something about it.

Flying around the counter, I shouted, “Camille! Call 911!” Camille dropped what she was doing and rushed to the phone. I reached the man's side as a middle-aged woman was pulling him into a sitting position and encircling his torso with her arms.

“He's choking,” she cried, her eyes wide with fear. “I'm going to give him the Heimlich!”

I took one look at the man's swollen face and knew I had to stop her. “NO!” I yelled sharply, tugging her hands away from him. “He's not choking. His face is swelling and he has hives all over his neck. He's having an allergic reaction.” I know the signs of anaphylactic shock well—I'm deathly allergic to bee stings. I carefully lowered the man down onto his back on the floor.

Thankfully, he was still conscious—but barely. I said loudly to him, “Sir, are you having an allergic reaction?”

The man managed to nod weakly, amid wheezing and gasping for air. He patted the breast pocket of his coat.

Hoping that he was trying to tell me he had an EpiPen, I asked, “Is your EpiPen in your pocket, and do you need me to inject you?”

He nodded again, his lips and jaw now alarmingly swollen.

Reaching into his pocket, I found the injector pen and, after taking a breath, swiftly jabbed it into his thigh. He winced. After inspecting the injector to make sure it had worked, I loosened the man's tie and top few buttons of his shirt. Painful-looking hives covered his neck and chest, and he had broken out in a sweat. I could hear the wail of the ambulance siren and breathed a sigh of relief. It sounded like it was almost here.

The man had stopped wheezing, but his breath was still labored. In my own experience, this meant that as long as he went to the ER immediately, he should be fine. I'd had some very scary close calls myself with anaphylactic shock, one of them right here at Java Jive. I saw the ambulance pull to a stop out front, and two paramedics wheeling a stretcher burst through the door, clearing a path straight to us.

I got out of their way, at the same time trying to push back the crowd. “Everyone, please return to your seats. Give the EMTs room to work,” I pleaded. The gawking customers begrudgingly went to their tables and sat down, but still didn't take their eyes off the poor man.

The EMTs quickly had him secured to the stretcher. They placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, and he seemed to be breathing more easily. One of them gestured for me to come over.

“The emergency caller said someone administered an epinephrine auto-injector. Was that you?” he asked.

“Yes. Here it is.” I handed him the EpiPen I had used on the man.

“Thanks. That was quick thinking. Do you know what he came in contact with to cause the reaction? The only thing we could get out of him was the word ‘onion.' ”

I pointed to the busted plate on the floor and the mangled sandwich next to it. “That was his lunch. It's possible the sandwich had onion on it.” Stooping down, I gingerly picked up the remains of the sandwich. I peeled back the bread, and there it was—one small ring of onion with a bite mark out of it. My stomach lurched when the whole situation clicked into place for me. We had served a man with an onion allergy a sandwich with onion. That was bad. Really bad. I showed the sandwich to the paramedic. Trying to keep my voice calm, I said, “I guess this was the culprit.”

The EMT nodded. “Thank you, ma'am.” He took hold of the end of the gurney, and he and the other EMT wheeled the man out the front door and into the waiting ambulance.

Shaking, I tossed the sandwich onto the table and wiped my brow with the back of my hand. One word kept pinging around in my head: lawsuit. If the guy decided to press charges, we would be liable. Granted, we had insurance for that kind of thing, but there could still be serious repercussions. I felt a hand on my shoulder and started.

Pete said, “Sorry I made you jump. That was awesome, Jules—you saved that guy's life!”

I blew out a big breath, overwhelmed with relief that the incident was over. “That was scary.”

“Is it scarier to watch it happen or have it happen to you?”

I shuddered. “Definitely scarier when it happens to you. The whole not breathing thing messes with your mind.”

“I don't know,” he said, smiling at me, “I've never been as scared as the day I found you half dead out back.”

That was probably true. I remembered that day like it was yesterday. Well, most of it. I was in and out of consciousness for a while.

One spring day, when I was working at Java Jive during college, I went out back to take my break. I had always been highly allergic to bee stings, but it hadn't occurred to me to take my EpiPen with me for the few minutes I was going to be outside. Unfortunately, a bee decided to sting me the moment I sat down under the big shade tree. I immediately went into anaphylactic shock. I headed straight for the back door to Java Jive, but couldn't get any air and collapsed on the way up the steps. Pete found me, and luckily he knew all about my allergy. He was the one who had to stab me with my injector pen. His worried face was the first thing I saw when I woke up.

“Jules, Jules, are you okay?” Pete cried.

My eyes fluttered open. Taking a painful, shallow breath, I tried to speak but couldn't.

“Shh,” he said, stroking my hair. “Don't talk. The paramedics are on their way.” He was smiling down at me so sweetly, but it looked like he had been crying. I smiled at him, and he choked back a sob. “I thought I'd lost you, Jules. Don't ever do that to me again, okay?”

Over the years, I had thought about that day many times, how beside himself Pete had been at the thought of losing me. I had never seen him act that way before and had no idea where his panic had come from. Maybe my near-death experience had triggered his mommy issues from when his mom had abandoned his family when he was a kid. I had hoped at the time that the experience would magically make him realize that he loved me and couldn't live without me, but I never got any indication that was the case. If he did love me, it was more like he'd love a sister.

Returning my thoughts to the present, I said, “Now I need to go kick some ass. I'm going to have a little discussion with the staff.”

He sighed. “I was afraid of that. Let's get it over with.” Pete was never one for a big, ugly confrontation.

Putting a hand on his arm, I said, “No, Pete, I need to do this on my own. You're the good cop, and this is more of a bad cop situation.”

“Redheaded She-Devil is going to make an appearance, isn't she?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“I really will go and stand beside you and be a united front.”

“Thanks, but I got this. Besides, I need someone to cover the cash register.”

I picked up the man's sandwich and marched straight for the kitchen. On my way, I barked to Camille and Rhonda, “Staff meeting in the kitchen. Now.”

They followed me hesitantly down the hall. I busted through the kitchen door, startling poor Brandon into spilling the soup he was pouring into a bowl. I found Dave sitting on the food prep table, eating a sandwich. Gross. This was going from bad to worse. There was no way I was eating food from here until the entire kitchen had been disinfected. Heaven knew what else went on in here when no one was looking. The whole place seemed a lot grimier than I remembered.

“Dave,” I snapped, and he turned his head in my direction, but made no move to get his ass off the food preparation surface. “First, it's a health violation to sit on the prep table. And if you're going to eat lunch, eat out in the dining area, not the kitchen.”

Dave didn't answer—he just glared at me. I could tell that this conversation was not going to be pleasant for anyone involved. Dave was a ginger, just like me, and it's been my experience that two gingers can't disagree on a subject without it becoming ugly.

Once everyone was in the room, I threw the sandwich down next to Dave on the prep table and announced, “We have a problem. This was the sandwich that was served to the man who left here in an ambulance. It has onion on it, and I can't imagine someone with a severe onion allergy would have ordered it like that. Who was taking orders earlier? Rhonda?”

“Yes, it was me,” Rhonda said defensively.

“Do you remember taking the order for the man they just wheeled out of here?”

“Sure. He asked for a grilled chicken sandwich, no onion. What of it?”

“Did you enter it that way for the kitchen? Noting the fact that there was to be no onion on the sandwich?”

“Yeah,” she said. She might as well have said “duh,” which was what her tone implied.

“Did he say anything about being allergic to onions?”

“I've never heard of anyone being allergic to onions,” Rhonda said coldly, but I could sense that she was dodging the question.

“Rhonda…” I warned.

Rhonda's eyes widened, and she began fidgeting. “He may have mentioned it.”

I exploded. “Then why in the hell didn't you write it on the ticket in big letters?”

“Yeah, Rhonda,” Dave said snidely.

I turned on him. “Watch it, Dave. That doesn't get you off the hook
at all
. Did you make this sandwich?”

He shrugged noncommittally. “I dunno. I make lots of sandwiches.”

Growling, I replied, “You make
all
of the sandwiches, Dave. When our customers order a sandwich a certain way, they expect to receive what they ordered.” He just continued to stare daggers at me, obviously not intending to share any of the blame. “Hey, don't give me that attitude. It may not seem like a big deal to you, but the customer was allergic to onions. That makes it a big deal.”

Dave sneered, “Couldn't the idiot smell the onion or see it on the sandwich?”

Redheaded She-Devil really wanted to slap Dave, but I kept her in check. “That's not the point. He could sue us for negligence, and we would be at fault. And then we could all be out of a job.”

“Isn't that what insurance is for?”

It was, but I was trying to put a little fear into the staff. It was working on Camille and Brandon, who were practically huddled in a corner. Rhonda and Dave, not so much. “Again, not the point.” Looking at each staff member in turn, I fumed, “A man nearly
died
here today because of our negligence in preparing his food properly. This is
never
to happen again. Are we clear?”

They murmured in agreement, except Dave, who looked away.

I snapped, “All of you get back to work. And, Dave, get your dirty ass off that prep table, NOW!” Dave grunted and slid off the table. “Make sure you clean it off immediately…the table, I mean,” I added icily as I stalked away.

Maybe taking this job wasn't such a good idea after all. The place wasn't making money, Rhonda and Dave were giving me fits, Camille and Brandon hadn't said two words to me, and from what Pete had said, the evening staff was going to be difficult to wrangle at best. To cool down after the morning's events, I decided to go outside and get some air. I went to my favorite spot—out back under a big shade tree where Pete and I used to sit when we took our breaks. It was also the place where the infamous bee sting incident had occurred, but this time I had the sense to put my EpiPen in my pocket.

Java Jive was nestled in a formerly residential area between the Belmont and Vanderbilt campuses. It used to be an old house, as were most of the mom-and-pop shops in the neighborhood. That was part of its charm—it was like you were in someone's home. Not only that, there were trees and shrubs and flowers everywhere, the area largely unmarred by parking lots and strip malls. Aside from the dumpsters and the occasional car in the alleyway, hanging out behind Java Jive was like hanging out in your own backyard. It was always a great escape. Unless you got stung by a bee and nearly died, of course.

It wasn't long after I'd sat on the grass that Pete showed up and plopped down next to me. “I saw you through the office window. You look like you're a million miles away.”

Truthfully, I was. I wrinkled my nose at him. “Just trying to stuff Redheaded She-Devil back into her cage. I can't believe my first official managerial duty was to stab a guy with an EpiPen to save him from anaphylactic shock.”

Patting me on the back, he said, “It was good that you were here. The rest of us might not have realized what was going on.”

“I guess.” I ran my hand through my hair in frustration. Turning to him, I asked earnestly, “Pete, do you think I'm ever going to connect with the staff? I think they hate me.”

“You've only been here a few hours, during which you ripped all of them a new one. Give them some time.” He was trying to hide a smile, but failing miserably. “I have to know. Did you really tell Dave to get his dirty ass off the prep table?”

I closed my eyes. “You heard?”

“He tattled on you.”

“Dave can suck it.”

He laughed. “I have no doubt that you two will figure each other out sooner or later. It'll just take a little time.”

I gave him a sideways glance. “You're not much help, you know that?”

“I'm a musician, not a restaurateur. And so are you, for that matter. Not that I don't need you here, but when are you going to get your head out of your ass and go back to performing?”

“Pete,”
I warned. I didn't want to talk about it.

“Okay, okay. I'm sorry.” He paused, his expression and voice becoming wistful. “I just miss hearing you sing, that's all.”

I didn't respond. I couldn't. That one hit me in the gut. I wanted to sing onstage again so badly. I really did—performing was what I had intended to do with my life. I just couldn't. I was too scared. Forgetting the lyrics to a
song you wrote
in front of hundreds of people can do that to a person.