Uncommon Grounds (4 page)

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. Can 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 five.”

“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.

Putting that aside for the time being, I climbed into the van and tried to give some thought to more pressing matters.

Patricia had been electrocuted. By the espresso machine. And someone had caused it to happen. Did that mean murder? Or some perverted practical joke that had gone awry?

Through the front window of the store, I could see Kevin showing Pavlik the heavy wire that connected the espresso machine to the dedicated 220 circuit.

I hadn’t liked the way Pavlik had watched me as I answered his questions. Did he seriously consider me a suspect? I shuddered. No, I didn’t want to think about that one either.

I retrieved my tax papers from the back seat and climbed out of the van. The library was just down the block, so I might as well drop the papers off with Mary now. Then on the way home, I’d stop and talk to Caron. Or try to talk to Caron.

If Laurel was an information pipeline, Mary was the Internet. Between her job as head librarian and part-time CPA work, she knew just about everything there was to know about the denizens of Brookhills.

She was at the reference desk when I entered the Brookhills Public Library, a small, but exceedingly well-stocked one. Mary was small and efficient, too—a tiny woman with the sweet round face that seems to come with being a genuine blonde. In Mary’s case, that sweet face was deceptive. She ran a tight ship at the library and an even tighter one when it came to her accounting clients, the more foolish of whom she referred to as “H&R Blockheads.”