Marvels, Mochas, and Murder Read online

  I had almost forgotten Jill’s promise to swing by when Marc showed up—somehow he managed to time it perfectly. Sarah came in as my relief. And the two of us, Marc and I, found a booth at the corner beside the comics section.

  “That was a good time last night,” Marc told me as if I hadn’t been there at all.

  “Yeah… I remember.”

  “No, no,” he waved me off, “after you left.”

  “Yeah?” I tried to sound interested. But really, I wasn’t interested at all.

  “Yeah, uh,” he stumbled over his words, “Jill Thompson came by. We did some shots. You remember Jill, right?”

  Now I was interested. And I wondered how clueless Marc was. Had he not heard who Ryan had been with right before his death? Was Marc really that dense, or was he just uninterested in the case?

  “I remember Jill,” I said shortly. “And isn’t it Jill Adams now?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. But she’s divorced. It might as well be Thompson again.” He sat there contemplative, obviously remembering back to the day he had sold Ryan and me out—the day Corey Ottley hit Ryan instead of me. Now it seemed Corey had done a whole lot worse to both of us.

  “So, what was so fun?” I asked.

  Marc shrugged. “It was just a good time. Tim and I ended the night back at Mo’s Hideaway. They’re open until 2:00 on Fridays. Slices as big as your head.”

  Mo’s Hideaway was the local pizzeria—the perfect crust plus a cheese to red sauce ratio that is so spot on it’s criminal. Just thinking about it, combined with it being the lunch hour, made my stomach do somersaults.

  “Did Jill go with you?” I asked, trying to sound disinterested. Maybe a hangover explained why she’d yet to show.

  “Oh, no,” Marc shook his head as if I’d asked the wrong question. “She left well before that.”

  Then why hadn’t she shown?

  I wondered if Marc was here for a reason, or was he just here to tell me how much fun I’d missed? The latter wouldn’t surprise me a bit. And as far as I knew, Marc had yet to order a coffee. Ever. And I knew his comics folder was empty.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I heard about last night. Your car accident.”

  “Accident? It wasn’t an accident.”

  “Oh, whatever you want to call it.” He waved me off again. “But that’s not it. I heard they took Corey in for questioning.”

  Marc smiled—he actually smiled. “What an idiot,” he said, the grin growing broader. “I’ve always known the dude can’t hold his booze. But I never thought he’d do something that idiotic.”

  Like try to kill me? I wondered. But Marc hadn’t put together all the pieces. And I wasn’t ready to tell Marc about Corey’s connection with Ryan’s murder. I’d wait and let the paper, or more likely, the Niilhaasi rumor mill do its job.

  “Yeah,” I agreed halfheartedly, hoping to find my way out of the conversation and to lunch.

  “There’s just one thing I don’t get,” Marc said. “I could swear he left a good while after you did.”

  “You mean, he was at the wake?” This was news to me.

  “Of course he was.” Marc looked at me skeptically. “The whole town was there. In fact, I remember, he was talking to that girl Robin while we were playing darts. You know Robin, the one Ryan was, ya know—”

  “I know,” I cut him off.

  I set off toward Mo’s Hideaway pondering things. Luckily, the hideaway was just a short jaunt away, walkable. It wasn’t necessarily a hideaway, but it was on a less traveled thoroughfare, and its outside seating took most of the space of what had once been an alley. It was now closed off on the other end.

  I bought a slice and made one of the worn picnic tables my own.

  So, Robin Snider was at the wake, too, I thought, tearing a strand of melted cheese from between my chin and the slice. At least her intentions were noble, or partially so—she’d just lost a lover after all, or a recent lover.

  Corey on the other hand… Well, I couldn’t believe how brash he’d been even to show up. I wondered, what had driven him to the edge? Killing Ryan, attempting to set me up… At least it was over. Relief that he was in police custody washed over me.

  I walked back to the shop, ready to put it all behind me. It was time to figure out how to run Kapow Koffee without Ryan. I wasn’t going to lie, not even to myself, a small part of me wanted to cut the comics side—to focus on coffee. But it just didn’t feel right, not now. I was going to make this work. Even if it killed me.

  Sarah kindly showed me how the ordering system worked—how she even knew was beyond me. But her shift ended far too soon, and one of the quitters, Jason, came in to help with the last shift. He had begged for his job back. And by begged, I mean he asked, saying that he’d assumed the wrong things, and that he was sorry about Ryan.

  I was still at least two staff short of where I’d like to be, and Sarah had essentially become assistant manager without the title or pay increase, things I would soon rectify. But it was a short-term solution. When summer ended, I couldn’t count on her to stay. I moved hiring up on my ever-growing list of things to do.

  That night, I stayed in with Gambit. Without a car, there was nowhere much to go. The nightlife on Main Street was nonexistent as people preferred to be closer to the bay to eat, drink, and be merry.

  The dog and I had found some semblance of a routine, a pattern of me feeding him and him claiming every piece of furniture as his own. He liked to sleep in the middle of the bed, under the covers. He made funny noises when he dreamed. And he grunted when landing from a jump off the bed.

  But there was something truly special about Gambit, something so hidden, I couldn’t figure out what it was. I just liked him. We bonded more and more each day.

  To my amazement, on Sunday, the dog finally allowed me to get some rest. We were both roused late in the morning to knocking on the store’s front door. The shop was closed. No Ryan, and lack of staff, demanded at least one day of rest.

  I hoped this patron would read the sign and leave. I gave them a few minutes to do so before grudgingly getting out of bed, slipping on some clothes, and making my way downstairs.

  To my surprise, Felicia Strong stood outside the shop. And holding her hand looking up at her was a young girl who had to be her daughter. The girl looked like her mini-me, the same curly brown hair, dark eyes, the same slender nose.

  I unlocked the door, smiling, and allowed them inside.

  “You’re closed on Sunday?” She sounded heartbroken.

  “New hours,” I chuckled, “but I’m happy to make you a mocha. What about for you?” I asked her little girl. “Hot chocolate?”

  Felicia’s daughter was immediately transfixed by the dog. And Gambit, ever aware of the situation—especially when it went in his favor—retrieved his faded yellow tennis ball. He was ready to play.

  The little girl looked up at me. “No,” she said, “that’s okay. I’ll have an iced upside-down caramel macchiato, double caramel, and an extra shot of espresso.”

  “Neena! You will not.” Felicia scolded.

  “Nana lets me.”

  Felicia sighed. “My mother takes her to the Starbucks at the outlets—a forty-five minute drive for coffee. She’s six—she doesn’t need the caffeine.”

  “Plus, it’s probably a thousand calories.”

  “Seriously? Well, maybe she does need it. The girl doesn’t eat.”

  “I do too!” Neena argued. “I just don’t like the food at your house.”

  Felicia sighed again. “It’s our house.”

  “I really don’t mind,” I said, inching toward the espresso machine and out of this mother daughter feud.

  “Go ahead,” Felicia agreed exasperatedly, then she joined Neena.

  They threw the ball, and the dachshund sprinted back and forth through the shop. I put both their drinks in to go cups, made myself a double shot of espresso, and joined them on the floor.

  “So, is this purely a coffee visit?” I asked. �
�I heard you apprehended Corey.”

  “Yeah, they did,” Felicia emphasized the fact she wasn’t involved with it. “It’s purely a traffic incident right now. They found some damage to his vehicle in line with your accident and brought him up on reckless driving charges. I’m sure you’ll get a call today from one of the unis about additional charges that you can press.”

  “Okay. But what about the murder?”

  “The murder?” she exclaimed. “Kirby, there’s nothing that ties Corey to the murder. A crush in high school and a traffic accident aren’t much to go on—”

  “Come on,” I countered. “You know it was more than a crush. There’s more to this, I’m sure. He did it! And he tried to pin it on me.”

  “Kirby, that’s my job to figure out. And I just don’t see it that way. I think it’s best you stick to selling coffee.”

  “Sure,” I agreed grudgingly.

  “Whatever happened with Jill?” Felicia asked. “Anything come of your little rendezvous?”

  “She never showed up yesterday.” I pursed my lips in agitation. “I figure maybe she got cold feet.”

  “Maybe.” Felicia nodded. When she saw my imploring look, she said, “I’ll look into it. Or I’ll try. But if she doesn’t want to talk, I can’t make her. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  We sat there playing ball with Gambit for a few more minutes in silence. Neena enjoyed her drink—or seemed to.

  “Hey, Kirby,” Felicia finally said, giving the ball a nice bouncy throw, “you were in the Air Force, right?”

  I bobbed my head once, wondering where this was headed.

  “Listen, I joined a new gym last week. Maybe you’d be interested. You did P.T. in the Air Force, right?”

  “We did,” I said slowly, “but only twice a week. It’s not exactly like the Marines or the Army.”

  “Oh,” she said with disappointment. “Well, this stuff’s a bit intense. It’s called CrossFit. The owner, Rob, is looking for new members. There’s a class pretty early, before the shop opens, if you’re interested.”

  “Like tomorrow?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Like every weekday. I’ll be there tomorrow. I can introduce you.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said. “Where exactly is this place?”

  “You know the movers and self-storage place on the edge of town—Richards’ Heavy Lifting?” I nodded. “Well, it’s Rob Richards; he runs it from one of the units.”

  “Interesting,” I said, not truly as interested as I sounded. What I meant was more akin to “that sounds awful.” Even without the sun up in the morning, Florida was a humid sweat lodge. I knew that place didn’t have air-conditioned units—it was one of my parent’s gripes when they’d moved to Costa Rica.

  But as I watched Felicia and Neena leave, I did think about it. I thought a lot about it. A lot a lot. The idea of seeing Felicia more regularly, and in workout clothes, not in her suit with a badge on her belt. Well, it made the decision easy. The workout the next morning? Not so much.

  11

  “Great workout,” I said through heaving breaths.

  Felicia’s cheeks were flushed, her brow beaded with sweat, but she was barely winded. She waved at me, grabbed a gym towel from her workout bag, and dragged it across her forehead. “Pretty good for your first day,” she told me.

  It was a lie. In no way was that workout good for me or for anyone. I felt like I was going to pass out. I wanted to curl myself into a ball and lie on the floor for a while. Everyone was faster than me. They lifted more weight—Felicia exactly twice as much weight as me. I’d never seen cardio combined with weightlifting before. I thought they were two separate events—first, you lift, then you walk on a treadmill or something.

  Well, not at CrossFit.

  The box—what the members called the gym—was just that, a box. Rob used one of his larger storage units to store the equipment and host the class. And there were no treadmills, stair climbers, none of that. Instead, I found multi-purpose power racks, meant for squatting, bench press, or other lifts, with pull-up bars atop them. Despite these racks, the barbells we had to lift from the floor and get over our head. There were rowing machines, and a few heavy-duty tires—the size used on a monster truck—except these were for flipping.

  I also found out Rob was the husband of Jen from Jenny’s Scrapbooking, the store next-door to mine. Rob was lean with a waist the size of my neck and arms the size of my legs. His own legs, though, were thick and round. He taught the class sipping from a protein shake that looked like a concoction of coffee with something like chocolate chips settled on the bottom.

  As we exited toward her car, the sun was peeking through the bottom of the pine trees. I’d had to text Felicia on her personal number for the first time, and ask for a ride. It’d be days before I could pick up the Golf. Dusty said they had to special order a part, which wasn’t all that surprising. The closest Volkswagen dealership was over a hundred miles away.

  So, I fell into Felicia’s unmarked police car, still a bit winded, and cognizant of the smell—or rather, my smell.

  “I tried calling Jill last night, texted a couple times, too.” It was an odd way to start, or finish, a conversation. Sort of abrupt and in the middle.

  But Felicia was tracking.

  “I tried, too,” she admitted. “In fact, I called up to the hospital. She missed her shift last night.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t tell if my heart was beating faster, or if this was normal because of the working out. Either way, it rumbled in my chest.

  “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. People miss work all the time.” She hesitated. “They did say this was a first—she didn’t even call in sick. Just a no show.”

  “So, is she missing?” I asked. “Do I have to wait twenty-four hours or something?”

  “We don’t know that she’s missing. She could be at home, not returning calls. But anyway,” Felicia tucked some unruly curls behind her ear, pulling into one of the parking spaces in front of the shop, “there’s no waiting period. So, if someone were to think that she’s missing, all they have to do is report it.”

  “Are you saying I should go check—”

  “I’m not saying anything.”

  “It sounded a lot like you said I should go check.”

  “Kirby, you do you,” Felicia said. “If that’s what you want to do, do it. But be safe. We still haven’t found the killer.”

  “You mean you haven’t apprehended him.” I replied cynically. “Don’t worry, I’ll be on the lookout for Corvettes.”

  “All right,” she said again, sighing. Then I shut the door of her unmarked Impala.

  The shop was open fifteen minutes later, or fifteen minutes late—there was no one there that early to judge.

  As Mondays typically went, a steady trickle of customers turned to a flood by early afternoon. Back to work and fighting their weekend hangovers, everyone was in need of their caffeine fix.

  Sarah took over as barista while Jason took over at cashier, and I was freed to go check on Jill. This after having to non-discretely ask Marc where she lived.

  I took a ride share via HytchHiker, which was similar to all the other ride sharing apps. Only a handful of drivers lit up the screen. Like everything in Niilhaasi, the offerings were small. A kid named Neil pulled up in a silver Prius.

  And by kid, I mean he looked around the same age as Sarah, so in college, or just out of high school. Mousy hair twisted around his wide oval face. He was nice enough. The car was clean. He even offered me a bottled water.

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself.” Neil did a half shrug and put the car into drive. “No one ever takes the water.”

  “Really? No one?” I was honestly curious. Niilhaasi wasn’t a hotbed of activity. “How many rides do you get in a day?”

  I thought maybe Neil saw more action on Gaiman Island.

  “Honestly?” he said. “You’re my first hiker since, uh,
last Monday night.”

  “A week ago?” I said quickly.

  “Yeah, I guess it has been a week. It’s not like I’m always out looking for rides though. I usually flip it on when I’m out and about—I was just headed to Publix when you put out a thumb.”

  The app lingo was distractingly funny, but my mind was focused on the date. The last time this kid had shared a ride just so happened to be the night Ryan was murdered.

  Could it possibly be a coincidence?

  “And where were you headed the other night? I mean, last week, when you had the other, uh, hiker?”

  “Oh, man, it was late. I work my other job out at the outlets, and we don’t close until midnight. Got to milk those tourists for all they got in the summer.” He rubbed his fingers together in a mocking gesture. “It’s funny, milk, because I work at Starbucks.”

  “Well, it’s less funny when you have to explain the joke,” I joked.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” he conceded. “I just hate the tourists, ya know?”

  I shrugged. Tourists helped our economy. That was business 101.

  “Well, anyway, you’ll probably think this is lame, but I went to one of my coworker’s houses.” He gave me an odd look. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s a dude. And no no, I’m not like that either. We just had a beer and played XBox. So, it was fairly late when I drove back here. I think I just had the app on because of habit.”

  Neil talked with his hands. And the car swerved with each motion. Not an ideal thing when going over a bridge. To one side there were oncoming cars, to the other, my side, a concrete barrier and murky water.

  “In fact,” he continued, “the dude I drove that night had to be a tourist, too. Wanted a lift all the way over here to the island from around Main. Just like you.”

  “Really, from Main?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” Neil nodded. “Just like you,” he said again, “over close to that comic shop.”

  My comic book shop.

  My heart began to beat as hard as it had that morning.