A Cup of Jo (17 page)

I saw Amy, still at the table with Jerome and Christy, pull her phone out of her apron pocket. Calling for reinforcements? Maybe, but who? And from where?

The last thing we needed was the police showing up. For all I knew, Pavlik
was
a fugitive. He hadn't quite said that, but then, as my law-enforcement lover was wont to remind me, I hadn't asked, either.

I stepped around the corner to face down the Twitterazzi. 'What's going on here?'

Most of the group backed off a little, but Sophie stayed where she was. 'We have reports the sheriff is here, Maggy. Don't deny it.' Her cellphone was raised up as a second advocate. 'We have eyes everywhere.'

Then Sophie's phone rang.

Within three seconds, the rest of the phones had followed suit.

Flip-phones flipping all around us. A great example of higher technology falling into the wrong hands.

'Schultz's Market,' a woman in a pink bike helmet yelled. 'C'mon, that's Brookhill Road.'

And then they were gone.

An eerie silence settled inside. Outside cars came roaring to life, punctuated by the sputtering sound of a single Vespa being kick-started.

Christy rushed to the window. 'Gone. Nobody in sight.'

'What happened?' Sarah asked.

Jerome and Amy were giggling.

'What's so funny?' I asked, going over to them.

Amy held up her phone. Its small screen read 'Pavlik at Schulz. Now.'

'He's. . .?' I consciously avoided looking back toward where Pavlik was. Or, at least, where I'd left him.

Amy escalated from giggles to a deep, musical laugh. Unable to talk, she gestured that Jerome take over.

'Amy tweeted them,' he said, a proud smile on his face.

'Tweeted them?'

'With a Pavlik spotting,' Amy finally managed. She took back her phone. 'I can do one for you, too, if you'd like.'

'Only if you can transport me fifty miles from here with that thing,' I said. 'But, thank you. That was a brilliant diversion.'

'Brilliant?' Sarah said, commandeering the cell. 'It's beyond brilliant. We can keep those old birds scurrying all over town, run them into the ground.'

'Now, Sarah. Be nice.' I turned to Amy. 'And for your reward, why don't you take off?'

'You're letting her leave early?' Sarah seemed shocked. Or maybe jealous.

'Sure. She'll be back to open with you in the morning. You and I can hold the fort for the rest of the afternoon.'

My partner seemed less certain.

'I can help,' Christy said, raising her hand.

'You?' Sarah started. 'That's ri—'

'Really generous, Christy.' I said quickly. Sarah sent me a dirty look.

'Now you . . .' I stopped myself before I finished with 'two kids run along', like some inter-meddling spinster.

'Two kids run along?' Christy said, pulling off her gloves.

'What are you doing?' Sarah asked suspiciously of Christy as Amy and Jerome broke for the door.

'Going to wash my hands, of course.' Christy pulled a new pair of gloves from her pocket.

'You're washing your hands before you put on . . .?' Sarah was floundering beyond her depth as I ducked into the back.

'All clear,' I called to Pavlik as I passed through the kitchen and into the store room. 'Can you believe they're tracking you – us, really – on Twitter?'

No answer.

I looked around.

No Pavlik, either.

Chapter Fourteen

I returned to the front of Uncommon Grounds after checking in closets and behind doors. By the time I got to our refrigerator, I was feeling foolish, so I skipped that.

The sheriff had likely left via the kitchen door into the hallway and then on to the boarding platform, while I was keeping the elderly players from Team Pavlik occupied. Good plan. I just hoped he hadn't stopped at Schultz's Market to get something for dinner.

'Lose something?' Sarah asked.

'Just the usual,' I answered. 'What's she doing?'

Christy was on her hands and knees next to our condiment cart.

'Scrubbing the wheels. She said they were, and I quote, "a disgrace".'

'That cart is brand new,' I pointed out. 'We've used it for all of three days.'

'Three days too many, evidently.' Sarah was watching the process, arms folded. 'Think maybe Christy'll wash the floors, too?'

'I think she'll clean anything that can't move away from her.' Which might explain the woman's fascination with Ronny Eisvogel.

As if on cue, Christy straightened up, toothbrush in hand. 'These wheels are lint magnets over the carpeted area. You really should watch that.'

What can be said, except: 'Thank you.'

'You're welcome.' Christy moved on to the next caster on the cart.

'So I'm assuming Pavlik is gone?' Sarah asked.

I nodded meaningful at Christy.

'She can't hear us,' Sarah said. 'She's in the zone. A bomb could go off under the espresso machine, and Christy wouldn't miss a stroke. Just mop up the blood splatter and move on.'

'Pavlik must have pulled the ripcord when I went out front.'

'He's a smart guy, probably cell-monitoring the biddies following him on Twitter. That way he knows where not to be.'

I didn't understand much about the technology, but I got the gist of what Sarah was saying. 'Maybe I should do the same. They're keeping track of me, too.'

'You? I can understand Pavlik – he's hot. But why would anybody be interested in
you
?'

I tried to rise above Sarah's slight. 'According to Sophie, they don't want to miss the next time I trip over a body.'

'Those old Twiddies start after you, just lead them in circles. One's bound to drop eventually and there'll be their corpse. Instant gratification.'

'Nice image.' I looked at the Brookhills clock on the wall. Nearly four p.m. 'Here's an idea. Why don't you and I leave Christy to her cleaning so we can gather some goodies for people to sample when they get off the train?'

'Won't help much if they don't come in.'

'So, let's go to them. We'll cut up sandwiches and anything else that lends itself—'

'Tien made focaccia.'

'Perfect.'

'Hmm. Maybe the reverse of what we set up on the front porch for Dedication Day? A table on the back platform they'll be forced to pass on their way to the parking lot?' Sarah was clearly warming to the idea.

As I led the way toward the kitchen, I saw Christy cleaning the crack between the baseboard and the floor with a table knife. And not one of ours. Apparently Yellow Gloves came equipped with her own cleaning supplies.

'She doesn't have to do that,' I said, starting over to her.

Sarah grabbed my arm. 'Have you lost your mind? Leave her alone in here for an hour and the place'll be spotless.'

'It already
is
spotless.' I kicked a coffee bean under the counter, but the thing ricocheted and came tumbling back out.

'Don't move,' Christy's voice said. She was advancing on me with the knife.

Granted, it may be just flatware, but it was still a blade. And Christy
was
a tad crazy.

I stepped back.
Crunch
.

'I
told
you not to move.' For the second time that afternoon, Christy looked like she was going to cry. 'It's so much easier to pick up a whole coffee bean than the remains of a crushed one.'

Looking down, I saw her point. The bean – French Roast, by its color – was pretty much pulverized.

'Not a big deal,' I said. 'Let me vacuum the—'

'Don't touch it,' Christy ordered.

Her tone reminded me of Brewster Hampton, when Art Jenada had approached JoLynne's body. Except then, of course, it had been 'her' rather than 'it'. Even after someone's dead, we don't seem to feel comfortable referring to his or her corpse as 'it'. Plus, Brewster didn't know JoLynne was dead. No one did.

Except, presumably, the killer.

Christy was using an antiseptic wipe to gather up the fragments of bean. '. . . and just blow the dirt around. Like taking a bath and then wallowing in your own filth.' She shuddered.

I looked at Sarah.

'A soliloquy on vacuum cleaners, I think.' She shrugged. 'Shall we leave her to it?'

You betcha. 'Christy, yell if anyone comes in.'

But she was still going on. '. . . and feather dusters. Besides the fact you're sending the dust airborne to land somewhere else, who knows where those birds were mucking around? Or what they were doing there?'

'OK. Well, thanks.' I looked at Sarah. 'Let's get the hell out of Dodge.'

'Speaking of Dodge,' Sarah said, following me into the kitchen, 'you didn't tell me about your visit with our sheriff.'

'No, I didn't.' I unwrapped the focaccia. Tien had topped the flat oven-baked bread with caramelized onions and roasted red peppers. 'This looks delicious.'

Sarah snorted. 'Just an anemic pizza with a fancy name. Which reminds me. Why don't you come over tonight and we'll order one. A real pizza, I mean. Give us a chance to talk.'

I looked at her suspiciously. 'You want to pump your business partner for information. I'm telling you right now, I don't know anything.'

'But maybe I do,' Sarah said cryptically.

I knew she was baiting me, but a girl still has to eat. 'I'll come over, but only if we order something else. I just had pizza with Pavlik.'

'Speaking of whom—'

'Later. Maybe. Now help me cut these.'

By five o'clock we had the plates of focaccia ready, along with triangle sandwiches of chicken salad and roast beef.

'I don't know why you insist on trimming off the crusts,' Sarah grumbled as she swept the offending bread borders into a trash basket.

'Because the sandwiches look symmetrical. And more appetizing.' I put the last triangle nose-up on the serving platter and stood back to admire our handiwork. 'Now, how's that?'

'Fabulous. Until somebody plucks one off the platter. Then your perfect lines of finger food will domino down, and this plate'll look the same way it would have if you'd let me do the arranging.'

I ignored her and took off my apron. 'Help me move a table from the store room into the parking lot.'

'That's all you think I'm good for,' Sarah groused. 'Heavy lifting.'

'Not all.' I motioned her to the other end of the six-foot folding table. 'If you're good, I'll let you spread the tablecloth over this.'

With the table on its long edge, legs still folded, Sarah maneuvered her end out of the store room and into the space by the sink. From there, I led the way, backwards, through the kitchen, into the hallway and out the rear door, following the same route the 'Flight of the Pavlik' must have taken.

We had just cleared the doorway when Sarah dropped her end. 'God damn it. You scared the hell out of me.'

'But I didn't do anything.' I set down my end but rested a hand on it to keep the table steady. 'In fact, you almost made me drop the thing on my toes.'

'Not you, you idiot.' She pointed. 'Him.'

Again with the idiot, but I turned. Ragnar. In full mime mode.

'Afternoon,' I said.

He waved, waggling his fingers the way he had while sitting in Kevin's staging truck.

'What's he doing here?' Sarah looked no happier to see the mime now than she had during his debut two days before.

And here I'd thought she'd been warming to him. 'He works for—'

Ragnar put his finger vertically to his lips. Apparently, I was supposed to shush. Then he moved his hand back and forth between us.

'Just you and me, huh?' I said, realizing he didn't want to break character. I couldn't speak for his other work, but – and this was
really
reluctant praise – Ragnar was a damned good mime.

He nodded and pointed at the table and then himself.

'Thanks, but I think we can handle it,' I said, picking up my end again and waggling it, so Sarah would take hers.

She got the hint and lifted. 'I didn't know you spoke "mime".'

'There's a lot of things about me you don't know anything about, Sarah,' I quoted. Then: 'Things you wouldn't understand.'

Ragnar chuckled. Mimes aren't supposed to chuckle. He held his thumb and index finger about an inch apart to indicate something small.

'PeeWee?' I knew where he was going, but thought it might be fun getting there. Especially with Sarah trailing cluelessly behind us.

Next, Ragnar spaced his hands far apart.

'Large?' Sarah ventured half-heartedly, still holding up her end of the table.

'Big,' I corrected.

I assume she threw me a dirty look, as Ragnar put his hand up as if to shade his eyes and scan the horizon eagerly.

'You're looking for 'adventure,' I guessed. 'As in,
PeeWee's Big Adventur
e.'

Ragnar applauded, any sound completely muffled by his white gloves.

I turned to Sarah. 'That's the movie that the line of dialogue, "there's a lot of things you don't know", came from.'

'Oh, goody. Now will you stop playing with the mime and raise your end?' Sarah said. 'This table is heavy.'

'All right, all right.' I continued backing up until we reached a patch of boarding platform near the stairs leading to the parking lot.

Sarah and I rested the table on its edge and Sarah turned to Ragnar, who had followed us out.

'You!' She waved her hands like he was a pest to be shooed away from a picnic. 'Go. You'll scare our customers.'

Sarah turned away to unfold the legs on her side of the table. When she straightened back up, the mime's nose and hers were so close they touched.

Speaking for Ragnar, I said, 'Boo!'

Another sour look from Sarah. The mime and I might be pushing our luck.

I pulled out the legs on my end and we set the table upright.

'Is Kevin with you?' I asked Ragnar, remembering the props man had said he would be giving his employee a lift.

The mime shook his head and pointed at the staging truck. Then his hands moved like he was holding a steering wheel.

'You drove,' I said, nodding. 'Are you going to start work here?' I meant instead of Milwaukee, where I assumed the rest of the crew was.

'A mime?' Sarah asked. 'We don't need no stinkin' mimes.'