Cappuccinos, Cupcakes, and a Corpse (A Cape Bay Cafe Mystery Book 1)

T
his is a work of fiction
. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

CAPPUCCINOS, CUPCAKES, AND A CORPSE Copyright © 2015 by Harper Lin.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

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ww.harperlin.com

I
was bent over a cappuccino
, carefully moving my milk pitcher to etch a design into the foam, when Mrs. D’Angelo burst into the café.

“Francesca!” she exclaimed so loudly that I jumped, pouring milk across the center of my design and out onto the saucer and counter.

I sighed and put down the milk pitcher, then plastered on a huge smile before looking up at her. “Mrs. D’Angelo!” I tried to sound happy despite having ruined my almost-finished cappuccino.

“Francesca!” she said again, coming around the counter. She grabbed my hands. “How
are
you, dear? Oh, you poor thing! I’ve been so worried about you!” She put one hand on my cheek, still managing to grasp both of mine in her other hand. She was exceptionally strong for an older woman. “You precious dear!”

I tried to keep the happy look on my face as I took half a step back, but some glimmer of distress must have flickered through my eyes because Mrs. D’Angelo pulled me into a tight hug.

“No, no, no, you dear girl, you come here!” She held me in such a way that my hands were pinned up by my shoulders, as if I had been raising them in surrender when she moved in.

I patted the woman’s shoulders feebly with the slight range of motion I had in my wrists.

“You don’t have to be strong, Francesca! You don’t have to be strong!” she murmured.

At that moment, I wished I was strong—strong enough to break away from her grip. I caught the eye of one of my employees coming out of the backroom and sent her a “help me!” message with my eyes.

“Mrs. D’Angelo? Is that you?” Sammy asked, putting her hand lightly on Mrs. D’Angelo’s back.

Mrs. D’Angelo mercifully let me go and turned her fountain of emotion in Sammy’s direction. “Oh, Samantha!” She put one hand on Sammy’s upper arm and her left one gripped mine. Her long red fingernails dug enthusiastically into our flesh. She looked between the two of us. “Samantha, I’m so glad Francesca here has you to help her through this difficult time. She needs good friends like you now more than ever.” She rubbed my arm as she spoke, a welcome relief from her talon-like grasp.

“I’m doing all I can to help her out.” Sammy smiled at the older woman.

“I’m sure you are, dear,” Mrs. D’Angelo cooed. She turned back to me. “Do you need anything else? If there’s anything you need, you know you can come to me or to any of us in the Ladies Auxiliary, and we’ll do absolutely whatever we can to help you. We owe it to your dear mother’s memory, God rest her soul, to help her dear Francesca.” Mrs. D’Angelo crossed herself reflexively as she referred to my mother, releasing Sammy in the process.

Sammy took advantage of the freedom and stepped quickly over to the register, where customers were getting impatient, leaving me to deal with Mrs. D’Angelo and her monologue and grasping hands. I gave Sammy a look, and she smiled at me. She’d hear about it later, that was for sure. But for now, she was the lucky one getting back to work.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the tourist whose cappuccino I had been working on when Mrs. D’Angelo rushed in, impatiently tapping his fingers on the marble-topped table where he was sitting.

I looked helplessly at him then back at his cappuccino. “Mrs. D’Angelo—”

“Now, now, dear,” she went on, oblivious to the fact that I was trying to escape. “No objections. None of us would have it any other way. Anything for our dear Carmella’s daughter. Now, what time is it?” She looked at her watch. “Oh, heavens, I didn’t even realize! I’m due at the library for our Genealogy Society meeting! I have to run!” She hurried back around the counter toward the door. “Now, don’t forget what I said, Francesca dear! Anything you need!” And she was gone, in as much of a whirlwind as she’d arrived, leaving only a cloud of her floral perfume and some red fingernail prints in our arms.

I sighed as I began a fresh cappuccino for the man who was still waiting impatiently for his drink. Not that I could blame him.

“I need a nap after that!” I whispered to Sammy as we moved around each other in the small drink prep area. “That woman has more energy in her seventies than I’ve had in my entire life!”

Sammy giggled. “I think she gets it from exhausting other people.”

I bent over the steaming cappuccino, carefully crafting a rose in the foam. I tried not to rush, but I could feel the man’s eyes boring into the top of my skull as I worked. I finally put down the milk pitcher and stood back to assess my handiwork. Certainly not my best, but it was still better than a person could find anywhere else in town, or in most places on the Massachusetts coast.

I picked up the mug and saucer and carefully walked them around the counter to the man who had ordered the drink. I set it gently on the table in front of him, positioned perfectly so he’d have the best view of my creation. “So sorry about the wait, sir. My apologies.” I gave him my very best café-owner smile.

“I hope it don’t always take this long,” he grunted. He took a drink without even glancing at the rose I’d crafted.

I smiled sweetly. “I really am very sorry, sir.”
Rude.
I turned to go back around the counter.
I should have known that when I saw the Yankees jersey.

Despite living in New York City for years before moving back home, I’ve always been a Massachusetts girl at heart, and during baseball season, I bleed Boston Red Sox red. Well, I suppose everyone bleeds red, but that just shows how much better the Red Sox are than our rivals to the south. No one
literally
bleeds Yankee blue.

I took up my post in front of the espresso machine, wiping things down while I waited for the next order.

Sammy worked the cash register and called out the next drinks to make just seconds later. “I need two lattes, please!”

I set about making the drinks, brainstorming what I would design in their foam as I worked. I steamed the milk for the first drink, getting it about halfway finished before I pulled the espresso. The timing had to be perfect or the espresso would get bitter. Fortunately, I’d been making cappuccinos since I could see over the counter, so it was second nature to me. I decided on coordinating sun and starburst patterns. I made the sun design first, pouring the center circle of foam then using a toothpick to draw out the rays. Finishing that, I moved on to the starburst.

Work, except for Mrs. D’Angelo’s interruption, was a cherished distraction from the circumstances that had brought me back to my hometown on the Massachusetts coast. This café had been in my family for three generations. First it had belonged to my grandparents, who opened it shortly after arriving from Italy almost seventy years ago. My mother grew up here, making coffee and cannoli alongside her parents. It was her sanctuary when her marriage fell apart and she needed a way to support herself and her young daughter. Now it’s my sanctuary.

Like a lot of people who grew up in this town, I left for college and didn’t come back. Not for a long time, anyway. I went to school in Boston and got a job working in public relations in New York. The hours were long, and the competition was fierce. I was happy at first, but it wore on me over time. I managed to carve out a personal life in what little free time I had, dating then getting engaged to a guy I thought was the man of my dreams.
Thought
being the key word.

He broke my heart, removing his things from the apartment we shared, the apartment I couldn’t afford on my own, and running off with a girl from his office. I’d cried for days, pulling it together just enough to go to work, then coming home and crying some more while I packed up my own things so I could move into a new apartment when I found one. I spent hours on the phone with my mother.

“Francesca, come
home
,” she’d say and tell me how the café had saved her when she’d been in my position so many years ago.

But I didn’t listen. I stayed in New York to fight for what was left of my life.

And then my mother died.

I quit my job, broke my lease, and moved back to the Massachusetts coast. I buried my mother, moved into the house where my grandparents had raised my mother and me, and stepped back behind the counter at Antonia’s Italian Café as if I had never left.

So there I was, two weeks later, back in the place where I had spent the better part of my thirty-four years, creating intricate designs in the artisan cappuccinos our café had always specialized in. It wasn’t a terribly big place, just ten two-top tables along the exposed brick walls and ten oversized armchairs arranged in groups and nestled into cozy corners. All the tables and chairs were mismatched because my grandparents hadn’t been able to afford coordinating furniture when they first opened the café. My grandmother had frequented estate sales and auctions, picking up one table or chair at a time until the space was full. They’re pretty old, but my mother had maintained them by reupholstering any that needed rejuvenating. It was an eclectic mix, but it gave off a surprisingly cozy, homey feel.

Compared to Antonia’s, the stylish coffee shops I’d visited in New York seemed sterile and severe. And of course the burnt dirt water they served and tried to call coffee was even worse than it sounded when compared to the drinks my family proudly made. Don’t get me wrong, plenty of little family-owned diners in New York can make a great cup of coffee, but when you got into the espresso drinks the fancier places tried to serve, that was when you got bilge water. My grandparents would roll over in their graves if I ever even thought about bringing in pre-roasted beans, let alone pre-ground ones. That was part of the magic of Antonia’s—we did everything, from start to finish. Our milk even came from local dairy farms.

Our coffee wasn’t the only thing that kept people coming in. We served some food, mostly desserts and sandwiches, but it was really the way we catered to our customers that kept us busy. The café was popular with book clubs, partly because of our coffee, partly because of the comfortable chairs, and partly because we let them drag the tables and chairs around however they wanted. As long as they bought something and didn’t violate fire code, we were more than happy to accommodate them. My mother had even encouraged them to place their orders ahead of time so we could have everything ready when they came in. Even without the book clubs, we stayed busy, especially during the summer tourist season.

I finished the second drink and passed them to Sammy to deliver to the customers’ table. Finally, I got a moment to catch my breath.

As Mrs. D’Angelo had said, Sammy really had been a lifesaver since my arrival back in Cape Bay. She had worked alongside my mother for years—since Sammy was in high school actually—and she knew the café like the back of her hand. In my first few days back, she had helped me learn the new cash register, taught me the stocking and ordering procedures, and generally followed me to make sure I didn’t make a mess of things. Now I relied on her the same way my mother had, working side-by-side to keep the café humming along smoothly. We had some part-time help from a couple of teenagers out of school for summer vacation, but the two of us, plus our two bakers, carried the bulk of the load, and it was going great. Except, of course, when someone came along and started talking about my mother. At those times, the reality and freshness of her death hit me, and focusing on my work became infinitely harder.

“I’m going to take a break,” I told Sammy as she came back around the corner.

She looked at me, her eyebrows drawn together. “Are you okay?”

I usually took a lunch break and not much else, so this was unusual. “Yeah, I just need to get some air.”

I pulled off the apron I wore to protect my sleek black clothing, which was the uniform of the New York City public relations world, as I stepped into the backroom. Outside, I took a deep breath. We were in town, but the tang of the salt air was still strong. It felt good in my lungs. It was the smell of my home and childhood. It made me happy to be back and nostalgic for what I had lost. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the café’s brick wall. I must have been out there longer than I thought, because the next thing I knew, Sammy poked her head out the door.

“Francesca?” she called quietly.

“Hmm?” I murmured, my eyes still closed.

“Why don’t you get out of here? You’ve been working nonstop since you got back. You deserve some time off.”

I’d been in the café from open to close since the day after my mother’s funeral, but that was the way I wanted it. If I stayed busy enough, I couldn’t think. “I can’t. I can’t leave you here alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I already called Becky to come in. You need the rest.”

I opened my eyes and looked at her. She had one hand on her hip and was holding the door open with the other. Wisps of her long blond hair had escaped the low ponytail she always wore at work and were swirling around her head in the breeze. Despite the golden halo effect her hair was giving her, she had a stern expression to go with her assertive posture. She didn’t look as if she would take no for an answer. I sighed and looked at my watch. Three hours to close. Going home now wouldn’t be the end of the world. I could make myself some dinner, take a long bath, maybe go to bed a little early. It would be a treat.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yup. In fact”—she leaned to look around me at the parking lot on my other side—“I think I see Becky pulling up now.” She waved at me. “So go on, get out of here.”

I had to admit she was right. I sighed and pushed myself off the building. “Okay, you got me. I’ll go home. Let me just get my purse.”

Sammy patted my back as I walked past her. “You’ll thank me for it tomorrow.”

I fished my Italian leather purse out of the cabinet where we kept our personal belongings while we’re working and slid it onto my shoulder. My mother and grandmother had never cared much for fashion or labels, but they had instilled a firm belief in Italian leather in me. Shoes, bags, belts, wallets—all leather goods had to be imported from Italy. Nothing else was good enough. Even after all my years in New York, surrounded by devotees of French red-soled Louboutins, I still swore by Ferragamo, Prada, Gucci, and Bottega Veneta.