Yes, it's Monday. I know. I KNOW. But I have something for you that might ease the pain a little.
We have a coda--well, not exactly a coda. More like an AU take on When Adrien Met Jake. ☺️ This is from a reader-writer-friend Christine Danse!
Christmas Shadows
Cops before the breakfast rolls were out. Before I’d started the coffeemaker, even. As if Mondays weren’t bad enough.
I let them into the café. Two
plainclothes detectives.
“If you’re looking for drip coffee,
the machine will take time to warm up. Espresso drinks only right now.”
I threw the words over my shoulder
as I walked toward the counter, which I wanted to put between me and them as
quickly as possible. A solid surface to brace myself against as they delivered
whatever bad news they had for me. It had to be bad news, if it was coming
before I’d even turned the brewer on.
“We’re not here for coffee, Mr.
English.”
“No? Donuts are down the street.”
An aborted throaty noise. Not a
laugh. It came from the taller cop.
It was an asinine thing for me to
have said. My mouth had moved on its own. Nerves.
“We’re here about your employee.
Robert Hersey.”
My heart, already pounding, gave a
sickening thud. I pressed my hand against the cool glass of the countertop and
sat on the padded stool behind it. Usually, I didn’t care about the lack of
back support. Right now, I could have used it. I could have used any support.
“What about Robert?” I asked.
The shorter, older of the two cops
watched me with intent black eyes. Next to him, the big blond detective was
taking a long look around the café, gaze raking over the tinsel garland and
hand-painted wooden ornaments—tiny books, magnifying glasses, and fedoras—like
he’d never seen Christmas decorations before. Or as if he was a Christmas
decoration judge who had never been more unimpressed.
“He’s deceased.”
At these words from Detective Chan,
the big cop—Riordan—swung his gaze to me. Tawny eyes studied my reaction. I
realized I’d been fooled. He hadn’t been writing mental citations over the
Santa bootprint decals on the wall. He’d been observing me.
“I…what?”
Riordan said, “He was found stabbed
to death last night.”
My heart gave another sickening
thump, a reindeer falling onto its side and giving a kick. I reached for the
drawer beneath the sales counter, aware of both sets of eyes watching me. I
panicked a moment when I couldn’t find what I was looking for, then exhaled as
my fingers closed around the cool plastic container of Toprol. I downed one of
the tablets, turned to the mini-fridge beneath the espresso machine, and pulled
out the first cup that came to hand.
I was expecting my leftover ginger
tea, so I grimaced at the bite of peppermint mocha. A wrong order I’d shoved in
there yesterday evening. Hell. With my surprise came a burst of dismay. I
wasn’t supposed to drink caffeine at the best of times, and it was the last
thing I needed now.
A café owner and small-batch coffee
roaster who couldn’t drink coffee. That just about summed up my life.
I only took one gulp, enough to
swallow the pill. When I was done compounding my heart problems, I pushed the
cup to the back of the fridge and nudged the door shut with my foot.
“Are you all right, Mr. English?”
Detective Chan asked, but when I looked up, it was Detective Riordan’s whiskey
gaze I met.
“What—” My voice was hoarse. I
cleared my throat. “What happened?”
They told me. They told me Robert
had been stabbed 14 times outside his apartment, and then they asked me a
series of questions. When had I last seen him? What kind of employee was he? As
a mystery author, I’d dreamed of having the opportunity to witness L.A.’s
Finest do their thing—but not like this. This was surreal. Nauseating.
“Mr. English?”
I realized I’d missed a question.
“What?”
Chan repeated, “Were you and Mr.
Hersey involved?”
“Involved?”
“Were you having sex?” Detective
Riordan enunciated.
My face warmed, my mouth went dry.
“No.”
A rainbow ornament hung just over
the cash register. Riordan reached up to flick it with one big finger, sending
it spinning.
“But you are a homosexual.”
I felt a flare of anger. Stared
Detective Riordan in the eye. “Yeah. What of it?”
I was standing outside when Riordan
arrived. Blue and red flashing lights had transformed the nighttime parking lot
into a crime scene. Police voices rose and fell, occasionally drowned by the
crackle of radios.
A door slammed. A figure that was
becoming too familiar strode toward me, briefly silhouetted by blinding
headlights.
“What’s going on?” Riordan asked. He
stepped out of the direct path of the high beams. His face resolved into
something recognizable, but it was still difficult to read him. The light threw
his features into hard relief.
“Someone put a dead cat in my
walk-in fridge.”
“You want to tell me what happened
from the beginning?”
“Not particularly.”
He scoffed. “From the top.”
I tucked my hands under my folded
arms. I told him the whole sordid tale, from Angus, the new barista, going into
the walk-in for whipped cream and coming out white-faced to the arrival of
Riordan’s brother law enforcement and the Public Health Department. Animal
Control had come for the party, too.
Riordan asked all the questions that
had already been asked, plus a few more.
He interrupted himself to say, “Are
you cold or something?”
I was, in fact. There were no Santa
Ana winds to warm things up tonight, and the temperature had dropped in the
last couple of hours. My chills were also at least partially due to nerves, but
I wasn’t about to admit that to Detective Rimmed in Ice.
“I left my jacket inside,” I said.
Once the police had taken pictures and removed the remains, I could have gone
back inside for it, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself. Not with the image
of the dead cat fresh—or, not so fresh, as it were—in my mind.
It was difficult to tell in the
harsh half-light, but it seemed like Riordan narrowed his eyes at me. No doubt:
yet another way in which the fruity café owner didn’t pass inspection.
“Detective Riordan.”
One of the younger cops pulled him
away. While they stood aside, speaking in low tones, I looked at the building’s
facade. The painted Christmas scene in the window—an elf in a fedora and
scarf—appeared lurid in the light of the police vehicles, red and blue clashing
with red and green. It hit me that it was two nights till Christmas Eve. Two
nights before Christmas Eve, and I didn’t know if I’d be open again before
then. Even if I were, I’d have to buy all new stock. No way I’d be keeping what
was in the fridge, even if the DPH didn’t have anything to say about it. Which
they would.
I was only vaguely aware of the cop
going back inside. Riordan had turned to someone else. I’d been forgotten.
Despite all the bright lights and surrounding activity, I was getting colder.
But I hadn’t been officially dismissed, and I was loath to go inside, even to
my apartment upstairs.
I was still staring at the
shopfront, thinking about how I’d handle the orders for Christmas baked
goods—it was easier than dwelling on the growing certainty that I was being
stalked—when someone said, “Mr. English?”
It was the young cop who’d been
talking to Riordan a few minutes before. She held up a black drape of fabric.
“Your jacket?”
“I— Yeah. It is. Thanks.”
Her mouth pressed into not quite a
smile. I pulled the jacket on. As I did, I happened to turn my head. Across the
lot, Riordan looked up, and our gazes caught. Held.
After the chaos at Bruce’s house, the café was stunningly quiet. I held the door open
for
Riordan—Jake—embarrassingly grateful he’d come in with me. We hadn’t said much
since his “This won’t be an easy thing.” We were both wrecked. The adrenaline
had drained from my system, and the sun had just risen on Boxing Day, chill and
wan.
Riordan—Jake—stood in the
center of the café, looking around like he’d never seen it before. Never seen
any café before. In fact, why had he come in? It’d seemed like the right thing
when we were getting out of the Bronco, but now…
He looked like he didn’t know,
himself. I was too tired to think, but I knew there was no way he’d be staying.
He’d have Internal Affairs. Meetings. Paperwork to file. His day would just be
starting.
He finally looked my way, and his
mouth made a rueful twist. Like his thoughts were following the same track.
I found myself smiling back.
“Let me make you a cup of coffee,” I
said.
“Espresso only?” he asked, wryly.
“Yeah. That’s the good stuff,
anyway.”
He came to watch as I tamped the
puck and steamed the milk. For the first time, I perceived he hadn’t only ever
been observing me because I was a homicide suspect. His intense regard warmed
me from my cheeks to my toes. I found I didn’t dislike it.
I didn’t dislike it at all.
A while later, as we sat watching
the world wake, me with my eggnog and Jake with his latte, he murmured, “Yeah.
That’s the good stuff.”
