Dave Needs to Stay Dead

Chapter 1

Coffee & Murderers

The problem with murdering your husband is the paranoia that follows.

Maria Fever wrapped her oversized cardigan around her as she squeezed behind the barista counter, nodding once to her boss, Cate, and ignoring Dave’s wide face on the television behind her head. She made minimal eye contact with the line of customers lingering on the other side. Mama Cate's was the town's only coffee shop/wine bar/bookstore/post office, so it wasn't unusual to have a crowd once the early October winds picked up. But the morning still felt off. It's just the murder-paranoia, she told herself, unconvincingly, as she picked up the bag of coffee beans to grind.

"I can't believe Shane Bolles is coming back," Shirley said over the dregs of a cappuccino. "If I made it out of Hinnewatcha, I'd never come home." The town's deputy often started her conversations with how much she hated this town. Her next favorite topic was how much she hated her job. "Anyhoo, Cate, I'll be seeing you. I'm off to report to Satan. Maria, nice seeing you out and about again."

Maria breathed in through her nose like the meditation podcasts taught her, dropped her shoulders, and let the old bag's comments roll over her. Levi Madison, Hinnewatcha's police chief and Shirley's boss, was a bit cold to most, but Maria became his biggest fan the day he stood over Dave's stiff body and declared it to be an accidental overdose. He's just shy, she thought, and the recurring daydream of him noticing her outside of her late husband's demise began to play while she doled out coffee and pastries to the regulars.

She appreciated the routine of a coffee shop and the rustle of turning pages. But every bark of laughter or scrape of a chair made Maria want to jump out of her skin. It’s your first day back. Give it time, she told herself. She had only been in Hinnewatcha for a couple years, but most regulars knew her and that she’d just lost her husband. She forced her lips to curve up into a polite smile and thanked anyone that offered her their condolences, all while keeping an eye on the clock that never moved. Maria released her death grip on the frothing pitcher to help Cate bring in the heavier Amazon boxes.

"I'm gonna open this one," Cate announced as they heaved the first one on the counter.

"Can't, Cate. It's illegal to open someone else's package," Maria said, smiling to herself at Cate's perpetual need to snoop.

"Yeah, but what on earth could Mrs. Wilson need with a box this big? What if it's a bomb? Haven't you heard? Democrats are sending bombs to the elderly."

"That's a new one," Maria said, blowing back an errant curl that slipped out of her clip. "We're low on pumpkin spice, do you want me to make more tonight?"

Dave's face flashed again as the story ran another loop. Dumpy bastard. She smiled once more, growing ever more pleased with herself for choosing a photo he always hated.

Cate didn't answer, and Maria realized her mistake when she looked back from the TV to see Mrs. Wilson's box only halfway opened. Cate leaned over the box, gesturing at her with the box cutter. "You sure you're ok, Maria? I appreciate you coming back in and all, but it hasn't been that long since Dave… you know, died."

"Smooth, Catey," Cate's husband drawled from behind his paper. The worn-in green recliner would have a perfect indention of Hamby's derriere when he stood up, and he'd likely carry on multiple conversations without ever looking up from the newspaper in hand.

Maria ignored Hamby and dropped her smile, reminding herself that she's supposed to be struggling with grief. The lie slipped off without trouble. "It's better when I'm busy, Cate. Sitting at home, waiting on Isabelle to get home from school is too much. The house is too quiet unless I'm moving."

"OK," Cate said, nodding once. "Then, yes. Bring in more pumpkin spice. I can't believe we’re barely into October and those bloodsucking Millennials are already killing our pumpkin spice reserves. I swear to Fall Jesus that if I see another felt hat, I'll lose it."

Hamby actually set down his paper. The lines around his eyes wrinkled even more around his mischievous smile. "They're trying to expand the entrance to Firefly Farms this year so more traffic can flow in for photo sessions."

Maria's grief status fell by the wayside when Cate launched into her diatribe about selfies and the general ruination of society by the younger generations. Hamby winked once at Maria as he snapped his paper back open.

Her gratitude for this job rose even higher.

**

Maria took another sip of her tea, trying to ignore the urge to look at whoever was watching her this time. Every whisper or side glance convinced her that at any moment someone would call her out for what she was. Murderer. She resumed shading the pumpkin on the chalkboard in front of her while her eyes skimmed the sidewalk. A trio of women stopped nearby, boots to thighs and clad in scarves, to take a photo under one of the older elms, not noticing her. Hinnewatcha was quintessential New England, the postcard of fall and Christmas cute. Tourists would come in droves for the next three months, bolstering the businesses that would otherwise wither in the gas-lamp lined town.

She smiled at the women's staged poses and thought back to the first time she came to Hinnewatcha. A similar giant, gnarled, orange and yellow elm made Maria stop here two years ago to begin with. She was a single mother, broke, and looking for a change from downtown Los Angeles, and Hinnewatcha was the antithesis of smog and lost boys racing to become bad men. A polite, yet pointed, cough came from behind her, and unease replaced the warmth of that memory. Easy, she thought before turning. You are not hiding anything.

The man-boy was gangly but tall enough that she assumed he worked for the nearby college paper. "Mrs. Fever?" He asked.

Maria stifled a groan, she had hoped the reporters would have moved on from Dave's death by now. She smiled, shielding her eyes from the bright autumn sun to look up at his face. "That's me. And you are?"

"Myles, Ma’am. I'm with the University of Vermont and I'm studying to be a journalist. Well, I am a journalist of sorts." Myles rambled—too fast and too long—occasionally slipping on his words before he got to the point. "Can you answer some questions for me?"

"I'm sorry, I can't answer anything while there's an ongoing investigation. Police orders." Maria dusted the chalk from her hands on her apron and began to gather the scattered pieces littering the sidewalk. She dropped two pieces, hands shaking. Relax, Maria, you're not fleeing a scene. Just going about your job. She balled a fist and her fingernails dug into her palm, steadying her for a moment.

"Right, but I don't want to know about the murder per se," Myles said as he stooped down to help Maria gather chalk. "I just want to know your thoughts about Shane Bolles picking up the case."

"You mean Levi? I mean, the Police Chief, Levi Madison?"

"No," Myles shook his head. "No one likes that guy. I'm talking about the Detective Bolles... from Bravo's Dead Don't Lie?" Myles did a little pantomime of what Maria assumed a character from Clue would do.

She shrugged. "I'm sorry? I don't know who that is, but I would have been informed if Chief Madison was no longer working on my husband's case."

"You're about to freak out then. Detective Bolles is the world's best cold case detective. Out of five seasons, he's never left a case unresolved. And he decided to pick up Dave Fever's case because it came from his hometown."

A hundred thoughts scattered across Maria's mind, each one more urgent than the last. It took every ounce of willpower to plant her feet and not leave the budding reporter far behind. "That's great news," she said, swallowing the lump in her throat. "A little odd though, don't you think? A cold case detective decides to pick up a two-week old case that everyone knows was an accidental overdose?"

"Not everyone,” Cate's booming voice pelted over Maria's shoulder, startling her and making her drop more chalk. “Most people 'round here think he was murdered on account of that no good brother of his. Definitely a drug deal gone bad."

"Not helpful, Cate," Maria said, but Myles latched on, bypassing Maria for her boss hovering in the doorway.

His thumb flew over the note app on his phone, "Greg Fever? He's been all over the news telling reporters that his brother was murdered, so what would make you think he did it?"

"Well I don't know anything, but—"

Maria ducked inside the shop as Cate began rattling off all the things she thought she knew. The things everyone thought they knew. That's the problem in a small town. If this was LA, no one would have even noticed a guy like Dave had died, Maria thought as she hung her dirty apron on a nail by the nonfiction bookshelf.

Hamby grunted a goodbye, nose still in his paper, as she slipped behind Cate still blathering to the rapt college reporter. She wrapped her tartan scarf around her and headed towards the elementary school, leaving behind a trail of scattered, browning leaves on the sidewalk. Maria paused at the pharmacy window a few storefronts over to rehang a paper bat that fell off in the wind, and nodded to the old couple from Drew Lane playing backgammon in the pocket-sized Applegate Park. A group of teens lounged nearby in the manicured grass, passing around their phones and laughing. Everyone pretended to hate that the mayor got Hinnewatcha listed as one of Travel I can't believe you let her go to school like that."

And so it begins.

Maria stalked outside to the concrete bistro table. The table had a giant gash down the center of it, but it was sturdy enough for a teacup. The wildflowers and grasses Maria cultivated billowed around her. Soon the browning flowerheads would need to be trimmed. For the moment, though, Maria sat in her small garden paradise, tea in hand and sun above, and began her mental list:

Get Shane Bolles off this case.

Bury Dave.

Send Mama back to New York.

She sipped the tea and assured herself, You already killed Dave. The rest of this should be easy.