Chapter 27
The Decaf Whisperer
Tessa
When I pushed through the swinging door, I nearly tripped over a floral tote bag parked directly in my path. On top of the giant tote rested a big colorful scarf, a folded crossword puzzle, and a half-eaten scone, perched precariously on a paper napkin.
The line at the counter was a dozen deep and obviously restless.
Behind the counter, I spotted a woman in her seventies with stylish gray hair, tortoiseshell glasses on a silver chain, and a lavender sweater tied around her shoulders like she was headed to Sunday brunch.
As I watched, she filled a disposable cup from the orange-spouted dispenser – the one that meant it was caffeine-free.
The guy at the front of the line – an older man in a plaid jacket – grumbled, "I didn't order decaf."
"Yeah, but you should've," the woman said. "Clara says you're all jittery." She snapped the lid onto the cup and handed it over like she'd been doing it for years. "So enjoy the low-octane and tell your wife I said hi."
He blinked. "Uh…thanks?"
She patted his hand. "You're welcome, Darren."
Darren? Clara? How on Earth did she know their names?
The guy tossed a few bills onto the counter and told her to keep the change. That's when I noticed the small pile of cash set off to the side. Tips? Payments for coffees? A mix of the two?
I was still trying to make sense of it when the next customer – a lean woman with a high ponytail – stepped up to the counter. "I'll just have a triple-shot oat milk caramel latte with two pumps vanilla, one pump hazelnut, and extra foam."
The silver-haired woman snorted. "Sorry, honey. We've got regular or decaf. Take your pick."
The customer stared like she'd just been offered a cup of dirty dishwater. "But this is a coffee shop."
"I know," the woman behind the counter said. "So choose. Regular or decaf."
Belatedly, I rushed forward, calling out, "Or a caramel latte!" I gave the customer a shaky smile. "I mean, I'd be happy to make that drink."
Happy was a massive overstatement. Even on the best of days, I could barely manage a mocha. Still, I hustled to the espresso machine and started fumbling through the motions.
The older woman gave me a sly look. "I was wondering when you'd show up." But then, she turned to ask the customer, "So, you want any scones or muffins with that?"
The customer gave it some thought. "I dunno…are they gluten-free?"
My impromptu coworker barked out a laugh. "Honey, if you want gluten-free, you're in the wrong place."
Again, I spoke up. "Actually, we do have some almond-flour brownies that are gluten-free."
The customer turned to me with a frown. "Yeah, but are they certified paleo?"
I hesitated. "Um…no?" They weren't labeled, and it's not like we baked them on-site.
My coworker leaned toward the customer and smiled. "Listen, you're on vacation, right?"
The customer gave her a wary look. "Uh…yeah."
"And I bet you work really hard all year."
"Yeah…I guess so."
"Then honey, you should live a little." She straightened. "What you really need is a nice chocolate muffin and extra whipped cream for that fancy drink of yours."
"I do?"
"Heck, yeah, you do." She gave the counter a little slap. "You deserve it. Am I right?"
The customer froze for a long moment before her chin lifted just a fraction. "Yeah. You're right." She threw back her shoulders. "I do deserve it." She looked to me and called out, "Yeah, gimme the extra whipped cream and um…some of that chocolate drizzle, too."
My coworker beamed. "Now you're talkin'."
It went on like this for maybe thirty minutes before the line at the counter wasn't merely shorter, but gone entirely. This shouldn't have been a surprise. Even during the big flurry, only a handful of new customers had wandered in.
Stunned, I looked around. "I can't believe the shop's empty."
"I can," the woman said. "You should see the Yelp reviews."
I grimaced. "Honestly? I'm not sure I want to."
She reached out to pat my hand. "Smart girl. I hope you're looking for a new job."
"Not really," I admitted.
"Well you should," she said. "This place? I'd give it a month, tops."
I bit my lip. "That long, huh?"
"What you should do is work for that roommate of yours."
Oddly enough, last night, I had offered such a thing. Over those little bottles of booze, Maisie had been telling me how seriously understaffed she was.
And even though I had no experience with bikes, I had offered to quit my barista job and work for Maisie instead. Pay or no pay, I'd meant it, too.
But of course, she had turned me down, telling me she needed someone with actual experience.
I hadn't argued, but I'd been sorely tempted. After all, I had no experience with my current job, and it was…well…a disaster, actually.
To the woman whose name I still didn't know, I said, "So, you know Maisie?"
"Everyone knows Maisie," she said. "And I've known her since she was a baby. Our families go way back."
"Oh. So that's how you knew we were roommates? She told you?"
"She didn't have to tell me." The woman tapped her temple. "I've got sources."
I held out my hand. "I'm Tessa, by the way."
"I know," she said, giving my hand a friendly shake. "Sources, remember?"
"Oh. Right." I pulled back and gave her an expectant look. "And your name is…?"
"Oh, sorry," she said with a little laugh. "It's Franny. I forgot you didn't know." But then, her expression turned serious. "But listen…I need a favor."
I looked around. "I guess it's only fair, since I do owe you – for the help, I mean."
She gave a breezy wave of her hand. "Eh, that was nothing. It was fun, like one of those bake sales." She lowered her voice. "But what I need from you is to keep an eye on your roommate."
"Maisie?" As if I had any other roommate.
Franny nodded. "Yeah, I'm worried she's in trouble."
Maisie was in trouble, maybe more than I knew. Now that I was paying attention, I'd seen plenty of signs – cupboards that were too empty and workdays that were too full.
Maisie was drowning, and I'd been no help at all.
Last night, I'd felt so terrible, I'd told her a desperate lie. I'd claimed that I'd be getting paid on Friday and that I'd be giving her more money for rent.
The first part was pure crap since I received no paycheck at all. But I would make good on that second half, no matter what it took. I just didn't want her to feel bad, like she was taking money I didn't have.
I even had a plan.
I was still wearing those sapphire earrings, the ones my mom had given me last Christmas. They were genuine stones and a half-carat each. They'd surely be worth something to the right buyer.
I hated the thought of selling them. But desperate times called for desperate measures. And besides, the earrings had never made me happy. Technically, I had bought them for myself – and a pair for Delaney, too – considering that Mom had done her Christmas shopping with my money.
But she'd made such a big deal about how those earrings matched my eyes that I felt guilty whenever I didn't wear them.
Regardless, they had to go. It was as simple as that.
The only problem was, Friday was just a few days away.
I was still wondering how I could sell them when Franny said, "Hey, don't look so worried. I don't think he'll murder her."
I froze. "Wait, what?"
"The hit man," she said.
I shook my head. "What hit man?"
"The guy working at Maisie's shop."
My thoughts scattered like marbles on tile as everything else vanished in a puff of panic. The earrings, the rent, the guilt – it was all gone. All I could think now was, Please let this be a joke.