Chapter 4
Zoey
Zoey swore: she’d cut her thumb on the tape dispenser she was using to tape up Romero’s Lost posters.
Well, his Possibly Lost, Possibly Just Being a Cat and Being Antisocial posters.
After going door to door to see if a) any of the other locals involved in the informal neighbourhood cat-sharing program had seen Romero and b) explain the mushroom-smoothie situation, she and Ainsley had hit most of the nearby power poles with the ransom-note-style posters Ainsley had whipped up in the living room as What We Do in the Shadows played in the background.
There was still no sign of grumpy Romero, although someone had texted them a recording of some awful caterwauling they’d reportedly heard outside last night.
Ainsley grimaced as she played back the recording. ‘Definitely human. Bedroom noises like that should be an arrestable offence. Not to mention recording them.’
Mentally affecting her customer-facing face – a more smiley version of her real one – Zoey unlocked the doors to The Smoothie Maven.
Meanwhile, Ainsley pinned up the last poster on the pole outside, pausing to chitchat with Nolan from the zine shop next door as he went off on his bike to deliver zine subscriptions.
Zoey switched on the lights, blinking as she always did as they splashed the shop with astonishing brightness.
The shop was garishly cheerful: all white facade with pink trim, and a huge planter of gerberas above the door.
(Watering these during the dry summers was quite the enterprise.) The entrance, which was stepped back off the street for architectural reasons that made sense to a draughtsperson but not a Roomba, boasted quaint pink-and-white penny-tile decor with Make Smoothie Moves inlaid in gold.
‘I’ll keep you updated on the Romero situation,’ said Ainsley. ‘But until then, I’ve got a memorial window for a gamer to paint. It’s going in at the Lone Fir Cemetery. My fave.’
Ainsley had a soft spot for cemeteries, and was always coming home with gravestone rubbings she insisted on putting on the fridge.
‘I’ll pop by the urns and say hi to Maeve for you. Before I go …’ Ainsley unfolded a flyer and popped it on the counter. ‘Nolan gave me this.’
‘Cat Mayor of Laurelhurst?’ Well, Zoey had heard of stranger things. A cat mayor was actually quite tame for this part of Portland.
‘I think it’s important that we make our voice heard. Well, that Romero makes his voice heard.’
‘Romero’s missing,’ pointed out Zoey.
Ainsley waved her off. ‘In no way is that a disqualifying factor. He’s just …
temporarily appearance-impaired. He’ll probably show up at three of the other houses on the street before noon.
Besides, there are career congresspeople who haven’t done a town hall in decades.
Romero’s just carrying on the tradition.
Anyway, think about it. Because I’m going to put together a whole campaign. ’
Zoey sighed. Where Zoey was not a joiner, Ainsley was the opposite. She made social butterflies wish a lepidopterist would just hurry up and jab a pin in their hearts to put them out of their misery.
‘We’ll strategise tonight. But until then, good luck with the mushroom smoothies. Or, as I like to call them, muthies. Or smoothrooms.’
‘Neither of those. Out.’ Zoey made a shooing motion.
With a wink, Ainsley headed off towards the Lone Fir Cemetery, which was a quick stroll down Belmont – assuming she didn’t stop for coffee at the Frocking Rog, which had grown up like a phoenix from the ashes of the Rocking Frog, a cutesy coffee shop Zoey had loved for its wonky tables and tiny doughnuts.
Meanwhile, Zoey went through the pre-opening motions: wiping away any leftover green spills, stamping the napkins, loading the prep units with fresh fruit, checking the dehydrators.
Maeve, the shop’s former owner and the woman who’d put the ‘Maeve’ in The Smoothie Maven, smiled up at Zoe from the pink decorative frame on the counter.
Ah, Maeve. She’d dropped dead after a brain freeze brought on by a too-cold smoothie.
But at least she’d died doing what she loved: trying to suck cinnamon-doused banana guts up through a paper straw.
Unlike Zoey, who all right hadn’t died yet, but wasn’t exactly living her dream.
She’d had her eye on tenure at Reed College, or at worst a ho-hum desk job where she could fiddle around in Excel while sleeping soundly in the knowledge that she was contributing to a retirement account and a health savings account.
But her exceptional work ethic had worked against her, as it always had.
She’d applied for a summer role while she was wrapping up her second master’s, then had quickly been promoted to manager.
And when Maeve had died, she’d been the one left holding the keys – and eventually the paperwork.
Zoey had initially balked, of course, because owning a smoothie shop had not been on her vision board, or even close to it.
And Maeve’s death had been so fresh. As had been Zoey’s breakup with Kit.
But then Zoey had sat down behind the counter with Maeve’s photo, the P the Pina Collider (where pineapple and pine nuts collided); and the Berry Superstitious (berries and witch hazel). And of course, the new mushroom blend.
‘I’m calling it Brain Mush, because it contains—’
Terriffany frowned. ‘Not brains? Though collagen is good for the mind. There’s a powder supplement startup that’s—’
Nope, time to stop you there, Terriffany. Zoey did not need to hear about Silicon Valley’s approach to bio-optimisation right now.
‘Mushrooms,’ she said, before Terriffany could share the powder supplement startup’s elevator pitch. ‘Specifically these weird orange ones.’
Terriffany did a reverse-image search and nodded. ‘Nice product differentiation. I’m not seeing anything similar being used in any of the major markets …’
Well, that was good to know.
Zoey pinned the ingredients print-out to the back of the counter so that Terriffany could do the thing where she scanned it and plugged it into some sort of project-management app.
The door swung, and the first customers of the day sauntered in: a group of marketing types who coworked in what had been a bowling alley until a few years ago.
Now it was a neon-lit space filled with communal beanbags and a massive Connect Four across the whole back wall.
(Each business in the space was assigned a colour, and was able to place a disc if they met their stretch goals for the week.) There was also a giant rock-climbing wall that Zoey had never seen anyone other than the janitor climb.
‘Rhymes With Orange,’ demanded the bitchy one called Sascha, whose name Zoey always purposefully misspelled.
Her nails rattled away at her phone. She was wrapped in a high-fashion, low-function outfit made from loose leather bandages.
Zoey had the sneaking suspicion that if you pulled the bandage near her right sleeve cuff, the whole thing would unravel.
Terriffany hit her Pomodoro timer and launched into action.
‘Good morning,’ enthused the second of the group, a cloyingly bubbly guy called Nestor, who was so unwaveringly nice it was almost certain that he was overcompensating for being a serial killer. Nestor wore red-and-white polka-dot Keds and spoke in a breathless way that gave Zoey extreme anxiety.
‘I am loving the turtleneck, Terriffany. So “founder” of you. So, tell me about this Brain Mush. I am all about brain power, what with this all-hands meeting we’re about to dive into, and chugging a box of Nerds just isn’t hitting the way it used to.’