Chapter 5
Five
Knocking back his second cup of espresso, Elliot braces his elbows against the table. “I’ve been thinking this over. Either the perp has major stomach issues, leading to multiple bowel movements on your property or…”
I grip my pumpkin spice latte so hard I’m in danger of cracking the mug. “Or?”
He leans forward, rocking the table between us. A dark squall shadows his eyes. If this were a movie, cue a dramatic zoom-in to his face. “You are the target of a concerted and diabolical effort of intimidation and harassment,” he takes a deep breath, “the likes of which this town has never seen.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, “that’s exactly what I want to hear. A concerted effort of intimidation and harassment, you say?”
“And diabolical,” Elliot adds. “Don’t forget diabolical.”
I study his face, hoping that he’s joking. Elliot doesn’t even crack a smile. He’s dead serious.
With shaking hands, I bring my latte up to my lips. The coffee scolds my tongue, but the cinnamon-infused steam restores me to a semblance of tranquility.
Over the rim of my mug, I scan the busy cafe.
Behind the counter, Paige is a one-woman show, working the register, making drinks, restocking the pastry display all under the relentless steam-whistle of the espresso machine.
If Elliot weren’t here with me, I’d run up to my best friend and spill everything, then sob on her shoulder. But I can’t do that now.
Paige is now a suspect.
Everything is fu — Everything is fudged. Ruined. Sullied by three lumps of coal.
“Ms. Lo?” Elliot kicks my foot under the table.
“Ow!” I kick him back. “Stop calling me Ms. Lo. It makes me feel a hundred years old.”
“Holly.” His brows knit together in concern. “Are you okay?”
I grind my teeth. “I’m pretty freaking far from okay,” I say, taking a sip of my latte. “I usually love pumpkin spice latte, but this tastes flavorless to me. You know what it tastes like? It tastes like shit.”
Elliot’s brows jump in surprise.
“I’m sorry.” I wring my napkin, trying to calm my frazzled nerves. “I rarely swear. It’s just the situation makes me so… Urgh!”
He watches me shred my napkin into tiny pieces. “I take it you’re angry.”
“Damn right, I’m angry. I’m as angry as hell, Detective,” I say. “Wait, you’re not even a detective. You’re an insurance guy.”
“Insurance fraud investigator,” he corrects.
“Just another disappointment in a long line of disappointments.” I wish Elliot was still a cop.
In the event our case takes a dark turn, it would be handy to have someone who could bust some skulls on my side.
But I suppose an insurance fraud investigator is just as good.
I guess it’s the best we can do in this two-horse town.
I heave a discontented sigh. “Someone is trying to ruin my holidays.”
“Or sabotage your run for mayor,” he suggests.
“It’s probably connected. They’ve ruined my holidays either way,” I say. “What’s more, they’re trying to make me step in their poop. This piece of shit who left a literal piece of shit in my basement… like a serial killer marking his territory.”
Elliot leans back in his chair. “I’d admit, it’s pretty sadistic.”
My anger curdles back into fear. I’m a basket case of flip-flopping emotions. “This is all new to me. What should I do?”
He rakes his hands through his hair and drags out his notebook. “We have three shits under your Christmas tree. Rock solid turds.”
I swallow. “A semi-constipated culprit.”
“And on your basement step, a giant squishy one.”
“A not-so-constipated perp.” I lower my voice. “Is it possible that the same shit came from the same person?”
“Scenario #1…” Elliot draws a rough sketch of my house.
“The perp takes a dump under your Christmas tree, waits it out.” He draws an arrow leading to the back of my illustrated house.
“Breaks into your basement in the wee hours of the morning. Goes Number 2 on the third step. Or…” He drops his pen and waves his hand over a blank page. “Scenario #2: A second shitter.”
We let that sink in.
Two perps.
Two people working in cahoots.
For what purpose? To give me nightmares for the rest of my life?
“So you think this is Mayor Thornberry’s doing?” I blurt out. “To scare me into dropping out of the race?”
Elliot consults the suspect list. “The mayor has the most plausible motive,” he says. “But we’re not ruling out the others.”
“Except,” I chew on my bottom lip, “I can’t believe Ivan would run such a dirty campaign. He’s a big teddy bear, in his own way. In fact, I can’t see how any of my guests could have done it.”
We both turn to the counter where Paige was serving up her last customer.
Dressed in black leggings and a shapeless grey sweatshirt, Paige looked particularly haggard today.
Her mousy brown hair, gathered into a struggle bun, looked like it could use a wash.
The dark circles under her eyes could be a result of knocking back too much vodka from my bar last night.
Or…
A restless night’s sleep.
Maybe Paige had something on her mind. Perhaps she was haunted by guilt over defecating under her best friend’s Christmas tree.
But how can that be? I try to picture Paige pooping in my living room and can’t do it.
If the mayor was a teddy bear, Paige was as harmless as a hamster, which, in a certain slant of light, she sort of resembled. A colorless, frazzled hamster who leaves stinky little pellets for people to pick up.
“This is horrible! Is it me, or does Paige look guilty? Like she hasn’t slept all night?”
Elliot shrugs. “In all the time I’ve been coming here for coffee, she’s always looked tired.”
“But today she looks especially tired.” I sigh. “I hate how this case is poisoning my friendships. This is the time of year where everything smells like cinnamon and hot cocoa, but now everything smells like shit. In fact, I smell shit everywhere now.”
“I just smell coffee,” he says, glancing around the cafe. We’re seated in front of a giant modern beehive. It’s made of reclaimed wood and painted in three shades of yellow, meant to convey hope and cheerfulness. I would know. I helped Paige pick out the colors and paint the thing.
The counter is painted the brightest shade of yellow. The Honey Latte Lounge neon sign buzzes in yellow and lavender. The napkins are a creamy canary. Even Paige’s barista apron is a pale buttery yellow. It’s currently a little worse for wear, stained with coffee and smudged with strawberry jam.
I grimace. Paige needs to take better care of her appearance or she’ll lose customers.
“What an ugly apron,” Elliot says matter-of-factly.
I bristle at his insult. “It’s a lovely apron. Paige just needs to launder it more often.”
“Yellow is a horrible color on her,” Elliot continues, ignoring my reaction. “Completely washes her out. Strange that she’d choose it as a barista’s apron. Aren’t they usually a darker color to hide the coffee stains?”
I square my shoulders. “I think the apron looks great on her.”
Elliot glances at the pops of yellow around the cafe. “This place makes me feel like I’ve taken an acid trip into Winnie the Pooh’s honey pot. No wonder I always take my coffee to go.”
I fold my arms in a huff. “I think it’s all lovely. It’s aesthetic.”
“She looks so sad,” Elliot says, nodding to Paige as she’s frothing milk for a latte. “Dejected.”
“No, she doesn’t. That’s just her look. She loves yellow.”
He nods at my best friend. “Does this look like a woman who loves her job? She hates this place. It’s like she’s trapped in a sickly cheerful prison.”
“You’re a mind reader now?”
A lopsided smile. “I make it my business to know how to read people. And that woman hates her environment.”
“Well,” I tap my foot, my indignation clear. “I’ll have you know she hired an excellent interior designer.”
He shakes his head, laughing. “That interior designer has no taste.”
“She has excellent taste!”
Elliot turns to me, one eyebrow cocked at a familiar angle. “You’re the interior designer, aren’t you?”
“I might have offered my opinion regarding paint swatches…” I rub my nose, my eyes darting around in a frantic search for an escape from the conversation. “But this decor is all Paige.”
Elliot has an inexplicable way of turning the conversation against me. One moment we’re bantering, the next thing I know, I’m smack dab in an interrogation.
When it seemed like my escape wouldn’t come, someone flings open the front door. Enter my sister, a giant burlap sack slung over her shoulder.
My distraction is granted.
“Here’s your delivery,” Jen says, in a voice that would make a carnival barker deaf. She slams the coffee beans on the counter. "Leave the door open. There's more where that came from."
Paige slicks a frond of limp hair out of her eyes. “I thought we talked about using the back door for deliveries.”
“I’m just parked there,” Jen gestures to her beat up Honda Civic. “It’s no big deal.”
Paige wrings her apron. “But this is disruptive to the customers. Maybe if you—”
“Hold that thought.” Jen walks out the door.
She returns with two more sacks of coffee beans, her fuzzy sweater rucked up to reveal her belly button piercing.
I wrinkle my nose at Jen’s outfit choices. My sister loves neon. No particular color. Just neon. Last night she wore a dress that our mom secretly called her ‘80s hooker outfit on account of all the skin and barely there spandex. It’s mean, but true.
And today, she’s in a fuzzy magenta sweater paired with electric blue leopard tights.
Her hair, once streaked purple, had recently been dyed the deepest shade of midnight black.
It’s gathered up in a spiky ponytail. As per usual, Jen has gone overboard with the eyeliner.
When she was in high school, Jen went through a mini goth phase and got the lyrics of My Chemical Romance’s Welcome to the Black Parade tattooed on her right butt cheek.
Mom and I thought Jen had outgrew The Scene when she cut her hair into a bob and shaved off her eyebrows, but I guess Jen is going for ‘Neon Goth’ this year.
Whatever gets her attention — and believe me, Jen loves attention almost as much as she hates working.
At twenty-four, my sister has churned through more jobs than I have trophies. This time last year she was waiting tables at Aunt Cherry’s banquet hall. Last month she was a pilates instructor. For the holidays, she’s a ride share driver/meal deliverer.
One thing I’d say for Jen: despite her fickle nature, she’s smart as a whip.
And that’s what I’m afraid of.
Sensing my presence, Jen glances over her shoulder, her steely eyes zeroing in on us. Her brows lift in curiosity and just a hint of mischief.
I turn my head, my cheeks burning. I still feel Jen’s eyes on the back of my skull.
“Quick! No sudden movements,” I whisper. “My sister’s seen us.”
“So?” Elliot’s gaze flickers to my sister.
I kick him under the table. “Don’t look at her!”
He casts his eyes downward. “Why are you acting like she’s the Terminator?”
“The jig is up. Now everyone will know I’ve discovered the poop and I’m working with you to catch ‘em.”
Elliot studies me closely. “You say that as if you’re certain your sister and friend are guilty.” He picks up his pen and flips to a new page in his notebook. “Why do you seem like the guilty one here?”
Because there are things I can’t tell you…
Memories of a ‘girls only’ conversation resurface. It wasn’t so much a conversation as a gushing confessional over the unattainable hotness that is the newcomer to Mapledale who opened up a P.I. agency three doors down from my store.
“But he’s so cold,” Paige had said when I announced, rather drunkenly, that I just met my future husband.
“That’s why they call him Jack Frost,” I’d said. “Jack Hottie.”
Jen had frowned. “I thought his name was Elliot?”
“Indeed, he’s not very friendly, but I can melt anyone. He’s also a former homicide detective.” Over glasses of bottomless rosé, I’d added: “He can frisk me anytime.”
Paige and Jen heard it all:
My crush on Elliot.
My joke about the nightstick in his pocket (yes, I know detectives don’t carry night sticks. I was drunk, okay?).
Hopefully, Paige and Jen were equally drunk and won’t remember.
Alas, my sister looks like the cat who got the cream.
She remembers.
“Quick! What is Jen doing?” I ask.
“She’s whispering to Paige.”
Damn.
“Our cover’s blown,” I say. “If they’re the guilty ones, wouldn’t I have the upper hand if they don’t know that I know about the poop? Even better: if they don’t know we’re working together.”
Elliot gives me a grudging nod. “You have a point. If the perp or perps,” his eyes slide to Jen and Paige, “don’t know they’re being investigated, we’ll hold all the cards.”
I chew on my inner cheek. “I want to see their reactions when I tell them what’s happened to me.”
“The initial reaction is priceless.” Elliot clears his throat. “Look alive. We have company. They’re coming over.”
Adrenaline shoots through me. I begin to freak out. “What are we going to say? Everyone knows you’re a P.I.!”
“We’ll figure it out,” he says.
“You mean you don’t know?”
“I roll with the punches.”
“But—”
He grasps my hands across the table and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Just follow my lead.”