Chapter 5

The ovens had been churning out pastries, cakes, and breads for hours by the time Alene got to work on Tuesday morning. She was relieved to see Ruthie back at work, singing along with the Alicia Keys soundtrack as she measured monk fruit sugar for her pineapple-carrot muffins. Ruthie’s eyes were bright and her olive skin glowed, probably from the heat of the ovens. Alene thought she herself looked like she’d fought a war every time she was recovering from anything, but old Nine seemed as serene as though she’d spent the past few days at a spa instead of in bed with a fever. Alene said, “You’re smiling like we just won Best Café in Chicago.”

Ruthie said, “I’m sorry you didn’t get Sunday off, Six. And I’m smiling because I’m happy to be back here. I missed it.” She gestured around the kitchen at the comforting sounds of humming blenders, working ovens, and murmuring bakers. Kacey was running a sharp knife along the edge of a vanilla bean to scrape out the seeds.

“We missed you too,” said Alene, tying on her apron and glancing at Ruthie’s to-do list. “Did Kacey already tell you the whole story about finding Stanley Huff on Saturday?”

Ruthie said, “That must have been shocking.” She wore her one of her bib aprons over a long skirt, a black short-sleeved top, and a scarf covered in tiny yellow daisies over her thick, nearly black hair. Ruthie had the kind of dark complexion and almond shaped eyes that led people to guess she was everything from Italian to Native American. Alene thought she looked adorable no matter what she was wearing.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” said Kacey from the stove where she was stirring several pots. She spoke in a monotone and seemed stiff and uncomfortable, stretching her neck and stopping to crack the joints in her hands. Alene thought it had been a huge deal for Kacey to find Stanley’s dead body, the kind of trigger that could very well send her back down the rabbit hole of addiction. Would Kofi Lloyd be able to keep her out of it? Could anyone?

“What else did I miss?” Ruthie asked, using a red pen to mark off items on her list; quick breads, savory rounds and two kinds of cookies.

“Nothing,” Kacey said, placing a scraped vanilla pod in a specially marked mason jar. Alene thought about giving her a task that didn’t involve a sharp knife, but it would make Kacey feel babied.

“Just the usual, plus Frank and his partner came in to ask questions,” Alene said. They hadn’t questioned everyone, so they’d probably be in sometime that day or the next. Frank had requested a private space, so she’d let them use her office. “You’ll be pleased to know I was already wearing tinted lip gloss and as soon as I saw Frank, I ran back to the restroom and brushed my hair.”

“I think you always look beautiful,” said Ruthie, now washing her hands.

“We’re all fading,” Alene replied. Except for Ruthie, who had just the tiniest crow’s feet radiating from the corners of her caramel-colored eyes and a few silvery strands that looked like she’d paid to have them added. Alene was quite sure that everyone with her own mousy-brown color covered up their gray patches every six weeks, just like she did.

“Come on, Six. We’re not even forty,” said Ruthie.

Alene grinned. “Then why do my feet hurt from all this standing?”

LaTonya had come back to the kitchen for a break. She made a gurgling sound. “Please let’s not talk about feet or I’ll start thinking about bunions and gnarled toes.” Ruthie frowned, but everyone else chuckled.

Even though there were occasional disagreements, it was nice working together in the cinnamon-scented kitchen, chitchatting as they baked. Alene thought about how women had been bonding in kitchens for generations, but her grandmothers would never have been able to own and manage their own businesses. That’s what had changed, thanks to the feminism of her parents’ generation. Too bad the baby boomers hadn’t managed to put an end to racism or solve major issues like climate change, inequality, and poverty. As they measured ingredients for the next batches, Ruthie asked about Stanley’s funeral. Alene felt awful that she hadn’t even thought about it. She said, “I guess they’ll do something or other after Sylvie gets out of the hospital, maybe a memorial.”

“My family makes a big deal about funerals,” said LaTonya, picking up a tray of muffins to bring out to the café, “but my guess is that they cremated him and that’s it.” She walked out in her distinctive way, swinging her hips and tilting her head back.

Alene, tired of Sylvie and everyone associated with her, tried to change the subject by asking about Ruthie’s kids, who always found a reason to be happy, unlike Alene’s three, who often found something to complain about. Ruthie told Alene about how her children were trying to persuade her and Benjie to get a dog. Edith came by during the conversation and weighed in about the merits of cats, and everyone took sides in the pet debate.

The kitchen was already feeling toasty and Alene suspected that it was going to be another sizzling, impossibly humid day. Olly brought a pitcher of iced tea to share with the kitchen crew. Then Ruthie and Alene went out to the café and circulated, talking to customers, and clearing dishes.

Then it was time for the Tuesday knitting group. They were still working on blankets to donate to refugee families settling in Chicago. Alene greeted the diehard knitters, who didn’t let the summer heat stop them from carrying around bags of yarn and wooden needles. The five who came were more accomplished knitters than Alene. She wished her fingers flew as fast and accurately as theirs. These five women were finishing their second blankets while Alene worked on edging her first. Three of the blankets had geometric motifs and were great for children. The other two were small blankets in marshmallow shades, perfect for new babies. Alene’s blanket evoked a field of sunflowers that she envisioned warming a little girl during the upcoming winter.

It looked like some of the customers were baring their souls to Ruthie, who was still walking around the café, chatting. She always got completely rapt in whatever anyone was telling her. Alene was interested in her customers’ lives, but not enough to stand for ten minutes while someone bragged about a grandson’s college graduation or a refinished bathroom. After the knitters left, Alene went over to join Ruthie. She’d sat down with Toula, who looked like she didn’t have an extra ounce of bodyfat. She wore a low-cut, long-sleeved blouse and was sitting at the large table even though she was alone. Alene again noticed the gap between Toula’s front teeth and thought about how her daughter, Quinn, was going to need braces to fix that exact problem.

Alene was surprised when Toula mentioned Stanley, saying she’d worked out with him in other Better Be Fit locations. “He was the best personal trainer,” she said, fiddling with her necklace. “I’ll never find anyone like him.”

“I’ve heard that it’s tough to replace a good trainer,” said Ruthie, who started to introduce Toula. Alene told her they’d already met. The name Toula reminded Alene of the character in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, who by ditching her glasses and getting her hair done, metamorphoses into someone who can attract a husband. As if that’s how real life worked. “If you’re looking for a new trainer,” Alene added, “mine is great, and he knows what he’s doing. He’s helped build up my strength, which I need to run this place.”

Toula murmured, “Thanks.”

Just then Toula’s partner approached the table, and Toula introduced him to Alene. Royce Savas nodded, unsmiling, and Alene wondered if he was shy or just unfriendly. Ruthie said she hoped Toula and Royce enjoyed their breakfast before turning to greet two women at an adjacent table. Alene said she hoped they’d come back soon, and headed towards Jack Stone, who was staring out the window and needed a brief reminder to empty the trash bin near the front door.

By two in the afternoon, everybody’s hair was frizzing out from under the hats and scarves they wore while baking and serving. Maybe the customers going in and out had drained the air conditioning, which meant a higher electricity bill, more greenhouse gases, and uncomfortable customers. Or fewer customers. If only they had a revolving door, or a door that closed automatically, but both cost money that she didn’t have. Alene was just heading out of the kitchen with a tray to refresh the dessert case when Frank and his partner, Lee finally returned.

She passed the tray to Zuleyka, who was coming out from behind the counter, and poured drinks for the detectives, even though there were three customers already in the line. Lee gawked at Zuleyka, who had a petite frame, a seductive way of walking, and flashing eyes. Last thing she needed was the attentions of a spindly detective with no personality and an eye problem, but Zuleyka had probably been dealing with unwanted attention for years and knew how to handle herself. Now, she sank down behind the counter to unload the tray, which effectively took her out of Lee’s sightline.

Maybe Frank was going to repeat his invitation from Sunday to go for a walk. That was about as romantic as they were going to get under the circumstances. She could head out after dinner, while the kids were watching TV with Cal.

Three women with varying shades of blond hair were sitting to the left of the two officers, giggling over pictures on one of their phones. Nearby, a young couple sat sipping drinks, holding hands and whispering. Lee peeked over at the counter every few minutes while scrolling through his phone. Frank, his forehead beaded with moisture, sat back in his chair. He could have asked her out for some other night of the week after she declined his Sunday invitation. Of course, she could have asked him --- it wasn’t as though they were still living in the 20^th century.

Frank downed a glass of water and told her that they were working on solving several difficult homicides. The entire CPD, he said, was depressed by the stream of weekend shootings and the backlog of cases. “We’re getting asked to help in other districts while the city struggles to keep up.” The line on his brow deepened and he smiled tiredly when Alene handed him a black coffee. He never cared what kind of roast, it just had to be black.

Jack passed by with a mop, and she could tell from the look in his face that he was about to say something inappropriate. “Just try not to shoot any Black teenagers, Frank.”

Frank pressed his lips together and Lee pretended not to have heard by busying himself with his drink. Alene signaled Jack to go back to the kitchen. It had been a difficult summer in Chicago, particularly on the South and West sides, with dozens of people, mostly young black men, killed each week. The police were under fire for all kinds of misdeeds and the city needed to come to grips with decades of segregation, poorly performing schools in the worst neighborhoods, redlining and insidious racism. Alene tried to educate her kids about what was happening while still preventing them from hearing about every violent shooting, but her dad liked to share Tribune statistics about who and how many. Noah had asked her just the week before if he could wear a bulletproof vest to camp. And then there were the drills they’d gone through and would go through again when school started at the end of summer.

Alene hoped Frank hadn’t been offended. She offered the officers gluten-free almond maple muffins, and they both declined. Frank sipped his coffee and exhaled heavily. Alene liked hot drinks during the hot weather too. She pictured the two of them sitting on a picnic blanket at Montrose Beach with mugs of hot tea, watching the sun rise over the lake after a night together.

Frank clenched his jaw. If only she could rub his shoulders to help him relax. Maybe he’d look at her lovingly, like Julian looked at Phyllie. It wouldn’t matter if she hadn’t slept well in three nights or that her skin was glossy with sweat. “Earth to Alene,” her mother used to whisper. “Pull yourself together.” Alene shook herself. “Give me a minute to check on the kitchen,” she said.

She ran back to the staff restroom to reapply lip gloss, smooth down her hair, and make sure she hadn’t spilled anything on her shirt. Then she made herself a latte and carried it to Frank’s table. As soon as she noticed his uneasy expression, Alene realized that she’d better lower her expectations.

“We need to talk,” he said, quietly, “about Stanley Huff.”

If only he wanted to discuss anything else. “Okay. Did you figure out what happened?” That seemed like a polite enough question.

“We’re working on it,” said Frank. Lee looked at her with his customarily disdainful expression, still blinking. He should really get his eyes checked.

Frank asked, “What do you know about the Huffs?”

“Well, Stanley’s wife, Sylvie, grew up with Ruthie’s mom, Lillian,” said Alene, shrugging. What did it matter if she knew what they ordered when they stopped by, or if she occasionally met one of Sylvie’s kids at Ruthie’s house? “Ruthie has been my best friend since college, so I’ve known Sylvie’s kids, Julian and Heather, for about twenty years. I can get you phone numbers if you need them.”

“I’ve got contact info for Sylvie’s kids already,” said Frank. “Do you also know Stanley’s children?”

“I know he had two sons,” said Alene, “but I’ve never met them, and I don’t know their names.” Jocelyn had said something negative about one of them, and she remembered that Julian had said he’d pitied the two sons for having Stanley as a father. Sylvie had said that they blamed her for their parents’ divorce and never accepted her. “Julian told me he was about twelve when his parents divorced, but I don’t know how old Stanley’s kids were. And Julian said the older one recently moved back to Chicago.”

Frank said, “Yes, that’s Harrison Huff and his wife, Rhea. The younger one is here too.” His fingers tapped an imaginary piano on the tabletop. “His name was Jonathan and he left the navy about seven months ago to come back to Chicago. He changed his name.”

It took a moment for the pieces to fall together. In slow motion, Alene stood up and looked at Jocelyn, who was whipping up a cappuccino behind the counter. Why hadn’t Alene known that Jocelyn DeVale had been Jonathan Huff?

They exchanged glances and Alene remembered when Olly brought her in to interview for the job. It had been just weeks after she got back from Afghanistan, and Jocelyn hadn’t been nearly as polished as she was now. Would it be insensitive to tell her that, maybe congratulate her? Moments later, Jocelyn stood at Alene’s office door, her arms at her sides, chin raised as if it was time for morning roll call.

Jocelyn looked down at her shoes and spoke in a low voice. “Hello, Frank.” Jocelyn had been religious about taking the hormones but, as she’d once told Alene, there were more ways to be a woman than the one that required pills, including unending attention to hair, nails, skin, clothes, speech patterns, the way she walked or sat, and everything else. Since Jocelyn started at the café, she’d gotten better at applying make-up and had learned to dress less like the magazine version of women and more like Kacey, LaTonya, and all of Alene’s other young female employees. She seemed to have gotten more comfortable with who she was meant to be.

“How are you doing, Jocelyn?” Frank asked. Alene realized she’d been entirely wrong about the reason for Lee and Frank’s visit.

“Just to confirm,” Alene said, looking at Jocelyn and hoping she’d gotten it right. Her voice came out wobbly. “Stanley was your father?”

“Yup,” said Jocelyn, standing with one hand on her hip. Alene wondered if she was the only one in the café who hadn’t known. She felt like she was in a soap opera.

Lee said, “She was born as Jonathan Huff.” He was good at stating the obvious.

“Would you like to speak in private, Jocelyn?” Frank asked in a respectful tone.

“No thanks,” said Jocelyn, squeezing Alene’s shoulder. “I don’t have secrets from Alene.” Except for that enormous one about Stanley being her father.

Frank said, “I’m sorry we have to ask these questions during such a difficult time. I know from other family members that Stanley wouldn’t acknowledge you.” Frank invited Jocelyn to take a seat. “That must have been extremely painful after your transition.” So, he’d known all along. Lee didn’t say anything. She should ask Frank if Lee ever let his guard down, like did he ever gossip about sports while they were driving to and from crime scenes?

Jocelyn said, “Gender confirmation. It was more of a gender confirmation than a transition.” She sat down, placing the carafe on the table, and putting her hands in her lap. “And some people are more understanding than others, but I refuse to let that dictate how I live my life.” Her turquoise eyes sparkled with tears. After a brief pause, Jocelyn continued, speaking more smoothly than Alene would have thought possible. “I took this job because it was next to Stanley’s gym. I wanted my father to be forced to see me.”

Frank said, “That couldn’t have been easy.” His empathy made Alene want to put her arms around him, but she also wanted to hug Jocelyn.

“It wasn’t,” said Jocelyn with a determined look, “but I thought he’d see that I’m finally happy.” Jocelyn patted her eyes with a tissue. Alene always kept a box in her office. “I left home when I was fourteen, but I tried to have a relationship with him.”

Alene watched the exchange with a combination of dread and curiosity. She teared up but couldn’t reach out to touch Jocelyn from where she sat. “I’m so sorry,” she said. Jocelyn must have felt torn all those times Alene had bitched about Stanley: his cologne, his behavior, his cigarettes. If only she’d followed Ruthie’s advice about not speaking badly of anyone, ever.

“I was waiting,” Jocelyn continued. “But it never happened.”

“That must have felt awful,” said Frank.

Lee, apparently acting as the bad cop, and said, “You were vaping in the alley right before Stanley was found, Ms. DeVale, and then you were in his office for quite a while after he was found.” Alene remembered rushing out as Jocelyn stood frozen over Stanley. It hadn’t been completely clear that he was dead, but Alene had been worried about Kacey.

Jocelyn stared at Frank’s partner. “I was trying to see if he needed help while someone called an ambulance. Isn’t that the normal thing to do?” Now she was wringing her hands.

“Absolutely normal,” said Frank, softly.

Lee jumped in, “Miles Taylor told us that you were inside for over five minutes before you came back out to the alley.”

“We’re just talking here, Jocelyn, just trying to figure out a few things,” said Frank. “But we might need you to come down to the station to give us a complete statement. For now, we’re just wondering if you could tell us what you were doing during that time in your father’s office.”

Jocelyn scowled. “Don’t you also think it’s normal to want to check the pulse of someone you find passed out on the floor?” She looked at Alene and back at Frank. “Never mind, just give me a minute and I’ll give you my statement now. I don’t want you to suddenly cuff me and push me into the back of a police car” She turned and headed to the kitchen.

“We don’t push people,” Lee muttered. “I have a feeling she’s hiding something.”

Alene felt sick. “He was her father,” she said. “She wouldn’t have hurt him.” Hadn’t Jocelyn just said that she’d taken the café job in order to be close to Stanley? And she wouldn’t lie to Frank. Alene couldn’t imagine any of her employees capable of murder, although Jack Stone had been capable of committing plenty of other crimes. She’d even briefly considered good-humored, song-loving Olly as a suspect when Kacey’s father was stabbed. But Alene would never consider Jocelyn as a suspect. She wasn’t the kind of person who would do something like that.

Frank stood and said, “I’m sorry, Alene, but we need to follow up on everything.”

Alene sipped her latte. “Fine,” she said crossly. “But I was there and Stanley was already on the floor when Jocelyn came into his office. Then, she was trying to check for a pulse.”

“She might have gone in earlier,” said Lee.

“She’s trying to quit smoking. She wouldn’t give up her vaping time to run next door and murder her father.” Alene shook her head and added, “And Jocelyn wasn’t the only one who spent time in the alley. I’ve seen other Better Be Fit trainers strutting around. One of them could have gotten mad enough with Stanley to push him into the wall and knock him out.”

“We’re just asking questions, Alene,” Frank said, placing a hand on her arm. “We’re not accusing Jocelyn of anything.”

“Stanley pissed off everyone,” Alene said, moving out of Frank’s reach. She felt herself getting worked up. “Maybe a customer spent a fortune on supplements and was mad about not gaining enough muscle or losing enough weight. Or Stanley owed money, or he screwed someone over the way he’s been known to do. You should ask Michael Jay about how Stanley treated him. He’s my personal trainer, but he used to work for Stanley.” She hoped Michael wouldn’t be upset that she’d mentioned him to the police. “That was years ago, and it was resolved in a lawsuit, but you get my point.”

“We’re collecting information,” said Frank, rotating his neck in circles with a crunching sound. “Do you know any of his employees?”

“He had five trainers working for him,” Lee added. “At this location.”

They were digging for information without giving her any. “I’ve only met Miles Taylor,” Alene said. She peered at the crimson wall and noticed a thin crack going nearly to the floor. Maybe if she paid him extra, Olly would be willing to spackle the crack and repaint the entire wall.

Frank looked down at his notepad. “All Better Be Fit trainers are part-time,” he said. “And the other four had started looking for jobs at other gyms even before Stanley died.”

“I’m not surprised. Some people have a way of generating hostility,” she said, thinking about Edith Vanza. Alene led Frank and Lee back out to the café. Jocelyn reappeared; her make-up freshly applied.

Edith rushed up to ask Jocelyn if everything was all right, buzzing around her like a mosquito until Jocelyn calmed her down and hugged her. “I want to know who murdered my father,” Jocelyn said with her usual composure. “So, I’m going to help the police however I can. Don’t worry about me.”

Edith said, “Let me know if you want me to feed Bella Donna if you’re not going to be home in time.” Edith wore a self-satisfied look, as if she were the only one in the café privileged enough to know the name of Jocelyn’s cat. Anything involving cats seemed to bring out Edith’s soft side.

Jocelyn said her goodbyes and rushed off. The detectives had to hustle out the front door after her, as though they were her bodyguards. Alene was consoled by the thought that Jocelyn wouldn’t have gone with Frank and Lee if she had been worried about incriminating herself. She’d told Alene how she had trained in the military to give just her name, rank and serial number. She’d probably get more information from them then they’d get from her.

When things slowed down a while later, Alene went back to the kitchen and pulled out the sourdough starter for pumpernickel bread dough, the next thing on Ruthie’s list. She wondered if Jocelyn was hiding anything else from her, and asked everyone in the kitchen, “Did any of you guys know that Stanley was Jocelyn’s father?”

Everyone was bent over various tasks while LaTonya filled a tray to bring out to the pastry case. “How would I know that?” LaTonya asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

“I knew,” said Kacey as she chopped up herbs.

Ruthie said, “It wasn’t my story to tell.” As much as Alene admired Ruthie, she couldn’t understand her refusal to talk about other people. Ruthie often told the story of a woman who repeated gossip that spread around the community. The person it was about cried bitterly because the gossip was untrue. The woman who’d repeated the gossip was full of remorse and asked her rabbi how she could make things right. So, the rabbi told her to shake all the feathers from a pillow, and once the wind blew them here and there, to put them back. The woman knew that doing so was impossible. “Just like words,” Ruthie always proclaimed. “Once you say them, they can’t be retracted.”

Ruthie had told the story so often that all she had to do was say, “Feathers,” and Alene would stop talking. She understood how important it was for Ruthie not to tell stories about other people, but she could have told Alene that Stanley was Jocelyn’s father. They were both tall and had strong jaws, but they looked nothing alike, so how could Alene have ever made the connection?

In the half year she’d worked at Whipped and Sipped, Jocelyn had been occasionally haughty and tense, but mostly patient, sweet-tempered, and generous. Nothing like Stanley Huff with his judgmental digs at anyone who didn’t have a perfect body or his inconsiderate behavior at their building. Alene’s cellphone rang and she took a quick look. “It’s your mother,” she told Ruthie, confused.

“Why is she calling you?” Ruthie asked.

Alene shook her head and shrugged as she answered the call. “Hi Lillian, I’m here with Ruthie in the kitchen, and you’re on speakerphone because she wants to know why you’re calling me.”

“Hi girls,” said Lillian. “Sylvie is really agitated, and she wants to talk to Alene.”

“Give her my love,” said Ruthie, turning around to continue working on a batter as Olly came through the kitchen and paused to eavesdrop.

Last thing Alene needed was Sylvie calling her in the middle of the day. Lillian said, “You’re always so patient when she comes to the café, Alene, and she says you never interrupt. Do you have a few minutes to talk to her?”

Alene watched Kacey pour herb batter into a greased muffin tin and through the kitchen door, noticed customers waiting to order at the counter. If Ruthie hadn’t been standing there, she’d have begged off. “I’m happy to help, Lillian,” she said, grudgingly, “but we’re closing soon so I don’t have that much time.”

Lillian said, “I’ll let you tell her yourself.”

Suddenly Alene heard Sylvie’s dramatic sigh. She pulled out the earbuds she kept in her back pocket and attached them to her cellphone. “Alene, honey?”

“Hello,” said Alene. Sylvie Huff was one of the most egocentric people Alene had ever met. “I hope you’re feeling better and I’m sorry about your loss.” Alene could hear Julian and Lillian in the background, so she knew Sylvie’s phone was on speaker. Alene placed the phone in her waistband before washing her hands and finishing up a dough for peach breakfast cake. The fruit could be added the next morning just before it went into the oven.

“Losing my career was worse,” Sylvie moaned. Hadn’t her parents died, and hadn’t she gone through a divorce before she’d married Stanley? Sylvie went on about how her career as a singer had been cut short, a story Alene had heard several times before. Sylvie must have recognized Jocelyn as Stanley’s child, her stepchild. Why hadn’t she ever said anything, all those times Jocelyn had fixed her drinks or brought plates to her table? Alene could hear Julian groaning in the background. Now she understood his awkwardness during that encounter with Jocelyn at the café.

Sylvie babbled on about auditioning for parts, men who’d wronged her, and highlights of her brief career, also stories that Alene had heard. Then, she began talking about how her first marriage, to Julian and Heather’s father, fell apart. Julian interrupted to yell that he didn’t need to hear her complain again about his father, that she’d been the one who’d wanted the divorce, and that parents were not supposed to bad-mouth each other to their children.

Alene finished the coffeecake batter and began measuring flour for another recipe. She tried hard to never say a bad word about Neal, no matter what scatter-brained, idiotic thing he did. Now she let Julian rant at his mother while she continued working. Maybe she should listen to interesting podcasts while she worked because she was getting so much done.

Finally, Lillian was on the phone saying that Sylvie had drifted off to sleep. She thanked Alene, who clicked off and put her earbuds back in her pocket while wondering if Sylvie was psychotic or just devious. She could have had herself checked into the hospital after first stopping to murder Stanley. She’d wanted to punish him for having affairs. Alene washed her hands and flicked the water instead of using another paper towel.

Jack entered the kitchen and headed to the sink to scrub pans. He said, “Kacey’s bartender just came in. I really can’t stand him. I hope he falls into one of the dumpsters he’s always digging in.”

Kacey had just placed a batch of dough in the proofer. She flipped the bird at Jack and stuck out her tongue before rushing out to the café to fling her arms around Kofi. “Why don’t you like him?” Alene asked Jack after the kitchen door closed. She was measuring the rest of the dry ingredients for fudge brownies that she’d made hundreds of times. “He’s a good guy, and he makes Kacey happy.”

“He steals stuff to make sculptures,” said Jack as he filled the sink with hot, soapy water. “I don’t want Kacey to get hurt. He says he’s always banged up from riding his bike, but he could be running a dogfighting operation or selling drugs.”

That was the first time she’d heard Jack express concern about anybody. Alene said, “He doesn’t steal, Jack. He finds things that people threw away and recycles them. Has he done something specific that made you distrust him?” Jack chewed on a fingernail and ran his hand through his hair, two more bad habits he needed to break in order to keep things hygienic in the café.

Ruthie looked up from where she was standing at the counter, and said, “Why not give Kofi the benefit of the doubt, Jack?”

“Because he’s not nice to me,” said Jack, “and I learned a few things about people before I stopped selling.”

“You’re doing great now, Jack, that’s all behind you,” said Alene as she poured wet ingredients into the bowl of cocoa, flour, flax meal, baking soda, and salt. Was there really such a thing as recovering from selling drugs? Did he go to meetings with other recovering dealers and talk about why they were drawn to making money by destroying other people’s lives? What a shame if he slid back into it.

“Anyway, Kofi could probably kill someone with his bare hands,” said Jack, running a sponge around each indentation in the muffin tray the way Alene had taught him. It made her feel good about her ability to teach, although now Jack was working himself up, attacking the next tray as if he meant to beat it clean. He added, “I think he had something to do with Huff’s death.”

Ruthie looked up and spoke in her soothing voice. “If that’s the case, Jack,” she said, lightly stirring the ingredients in her bowl, “Frank will figure it out.”

“But I could be right,” Jack muttered. He’d moved on to the large baking pans and was scraping scraps into a trash bin. Through the kitchen door into the café, Alene watched Kacey bring a lemonade to Kofi and then join him next to a group of women sipping iced coffees. Jack continued, “A lot of guys could fall for Kacey. I think he’s suspicious, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Don’t you want her to be happy?” Alene asked, wondering how long Jack’s protective step- brothering would last and if Kofi being African American had something to do with his suspicion. She knew that Jack had been raised right. Maybe he couldn’t see that Kofi was an interesting, considerate guy with art school under his belt. Even more important, he was kind and patient, exactly what Kacey needed.

“Yeah,” said Jack, “but Kofi knows his way around Chicago alleys. Maybe Stanley caught him stealing something and there was a fight.”

“He’s not a suspect, Jack,” said Alene. Calling him a racist would not change his outlook. She and Ruthie were going to have to plan some additional employee training. “And let’s not forget about his rainbow sculpture. Do you know how many customers that piece has attracted?”

“It’s not that hard to build a rainbow,” Jack said. “Anyone could have done it.”

Alene had lost her patience by then. “But nobody else did, Jack. Now, I want to know why you didn’t tell me about Jocelyn.”

“Tell you what about Jocelyn?” He batted his eyelashes.

“How long have you known?” Alene was in no mood for games.

“I’ve known since I met her, Alene. I keep my eyes open, unlike you,” Jack answered. “I’m trying to be a better person, you know, like Ruthie or something.” Ruthie bending over the oven and couldn’t hear them.

Alene didn’t want to discourage him, because he really was trying to be a good employee, so she offered a high five on her way to the refrigerators. She also wanted to be a better person like Ruthie, or something.