There’s a drawback to celebrating late into the evening, especially one that involves a lot of drama. Damien and I are dragging this morning when we arrive at Marcall’s at o’dark thirty, as my Gran used to call it.
“Whose idea was it to work in a breakfast cafe?” Damien asks with an enormous yawn as he prepares our coffee.
“Pretty sure you started it.” I glare at him through blurry, sleep-deprived eyes.
“But you own the place, so I think you should take responsibility.”
Meanwhile, my rabbit familiars, Marshall and Marcus, scurry around at my feet, reminding me how fun trick or treating is for the dozenth time. They want to know if we can do it again tonight.
“Trick or treat is only once a year,” I scold them as they pout and stomp their little feet. I’m not sure which is worse. The disagreeable looks they’re always giving me or the foot-stomping when they don’t get their way.
My grandma always claimed to have won them in a poker game decades ago. Then she named her cafe after them. They don’t do magic, thank goodness, or we’d all be in trouble.
But considering your average house rabbit lives about ten years and doesn’t talk, we’re convinced Gran must have used some kind of magic on them. Either that or they truly came that way, and their previous person only pretended to lose the game, realizing it would be simpler to make them someone else’s responsibility.
When Gran was alive, she was the only one they could talk to. But when she passed away, somehow that ability transferred to me. They only weigh about four pounds apiece, but amazingly, they travel all over town begging treats from the shop owners.
“Why are you mad about trick or treating? You hop all over town as it is begging for vegetables and flowers almost every day.”
“It was extra fun to go in the wagon last night,” Marcus explains, wiggling his crooked ears at me.
“Yeah!” Marshall chimes in. “If you could pull us around in the wagon all the time, we would really appreciate that.”
I sigh and look at Damien like I can’t believe the plans these two come up with sometimes. “What are they hatching now?” he asks, peering over the countertop at them, looking a little leery. Damien is used to living with Supernaturals, but something about talking rabbits makes him nervous. He was relieved when the rabbits said his dog, whose name is Bubbles, doesn’t talk.
“I’m not pulling you around town in the wagon just so it’s easier for you to beg treats!” I tell them.
“Fine!” Marshall grumbles as the two of them head back into my office, where Stumpy, the cat, is undoubtedly sleeping. He doesn’t appreciate the early cafe hours either.
Their best friend, Stumpy, used to live next door at the Italian restaurant. But after the restaurant owner was stabbed to death, the restaurant’s new owner kicked him out. Marcus and Marshall then invited him to live with us. Without asking me, of course.
“Did you forget to unlock the front door again?” Damien asks when we hear someone knocking.
“I did,” I groan. I concentrate on the lock, because I’m too tired to walk over there, and it pops open.
“Good morning, everyone!” Gladys calls out to us. Gladys, the provider of our unending supply of town gossip, is here on the dot as usual for her 6:30 AM vegan breakfast burrito and coffee.
I’m almost afraid to go out front and tell her it will be another 30 seconds because we’re running just a tiny bit behind.
“Good morning to you, Gladys!” I tell her as I enter the dining area carrying a stack of clean plates.
Her mouth drops open in surprise. “Where’s my burrito?” she asks.
“Damien and I are a little slow on the uptake this morning, so it will be—”
“Here it is, Gladys!” Damien announces as he bursts through the kitchen door with her burrito.
Thank goodness, I mumble to myself. I don’t know how Gladys would react if she had to wait for more than a moment for her burrito. She schedules her entire day down to the minute, and any unexpected detour from that schedule makes her nervous.
“Party a little too hard last night?” she asks Damien, raising an eyebrow his way.
“It was quite the evening, wasn’t it?” he grimaces.
“I’m guessing you have the latest on Morley Haynes?” I prompt.
She snaps her gloves into her matching purse as Damien places the burrito and coffee in front of her. “You know it’s odd, but I don’t really have anything more than you probably already know, since you were there last night.”
“What?” I ask, feigning horror that she doesn’t have all the dirt already. Gladys prides herself on her ability to sniff out the latest happenings in our town. And like Harvey at the hotel, and my familiars, she too has helped me, of course I mean the CPPD, solve several crimes.
“Everyone seems extra tight-lipped about Hayne’s death. I’m not even getting anything from my sources at the hospital.”
“Do they really not know, or are they just not telling you?” I ask as I hand a newcomer our menu for the day.
Gladys slowly shakes her head. “I don’t know for sure, I just know that for now, Morley dropped dead at the Halloween Festival and, like everybody else, I’m assuming some kind of heart attack.”
After Gladys leaves, the cafe is somewhat quiet all morning. It’s the lull before the Crested Peaks Ski Resort opens next week, where we’ll be busy with ski traffic and tourists until Memorial Day Weekend.
Thankfully, I hired additional help over the summer. A young woman named Aranya, whose parents own the Thai One On food truck. She’s a culinary student at Colorado Mountain College, and has a test this morning, so she won’t be in until later.
The customers we do have this morning are abuzz about what happened last night at the hotel. I’m still relieved I didn’t stumble across any new bodies myself last night. Considering I was barely back in town a month before I found two of them.
I literally tripped over one and was accused of murdering him. Then Stumpy found a dead mobster in the park, and Marshall and Marcus, never to be outdone, found a murder victim at the 4th of July Festival.
And somehow, I always end up personally involved in the investigations, much to Detective Bailey’s chagrin. But I’m done with all of that. I’ve officially hung up my investigator’s hat, and I’m sticking with my vegetarian breakfast cafe apron. Thank you very much. Business is great, and now that ski season is almost upon us, we’ll be busier than ever.
During a mid-morning lull, Damien approaches me, looking both excited and nervous. For a moment, I’m terrified he’s going to quit because some swanky, high-paying restaurant in Denver offered him a job or something. “Hey boss, I have something to tell you.”
I gulp. “Okay.”
“Tom and I are applying to become foster parents.””Seriously?” I squeal. “That’s amazing! When? Where? How? Oh, my gosh! Can you tell I’m excited?” I’m practically jumping up and down. I’m so happy for them.
“They already have a child in mind for us, but we still have to complete all the paperwork and get approved. I was hoping you’d write a letter of recommendation for us.”
“Of course I will! And who’s the child? There’s so much to do! I’ll start writing the letter now!” I exclaim as I head for my office.
“Okay, calm down, Char, not everything has to be done right this second,” Damien laughs at me, but I can’t tell he’s happy I’m so thrilled for him. “She’s three years old, and her name is Poppy. Her mom came here from Puerto Rico with her when she was only about a month old. Tragically, a drunk driver killed her mom a couple of weeks ago and they haven’t been able to locate any relatives for her yet.”
“Oh, that’s heartbreaking. And if anybody knows what she’s going through, it’s me.” I was quite a bit older than Poppy when my parents were killed. Even so, I know what it’s like to lose someone. Also, my parents were con-artists who were murdered by another criminal in a con job that went awry, but I can still empathize with this poor girl.
“And that’s why you’ll make the best auntie,” Damien tells me.
“I just thought of something. What if they don’t find any of her relatives? What happens then?” Thankfully, I had my grandma when I was orphaned. I can’t imagine not having anyone, though.
“Wellll,” Damien says, tracing a floor tile with his toe and blushing. “It’s possible we could adopt her.”
I put my hand over my mouth, trying not to cry. “Oh, Damien, that would be the best thing ever.”
“Don’t get your hopes up!” he warns me. “Ideally, they’ll want her reunited with any family she might have, but if that can’t happen for some reason, Tom and I are open to adopting her. But let’s just take this one step at a time, okay?”
Our low-key celebration is interrupted when Aranya shows up for her shift. “Please don’t say anything to anybody else yet. I don’t want to tell a bunch of people until we know something for sure,” Damien whispers.
I give him a thumbs up and nod my head in agreement.
“Hey, guys! What’s up?” Aranya asks, hanging her coat and backpack on the coat rack.
“I was just telling Damien that I think we need another one of Chloe’s cupcakes.”
“Ohhhhh wow, those things are so good!” Aranya exclaims.
“I could absolutely go for a cupcake,” Damien agrees.
I grab my own coat off the coat rack. “It’s settled then. Three cupcakes coming up.”
“Get some parsley while you’re out!” Marshall calls out from my office, where he was supposedly napping.
I roll my eyes at my friends. I can’t walk out the door ever without the rabbits requesting some kind of snack. Italian parsley is their favorite, however, so that’s their most frequent request. “They’re demanding parsley,” I explain.
“I brought you something better,” Aranya says, digging in her backpack.
That brings the rabbits scurrying out of the office as they watch her pull out two dandelions.
“Awwwww yeah!” Marcus shouts as he leaps into the air and binkys. In case you’re wondering what a rabbit binky looks like, it’s when they’re just so happy they leap into the air and wiggle about. It’s quite comical and endearing. But they don’t need to act like they’re never fed.
“Where did you get dandelions this time of year?” I ask in surprise.
“We’re growing them at the school to use in recipes,” Aranya explains. “And I know how much these two love them.”
She leans over as they each rip one out of her hands. They usually both grab the same one and fight over it, but they must have forgotten that ritual in all the excitement over fresh dandelions in November.
“I won’t be gone long,” I tell them as I head out into the crisp late autumn air.