Chapter 7
Dear Natasha,
I have met the man of my dreams but he hates my coffee. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I put coffee in the machine and add water. Help!
Hoping for a Ring This Time in Coffee City, Texas
Dear Hoping for a Ring This Time,
There are so many ways to slip up when making coffee. First, stop buying pre-ground coffee. Buy coffee beans and grind them fresh for each pot.
Natasha
Bobbie Sue’s home was on a small side street loaded with shady trees, not far from the Potomac River. It sported a historical plaque but appeared to have undergone a good deal of updating.
I hoped we weren’t interrupting at the exact moment Bobbie Sue was telling her children that their father had died. If the food wouldn’t have spoiled, I’d have been happy to leave it at her doorstep.
Orange impatiens bloomed profusely along the front of the house. The door knocker was shaped like a pineapple, known to be the sign of hospitality.
Nina clanged it and a man opened the door. Neatly trimmed coffee-colored hair topped an attractive face. He wore jeans and a blue and gold T-shirt with a team logo on it. He assessed us quickly. “Wow. Food already? That’s great. I know Bobbie Sue will appreciate it.”
Nina introduced us and handed him the food containers. “You would be... ?”
“Sorry. Jeff Cosby, but everyone calls me Coach. I coach Spencer. I was supposed to give Spencer a ride to work this morning and Bobbie Sue told me what happened.” He stepped aside. “Come on in.”
He led us to a huge kitchen that screamed a professional chef lives here. The double refrigerator had see-through glass doors. Someone had organized it beautifully, with milk bottles standing in a row like little soldiers. Red and green peppers nestled in a glass bowl next to strawberries. A coordinating freezer stood beside the refrigerator. The stove was restaurant worthy with eight burners and a griddle. Spacious and airy, the kitchen boasted two dishwashers and every kind of countertop gadget imaginable. A tall window and French doors overlooked a generous and well-landscaped lawn in the backyard. A kitchen table and cozy nook by a fireplace provided plenty of room for noshing and family time.
“Bobbie Sue is in the living room with Spencer and Jo. I think she wanted me here because I work with kids. She’s worried about how they’ll react and thought I might be able to smooth the way for them. It’s hard losing your dad.” He gave us a sad smile. “How did you hear about it? I didn’t think people would start coming over with food until tomorrow.”
Nina explained that we were there when Tate was found.
“That must have been awful. In the cellar? What do they think happened?”
Nina whispered, “I don’t want the children to hear, but it looks like he was murdered.”
Coach stepped back. He rubbed the back of his neck and followed her example of whispering. “Murder? Do they know who did it?”
“Not yet,” she whispered. “Do you know anyone who would want to kill Tate?”
He shook his head. “In his own restaurant? That’s hard to believe. Hey, do either of you know how to work this gadget? I’m more of an instant coffee kind of guy.” He pointed at a stainless-steel box with its own milk frother and entirely too many buttons.
Nina stepped aside. “She’s the cook. Not me.”
I examined the contraption, thinking it was probably much simpler than it looked. After all, coffee was basically ground coffee and water, wasn’t it?
Coach handed me a bag. “I guess we need these.”
The second I touched it I knew we were in trouble. Coffee beans. At my house, I used a little coffee bean grinder. A simple thing about four inches tall. It didn’t even have buttons or levers on it. It had only one function and did it well. I had a hunch that maybe the giant contraption in front of me ground the beans itself and then added boiling water. Not even the caterers whom I hired for events had coffee machines this snazzy. Besides, they were the ones who made the coffee. Not me!
I lifted a hatch on the top and peered inside. It smelled like coffee.
A commotion erupted behind us. I turned just in time to see a teenaged boy race through the kitchen and out the door. Spencer, I presumed.
Coach ran after him. “Spencer! Spence!”
Bobbie Sue and Jo stood at the French door watching, their faces wet with tears. Jo clung to her mom and asked, “Will Spencer ever come back?”
“Of course he will, sweetie. He needs some time to be alone. That’s all.” Bobbie Sue hugged her daughter to her. “You stick with me, all right?” She looked over at me. “Do I smell coffee?”
“Not yet,” I said. “Do you know how to work this gizmo?”
“I hate that thing. It cost a fortune. Tate was so proud of it.”
“Coffee on the left, espresso on the right,” said Jo.
A dim smile crossed Bobbie Sue’s face. “I’m glad you were listening to him.”
Jo smirked. “He said it to you like a million times.”
I examined the compartments and buttons on the left side and took a chance by dumping coffee beans into a little chamber. I pushed a button, which caused a loud racket. For a moment I thought I might have broken something, but it was only grinding the beans. I guessed at a spot for water, added it, and in a matter of minutes, the lovely aroma of coffee wafted from the monstrous gadget.
Coach returned, panting hard. He bent forward, his hands on his knees. “That boy can run!”
“Where is he?” asked Bobbie Sue.
Coach straightened, breathing hard. “Never caught up to him.”
Bobbie Sue stared out the glass door.
“Give him some time, Bobbie Sue,” Coach said softly.
She lashed out. “A member of my family was just lost forever. I’d feel much better right now if my children were safe at home with me. Is that too much to ask?”
She burst into tears, which worried Jo. She stood motionless, looking horrified. “I can go find him, Mommy.”
Bobbie Sue wrapped her arms around her daughter’s shoulders. “You stay with me, honey.”
“Are you hungry, Jo?” asked Nina. “We brought the food your mommy forgot.”
Jo nodded vigorously. “Mommy came to get me too early. Everybody slept late. They were going to have pancakes at Esme’s house for brunch. Is this brunch?”
Bobbie Sue gasped. “I walked off without your breakfasts! Where is my brain?”
Coach, apparently not ruffled by her outburst, patted Bobbie Sue’s shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up. You have a lot on your mind. And you’re probably still in a state of shock.”
Nina, a self-confessed microwave expert, heated the contents of two of the takeout packages. I stashed the third in the fridge and proceeded to pour coffee for the adults.
Jo helped herself to orange juice.
“Bobbie Sue, could I pull you away for a moment?” I asked.
“Sure.” She led me into a family room that appeared well lived in.
Soft, worn leather furniture faced a large television and a red brick fireplace. A football lay on the floor. A jigsaw puzzle was in progress on the coffee table and a stuffed pig looked at us from the sofa. This room was where they lived.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked.
She shook her head. “There’s so much to do. I need to sit down and make a list. People to call, a memorial service to plan. Ugh.” Tears started again. “An obituary. I can’t believe I have to do that. That shouldn’t have been necessary for thirty years!”
I gave her a minute to compose herself.
“Thank you for asking, Sophie, but I can’t think of anything that I don’t have to do personally. I appreciate the offer. What I’d really like you to do is find Tate’s killer.”
She picked up the pig. “I was the one who bought gifts for the children. I guess that’s the case in a lot of marriages. But one day, Tate brought home Oinky for Jo. They’d had a conversation about pigs when I wasn’t home. But he remembered. There was something so sweet about it. A real bonding moment between them. And now someone has taken him from us.” Her tone had grown harder.
Nina must have been listening. She was leaning against the doorframe when she asked, “Who, Bobbie Sue? Who had a grudge against Tate?”
“I don’t know. When you own a business, I guess there’s often a disgruntled employee or supplier, even a competitor who dislikes you. But I hadn’t heard anything lately about problems with a particular person. You’d have to ask Marsha.”
“What about your private life? Former friends, enemies?” I asked. Trying to be discreet, I added, “Anyone who would be jealous of him?”
Bobbie Sue must have understood my question because she swung around and gazed at me with wide eyes. “I’m not having an affair with anyone.”
“Was Tate?” asked Nina.
“I don’t think so. Not that I know of, anyway. We were happy together. I hate to say this, but Marsha was with him all day long. She would know if he was getting calls from a woman or leaving for periods of time.” She paused and frowned at us. “His phone. The police must have his phone. I wonder if I can ask the phone company for his call records.”
“If you know the password for your account, you might be able to access it online,” I said. “Some companies, including some big ones, allow a person to look up the call record.”
Bobbie Sue rushed to a small desk and grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil. She scribbled something on it. “One more thing I need to do.” She looked up, her eyes meeting mine. “Start with Marsha. If I had the time for it, I would go to her myself.” She wrote something on another sheet of the pad, ripped it out, and handed it to me. “Here’s her address. Tell her I sent you.”
The door knocker sounded. Bobbie Sue’s shoulders sagged. “And so it begins.”
We followed her to the front door. She threw it open and demanded with hostility, “What do you want?”