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At 7.30 p.m. that evening, Lauren phoned Zoe.
“I wonder how her date is going,” she said to Annie. They sat on the blue sofa in the living room, the TV muted.
“Brrp,” the silver tabby replied.
Lauren wasn’t sure if that meant Annie actually knew with feline intuition that things were okay, or if the cat was wondering as well.
Zoe picked up immediately.
“Are you all right?” Lauren asked. “How’s it going?”
“What’s that, Mom?” Zoe spoke. “Rudy’s sulking and needs me to come home right away? Okay. I’ll leave now.” She hung up.
“What was that was about?” Lauren stared at Annie. “I hope she’s okay.”
“Brrt.” Annie seemed to nod.
Lauren didn’t have to wait long to find out. She heard her car stop outside, and then the slam of the front door. Zoe appeared in the doorway of the living room, spots of pink flaming her cheeks.
“Are you okay?” Lauren rose.
“I’m fine.” Zoe flopped dramatically in the matching armchair opposite the couch. “Thank goodness you called me.”
“Brrt?” Annie asked. She sat on the sofa, her ears pricked, waiting to hear more.
“He was eighteen!” Zoe placed her palm over her eyes.
Lauren’s mouth parted but all she could manage was a feeble, “What?”
“I know,” Zoe moaned. “That’s it! No more online dating. I mean it this time.”
“What happened? He didn’t look eighteen in the photo you showed me.”
“It was his brother’s,” Zoe replied miserably. “Apparently his brother doesn’t know he stole it. And get this – he said he was going to ditch school to meet me on our lunch date. I don’t want to contribute to the delinquency of am eighteen-year-old.” She jumped up and paced the room. “But you and good old Rudy saved the day. He asked who Rudy was and I told him he was a huge rottweiler with slavering jaws who was upset because I hadn’t taken him on the date. I left my share of the bill – we’d just received appetizers and I was counting the minutes until you called so I could leave with some kind of dignity. And,” Zoe continued, “he said he was into older women!”
“Oh,” Lauren murmured.
“I don’t consider twenty-five to be old, do you?”
Before Lauren or Annie could answer, Zoe continued, “Although I suppose it is to an eighteen-year-old.” She sank into the armchair again. “Why does this happen to me?”
“At least you’re putting yourself out there,” Lauren said. She admired that about her cousin.
“Not anymore.” Zoe sat up straight. “I’m going to do something else – like – like—” her eyes lit up as she spied a magazine on the coffee table. On the cover was a photo of a woolen scarf. “Knitting!”
“Brrt!” Annie encouraged.
“I’m going to start a knitting club!” Zoe jumped up, excited.
“But you don’t know how to knit,” Lauren pointed out. “Neither do I.”
“So, we’ll learn.” Zoe clapped her hands. “Ooh, I bet Mrs. Finch knows how to knit. She can teach us – no, she can be the guest lecturer! She wears woolen cardigans – I wonder if she made them herself?”
“I wonder,” Lauren said thoughtfully. The cardigans did look homemade, but a good sort of homemade, not a raggedy effort like she suspected hers would be, even after lessons.
“And I’m going to knit ... a blanket for Annie!”
“Brrt!” Annie sounded pleased.
“You’d like a pretty pink blanket to match your bed at the café, wouldn’t you, sweetie?” Zoe asked the tabby.
“Brrt!”
“That’s really nice of you,” Lauren said.
“And a blanket should be easy – it’s just a square or a rectangle. I bet I could whip it up in no time at all!”
“Maybe I could make a scarf.” Lauren tapped the magazine in front of her – a woman wearing a red scarf with a fancy looking knitting stitch stared at her. “Although maybe not as elaborate as this one.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Finch can teach us the basics,” Zoe said. “Ooh, we’ll have to buy knitting needles and wool. I wonder if that handmade shop at the end of the road will have what we need?”
“You could check it out tomorrow on your lunchbreak,” Lauren suggested. “And we can ask Mrs. Finch if she can teach us knitting. We were thinking of checking on her anyway, remember?”
“That’s right.” Zoe beamed. “I just know knitting is going to be so much better than internet dating!
***
THE SOUND OF METAL pastry tins banging together filtered through from the kitchen to the café the next day. Lauren smiled. It was good to have Ed there, even if he only communicated to her with mostly grunts. She must find time to ask him if he’d like to work Wednesdays as well.
Lauren furrowed her brow as a sudden thought hit her. Mrs. Finch hadn’t visited yesterday. She hoped the senior was okay. If there was a lull before lunch, she could hurry over to her house and check on her.
Before she could tell Annie her tentative plans, the door opened. She automatically smiled, ready to greet their first customer, when he walked in.
Oh no.
Her stomach dropped.
“Detective,” she said politely.
“Ms. Crenshaw,” Mitch returned, striding toward the counter, not even glancing at the Please Wait to be Seated sign.
“Brrt!” Annie scolded him.
“What can I – we—” she cast a glance at the silver tabby “—do for you?”
“I wanted to give you an update,” he informed her.
“Oh?” she attempted to keep her tone noncommittal.
“After further analysis, we’ve come to the conclusion that the victim – Steve – was murdered.”
“Oh no.” She clutched the counter top. Lauren didn’t know if that was better or worse than suicide.
“Brrt,” Annie added sadly, her ears drooping.
“But how do you know?” Lauren asked.
“We went through his kitchen trash and found a coffee capsule that had been tampered with.”
Lauren stared at him.
When she didn’t say anything, he continued, “Someone had placed crushed belladonna leaf in the pod, added back the ground coffee, and glued on the plastic film that formed the lid.”
“You’re joking,” she whispered, nervously looking at the espresso machine to her left. There wasn’t belladonna in those beans, were there?
“I wish I were.”
“But how did they – the killer – know for sure that Steve would use that capsule?” she asked.
“They didn’t,” he replied. “But there was a basket full of pods waiting to be used, right next to the coffee machine. The murderer couldn’t be sure when the doctored pod would be used, but there was a good chance it would be – in time.”
Who on earth could do such a monstrous thing?
“Why would someone kill Steve?” She cleared her throat.
“I don’t know.” He looked regretful. “Obviously someone who knew he drank coffee – and owned a coffee machine.”
“That could be just about anyone,” Lauren said. “Friends, neighbors, clients. He worked from home. Anyone who visited him and saw his kitchen would know that he had a coffee machine.”
“Did you?” He scrutinized her.
She flushed. She didn’t know whether it was from embarrassment at being considered a suspect, or because he was standing so close, with only the counter separating them.
“Brrt!” Annie said indignantly.
“Do you need me?” Zoe burst through the swinging kitchen door. “Lauren, are you – oh!” She froze when she saw the detective.
“Ms. Crenshaw.” Detective Denman inclined his head.
“Do you need help?” Zoe whispered to Lauren.
“Did Steve own a coffee machine?” the detective asked Zoe.
“I don’t know.” Zoe wrinkled her nose. “I know he drank a lot of coffee, but I can’t remember him mentioning he had his own machine.”
“Hmm.” The detective scratched in his notebook. After a pause, he said, “That’s all for now, ladies.”
Lauren numbly watched him leave. Annie muttered a grumble and headed toward the shelf. She hopped up in her bed and turned around three times before settling into a light snooze.
“I need to sit down.” Lauren tottered to the nearest table and sank onto a wooden chair.
“What happened?” Zoe sat opposite her.
For once, the café was quiet. Although they’d just opened, the only sound she could hear was Ed banging in the kitchen. For once, Lauren was glad there weren’t any early customers.
She told Zoe what the detective had shared with her about Steve’s death.
“No way!” Zoe placed a hand over her heart. “I can’t believe it!”
“I know.” Lauren shook her head. “How could anyone even think up such a thing?”
“What else did the detective say?” Zoe leaned forward.
“That was all.” Lauren shrugged. “You came in straight after that.”
“I heard Annie and thought she might be calling for reinforcements. I guess she was.”
They both turned to look at the Norwegian Forest Cat dozing in her bed.
“What about our coffee?” Zoe looked stricken as she turned to look at the espresso machine.
“That was my first thought. Mitch – the detective – didn’t mention anything. But,” she added, “I’m going to put those beans that are in the hopper in the trash – in fact, the remainder of the bag that’s in the cupboard behind the counter. Luckily, we’ve got a new sealed bag in the storeroom in the locked cupboard.”
“Thank goodness,” Zoe murmured.
When she’d taken over the café, Lauren wondered if she’d been silly to lock up the extra bags of coffee beans, but now she was grateful she’d been so prudent. Not that Zoe or Ed would secretly help themselves, but she’d read an article online about a man pretending to work in a busy restaurant while stealing as much food as he could. She thought it best to be vigilant, in case a stranger wandered into the café kitchen.
“We’d better dump those beans now, while there’s no one here.” Lauren rose and headed to the espresso machine.
“And we’d better tell Ed not to let anyone into the kitchen – except us.”
“Agreed.” Lauren nodded. “We don’t want to give the killer any opportunity to target us – or our customers.”
***
AT LUNCHTIME, ZOE ZIPPED off to check out the handmade store a block away, while Lauren held the fort. She’d eaten a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs, so didn’t mind having her lunch later, after the midday rush had lessened.
She could visit Mrs. Finch during her break. They’d been busy with customers ever since Mitch had left, but the elderly lady hadn’t been one of them.
Forty minutes later, Zoe rushed into the café. “I’ve got it!” She brandished a brown paper bag. Gray metal knitting needles peeked out from the top. “I bought you some needles too, plus some wool. I got you red, like the color of the scarf on that magazine cover, and I bought a gorgeous shade of yarn for Annie’s blanket. Look!” She pulled out a skein of ballet slipper pink.
“It looks great.” Lauren smiled as she peered into the bag. She’d always thought Zoe had a good eye for color. The red looked just right – not too bold and bright, but not too dark verging on crimson, either. She just hoped she wasn’t going to be all thumbs with the knitting needles.
“I’ll go check on Mrs. Finch now,” Lauren said, “if you’ll be okay here.”
“Sure.” Zoe waved a hand in the air as she scanned the room. “Everyone seems to be occupied eating their lunch.”
“Uh-huh.” Lauren nodded. “And Pamela and Ms. Tobin aren’t here.”
“Even better.” Zoe smiled mischievously.
“Annie’s taking a break as well.” Lauren glanced at the cat bed on the shelf where the Norwegian Forest Cat dozed. “She’s had a busy morning seating everyone. Don’t be surprised if she decides to go home for a while later.”
“Okay.” Zoe nodded. “And make sure you tell Mrs. Finch how we really want to learn to knit.”
“I will,” Lauren promised, glad to see her cousin enthusiastic about something that was safe and sedate. As long as she didn’t wave knitting needles in the air and accidentally poke someone in the face!
***
A FEW MINUTES LATER, Lauren knocked on Mrs. Finch’s front door. From this side, you couldn’t tell that the police had tramped through her sweet cream painted Victorian house and garden.
Mrs. Finch had a small front yard with a neat lawn dotted with orange and yellow poppies. If the police had taken samples from those plants, they had done so unobtrusively.
“Who is it?” A quavery voice sounded behind the wooden door.
“It’s Lauren, Mrs. Finch,” she replied. “From the Norwegian Forest Café.”
“I know who you are, dear.”
The sound of a bolt reached Lauren’s ears, and then the door slowly swung open.
“Zoe and I thought we’d better check on you. We missed you at the café yesterday – so did Annie.”
“That’s so thoughtful of you.” She smiled. Dressed in a tan skirt and periwinkle blouse, her gray hair in a bun and leaning on her stick, she looked like the quintessential picture of a little old lady. “Do you have time to come in?”
“Thank you.” Lauren entered the house. The hallway looked neat and clean with oatmeal colored carpet and lilac walls.
“I’m sorry I missed my visit with Annie yesterday, but the house was such a mess after the police trampled through it that I thought I should stay home and tidy everything up.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Lauren asked. “I’ve got a few minutes before I’m due back at the café.”
“That’s kind of you, but I’ve just about finished.” She ushered Lauren into the kitchen. It looked like a magazine picture from the 1960s, with pastel blue cabinets and countertops, and a darker blue linoleum floor.
“Wow,” Lauren murmured as she took in the old-fashioned fixtures.
“I know.” Mrs. Finch nodded. “Everyone says I should update, but really, why? If it ain’t broke don’t fix it, that’s what my father used to say, and I think he’s right. My husband and I moved here in the early sixties after we got married, and we were so happy.” She smiled wistfully. “Leaving the kitchen the way it was is one way of keeping my memories alive.”
“How long have you been on your own?” Lauren asked, hoping she was being tactful.
“Five years.” The old lady sighed. “We were married for fifty-five years, and I have a married son who lives in New Mexico. He says he loves the climate there. But he calls me every week and visits on my birthday and Christmas.”
“That’s nice,” Lauren murmured.
“You can see some of the back garden from here.” Mrs. Finch pointed at a large window behind the sink. “They made a terrible mess.” She tsked.
Small pieces of broken branches and some flower petals littered the lawn. Large trees grew against the fence, including an oak.
“Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?” She pointed to a black and chrome coffee machine on the counter top. “My son gave it to me for my birthday, but I don’t know how to use it. He said all I have to do is read the instructions but I didn’t like to hurt his feelings and tell him I don’t drink coffee much.”
Lauren’s eyes widened as she took in the machine.
“Does it use pods?’ she asked faintly. She walked toward it, needing to know the answer.
“Pods?” Mrs. Finch frowned. “I have no idea.”
Lauren examined the appliance. “Yes, it looks like it does.” She suddenly felt sick.
“Oh dear. You mean I have to buy pods in order to get coffee out of it?”
“Yes. You can buy them at the grocery store.”
She scanned the kitchen countertops but didn’t see evidence of any pods. If Mrs. Finch didn’t know how to use the machine, or even know that she needed pods in order to use it to make an espresso, surely she couldn’t have masterminded Steve’s death?
“Do you need something to eat, Lauren?” Mrs. Finch asked. “You look a little pale.”
“I’m okay,” Lauren said hastily, racking her brain for another topic. She couldn’t think about coffee and Mrs. Finch in the same breath.
“Zoe would like to start a knitting club and thought you might know how to knit.”
“Yes, I do.” She beamed. Then her smile faded. “But it’s been a while.” She held out her wrinkled hands, twisted with age. “I don’t know if these old fingers can knit anything useful. Arthritis.”
“Oh. But you’d still be able to teach us how to knit, wouldn’t you? If you had time,” she added.
“Yes, I think I would.” Mrs. Finch sounded pleased at the idea. “And I’ve got plenty of time on my hands.”
“Great. I’ll tell Zoe. She’s already bought needles and wool. When you come into the café next, you could discuss it with her.”
Lauren refused to even think about the possibility of Mrs. Finch being a suspect in Steve’s death.
“I’ll be there tomorrow morning,” Mrs. Finch promised.
Lauren said goodbye to the elderly lady, and hurried back to the café. Mrs. Finch couldn’t be the killer – she couldn’t even be a suspect, could she? However much Lauren wanted that to be true, she knew she had to tell Zoe about Mrs. Finch’s coffee machine.