Sixty-eight

AS the wannabe gangsta departed, I sat down heavily at an outdoor table and massaged my temples.

So far tonight I’d scored a big fat zero. The Cinder bash was a bust, as far as the company’s CEO was concerned. And our Barista APB had come up empty. I’d like to say the night was young, but it was already past eleven PM, and there was nary a sign of Richard Crest.

At least Esther’s poetry slam was a hit with the customers. Everyone seemed to enjoy it—well, everyone but the Tinkerbells.

Was the Shot Down Lounge a naïve idea? Sydney’s extreme negative reaction (or maybe just my aching Critter Crawl muscles) put a pin in my optimistic bubble.

With two hours left until closing, there wasn’t much more that could upset me, or so I thought—until I sat back in the café chair and caught sight of a familiar-looking red SUV parked across the street. It was the color of a young cabernet. I might have doubted it was the same vehicle that almost ran me down, if I hadn’t seen the mud splattered on its grill and wheel wells.

I hurried into the coffeehouse to track down Matt. He’d promised to deal with Red Beard the next time he had the chance. And that time may have come.

I found Joy, but to my surprise, there was no sign of my ex.

“Where’s your father?”

“He had to go, Mom. His date—Marilyn something—got a headache so he walked her home.”

“I can’t believe he left you alone.”

Joy shrugged. “I think Daddy is finally acknowledging that I’m an adult and perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

As she moved to bus another table, Dante followed close behind.

“Don’t worry, boss,” he whispered. “Matt ordered me to keep a close watch on her—something about birds on a hippo?”

I suppressed a laugh. Yeah, that was Matt. “Have you seen any sign of Crest?”

“No. And no one’s hit on Joy since I started looking after her. The Barista APB looks like a bust. I think the dude slipped our dragnet . . .”

Dante’s words stayed with me for the rest of the evening. I kept watching for Crest, and Red Beard, too, but didn’t see either.

Near closing time, we got busy again—a last call for coffee brought a surge to the counter, our supplies ran low, and our pastries ran out. Finally, we closed the doors.

I sent Joy upstairs. She’d been on the go since the crack of dawn and didn’t argue. I told Dante and Nancy to take off, as well. Tucker agreed to handle closing duties with me, and Esther insisted on helping, claiming she was too keyed up from the slam to go home.

So, while Tuck policed the lounge and Esther cleaned the kitchen area and loaded the dishwasher, I headed outside with a broom, a dustpan, and a wheeled trash can.

The night was cold, and getting colder now that the outdoor heaters were turned off. Traffic was light on Hudson, and pedestrians were scarce.

As I began to sweep, I saw that Red Beard’s SUV was (thankfully) gone. That’s when I noticed a man passed out at the farthest table.

No big deal. I’d seen this sort of thing before, usually in the late spring or summer. Some college kid or bridge-and-tunnel partier would have one too many at a nearby bar and try to sober up with our coffee before heading home. They seldom gave us trouble, but I hung back, anyway, hoping he’d wake up and move on.

But ten minutes later, the man was still slumped over the table. I continued to sweep until I reached him. A coffee cup lay at his feet, its contents spilled onto the sidewalk.

“Hello!” I called, sweeping as I moved closer. “Are you okay?”

I was about to shake his shoulder when I was rocked by twin shocks. The coffee wasn’t coffee; it was blood. And the man sprawled across the table was Richard Crest.