I was alone when Gavin Melnik walked into Aromas late one afternoon, about a week after my lunch with Grandfather. He somehow kicked over the basket of natural sponges just inside the door, giving me a quick horrified glance before stooping to right the basket, grabbing an armful of the scattered sponges and tossing them in before making his way over to the counter with a huge one clutched in each hand. He and Katrina both had blonde hair but little else in common as far as I could see. He was nicely put together but without Katrina’s height. Since awkwardness seemed to be his hallmark characteristic, bulletproof self-confidence clearly wasn’t a family trait, either.
I was at a bit of a loss. It seemed a little weird to call my lawyer to ask what I should do with Melnik already in front of me. Did I acknowledge him? Ignore that I knew who he was? He hadn’t spoken to me at Katrina’s memorial or when he’d come to deal with Matthew. Was there some sort of protocol for the interactions between plaintiff and defendant? Was there an established etiquette? We stared at each other like startled meerkats.
Then he cleared his throat. “I’m Gavin Melnik. I wanted to speak to you at Katrina’s memorial, but I was afraid you wouldn’t want me to approach you.” He glanced at the sponges in his hands with what looked like genuine confusion.
When I didn’t immediately reply, he looked away, first to the shelves of gallon jugs of shampoo and body lotion behind me and then up to the ceiling of wildflowers and herbs. Maybe he didn’t remember being in the store before, since he’d been carried into an ambulance on a gurney feetfirst with his eyes closed.
“I remember you,” I said finally. “And I saw you with Matthew the other day.”
He looked puzzled for a second and then his face cleared. “Yeah, I volunteer up at St. Christopher’s. Look, I’m really sorry,” he blurted. He blinked nervously. “The lawsuit wasn’t my idea; Katrina said she would get me twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Judging from his rather shabby varsity jacket, the money would have been welcome. He stood up a little straighter, chin out, his eyes fixed on the wall behind my head. I once read of a soldier executed by firing squad who refused the blindfold he was offered and bravely faced down a firing squad. The irony of course was that he was being executed for cowardice. He must have looked much the same as Melnik, with the same mix of defiance and hauteur in the face of certain death.
“I wanted to, you know, tell you I won’t be continuing the lawsuit,” he said to the wall. “I don’t drink much,” he added confidingly to the counter standing between us, “but it was my birthday and I was out of control that day. The whole thing was my fault.” He transferred both sponges to one hand and pressed them to his chest, then changed his mind and dropped them on the counter. He held out his hand in a tentative sort of way, obviously expecting me to brush him off.
The lawsuit could have been a serious financial drag on the business, which I’m certain Katrina intended. But his apology seemed sincere, and I had enough to do without holding onto a grudge. I extended my hand. His face lit up, and he moved toward me so quickly he knocked the sponges and a box of seashell soaps off the counter. He bent down to pick them up and banged his head on the counter so hard it must have rung like a bell.
“Ow!” He rubbed his head and then darted an anxious look at me. “Don’t worry; I won’t sue.” It was an awkward joke and, given the topic of our conversation, exasperating.
He lurched forward again, this time knocking over a display of candles in small floral tins, but, with some quick sleight of hand, somehow managing to prevent them falling to the floor. He shoved them back into order, then grabbed my extended hand and pumped it vigorously.
“Thank you! Thank you! I’ve been so worried about this. Katrina was…” His voice dropped. “… well, she was very forceful. And I owed her a lot. I don’t know why she didn’t like you.” He paused, perhaps hoping I would enlighten him, and then soldiered on. “I really admire you for standing up to Katrina like you did. But anyway, I was sort of hoping we could be, you know, friendly, if you stop being mad at me.”
I couldn’t decide if that was brazen or courageous, but it surprised me into an amused snort. He puffed out a big breath and he gave me a shy smile. “I thought you might throw me out or call the cops. I’m sorry about spilling everything. I get clumsy when I’m nervous.” He grabbed a couple of stray tins and pushed them back into line with the others. I stuffed the sponges under the counter, next to the box of dusty, gun-shaped soaps I keep out of a sort of nostalgia for my ex-partner, who’d originally bought them.
He hesitated. “Would you like to join me for a cup of coffee? I noticed a coffee shop down the block and it would mean a lot to me to talk to someone who knew Katrina. I miss her, you know?”
I wasn’t up to watching his wistful expression change when I explained that he might be the only person within fifty miles to be sorry she was gone. “I’m afraid I’m alone here at the moment.”
His shoulders drooped, and he extended his hand for a farewell handshake. “Right. Some other time. I’ll just…” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder and turned to go, then hesitated before looking back. “I’m—I’m looking for a job. I’m a writer,” he added with gentle pride, “but you know how it is; I need a day job, too. I don’t know much about computers, but I have some bookkeeping experience if you use QuickBooks, and I’ll do just about anything.” He looked at me hopefully, and honestly, he reminded me of a fledgling swan, all fluffy and helpless.
“I already have an accountant,” I said, and his face fell.
“Sure, I understand. It’s been tough finding work that I can leave behind at the end of the day, so I have the time and energy to do my writing. I volunteer at St. Christopher’s shelter a few hours a week, but I really need to find a paying job.”
I thought of Nat, who wanted to hire someone for The Coffee, and then had almost instant second thoughts. He was shy and almost comically clumsy, and given all the steaming milk and hot coffee, an accident-prone barista could have a short, painful career. Although if his entry into Aromas was any indicator, Nat would be able to see him in action and make that judgment call.
“My friend Nat owns the coffee shop,” I said. “He might be looking for someone.”
“That’s great. If he’s there now—” I nodded. “I’ll go along and talk to him.” He held out his hand and I shook it again, reflecting that most Americans would find all the handshaking funny—or be pulling out the hand sanitizer. I wondered if he’d picked up the habit in Europe, or if it was just another sign of nerves. He left, looking as if he’d shed ten years. I felt lighter myself, knowing that the lawsuit wasn’t going ahead. I telephoned my insurance company lawyer and gave her the news, although, lawyer-like, she said she’d wait for official notification before assuming anything.
Twenty minutes later, Melnik poked his head in the door as I was dealing with a store full of customers and gave me a dazzling smile and a thumbs-up. He looked happy, and I realized he’d looked woeful or nervous every time I’d seen him until that moment. I waved, and he went on his way. He was cute, if a man in his thirties can be cute. And with him on board at Nat’s, maybe I wouldn’t have to get up every morning at the crack of dawn.
I got a text from Nat: He’ll do but not my type. Next time send … I snorted. He’d added a photo of a shirtless Channing Tatum.
The next day, Melnik (“Call me Gavin”) stopped by to tell me he was apartment hunting, since he wouldn’t be staying on at Katrina’s apartment once it was folded into her estate. “I thought I’d start looking; it could take a while to find somewhere. This is a great neighborhood, but I need somewhere cheap, if that’s even possible.”
And I had an empty, ground floor studio. He arranged to move in the following month, when he would need to move out of Katrina’s apartment. He said he didn’t own much—a few small pieces of furniture, some cardboard boxes, and a couple of garment bags would be easy to move over from the other side of the Gardens. I was relieved that the studio’s Murphy bed meant he’d have somewhere comfortable to sleep, at least. I waived the security deposit, but he said he could come up with the first and last month’s rent. I did an Internet search—I’m not a complete idiot—but he wasn’t a convicted serial killer or a sex offender, and he wasn’t on the city’s unofficial landlord blacklist. He was volunteering at St. Christopher’s, his credit rating was surprisingly good, and I knew where he worked. Fair enough. San Francisco is a rent-control city, and in any event Fabian Gardens landlords were restricted in the amount of rent we could charge by a provision in the community covenants. As part of her campaign to be a thorn in everyone’s side, Katrina had fought us on that. She’d lost, and hadn’t been happy. The rules meant that the community was more economically diverse than some other places in the city. We did have a few millionaires, including a dot-com baby millionaire who, rumor had it, had furnished her place with nothing but vintage pinball machines. But we also had a number of blue-collar retirees who had lived here for decades, and some solidly middle-class families and couples, along with twentysomethings who shared some of the smaller apartments or lived solo in a studio while they took classes at USF, Hastings, or San Francisco State.
I went with Gavin to the coffee shop for his first morning shift and my last day as a barista. Nat had already given me my pink slip and told me to get some more rest. I stayed long enough to realize that I wasn’t needed. Gavin seemed less clumsy, or maybe just more cautious. He and Nat got along well together, and he willingly did everything asked of him, up to and including using a glass jar to capture a spider and release it into the alley. Nat was afraid of spiders, and I didn’t like them much either, so we were usually reduced to playing rock-paper-scissors. The spider escaped twice, and its eventual liberation involved a spatula, a box of coffee stirrers, and two of Nat’s customers, one of whom was apparently a member of PETA and who took it upon himself to assure the spider’s comfort during its ordeal.
I left Nat and Gavin reading PETA brochures and walked back to Aromas feeling more cheerful than I had in weeks. The spider was free. The lawsuit was off my plate. Business at Aromas was good. The recent neighborhood association meeting had been remarkably harmonious without Katrina’s spiky presence. I hadn’t noticed anyone following me for a couple of days. I’d even managed to take a few photos for the calendar. True, Katrina’s killer was still at large, and Ben was still potentially in danger somewhere overseas, but the other side of the ledger was looking pretty good.
Two hours later, I was straightening a rack of kimonos when Nat clattered through the door, so winded he almost couldn’t talk, as if he’d run from The Coffee on a single breath. He bent over at the waist and tried to gulp in some air. I went over and patted his back, and he gasped out the problem. Nat has this smooth-as-honey Texas accent which, if you have a clipped English accent like mine, rests in the ear like music. He was saying something that sounded like “Hand. Bleedin’.” I smothered a snort. Nat fainted at the sight of a paper cut, so I thought he’d cut himself trying to make a sandwich or something. Then I realized he was actually shaking, and thought maybe it wasn’t so simple.
He stood up straight and tried again, his face ashen and his eyes frantic. “Theo! You’ve gotta come.”
He hustled me out of the store without giving me a chance to lock up, down the block, into the coffee shop, where a microwave oven sat on his counter in a nest of bubble wrap. Gavin was sitting at a table with his head in his hands. He looked up when we arrived and passed a hand over his face with trembling fingers. Nat waved a hand at the microwave. I approached it warily and opened the door.
A bloody hand was sitting on an equally bloody and crumpled cloth. It looked like some sort of nightmarish flower, sitting upright with the fingers twisted and pointing in different directions. I frowned, trying to figure out why it looked so misshapen, because obviously that was the important thing, when I heard a sort of retching noise and half-turned to see Nat give up the struggle and collapse in a graceless faint against the wall.
I took some of his weight and lowered his head gently to the floor, knowing from experience that he’d come around by himself in a couple of minutes. I waved Gavin over. Frankly, he looked green, but I thought taking care of Nat might focus his mind. He flicked a cloth off his shoulder and held it under the cold water tap, then folded the cloth into a pad. He crouched down and pressed it onto Nat’s forehead and the back of his neck with surprising competence. With none of his usual dithering, he looked up at me and said, “You should call the police.”
“Yes. Right. I’ll do that.” Then I hesitated. I understood Nat’s impulse to find a friend to help him with—I looked quickly at the hand again and then wished I hadn’t. Inspector Lichlyter wasn’t exactly a friend, but at least I knew her and she knew me. She’d know she didn’t need to go digging any further into my past as part of a new investigation.
She must have had caller ID because I was still trying to frame my first sentence when she said, “Miss … Bogart. What’s happened now?”