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Cosmic Raleigh @RealRaleighRousedale ∙ July 14

.@CosmicPossumBrooklyn is playing Clubsburg Thursday, 9PM—come out for the best Bluegrass, Banjos, & Beer this side of the bridge! #livemusic #bluegrass #banjonation #CosmicPossum

The Sunday-night shift at Untapped Books & Café was usually quiet, but tonight it was deserted. I glanced at the time. It was nine o’clock. We hadn’t had a single customer in almost an hour, and didn’t close until eleven.

Normally, if it wasn’t busy, I would hang out near the kitchen and chat with Parker. He was teaching me a little sign language, and in exchange, I was trying to teach him how to juggle. But Silvia was covering the night shift as usual, and while I enjoyed her company—she had a wicked sense of humor—she got annoyed if the waitstaff spent too much time hanging out in the cramped kitchen. Andre was running the register, and he’d sent the other server home at seven when it became clear that we could handle the evening on a skeleton crew.

When a customer did finally walk in, I was able to give him my full attention. Which was fortunate, because it was the same guy who’d come in earlier, the one who had called me by my name. Now it was my turn. “Raleigh, right?” I’d been waiting tables on and off since I was seventeen, and nothing brought in the tips quite like a big smile and remembering the names of the regulars. It was harder in Williamsburg than it had been in Piney Island, Louisiana, where I’d practically grown up with most of the patrons of the Crawdad Shack, but it didn’t hurt to try.

I glanced over at the sea of available tables. “Sit anywhere.”

His face blossomed into a grin, and he ran one hand through his slicked-back hair in an unconscious gesture. “Don’t mind if I do. Which one’s in your section?”

I liked the way he spoke. His voice had an almost rhythmic cadence to it, and while there wasn’t even the slightest hint of an accent I could detect, he spoke slower than most New Yorkers, so I didn’t have to concentrate to keep up with what he was saying. I waved my arm at the dozen empty tables. I grinned at him. I enjoyed feeling like we shared a joke, even if it was a silly one. “The one with the spaceship.”

Out of all of the unique tables, my favorite looked like someone had upcycled a kid’s curtains into a tablecloth. On it, green space invaders with bulbous heads shot ray guns at astronauts in bulky white spacesuits while behind them, UFOs and other spacecraft battled among the stars. It was fun, and the more I looked at it, the more details I found, such as a startled black-and-white dairy cow caught in the tractor beam of a flying saucer.

Raleigh settled at the table I suggested. “Do you have a menu or something?”

“We have rotating options,” I told him. “In other words, a limited selection that changes at the whim of the chef.” Parker handled the creative side of the kitchen and Silvia served similar dishes in the evening, until the ingredients ran out or the kitchen closed. “Vegan? Vegetarian? Dietary restrictions or food allergies?”

“None of the above,” he replied.

“Then I would recommend the turkey club on locally baked wheat bread, grilled flatbread pizza with chorizo and olives, or an all-American grilled cheese sandwich with a cup of gazpacho.” In the winter, the grilled cheese would come with tomato soup, but in the hot summer months it was served with a cup of cold gazpacho.

Once Todd realized that the air conditioner was working properly for the first time since I’d been here, he promptly turned it up until it was a balmy seventy-three degrees inside. To save money. Despite that, Parker’s breakfast chili had been an immense success and had sold out before the lunch rush started.

“Can I get pickles on that grilled cheese?”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. I liked pickles as much as the next person. With a burger. I’d never tried them with grilled cheese. “Yeah, sure, if that’s what you want. And to drink?”

The residents of Williamsburg liked their beer. No, scratch that. The residents of Williamsburg liked their craft beer—beers brewed in small batches, with a wide range of flavors. At Untapped Books & Café, we specialized in local craft beers and had an impressive selection. However, by Sunday night, we’re usually down to just a few remaining choices until the delivery arrived on Monday morning.

In order to prevent me from having to run back and forth between the cooler and my tables to let them know that their selection was unavailable, would they like to make another choice? I tried to memorize what we had at the beginning of each shift and check back often when we’re running low. I’ve learned to appreciate the subtle differences between different brews, but it never hurt to memorize the beer’s info sheet as well.

“Tonight, we have Landlord’s Lunch, a hearty seven percent stout, Butcher’s Hyperbole where, ironically, the flavor is understated, and Pursuit of Hoppiness, a rich nine and a half percent IPA. Of course, we always stock Pour Williamsburg, the local favorite. Now, if you’re in the mood for a nonalcoholic beer, we might have a bottle or two of Crafty Like A Faux left.”

“PBR?” he asked.

I nodded, “Of course.” Everyone had different tastes and opinions. That’s what made the world go round, and why we had so many choices. Some people liked taking chances on craft beers. Since batches were small, and they’re always experimenting with different flavors, there’s no real way to guarantee anyone ever got the same beer twice. Mass-market beer, like Pabst Blue Ribbon, was consistent, which held a certain appeal, too. “Coming right up.”

I swung by the kitchen and gave his order to Silvia before pulling a can of PBR out of the beer refrigerator and grabbing a glass off the shelf. When I delivered it, Raleigh pulled out a chair for me. “Sit a spell.”

I sat. If Todd ever saw me sitting on the job, I’d be out of work before I could say bedazzler. But since Andre was supervising, I didn’t see how it could hurt. Even so, I sat on the edge of the chair so I could jump up if we got any more diners, as unlikely as that seemed on such a slow night. “Where are you from?” I asked. I could tell he wasn’t a native New Yorker, but beyond that I was stumped.

“Upstate,” he replied. “But you probably already knew that.”

I guess if I’d been a local, I might have recognized his speech patterns. The state of New York, especially upstate, was as different from New York City itself and the surrounding suburbs as Piney Island, Louisiana, was from New Orleans. For one thing, Manhattan, Staten Island, Queens, and Brooklyn were all on islands. Queens and Brooklyn shared an island—Long Island to be precise, which continued far out beyond the city proper to form its own community. The only borough of the city that was on mainland New York state was the Bronx, which I hadn’t visited yet despite having heard amazing things about their world-famous zoo.

Upstate New York was its own separate world. Stretching up to Canada and the Great Lakes, upstate was marked with the Catskill Mountains, rolling farmland, and frigid winters. It was remote, rural, and rustic—in other words, everything that New York City was not. From what I’d heard, upstate might as well be a foreign country compared to New York’s most populous metroplex.

“I hear it’s lovely up there.”

“It is,” Raleigh agreed. “Gorgeous. Especially if you like looking at the back end of bears.”

“That sounds so interesting. I’ve never seen real mountains before, much less bears in the wild.”

“Seriously?”

“Where I’m from is mostly at or below sea level, and the closest mountains are about seven hundred miles away. We’ve got bears, supposedly, but I’ve never seen one. Seen plenty of gators, though.”

“Louisiana, right?” he asked.

I looked at him with newfound respect. Most people, if they could recognize a Louisiana accent at all, could at best recognize a Creole or Cajun from New Orleans, not the northern part of the state. “You have an incredible ear.”

“I better. I’m a musician. Surely you’ve heard my band? Cosmic Possum?” He looked at me as though I should know that, and I felt a teensy bit foolish.

Izzy had been slowly introducing me to the local music scene, which, like Williamsburg, was vast and eclectic. So far, we’d seen an all-woman band called Deep Fried Cigarettes; Shamble and Roarke, a jazz band with a flamboyant lead singer; and a free-form choral group named Cauliflower Explosion. They had all been very . . . Williamsburg.

“I’m still exploring the local music scene,” I said.

A bell rang behind me, and I turned to see Silvia wave at me from behind the kitchen pass-thru. “Order up.”

I jumped up and grabbed Raleigh’s sandwich and dropped it off at his table. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if you need anything.”

“You should come see us play sometime. We’ve got a gig Thursday.” He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, smoothed it out on the table, and passed it to me. “We go on at nine.”

Despite Izzy’s reassurances, there was still a slim chance that I’d be in Louisiana by then, and I didn’t want to make a promise I couldn’t keep. “Not sure I’ll be in town Thursday, but thanks for the invite,” I told him. It was a shame. I was curious to see if his band was any good. I ambled away. I felt silly standing by the counter and staring at the only diner in the café, so I stepped into the kitchen.

“Who’s the dude?” Silvia asked. “You were looking pretty cozy out there. Friend of yours?”

“Name’s Raleigh.” I traced my finger along the list of band names on the flyer, until I got to the nine o’clock slot. “Said he’s in some band called Cosmic Possum. Heard of them?”

“Have I heard of Cosmic Possum? Are you kidding?” She stuck her head out of the pass-thru. “No fricking way. That’s Raleigh Rousedale! You’re telling me I just made a grilled cheese sandwich for Raleigh Rousedale? If I’d known it was him, I would have buttered the inside of the bread before I slapped it on the hot plate!”

“I take it the band’s a pretty big deal?” I asked. I’d never seen Silvia so excited before.

“You could say that,” she replied. “They’re easily one of the top five best bluegrass bands in Williamsburg.”

Which raised the question—exactly how many bluegrass bands were there in Williamsburg? At least five, I assumed.

“Why don’t you go out and say hi?” I suggested.

“Oh no. I couldn’t. I get so weird around musicians.” She picked up a nearby pot and studied her hazy reflection in it. Silvia’s dark hair was twisted up underneath a hairnet. Her forehead glistened with sweat and there was a smear of something on her cheek. “Besides, he’s not my type but he seems really into you.”

“He does?” I asked with surprise. I hadn’t gotten any kind of vibe from him. “He’s just being friendly. Even if he was interested, there’s a chance I might be leaving town soon.”

“I’ve heard the rumors. Have a little faith,” Silvia said.

I nodded. “I’m trying. Izzy’s never let me down before. If I’m still here on Thursday, we can go to the show together.”

“I’d love to, but I’ve got to work,” Silvia said.

“That’s a bunch of malarkey. Cosmic Possum doesn’t go on until nine. Thursday nights are so slow that Andre could cover the kitchen, and he probably wouldn’t even need to put on a hairnet since he wouldn’t get any orders.”

“What’s this I hear about hairnets?” I hadn’t heard Andre come up behind me. “It’s nights like this I wonder why we’re even open past six, amiright?”

Sunday evenings were usually quiet, but tonight was painfully so. “Would you cover the kitchen Thursday night if Silvia wanted to leave early to see a band?”

“Sure thing. No one orders much of anything other than beer after eight.” He leaned against the countertop. “This have anything to do with that adorable, lonely-looking patron out there with an empty beer glass?”

“Oh, right,” I said. “I’ll go check on him.”

“You do that, Odessa,” Andre said with a chuckle.

Raleigh had finished his sandwich and gazpacho and didn’t need another beer. He told me he needed to get to practice, and settled his bill. “Are you sure I can’t talk you into coming to the show on Thursday?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Maybe,” I told him.

“Hope to see you at the show.” He winked at me and left.

“What do you say we close up early?” Andre asked. Silvia and I both agreed, so we hurried through the cleaning and closing chores. By the time we finished, it was almost normal closing time anyway, so I didn’t feel too bad about leaving a little early.

“Huckleberry going home with you tonight?” I asked Andre. The shop dog didn’t actually belong to anyone as far as I could tell. Legend had it that he just showed up one day and never left. Since he’d been around longer than anyone else, I figured he had as much right to be here as anyone. Sometimes he followed employees or customers home at night, and then showed up again the next morning. Other times he slept in the shop.

There might have been a few health code violations in there somewhere, but considering the health inspector only dropped by to flirt with Andre, barely giving the kitchen a passing glance, no one made a fuss about it.

“He’s been staying here at night lately,” Andre said. “Plus, my sister’s friend moved in with us, and things have gotten even more crowded than normal.” Last I heard, Andre lived with his boyfriend at his mom’s house, along with a few grown siblings and a cousin or two. I got the impression that his mother’s house wasn’t nearly big enough to accommodate everyone, but she wasn’t the kind to turn anyone away, not even a big, floofy dog.

“Alrighty then. Night.” I pushed open the front door and almost walked smack into Izzy. “Hey,” I said, once I got over my initial surprise. “What are you doing here so late?”

“Just swung by to return your keys. Your aunt’s laundry is all washed and folded and put away. She was still in a lot of pain, so she took a pill and turned in early. Thought I’d let you know so you don’t go home and make a ton of noise.”

“Shoot, I was gonna practice my Riverdancing tonight,” I said.

“Maybe you should try it barefoot?” she offered with a grin. Izzy always got my sense of humor, even when no one else did.

“You’ll never guess who came in tonight. Raleigh, um, somebody. He’s in that band Cosmic Possum.”

Her eyes got wide. “Really? What’s he like?”

“Nice guy.”

“So, you like him?” Izzy asked.

That was a weird question. “He’s funny and a good tipper.”

She nodded, looking pleased with herself. “That’s a start.”

Something wasn’t adding up. Izzy mostly worked in the bookstore half of Untapped. While she was friendly and helpful to her customers, she had little interaction with the café regulars and had never shown much interest in them before. “What’s going on?”

“Going on? Nothing. Nada. Why do you ask?”

Before she could answer, Silvia appeared behind me. “Walk me to my car, and I’ll give you a lift. You, too, Izzy.”

Izzy gave her a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Thanks, but I’m good. Besides, I think I left something earlier and I’m gonna grab it before Andre locks up. You working tomorrow?”

“Morning shift,” I confirmed.

“Call in sick,” she told me.

“I can’t do that. I need the money,” I said.

“Sure, don’t we all? But I got to thinking, how come Vickie booked an escape room for six but only four people showed up? I doubt the police have questioned the two that flaked out. We should talk to them.”

“Why?” I asked. “They weren’t in the room with us, so they couldn’t have possibly killed Vickie. Besides, how would we even find them?”

“Easy. Amanda said there was a Facebook invite, right? I’ll ask Gennifer who else was on the invite. Then we’ll know who RSVP’d but didn’t show.”

Silvia lifted a finger. “I hate to interrupt, but do you guys want that ride home or not?”

“Go ahead,” Izzy said. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

I nodded. I hated the idea of calling in sick and leaving the café shorthanded, but if there was any chance I was leaving Williamsburg in a few days, time was running out to figure out who killed Vickie and clear Izzy’s name. “Alrighty.”

As much as I’d grown to love walking, it was nice to have a free ride home. After a long shift, my feet hurt whether I wore cowboy boots or orthopedic shoes, so it felt good to sit down and be chauffeured. As Silvia cut up Metropolitan Avenue, I asked, “You’re not gonna dime me out to Todd, are you?”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t pass Todd a cold.” I took that to mean no.

She pulled up in front of my building. “Thanks for the ride. Oh, and before I forget, I shared those tamales with my aunt yesterday and she wanted to tell your mom those were the best tamales she’s ever had in her life.”

Silvia grinned. “She’ll be happy to hear that.”

I got out of the car, and she took off, heading toward the highway. After a recent breakup, Silvia had moved back in with her parents in Queens and commuted to Untapped Books & Café while she figured out her next step. Maybe I should ask her if she was looking for a roomie, in case Izzy and I needed a third.

Not wanting to wake my aunt, I was as quiet as possible coming home. Rufus meowed persistently as soon as I put my key in the lock, and I tried to shush him before realizing he was closed up in the bedroom with my aunt. I opened the door a crack, and the cat slipped outside, weaving between my legs and purring loudly. “Happy to see you, too, Rufie,” I said, bending down to offer my hand for him to rub against.

When he was satisfied, he retreated to one of his favorite spots, an empty shelf near the top of the bookshelf. Apparently there used to be books and knickknacks there like every other surface in my aunt’s apartment, but he kept knocking them over until she relented and gave him the whole shelf all to himself. Once he was settled, I went out on the balcony.

Aunt Melanie’s apartment was on the top floor of the building, but because hers was an interior unit, there was no view to speak of except for the other balconies in the courtyard. I could see a twinkle of lights over the roof of the building, but Manhattan was too far away to be more than just a glow on the horizon from this angle. It was quiet tonight, or at least as quiet as it ever got in Brooklyn. I tuned out the distant buzz of traffic and ever-present wail of sirens, opened my phone, and navigated to the pictures that Amanda had uploaded earlier.

Most of the pictures were exactly what I’d expected to see—well-composed selfies of Amanda with glimpses of the escape room in the background. I reached the end of the set and found nothing useful, so I went back through them, slower the second time. That’s when I noticed it.

There were pictures missing.

A lot of them.

The file names were numbered, and there were huge gaps. One picture was 712_357, and the next started at 712_374. I identified several jumps like that, where at least a dozen pictures were missing in between.

Not knowing that someone would come by and ask for her deleted pictures, Amanda had deliberately, permanently erased a whole bunch of photos that might have contained evidence.

Now, why would anyone go and do a thing like that?