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Untapped Books & Café @untappedwilliamsburg ∙ July 15

We might not sell coffee-scented beard oil, but a case of It’s Nine A.M. Somewhere coffee-flavored stout just arrived if you’re thirsty! And come on, who isn’t? #coffee #craftbeer #youknowyouwannatryit

I jumped back and peered around the windshield to see an annoyed Todd Morris glaring back at me. Todd hollered at me from the front seat of the delivery van, “Looks like someone’s feeling better.”

“Um, yeah, I guess,” I said, my heart still racing. I wasn’t sure what was worse, thinking that I was about to be run over, or bumping into my boss after lying and telling him I was too sick to work.

“Good. You can help me unload these.”

“Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, go around back?” Most of the deliveries came up the alley, where they were not blocking traffic and could unload directly into the kitchen instead of having to lug their wares all the way through the bookstore, navigating several steps inside and outside.

“Some son of a gun’s been futzing with the dumpsters again, and there’s no way I’m squeezing this beast back there. Go ahead, there’s a trolley in the back.”

It served me right for showing up to work after calling out sick, but I knew if I wasn’t careful, Todd would make sure I didn’t get paid a dime for helping him. “Sure thing, let me go clock in first.”

“You’re not in uniform,” he pointed out. “Which means you’re not on the clock.”

I rolled my eyes. I was never gonna win this argument. I swung open the back doors of the van to reveal several crates of beer and a handcart. I pulled the trolley out and set it upright on the sidewalk. I carried the first crate to the trolley, noting that Todd was back in the driver’s seat, enjoying the air-conditioned van. “Can I get a hand?” I asked.

“Not my job,” Todd replied.

“Not my job, either.” I was a waitress, pulling down less than minimum wage, plus tips—when I was lucky. That didn’t stop Todd from demanding that I manage the store’s social media accounts, help with the bookstore’s inventory, and even walk the shop dog whenever Huckleberry needed to go outside. Now he wanted me to finish the beer delivery, off the clock.

Typical.

I dragged the first load back into the stockroom, forgetting that Izzy had rearranged things and there wasn’t enough room. I had to stack the crates in the hallway instead. I went out with the trolley, and Todd helpfully pointed out, “You know, this would go a lot quicker if you took bigger loads.”

“It would go even faster if you helped,” I said. Maybe Castillo was right, and Izzy was a bad influence on me. Or living in New York City for six weeks was enough to override my ingrained Southern manners. In any event, I wasn’t the quiet, overly polite person I’d been before arriving in Williamsburg.

“Like I said . . .”

“Except,” I interrupted him to my surprise. I hardly ever interrupted anyone. I once caught myself apologizing to an automatic door. Another time I’d thanked a canned announcement played over the crackling subway speakers. “. . . this really is your job, a lot more than it is mine. You’re the manager, but that doesn’t just mean you sit on your keister all day and tell everyone else what to do. Sometimes you gotta get your hands dirty, too.”

Instead of bursting into flames or whatever I might have expected, Todd turned off the engine, got out of the van, and came around to the back. “You know, I liked you a whole lot better when you first started working here,” he said, grabbing a case of beer and moving it to the trolley.

I lugged the heavy load up the stairs into Untapped, navigated through the narrow pathway between bookshelves—honestly, how come the fire marshal hadn’t shut us down yet was anyone’s guess—and down the steps into the café. The beer refrigerator was almost empty, so I pulled out the cold ones, shoved as many of the newly delivered ones as I could fit inside, leaving just enough room to put the cold ones back in front before I closed the door. Beer fridge stocked and ready for business, I rolled the trolley toward the stockroom and offloaded the remainder in the hallway.

That done, I headed toward the kitchen. Parker had his back to me. He reached into the walk-in refrigerator and came out with a flat of eggs. “Oh! I thought you weren’t coming in today,” he said as he put the eggs on the counter. “Todd said you called out sick.”

“I was playing hooky,” I admitted. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

“Oh?” Parker wiped his arm across his forehead. “I guess I’ve been wanting to talk to you, too.”

Great. Way to make this even more awkward. “I found out this morning that Izzy opened a Tinder account for me. And apparently has been talking to a bunch of guys, as me, on my behalf.”

“Oh,” he said, for the third time in as many minutes.

“I was trying to explain to her what a bad idea that was because I’m really not looking for a relationship right now when I noticed that you were one of my matches.”

“And?” He was staring at me with a deliberately blank expression.

“And you know how important our friendship is to me,” I started.

“Of course. I matched with you as a lark. I thought it was funny. I’m not even really active on Tinder anymore, not since I started going out with Hazel.”

“So, it’s serious with you two?” I asked.

“Not sure. Maybe it could be. She’s nice.”

“That’s good to hear,” I told him. “I hope this doesn’t change anything between us.”

Parker reached out and punched me on the shoulder, lightly, like we were old buddies instead of two coworkers having an awkward conversation about dating profiles on an app that I never even intended to use. “No worries. Hey, Odessa, why don’t eggs tell each other jokes?” Without waiting for me to respond, he said, “Because they’d crack each other up.”

I groaned. Parker had the worst sense of humor.

He began cracking eggs into a large bowl. “I’m playing around with tomorrow’s menu. What do you think, chicken and apple salad for the carnivores, and toasted walnut and avocado sandwiches for the vegans? And I’ve got a recipe for gluten-free, dairy-free fudge brownies I’ve been wanting to take for a test-drive.”

“Yum,” I said. My horizons, and palate, had been vastly expanded, thanks in no small part to Parker’s culinary creativity and the wealth of food trucks parked on every street. “Thanks, Parker.”

“For?” He looked genuinely confused.

“For encouraging me to try new things.”

Nan stuck her head into the pass-thru window. “Are you working or what?” she asked me. “I’ve been covering the cash register in the bookstore and waiting tables at the same time since we opened this morning. Good thing we’re slow today, but I could really use a smoke break.”

“Yeah, I’m working. Give me a second.”

I headed back into the hall and finally punched in. Then I grabbed an extra neon green polo shirt from the box in the stockroom. It seemed like a waste, knowing this might be my second-to-last shift, but I hadn’t expected to go into work, so I hadn’t brought a shirt with me. I could wash it and return it, but I doubted even Todd would notice a single missing shirt. I fastened my apron around my waist, pinned my shiny new name tag to my shirt above the Untapped Books & Café logo, and reported for duty.

Nan was right about it being slow. In between serving tables, I had time to rearrange the beer cooler so that the servers could easily see what was in stock. Along with the usual labels, we had some new flavors, including It’s Nine A.M. Somewhere coffee-flavored stout, Beam Me Up Berry lager, and Orange Is the New Beer IPA. The last one sounded intriguing, and I promised myself I’d sample it after it had a chance to chill.

The lunch rush was long over when a woman entered the café alone. That in itself wasn’t unusual, but when she settled into her chair and waved me over, I bit back a sigh. Marlie Robbinson, the Realtor. Today’s ensemble was a suit dress in various colors of purple and green that was almost vintage enough to be cool again. A ginormous necklace of interlaced peacock feathers graced her long neck.

If the death of her coworker was bothering her, I certainly couldn’t see any outward sign.

“Marlie,” I said, as genuinely welcoming as I could manage, “what can I get for you? Water? Tea? Or would you like something stronger?”

“Odessa, dear, I feel like we might have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

Whatever could have given her that idea? That she’d tried to convince me to rent a murder apartment? Or maybe it was that Izzy had called her—and by extension, all apartment brokers—a vulture.

“Nothing to worry about. We’ve got a delicious cold-cut sub on locally baked honey-wheat bread as the special of the day, or if you’d prefer, we have several meatless options as well. If you’re lucky, we might still have a serving or two remaining of the cook’s infamous five-cheese macaroni. If you’re looking for something sweet there are homemade lemon bars.”

“Why don’t you have a seat?” she asked, instead of ordering.

“I’d love to, but I’ve got several tables to attend to.” I swept my arm out, indicating the other tables in the café. Not exactly rush hour, but a plausible excuse to remain standing.

“Suit yourself. I understand your friend has a chip on her shoulder about apartment brokers.”

“That’s an understatement,” I agreed.

“It can be hard, paying a little extra for a service that seems unnecessary. I just want to help you find an apartment you love that’s in your budget. But more than that, I can help you navigate the murky waters of real estate. I can tell you what neighborhoods are safe and which landlords are responsive to problems. More importantly, I act as your go-between even after you move in and am available to resolve disputes or address concerns in a way that property owners rarely are. And I’ll have you know that my interests are always with the renter.”

“Are they?” I blurted out. “Are they really? It seems to me that apartment brokers make money whether or not the renters are happy. Since people can’t afford to move, you don’t get a lot of repeat customers from renters. Which means the real money is keeping the building owners happy, right?”

“That’s how a lot of brokers see it,” Marlie admitted. “Goodness knows that Vickie was one of them. Vickie had a killer instinct. That’s why she was always going to outperform me. She focused on commission, not customer satisfaction.”

“And that’s why she was number one in your office.”

Marlie nodded amicably. “Exactly. Although I suppose I’m number one now. For the time being, anyway. Another Vickie will come along, eventually. Can I give you some free advice?”

“Sure,” I said. What could it hurt?

“No matter how good you are at what you do, there is always someone hungrier than you are nipping at your heels.”

“Waiting tables isn’t quite as competitive as real estate,” I pointed out. Then again, Nan had only been working at Untapped a few days and already got the best shifts and extra responsibility. At the rate she was going, she’d be assistant manager within the month.

“Don’t fool yourself. Everything’s a competition. Speaking of which, if you want to beat someone to an apartment, you need someone like me in your corner. How about I set up some viewing appointments for you tomorrow. How does eleven o’clock sound?”

“I’m sorry we got our wires crossed, but I’m set.” To be strictly honest, as much as I wanted an apartment in Williamsburg, I didn’t have the up-front money for a broker. I had to trust that Izzy would come through for us. “Can I get you something from the kitchen?”

“Coffee will be fine,” she said.

“Comin’ right up.” I poured her a mug and set it down on the table in front of her. “Holler if you change your mind about ordering food.” I hurried away before she could try any of her hard-sale tactics again, and hid just inside of the kitchen, where I could keep an eye on the occupied tables without having to talk to Marlie.

“Friend of yours?” Parker asked.

“Some apartment broker that is trying to get me to open a vein for her.”

“Vampires,” he said, knitting his brows together. “When I first moved to Brooklyn, I fell for the broker racket. Ended up closing on the apartment, then finding out I couldn’t move in for three whole months because it was suddenly ‘under construction.’ When I finally got the keys, the electricity and water only worked intermittently. The range was broken. The toilet didn’t flush, and don’t even get me started about the water pressure in the shower. There was only one tiny window in the entire place, and it was busted.”

“That sounds horrible! What did you do?”

“I lodged a complaint. A lot of complaints. I tried to get my money back, but the broker never returned my calls and was always out of the office when I went by. Landlord wasn’t much better. I even filed a grievance with the city but nothing ever came of it. I’d already sunk so much money into the place that I didn’t have a lot of options left.”

“Where did you end up living?” I asked.

“There. I fixed up the window best I could with duct tape and cardboard. Bought a new toilet from the hardware store and installed it myself. It’s annoying not having a working stove on the regular, but we bought a multiuse air-fryer-slash-toaster-slash-oven and use the range for storage. With a few creative curtains and a lot of respecting each other’s privacy, I converted a studio into a one bedroom that I split with my roomies.”

“Wait a sec, you still live there?”

“Why not?” Parker asked. “It’s on a great block, and the rent is reasonable, split three ways. I’ve already invested a fortune in broker’s fees. What else can I do? Get suckered into someplace even worse and have to start all over again?”

“Izzy was right. Apartment brokers are the worst,” I said.

“The absolute worst,” Parker agreed. He ducked his head so he had a clear view through the order window, and one side of his lip curled up mischievously. “How about you send over a little something? On the house.”

I shook my head. I didn’t particularly like Marlie, but I didn’t want to be party to Parker doing something untoward to her food. “She’s not worth it.”

“Speak for yourself,” he grumbled, then went back to stirring something in a large bowl.

Marlie finished up her coffee and left a few dollars on the table to cover the cost of the drink with a few cents left over for a tip. Coming from a woman who survived on commission, I thought that was rude. If I could afford to eat, I could afford to tip. Generously.

She also left her business card, which I promptly tossed in the recycle bin. For the past few days, I’d been obsessed over the murder of Vickie Marsh, but the more I learned about her, the harder it was to empathize with her. She bullied her “friends.” She reveled in stealing other people’s boyfriends right out from under them. And to top it all off, she was a ruthless apartment broker.

Not that she deserved to die. No one did. But if I absolutely had to choose between, say, a sweet nun who fostered rescue kittens and an apartment broker, I know who I’d save first. And it wouldn’t have been Vickie.

I still had no idea who had killed her, but now that it was obvious that Castillo wasn’t planning on charging Izzy with a crime anytime soon, I wasn’t sure if it mattered to me personally. I hadn’t known Vickie for more than an hour. I didn’t like the idea of a killer getting away with literal murder, but was it really any of my business? Castillo was a competent cop, and he was on the case.

For now.

What would happen if his boss found out that Castillo was currently living with the prime suspect? Would he get removed from the investigation? If so, would the detective that replaced him be so reasonable? I doubted it.

Which meant I needed to figure out who the real killer was, and I was running out of time.