Prose & Poison, page 8
part #1 of Cafe Prose Mystery Series
Great. “My police chariot awaits,” I said sarcastically. Hadn’t I had enough drama in this town? And I wasn’t even officially living here yet.
Chapter 8
“So this will be your first lesson in the art of latte making — our most popular drink,” Piper said early the next morning. And I meant early — like six o’clock early. I’d decided that the best way to forget about being laid off and the whole Harold Ellerton murder thing was to throw myself into my new barista job at Cafe Prose. Piper and I stood behind the bulky, black espresso maker, where she had lain out all the necessary coffee-making tools.
She pointed to a metal spoon-like contraption with a black handle. “This is called a porta-filter,” she said matter-of-factly. She placed the porta-filter under the machine that grinds the espresso beans. “Next, hit this button.” She tapped a finger to a small round button that said “grind” and a deluge of finely ground espresso dropped into the porta-filter’s cup, making a mountain-shaped mound of grounds. “Glide your finger over the top to flatten this peak of espresso.”
She picked up another stainless-steel contraption no larger than her hand. “This.” She held a rounded part in my face. “Is a tamper. You need to tamp down the espresso so it forms a solid, flat surface.” She pressed the grounds down firmly while resting the porta-filter on a black rubber slab she called a tamping mat. Then she picked up the tamper, revealing a perfectly level cylinder of dark brown.
She placed the filled porta-filter in a slot in the espresso maker called a gasket. “Now tighten this in the gasket by turning counter-clockwise.” She did just that until a clicking sounded, telling us it was locked in place. She hit the START button, and hot liquid espresso poured into what looked like a shot glass below.
“I think appraising books was a ton easier than this,” I admitted, suddenly feeling defeated by a coffee machine.
Piper laughed. “You will get used to it.” She crossed her pointer finger over her chest. “Promise.”
I let out a breath. “What comes next?” I asked.
“That was how we make the espresso, next comes my favorite part.” She shimmied her shoulders and the bells on the ends of her earrings jingled. “The froth.” Piper picked up a stainless-steel handled cup and poured whole milk inside. Then she placed the cup under a spigot-shaped piece of metal bending out of the machine. “This,” she pointed to the curved piece of metal, “is the steam wand.” She picked up the cup of milk until the very tip of the steam wand touched the liquid. “Pull this handle down, and then the milk will begin to heat.”
Although complicated in nature, Piper made the whole process look effortless. “Watch the temperature gauge and turn off the machine once it heats to 140 degrees.”
I nodded as the milk whirled and swirled in the frothing cup. “Got it.”
Then she dumped the fresh espresso into a ceramic mug, poured the steamed milk on top, thus creating a delicious, steaming, perfect latte.
“Go ahead.” She gestured toward the drink with her head, while wiping down the steam wand with a moist cloth.
I sighed in happiness. “This is the best.” Then I looked back at the machine. “Now what’s the difference between a latte and a cappuccino?” I asked, completely perplexed.
She flicked a hand at me. “That’s easy as pie. Just a matter of stretching and plunging the milk.” She pointed to the peaks of frothy milk at the top of the steamer cup, acting as if I knew what she was talking about. “Got it?” she asked, wiping her hands on the towel attached her belt.
I swallowed. “Maybe we’ll work on the stretching and plunging thing another time,” I said. “But I think I can make a latte.”
“Good.” Piper smirked. “Because here comes your first customer, and he always orders a plain one.”
I looked up to see Patrick Ellerton-Bluebell walk through the door. Great, I muttered to myself, pushing some hair behind my left ear.
“So the rumors are true.” Patrick took a stool across from me, his caramel-colored eyes level with mine.
I grabbed a blue mug from the shelf that read Carpe Diem and spoke. “Plain latte?”
“How did you —?” he started and then caught a wink from Piper. “Gotcha.” Patrick looked at the practical watch on his wrist. “Can I actually have it to-go? Meeting with a family in twenty.” He frowned. “They lost a son.”
I placed the mug back in place and grabbed a paper cup from the stack. “No problem.”
When Patrick’s father died a few years ago, Patrick had inherited the family business — coffin-making. In fact, Mr. Patrick Bluebell Senior at one time had one of the largest casket manufacturing companies on the east coast — selling directly to funeral parlors and in bulk. But right before Patrick Senior passed away, he’d sold half of his business to another, larger coffin manufacturer in upstate New York. Although Bluebell Coffins had significantly shrunk in size after that, Patrick still ran a decent business, providing most of central Pennsylvania families with beautiful, handmade caskets designed and created by him. I mean, only two things are certain — death and taxes, so I doubted he’d be out of a job anytime soon. And it was a darn shame his last customer had been his own grandfather.
“Let me just get this started,” I said, trying to remember the first step in the latte making process. I placed the porty-port thingy under the bean grinder, hit the button, and watched as the ground beans fell into the filter, just like they did for Piper. Next, I leveled off the grounds then tamped them down using what I felt was thirty pounds of pressure. For me, this meant standing on my tippiest of toes for leverage. Then I placed the portafilter in the gasket, moved the espresso-shot glass underneath, and pressed “pour.”
Just as I hit the button, a shrill yelp trilled across the room. “Noooooo,” Piper yelled. Hot espresso spurted from the top of the porta-filter and onto my baby blue sweater. I fumbled with the machine, hitting buttons and pivoting knobs, and turned the wrong knob when the practice milk swirled underneath the steaming wand and shot down the lower half of my sweater and onto my legs.
“Hot, hot, hot!” I yelped, jumping back so hard, my hip slapped into the counter.
Patrick launched himself across the bar and pulled the power cord from the socket built into the espresso station.
“Oh … my … gosh,” I said in disbelief, glancing at my reflection in the steel frothing cup. Milk dripped from the ends of my blonde hair and dribbled onto my coffee-stained sweater.
Patrick dabbed a napkin at my cheek, but I jumped back. “What are you doing?” I yelled.
He looked flustered. “I just … I just wanted to help.”
“I need to go,” I announced to a howling Piper who was at the end of the bar, bent over in a fit of laughter.
“Take your time,” she called as the door’s bell dinged behind me.
* * *
After showering the already souring milk from my hair and changing into fresh clothing which consisted of yoga pants and a Willow Creek Trojan hoodie, I went to Mom’s house where she was making breakfast. Aunt Tilly sat at the kitchen island, green reading glasses slid to the tip of her nose, reading aloud from today’s issue of the Willow Creek Public Opinion Newspaper.
“Weren’t you working this morning?” Aunt Tilly sat the newspaper on the counter.
I recapped for Mom and Aunt Tilly the disaster of a barista that I am, to which Mom responded with “practice makes perfect”, and then filled them in on all-things interrogation from last night.
Aunt Tilly punched a fist into her open hand. “That Kevin Homestead could have been a heck of a lot nicer about the whole thing.”
Mom pulled toasted English muffins from the stovetop and positioned them in the center of three plates. “Kevin’s just bitter about you, Talbot. We all knew the crush he had on you all throughout your schooling.” She grinned, placing chipped ham and then poached eggs on the bread. “Maybe you should go out with him some time,” she added, spooning a heap of hollandaise sauce on our eggs Benedict breakfast. “Just bite the bullet.” She cocked an eyebrow.
“Ugh,” I spat. “I know it’s your life’s goal to see me betrothed, Mother, but Kevin Homestead?” I gave her the eye. “Really?”
Aunt Tilly chimed in. “Yes, Busy. Not Chief Homestead, but maybe someone like that divine piece of man Peter Ellerton.” She curled her fingers, and in a claw-like fashion flicked her hand forward. “Meow!”
I almost spat out my orange juice at Aunt Tilly’s choice of words. Now would be the perfect time to tell them about my date tonight with Peter, but I decided to keep that information close to the hip. No point in getting anyone’s hopes up in case we weren’t compatible. And boy did I hope that wasn’t the case.
Aunt Tilly huffed. “At least find someone with half a brain. It’s a wonder any crime gets solved in Willow Creek with Kevin running the department.”
Mom laughed. “This is the first actual crime we’ve had in years …” She paused and looked away. I knew what she was thinking. The first actual crime since Dad.
Mom distracted herself by sifting fresh paprika on her finished breakfast masterpiece. “Other than the occasional theft and speeding ticket,” she cleared her throat, “this is quite the scandal.”
No use beating around the bush. “So … are you going to tell me how Harold Ellerton was …” I dropped my voice a pitch. “Murdered?”
“Talbot,” mom said, shaking so much pepper on her eggs they turned black. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”
I batted my eyelashes at her. “Well, what if you happened to jot some notes down about the crime and I happened to see them?”
Mom tilted her head to the side, a few strands of red hair framing her face. She tapped a finger to her chin. “Hmmm … or I could write it in code.”
I nodded. “That would work.”
“Yes,” Aunt Tilly chirped. “Like an angiogram.”
“Like a what?” Mom snorted. “I’m pretty sure nobody’s doing open heart surgery, Tilly.”
Aunt Tilly grabbed a napkin from the center of the table and then scribbled something on it. She pointed a turquoise ringed finger to the two words.
“Alt bot,” my Mom sounded out awkwardly. “Oh … Talbot.”
I giggled at my well-meaning aunt. “You mean an anagram!” And then it dawned on me – Harold’s note! “Aunt Tilly!” I exclaimed. I lurched across the island and planted a kiss on her cheek. “That’s it!”
Just as I bolted out the back door, I heard Mom call, “But I didn’t even tell you how he died.”
I darted up the stairs to my apartment and threw open the door. Romeo poked her head up from her bed, saw that it was just me, and then curled back into a little ball of fur. I opened the top drawer to the salmon-colored nightstand situated in front of the window to the left of my bed and pulled out the note Harold Ellerton left for me.
FLORAE SOPHIA SEEKS
“There could literally be a million anagrams for this,” I muttered to myself.
I stared at the words, arranging and rearranging them in my head. Then I jotted down some of the possibilities. I sighed heavily at the results.
Al forsake hopeless
Alias hoofers keeps
Freak halos poesies
What would Freak halos poesies even mean?
“This is ridiculous,” I said to Romeo, thinking that maybe it wasn’t an anagram after all and Harold did leave this message as some sort of joke. Or maybe the T.M. initials weren’t even intended for me? Perhaps it was a note to himself reminding him “to mail” the contents or some nonsense.
I picked up the piece of paper and rolled my fingertips over the letters thinking of Harold’s words on the phone. Rarest book … worth more than my other materials combined. “What is this Harold?” I asked.
Suddenly, it was like the dead answered back as the letters took a familiar shape in my mind.
“Maybe?!” I squealed in delight.
I rewrote the three words on a scratch piece of paper, and crossed out a letter each time I used it — seventeen slashes through seventeen letters. “It can’t be!”
I reworked the letters in a logical sequence.
“Holy moly,” I muttered, my hands shaking the paper containing two complete words. Words that would give Peter’s book motive theory plausibility. Two words that would be any rare book collector’s dream. Two words that, perhaps, someone would kill for.
SHAKESPEARE’S FOLIO
* * *
“You look beautiful,” Peter said later that night. He planted a quick peck on my cheek as I stepped under the awning at Posh’s — the most upscale restaurant in Willow Creek. Really, the best restaurant in entire county. Oddly enough, I’d read about Posh’s while I still lived in D.C. in an issue of Mid-Atlantic Style Magazine. It had opened to critical acclaim just two years ago, and B-list celebrities had even been spotted here. In fact, Willow Creek in general was becoming a well-known east coast getaway destination. People wanted a taste of rural life. And if rural country filled with winding creeks, sprawling farm fields, weeping willows, and Amish buggies was what they were looking for, Willow Creek was the place.
I smiled back at Peter, and looked down at the only dress I currently possessed — the black one from Harold’s service. Thank goodness Piper had costume jewelry out the wazoo vibrant enough to distract from that fact. I counted down the days until my wardrobe would arrive from D.C. — Two. I looked at Peter and realized I needed to respond to his kind compliment. I thought of Piper’s pep-talk from earlier today, which was basically her saying, “Dating’s like riding a bike. Just don’t be a klutz.” I settled on the safe response of, “Thank you, Peter.”
He placed a hand on the small of my back and ushered me through the large dark-stained door. “Ellerton, reservation for two,” he said to the hostess who stood behind a stand with a frosted piece of glass with POSH’S etched in its center. The woman’s gaze moved slowly from Peter’s striking face, lingered on his chest and legs longer than I would have liked, and then moved to me where she proceeded to scan me from head to toe. She grunted. “This way,” she said through pursed lips, obviously miffed that Peter accompanied me and not her.
As the woman led us back to our seat, I couldn’t help but take in the surroundings. Fresh floral arrangements sat in the middle of each clothed table, while dimly-lit orbs suspending from exposed wooden beams casted a romantic shadow. Low music played, and I chuckled at the acoustic version of “Let’s Get Together” crooning in the background.
“Does this suit you, Mr. Ellerton?” the hostess asked with a flirtatious touch to his arm. She gestured to a small table for two tucked in a private corner next to a window overlooking Willow Creek Creek.
Peter pulled a chair out and gestured for me to sit, ignoring our hostess entirely. “This is perfect.”
I swallowed hard and sat in awe that this was my evening. I pinched the inside of my hand to make sure it was real. This date, meeting, what have you, was not something I was accustomed to.
After I broke it off from Patrick what seemed a lifetime ago, I dated only two men seriously. Carlton Phillips, a pre-med major who actually attended the college of my dreams, Georgetown, and I dated on and off for three years until he got a fellowship position in Seattle. We mutually broke up. And Finn Locklear, a rare books appraiser just like me, who worked at the Folger Shakespeare Library across the street from the Library of Congress. Our two-year relationship ended when I felt the spark ended. Although it was ultimately my decision to break up, unlike Patrick, Finn harbored no hard feelings whatsoever.
There was a short period of time in D.C. where I entertained online dating, but the furthest I got was slight flirtation via messenger. I never got up the guts to actually meet one of the men in person — anyone could be a serial killer-stalker these days, and the unsolved murder of, now, two men in my life was evidence of just that.
As embarrassing as it was to confess, I hadn’t been on a real date in over two years.
“Do you prefer red or white?” Peter held an extensive wine list in his hands.
Like riding a bike, I thought to myself. “Red, please,” I answered. “Perhaps a Pinot?”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “You enjoy wine, then?”
I drowned my sorrows in a small wine habit of two large glasses a night after the breakup with Carlton, and I found myself coming back again and again to pinot noir. Peter didn’t need to hear that explanation on our first date, or whatever this evening was, so I answered, “I do.”
“Perfect.” He confidently signaled the waitress, something I found oddly attractive, and ordered a bottle of 2014 Pinot Noir from a small vineyard nestled just outside Sonoma Valley. I practically choked on spit after noticing the $150 price tag on it.
“Now.” Peter slid the menu to the side, his face becoming serious. “Look, Talbot. I just want to apologize if I came across pushy about the murder and possible missing book situation. With Grandfather and his speaking so highly of you just before,” he paused and nodded. “You know. I think my emotions got away with me and I didn’t know who to turn to.” He looked me in the eyes. “I’m sorry for trying to involve you in my family’s drama.”
I sat up straighter to say something, but he continued to talk.
“That being said, I think we should forget about all of that right now and focus on this evening and getting to know one another a bit better.”
As ideal as that sounded, and it did sound ideal, I needed to tell Peter what I’d discovered.
Peter opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off this time. “I think it’s the Folio.”
His eyes grew wide, like I’d just announced a pregnancy. “Whhh … what? As in the Folio? Shakespeare’s Folio.”
“Mm hmm,” I confirmed and swooned inside. Charming, British, and knows his playwrights.
We sat in silence as the sommelier returned with our bottle of wine. Peter swirled, sniffed, and tasted a little too quickly for such an expensive vintage, eager to hear more, and then continued to speak once the sommelier left. “How do you know?”
