Cufflinks in the Cappuccino: Coffee House Clairvoyant: Book 4 Page 10

  Then again . . . I shake my head. “Is there a way to ask them without getting myself involved?”

  I feel like taking me out of the equation might give me better results, anyway.

  “I wonder if Cole might be willing to talk with them.” Honestly, I’m not sure what sort of rapport he has with them, though. He made it pretty clear he doesn’t want to get involved in any way that may threaten his secret.

  Definitely don’t blame him there.

  In the end, I make a mental note to consider asking Cole for help. After all, Millie being the lead reporter on Leon’s murder isn’t something I can just ignore. She might not remember everything, but talking with her will probably be more useful than not. I can’t just ignore the fact that she wrote a star piece about the incident.

  For now, she’s my only lead.

  Chapter 12

  The following morning, I wake up to a response from Paul.

  No.

  It’s short, to the point, and makes my stomach hurt. I feel guilty for even asking, which is dumb. I shouldn’t feel guilty for needing access to those cufflinks. Then again, I probably should have expected that he wouldn’t agree to let me near them again. While there isn’t an ongoing murder investigation, they’re still technically evidence for another investigation. Paul, Candace, and the others at the Mooring Cove Sheriff’s Office still don’t know that Cole’s the one spiking my drinks.

  And now that I know he is—and how he’s been doing it, more specifically—I doubt it’ll happen again. Going forward, Cole can just hand the objects off to me without me involving the deputies. It’ll make things a heck of a lot easier for everyone. Heck, the case might even be dropped entirely if enough time passes.

  That doesn’t sit well with me, though.

  I may need to revisit objects to push for more memories, for more details, but I don’t like the thought of keeping evidence from the authorities.

  Then again, nothing says I have to pass them off immediately.

  If I even get evidence again, that is. I stare up at the ceiling, trying to will myself to get up so I can tackle the day.

  Honestly, I’m exhausted. I’m so run down that I can barely move. Today’s going to be busy, too, which means I won’t be able to leave work early to catch Millie or Alice before they leave their office at the Seaport Gazette.

  Of course, they both live in town. I know Millie has a nice house up on Crane Hill. Alice I’m less sure about. I try not to keep tabs on where everyone lives, but it’s hard not to know where the editor in chief’s house is. After all, her home was custom built, and she was more than happy to tell everyone all about it.

  Finally, I force myself to push Kiwi off my stomach so I can get out of bed.

  The cold wood floor greets my toes. Goosebumps prickle over my skin, and I shiver. I definitely need to get more area rugs. Maybe I can pick one up after the holidays when things go on sale at Target.

  Until then, hot showers should help me get motivated to face the cold.

  I hope.

  By the time I pull up to Mocha Amore, I’m already over today. On the short drive from my house in the Vics, about ten minutes away from downtown with snow and ice on the roads, I’ve almost run over a stop sign, swerved into an intersection near the VFW, and got stuck at a stoplight because my truck couldn’t find purchase on the ice for a whole five minutes.

  I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the steering wheel. If I didn’t need coffee so desperately, I’d probably just go straight to work. I’m already going to be late, and there’s a line inside the café.

  Bummer.

  But I need caffeine this morning. Without it, today will be absolutely unbearable. We’re going to be crowded and hectic today with people trying to get last-minute white elephant gifts for the festival, and if I don’t have something warm in my stomach, I won’t have the patience to deal with anyone. Being late is really a small sacrifice for the greater good as far as I’m concerned.

  I get out of my truck and rush toward the shop, determined to at least get a spot in line before more people show up. It’s almost six fifty, so I’m definitely pushing it. If I’m lucky, I might only be a smidge behind schedule today.

  Because so many people are already inside, I end up right next to the door. Every time someone comes in, a blast of cold air washes over me. The backs of my legs are absolutely freezing by the time the fourth person comes in. I shiver and pull my coat tighter, rubbing my gloved hands together to try and keep as warm as possible.

  Cole’s behind the counter, which isn’t unusual. He typically takes Fridays and Saturdays off, and with it being Wednesday morning, I can’t say I’m all that shocked to see him.

  He and Ash are insanely busy already. People are out and about both for work and to get their shopping taken care of before the holiday.

  The line inches forward bit by bit. While I wait, I sift through some more internet searches about Leon Vankroft’s murder. The articles I read last night are the most useful, but as I scroll, I come across one I missed. It’s by someone out in Portland, a writer named James MacCaffrey. I can’t help wondering if he’s related to one of my favorite fantasy authors. It’s possible, I suppose.

  When I search him, though, I’m quick to find he passed away back in 2006.

  That stinks.

  Well, at least his article is somewhat useful. He talks about how my great grandfather faked everything from the murder to his own injuries and attempted suicide. James is quick to point out that the only other person on the scene—my uncle—should have been taken to trial. From what I can tell, he was absolutely convinced Uncle Angus was behind the murder and attempted to kill his own father.

  My nose wrinkles. This guy obviously doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I step closer to the counter as the person in front of me continues forward. Maybe it’s a good thing he’s not alive anymore. Not sure I’d have liked him much.

  A later article, printed after my uncle was acquitted, glosses over the lack of evidence. He kept firm on his belief that Uncle Angus was involved, though at least by that point—sometime in the late eighties—he doesn’t make wild accusations like he had in the first article. The more I read from his online portfolio, the more annoyed I get. I skim the titles related to Leon’s murder, my brow pinching in a severe scowl by the time I get to the last one, uploaded directly in 1998.

  This one isn’t quite like the others. It’s almost as if James fell into the realm of conspiracy theories by that point. I suppose, though, twenty years had passed since Leon’s death.

  It sounds like by that point, he was absolutely convinced the whole thing was a hoax. His reasoning? James wrote about how other people kept disappearing and dying around the same time Leon had. His article pinpoints a number of mysterious deaths, suggesting that the residents of Mooring Cove were part of some sort of secret society determined to raise Satan from Hell.

  I cringe and back out of the article quickly.

  Nope.

  One, it’s definitely not true, and two, it’s pretty obvious that he didn’t bother to actually come out here to talk with the residents of the town after his first report.

  Which just leaves me talking to Millie. Wonderful.

  At long last, I make it to the counter.

  “Morning,” I say, trying to keep myself brisk and cheerful despite the heavy, gross weight in my stomach from the handful of articles I just skimmed. “Did you have a restful evening?”

  Cole shakes his head. Dark circles sag under his normally bright and happy gray eyes. “Not a wink.”

  “Yeah, I had troubles getting to sleep, too.”

  He glances behind me, and I follow his gaze. Oh, man. Yeah, okay. There’s not exactly time for us to chat. The line is almost out the door again.

  “Ah, sorry. I’ll take two large caramel lattes, please.”

  “Gotcha. Anything else?”

  “No.” I want to ask him if he has time to meet up again tonight, but considering how l
ast night’s conversation went, I sort of doubt he’ll be willing. I slide my card into the reader, noting that he’s still giving me the discount he promised back when I strayed to Bean There, Done That for a day. “You know, you don’t have to keep giving me that discount,” I whisper.

  He shrugs. “It’s not a big deal. You’ve been good for business.”

  “Well, thanks, anyway.” I tuck my card away.

  “Those’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  The conversation leaves an awkward and strange weight between us, but I try not to read into it much. Considering how busy the café is this morning, it’s probably because he feels so overwhelmed. Between that and his grandfather’s murder, there’s probably a lot weighing on his mind. If I didn’t already have a job, I’d offer to hang back and help him and Ash out.

  They definitely could use a hand.

  Luck is finally on my side for a change. I’m only about five minutes late to work. The way Dr. Elea quirks an eyebrow at me as he accepts his drink tells me all I need to know about his disappointment. Five minutes or fifty, it doesn’t matter to him. Late is late.

  Still, as I sip my own caramel latte, I’m fully convinced that yes, being late was for the greater good after all. The caffeine picks me up, and my grumpiness goes sailing out the door to bother someone else.

  “Long line?”

  “I got stuck on Eighteenth,” I admit. “And yeah, then there was a line.”

  “Maybe next time skip the coffee.”

  “It’s too cold to skip coffee.”

  He hums and takes a sip. “Well, regardless, I’d like you to work on those tarot cards this morning. We have a little time, and we should use it wisely.”

  Oh, right! Because I made some last-minute shipments yesterday, I didn’t get the chance to actually do any restoration work. I grin at the thought of getting some peace and quiet. Working on those tarot cards will help clear my mind, at the very least. Gosh, I almost forgot how much I love doing restoration work. Yeah, it’s only been a handful of days, but it feels like six years have passed since Monday morning.

  Maybe today won’t be so bad after all. Can’t be when I get to restore some beautiful art!

  For once, I’m not nervous about drinking my morning pick-me-up. I won’t find anything hidden away at the bottom of my cup today! Once a long gulp of coffee is sitting happily in my tummy, I set my drink aside and head into the lab.

  I tug on a pair of acid-free cotton gloves before pulling out the box with all of the cards in it. I’ve only managed to finish a couple of them, most on Monday, since most of my time this week has been spent in the front of the shop.

  As I sink into my work, repairing the next card in my pile, my mind drifts back to Monday morning, when I first worked on them. There’s something I’m forgetting, something important. My lips twist into a contemplative frown. I pause to check over my station and make sure I have everything. Ink? Check. Gold leaf? Yeah, got that. Silver leave? Right next to the gold. Pigments for this card? Yeah . . .

  So, what am I missing?

  I set my fine-tipped paint brush aside and, after wiping my gloved hands off, reach for the cards I’ve already finished. Death, the Three of Swords, and the Hermit all sit before me. I’m not working in any specific order, just the order in which the cards are currently stacked.

  Death, though, catches my attention.

  Before I even touch it, I inhale a sharp breath.

  Angus.

  My hand stills.

  That’s right. I got a vision from these with him in it.

  Oh my gosh. This might actually help me! I can’t believe I forgot about them! I have no idea if they were around during the same time as Leon’s murder, of course, but still! If Paul won’t let me near the cufflinks, maybe this is the next best option. Maybe I won’t have to talk with Millie after all.

  “Hey, Dr. Elea?”

  “Yes?” He’s still bent over his own project, using a hands-free magnifying glass and light to help him better see his work.

  I hesitate before asking, “When exactly were these cards in Mooring Cove? Do you know?”

  “If I remember correctly, they were here from the late eighteen hundreds through the late mid-century.”

  “So . . . the seventies?”

  Dr. Elea hums. “Yes, I believe so. The curator indicated that they were donated to the university sometime in the nineties by a local family.”

  A lump catches in my throat, and I force myself to calm down before asking, “Do . . . you know who donated them?”

  “Yes, certainly. The Knowelses.”

  Oh.

  Oh my god.

  No way. No way. I can’t believe it! My luck has finally, finally returned in full force! I could almost dance for joy. This is one heck of a revelation! If these cards really were here and belonged to the Knowelses, that means . . .

  That means they might be useful! They might actually hold the key to what happened that night! And here I’d forgotten all about them and the vision they’d shown me. Dang. I really have been preoccupied with Cole and the cufflinks, haven’t I? Oh man. This is amazing! I can’t believe it!

  Reality settles in as I realize that I might not be able to get answers as easily as I’d hoped. To read memories, I have to actually touch the cards with my bare hands.

  My lips tug into a tight frown as I try to figure out how—or even if—I can touch the cards without being caught. I need to see what else these tarot cards have in store for me.

  He’ll notice.

  He noticed last time, after all, so getting away with it again seems pretty darn slim. That, and I really, really don’t want to get in trouble again. More so after already showing up late for work. This is the first major project my boss is trusting me on, too. I don’t want to come across as careless or flippant in my work. While solving Leon’s murder is important, it’s more important that I keep my job.

  It won’t be easy to snag a chance alone with them. We’ll be busy the rest of the day, too, which means Dr. Elea will be staying later than usual. I might get lucky and have the chance to touch them after he leaves, so long as we’re not slammed.

  I can stay late. While filling orders now for Christmas is more or less worthless, I still want to do my job right—both of them.

  I decide then and there that I’ll wait until he leaves work tonight, then once the shop is closed up, I’ll fill some orders and sneak back to get some new readings. That way, I’ll not only have all the time I need to get clear readings, but I won’t get in trouble.

  Short of getting my hands on those cufflinks, this might be the best way to get a better idea of what happened that night.

  It’s all I have to go off of right now. Maybe I won’t get anything from them, but the chance is too good to pass up. Besides, I won’t be able to talk to Millie right away, anyway, and if I can avoid doing so period, all the better.

  I hunch back over and settle in to continue my work.

  Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to call Cole with some good news tonight.

  Chapter 13

  The day drags by. I’m not joking. Literally every time I glance at the clock, only a few minutes have passed. We’re busy, just like I expected, but dang it! Five can’t roll around soon enough! Every time a customer comes in, I silently bemoan the added work.

  Normally, I don’t mind being busy like this. Time usually flies when I’m rushing around, after all. But today, it just isn’t. It’s frustrating and a bit annoying. Every second that ticks by on the clock is like a needle scraping over my skin. I just wish time would speed up so I can get some readings! It’s beyond frustrating not knowing if those cards hold the answers we need.

  I’ve also had to resist the urge to text Cole and tell him I have a link to the murder, because the truth is, I don’t know that for sure yet. I don’t want to get his hopes up, either. That seems pretty dang rude. Still, the itch to talk to him about this skims under my skin.

&nb
sp; I want him to know that the cufflinks aren’t the only thing out there with potential answers. At this point, though, if the tarot cards don’t give me the answers I need, I’m going to have to give in and track Millie down. Talking with her is my least favorite thing to do. Bringing up a murder she covered forty years ago? Yeah, that sounds even worse, and not just because it involves family. That woman . . . something about her is just . . . off. I can’t explain it.

  As I’m straightening the front of the store between customers, I glance out the large front windows of the shop. At the sight of the purple SUV parked across the street, I nearly drop the stack of kids’ books I’m holding.

  “That darn car again!” I whisper.

  “You say something, dear?”

  I almost jump from my skin and turn to see Mrs. Johnson standing nearby. She’s looking through some of the novelty toys. “Oh, uh . . . yeah, actually. You work for city planning, right?”

  “Yes . . .?”

  “Do you know whose car that is?” I gesture out toward the purple SUV.

  She chuckles. “Oh, that’s Ms. Fraude’s new SUV. I can’t believe you haven’t heard yet!”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Well, I guess she went out to trade in her other car and fell head over heels in love with this one. Can’t say I’d have done the same. She’s so eccentric, isn’t she?”

  Eccentric isn’t the word I’d use to describe her. Still, I can’t help being thankful for the town grapevine spreading this little rumor around. “Yeah,” I mumble. “She sure is.”

  Millie’s been following me around town. If it weren’t for the fact that she and Shaunda have both tailed me before, I might be more off-put. Honestly, it’s surprising it took me this long to put two and two together. Probably I should have guessed it was her all along.

  At least it’s not someone out to murder me. Small blessings, I suppose.

  I finish putting away the kids’ books in hand and return to the register to help with the line of customers. Every so often, I glance between the bookshelves toward the street. The SUV is still sitting there, wisps of exhaust puffing into the air.