Cufflinks in the Cappuccino: Coffee House Clairvoyant: Book 4 Read online

  “Quite. Your detail work is immaculate, and the pigments used are all fairly common. The set is only from the turn of the century. Not as old as some of the other pieces, so the repairs shouldn’t be as extensive.”

  I swallow my fears. This is a big project, probably the largest he has ever entrusted me with. “Thank you,” I say. “For trusting me, I mean.”

  “Two years of training should be enough time to prove your worth. If you have questions, I encourage you to ask. Otherwise, this project is solely up to you.”

  I set the first card down on the stainless steel table, careful of the edges. They’re soft, revealing a lot of use in their time. Most of the repairs on this specific card are faded sections of black ink and a few scratches across the gold and silver leaf. No doubt some of the other cards are torn or missing sections. Those will take the most time.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I expect no less.”

  The very first thing I need to do is determine the composition of the black ink. I want to refurbish that first, since it’s the most detailed part of the card. To do so, I grab a jeweler’s eyepiece and lean in close. Most pigments can be broken down chemically to get the exact composition, but I don’t actually have to use chemicals or take large scrapings to figure out what was used to make the ink for any specific piece.

  See, in most cases, I can rely on my psychometry to reveal it to me. Typically, I try to be discreet about checking. I’ll usually take a small scraping as a sample and rest it on my fingertip. This morning, I do the same as usual, pretending to take it over to one of our chemical spectrometers. Rather than running it, though, I slip my glove off my right hand and set the tiny chip on my fingertip.

  Grinding is a fairly typical part of these visions. It’s not unusual for me to pull stronger, more physical memories from items. Sounds are far more rare, and I never see anything. After all, objects don’t have eyes.

  But as I read beyond the grinding, something slips through.

  Something I could have never expected.

  “Angus! Get in the car! Now!”

  A car door slams shut.

  My eyes snap open.

  Memories that strong aren’t usually tied to something as small as a pigment chip. Sounds are rare, voices hard to glean most of the time. If I’m lucky, I get words here and there, but this vision is strong. Really strong.

  A cold sweat breaks out across my hairline.

  Angus.

  There’s only ever been one Angus in Mooring Cove that I know of, and that’s my great uncle.

  Chapter 2

  Work takes precedence over talking with Uncle Angus, unfortunately. I can’t call him until lunch, and even then, I’m not entirely sure what I’d ask him. “Hey, do you remember being told to get in a car?”

  Yeah, like that’s going to be useful.

  At his age, the only memories that stick out are really prominent ones. I doubt being told to get into a car by some other guy is going to be something that had stuck with him all these years.

  Still, as I collect the ingredients to repair the pigment on the first tarot card, a chill prickles up my spine and across my scalp. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that my great uncle’s name was in the vision, but . . . well, it’s unsettling, at the very least. Considering the tarot cards are from Mooring Cove, it’s not as if it’s completely odd. Just odd enough to make my skin prickle and my blood run cold.

  After all, only recently, I learned that my uncle knows about others with powers like mine. And I’m not just talking about my great grandfather. His dad was a psychometrist like me, but recently, I found out that Uncle Angus knew—and dated—a woman with the ability to commune with the dead.

  I try not to let my thoughts linger on that for too long.

  Shannon, her grandchild, came out here for a vacation only to discover that their partner was murdered in cold blood over a set of makeup. It’s wild what people will kill for. What’s more wild, though, is how Shannon helped me solve their partner’s murder. See, they had to commune with Alex’s spirit.

  The séance still leaves a weighted, somewhat terrifying impression on me. That was an experience I’m not all that eager to repeat, but I know for a fact I’ll never, ever forget it. Even if I kind of—okay, definitely—want to.

  As I grind down the ingredients for the ink in a clean mortar, I can’t help wondering what this latest vision has to do with my great uncle. Asking about a car ride from at least four decades ago isn’t going to be easy. He’s in his nineties and already struggles to remember specifics. Most of the advice I get from him relating to my power consists of generalizations, since he has never actually experienced said powers himself, and even when we’re not talking about my powers, he has troubles recalling a lot of his younger years.

  Or . . . what if he just doesn’t want to talk about it? That seems odd, though. Why wouldn’t he? I brush the notion aside.

  I glance up at Dr. Elea, half-tempted to run my bare fingertips over the card while I work. But he’d notice. While he doesn’t always seem to catch me, I don’t want to be blatant about touching the tarot cards right in front of him. The thing is, to get a clearer and more detailed vision from the card, I’ll need to not only touch it, but I’ll need to touch it for a while. The longer I concentrate on an object, the stronger the memories are.

  The little fleck I caught the memory from earlier isn’t going to be enough in the long run.

  What to do . . . ?

  Grinding out the ink helps me figure out a plan. Maybe during lunch, I’ll be able to sneak a better peek at the vision this particular card is holding for me. I’m not sure what more it’ll offer up, but it should be better than nothing.

  Maybe I can just ask Uncle Angus about the cards. He might remember them.

  After all, for the memories to exist in the first place, they must have been around my uncle at some point. My biggest fear is that they were stowed away in a box or case or something out of sight. If so, then maybe Uncle Angus has never seen them before.

  I finish grinding up the ingredients for the ink and set to liquefying them. That in itself is a slow process. If the pigment becomes too runny, it won’t adhere correctly. Too dry, and it’ll be clumpy.

  Well, I’ll just have to find a way to sneak a touch.

  Another glance at Dr. Elea shows that he’s deeply focused on his work. Maybe . . .

  I tenderly lift the card, taking it over to the microscope on the counter behind me. Checking the density of the ink can be done under it, so this is a pretty good chance for me to get to touch the card without gloves obstructing the visions.

  My stomach squirms. Anticipation thrums through my veins as I subtly peel the glove on my right hand off. If I look over my shoulder, I’ll draw attention, so I have no way of checking whether Dr. Elea is watching me.

  I just have to hope he’s not.

  I reach down to brush my fingertips over the card, heart pounding in my ears.

  Closer, closer . . . Just a little more, and I’ll have some insight into the vision. I’ll get a better picture of what happened.

  “Karen, I shouldn’t have to remind you. We don’t touch objects without gloves.”

  My hand jerks away. Heat rushes up my neck and into my face, making me dizzy from embarrassment at being caught.

  “S-sorry, Doctor. I just . . .” Shoot. What sort of excuse can I even come up with? Anything I say will sound absolutely bonkers. Sorry, I just wanted to touch it so I can get its memories? Yeah, not gonna happen.

  “You just what?”

  “I just forgot.”

  Lame. Ugh. Even I know that excuse sounds stupid.

  He hums, the sound curt and unimpressed. “I watched you take the glove off. Am I mistaken in trusting you with this project?”

  “No! Not at all!” I whirl around toward him, desperate to prove myself. Dang it! How could I be so dumb?

  He’s scowling, hands poised over the book he’s currently working on. “Then expl
ain your reasoning to me.”

  I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “It’s . . . it’s hard to get a good feel for the texture of the ink without gloves.” My voice shakes, but I dig my nails in, determined to make the excuse sound reasonable. “I want to know the viscosity so I can try and recreate it, and touching the ink helps.” It’s not a complete lie, but it’s not the best cover up, either.

  I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something.

  For a long few seconds, all my boss does is stare at me, as if he’s calculating the percentage of truth in my words.

  At last, he shakes his head, setting the kozo tissue square he was using aside. “There are better ways to do that.”

  Yeah, I know. I just really hoped I’d get the chance to touch the card. Still, at least it seems like my little white lie covered up the real reason. I fidget with the hem of my shirt. “How would you do it, then?”

  The frown beneath his moustache deepens. “Have I taught you nothing? Find a similar material in the cabinets and recreate the ink via trial and error. Start thick and work until the pigment is thinner and matches the original.”

  Okay, yeah. That’s a trick he taught me back when I worked on my first illuminated piece. I give a quick nod before turning to search through the various spare pieces of paper, vellum, parchment, and paper stock for something about the same weight and thickness.

  “And Karen? Do put your glove back on. I don’t want to see it off again.”

  I grab the glove and pull it back on. “You won’t.”

  He returns to work, and my gut clenches around my last sip of coffee. Great. Just how I needed to start my first major solo project.

  Hopefully this doesn’t mean he won’t trust me again.

  By the time ten rolls around, I’m all but shaking from that morning. Stony silence has been falling off Dr. Elea in waves since he caught me trying to touch the tarot card without a glove. He hasn’t come out to the front even once since I opened the shop, and it seems like he’s not going to be chummy with me today.

  Ugh.

  I feel so stupid. Really, if I’d just been patient, I could have gotten a reading. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  And now I can’t even sneak into the back to get one without drawing attention to myself.

  It’s fine.

  It is.

  Besides, I have other things to take care of. The days leading up to Christmas are fewer and fewer, and the town’s Christmas festival is coming up. It’s in less than a week, and because of that and the town-wide white elephant exchange, locals and visitors alike are out in droves. Most of them are shopping for little gifts to hand out and exchange during the festival.

  For the next several hours, I work on filling orders and helping customers. With the holidays just around the corner, we’re hitting our peak season. In just a few short days, the nightmare of rush and last-minute orders will finally be over, and I’ll go back to working my usual hours.

  Less than a week. You can do it! The pep talk helps.

  I seriously can’t wait. While I love my job, the holiday season is always more tumultuous than the rest of the year. I miss having time at home to just be. I still get to sneak visions from books in the front of the shop when stocking the shelves, but most of those aren’t as old as what we work on in the back. The visions are still fun, but they aren’t what I’m craving this morning.

  With people coming in and out of the shop this morning, I don’t have much of a chance to actually pay attention to the few snippets of memories I do get. For the most part, I’m too busy helping customers find what they want and getting them rung up at the register.

  It won’t be long before we’re too busy for Dr. Elea to stay in the back.

  Whenever I get a few seconds, I steal sips of my cappuccino. It’s cold by now, but that’s not surprising. Most of the coffee I enjoy is cold by the time I get to it.

  I’m half-tempted to heat this in the microwave this morning, though.

  Another tilt of the cup, though, has me stopping cold.

  Clunk.

  The sound is light, almost inaudible, but definitely there.

  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I whisper, setting the drink down on the counter without finishing my gulp. “Why. Why do you keep doing this to me?”

  Of all the mornings that I desperately need a caffeine fix, of course today’s the day I get another surprise from Cole.

  At least, I’m ninety nine percent sure he’s the one who’s been spiking my drinks.

  The thing is, I’ve been sipping from this cup for the last hour, and until now, I haven’t heard—or felt—anything strange inside it.

  So . . . what the heck is going on?

  I don’t have time to question it. Before I can even think of looking inside, I need to get the customers in the shop out the door. Luckily, it’s still early. While we’re busier than usual, only one or two people are inside.

  Maybe I can sneak a peek . . .

  Mrs. Bushy walks up with an armful of books.

  Nope, just kidding.

  “Morning, Mrs. Bushy! Did you find everything you need?”

  She beams at me. “These are gonna make some lucky people very happy this weekend!”

  “No kidding! Let me get these rung up and bagged for you.”

  So much for seeing what Cole has given me this morning. Maybe once there’s a lull in customers, I’ll get a chance to peek.

  Sometime around eleven, when we finally get a break in patrons, I finally have the chance to take a look inside my cappuccino. I pop the top off the drink and peer into the creamy depths of the coffee. It looks normal, but so did all of my other drinks. Well, except the oolong. That was clear enough for me to see straight to the bottom of the cup.

  With an annoyed sigh, I push up from my stool and go to grab a spare mug from the folding table. We only have two, and typically, Dr. Elea uses both by the end of the day, but I’m not in the mood to go into the back and grab a tub. Maybe if I hadn’t screwed up so badly, I wouldn’t be so leery of interrupting my boss.

  For today, the mug will just have to do. It’s red and has faded text across the side reading Grandpas Tell the Best Stories.

  Cute. I can’t help smiling. I’ve met Dr. Elea’s grandchildren. They’re cute as little beans and are more than happy to talk your ears off for hours and hours.

  Slowly, I pour my drink from the to-go cup into the mug. There isn’t much left, so it doesn’t take me long to find four metal items at the bottom.

  At first glance, I think they’re earrings. The thought alone has a chill tingling up my spine to claw at the back of my scalp. No. No more jewelry. Please. That’s the last thing I want to see.

  Honestly, I just don’t want to see anything in my cup these days.

  When I dump them out onto the counter, I note that they’re actually cufflinks, not earrings. Two are gold with small diamonds in the center, and the other two are rose gold with green enamel faces and inset rubies.

  I rub my hands over my face, scrubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms.

  To my knowledge, no one has died recently, but that doesn’t mean anything out here. Last time, it took a few days before I was made aware of Alex’s murder and its relationship to the opals I’d found. Looks like this case might be similar.

  If they’re even linked to a murder at all.

  A glance over my shoulder shows Dr. Elea still at work in the lab. It’s getting close to lunchtime, so he probably won’t be back there for much longer. Still, I need to get whatever visions I can before calling Paul and turning these over to him.

  I slide a hand forward and, biting my lip, tentatively touch one of the green enamel and ruby cufflinks.

  The vision that hits me takes my breath away.

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  Gunshots echo so loudly that I yank my hand away and cover my ears, curling forward. My ears ring, hearing completely lost for a few long seconds. I clamp my teeth over my tongue to keep from shouting
in shock.

  It’s like the gun was right next to my head! What in the world?

  Shaking breaths rattle in my lungs. In and out, in and out. My body is cramped and tight. My arms shake. Bit by bit, my hearing returns to normal. Slowly, I force myself to uncurl. I eye the cufflinks, swallowing hard at the thought of touching them again. That wasn’t expected.

  Sure, I’ve heard gunshots before whenever I touch objects, but not like this. Not nearly this loud or this close. It’s almost like being back on the docks, having Jacob Last firing his gun at me right next to my head. My whole body’s shaking, and I’m not sure if I can actually bring myself to touch the cufflinks again.

  Maybe . . .

  Maybe not those ones. Not the green ones.

  I glance at the gold pair and swallow hard. If the same thing happens, I’m out. I’m not sure I can deal with that again. Hearing gunshots is like . . . like getting a kick in the chest out of nowhere. It makes me panic in ways I didn’t used to.

  Closing my eyes, I grip the edge of the counter, willing myself to calm down. Typically, I can pull memories of myself from the countertop. They sometimes calm me down during stressful work days, but today, that’s just not happening.

  I’ve been shot at so much recently that I just can’t bring myself to willingly touch the cufflinks again.

  In the end, I scoop them back into the to-go cup.

  I should call the police. I should report these and turn them over. Really, that’s the right thing to do.

  But I can’t help feeling that I need to actually get readings from these first. Once I have proper, detailed readings, I can hand them off. For now, though . . . for now, I need some lunch, some water, and some fresh air. So I stash the cup in my purse. I’ll deal with them later.

  It’s time to close for lunch and head down to the soup and sandwich place. Maybe after a short, cold walk, I’ll be able to try again.

  Chapter 3

  This is the first time I’ve ever held onto evidence longer than a few hours after getting it, and I don’t feel great about doing so. The thing is, though, I have to remember that I’m only human. I’m still dealing with some of the trauma from my first few cases, and I doubt that jumping in head-first is the best choice for me right now. After all, memories won’t be of much use to me if I can’t focus on them over the fear racing through my veins.