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

  I’m not sure what to expect, but the slow start has me on edge. The vision is foggy, the sensations coming through the cufflink muddy and difficult to decipher. All I catch at first are the gunshots, though this time they’re far more distant than before, as if the memory is actively fading. Somewhere in the background, I catch someone speaking. The garbled sentence sounds like it’s being spoken through Jell-O.

  Come on, come on. I push my focus onto that sentence, trying to get just a little more clarity. Show me what you’re hiding. Please. I know this is important.

  The cufflink struggles to give me anything super concrete at first. The voice almost doesn’t even sound like a person, but as I push harder, I finally manage to get a few garbled words. Gender’s hard to make out, though. It’s odd, considering, but it’s new information, and I need it.

  After a deep breath, I push again for more. Sweat prickles along my hairline. This is the hardest I’ve pushed myself, and my arms are shaking from the effort. My breathing hitches, and finally, something comes through. A few words. They’re unclear, but at least they aren’t complete nonsense.

  It takes two or three attempts at deeply focusing on the words before I catch even the smallest bit of useful material: “. . . will never understand what we’re trying to do.”

  The words are a little clearer but still mangled from decay. The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but before I can figure out who it is, the vision cuts out completely.

  Darn it!

  I try to push again, hoping I can get the first half of the statement, but nothing more comes from the cufflink. It just doesn’t have a clear enough hold on the memory to offer me more than that. Even that little bit seems to be close to fading entirely. In the end, I pull my hand back and stare down at the cufflink, like I’m trying to will it to speak to me or something. Obviously, that’s not gonna happen.

  I rub my temples and try not to sigh in exasperation. This is really a pain. A headache pulses behind my eyes.

  Before even considering calling the Mooring Cove Sheriff’s Office, I snap a couple of pictures of the cufflinks. I’m still not sure how useful these are going to be. Mostly, I’m just listening to my gut. I still can’t confirm that they’re even evidence for any sort of crime. Gunshots might be off-putting, but that doesn’t mean that they’re illegal. For all I know, the wearer could have been at a gun range or something.

  For whatever reason, though, I’m reluctant to pass them off to the authorities. The resistance to offering up memories makes me wonder if maybe they have more to show me, more that I can pull from them with a little more time and a lot more patience.

  Turning them over might be the right thing to do, but my gut keeps saying I should hold onto them a little longer.

  I chew my lip, leaning back on my stool and trying to decide what to do.

  Unfortunately, that decision is made for me when Candace walks into the shop with her four-year-old daughter and infant son. Her daughter practically runs over to the children’s book section. We have a few stuffed animals on a set of shelves and some hand puppets. Nothing too extravagant, since children aren’t generally our target consumers. Mostly we keep them for the holidays and take them out when Mooring Cove’s Christmas festival draws close.

  She adjusts her son’s position on her hip as she heads over to the counter. “Morning.”

  Candace Elliot is one of Mooring Cove’s finest deputies. She and Paul generally work the same beat, but lately, it seems like she has moved to a different shift. I rarely see them together anymore when one of them is on duty.

  This afternoon, she’s dressed in a puffy, dark purple coat and a pair of jeans. A deep magenta, hand-knit scarf is wrapped around her neck, and a beanie is tugged over her dark hair. Unlike my hair, which is frizzy on the best of days, Candace’s dark curls are immaculate. They’re tightly coiled and shaped to perfection, framing her face.

  “Morning,” I reply, pushing the cufflinks out of the way. “How can I help you today, Deputy Elliot?”

  Candace, though, never misses anything. Her sharp, dark eyes follow the cufflinks. “Came in to pick up my mom’s order, but it looks like you have something for me, too.”

  “Yeah. I, uh, I just found them.”

  She sets her son on the counter, and he starts kicking his legs back and forth, little shoes pounding into the sideboard. “Stop that, Jason.” She rests a hand on his knees to settle him down. He’s still vibrating with energy, but he does stop kicking the counter, at least. “I’ll text Paul and have him come by to get them, since I’m off-duty today.”

  “I was just about to,” I say, trying to hide the lie.

  She cocks an eyebrow at me. “Mhm. Sure.” Still, she sends him a message and tucks her phone away. “Anything else interesting happen today?”

  She’s very obviously investigating without trying to sound official. I shrug. Really, I don’t have anything to hide. “The usual, mostly. Went to the coffee shop and ended up with these. No one’s been murdered recently, have they?”

  “Not since Alex Johnson, no.”

  That’s a relief, but it suggests that I’m right. The visions seem to have taken place in the more distant past. It’s still hard to say when, of course. Knowing that doesn’t exactly help me much, but at least I have a better starting point for my personal investigation. “Then these might not be evidence, then.”

  “We didn’t come across Johnson’s body until after you found those opals, remember? Besides, someone’s still spiking your drinks. That’s weird enough as it is, but they’ve been getting their mitts on some pretty expensive and rare items. If anything, this is still evidence for that case.”

  “Yeah.” Okay, so she has me there. “But my gut says you’re not going to find a body this time.”

  “Oh? What makes you say that?” She quirks a dark eyebrow.

  Shoot. I really need to be better about opening my big mouth. “Nothing, honest.”

  “You know,” she leans against the counter, “the more of these things you find, the more I’m thinking you’re involved in something bigger than just these murders.”

  I blanch, an unattractive noise burping from my chest. “What? No! I’m not! Really!” How could she even think that? I’d never hurt anyone! Ever!

  Candace shakes her head. Just as she’s about to reply, a display over where he daughter’s playing tips over. The little girl shrieks in surprise, and we both rush over to check on her.

  “Dahlia! Are you okay, honey?” Candace drops to her knees to check her child over while I right the display.

  Luckily, it was just one of those thin wire displays covered in soft hand puppets. Nothing’s broken, and it looks like Dahlia isn’t hurt, just shocked. Thank goodness!

  She nods, wiping a hand over her face. “Yeah. It just surprised me.” Her voice is small, trembling from the shock.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Candace says, lifting her daughter.

  “It’s fine. These things happen.” I smile as I pick up a pile of the stuffed hand puppets. I hang them up one by one. “So, you said you came in to pick up an order?” Maybe I can get her off the subject of the cufflinks for a bit. I’m not all that keen on being in the hot seat again. Though considering how my day’s going, that’s very likely what’s about to happen.

  Part of me wishes Shannon were here. At least then I wouldn’t feel so alone with my powers, so under the microscope all the time. With them around, at least things felt . . . I don’t know. More concrete? Like I’m not such a freak? Ugh. I hate feeling that way, but it’s the truth. At least with Shannon nearby, my powers seemed less like a mutation and almost more natural.

  Maybe I should just come clean and tell her what’s going on.

  That thought makes my stomach cramp up, though. Candace is pretty open minded, but I doubt even she’ll believe me if I tell her I’m psychic. Maybe someday I’ll have to, but I’m more than happy to put off that conversation for as long as possible.

  “Oh, yeah. For CeeCee
Garfield.”

  We head back over to the counter, and I sift through the collection of orders I’ve pulled the last few days. Her mom’s is in the bin labeled G-H, and I pull the book out. A slip sticks out from inside, and I pluck it free so I can complete the transaction.

  “That’ll be fifteen eighty-six.”

  Candace sets her daughter on the counter, right next to her son. “You two stop messing around.” With a warning glare, she pulls her pocketbook around and digs through for her wallet. As she passes me a twenty and a one-cent piece, she asks, “So, gonna tell me whatever it is you’re hiding?”

  “I’m not hiding anything,” I quip. The words rush out so fast that they don’t sound even a little convincing. Because they’re not. Because I absolutely am hiding something. A lot of somethings right now, actually. I make change and stick the book in a little paper bag with handles. “Here’s your mom’s order!”

  “Thanks.” She frowns, though, as she loops the bag over her forearm so she can carry it and her son. “Listen. I know that it might seem scary. Cops don’t always have the best reputation, but I need you to trust me. You can come to me if anything’s going on, okay?”

  “Nothing’s going on.” This time the words come across more firmly. I almost sound certain of myself. “I swear it.”

  She scoots Jason into her arms and rests him on her hip again. “I’m serious, Karen. Yeah, people get involved in multiple crimes and can be innocent. That’s fine. But you’ve been getting dragged into a lot of murders, and each time, you’ve almost gotten yourself killed. I’m just worried about you, is all.”

  What can I say to that? I know it seems crazy, but I’m actually trying to help you? “I promise, I’m not doing anything illegal. And I’m fine. Really.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Her phone chimes in her pocket, and she adjusts Jason to check the message. “Looks like Paul got my text. He’s headed over to pick these up and take your statement. Just . . . just call me if you need anything, okay?” She tucks her phone away before scribbling her number on the back of her receipt. “I’m serious. If anything comes up, I’ll be here for you.”

  “Thanks.” I take the receipt. “Really. I appreciate it.”

  Candace helps her daughter off the counter, and with that, the three of them leave the shop.

  Chapter 5

  Paul shows up shortly after Candace leaves. In the interim, I’ve tried getting clearer readings from all of the cufflinks. As is so often the case, though, I don’t get much more from any of them. They’re just not willing to give me anything else to use. Well, maybe it’s not that they’re unwilling but that too much time has passed. No doubt the memories imprinted on the cufflinks have faded.

  All of the other objects’ memories were fairly recent, after all, save the extraction memories for the opals. Even then, though, I got hints of grinding and treatment, which ultimately led me to realizing that the opals were part of Shannon’s makeup recipe, not Alex’s marine vessel anti-rust coating.

  Still, though, I wish that the details were less muddy. It would certainly help me get a better idea of why they were given to me in the first place. As far as I can tell, these are related to a possible murder, but that’s about all I’ve got.

  The door to the shop opens, the bell above it jingling merrily as it announces Paul’s arrival.

  I stand to greet him. “Good afternoon, Deputy Richards.”

  “Afternoon, Ms. Peters.”

  Have I mentioned yet how much I hate that he won’t use my first name? Yeah, okay, we aren’t as close as we used to be, but it still hurts. We were really close for a long time, so the distance he’s shown me since I returned to Mooring Cove two years ago aches. I just want to be friends. That’s all.

  Well, maybe not all, but I’m willing to keep it to that.

  Considering he’s going through a divorce, though, maybe it’s best if we aren’t on a first-name basis right now, I suppose. I just wish that wasn’t the case. I just . . . I don’t know. I long for at least a glimmer of what we used to have.

  In the month since Alex Johnson’s murder, Paul has changed. He’s grown a beard, for one. A few stringy strands of gray color the darker, almost auburn whiskers. He’s become more reserved, too, rarely smiling or greeting others when he’s out on patrol. If the amount of times I’ve seen him in his tan deputy uniform is anything to go by, he’s been working a lot more lately, too.

  Paul has always had a wide, round face and big ears. Freckles are sprinkled across the bridge of his nose and over his cheeks, and he used to smile a lot more. His smile could light up a room, once. Now he just scowls at everything and everyone, as if he’s personally offended by their mere existence.

  It’s hard, seeing him change so drastically so fast.

  “Deputy Elliot said you have something for me.”

  The divorce process hasn’t been easy on him in the least. Aside from the few times I’ve seen him around town, he hasn’t been out much when he’s not on duty. The rumor mill is churning at full-speed, most of it coming directly from his ex-wife’s mouth about how he was just never present. She’s not a terrible person, but I think his focus on work is what drove them apart and she just hit a point where she couldn’t take it anymore. From what I know, he’s been staying at his cousin’s place outside town.

  Even this afternoon, he acts like he’s going through the motions, like he doesn’t really want to be here.

  Not that I can blame him.

  If I lived in the same small town as my ex with rumors about my mental health circulating, I wouldn’t want to be there, either.

  “Yeah. I got these in my drink this morning.” I push the cufflinks across the counter toward him. “I swear, they weren’t in my coffee when I left the café. That’s why I didn’t call sooner.”

  “So you think someone put them in after? Anyone else touch your cup?” he asks. He pulls on a glove before he picks up the first one and examines it. It’s one of the green and gold cufflinks. He sets it aside and picks up the matching partner.

  I shake my head. “No. As far as I know, only Dr. Elea and I had access to my drink, and he was in back all morning. Didn’t even leave the lab to eat lunch.”

  “What time did you find them?”

  Oh boy. “A few hours ago.”

  “And you didn’t call me before then because . . .?”

  I shrug, rubbing my upper arm awkwardly. “I dunno. It’s been a busy day, with the festival coming up. And besides, no murders lately, right? So it didn’t seem like these were linked to anything like that . . .”

  He scowls, setting the cufflink down with a cold snap. “I’m still trying to figure out who’s getting their hands on these and giving them to you. That person has a lot of explaining to do. As far as I’m concerned, that’s an open case still. These are still evidence.”

  I swallow hard and nod. “Yeah.” The word barely chokes free from my throat. “That’s what Deputy Elliot said . . .” My voice trails off.

  “Listen to me,” he says, leaning across the counter to glare into my eyes. “You can’t keep this stuff from me. You’re already on ice so thin it’s water. Don’t want that water to start boiling, do you?”

  Yeah, no. Definitely not. “Sorry.”

  He leans away and pulls an evidence baggy from one of the pouches on his utility belt. “This whole thing is exhausting. Just . . . call me next time. Like right away. Got it?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I get it.”

  He scoops the green enamel cufflinks into the baggy, but just before he picks up the gold ones, I reach out to stop him.

  “What?”

  “Hang on a second.” I pluck one off the counter, and he grumbles something about my fingerprints getting all over evidence.

  “They already were,” I quip. “But this . . . I didn’t notice this before.” On the back of the cufflink is a simplified Eye of Providence with what looks like a butterfly under it. Or maybe it’s a moth. Mooring Cove’s unofficial mascot is a death’s-head
hawkmoth, after all. Something to do with the town’s founding. I’ve never really understood it myself, but as I examine the worn imprint on the back of the cufflink, I can’t ignore the overwhelming sense that this is important.

  He leans over to take a look. “What in the world?”

  “Come with me.” I wave him behind the counter, back through the door into the lab. The memories from the cufflink whisper through my mind, but none of them are strong enough to disrupt my focus. Mostly, they’re just the echoes I caught before. BAM! BAM! BAM!

  I adjust the microscope lens to 10x magnification, raising it enough for the cufflink to fit on the mechanical stage. When I peer into the microscope, the detail in the carving jumps out. Most of the edges are worn fairly smooth, but not all of them.

  In the center of the bug’s back is a skull.

  “It’s a death’s-head hawkmoth,” I say, pulling away so he can take a look. “And the Eye of Providence.”

  “Strange. Why?”

  “Well, the Eye of Providence is pretty commonly associated with psychics and the occult.”

  “Or with God, right?”

  I nod. “But a death’s-head hawkmoth . . . that’s odd.”

  “Mooring Cove’s founders were obsessed with it,” he mutters, still peering through the microscope.

  “Why, though?” I lean against the work table in the center of the room, folding my arms over my stomach. “And why is it on a cufflink, of all things?”

  He pulls back, a frown digging deep lines around his mouth. “Dunno. Doesn’t look recent.”

  “No,” I agree. “But I think these cufflinks are pretty old.”

  “What makes you say that?” he asks, turning to stare me down.

  I shrug, trying to feign nonchalance. This is something I have an answer for, at least. “The patina on them, for one. They haven’t been polished or taken care of in a long time. And . . . and the enamel ones. I think I felt some grit around the inlay, like they were in dirt or something. Maybe mud?”

  Paul scowls as he bags up the gold cufflink. We head back out to the front, and he lifts the other one up, examining it. “No insignia on this one. Stranger and stranger.”