Cufflinks in the Cappuccino: Coffee House Clairvoyant: Book 4 Page 9

  Wow. A decade? Such a long time. No wonder he doesn’t talk about what happened. Things are starting to make a little more sense, too. About the same time as Edmund’s murder, the people in the photo had begun leaving town.

  I chew the inside of my cheek, trying to work out what to ask next. This is hard on my uncle, and I don’t want to overdo it. The cufflinks offered me a few visions, and I decide to turn the conversation back to them. “If the murder was . . . well, was solved before now, then why give me the cufflinks?” I turn to Cole, frowning.

  He raps his knuckles against the table, though the motion is slow. “Like I said. People kept dying. They still are. It’s been pretty bad since that night, too, and I wanted to know what happened. What actually happened, I mean. My grandfather died that night, and the only people there were Edmund and you, Angus. All of the reports, all of the information I know from my parents . . . no one can tell me what actually happened or what they said to each other, what led up to Leon’s death. You’re the closest I’ve ever gotten to answers, Angus, and even then . . . well, you said yourself you didn’t actually see or hear anything.”

  He blows out a long breath, like he’s been holding it for hours. Those gray eyes land on me, and I shiver under the intensity of his gaze. “I just . . . I want answers, and you’re literally the only person who can give them to me, Karen. Those cufflinks . . . with the gun gone, they’re the only evidence I had access to.”

  I rub my palms across my thighs. Despite the chill seeping in from outside, I’m sweaty and anxious. “Well, they didn’t give me much to go on. And if you,” I turn to my great uncle, “said that they were arguing over things to do with psychic powers, then . . . I mean, there’s not much more I can offer.” Especially since the cufflinks are with the cops now. I’m not sure how to explain that last bit. For once, my gut was right. I should have held onto them. The cufflinks aren’t tied to any modern murders, so they’re not exactly evidence. Heck, as far as I can tell, they aren’t even really evidence from the original murder.

  Cole’s shoulders slump. “Great. Wonderful. Guess it’s just something I’ll never know the answer to.”

  There’s weight to that statement. This isn’t just about not knowing answers. I have to remind myself that solving this murder—really, truly solving it—will help Leon’s soul find rest. It could help pull Mooring Cove back from the brink of another gateway collapse. I’m still struggling to believe that can actually happen, though.

  “Not necessarily. If there’s something else from that night, something you can teleport here, I could read that.”

  He shakes his head. “The gun is lost, and anything useful would be in the piles and piles of evidence the sheriff’s office has accumulated over the years. I can teleport objects, but I have to know exactly where they are to do it.”

  I tap my finger against my lips, thinking. “Well . . . I can try and get my hands on the cufflinks again. Maybe even the case file and other evidence.”

  “Wait, what do you mean get your hands on them? I literally gave them to you.”

  Oops. Uh . . . “See, I, uh . . . because the other objects were all, you know, evidence in recent murders, I thought that was the case with the cufflinks, so I . . . I turned them over to the deputies.” Not entirely by choice, considering Candace had walked in on me reading them.

  That doesn’t mean I have access to them, though.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Um, no? I’ve been turning the objects over as I get them, right after reading their memories.”

  He scoffs and leans back, tilting over the back of the chair with a groan. “Karen.”

  “What? You weren’t exactly forthcoming about giving them to me! Or why, I should add! I didn’t know I was supposed to keep them.”

  “Does the sheriff know I’ve been giving them to you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Good.” He shifts forward again, scowling at his tea mug.

  He might be mad at me, but it’s not my fault. I did what I thought was right at the time. Just as I’m about to open my mouth and defend myself, Uncle Angus speaks up.

  “She likely already knows.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask.

  At the same time, Cole demands, “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she’s an Addams.”

  “Uhhh . . .” Aside from maybe the Addams Family, I’m not sure what that has to do with anything. Even then, they can’t be related. Right? “So?”

  “Well, Addamses was one of the first families to settle out here in Mooring Cove, and we ain’t the only families in this town with powers.”

  Oh. Right. “So, hang on. Was someone in her family in that photograph you showed me?”

  “Aye, I think so.”

  “Shoot. Do you know what her powers might be?”

  “If she has any,” Cole adds, frowning.

  Angus shrugs. “Can’t says I do, no.”

  I shouldn’t be all that surprised, considering how little my great grandfather shared with him. Because Angus himself doesn’t have powers, he only knows a little of what was going on around that time.

  “Guess I should find out,” I mumble.

  That’s just another item to add to the growing list of things I need to tackle.

  Still, at least it’s a step in the right direction.

  “If you have anything—and I mean literally anything—else that your grandfather was wearing that night—or something belonging to your dad, Angus—I need it.”

  “I’ll see what I can find,” mutters Cole. He stands. “If that’s all . . .?”

  It’s not all, but it’s enough.

  We’re all exhausted, all overwhelmed, and all need time to think.

  “Sure. For now, I guess. I’ll take you home, Uncle Angus. But, hey . . . Cole? If we could maybe . . . talk more? It’s been hard, being the only one with . . . well, powers.”

  Cole nods, but I’m not sure how open he is to working together in the future. “Sure. Just text me.”

  With that, he heads out of the shop.

  I suppose it’s a start, at least.

  Chapter 11

  The drive to my parents’ place is quiet. Not just because my uncle’s exhausted, but because I’m still trying to sort through everything I’ve learned that night. The fact that Cole, of all people, has occult powers makes me wonder how many other people in town are like him and me—and whether they know about my powers or his. How many others are keeping secrets? Why hasn’t anyone come forward before now? Did all of the psychic families in town work together at one point? If so, what happened?

  My biggest question, though, is whether Leon’s murder is what caused people to leave Mooring Cove. I suspect it has something to do with the sudden flux of people moving to other cities, but I still don’t know for sure.

  Regardless, even though I could ask Uncle Angus, he’s barely keeping his eyes open. It just doesn’t seem fair to keep pressing him—especially considering he was once a suspect in Leon’s murder.

  I pull up to the curb and swing the truck into park. “Hang on. I’ll get out and walk you to the door.”

  My uncle shakes his head and grabs my forearm to stop me. “I didn’t mean for none of this to happen.”

  “I know. It’s just . . . confusing, I think. There’s so much to absorb and think about.” I flop back into my seat.

  The engine’s still running, heat swimming around us to keep the cold at bay.

  “Wish I could be more help. Thought I’d saw enough that night to be of some use, but I guess that weren’t the case. Never did want this to come up again. Funny how the past has a way of making its rounds again.”

  He sounds so . . . defeated, so disconsolate.

  I can’t imagine what it would be like, thinking you know one thing your entire life, then having that flipped on its head in a matter of hours. He probably swore on his own life that his father was the reason for Cole’s grandfather’s death. That might have been the only thing t
hat saved him from going to prison.

  I swallow hard. The next question I have isn’t exactly the most sensitive or kind, but I do kind of need to know. “Did . . . did you . . . or your dad ever stand trial for what happened?”

  Uncle Angus blows a long, heavy breath out. “Aye. I were questioned more hours than in a year, had to get acquitted on account of a lack of evidence. But he were considered unfit, since he shot hisself. So, no. He never stood trial. But he were assumed guilty thanks to me, and he spent the rest of his life in a facility out in Salem.”

  Oh.

  Well, that answers that, I suppose.

  Wow. All this time . . . I can’t imagine thinking your own father shot someone and then tried to commit suicide and having to . . . to use that to make sure you didn’t go to prison. And now . . . now there’s a good chance that, if Cole’s right, Grandpa Edmund didn’t actually pull the trigger. But if he didn’t, then who did?

  I still don’t have the answer to that. Uncle Angus was the only other person there that night. That fact can’t be ignored. Of course I don’t think he did it, but . . . the only other explanation is that Edmund really did kill Leon.

  The memories from the cufflinks, though . . . those don’t add up.

  The gunshots were loudest from the green enamel cufflinks, not the gold ones. If Great Grandpa Edmund was wearing the gold cufflinks that night, then he couldn’t have fired the gun. Right?

  Plus that strange voice I heard via the cufflinks . . . maybe it was his, and maybe it wasn’t. My gut insists someone else was there that night, but I have no proof as of yet.

  “How old were you when it happened?” The words spill out before I can rethink them. Maybe it’s callous of me to ask so many questions about this, but I need to know. I need answers. I need a timeline of events so I can try and piece together what bits I have of the puzzle.

  “Oh, I were in my early fifties, I think.”

  Fifties?

  All this time, I sort of assumed he was in his teens or twenties. I suppose, though, it makes sense for him to have been older, since Cole’s dad spent time with my great grandfather. That confirms the murder took place about forty years ago, then. Long before I was born, and long enough that memories from the cufflinks would fracture over time.

  Maybe the shots I heard weren’t accurate after all.

  I place a hand over his, which is still resting on my forearm. “It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

  “Aye, I know that. Don’t make it much better, though.”

  “No. No, it doesn’t.”

  I wish I knew more about my great grandfather. I wish I’d been around, that I could talk with him, get some idea of what happened and why. But for the time being, I just don’t have the resources.

  If Shannon were here, I might be able to hold a séance and contact him. Even if Shannon were here, it would still be a longshot, unfortunately. I have no idea if Shannon’s abilities would let me actually speak with my great grandfather. Still, a séance would be more useful than what I currently have at my disposal.

  I release my great uncle’s hand after a quick, comforting squeeze. “Come on. Let’s get you out of the cold.”

  He nods, though he doesn’t seem entirely present.

  Tonight really took a toll on him. More than I initially thought. Hopefully he’ll be okay.

  By the time I finally get home, I’m absolutely drained. Emotionally, I’m just numb. Mentally, I can barely string together a cohesive sentence. This whole time, I assumed that I was the only person with powers actually in Mooring Cove, but now I know that’s not true at all. I might be even less alone than I thought, too.

  I sink onto my couch, drawing a knit, cream-colored throw blanket over my legs.

  Kiwi makes short work of honing in on my lap and settling in. She’s a chunky gray Scottish fold, and in the winter, she’s the biggest lap kitty there is. As she shimmies down onto my lap, loud purring starts. I’m glad she’s here. Kitty cuddles always help me push through my more dismal days.

  In the kitchen, Strawberry, my medium-haired orange tabby, meows at the heating vent, as if she’s chewing it out for not warming her up. She’s the type of cat who prefers love from a distance. Mostly, she just wants food, the occasional scratch, and a rare tummy rub. The rest of the time, she wanders around the house, chatting with shadows and playing with the heating vents and area rugs.

  I lean back and close my eyes, running my hands over Kiwi’s soft, smooth fur.

  Thankfully, I can’t get memories from living things, or I’m sure I’d be overwhelmed with reflections of her day. Most of them would probably be of her dozing in the sun or curled up on my bed.

  Petting her helps, though. Fuzz therapy. My mind slows down enough for me to just rest and take a mental break from the case and everything that has happened.

  This just isn’t like any of the other cases I’ve worked on before.

  No one’s being arrested, no one’s being looked at for murder, and there doesn’t seem to be a time limit—well, aside from the whole gateway thing. But that seems less like an issue and more like a scare tactic, if I’m honest. On top of that, Leon’s murder took place so long ago that most residents of Mooring Cove probably don’t remember it.

  Or if they do, they just aren’t talking about it.

  I consider asking my mom. She might have some idea of what happened, might be able to give me a new perspective. Then again, if she was in her twenties, she might have been out of town. She and my dad met in Salem, when she was out there for college. It’s just as likely that she wasn’t even here.

  “It happened in the seventies, if I’m calculating correctly.” That would put her out of Mooring Cove, since she was in school from seventy-seven through eighty-one.

  Then again, she would have at least heard about it, right? Since the murder took place on the return trip from Great Aunt Minnie’s wedding, there’s a good chance Mom would have at least known about it.

  I shuffle down into the cushions of the sofa.

  “Aunt Minnie would’ve been . . . what, almost sixty?” I chuckle. She’d been married more than a few times. The family used to joke about how she could steal any man’s heart. I think by the time she passed in her eighties, she had six or seven husbands over the course of her lifetime.

  Kiwi just settles in with a sigh, stretching a paw out toward the armrest.

  “Right. So what do I do? Without those cufflinks, I’m out of resources.”

  Since Cole can’t actually teleport objects without knowing their initial location, he won’t be able to get them to me without some significant effort on his end. And I doubt Paul or Candace are going to let him just waltz into the evidence locker to look around.

  I shift, disturbing Kiwi enough that she opens one eye and glares at me. “Sorry, girl.” My phone’s in my back pocket, and I pull it free without disturbing her too much more. At least she doesn’t get up and run off.

  Once I settle back in, I open my texting app and click over to the conversation with Paul.

  The last text I sent him was almost three weeks ago. Oof. Hopefully he’ll be willing to help me. Maybe.

  I’ve been admittedly keeping my distance. His divorce from Juliet Renee isn’t going well, according to the rumors circulating around town. Living with his cousin probably puts a damper on the whole thing. On top of that, I have no idea how often he’s been able to see his girls. I can’t imagine not being able to see my kids whenever I want.

  I do know that he doesn’t sit with his family when he makes it to church. It’s unfortunate, but it makes sense. Honestly, most people around town—myself included—sort of expected him to stop going to the same church as the rest of his family.

  Then again . . .

  I shake my head. Just ask. I’m reading into things too much, making myself nervous about even asking him for help. The thing is, I need his help if I’m going to figure out what happened that night. Despite knowing in my heart of hearts that Uncle Angus didn’t
hurt anyone, I still want to prove it and put the whole thing to rest. I want to know who shot Leon and my great grandfather, just like Cole does.

  Hey, Paul. It’s Karen. Just in case he deleted my number for some reason, it seems wise to include my name. I was wondering if you still have those cufflinks I turned over. I kind of need to take another look at them, if you don’t mind.

  I wait a few seconds. It’s nearly nine, but he might still be awake. Heck, he might even still be on patrol.

  When I don’t get a response after a couple long minutes, I switch over to the internet browser and start researching the murder.

  I’m pleasantly surprised when the search results populate with some useful articles. The majority of them cover information I already know. Millie L. Fraude, who must have just been starting out at the Seaport Gazette, covered the story in shocking detail.

  That’s . . . a little surprising.

  I cringe at the thought of willingly going to talk with her. That woman has been nothing but a pain in my behind since the emeralds first appeared in my coffee. I don’t want to reappear on her radar, either. Both she and Shaunda Latre from Channel Four have finally decided to leave me alone. Without more items mysteriously appearing in my drinks—and no new recent murders—neither of them have a reason to tail me.

  Having my privacy back has been more than a little nice, admittedly. I might have been famous for finding a long-lost Faberge egg and solving a couple of murders, but I have no desire to relive that experience. My privacy is sacred, thank you very much.

  As I read through the article she wrote, though, I can’t help wondering if talking with Alice is out of the question. I have things I need to ask her, anyway. Most of them concern why she and Ash have been meeting up and whether they’ve been talking about me and passing information on to Millie.

  Though . . .

  That’s easily something I should just let go of. Alice hasn’t shown any actual malicious intent toward me. All she’s done, for the most part, is help me.