Double Shots, Donuts, and Dead Dudes Read online

  Bill nodded. “Sí, sí, it’s plain. He’s good dog.”

  “Yes, he is.” And a lucky one too.

  We both smiled down at Latte a little bit longer before Bill seemed to remember that feeding Latte wasn’t why we were there. “What I can do for you, señorita?”

  “Well, Bill, I was thinking about Pablo’s family and his kids and was wondering if there was anything I could do for them. I know it’s not much, but I thought maybe I could take some cupcakes and muffins from the café over to them. I know people bring so much food at first, but then after a few days, it runs out, but you’re still sad, and you still have to eat. I was just thinking it might be nice for me to bring something over now.”

  Bill had been nodding along through my entire speech, and now he spoke up to agree. “Sí, sí, we have been taking food to them each day.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad!” I was. But I was also hoping that wouldn’t get in the way of me going over there myself. “Do you think they would enjoy some of the desserts from Antonia’s? I’d be happy to take it over myself.”

  Bill nodded. “Sí, they would like it. If you want, I can call them to see when it’s good for you to come.”

  I beamed. “That would be great. Thank you so much, Bill!”

  “Gracias to you, Señorita Francesca. It’s very kind of you to do this for them.”

  I felt a little flush of guilt that my motives weren’t entirely altruistic, but I reassured myself that the saying wasn’t “it’s the motivation that counts.” And, even if it was, my ultimate motivation was to figure out who could have killed Pablo, and what could his family want more than that?

  “I will call you at the café to tell you when Isabel says for you to come.”

  I thanked him again and pulled a reluctant Latte away from the now-empty bowl of chicken. “I hope you know that counts against your food for the day,” I said to him quietly as we walked away. By the way he looked up at me with a happy dog smile on his face, I knew he didn’t agree with that plan at all.

  Chapter Twelve

  After I took Latte home and got changed into my work clothes, I headed in to Antonia’s. Sammy and Rhonda were working busily to help a café full of customers, so I didn’t do much more than say a quick hello before slipping my apron over my head and getting to work. Sammy was taking orders at the register, and Rhonda was making drinks, so I stationed myself by the pastry case to serve food.

  Almost immediately, Sammy hissed at me, “I need to talk to you.”

  “Now?” I froze with one hand in the display case, reaching for a cookie for the customer who had just ordered.

  “When things slow down,” she replied and turned back to take the next customer’s order.

  It was nearly half an hour before things slowed down at all and closer to an hour before things were actually calm enough for Sammy and me to step away.

  “What’s up?” I asked, wiping my hands onto my apron. I was a little nervous about what she wanted to talk to me about—she’d sounded so intense when she said we needed to talk.

  She sighed, her expression mystifyingly unreadable. “It’s about the donuts.”

  “The donuts? Was something wrong with them? I tried them last night, and they were delicious. Matt thought so too. And Mike!”

  I stopped as I remembered that Mike hadn’t actually tried the ones I gave him before he left. So, he might have hated them. He might have even come in that morning to complain. But I didn’t see how he could have hated them. Had Sammy had to throw them all out? Had they poisoned someone? Maybe I shouldn’t have rushed to put them on the menu. Maybe I—

  “Fran, they sold out in fifteen minutes. And it only took that long because the place was empty for the first five and then I had to cook the second batch.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “They’re a hit, Fran. A huge hit. I already have orders for tomorrow morning.”

  I blinked at her.

  “Fran, did you hear me?” She took me by the shoulders. “The donuts are a huge, huge hit!”

  I blinked a few more times before a smile finally crept across my face. “You’re serious?”

  Sammy nodded enthusiastically.

  “You’re serious. Oh wow! That’s amazing.” My taste buds had told me the donuts were delicious, but deep down, some little part of me was afraid that no one else would like them and the whole effort would be a waste of money. But people actually liked them. Enough that they wanted to place orders! I was so excited I wanted to jump up and down.

  “How many orders did you get?”

  “Um, let me see.” She went over to the desk and thumbed through some scraps of paper. “Five.”

  “Five? Five individual donuts or five—”

  “Dozen,” she said before I could finish. “Well, actually seven. Two people wanted two dozen.”

  I was back to vacant blinking. “Seven dozen,” I repeated. That was a lot of donuts. That was more than twice as many as I’d made the night before. Almost three times as many. Which meant that to have any to sell beyond the preorders, I’d have to make three times as many. “I have a lot of donuts to make tonight.”

  Sammy nodded. “And I’ll have a lot to fry up in the morning.”

  “It’s a good thing they don’t take long,” I replied with a grin.

  “It really is!”

  We spent a few more minutes going over the preorders, then Sammy went back out to work in the café, and I sat down to work out how exactly we were going to get all those donuts made.

  I had just about everything figured out when the phone rang. “Antonia’s Italian Café. This is Fran. How may I help you?” I singsonged into the receiver.

  “Señorita Francesca! It’s Bill. From Fiesta Mexicana!”

  I smiled at Bill’s thorough identification of himself. “Hi, Bill. How are you?”

  “Good, Señorita Francesca, I am good. I want to tell you, I called Isabel—Pablo’s ex-wife—and she said for you to come over at two o’clock today. That’s good?”

  I glanced at the clock on the computer in front of me. It was already almost one o’clock. I had barely an hour to get everything together that I wanted to take and actually get over there. It could be tight, especially if I wanted to spend any time thinking about how to broach the topic of the notes Pablo had been getting. “Two will be great,” I told Bill.

  He gave me the address, and I thanked him then said goodbye. For a moment longer, I sat at the desk and scribbled some notes on a piece of paper I stole from the printer. I knew that if I didn’t make a list of what I needed to do before I went over there, I’d completely forget something obvious. Like that I was supposed to take them food.

  Then I went out into the café to talk to Sammy and Rhonda. I knew they were both scheduled to leave soon, but there was no way I could leave the café solely in the hands of the high school girls who worked for me part-time. Not if I still wanted to be in business by the time I got back from talking to Pablo’s family. They were great girls, but they weren’t exactly ready to handle things on their own for more than a couple minutes at a time.

  Rhonda happily agreed to stay—she’d just been on a big shopping spree and was anxious to replenish her Neiman Marcus fund—so, with that taken care of, I ran home to get my car. Well, I didn’t actually run—I walked. But quickly, so I could make it back and not have to rush. Much.

  As I drove back, I remembered the other reason I always walked instead of driving—it took the same amount of time either way. But at least it wasn’t a lot of time. In a few minutes, I was back at the café. I grabbed the biggest bag we had and filled it absolutely to the brim with snacks and treats from our display case and extra stock. By the time I was done, the bag held practically enough baked goods to feed an army. With that taken care of, I started brewing a couple pots of drip coffee, using our very best fresh-roasted beans, so that I could load up one of the boxes we used for big breakfast orders of coffee. My primary motivation for going to visit Pablo’s family w
as to find out what I could about who was sending him those notes, but I also wanted to do something nice for them. I knew coffee and cupcakes wouldn’t make up for their loss, but I hoped that it would at least give them a little comfort.

  The last thing I did was grab some of the coffee beans Sammy had roasted up that morning and grind them into a couple bags’ worth of coffee for Pablo’s family to make at their leisure.

  Rhonda leaned against the counter and watched my preparations. “What if they don’t like coffee?”

  I turned around slowly, horrified by both the possibility and the suggestion. Okay, maybe I wasn’t actually horrified, though I was always slightly mystified when people said they didn’t like coffee. Fortunately, those people were few and far between. But I was actually a little worried about the possibility. I looked over at the big bag of baked goods. “Then I hope they like pastries?”

  Rhonda laughed as she turned to help a customer who had just walked in. “Well, you should be safe there. I don’t think I know anyone who doesn’t like your pastries!”

  I hoped she was right. I intended my gifts as a kind of peace offering to let Pablo’s family know that I had their best interests at heart. Bringing them a mountain of food they didn’t like somehow didn’t seem like it would serve that purpose. But I reassured myself that Bill had thought it was a good idea, so I was probably safe.

  I finished grinding the beans and packaged them up. I looked at my full bag of sweet treats and realized I was going to need another bag to carry the coffee. And the big box of coffee was going to have to get to and from my car somehow too. I couldn’t figure out how to arrange it all, and Rhonda was helping customers, so I resigned myself to multiple trips. Three trips to and from my car and I was finally ready to go find out what Pablo’s family knew.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I pulled up in front of Pablo’s family’s house and stopped the car. It was a cute little bungalow, like a lot of houses in Cape Bay were. Theirs was painted a cheerful yellow with black shutters and bright-white trim. There were well-cared-for flower beds on either side of the front door, with lots of bright flowering shrubs and bulbs. From the outside, it looked like a happy home. But I knew that on the inside, the family was feeling anything but.

  I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what I expected to be an emotional conversation. And possibly a difficult one if I had to push the family to get answers to my questions. But I hoped it would be easier than that. I hoped they’d be forthcoming with the information I was looking for. I hoped they knew something about it. But what if they didn’t? I shook the thought out of my head. I’d cross that bridge when—if—I came to it. But for now, I’d assume I wouldn’t. Pablo’s family would have the answers I was looking for. I had to believe that they would.

  I got out of the car to get my first armful of gifts for Pablo’s family. Loaded down with the bag of pastries, I made my way up their front walk to the door, where I stopped. I took another deep breath in an effort to prepare myself for the scene I expected was waiting for me inside. It hadn’t been long since I’d been the one sitting heartbroken in my living room while people brought food that was supposed to help me feel better. It had been even less time since I sat with Matt after his dad died. It wasn’t a scene I was eager to replay. But if I wanted to find justice for Pablo, I had to.

  I rang the bell.

  I waited.

  I started to wonder if I’d gotten the time wrong, but just as I raised my hand to ring the bell again, the door opened.

  I recognized Pablo’s ex-wife from the funeral. “Isabel?” I shifted the bag toward my left to free up my other hand. I held it out to her. “I’m Francesca Amaro from Antonia’s Italian Café down on Main Street. Bill said now was a good time for me to bring some food over?”

  She shook my hand and nodded. “Sí. Yes. Thank you.” She held the door open and stepped back, inviting me inside.

  “I actually have some more out in the car.”

  “Oh! Thank you. I can take that.” She held out her arms, and I passed her the bag. She turned and called into the house, “Alberto!”

  Her son came wandering out from somewhere in the back of the house. “What, Mom?”

  It was funny—I had a brief moment when I was surprised that he sounded just like any of the bored teenage boys who came into the café every afternoon. But, of course, my mother had been born and raised in Massachusetts by immigrant parents, just like Alberto had been, and her Boston accent had been just as strong as that of her best friend whose ancestors came over on the Mayflower.

  “Go help Miss Amaro bring the food in from her car,” Isabel said.

  He grumbled under his breath.

  “Alberto!” she said sharply.

  “Sorry, Mom,” he mumbled.

  “And to Miss Amaro.”

  “Sorry, Miss Amaro.”

  “Thank you for your apology,” I said.

  Isabel smiled at me gratefully before turning back to Alberto. “Now go help Miss Amaro.”

  “Yes, Mom.” Alberto followed me out to my car.

  “Sorry, there’s not actually much left,” I said.

  He shrugged, and I reached for the bag with the fresh-ground coffee.

  “Nah, I got it.” He reached in and grabbed the coffee in all its forms, lofting the box of brewed coffee onto his shoulder and tucking the bag of grounds under his arm.

  I followed him back up to the house, hoping it wouldn’t be hard to finagle an invitation inside.

  “Take that to the kitchen,” Isabel said as Alberto walked past her into the house. It looked like she’d already deposited her bag there.

  “Okay.” He disappeared into the house, leaving me alone on the doorstep with Isabel.

  Before I could say anything, Isabel stepped back from the door. “You want to come in?”

  I smiled. “Thank you.”

  She led the way down a short, dark hallway into a dim living room. The only light came from what little made it in through the closed curtains and the TV, but Isabel turned that off as she walked by, right before she yanked open the curtains. The teenage girl on the couch winced at the sudden brightness.

  “Miss Amaro came to pay her respects to your father and brought us food. Sit up, and talk to her,” Isabel said. She gestured at an arm chair. “Please, sit.”

  “You can call me Fran,” I said as I sat.

  She nodded. “Fran.” Then she shot a look at her kids, both now seated on the couch. “But they will call you Miss Amaro. They are respectful kids.”

  I smiled at her then the kids, partly to be friendly and partly because, even though I’d known her for about five minutes, she already reminded me of my grandmother in the way she spoke and made comments that sounded like mere statements of fact but were simultaneously warnings to her kids. Her “they are respectful kids” was my grandmother’s “Francesca is happy to come work at the family business after school every day.” Whether I felt that way or not before she said it, I sure wouldn’t dare contradict her. I saw the same look on the faces of her kids. If she said they were respectful, you better believe they were going to be respectful. As long as Mom was around anyway.

  “Thank you for letting me come,” I said, smiling politely. I looked at the kids. The girl—Adriana, I remembered her name being—was curled up on the couch, hugging her knees, her long dark hair hanging around her face. Her eyes were puffy and red. Allergies maybe, but I doubted it.

  Alberto sat at the opposite end of the couch, his head leaning on his fist as he stared at the floor.

  I looked at the two of them, sitting there looking so sad and broken, and said the only thing that came to mind. “I’m so sorry about your dad.” The kids kept staring dejectedly. I looked over at Isabel. “About Pablo.” She nodded without meeting my eyes.

  I shifted uncomfortably and searched my mind for what to say next since no one else was talking. The silence was getting uncomfortable. I could excuse myself, but I’d been invited to stay, and I needed
to find out what they knew anyway. But even more than that, I felt bad for them, the kids especially. I knew their pain.

  “You know, my mom died suddenly a few months ago. It was… completely unexpected. Just like with your dad. I know it’s a little different because I’m older, so I had more time with my mom, but—but it was still so hard. So, so hard. It’s the single hardest thing I’ve ever been through.” I stopped and swallowed back the tears that were threatening to spill out. My voice still broke though. “So I know what you’re going through right now. I know what it’s like. And if you ever need—or want—to talk, just know that I’m here for you.”

  I stared down at my hands, clenched in my lap, and tried to regain control of my emotions. It wasn’t easy. The very air in the room smelled like sadness, and it was hard to push mine back down when I could feel the kids’ so strongly.

  “I still can’t believe it.” Adriana spoke without moving her head. I only knew it was her because it obviously wasn’t the voice of her mother or brother. “I keep expecting him to walk through the door or for my phone to ring and it be him.”

  Isabel looked away toward the wall as Adriana picked up her phone from the end table next to her and stared at it for a second before dropping it again in disgust or disappointment or some combination of the two.

  “He was the best dad. The best dad ever.” Her voice caught in her throat. “I loved him so much.” Her head dropped to her knees.

  “He really was,” Alberto said without looking up from the spot he’d been staring at somewhere in the middle of the floor. “He was always there for us. Always.”

  “I could call him anytime, and he would answer,” Adriana said, her voice coming out in little gasps as she fought off sobs. “Even if he was working, he would answer and make time to talk to me.”

  “He was the best,” Alberto said.

  Isabel still stared at the wall, her lips pursed so tightly that it was obvious even though she had her fist pressed to her mouth.