Mercury Rising (Tin Can Mysteries Book 1) Page 6

  I chuckled. “It grew in the ground, and it has its own protective covering—a package, if you will. We’re going to throw away the skin.” I retrieved the poor, maligned bulb and demonstrated the proper technique for separating the edible from the inedible parts. And thus, Willow gained her first experience of weeping over an onion.

  I also got to be the one who informed her that bacon doesn’t just come from pigs, it is pig. That, and other startling revelations during the course of our meal preparation, seemed to completely distort Willow’s previous worldview. But we ended up producing a delicious Denver omelet, a large portion of which she polished off without any apparent qualms.

  A resounding knock on the front door came as Willow pulled the plug in the sink, releasing the soapy water. I’d made her hand-wash all the dishes so she would learn how much of a commitment good food required. But the extra work hadn’t seemed to deter her in the least.

  Bettina stood outside, clutching my bowl against her middle. Her outfit du jour was a sparkly turquoise number—wide-legged, mid-calf culottes topped by a tunic that was embroidered at the neck. The ensemble certainly set off her orange hair. Once again, she was dripping with jewelry, this time of an abalone and silver persuasion.

  I stepped aside with a wide smile. “Come in.”

  But Bettina peered inside, spotted Willow busily drying dishes and returning them to their spots in the cupboards, and frowned. “I don’t want to intrude.”

  Oh really? I didn’t believe it for a second, but she did have a forlorn air about her today, not the exuberant bossiness she’d exhibited earlier.

  “We’re just finishing up,” I said, “but you’re in time for coffee.”

  “And I’ve gotta go.” Willow appeared at my elbow and gave me a conspiratorial wink. “I’m supposed to be doing homework—or something.” She dodged through the congestion in the doorway and called over her shoulder once she reached the walkway, “Besides, I can take a hint.”

  “That girl,” Bettina muttered, but she stepped inside and gazed around at the improvements.

  I eased the bowl out of her grasp and repeated, “Coffee?”

  “No, no.” Bettina waved dismissively, sending her bracelets clinking. “I’m not going to stay.”

  And yet, there she stood in the middle of my living room.

  “Okay.” I retreated to the kitchen and began the preparations for coffee regardless.

  Bettina sidled up to the bar and hoisted herself onto a stool. I smiled over the grinder. It appeared as though I was in for a repeat of the previous night, except with Vaughn’s mother in attendance instead of the detective himself.

  “I understand if he’s not your type,” Bettina said.

  Uh-oh. I needed to take her firmly in hand before the situation got out of control. I turned and propped a fist on my hip as I stared at her. “I’ve had a total of two interactions with your son in the past two days. They were both of a professional nature, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  Bettina nodded solemnly. “Story of my life.”

  I scowled but kept talking. I wasn’t going to let her derail my perfectly logical presentation. “Vaughn seems like a reasonable, well-spoken, and thoroughly capable man. Why don’t you let him find a girlfriend by himself? I’d be willing to bet—a lot—that you’d both be happier with the results if you did.”

  Bettina sniffed. “I know,” she whispered.

  Just like that? She’d capitulated—if her response was sincere—far more easily than I’d expected. I gave her a knowing glare. “But?”

  “But nothing.” She shrugged. “I’m projecting. I always do. It’s a mother’s prerogative.”

  My instant suspicion was a wild leap, but I decided to go for it. Bettina didn’t strike me as a woman who needed to be coddled. “Did you just get dumped?” I asked.

  “Yy-ess.” The admission came out as a tearful whine. Bettina buried her face in her hands.

  I dashed to the bathroom for a box of tissues.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Where’s Petula?” I demanded. Because, you know, that’s what best friends are for—emotional support. At two-days’ acquaintance, I hardly qualified for the position Bettina was putting me in.

  “I can’t talk to her about this. She warned me about Nigel months ago.” Bettina blew her nose—hard—and reached for another tissue.

  In spirit, I rolled my eyes. In reality, I slid a mug of coffee in front of her. I wished I had the excuse of homework. I did actually—I needed to get a portfolio in order pronto.

  I sighed. Of course, I’d let the woman who’d thrown me a welcome party unburden her soul first.

  I knew Nigel was a reprobate the moment Bettina started extolling his virtues. But it was also clear that the poor little orange-haired creature perched on my barstool was desperately lonely. I eventually talked her around to the point that she agreed to write Nigel off as a complete loss.

  “And you need to tell everyone so they can hold you to it,” I warned. “No relenting. Because you know that creep will come sniveling back, and you’ll have to be strong.”

  Bettina chuckled softly at my words—the first sign of healing.

  “In fact”—I was struck by the brilliance of this new idea—“you especially need to tell Vaughn. I’m sure he worries about you.” I thought it might be something mother and son could bond over.

  “Oh, no.” Bettina recoiled visibly and shoved her mug away. “No. Vaughn doesn’t need to know. No. No. No.” The orange hair swung around her head with her adamancy. “I don’t like Vaughn to know I’m dating.” She lunged forward and grabbed my hand. “You can’t tell him. Please.” Her brown eyes were like lasers.

  “Uh,” I spluttered. “But surely he must know. Your last names aren’t the same, so at some point you must have…”

  “Remarried. Yes. Once. Very briefly.” Bettina released my hand. “After Vaughn left home. It was disastrous. And Vaughn had to deal with—with the aftermath. Because I ended up in the hospital. Bert—well, he hit me. I thought maybe Vaughn would kill him for it.”

  I stood there blinking, suffering a radical perspective shift myself. Finally, I said, “So he became a police officer.”

  “Vaughn?” Bettina nodded slowly. “Yes. Like his father. I wasn’t excited about that either, but since when has that boy done what I’ve wanted him to?” A little smile took the bitterness out of her words. It was that same tilting at the corner of her lips—something else Vaughn had inherited from his mother.

  “Tell me about Vaughn’s father,” I said gently.

  “Arthur. Arthur Malloy.” Bettina’s gaze drifted, and I got a glimpse, under the wrinkles and precise makeup, of what she must have been like as a dreamy young girl. “Good Lord, I loved that man. Seven years we were married. Never got an itch he couldn’t scratch.” She chuckled, but then quickly sobered. “But he must have. Gotten an itch, I mean—an inner torment. He was killed on the side of a county road. He’d gotten out of his cruiser and had some kind of malfunction with his gun. It went off.”

  Now there was a hollowness to those brown eyes. Bettina reached out and clutched my hand again. “The official cause of death was accident. But I think he committed suicide. His partner, who’d had to testify in court that day—so he wasn’t with Arthur when it happened—Chuck Bucknam, he thought so too. But police officers’ lives are hard enough without suggesting one of their own couldn’t handle the strain. They worry about stuff like that turning epidemic, you know. So we didn’t bring it up, just let the investigators go with the accident theory.”

  I tightened my fingers around her tiny hand. I really wanted to go around the counter and pull her into a hug, but two-days’ acquaintance and all those pesky inhibitions…

  “Does Vaughn know?” I asked.

  Bettina nodded. “He was six years old when it happened, old enough to remember a lot about it. He came to me when he was in his early teens with the hard questions. He brought the newspaper clippings, had gotten ahold of the
police report somehow, wanted to know about the gaps in the story that seemed even more obvious with the passage of time.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “That’s when I forbade him from ever becoming a police officer himself. Lot of good that did.”

  “And that’s why you worry about him so much.” This time I did make the trip around the bar. I wrapped an arm around her and settled onto a stool next to her. “I guess you’re allowed a little interference now and then. But”—I gripped her shoulders and turned her to face me at arm’s length—“that creep, Nigel, he’s toast. Absolute toast, never to be resurrected. Repeat after me.”

  And I got her to raise her right hand and solemnly swear that Nigel would never be a smudge in her life again. By the end of the cobbled-together oath, Bettina was chuckling, her earrings jangling with the movement.

  My most pressing task accomplished, I stretched across the counter and poured the coffee dregs into my mug. “I have a tentative job interview tomorrow and a lot of prep to do tonight—”

  “What are you wearing?” Bettina’s tone was sharp, and she squinted at me. “Not a suit?”

  “Uh, well, I hadn’t really gotten that far yet. It’s at a coffee shop—”

  “Take these.” Bettina slid the bangles off her arms, and they clattered on the countertop. “You just got here from the East Coast, so you don’t know what it’s like, but I can assure you that wearing a suit would be the kiss of death. You need to look artsy, put-together but casual at the same time, like you don’t care if you get the job or not.”

  “But—”

  “Shush. I know what I’m talking about. I make jewelry, you know, so I have plenty more where those came from. Now”—she hopped off the stool and pulled me to standing so she could look me up and down—“you should wear a skirt to show off those legs of yours, tights, a pair of boots—mid-calf, I think—a jacket that nips in at the waist, not a matching jacket, mind you, and a scarf in a loose twist around your neck, and put your hair up in a messy bun. Do you have glasses? No. That’s too bad…” Bettina crossed one arm over her middle and cupped her chin in her other palm. “Glasses make women look smarter. I guess you’ll just have to wing it.” She held up a finger, accompanied by a broad smile as an idea hit. “I have a pair of readers you could borrow.”

  Magnifying glasses? “No!” I blurted. I had to draw the line somewhere, and with the way Bettina could rattle on at warp speed, I was already terrifically late. “No,” I said more calmly this time. “But thank you. I certainly appreciate the wardrobe advice, and the culture tutorial, but it’s time for us to part ways.”

  Bettina resisted a little, but I managed to usher her to the front door without making it appear like a full-on tug-of-war. I am an awful lot bigger than she is.

  “Good night,” I said.

  Bettina sniffed. “You’re right about Nigel. I just needed someone to point out the obvious.”

  I nodded encouragingly. The more she thought the break-up was her idea, the better.

  “Norman’s nice. He tells the funniest jokes,” Bettina said brightly.

  I scowled. “Who’s Norman?”

  “My Facebook friend. And handsome too.” Bettina flittered her fingers at me—silently, since she was sans bangles—and turned on her heel. “And a financial planner,” she called over her shoulder as her retreating footsteps thumped on the walkway. “The steady, reliable sort.”

  oOo

  On Monday morning, I forced myself to wear one, and one only, of Bettina’s bangles, just so I could honestly tell her that I’d made use of her jewelry loan. More than one, and I would end up sounding like a tin peddler while presenting my portfolio—not exactly a stellar professional impression. However, I did take her advice about clothing, particularly the tights and boots since the scabs on my shin were unsightly and would probably prompt comments if I left them exposed.

  Darren was amenable to an early morning meeting. I figured a man who owned a coffee shop probably rose before dawn, and he’d sounded chipper enough on the phone that I also assumed he used his product.

  I found the Wicked Bean in an old brick warehouse that had been lovingly restored and sectioned into retail businesses. The atmosphere on the whole block was invigorating in a way that extended far beyond the luscious scent of fresh roasted coffee beans. It appeared that the Pearl District benefited from an abundance of foot traffic.

  A man with dense, multi-colored tattoos that started at both of his wrists and continued up his arms until they were hidden by the rolled up sleeves of his flannel shirt smiled at me from behind the counter. “You’ve gotta be Eva.” He nodded toward my heavy tote bag and the portfolio clutched under my arm. “What’s your poison? It’s on the house.”

  Well, if he was offering… I grinned back and said, “Café bombón.”

  “Nice. Snag that empty table, will you? I’ll be over in a second.”

  And he was, with a tiny clear glass cup balanced on a saucer. Inside the cup was a beautiful layer of sweetened condensed milk topped by a shot of espresso. “Where’d you develop the habit?” he asked. “Spain?”

  “Malaysia. Thank you.”

  “Really?” His brows pitched up as he slid into the chair opposite me. “And now you’re in Portland. Willow raved about you, by the way.” He stretched his right hand across the table. “Darren.” His fingernails were clipped very short, and they were perfectly clean.

  I shook his hand, a smile still stuck on my face. I already liked this guy, and the crazy reason might just be that he seemed to take Willow seriously. How had that suddenly become the criteria by which I judged people?

  “I’m rusty,” I said. Might as well get the gaping, I-can’t-talk-about-it hole in my work history out in the open. “It’s been a while since I’ve consulted with small businesses for a living, but I’ll work hard.”

  “Let’s see.” Darren gestured for the portfolio, and I handed it to him. I let him page through it without offering commentary. In my experience, trying to explain the subtle meanings and movement embedded in graphic designs is counterproductive. It’s better to let people draw their own conclusions, because if the designs aren’t perfectly communicative all on their own, they aren’t any good anyway.

  Darren returned the folder and shoved his chair back. “Did Willow tell you my grand plans?”

  “Some.”

  He tipped his head. “But you’d like to see it in person.”

  “Yes, I would.” I followed him to a locked door in the side wall. He held it open just far enough for me to sidle through with my gigantic bag then locked it behind us. The darkness echoed, and I could tell the room was huge even before Darren found the light switches and flicked them on.

  “Wow,” I breathed. I didn’t know what purpose the cavernous space had served back in the building’s warehouse days, but now there was a deep wraparound balcony halfway up the high walls. At two corners, sturdy staircases built out of gleaming mahogany-colored wood rose to the balcony. The contrast between the brick walls and all the polished wood in the balcony railings and staircases was gorgeous. The wall on the street side appeared to be all windows which had been papered over temporarily during the renovations.

  “I’m going to install movable dividers on the balcony level and rent out the studio space to craftspeople—writers, painters, textile artists, whatever. Customers are always telling me they’re more productive when they work here in the coffee shop than when they try to work at home. I think it has something to do with the ambient noise and the accountability of being visible, so I figured why not extend that and make space for creating permanently available. As it is now, my regulars sort of fight over tables.”

  I cast a sidelong glance at Darren. His tone of voice had changed as he’d described his vision. He was proud of this space, and he had every reason to be. I was already a bit envious of his tenants, although I wasn’t sure, personally, if I could handle the potential noise level. But he was right. Some personalities thrived on having a buzz of ac
tivity around them.

  “Down here on the main floor, I’ll move in more café tables as an annex to the coffee shop,” Darren continued. “And in the evenings, I hope to host poetry readings, gallery showings, maybe offer display space for the artists who are tenants. I’ve applied for a liquor license so I can serve local wines and microbrews during events.”

  “This is amazing. Can I take pictures?” I asked.

  “Be my guest.”

  I gingerly set my tote bag on the floor and rummaged through it until I found my camera. I attached the 50mm lens first because I wanted texture shots to use as backgrounds. Developing a website and an exclusive community brand for this space would be a cinch. I thought Darren would have a waiting list for studios from the moment he opened the doors and said as much.

  “So you’ll do it?” he asked.

  I turned around and frowned at him. “Don’t you want to hear my sales pitch?”

  He chuckled. “Nope. I knew you were the right one for the job the moment I saw you, looking all serious with that big bag on your shoulder. If you can schlep that thing around, you’ll do fine. But it’s a rush.”

  I spoke from behind the camera as I snapped away. “Your grand opening is this weekend—for the main floor, right? You’re going to have questions about the balcony from the get-go. Might as well be ready to answer them. If you have your rental rates set, I could include a rate sheet in the packet. How about if I get sample mock-ups to you Wednesday? That’ll give you a day to decide which designs you like. I’ll find a printer who’ll work on short notice so you’ll have some swag for Friday. Do you have any acts lined up for the weekend, any headliners?”

  Darren didn’t answer right away, so I turned around to check if he was still there.

  Hands still wedged in his pockets, he was staring at me with an odd expression on his face. He shook his head with a wry grin. “You take my breath away. I thought I was high on caffeine. I could probably rustle up a few poets of the crippling angst and extraterrestrial life-form varieties for Saturday. They always want to read, even when no one wants to hear them.”