Read Online Grounds for Murder by Sandra Balzo - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sandra Balzo
Tags: cozy mystery
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while. Can I have a rain check?’
‘You’re invited for dinner anytime,’ I said, my heart sinking just a bit. This despite the fact that Pavlik had about as good a reason for missing dinner as anyone I knew. I looked back at the burned remnants of Janalee’s Place.
‘That’s not what I want the rain check for,’ he murmured in my ear.
‘Good thing,’ I said, turning back to him. ‘I’m a crappy cook.’
‘Happily,’ said Pavlik, ‘I’m not. Next time dinner’s at my house.’
Was this man perfect, or what? Dinner at his house. That meant no cooking, no cleaning and – most importantly – no competition from Frank.
I started up on my tiptoes to give Pavlik a quick kiss and then thought better of it. ‘I suppose it’s not proper to kiss the sheriff at a crime scene,’ I said. ‘Though I suppose this is really a fire scene not a cr―’
He leaned down to kiss me, maybe because he liked me or maybe because he wanted to shut me up. Either way, it worked for me. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Perfect.’ I started to walk away and then turned back. Often what Pavlik didn’t say was more telling than what he did say. ‘This isn’t a crime scene right? I mean, the fire was an accident.’
For the first time, I wondered why Pavlik had been called there. Fires weren’t normally in his purview.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ was all he said.
Chapter Eight
When I got home, I nobly ignored Ingmar Bergman’s Through a Glass Darkly, beckoning me from its DVD case on the coffee table. Instead, I did penance for my evil now-Amy-needs-a-job thoughts by settling on to the couch to go over Janalee’s folders.
Disappointingly, the one entitled ‘Competitive Strategies’ was not LaRoche’s masterplan for conquering the coffee universe, but an old folder Janalee had stuffed full of every imaginable fact about Davy, including chronicling what appeared to be each bowel movement the colicky baby had ever had, when he held up his head the first time, the month, day and time he sat up, and the day he stood.
I had carefully preserved a box of growth charts, artwork and assembled memorabilia from Eric’s childhood. The way Janalee was going, though, she would need a semi-trailer by the time Davy was grown. Setting aside the file to return to Janalee as quickly as humanly possible, I moved on to the other folders.
Happily, Janalee had paid the same attention to detail in planning the barista competition that she did to the care and feeding of Davy. Java Ho’s event was designed to be a ‘starter’ competition and, much like a starter bra, the basics were there, but so was an expectation of further development.
The idea was to get our local baristi accustomed to competition, so they could go on to participate in sanctioned events put on by the Specialty Coffee Association of America and the United States Barista Competition. Lawyers and accountants have nothing on us so far as associations go.
Janalee had lined up the prescribed six judges – four of them sensory judges and two of them technical – and asked that they meet me at the convention center on Thursday morning. Her husband Marvin, her notes said chirpily – assuming it was possible for ink to chirp – would be the head judge. That left me as master of ceremonies, which suited me just fine.
As far as I could tell, the competition should be fairly easy to manage. A piece of cake compared with the big events I’d been responsible for at First National. But then, as an exasperated co-worker once told me, I obsessed more over a dinner party for half a dozen than a fireworks show for half a million. Made sense to me: five friends were more likely to complain than 500,000 strangers. It was just a fact of life. Besides, I was a lot more confident of my management skills than my cooking abilities . . .
‘Uh-oh,’ I said out loud, getting up off the couch. Frank, playing dead in front of the fireplace, raised his head a half inch off the
‘You’re invited for dinner anytime,’ I said, my heart sinking just a bit. This despite the fact that Pavlik had about as good a reason for missing dinner as anyone I knew. I looked back at the burned remnants of Janalee’s Place.
‘That’s not what I want the rain check for,’ he murmured in my ear.
‘Good thing,’ I said, turning back to him. ‘I’m a crappy cook.’
‘Happily,’ said Pavlik, ‘I’m not. Next time dinner’s at my house.’
Was this man perfect, or what? Dinner at his house. That meant no cooking, no cleaning and – most importantly – no competition from Frank.
I started up on my tiptoes to give Pavlik a quick kiss and then thought better of it. ‘I suppose it’s not proper to kiss the sheriff at a crime scene,’ I said. ‘Though I suppose this is really a fire scene not a cr―’
He leaned down to kiss me, maybe because he liked me or maybe because he wanted to shut me up. Either way, it worked for me. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Perfect.’ I started to walk away and then turned back. Often what Pavlik didn’t say was more telling than what he did say. ‘This isn’t a crime scene right? I mean, the fire was an accident.’
For the first time, I wondered why Pavlik had been called there. Fires weren’t normally in his purview.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ was all he said.
Chapter Eight
When I got home, I nobly ignored Ingmar Bergman’s Through a Glass Darkly, beckoning me from its DVD case on the coffee table. Instead, I did penance for my evil now-Amy-needs-a-job thoughts by settling on to the couch to go over Janalee’s folders.
Disappointingly, the one entitled ‘Competitive Strategies’ was not LaRoche’s masterplan for conquering the coffee universe, but an old folder Janalee had stuffed full of every imaginable fact about Davy, including chronicling what appeared to be each bowel movement the colicky baby had ever had, when he held up his head the first time, the month, day and time he sat up, and the day he stood.
I had carefully preserved a box of growth charts, artwork and assembled memorabilia from Eric’s childhood. The way Janalee was going, though, she would need a semi-trailer by the time Davy was grown. Setting aside the file to return to Janalee as quickly as humanly possible, I moved on to the other folders.
Happily, Janalee had paid the same attention to detail in planning the barista competition that she did to the care and feeding of Davy. Java Ho’s event was designed to be a ‘starter’ competition and, much like a starter bra, the basics were there, but so was an expectation of further development.
The idea was to get our local baristi accustomed to competition, so they could go on to participate in sanctioned events put on by the Specialty Coffee Association of America and the United States Barista Competition. Lawyers and accountants have nothing on us so far as associations go.
Janalee had lined up the prescribed six judges – four of them sensory judges and two of them technical – and asked that they meet me at the convention center on Thursday morning. Her husband Marvin, her notes said chirpily – assuming it was possible for ink to chirp – would be the head judge. That left me as master of ceremonies, which suited me just fine.
As far as I could tell, the competition should be fairly easy to manage. A piece of cake compared with the big events I’d been responsible for at First National. But then, as an exasperated co-worker once told me, I obsessed more over a dinner party for half a dozen than a fireworks show for half a million. Made sense to me: five friends were more likely to complain than 500,000 strangers. It was just a fact of life. Besides, I was a lot more confident of my management skills than my cooking abilities . . .
‘Uh-oh,’ I said out loud, getting up off the couch. Frank, playing dead in front of the fireplace, raised his head a half inch off the
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