Read Online On What Grounds (Coffeehouse Mysteries, No. 1) (A Coffeehouse Mystery) by Cleo Coyle - Free Book Online
Authors: Cleo Coyle
Ads: Link
purse and pulled out the contents. A brush with strands of blond hair, clear lip gloss, a compact, a red leather wallet, and her keys.
“Keys,” he said tonelessly, resolutely, as if it were the final punctuation to a sentence.
“Are these Anabelle Hart’s keys to this shop?” asked Quinn.
I glanced at the thick ring of keys. I recognized the PETE’S PAINT AND HARDWARE logo on several of them. We used that shop to make all our duplicate keys—everything from the doors to the supply closets. Seeing the little silver ballet dancer charm dangling from the ring made me absolutely sure. “Yes, these are Anabelle’s keys all right.”
Langley and Demetrios glanced at each other and nodded.
“That’s it, then,” said the detective, putting Anabelle’s things back in her purse and placing it carefully on her jean jacket on the counter.
“What’s it?” I asked. “I don’t understand.”
“Locked shop. No forced entry. No sign of foul play. Keys weren’t stolen to relock the door. They’re right here. The hospital will examine the girl for sexual assault or any other sign of attack, but it looks like a tragic accident,” said the detective. “End of story. I’m sorry.”
“No. Wait. That can’t be it—”
“Don’t take it too hard,” said Quinn. “I’m sure the store has insurance, right?”
“For Anabelle’s hospitalization, of course.”
“And for the lawsuit.”
“Lawsuit?”
“Sure. Employees usually sue in these cases. Unsafe workplace.”
“This is not an unsafe workplace!”
The detective put his hands on my shoulders. He spoke quietly. “It was for Anabelle.”
I suddenly felt ill again. But this time I wasn’t losing control. The warmth of Quinn’s hands seemed to help; they were large and strong and steadying.
“It wasn’t an accident,” I told him. “Even though every piece of evidence may say it is, I know this coffeehouse better than the back of my hand. It doesn’t add up to an accident.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. In my gut.”
“There are things our guts know and then there are things we can prove. The proof is what makes cases, Ms. Cosi. Isn’t that right, Langley?” The detective glanced back at the young officer.
Langley nodded. “I’m sorry, Ms. Cosi,” he said gently. “But the lieutenant’s right.”
I broke away and began to pace. “Listen to me: If Anabelle dragged the garbage can from under the counter, then why isn’t there a garbage trail along the floor? And why did I have to turn on the light in the back area when I arrived? If Anabelle’s fall had been an accident, surely the light would have stayed on. Who turned it off?”
“You’re talking about circumstantial evidence, Ms. Cosi,” said Quinn, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “There could be other explanations. Maybe the girl was in a hurry and didn’t turn on the light, then she lost her balance and spilled the can before she misstepped and fell down the stairs.”
“But Anabelle is a dance student, Lieutenant. She has exceptional balance. She’s so light on her feet. If only you could have seen her move around the shop. She’s so beautiful and graceful. She doesn’t walk, she glides, floats.”
I knew I was rationalizing, trying to find a logical justification for the feeling in my gut. I knew that Quinn had a point, that he’d seen a hundred crime scenes to my one. But my guts were never wrong. Well, hardly ever anyway, and it had taken thirty-nine years for me to learn to trust them, so that’s what I was going to do.
“No, no, no!” I shook my head violently. “Something wrong happened here. It wasn’t just an accident.”
“Ms. Cosi, you have to have grounds for theories of foul play—other than the ones on your floor.”
“But what if Anabelle wakes up and tells us what those grounds are?” I asked. “What if it turns out that someone tried to harm her? Don’t you need to collect evidence to prove her
“Keys,” he said tonelessly, resolutely, as if it were the final punctuation to a sentence.
“Are these Anabelle Hart’s keys to this shop?” asked Quinn.
I glanced at the thick ring of keys. I recognized the PETE’S PAINT AND HARDWARE logo on several of them. We used that shop to make all our duplicate keys—everything from the doors to the supply closets. Seeing the little silver ballet dancer charm dangling from the ring made me absolutely sure. “Yes, these are Anabelle’s keys all right.”
Langley and Demetrios glanced at each other and nodded.
“That’s it, then,” said the detective, putting Anabelle’s things back in her purse and placing it carefully on her jean jacket on the counter.
“What’s it?” I asked. “I don’t understand.”
“Locked shop. No forced entry. No sign of foul play. Keys weren’t stolen to relock the door. They’re right here. The hospital will examine the girl for sexual assault or any other sign of attack, but it looks like a tragic accident,” said the detective. “End of story. I’m sorry.”
“No. Wait. That can’t be it—”
“Don’t take it too hard,” said Quinn. “I’m sure the store has insurance, right?”
“For Anabelle’s hospitalization, of course.”
“And for the lawsuit.”
“Lawsuit?”
“Sure. Employees usually sue in these cases. Unsafe workplace.”
“This is not an unsafe workplace!”
The detective put his hands on my shoulders. He spoke quietly. “It was for Anabelle.”
I suddenly felt ill again. But this time I wasn’t losing control. The warmth of Quinn’s hands seemed to help; they were large and strong and steadying.
“It wasn’t an accident,” I told him. “Even though every piece of evidence may say it is, I know this coffeehouse better than the back of my hand. It doesn’t add up to an accident.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. In my gut.”
“There are things our guts know and then there are things we can prove. The proof is what makes cases, Ms. Cosi. Isn’t that right, Langley?” The detective glanced back at the young officer.
Langley nodded. “I’m sorry, Ms. Cosi,” he said gently. “But the lieutenant’s right.”
I broke away and began to pace. “Listen to me: If Anabelle dragged the garbage can from under the counter, then why isn’t there a garbage trail along the floor? And why did I have to turn on the light in the back area when I arrived? If Anabelle’s fall had been an accident, surely the light would have stayed on. Who turned it off?”
“You’re talking about circumstantial evidence, Ms. Cosi,” said Quinn, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “There could be other explanations. Maybe the girl was in a hurry and didn’t turn on the light, then she lost her balance and spilled the can before she misstepped and fell down the stairs.”
“But Anabelle is a dance student, Lieutenant. She has exceptional balance. She’s so light on her feet. If only you could have seen her move around the shop. She’s so beautiful and graceful. She doesn’t walk, she glides, floats.”
I knew I was rationalizing, trying to find a logical justification for the feeling in my gut. I knew that Quinn had a point, that he’d seen a hundred crime scenes to my one. But my guts were never wrong. Well, hardly ever anyway, and it had taken thirty-nine years for me to learn to trust them, so that’s what I was going to do.
“No, no, no!” I shook my head violently. “Something wrong happened here. It wasn’t just an accident.”
“Ms. Cosi, you have to have grounds for theories of foul play—other than the ones on your floor.”
“But what if Anabelle wakes up and tells us what those grounds are?” I asked. “What if it turns out that someone tried to harm her? Don’t you need to collect evidence to prove her
Similar Books
