Death Before Decaf Page 3

  Java Jive was nestled in a formerly residential area between the Belmont and Vanderbilt campuses. It used to be an old house, as were most of the mom-and-pop shops in the neighborhood. That was part of its charm—it was like you were in someone’s home. Not only that, there were trees and shrubs and flowers everywhere, the area largely unmarred by parking lots and strip malls. Aside from the dumpsters and the occasional car in the alleyway, hanging out behind Java Jive was like hanging out in your own backyard. It was always a great escape. Unless you got stung by a bee and nearly died, of course.

  It wasn’t long after I’d sat on the grass that Pete showed up and plopped down next to me. “I saw you through the office window. You look like you’re a million miles away.”

  Truthfully, I was. I wrinkled my nose at him. “Just trying to stuff Redheaded She-Devil back into her cage. I can’t believe my first official managerial duty was to stab a guy with an EpiPen to save him from anaphylactic shock.”

  Patting me on the back, he said, “It was good that you were here. The rest of us might not have realized what was going on.”

  “I guess.” I ran my hand through my hair in frustration. Turning to him, I asked earnestly, “Pete, do you think I’m ever going to connect with the staff? I think they hate me.”

  “You’ve only been here a few hours, during which you ripped all of them a new one. Give them some time.” He was trying to hide a smile, but failing miserably. “I have to know. Did you really tell Dave to get his dirty ass off the prep table?”

  I closed my eyes. “You heard?”

  “He tattled on you.”

  “Dave can suck it.”

  He laughed. “I have no doubt that you two will figure each other out sooner or later. It’ll just take a little time.”

  I gave him a sideways glance. “You’re not much help, you know that?”

  “I’m a musician, not a restaurateur. And so are you, for that matter. Not that I don’t need you here, but when are you going to get your head out of your ass and go back to performing?”

  “Pete,” I warned. I didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” He paused, his expression and voice becoming wistful. “I just miss hearing you sing, that’s all.”

  I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. That one hit me in the gut. I wanted to sing onstage again so badly. I really did—performing was what I had intended to do with my life. I just couldn’t. I was too scared. Forgetting the lyrics to a song you wrote in front of hundreds of people can do that to a person.

  Pete must have noticed my reaction, because he covered with a joke. “Suck it up, buttercup. The evening shift will be here any minute. Maybe you can make a better impression on them.” I slapped him on the arm and stood up, steeling myself to go back into the lion’s den. He took me by the shoulders and said gently, “You can do this. Show them the Jules that the rest of us love.”

  Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, it was my turn to make a joke. “What’s not to love about Redheaded She-Devil?” I asked, grinning. I shook my head. “She is so misunderstood.”

  Throwing his arm around my shoulders, Pete laughed and steered me back inside.

  —

  Just like Pete had said, the evening shift workers were starting to trickle in. Everyone was working tonight since it was open mic night, so I got to meet the entire staff. Pete introduced me to the baristas: Brianna, Jamie, and Cole. He then introduced Shane, the barista/cook floater, and Logan, the cook/dishwasher. They all at least smiled and said hello to me, which was an improvement over the day staff, and they also seemed to work pretty efficiently together. Maybe once all of the kinks were worked out, things would be smoother around here. I felt the slightest bit relieved.

  Open mic night was always packed at Java Jive. It gave local musicians, both students and struggling artists, a venue to perform. I couldn’t remember how many times Pete and I had performed here. I missed it so much sometimes it made my heart ache. I’d had a feeling that tonight might be a little rough on me, and I was right.

  Pete stepped up onto the tiny stage and warmly welcomed everyone, just like George always had. It hit me again how painfully empty it felt not having George around, and I couldn’t begin to imagine how it affected Pete. He seemed his usual happy-go-lucky self, though, making note of the “rules” of open mic night (only play one song, don’t play along with someone else’s song, be courteous to the other performers, silence your cellphones, and so on). I thought he was finished, but he shocked me by sitting down at the mic and grabbing a beautiful, new-looking guitar.

  “In honor of my new manager Juliet Langley’s thirtieth birthday, I thought I’d sing a song we wrote together, sitting in this very coffeehouse.” He looked at me and smiled sweetly. “It’s my birthday wish for her that before her next birthday rolls around, she’ll be back up on this stage with me. Happy thirtieth, Jules.”

  The moment he strummed the first chord, I recognized “You Are Mine,” my favorite of the many songs Pete and I had written together. Tears sprang to my eyes as I was overcome with nostalgia and happy memories. Something else was nagging at me, though. Watching Pete up onstage and listening to his familiar, scratchy voice, aware that he was singing to me, I felt…jittery inside. That was odd. As he continued singing, my heart started to pound and seemed to expand inside my chest. I tried my damnedest to push the strange feeling aside so I could enjoy the performance. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I was too young to have a heart attack. Wait. I hadn’t eaten today. That was surely all it was.

  Riotous applause shook me out of my thoughts. Pete’s song (which was beautiful, by the way) was finished, and Shane stepped up to the mic to announce the next act.

  Pete bounded off the stage and swept me into a tight hug. I didn’t want him to feel me shaking, so I stepped back and said, “Thanks for the song, Pete. It was fantastic. Best birthday present ever.”

  With a twinkle in his eye, he replied, “Oh, no. The best is yet to come.” Huh? The song was more than enough, but maybe he was giving me a gift card or a blender or something later.

  “Pete!” called a familiar female voice. Coming our way was Cecilia, Pete’s girlfriend. Oh, holy hell. Cecilia and I had never gotten along, and now that she was dating my best friend, I would have to pretend to like her and play nice. Could my day get any worse?

  Pete immediately left me and hurried over to her. Seeing this as my opportunity to escape and go calm my frazzled nerves, I whirled around and headed for the back door. In my haste, I ran smack into Seth, the hunky guy I’d met this morning.

  “Hey,” he said, smiling down at me. “In all the excitement earlier, we didn’t get a chance to finish our conversation.”

  I jumped back, startled. “I…uh, right. Sorry about that.”

  “No worries. I hear it’s your birthday.”

  Smiling halfheartedly, I answered, “The big three-oh.”

  “Well, happy birthday. So you helped write that song your boss sang to you?”

  Still feeling the need to get the hell out of there, I said, “Um, yeah,” and tried to dart past him.

  Seth stepped in my way, evidently not finished with our conversation. “Great song. It looked like you enjoyed being serenaded.”

  “I guess…” What was he getting at?

  He looked over at Pete and Cecilia. “Hmm. It’s too bad that you’re in love with him. Looks like he’s taken.”

  “What? No,” I snapped. Where in the hell did he get that idea? And why would he (a total stranger) feel the need to call me on it? “No, no, no. We’re just friends.”

  His mouth turned up in the corner. “Is that why you were swooning during his song and now that his girlfriend showed up, you’re running for the hills?”

  Okay, now he was starting to piss me off. “You don’t know me! And even if you did, none of this is any of your damn business.” I pushed past him.

  “Feisty. I like it,” he called as I went through the door to the kitchen.


  I knew it. I said from the beginning that there was something wrong with him. Seth was a big fat jerk.

  Maybe the kitchen hadn’t been the right place to go to get away from my problems, because one of my problems was sitting on the prep table, again.

  “Dave!” I exploded. “I thought I was clear before when I told you that you are not, under any circumstances, to sit on the prep table! It’s not sanitary, and it’s disgusting.”

  “What crawled up your ass?” Dave jeered, looking around the room for agreement from the other two kitchen guys and Brianna the barista, who should have been out front. Both Brianna’s and Brandon’s eyes got big. Logan snickered and waited for my reaction.

  I fired back, “It’s not my ass I’m worried about, Dave. I can’t think of anyone who’d want to eat food that was prepared where your ass has been. Clean the table, and I don’t want to see you up there again.” I swung around to the rest of the staff. “And that goes for the rest of you, too. It’s not nearly clean enough back here, and we are all going to work on that tomorrow.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Dave growled, giving me a mock salute.

  Logan, Dave’s toady, laughed out loud.

  Ignoring Logan, I stomped over to stand in front of Dave. “You need to get it through your head that I’m in charge. If you don’t like it, there’s the door.” I leaned in and whispered so only he could hear, “But I can’t imagine anyone is hiring ex-cons right now.”

  He looked like he wanted to kill me for saying that. Honestly, I felt really bad about how rude my comment was, but I was out of ideas as to how to keep Dave in his place. Redheaded She-Devil made me do it.

  After that, I needed to get out of there immediately. I slammed open the back door and made for the alley. Not paying attention to where I was going, I stepped out into the alleyway, right into the path of a motorcycle roaring down the rock road. The biker swerved around me, his tires kicking up dirt and rocks that pelted me all over. My temper flared again, and I screamed, “Watch it, you asshole!” at his retreating back.

  Dusting myself off as best I could in the dark, now angry and shaken, I walked around for over an hour trying to calm down and put myself back together. This wasn’t like me. I didn’t yell at my employees. Well, at my own café I’d never had to. I was the owner, so that got me the respect I deserved. I guessed what the Java Jive staff needed was some empathy. They had lost George, and Pete wasn’t there most of the time, so the only one running the place was Dave. No wonder Dave hated me—I took his job and then rudely pointed out everything he was doing wrong. I owed him an apology. While I was at it, I guessed I owed Seth an apology as well. He was just making conversation, and I had bitten his head off.

  I went in through the front door of Java Jive, ready to make a new start. The open mic session had just ended, and people were starting to leave. I looked around for Seth, but he was nowhere in sight. He said he was a regular, so I could probably talk to him tomorrow. Studiously avoiding Pete and Cecilia, who were talking and laughing at a table across the room, I slipped into the kitchen.

  “Hey, guys, sorry about before. I’m not normally like that.” Shane hadn’t been in the kitchen when I threw my fit, but I was sure he heard about it from the others. Logan turned around to sneer at me, but Dave and Brandon were nowhere to be seen. “Is Dave here? I want to apologize.”

  Logan went back to what he was doing, and Shane shook his head. “Dave and Brandon leave after the dinner rush since they work lunch, and Logan and I close up. His shift had just ended when you guys were, uh, talking.” He hid a smile. “Seems like something the manager would know.” Not surprisingly, Shane was siding with his co-workers, but he didn’t have to be a dick about it. Logan had decided to glare at me some more. Their attitudes didn’t sit too well with me, but I decided not to make a big deal out of it.

  “Right. Thanks. I guess I’ll catch him tomorrow.”

  I was off the hook for apologies tonight, so I figured I might as well make myself useful, as long as it didn’t involve being in the kitchen. The baristas were usually slammed as soon as the open mic session ended. Performers needed a drink, and audience members were getting one for the road. I went to work, helping Jamie fill drink orders while Brianna served pastries and Cole managed the cash register. It went smoothly until I dropped a few empty paper cups on the floor while I was restocking them. Thinking nothing of it, I chucked them into the nearest trash can.

  Horrified, Jamie cried, “Did you just throw those in the trash?”

  “Yes,” I answered, confused.

  Jamie rolled her eyes. “I don’t know how you did it back in the olden days, but we recycle around here now. White bags are for recycling. Black bags are for trash.” She pointed to a recycle bin in the corner.

  Oh. No. She. Didn’t. Redheaded She-Devil did not like being called “old,” especially on her birthday. However, given the shitstorm she caused earlier, I kept her in check. “Thanks, Jamie. I didn’t know that we recycled.” I plucked the offending cups out of the trash and deposited them into the recycle bin, trying not to wonder how old she thought I really was.

  At closing time, Pete jumped up from his table with Cecilia and grabbed me, dragging me with him down the hallway. Not being able to contain a smile, he said, “Close your eyes.”

  “Okay,” I said uncertainly, and obeyed.

  He led me into the office and then pulled my hands off my eyes. Sitting in front of me was that gorgeous guitar he had played when he sang to me earlier, with a big, red bow tied to the top.

  My breath caught in my throat. “Oh, Pete.”

  “Happy birthday, Jules,” Pete said.

  With tears in my eyes, I reached out to pick it up, but stopped short. “This is too much. You didn’t have to—”

  He interrupted me. “I know I didn’t have to, but I wanted to. When I thought of that ass-clown Scott taking your guitar…”

  Scott, my aforementioned dickhead former fiancé, went further than just wiping out my business. He took all of the stuff in our apartment, too, including my guitar. Out of everything that he stole from me, my guitar was the item that hurt the most to lose.

  I picked up this guitar and strummed a few chords. It sounded even more beautiful than it looked. Turning to Pete, I said, “Thank you. And not just for the guitar. For everything. You’ve given me…my life back.”

  “Don’t you know I would have done anything to get you to move back to Nashville?” He raised one eyebrow at me. “Maybe I convinced that jerk to screw you over so that you would come down here and hang out with me instead.”

  I laughed. “I doubt that—”

  Cecilia stuck her head in the doorway, interrupting me. Her tone dripping with fake sweetness, she said, “Pete, darling. We’re supposed to meet the Worthingtons for drinks. We need to leave now or we’re going to be late. And you know how I hate to be late. Oh, hello, Juliet.” Yes, to Cecilia I was quite the afterthought.

  “Hi, Cecilia,” I replied.

  Pete looked at me. “Sorry. I gotta bounce, Jules. I’ll see you tomorrow. And happy birthday.” He gave me a quick, one-armed hug and followed Cecilia out. “Coming, Cece.”

  “I told you not to call me that,” Cecilia said, sounding perturbed.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  I sighed. I didn’t know what to think of Pete’s over-the-top gift, but I knew that I couldn’t wait to play it.

  I went into the kitchen, where Logan and Shane were finishing cleaning up. “What’s left to do, guys?”

  Shane answered, “Just the trash and locking up.”

  “I think I can handle that. You guys can go,” I offered. I didn’t have to say that twice. By the time I had finished speaking, they both had their aprons off and were headed for the door. Fine by me.

  Now that I was alone, I took my new guitar to the little stage. Even though I knew I was by myself, I was still self-conscious about singing. In my head, I realized it was ridiculous to be so frightened of performing, but I still was
. Maybe someday I’d get my nerve back. I started playing “You Are Mine,” the same song that Pete sang to me earlier. I knew it by heart, even though I hadn’t played in months. It was so liberating to play and sing again. I hadn’t realized how much I had missed it. I went through my repertoire, playing for nearly an hour before my fingers started to hurt. My calluses were gone from months of rest, and my fingertips were throbbing, so I begrudgingly put the guitar away.

  It was late, so I started collecting the trash. I hauled all of the bags to the back door and threw them down the steps, then I went out to deposit them into the dumpster. I opened the lid, but stopped short. There were several white bags right there on top. Someone screwed up and put the recycling bags in the garbage. Oh, the horror. I could imagine Jamie having a hissy fit over this, so I dutifully plucked the recycling bags out and placed them into the smaller, recycling dumpster.

  When I looked back into the trash dumpster to make sure I had them all, my stomach lurched and my breath caught. I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to get the image of what I saw out of it. I took in a shaky breath and let it out. Convincing myself that my stressed-out, tired mind was playing tricks on me, I took another look into the dumpster. It was Dave, and Dave was dead.

  Chapter 3

  I choked back a sob and backed away from the dumpster. Away from Dave. Poor Dave. We didn’t get along, but he certainly didn’t deserve to be thrown in a dumpster like a piece of garbage. I needed to do something, but I didn’t know what, and I was suddenly stricken with terror. There was a lot of blood. Everywhere. Dave didn’t just stumble into the dumpster and die. He’d had help, and what if the person who had helped him was watching right now?

  I turned and ran as fast as I could back into the coffeehouse and locked the door behind me. I sprinted around to every door, double-checking to make sure that they were all locked. For good measure, I grabbed a chef’s knife from the kitchen and locked myself inside Pete’s office. I shakily dialed 911.