TWENTY-FOUR
Mr. Finch had been generous with his finances in Aubergine, which was part of the reason our roads were regularly repaved and our school system had any kind of arts program. In middle and high school, it seemed that Savilla had inherited his mindset, hosting fundraisers for things as trivial as getting disposable makeup brushes in every girls’ restroom on campus to noble causes like funding a new building for the town’s animal shelter.
Years ago, when we were fifteen, Savilla and I had spent Saturdays at that animal shelter. I’d bathe the puppies while she photographed them for the adoption website. Even then, we’d played to our strengths. One day, as I’d carefully cleaned around a Lab mix’s injured paw, Savilla had circled us with her camera.
“Oh my goodness, he’s adorable,” she’d said, cooing at the six-month-old puppy as she made cutesy faces. “His whiskers and sad eyes make him look like a little seal.”
But when I’d asked if she wanted to pet him, she’d wrinkled her nose. “I don’t touch things that poop themselves.”
That was Savilla—happy to capture beauty from a safe distance, while I dealt with the mess. Just like now with Brett’smurder. She wanted to help solve it, but could she handle getting her hands dirty?
Savilla’s words came back to me now as I followed behind her, thinking about the literal and figurative mess of this weekend. We stepped inside the Morning Brew, which was covered in autumnal décor. From the jack-o’-lanterns lining the pastry case to the giant purple spiders hanging from the ceiling, Halloween was written all over this place.
“Hey, Savilla,” a lady behind the counter called as soon as we entered.
Preferring to drink my cheap coffee at home, I hadn’t been there since well before Momma died, but I recognized the fifty-something woman as Gladys Liplich, longtime proprietor of the only bookstore/café/crystal shop in town.
“It’s nearly two o’clock. You’re a few hours later than normal,” Gladys called, but her tone was friendly. “You want your usual?”
Savilla studied the menu for a minute. “I think I’ll do the Maple Moonlit Macchiato today,” she said with a grin. “I’m celebrating.”
Gladys walked behind the till. “Good for you, darling.”
She didn’t ask a follow-up question, but Savilla didn’t need prompting to introduce me. “You remember DeeDee’s niece?”
Gladys turned to me for the first time. “I sure do, but my goodness, I didn’t hardly recognize you.” Her face pinched in the concerned look most of the townsfolk still gave me almost a year and a half after Momma’s death. “I’m sorry about your momma. She was a good lady. Took real good care of my Milton before he passed three years ago.”
This was what I expected when people mentioned my mother—that they would also reference a person that she’d nursed. It was Momma’s legacy.
“Thank you,” I said simply.
“What can I get for you today?” Gladys now asked, waiting for me to place my order.
I scanned the menu, confused by most of the offerings. The Magician’s Morning Mocha, the Tarot-fic Cortado, the Lucky Latte. “I’ll just have a cup of coffee.”
Gladys gave me a look that I was fairly certain she reserved for people not from around here. “What’s that, hon?”
“Just a coffee. Black.”
“Oh, we don’t sell that,” Gladys said easily, letting loose a little laugh.
I glanced at the coffee pot behind her. “Isn’t that a coffee maker?”
“Well, yes, but I only sell specialty drinks right now.” Gladys leaned forward and whispered as if anyone else was actually in the establishment to overhear. “Joe Larson roasted the last batch of beans, a big one, and he nearly burned it to ashes. I redid the menu with a bunch of sugar to compensate, and I gave everything a seasonal flare.” Gladys lifted her arms and gestured to the menu above her, on which she, presumably, had drawn ghosts and witches in various corners.
“Joe roasted your coffee?”
“Sure, he’s been our house roaster for a year or so now while he tries to find his sea legs.” Gladys seemed to recall something. “Didn’t he cater the class reunion last night?”
Savilla nodded. “He did, but?—”
“I already heard,” Gladys said, with a long shake of her head. “That poor boy. He always wanted to make something of himself.”
At first I thought she meant Brett, but then I reconsidered. “Wait, sorry. Do you mean Brett? Or Joe?”
“Joe,” Gladys said, taking two pieces of pumpkin loaf out of the case, placing them on plates, and sliding both of them across the counter. “On the house.” She leaned on her elbows. “Joe’sa good boy, but he keeps getting knocked down before he can get back up again. He’s been doing odd jobs around here ever since he got kicked out of that fancy college and came home like a pup with its tail between its legs. And just when he gets an investor in his catering business”—Gladys gestured toward me, which I assumed meant my aunt was the unspoken investor in addition to being some kind of mentor—“a man dies at his first gig.” Gladys’s eyes widened. “And not just any man! The town sweetheart.”
I thought about that definition of Brett. Was he the town sweetheart? Perhaps. He’d at least helped people outside of the pageant world hear of Aubergine, but in my estimation, he hadn’t done anything more remarkable than recording a half-decent song and landing a spot on a ridiculous reality show.
