Clueless at the Coffee Station by Bee Littlefield

Author:Bee Littlefield [Bee Littlefield]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bee Littlefield
Published: 2024-05-20T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter twenty-nine

The clock inches toward closing time. I’ve written out everything I can remember about the art theft and my investigation on some pages I tore out of the Barista Communication Log. I’m eager to get home and transfer it to my new binder. Hopefully, seeing all the information laid out in a new way will lead to a breakthrough.

I dump the hazelnut coffee early. An older woman with a high-maintenance bob, wearing a shift dress and a silk scarf, pauses on the welcome mat and looks around the dining room. “I’ve never been in here,” she says. “Rickety little place.”

“We like to say it has character.” The aroma of the coffee in the sink drifts over the counter. She’s going to smell it and want hazelnut and I’ll have to make a whole pot right before closing.

“Are you Betti?”

“Yes.” I brace myself for another scolding. She looks like a woman who would take offense at the idea that her town is going to heck.

“I’m Ruth Plumfield. Xavier is my son. I believe you know him.”

“Oh. Yes, I’ve met him a few times.” The elegant woman in front of me clicks into place: the city councilwoman in the newspaper photo with the governor. The mother who is not thrilled that her son is following in his artsy father’s footsteps.

“He says you’re helping him track down his stolen paintings. That’s very sweet of you. Have you found anything?”

“I have some ideas, but…”

“That’s nice. Well, you’ve worked hard enough.” She takes a hundred-dollar bill out of her purse and puts it on the counter. “It’s time to let it go.”

“Let what go?” Is she thanking me for helping or telling me to stop? My hand floats over the register screen, waiting for her to order something. Anything but hazelnut coffee.

“It’s not good for my son to fixate on the past like this. Those paintings are surely long gone. Even the police say there’s little hope of finding them. He needs to move forward and focus on his next steps.” She pushes the money closer to me. “Thank you for your time.”

Oh, she’s not ordering anything. She’s paying me for my efforts. I think she’s paying me to stop my efforts. I push the hundred-dollar bill back. “I can’t accept this.”

She pushes it forward again. “I don’t condone crime, but the Lord works in mysterious ways. Those paintings were not Xavier’s best work.”

“But he said they were his best work. There was an offer from a real-life art dealer.”

“I know what my son is capable of.” She looks me up and down—I’m wearing that old culotte dress with an especially well-loved cardigan, and there’s a hole in my tights I swear wasn’t there before—and takes out another hundred dollars.

This is so absurd, I giggle. “I am not taking your money.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. Jamie Park’s a nice boy, but I know what these jobs pay.” She stuffs the money in the tip jar. “Someday, I’m sure you’ll have the pleasure of paying it forward.

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