Cappuccino

Twist

Anisa Claire West

This is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and events depicted in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any similarity to actual people, either living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

Prologue

New York City

Brownstone on East 73rd Street

“Promise me, Marlena, promise me, mi amor!” The strength had drained out of my grandmother’s voice, but her will was stronger than ever.

“I promise you, Nana, I will find out who killed your sister.” I gazed into her warm cocoa eyes that had transformed from lustrous to dull over the past few weeks of her pneumonia.

Accepting a few ice chips that I offered her, the dear woman who raised me wet her throat as tears moistened her eyes.  “I always thought that I would be the one to solve Silvia’s murder.  How can I leave this world without knowing who killed my sister?!” Her voice was scarcely more than a raspy whisper mingled with a cough.

“Stop tormenting yourself,” I urged, squeezing her wrinkled hand.  “You’ve done everything you can to solve Aunt Silvia’s murder.  But she was killed in Spain.  You’ve been in New York City for the past 50 years.  It would have been a miracle if you had been able to solve the crime from here.” I offered her a tiny wedge of fresh orange, but she waved it away.

“That’s why you must go to Spain.  Go to my home in Barcelona.  My land holds many secrets that you must uncover! Please!  No matter what it takes!  And bring this envelope with you.  It will help you.” She pointed to the mahogany nightstand where a sealed envelope sat waiting for me to claim it.

I picked up the envelope and tucked it close to my heart.  “Yes, I will go to Spain, Nana.  And I won’t come back to New York until I find out who killed Aunt Silvia.  That’s a solemn promise.”

Gently, I pressed my lips to her forehead as she sighed and her eyes fluttered closed like butterfly wings.

Chapter 1

Barcelona, Spain

2 Weeks Later

As the plane slid onto the runway at Barcelona El-Prat Airport, torrents of rain hammered down with it.  I had cried my last tear somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean and wore a stony face as I yanked my carry-on out of the overhead compartment.  Grieving for my grandmother wasn’t an option; I had a homicide to solve and needed to veil my emotions until my mission was complete.  Faces were a blur as I stood in the cramped aisle waiting to get off the plane and catch a whiff of fresh oxygen.  After the 8 hour flight from New York, my cascading mocha ponytail was caked in grease and my eyes were blotchy from crying.  Feeling like a zombie, I squeezed my way off the narrow jetliner and wheeled my suitcase down the long corridor towards the front of the airport where taxis were queued up.

Immediately, a taxi driver swept my luggage out of my hands and gave my figure a brazen perusal.  “Bienvenidos a Barcelona, Señorita.” He gawked at my slender body as he spoke.

“Gracias,” I replied curtly, sliding into the cab and hoping he wouldn’t try to make conversation.  I had grown up speaking Spanish with my grandmother and could easily converse with anyone in the city, but I was in no mood to speak any language with some leering cab driver. “Take me to the Alonso Hotel in the Gothic Quarter.  Por favor,” I requested, hoping the middle aged man would take the quickest route so I could get out of his suffocating cab.  I desperately needed a shower and a huge glass of iced coffee.

Trying to ignore the lewd glances the driver kept tossing me in his rearview mirror, I reflected on all that I had left behind in Manhattan.  At 29, I had just been promoted to Vice President of Sales at my job at BoldTech, making me the youngest VP in the history of the company.  My friends had all agreed that I was making a colossal mistake by quitting to go chase ghosts from half a century ago, but I needed to honor the promise I had made to my grandmother.  The woman had sacrificed more than enough since my mother abandoned me when I was 7 years old.  Now it was my turn to sacrifice for my grandmother and find out who had murdered her younger sister in 1962.

“Are you here on vacation?” The driver asked in Spanish.

“No,” I stated the syllable in a monotone, staring out the window at the Medieval buildings that whizzed by in a rainy haze.  

“Then what brings you to Barcelona?” The cab driver asked in a jovial tone that made me seethe.  Why couldn’t he just understand that I didn’t want to talk to him?  In New York, there’s a sign on the back seat of every yellow taxi that proclaims one’s right to a “silent ride,” but clearly things were different in Barcelona.

“I’m here on business,” I evaded, scowling deliberately so he could see me in the rearview mirror.

“Ah, a business woman,” he mused as my scowl intensified.  “Well, you must find some time for pleasure as well during your stay in Barcelona.  How long will you be here?”

“As long as I need to be,” came my unfriendly reply.  “If you don’t mind, I’m not feeling very well after my plane ride and just need to sit quietly.” My eyes met his in the mirror, and I could tell that he was offended, but I really didn’t care.  If he knew how grave the reasons for my trip to Barcelona were, then he would understand why I needed peace and quiet.

Long minutes later, we arrived at the Alonso Hotel as I tipped the driver fairly and rushed with my bag to the reception desk.  “Buenos dias.  I have a reservation under the name Marlena Falcon,” I announced to the bubbly front desk clerk.

“Yes, I see here, Señorita Falcon.  I’ll need to see your passport, please.” The young girl smiled at me as I smiled wanly back and handed her my identification.

“Do you know where I can get a really good cup of coffee around here?” I asked, hearing the desperation in my own voice.  “All they gave us on the airplane was some nasty, stale instant brew.”

The girl, whose name tag read Talisa, replied with a soft laugh, “Yes, right down the block there’s a great place called Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique.  Best coffee in Barcelona in my opinion.”

“Mmmm, I can smell the coffee beans roasting now,” I murmured, rubbing my hands together in anticipation of a strong, frothy cup of java.

Taking my room key, I wheeled my suitcase to the elevator, trying to prioritize the rest of my day: Coffee first.  Shower later.  Opening the door to my room, I frowned at the depressing décor all shaded in maroon and beige.  The walls could use a new coat of paint, and the furniture was in dire need of shampooing.  Oh well.  I wasn’t going to be spending much time in my hotel room anyway.  Armed with nothing more than my grandmother’s sealed envelope and my own intuition, I was sure to be spending countless hours combing the city for Aunt Silvia’s acquaintances…if any were still living.  Knowing that the crime’s age was my one biggest obstacle, I nonetheless was driven to figure out who had smothered my aunt to death when she was just 26 years old.

Dumping my suitcase on the floor and freshening up in the bathroom for a grand total of 30 seconds, I grabbed my umbrella and scurried out of the room in search of Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique.  Outside, the rain felt refreshing and I drank in the cool April air like nourishment.  Quickly, I spotted the coffee shop Talisa had suggested, perching on the corner next to a public library.  Swinging the door open, I scanned the dull interior made even more unattractive by retro 1970’s furniture.  Was everything in Barcelona bathed in gray, and was the color a bad omen for the case I was trying to crack?

The aroma of fresh roasted espresso beans wafted through the café, instantly making me forget the gloomy atmosphere.  Teenagers giggled and sipped big mugs of hot chocolate drowning in whipped cream as couples chatted intimately over shared cake slices.  Taking my place in the long line, I stole another breath of the coffee-scented atmosphere.  For a caffeine addict like me, it would be heaven to work in such an environment.  I had a good amount of money saved from my job in New York, but I didn’t want to blow my whole nestegg in Barcelona.  If I could get the owner to overlook the tiny little issue that I didn’t have a work visa in Spain, then maybe I could indulge my coffee passion and earn some money to defray the cost of the hotel. 

Finally, I reached the front of the line and placed my order.  “Large iced coffee please.  With an extra shot of espresso.”

The harried cashier snatched my Euros and hustled me towards the coffee bar where a barista who looked no more than 17 whipped up my drink.  “Muchas gracias,” I said as the wavy haired boy handed me my drink.  “Hey, do you know if they’re hiring here?”

“Si, I think so,” he answered.  “They’re always hiring.”

“Okay, great,” I replied, taking a mighty gulp of my iced coffee and exhaling in audible pleasure.  “Who can I speak to about that?”

Instead of answering me, the boy called over his shoulder, “Dario! Job applicant!”

Emerging from the cappuccino machine was a bearded man who appeared to be in his mid 60’s.  Regarding me warily, he reached out a hand and gave mine a weak shake.

“Do you have any experience working in a coffee shop?” He asked as I quickly concocted a story in my head.

“Um, yes, I do.  In college, I worked for 4 years at a coffee shop in New York City.” Dario didn’t need to know that it had only been 2 years…and an ice cream parlor…that I had worked in. 

“How busy was it?  How many customers every day?” He grilled me as my brain conjured another fib.

“Very busy.  It was in lower Manhattan, so there was constant traffic.  Easily 100 people an hour.” I felt a twinge of guilt at my lie as Dario’s expression softened and he seemed genuinely impressed.

“That’s perfect.  Are you American? You speak Spanish very well.”

“Yes, I am American, but obviously fluent in Spanish.” Lowering my voice as though I were about to reveal a horrific scandal, I added, “I don’t have a work visa.”

“That’s no problem.  I deal in cash.  Come, give me your contact information.” He handed me a slip of paper as I scrawled the hotel’s address, hoping that my nomad status in Spain wouldn’t be a deal breaker. 

“I’m staying right down the street.  It will be very easy for me to get here, and I’ll work any shift you want,” I employed my sales skills from my faraway office days in New York, hoping I could sell myself as well as I had sold computer parts to international electronics distributors.

“Okay, I think this could work.  Customers always like to see a pretty girl behind the counter,” Dario said with a flirtatious wink that unnerved me.  Growing up in a Spanish family, I knew how frisky Latin men could be, but I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to handle constant sleazy overtures.  “You know, you look kind of familiar.  Have I seen your face before?”

“I don’t think so,” I answered coolly.

“Then I guess you just have a common face.” He shrugged.  “Anyway, you’re hired.”

“Great.  Just let me know when I start,” I said with mock cheerfulness.

“Tomorrow.  5 am,” he informed as I cringed, wondering how I was going to wake up so early when my jet lag was just starting to set in.

“Okay, I’ll be here at 5 am.  Mañana.” I extended my hand as Dario gave it another limp shake and I headed towards the door.

Sipping my iced coffee, I glanced across the café and noticed a brooding man sitting alone with a cup of espresso.  His eyes locked on mine, but he didn’t grin or wink or flirt as the other men had done since I landed in Barcelona.  Instead, he fixed me with the hardest, coldest stare I had ever seen before shooting out of his chair and disappearing into the rainy day.

Chapter 2

My mouth felt so dry the next morning that I thought someone had snuck into my hotel room in the middle of the night and stuffed it full of cotton balls.  Groggily sitting up in bed, I couldn’t recall a time when my head had felt so heavy.  The jet lag felt worse than a hangover as I stumbled out of bed and pulled open the dark drapes.  The sun hadn’t risen yet and every bone in my body told me to crawl back into bed and sleep until the roosters crowed at dawn.  But I dragged myself to the shower and hastily scrubbed up for my first shift at Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique.

Donning a threadbare pair of jeans and comfy cotton tee-shirt, I contemplated how I was going to survive the day.  Even though I loved coffee more than fresh air, I wasn’t used to brewing the beverage from scratch.  Before work every morning in Manhattan, I would just jog down the block to the closest Starbucks and order my favorite Caramel Macchiato.  But the drinks were different in Spain…and I was going to have to make some!  Lacing up my sneakers, I schemed to persuade Dario to let me work the register instead of the coffee bar.

In the lobby, the front desk staff regarded me curiously as I grabbed a sticky bun from the buffet table and darted out into the pre-dawn blackness.  From down the street I could already see the lights on in Dario’s shop, so I picked up my pace, hoping I wasn’t running late.  I hadn’t even bothered to look at a clock since my alarm jarred me out of my sleep like a vibrating bell tower.

“Good morning.  Are you the new girl?” Asked a chipper college-age gal with a silky raven French braid.

“Yes, I’m Marlena. Dario hired me yesterday.”

“Yeah, Dario is always hiring new people.  No one stays here for very long.  I’m Luz, by the way.  Here, let me get you an apron.” Digging into a cardboard box behind the counter, she produced a plain black apron that made me cringe.  Every day in New York City had been an adventure choosing my outfit to wear to work.  High heels were ubiquitous, and I owned a sophisticated business suit in every color of the rainbow.  Now my wardrobe was being demoted to kitchen staff uniform.  Then, angelically, an image of my grandmother’s shining eyes flashed in my mind, making me forget my shallow desires for a chic wardrobe and eagerly tie the apron around my waist.

“Thanks Luz.  You said that no one stays here very long?  Why is that?” I asked, fearing that Dario was a dictatorial nightmare to work under.

“Well, you know, a lot of college students come and go.  They just work here during semester break.  But also we get some weird customers in here.” An inexplicable shudder ran through Luz’s petite frame.

“Really? What do you mean?” I asked warily, remembering the man I had seen yesterday wearing a deadly expression as he sipped his espresso.

“Just some loser guys who have no lives.  They stay here all day.  Dario never kicks anyone out as long as they’re ordering refills,” Luz explained as her shudder became contagious and a chill ran down my spine.

“Oh, well, I’m from New York, so I’m used to meeting all kinds of people.  I’m sure the guys who hang out here won’t bother me,” I said, trying to convince myself as much as Luz.

“Well that’s good.” Grinning, she picked up an empty coffee mug and filled it with hot hazelnut brew.  “Here.  You look like you could use a cup.  One of the fringe benefits of working here.”

“Free coffee?” I surmised as I inhaled the rich, nutty fragrance and indulgently tasted it.

“One free cup a day.  50% discount for any other cups,” she informed as I finished my one free cup in less than a minute.  So much for rationing and saving money.  I’d probably spend half my income from the coffee shop at the coffee shop.

“Hmmm, well he can’t be one of the weird ones.  Or is he?” I asked, pointing to a tall man with a clipboard who appeared to be interviewing a young, flaxen haired girl.

“Eduardo?  No, he’s not weird.  He’s just a Casanova.  Always in here with that clipboard chatting up some blonde roast.” Luz rolled her eyes, pointing to the girl’s buttered popcorn shaded hair.

“What’s the clipboard for?” I asked.

“No idea.  He doesn’t talk to the staff except to order his coffee,” Luz replied, breaking open a roll of coins and pouring them into the cash register.

In a conspiratorial whisper, I asked Luz, “Do you think Dario would let me work the cash register today?  I don’t know the menu here yet, so I wouldn’t feel comfortable making coffee.”

“Dario’s off today.  He only comes in a few days a week.  So I’m sure that would be fine.  I’d rather make coffee than count dirty money anyway,” she percolated, clearing a space for me at the register.

Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique started to really buzz once 6 am rolled around, and my shift flew by without my having to brew a single cup of coffee.  Even though my brain had no concept of what time it was, the clock read noon, and I untied the strings of my apron as my shift came to an end.  Waving an amiable goodbye to Luz and my other coworkers, I headed towards the door, invigorated to see that the skies had cleared.  As I stepped onto the sidewalk, my eyes met with the hostile pair belonging to the lone espresso drinker.  Instead of shooting me with another furious glare, he smirked at me as he walked into Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique.  But his smirk was humorless and aggressive, making my pace quicken as I hurried back to the shelter of my hotel room.

***

Flopping on the bed and stretching like a lazy feline, I latched my foot onto the handle of my suitcase next to the nightstand.  Pulling it towards me with the strength of my toes, I unzipped the bag and rummaged around for the sealed envelope that contained information to help me launch Aunt Silvia’s murder investigation.  To my dismay, the thin envelope contained nothing more than a list of names and a newspaper clipping written in the days after Aunt Silvia’s murder.  How were these specks of information going to help me?  Discouraged, I took a closer look at the list of names.

“They’re all men,” I murmured, scanning the brief list of three names.  Marcelo Sanchez.  Jorge Canton.  David Garcia.  Next to each of the man’s names was a designation for how he had known my aunt.  The first two were labeled “boyfriend” and the third was categorized as “lover.”

“How many men did Aunt Silvia date?” I wondered aloud, trying not to place judgment on a woman I had never met.  After all, she had been 3 years younger than me when she was murdered and was probably just sowing her wild oats.  Who knows what kind of person she would have become if her life hadn’t been savagely nipped in the bud?

Conspicuously missing from the list of names were exact addresses.  Instead, my grandmother had simply written down street names or neighborhood vicinities.  Propping myself up on a pillow, I reflected how I truly had my work cut out for me.  If any of these men were still living, they would be somewhere in their 70s---or older---and likely grandfathers with large families.  How was I going to track any of them down?  Shaking my head, I thought how I should have majored in criminal justice in college rather than business and finance. 

“The library,” I whispered the revelation as I remembered the library situated right next to Dario’s shop.

Fighting back the desire for a cat nap, I took my list and marched down the street to the library.  Librarians were always interested in solving mysteries, but if I couldn’t find someone to help me, then I would consult census records and methodically pinpoint each of the men on my grandmother’s list.  Heading over to the Reference desk, I approached a sixty something lady with classic Spanish features: twinkling brown eyes, thick gleaming tresses, and a smile warmer than kindling.

In Spanish, I started to explain my mission to the librarian.  “Buenas tardes.  I was hoping you could help me find some information.  My name is Marlena Falcon and I…”

The woman peered at me like I was a phantom incarnate.  “Falcon? Falcon? You are related to Silvia Falcon?” She shrieked as her rosy cheeks turned alabaster.

“Yes, she was my great aunt, my grandmother’s younger sister.  Did you know her?” My heart thudded against my chest as the woman’s expression transformed from frightened to compassionate.

“Yes! She babysat me when I was a child.  All these years, they have never found her killer.  It’s such a tragedy!  Silvia was so sweet!” Tears brimmed her eyes as the old wound gushed open.

“It’s a horrible tragedy,” I agreed gravely.  “And it’s one that needs justice. That’s why I’m here in Spain.  I’m trying to solve my aunt’s murder.”

“Finally! Someone is trying to clear Silvia’s name.  The police gave up on the case far too soon!  They said there was no evidence and too many suspects because…” the woman hesitated before adding quietly, “because Silvia had too many men.”

“Did you know any of these men?” I asked urgently, handing her the list written in my grandmother’s shaky handwriting.

She shook her head in despair.  “No.  I was only 16 when your aunt was murdered.  I didn’t know any of these people.  But I will help you trace them.” The librarian pulled a chair next to her and gestured for me to sit as she clicked on a database of local residents and entered the names one by one.

“Thank you, Señora Marquez,” I said, reading the bronze name plate on her desk.

Browsing through the results, Señora Marquez determined that two of the men on the list were deceased.  “Jorge Canton died more than 10 years ago.  And David Garcia passed away just last year according to my database.  But Marcelo Sanchez is alive and still living in Barcelona.” She grabbed a pencil and jotted down Marcelo’s address. 

“Thank you, but how do we know for sure that these are the right people?  There could be men with the same names living all over Spain,” I pointed out, nonetheless tucking Marcelo’s address securely into my purse.

“There could be.  But you’ve only given me very vague information.  The only way to know for sure is to talk to Marcelo Sanchez.  As for the other two, I can give you addresses for their next of kin.” Avidly, the librarian turned her attention back to the database, searching for living relatives of Jorge Canton and David Garcia.  I gazed at her attractive profile, for a moment reminded of my grandmother’s graceful but proud beauty.  Swallowing a lump of sadness in my throat, I focused all my energy on the investigation that had waited half a century to begin.

***

Two hours later, my eyes weary from too much time in front of the computer with Señora Marquez, I returned to my hotel for a sorely earned repose.  In a daze, I passed the front desk, distantly hearing Talisa’s voice calling after me.  “Señorita Falcon!  Wait! You have mail!”

Whirling around in shock, I repeated, “Mail? But no one knows where I’m staying in Barcelona.”

“No, I mean a letter.  Someone left this letter here for you.” She handed me an envelope as I eagerly tore it open, baffled about who would have left me a message.

Feeling my knees wobble under my body weight, I silently read the two line note that had been penned in red Magic Marker:

GO HOME.  OR CHASE GHOSTS AT YOUR OWN PERIL... 

Chapter 3

My knees kept buckling until I thought that I would collapse right there in the hotel lobby.  Gripping the desk with white knuckles, I steadied myself and tried to whisper, but the sound came out as an urgent gasp, “Who left this here for me?”

“Actually, I’m not sure.  I just started my shift a few minutes ago and it was here when I arrived,” Talisa replied as she winked.  “Why? Got yourself a secret admirer?”

“No!” I shouted, turning the paper so she could read the blood shaded words.

“Dios mio!” She cried.  “Maybe it’s a mistake.  Maybe it’s not really for you,” she said in a hopeful rush, but as she turned the paper over, we could both clearly see the name Marlena etched in the same angry red ink.

“It’s definitely meant for me.  And I need to find out who wrote it.  Doesn’t the hotel have surveillance cameras everywhere?” I prodded, looking up and pointing at one that was recording me as I spoke.

“Yes, but so many people come in and out of the hotel every day…hundreds…sometimes even a thousand…”

“Talisa, this is a death threat! It needs to be taken seriously!  Where’s the manager?” I clutched the paper in my clammy hand, immobilized with fear.  The only time I had ever left the United States was for a business trip to London.  And during that excursion, I was surrounded by colleagues and clients who made me feel safe.  Now, here I was in Spain, all alone and vulnerable.  Immediately, the cold staring man from Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique came to mind.  No one else had looked at me with such venom since I arrived in Barcelona.  On the contrary, the city seemed to be full of wickedly flirtatious men whose gazes were anything but icy.  But how would he know that I was in Barcelona to “chase ghosts?” No one in Barcelona knew about my quest.  I shivered, starting to feel like a ghost was chasing me.

As I was about to reach across the desk and shake Talisa’s shoulders for being so nonchalant, the lobby doors swung open and a woman rushed towards me.  Eyes bulging, I recognized the reference librarian who had given me my first leads to solving the murder of Aunt Silvia.

Breathlessly, Señora Marquez burst out, “Marlena! I hope I didn’t startle you.  But I wanted to help you and go with you when you meet Marcelo Sanchez.  You shouldn’t go alone.”

With mild suspicion, I asked, “Did I tell you I was staying in this hotel?”

“No,” the older woman replied, her breath still coming in uneven spurts, “but I saw which way you were walking when you left the library.  And the Alonso Hotel is where most tourists stay in the Gothic Quarter.”

Her explanation sounded reasonable, and I certainly had no reason to mistrust the grandmotherly figure…but I had no reason to trust her either.  I shook my head at myself, worried that I was becoming neurotic far too early in the investigation.  If absolutely necessary, I could have a nervous breakdown later on, after the murder was solved.  But not before.

“Oh, I’m sorry.  I have startled you.  I just want to help,” she said, reaching over and patting me on the hand.  “Your hands are freezing!”

“Yes, you’ve caught me at a bad time,” I said sullenly, handing her the note.

“Ah, this is terrible! Who wrote this?” She shrieked, dropping the note on the desk like it was on fire.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I said, turning back to Talisa who had finally picked up the telephone.

Apologetically, she looked up from the phone and informed me, “The manager isn’t on duty right now.  He’ll be in this evening.”

“Isn’t there another manager around? Or a supervisor even?” I huffed in frustration.

She threw her hands up helplessly and shook her head.  “Sorry.  All the managers are in an executive meeting today.”

I groaned.  I knew all about those executive meetings that take place in posh conference rooms with expensive catered luncheons and nothing but baloney passing between employees.  My sales job had required that I attend at least one of those pointless pow-wows on a weekly basis.

“Fine,” I snapped.  “I’ll deal with this later.  For now, I want to track down Marcelo Sanchez.”

“Why don’t we go back to the library and call him?” Señora Marquez suggested.  “It might be safer to call him from there rather than your hotel where someone is already watching you.”

“Call him? I’m not going to call him.  I’m going to show up on his doorstep.  Why should I let him know I’m coming?  He could plan not to be home.  Or he could start plotting a story to tell me if in fact he did have anything to do with my aunt’s murder,” I pointed out sharply.

“Murder?” Talisa echoed, finally catching some of my jitters.

Walking away from the front desk so the clerk wouldn’t hear the rest of my conversation, I looked Señora Marquez directly in the eyes.  Based on her eyes alone, I felt that the woman had a good soul.  The warmth in her eyes was the polar opposite of the chill I had glimpsed in the glaring stranger’s.  Plus, she knew Barcelona far better than I did.  It would help to have a native guide me to the suspect’s house.

“How do we get to this address?” I asked, pulling out the slip of paper with Marcelo Sanchez’s house number printed on it.

“Very easy.  It’s a 5 minute drive from here.  Come, we’ll take my car.”

***

The first thing that struck me as odd was how the old man’s house wasn’t a house at all.  It was a tiny apartment inside a multi-story building that we call ‘human filing cabinets’ in Manhattan.  The next thing that struck me as unusual was the appearance of the old man as he immediately opened the door to my tentative knock, almost as though he had been waiting all day for company.  His face was long and haggard, and his silver hair was straggly as it fell in knots around his skinny shoulders.

“Marcelo Sanchez?” I presumed as the frail figure nodded eagerly.

“Si, señorita! I am Marcelo Sanchez!” The octogenarian replied with such ferocious eagerness that I thought he would pull me bodily into his apartment.

Moistening my dry lips with the tip of my tongue, I suddenly wondered how I was going to go about this face to face interview.  The man seemed so desperate for company---and so delicate---that I was afraid I might give him a stroke if I told him the reason for my visit.  So, I started out slowly, hoping to ease him into my line of questioning.

“May we come inside?” I asked, thinking how no one in his right mind in New York would let two strangers in even if they were harmless looking women.

“Well, yes, I hope you do!” The old man chuckled as he slowly moved out of the way so we could step inside.  His back was slightly hunched, and I wondered how many years it had been since he was able to stand up straight.

I walked into his apartment with the librarian close behind me.  It all felt like a scene from the Twilight Zone: waltzing into a stranger’s apartment with another stranger I had only met hours earlier, all in the name of finding justice for a long ago crime covered in cobwebs and an impenetrable film of dust.

“Have a seat, ladies.  This must be my lucky day,” he commented with an endearingly goofy smile as I questioned his state of mind.  Was the man senile and would he be able to answer my questions accurately?  Moreover, would he even remember Aunt Silvia?

Señora Marquez nudged me gently on the arm as though to say, ‘Well? Get started! Ask him something!’  But instead of waiting for me to speak, the pushy librarian announced, “We’re here to ask you some questions about a murder that took place in Barcelona 52 years ago.” I wanted to smack my hand over her big mouth, but I didn’t have a chance to react to her outburst as the old man started to tremble from across the room.

“Are you talking about my Silvia?” He asked in a tormented voice as I overflowed with compassion for him. 

“Yes, I’m her great-niece, and I’ve come to Spain to get information from anyone who knew her,” I quickly explained, not wanting him to shut down and think he was a suspect…even though of course he still was, as much as I pitied him.

Marcelo Sanchez hobbled over to me and stared me in the eyes, scanning my face as though trying to find some trace of Silvia in my features.  “You do have her eyes.  And the bridge of her nose.  Ah, why have you come back to haunt me? What have I done?  This is not my lucky day at all!” Tears pooled in his crinkly eyelids as I struggled to remain business-like and extract all the information I could from him. 

“I’m sorry, Señor Sanchez.  I’m definitely not trying to haunt you.  I just want to get some information about Silvia…I promised my grandmother…”

“Margarita?” He cried out as I nodded fervently.

“Yes, my grandmother Margarita passed away two weeks ago, and I promised her I would come to Barcelona and finally get justice for Silvia.”

“Ah, everyone around me is dying! I remember your grandmother when she was a young lady of your age!  But everyone is leaving me behind! Why?” The man sailed off on a tangent as I glanced nervously at Señora Marquez, then frowned.  Her eyes were alight, and she seemed to be enjoying the dramatic spectacle.

“So you knew my grandmother too?” I coaxed, trying to lead him back to the subject at hand.

“Of course! I used to see her every night when I picked up Silvia for our dates!  Silvia was my girl for two years, you know!  I wanted to marry her, but she left me for another man.” The old man’s face crumpled in despair as I raised my eyebrows.  Did he realize that he had just incriminated himself by revealing that my aunt had rejected him for someone else?  But no, he seemed so tangled up in his buried emotions that he was unaware of anything except the memories flooding his mind.

“Who did she leave you for?” I ventured.  “Was his name Jorge or David?” I asked as gently as I could.

“It was Jorge,” he seethed bitterly.  “I’ll never forget that name.  But I refuse to hear it in mi casa!  Please, you must be witches both of you, please leave me in peace now.  I will call the police if you don’t get out of here!” An agonizing blend of jealousy and despondence racked his frame as he limped over to the door and gestured for us to leave.

Interrogating the man any further would be futile and possibly fatal, so I ran through the door with the librarian following leisurely.  As soon as she had stepped outside, he slammed the door so hard that it rattled like the bones of a skeleton.

“Well that was a disaster,” I said, still furious with the prying woman for having divulged our intentions so soon.

Reading my mind, she said, “It’s all my fault! I shouldn’t have said anything.  I just wanted to help.” Her face betrayed an expression of shame as she asked quietly, “So where do you go from here?”

“I don’t know,” I replied honestly.  “The information he gave us certainly doesn’t eliminate him as a suspect.  But even if he is the murderer, it’s obvious that he would never confess.” I sighed deeply.  “I guess it’s time to roll the dice and go to the next name on the list.”

Chapter 4

Fifteen minutes later, the librarian curved her car into the local police station.  “Thanks for driving me here,” I clipped, grabbing the threatening note and preparing to march it into the station.

“Do you want me to come with you?” She asked with hopeful eyes. 

“No, you’ve done enough already,” I replied with no small amount of irony.  “But thank you, Señora Marquez.  I really appreciate the ride.”

“Come back to the library if you need anything!” She urged, tugging on the sleeve of my tee shirt as I reflexively pulled away.

“Okay, I will,” I fibbed, making my way out of her car. 

I didn’t need to look behind me to know that she hadn’t pulled away and was watching me walk into the police station.  Why was she taking the case so personally?  Could my Aunt Silvia have been that memorable of a babysitter?  Or was Señora Marquez just a bored busybody with nothing else to do? 

Forgetting the strange bird for the time being, I stepped up to the dispatch desk and explained my situation in a long-winded monologue that made the attendant so flustered I wondered if her head would start spinning like in a scene from The Exorcist.  “And this is the note.” I finally exhaled as I passed the paper underneath a slit below the bulletproof glass.

“Uno momento, por favor,” she said sternly, lifting up the phone and conveying an abridged version of my epic story.

“Is a police officer going to meet with me?” I asked as she hung up the phone.

“Yes.  Have a seat,” she replied curtly, turning her attention to a soap opera magazine and flipping mindlessly through the pages.

Too restless to sit, I paced through the waiting area, longing for a cup of coffee until a police officer finally came out to greet me.  Long, attractive, and no more than 30 years old, Officer Calderon towered over me and held out his hand.  Confused, I reached out my own hand to shake his as he chuckled.  “Hand me the note, please,” he requested as I felt like a huge fool.

“Oh! Yes, here it is.” I closely examined his rugged tan face as he read the note, but his features bore no reaction whatsoever.

“This isn’t a death threat, señorita.  Seems like more of a prank to me.” He shrugged and handed me the note as I burned like scalding espresso.

“What do you mean it’s not a death threat?” I cried.

“Nothing explicit is written in the note.  It just says ‘Go home.  Or chase ghosts at your own peril.’  Those words could be interpreted in a million ways.  Plus, the note only has your first name printed on it.  We don’t even know for sure that it was intended for you.  You’re not the only Marlena in Spain.” His relaxed demeanor infuriated me even more as I battled to stay in control and not get myself into worse trouble by mouthing off to the arrogant cop.

“Just because the note doesn’t explicitly say ‘I’m going to kill you,’ doesn’t mean it’s not a death threat! Anyone can read between the lines and understand the implied message,” I argued as he pressed his lips together in an expression of disagreement.

“I’m sorry, señorita.  There’s nothing we can do about this note.  Again, like I said, we can’t even verify whether the note was intended for you.”

“Listen, that note was meant for me.  I’m absolutely sure of it.  Because I am chasing ghosts here in Spain.  I’m trying to solve the murder of Silvia Falcon.” Searching the officer’s deep-set eyes for a flicker of recognition, I found none.  Of course not.  He had still been a generation away from birth when my aunt was killed.  I needed to speak to a veteran member of the police department, someone who would vividly remember the aftermath of the crime.  “Is there a senior officer here I can speak with?” I demanded impatiently, flaming as the officer smirked at my request.

“Any officer is going to tell you the same thing, señorita.  I suggest you just relax and enjoy your time in Barcelona.  Forget about prank notes and ghosts and murder mysteries.” Offering this piece of condescending advice, Officer Calderon disappeared down the corridor, leaving me back at square one with a threatening note, a ridiculously complicated case to solve, and no support system whatsoever.  Drawing on an image of my grandmother, I steeled myself against a fresh wave of tears and held my chin high as I left the police station.

***

Bright and too early the next morning, I was back in my apron uniform at Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique.  My sleep had been fitful as I kept checking the peephole of my hotel room door to make sure no one was lurking in the hall and about to break in.  Even with a deadbolt and double chain lock, I didn’t feel secure.  The only “weapon” I carried with me was a Swiss Army knife earned on a Girl Scout camping trip when I was 12.  The paper-thin scissors and half inch blade certainly wouldn’t offer me much protection against an intruder.

“What are you doing, Marlena?  This customer wants a double cinnamon latte with skim milk and a sugar straw!” Dario barked at me, whipping me out of my thoughts and back to an equally dreary reality.  Unfortunately for me, Dario had decided to rule in person over his dominion that day, and I needed to put up a convincing façade that I actually knew how to brew a cup of gourmet coffee.

Frazzled, I grabbed the cinnamon shaker and poured it liberally over a hot latte as Dario hawked me from steps away.  Sugar straw?  What the hell is that?  Frantically, I searched for the edible accessory while Dario scolded me harshly.

“Skim latte, Marlena! Are you deaf?” He hissed just loud enough for my co-workers to hear.  “That’s whole milk!”

“I’ll take care of this.  You work the register, Marlena,” Luz intervened kindly as I gave her a grateful look warmer than baked bread.

“I’m questioning your credentials, Marlena,” Dario said accusingly.  “You won’t last very long here if you can’t make coffee.”

“Sorry.  Guess I’m just a little rusty,” I apologized.  Never before had I lied to get a job.  How ironic that I could reach the executive level in New York without exaggerating a single detail and the only way I could get a job as a barista in Spain was by concocting a whole web of lies.  Had my grandmother known what she was getting me into when she made me promise to avenge her sister’s death?  Maybe this whole experience was a crash course in channeling inner strength, and Nana had known how difficult my mission would be yet had faith in my capabilities.

Mercifully, Dario stepped out for a cigarette break that lasted the better part of the morning as I relaxed and managed the cash register.  Pouring myself a robust Viennese roast and downing it without any cream or sugar, I watched with mild interest as the handsome man with the clipboard walked through the door.

“What did you say his name was?” I whispered to Luz as she smiled.  “Eduardo?”

“Yeah, Eduardo.  Cute, isn’t he?” She jabbed me playfully in the arm. 

“No, that’s not what I was thinking,” I denied as my nose grew to Pinocchio length.

“Why don’t you offer him a cup of coffee on the house?” She suggested, clearly not believing me.

“Don’t be silly.  I’m not offering him anything,” I said sharply.  Romance was the last item on my agenda…if it was even on the agenda at all.  I hadn’t had time for a man when I was an executive in Manhattan, and I certainly didn’t have time for one as a hard working sleuth in Barcelona.  But I had to admit that Eduardo was attractive, in a dangerous leading man sort of way.  And what was I?  A plain Jane in an apron and tennis shoes while a sea of Spanish beauties glided by in designer fashion and strappy heels.

“I’m going to talk to him for you!” Luz said excitedly as my eyes widened in horror.

“No you’re not!  Stop it! Look, I’m not your age, okay?  I’m 29, not 19 and I’m not going to let you make a fool of me!  Besides, didn’t you say he’s always talking to blondes? I’m probably not even his type.”

Luz giggled and shrugged her shoulders.  “I guess you really do like him!”

“How can I like him?  I’ve only seen him twice and I’ve never even spoken to him,” I protested as her giggles became louder, eventually erupting into a giant hiccup that startled the whole shop.

“Are you happy now?” I asked with a smirk as she blushed.

“I had too much Danish this morning,” she said sheepishly, returning to her post at the cappuccino machine and leaving me in peace.

My shift ended without any further harassment from Dario or Luz as I trudged back to the hotel for an afternoon siesta.  Cautiously, I looked around me on the street, afraid that the man with soulless eyes would appear at any moment and unnerve me with another frigid glare.  My gut told me that he was the one who had penned the threatening note.  But I had no explanation as to why he would do it, who he was, or how he could possibly know who I was. 

Talisa waved to me as I walked past the front desk, but I ignored her, still angry from how callously she had treated me the day before.  Inside my room, I clamored for the Queen size bed and threw myself onto the lumpy mattress.  Instead of shutting my eyes and catching some sorely needed zzz’s, I reached for my grandmother’s envelope and reinspected the contents, hoping I would notice something I had overlooked.

There was nothing new to be found on the list, just the name of a miserable old man and the monikers of two dead men whose families I still had to track down.  The idea of employing Señora Marquez’s help again was less than appealing, but so far she was the only person in Barcelona who had shown any interest in assisting me.  So I couldn’t rule her out just yet, as irritating and overbearing as the woman was.

The newspaper clipping practically disintegrated in my hands as I strained to read the faded words.  May 2, 1962.  Mere days after my aunt had been murdered.  Squinting until I was sure I would give myself cataracts, I read the vague words of the article.  Then, I jumped in surprise, noting two sentences in the article that had been underlined in fresh blue ink.

Chapter 5

The ink color was an exact match with the handwritten list my grandmother had provided.  And the underline was squiggly as if someone with a shaky hand had struggled to trace a straight line.  In my jetlagged haze, I must not have noticed the key information that Nana had highlighted for me:

Silvia Falcon was found murdered late Saturday night in her home.  At this time, the investigation is ongoing and police are not revealing any further details about the manner of death.

I let the words marinate in my mind for a few moments as I tried to conjecture why my grandmother had underlined those two particular sentences.  It didn’t take me long to deduce that she had wanted to emphasize how no further information had been revealed, which meant that the general public didn’t know if my aunt had been stabbed or strangled…or smothered, which is the scenario that I knew to be true.  So if one of the suspects let it slip during my interrogation that he had smothered Silvia to death, that would be the equivalent of a confession because only the immediate family like my grandmother had been notified about the manner of death!

Furious with myself for diving into the investigation without a life vest, I wished that I could erase my meeting with Marcelo Sanchez and do it all over again.  The right way. Organized, methodical, patient…not like some overeager amateur who just hopped off a plane and was still operating on East Coast time.  I contemplated returning to the man’s house to try to extract more information, but his threat of calling the police was like a Beware of Dog sign warning me not to tangle with the Doberman Pinscher beyond the fence. 

I blew out a frustrated breath, brainstorming how I would get Marcelo Sanchez to talk to me again.  Undeniably, it would be foolhardy to go back to his apartment today with the disastrous meeting still fresh in his mind.  But maybe if I waited a week or so, his short-term memory would fail him and it would be like he was meeting me for the first time.  Tucking this idea away, I turned to the second name on my list: Jorge Canton.  Although he was no longer living, perhaps his family would talk to me.  I glanced at the address that Señora Marquez had printed for me.  The residence belonged to a woman named Jacinta Canton, presumably Jorge’s daughter or perhaps granddaughter.  It was a shot in the dark, but that’s all I was armed with at this point.  Gathering my composure and resolving to approach this next interview more professionally, I scurried out of my hotel room and down to the curb to hail a taxi.

***

In stark opposition to Marcelo Sanchez’s humble abode, Jacinta Canton’s home resembled a Spanish palace.  The garden was lined with lush flowers and whispering trees, and the three story house boasted two verandas with wicker patio furniture.  A neon blue Mercedes Benz was parked in the winding driveway.  Through the home’s broad bay window in front, I could see a young woman relaxing in an Ottoman with a book cradled in her hands.  Glancing over my shoulder to make sure the taxi driver was waiting like I had asked him to do, I lifted the heavy brass knocker and tapped it against the front door three times.  Nervously, I waited for someone to answer the door, trying not to dwell on how astronomical my cab bill would be if the interview turned into a lengthy visit.  But that notion was nothing more than billowing smoke in an absurd funhouse of mirrors because no one answered the door.

Craning my neck, I could see that the young woman with the book had risen from her chair, and I could even hear her light footsteps behind the door, but she didn’t admit me entrance.  Again, I knocked on the door, determined to speak with her and at least obtain some morsel of information.  But my knocks went unanswered for several frustrating minutes until I decided I better leave before she had me arrested for trespassing.  If the young woman was all alone in the house, then I could certainly understand why she wouldn’t want to answer the door.  Shifting into Plan B mode, I vowed to return to the library---when Señora Marquez wasn’t on duty---and find Jacinta Canton’s phone number.  Most likely the number would be private. Someone of her wealth wouldn’t likely be sharing her contact information with the world.  In that case, I would roll out Plan C and find another relative of Jorge Canton.

But all of those complications would have to wait, I decided as I walked back to the taxi and asked the surprised driver to take me to my hotel.  I couldn’t stall the investigation at the second name on my list.  No, I had to move on to David Garcia who, as Aunt Silvia’s illicit lover rather than boyfriend, might be the most likely suspect of all. 

As the taxi pulled up to my hotel, I lingered outside the doors, not ready to retire to my room and spend countless hours in that airless atmosphere.  Instead, I started to stroll aimlessly, exploring Barcelona for the first time as a tourist rather than a detective.  The whole city struck me as a work of art, and I could understand why it was a haven for painters, sculptors, and other creative souls.  Spanish sunlight beamed down on my face, soothing my constantly edgy nerves and making me happy in that shining moment just to be alive.

In my reverie state, I didn’t realize that someone was standing right in front of me trying to catch my attention.  “Aren’t you the new girl from the coffee shop?” A delightfully masculine voice inquired.

Emerging from my fog, I looked up into the handsome face of Eduardo whose strong features were even more appealing in close proximity.  In his toned arms, he carried that mysterious clipboard.  “Yes.  Hi, I’m  Marlena.”

“Eduardo.  Nice to meet you, Marlena.  You’ve definitely been brightening up that dull place,” he flattered as I resisted the urge to blurt out, really? More than the blonde roast you were chatting up?

“Thanks.” I lowered my eyelashes and focused on his clipboard.  “What’s that thing all about?”

“Ah, my clipboard?  Yeah, I work for the Environmental Protection Agency.  We’re trying to get signatures for a petition.”

Now my interest was piqued.  A beautiful man who cared about the environment?  Just the thought made me want to swear off styrofoam coffee cups and invest in a ceramic mug.  “What kind of petition?”

He pointed to a playground across the street.  “See that park right there?  Kids---and adults--- have been playing there since before you and I were born.  But some real estate moguls want to build a new condo complex there and get rid of the park.”

“Oh that’s awful!  Here, let me sign your petition.” I reached out my hand and accepted the pen he offered me.  As a New Yorker, issues like these were close to my heart as there was always some Donald Trump wannabe trying to impede on our limited open spaces and construct some new mega money maker.

“Great!  Thank you, Marlena.  Where are you from anyway?” He asked curiously.

I gazed up at him in surprise.  “How come you don’t think I’m from Spain?” I asked, slightly offended.

“Well, you definitely look Spanish.  But there’s a little accent in your voice.  Not much.  But it’s there,” he explained as I grinned.

“Okay, fair enough.  I’m from New York, but my whole family came from Spain.”

“Are your parents in New York too?” He asked innocently as my eyes clouded over with suppressed grief.

“No,” I said quietly.  I couldn’t bring myself to articulate how I had never known my father and how my mother had vanished like Houdini when I was 7 years old.  Couldn’t bear to explain why I had taken my grandmother’s last name, Falcon, because she was the only one who had truly cared for me during my lonely childhood.

“Oh, okay,” Eduardo said before mercifully changing the subject.  “Well since you’re from New York, could I give you a little tour of Barcelona? I’ve been here all my life and know all the best places to see.”

The single woman in me wanted to say yes, but the grieving granddaughter wouldn’t let her.  Touring Barcelona with Eduardo would be a pleasant diversion, but that was the problem.  Spending time with a man I found almost irresistibly attractive would derail me from my purpose for being in Spain.  And I simply couldn’t let that happen.

“Maybe another day.  Thanks,” I softened my rejection like a doughy biscuit.  “I have some things I need to do today.”

“Okay.  Another day it is,” Eduardo replied with a genial smile.  “Thanks for signing the petition.  I’ll see you around!” He waved to me as he walked away, immediately approaching a passing mother pushing a stroller and launching into a speech about saving the park.

I tried not to stare at him as I walked away, my plans for exploring the city abandoned.  The idea of walking around Barcelona by myself no longer seemed like much fun.  Hungry for companionship and conversation, I regretted not accepting Eduardo’s offer.  Another day it is.  I hoped with all my foolishly fluttering heart that he meant those words.

***

Speeding past the front desk inside the hotel, I grabbed a cup of coffee from the buffet on the way to my room.  One horrid sip and I wanted to spit it out like seeds at a summer watermelon contest.  Ugh.  The coffee must have been sitting in the pot since dawn.  Why hadn’t I grabbed a real cup on my way back to the hotel?  Grabbing a shortbread cookie from the buffet to wash out the horrendous taste, I opted to take the stairs to my room.  Walking a couple of blocks around the city wasn’t enough exercise for me.  Accustomed to intense kickboxing workouts to flush out my stress in New York, I settled for a race up the stairs and a sprint down the corridor.

The magnetic key card turned green as I slid the door open and slipped inside, just a little winded from my sprint.  Plunking my purse down on the armoire, I noticed a sheet of paper lying on the carpet a few inches away from the door.  Had I dropped something on my way out earlier?

Picking up the paper, I almost passed out as the words computed in my head:

STILL HERE? GLUTTON FOR PUNISHMENT?

Feeling like I was about to have a seizure, I tossed the paper away from me.  Just the sight and the touch of it made me frightened.  Had someone been in my room or was someone hiding in my room still?  Hastily, I yanked the door open and ran outside, my breath more ragged than it could ever get from the most strenuous kickboxing workout.  I raced towards the elevator, afraid to be alone in the stairwell.  As the elevator plunged down to the lobby, I contemplated how the passive-aggressive note had realistically gotten there.  Maybe someone hadn’t been in my room.  Maybe someone had just slipped the note under the door.  That seemed to be the more logical explanation, but it was little comfort to me.  The fact remained that someone was stalking me and trying to bully me out of Spain.  The first note at the front desk had already deeply disturbed me, but finding another mere steps away from where I slept was beyond alarming.

Rushing to the front desk, I tried to discern the face of the clerk, but it belonged to an employee I had never seen before.  “Call the police!” I exclaimed as he peered at me oddly.  “Please!  You have to take me seriously!  Call the police, damn it!”

Chapter 6

“Okay, please calm down, señorita,” the flustered desk clerk begged as he picked up the phone and presumably dialed the police.

“Give me the phone!” I yelled, grabbing the receiver out of his hands and explaining my predicament to the dispatcher.  “I was at the station the other day.  I spoke with Officer Calderon about a threatening note I received, but he didn’t take me seriously.  Now I’ve received another threatening note, and…”

“Hold one moment.  Officer Calderon is on duty.  I’ll see if I can get him on the phone,” the nasal voiced dispatcher announced as I clenched my hands into tight fists.

“No! I don’t want to talk to him again.  I want to talk to someone who will listen!” I protested, but the dispatcher had already put me on hold.

Shoving the phone in the desk clerk’s stunned face, I clipped, “Here.  Check me out.  I’m not staying at this hotel for another minute.”

Racing to the elevator, I punched the floor button aggressively, completely clueless about where I would go next.  But all I knew was that I had to get out of that hotel of horrors while I still could…before I came face to face with the writer of those menacing notes.  And I didn’t have time to plead with some careless police dispatcher to connect me with an officer other than the one who had virtually laughed in my face.

Inside my hotel room, I haphazardly threw my clothing and personal items into my carry-on bag, not caring what a mess I was making.  The inside of the suitcase reflected how I felt inside: chaotic, scattered, wild.  Disgustedly, I picked the note up off the floor and placed it in a zipper compartment of my purse.  Double checking that I had my passport and credit cards, I slammed the door and hurried back downstairs to settle my account.

The clerk took my credit card without uttering a single word.  Clearly, he perceived me as insane, but I didn’t care what he thought of me.  I just needed to transfer to a different hotel, someplace where I could be more anonymous and where my stalker hopefully wouldn’t follow.  Dragging my suitcase out into the waning afternoon sun, I rolled it up the block in the opposite direction of Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique.  Maybe my walk to work would be a little longer, or maybe I’d even have to take a bus, but I would deal with the inconvenience as long as I felt safe.

“We meet again!  So soon!” A cheerful deep voice exclaimed.  “Hey, are you okay?  Why are you racing down the street with your suitcase?”

I looked up into Eduardo’s concerned eyes, sorely tempted to spill my whole crazy story to him right there on the street.  More than anything, I needed someone to listen to me.  Someone who wouldn’t treat me like a mental patient. 

“Are you crying?” He asked softly as I dabbed my eyes in surprise, realizing that a few salty tears had found their way to my cheekbones.  “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but maybe there’s something I can do to help you?  It seems like you’re here in Barcelona all alone.”

“I am,” I replied.  You have no idea how alone I am, I wanted to add.  “Do you know of a quiet hotel around here?  The guests on my floor have been throwing parties every night and I haven’t slept at all,” I lied.

“Sure, I can get you to a quieter place.  There’s a little place called the Flores Inn a few blocks away.  My buddy’s father owns it.  The place only has about a dozen rooms, and I’m sure they’ll give you a discount if I bring you there.” Eduardo guided me towards a more serene area of the Gothic Quarter as I gratefully followed him.  Tourist traffic faded away, replaced by quaint park benches and undulating palm trees.

“Thank you so much,” I said, already feeling my system begin to calm.  Sure, Eduardo was a stranger as much as everyone else around me, but my instincts whispered that he wouldn’t harm me.  And my instincts about men were usually spot-on.

The Flores Inn was situated only a few blocks away, but the limestone building felt like a sanctuary in paradise.  Shaded by a lush overgrowth of trees and decorated in Mediterranean pastels, the inn beckoned to me like a lantern in a window on a December night. 

“I hope they have rooms available,” I mused.  “You said there were only 12, right?”

“Yeah, but this place hasn’t been doing too well.  It’s a little off the beaten path for most people.  So it usually has at least half the rooms available,” Eduardo said, opening the front door for me and wheeling my suitcase like a gentleman.

In spitfire Spanish, he told the old man at the makeshift desk that he had a guest to check in.  “Muy bien,” the white bearded man said with a smile.  “How long will you be staying with us?”

Nervously, I shifted my weight between my feet.  Truthfully, I had no idea how long I’d be checking in for.  At the hotel of horrors a few blocks away, I had booked my room for 30 days, so I figured I would do the same at the inn.  “I’ll be staying for the rest of the month.  At least.”

Eduardo arched a curious eyebrow as the inn owner happily accepted my credit card and gave me an old fashioned brass key to my room.  “First floor.  Only floor,” he laughed.  “End of the hall.  Enjoy your stay in Barcelona, and let me know if I may be of any assistance at all.”

His paternal presence at once warmed me and made me conscious of how much I had missed out on growing up without a father.  “Muchas gracias, Señor,” I breathed, feeling for the first time since touching down at El-Prat Airport that I could exhale…even just a little bit.

Turning to Eduardo, who looked like he wanted to ask me about a million and one questions, I said, “Thanks for bringing me here.  I think I’m going to sleep very well tonight.”

“De nada.  But it’s nowhere near bedtime.  How about having an early dinner with me?  There’s an amazing tapas restaurant a couple of doors down.”

Eduardo’s smoldering gaze melted my resolve and I heard myself say “yes.”

“Great! Let’s drop off your suitcase and go.”

Despite the abundance of trees surrounding the inn, plentiful sunlight streamed through the windows and everything around me was bright.  Including Eduardo’s sparkling pearl smile that I tried not to fixate on.  Depositing my cumbersome suitcase in the airy room, we headed out and strolled to Tapas de Pedro. 

The menu was mouth watering, and I wanted to sneak a taste of everything in the kitchen.  Fortunately, tapas menus were designed for the hungry sampler, and together with Eduardo I chose five different appetizers.

“Okay, so we’re ordering the garlic and chili shrimp, Manchego cheese quesadillas, wild mushrooms with sherry, olive sampler, and tuna tartare?  Did I get that all right?” Eduardo asked as I nodded enthusiastically.

“Sounds incredible,” I answered, trying not to drool onto the tablecloth.

“Perfecto.  And how about a pitcher of Sangria to wash it all down with?” Eduardo suggested as I nodded even more fervently.  As much as I loved coffee, I really needed a fruity glass of wine to savor and send me into oblivion.

A waitress took our order and brought out a pitcher of Sangria with wedges of herbed bread and olive oil for dipping.  Ravenously, I grabbed a thick triangle of bread and dunked it into the oil like it was a glazed donut in a piping mug of coffee.  We munched and sipped in comfortable silence until Eduardo posed the inevitable question.

“So what are you doing on your own in Barcelona?” He made his tone sound casual, but the intense expression on his face divulged a strong curiosity.

“I’m here on family business,” I said vaguely, already feeling the pleasant effects of the Sangria flow through my system.

“Private family business?” He asked politely but pointedly.

“Kind of,” I hedged, taking a gulp of ice water.

“Okay, I know it’s none of my business---and you obviously don’t want to tell me anything---but it’s just kind of unusual for a beautiful young woman to be checking into a hotel all by herself for a month,” Eduardo observed as I internally battled not to reveal the real reason for my sojourn.

“I guess it is unusual,” I conceded in a low murmur, shoving another piece of bread in my mouth.  Then the term ‘beautiful young woman’ clicked in my mind, causing me to blush and lower my gaze.  It wasn’t often that someone other than my grandmother had called me beautiful.  Pretty?  Occasionally.  Cute? Frequently.  But beautiful was a word that I wasn’t used to hearing.

As I ingested another piece of bread, Eduardo grinned at me and commented, “Good, isn’t it?”

“Delicious,” I agreed, embarrassed for wolfing the bread down like a barnyard animal.

“And you’re just going to keep me guessing?  Not going to tell me why you’re in Spain?  Mysterious little lady you are,” he drawled, pouring us both a refill of Sangria.

“I’m not trying to be mysterious.  I just don’t want to burden anyone.  My business in Barcelona is pretty heavy,” I said with a sigh, feeling the urge to be honest and not dance around his questions.

“Heavy in what way?” Eduardo pursued as I resolutely set my glass of wine on the table.

“I’m investigating a murder,” I informed gravely as he flinched in shock.

“A murder?” He repeated.  “Whose murder? Someone you know?”

“Not exactly.  Someone I never knew…but should have.” I sighed again, steeling myself against whatever reaction Eduardo would have to my intricate story.  If the tapas dinner turned out to be our first and last date, then I would have to view it as an opportunity to devote more time to my investigation. 

“I’m sorry, I’m not following you,” Eduardo said, muscling his dark eyebrows towards each other.

Slowly, I unfolded the whole story for him, starting with my grandmother’s wrenching deathbed plea.  Eduardo listened compassionately to every nuance I revealed, tilting his head to one side in a clear gesture of sympathy as I explained how indebted I felt to my grandmother.  As I told him about how the police had reacted to the threatening notes, he became visibly agitated.

“That’s terrible!  The police can be so useless.  Handing out parking tickets every minute of the day and then disappearing when there’s a real problem.” He shook his head furiously.  “I hope you kept those notes, Marlena.”

“I did.  But I don’t want to think about them right now,” I said with a shudder, desperate to forget everything for a few hours and drown my worries in cold Sangria and spicy appetizers...and Eduardo’s hypnotizing brown eyes.

“So you came all the way across the ocean to solve your aunt’s murder? Do you really think it’s possible?  I mean, so many years have passed.  Not to be negative, but it just seems a little far fetched…” Eduardo said gently.

“I know.  I’ve been thinking the same thing lately.  But I’m on a mission that’s bigger than me.  I’m not working with my own strength right now.  It’s my grandmother’s love that’s getting me through this,” I asserted as Eduardo gazed at me with obvious respect.

“It’s nice to talk to a girl who’s so family oriented.  There aren’t too many girls like that these days.”

“Not too many girls like that in Spain?” I asked doubtfully.

“Europe is changing,” Eduardo mused.  “Everywhere people are becoming less traditional and more self centered.”

“I guess you’re right,” I said, silently acknowledging how much I had sacrificed by quitting a six figure job.  But that was just money.  Honoring the memory of my grandmother was infinitely more valuable than any glitzy Manhattan job and wallet bulging salary.

Unexpectedly, Eduardo leaned forward in his chair and reached across the table to clasp my hand.  His gaze was spellbinding and the touch of his hand electrifying.  Craving more of his touch, I felt myself magnetically draw closer to the man. As the energy from his skin soothed me, I envisioned Nana smiling down on me and whispering, “See, mi amor, you were destined to come to Barcelona.”

Chapter 7

Nana’s whisper floated away into the ether as the deep timber of Eduardo’s voice took over.  “I’m glad I met you,” he said simply as I exhaled, realizing that he wasn’t going to kiss me.  But all the signs were flashing bright red that he wanted to.  Secretly, I longed to tell him how this was the best first date I had ever been on.  How first dates in Manhattan consist of cocktails and peanuts in a crowded bar, not delectable Spanish appetizers and wine in a stylish tapas restaurant. 

“Me too,” I replied softly as we reached for our wine glasses at the same time and took lingering sips.

Two hours later, my belly full of tapas and Sangria, I let Eduardo accompany me to the inn and safely see me to my room.  The place was eerily quiet after dark, like a haunted cemetery, and the windows only shone slices of moonlight.  At my doorstep, Eduardo looked uncertain about how he wanted to end the night.  My mind buzzed with possibilities: would he kiss me?  Hug me?  Just shake my hand? But he didn’t do any of those.

Caressing a stray tendril of my hair, he looked into my alcohol-glazed eyes and smiled.  “Are you working at the coffee shop tomorrow?” He asked huskily.

“Yes, I’ll be there for opening shift,” I responded, fiercely desiring to invite the man into my room.

“Good.  I’ll come by and visit,” he promised, pushing my wispy bangs out of my eyes and turning to leave.

“See you tomorrow!” I called after him, feeling like I had just crashed into cement after soaring on a cloud.

“Yes, you will,” Eduardo called over his shoulder as I shut the door to my room and leaned weakly against the wall, wishing Eduardo hadn’t left.

***

I had no trouble waking up the next morning even though my head was heavy from too much wine and my belly bloated from salty tapas.  The thought of seeing a familiar, and friendly, face at the coffee shop filled me with anticipation that bordered on pure glee.  Selecting a pair of sexy skinny jeans instead of my old pair that belonged in a Good Will bin, I applied a bit more make-up than usual in an attempt to look alluring rather than hungover.  Coffee was the last thing on my mind; what I needed was a bracing glass of ice water to flush all the Sangria out of my system and get my skin back to glowing.

The longer walk to Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique didn’t bother me at all, even though a steady drizzle and fog had settled over Barcelona.  Breezing through the door and waving a cheery hello to Luz, I automatically donned my apron and even dared to stand by the cappuccino machine.  My time in Spain was indefinite, and if I wanted to keep a steady cash flow, I would have to learn how to brew a good cup of coffee sooner or later.

“You’re in a good mood this morning,” Luz observed slyly.  “Could it be the gorgeous sunshine or something else?” She asked sarcastically as the rain started to barrel down in earnest.

“Hmmm, I don’t know,” I replied secretively, not wanting to taint my date with Eduardo by kissing and telling…okay, no, he hadn’t actually kissed me yet.  But he would.  Soon, if I had anything to say about it.  And I didn’t want to share my personal business with the chatty post-adolescent Luz although she already seemed certain that I was attracted to Eduardo.

“Fine, don’t tell me,” she said with a wink and a shrug.  “But I know it must have something to do with a man!”

“You’re right,” I sighed theatrically.  “Dario finally asked me on a date!” I quipped as she exploded into uproarious laughter.

“Ick! Dario! He’s old enough to be our grandfather! You’re loca, Marlena,” Luz teased through snorts of laughter.

We both sobered as the butt of our joke plodded into the room wearing an expression as dark as a storm cloud.  “Are you girls socializing?  Or working?” He demanded, reaching into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and cutting through the kitchen to find a dry place where he could smoke.

Unaffected, I made a test cappuccino, giggling as the foam flattened like a frisbee.  “How do I make the foam puffy?” I asked Luz hopelessly.

“I’ll show you.” She steamed a cup of milk until it had the thick consistency of whipped cream.  Then she topped the three layered coffee in an effortless swirl.  “See?  Now you just sprinkle some cinnamon on top.  And voilà.  A little work of art.”

“I think I can do that,” I said optimistically, trying my hand at a second test cup.

“That’s a little better!” Luz praised as the foam rose about half an inch.

“Very little,” I groaned, suppressing another giggle.

The door swung open as the first customer of the day jolted me out of my playful mood.  I huddled closer to the cappuccino machine as though the contraption could somehow shield me from the poisonous glare that was being cast my way.  Grabbing Luz’s apron strings and pulling her over to me, I whispered, “Do you know who that man is?”

She glanced over at him and rolled her eyes.  “One of the weird ones I was telling you about.  Don’t worry.  He stares at everybody.  But he’s harmless.  Been coming in here every day since I started working here last year and never bothered anyone.”

I wished that Eduardo would walk through the door so I could point out the “harmless” stranger to him.  Something in my gut told me that he had penned those blood red notes.  Whatever his name was.  From that moment on, I thought of him as Reptile Eyes.  What better nickname for such a cold, slimy man?  Then again, Luz didn’t seem to fear him at all and claimed that he stared at everyone…

Before I could ruminate any further on the disconcerting man and his nefarious intentions, he slipped out the door without another look in my direction.  “Huh? He just ups and leaves without even ordering a cup of coffee?” I muttered in bewilderment.

“I told you.  He’s weird.  He drifts in and out of here whenever he feels like it.  But he does order coffee most of the time, which is why Dario has never given him any grief,” Luz explained.

No sooner had the door closed than it opened again and in walked a man who elicited a very different reaction from me.  “Eduardo,” I whispered, my heart pounding.

Luz looked at me knowingly and poked me in the fleshy part of my upper arm.  “Looks like your lover man is here,” she giggled as I ignored her, all my senses consumed by Eduardo’s compelling presence in the room.

Carrying his clipboard and looking even more handsome than he did on our date, Eduardo quickly approached the counter.  “Good morning sunshine,” he drawled.  “At least your smile is shining today.”

I hadn’t even realized that I was smiling at him, but suddenly my jaw ached and I knew that I must have been grinning from ear to ear.  “I’m glad you came by,” I said intimately, even though Luz was standing right beside me and gawking.  “Can I get you some coffee?”

“I’d love a cappuccino,” Eduardo replied as I looked pleadingly at Luz.

“I’ll get your cappuccino,” Luz announced as I exhaled in gratitude.  I wasn’t about to risk a dreadful third test cup of cappuccino on Eduardo. 

“How are you doing with signatures?” I inquired, gesturing to his clipboard.

“I’m about halfway there.  We need a total of 5,000 and I’ve gathered up just about 2,500,” he informed.

“Well, why don’t you make that 2,501?” I suggested, turning to my co-worker.  “I’m sure Luz will support keeping the park alive.”

“Huh?” She asked, putting the finishing touches on his cappuccino.

“Just sign the petition,” I said boldly, feeling like a different woman in Eduardo’s presence.

“Did you sleep well last night?” He asked with concern.

“Very well,” I cooed.  “Thank you again for taking me to that inn…and to dinner.” I ignored the bulge of Luz’s eyes as I inadvertently revealed that Eduardo and I had been on a date.  Thankfully, though, she had the common sense to hand him his cappuccino and busy herself with cleaning the tables.  Still, I knew she was listening to our exchange with the cocked ears of a wolverine.

“No need to thank me.  I had a great time with you, Marlena,” he murmured as Luz halted her cleaning and shifted her head in our direction.  Chuckling at her indiscretion, Eduardo said, “Maybe we can talk someplace more private later? How about lunch after your shift is over?”

“I’d love to…” I started to say.  “But I can’t.  I have to keep working on my investigation.”

“Okay, well do you want any help?  Like I said, I know Barcelona.  And I can take you anywhere you need to go.”

I turned his offer over in my mind for a few beats before I gave him an answer.  Being chauffeured by Eduardo was infinitely more appealing than driving around town with Señora Marquez and her blabbering mouth or paying exorbitantly for a taxi.  Plus, I would nab some private time with Eduardo without the pressure of being on a date.  The answer was obvious.

“Actually, that would be great.  Thank you.  Today, I was going to drop by the family of a man named David Garcia.” I dug into my purse for the address Señora Marquez had researched for me.

“Okay, well this isn’t far at all.  Right here in the Gothic Quarter, in fact,” Eduardo remarked as I handed him the address.

“Great.  Well, I get out of here at noon,” I said in a rushed tone as I heard the thud of Dario’s footsteps approaching the counter.  “See you then?”

“Definitely.  I’ll swing back at noon.”

“Don’t forget Luz’s signature on your way out!” I winked as he chuckled and handed the girl his clipboard.

“Why aren’t you cleaning the tables with Luz?” Dario bellowed as he stomped into the room.

“I was serving the customers.  Someone has to be behind the cash register, right?” I asked rhetorically as he frowned disapprovingly.

“Get a rag and some bleach and clean the tables,” he ordered as I acquiesced, albeit with a stubborn frown on my lips.

“So you’re dating Eduardo?” Luz whispered as soon as my “lover man” had exited the shop.

“We went on one date.  I wouldn’t say I’m dating him,” I replied awkwardly, grabbing a spray bottle and dousing a crummy table with bleach.

“But he’s coming to pick you up at noon!” She blurted out shamelessly.  “That would make it your second date.”

“I wasn’t keeping a running tally,” I said dryly.

“And what was that investigation you were talking about?” She asked avidly.

“Never mind that.  Let’s just get this place cleaned up before Dario starts barking at us again,” I suggested, turning my back to her and wetting another table with chemical smelling cleaner.

Through the window I spied the glaring stranger with his nose pressed up against the glass.  Gasping, I grabbed Luz by the arm and whirled her around to look out the window.  But in the millisecond that it had taken me to grab her, Reptile Eyes had slinked away.

“That man! The weird one! He was just at the window looking at me again!” I cried as her features softened sympathetically.

“Relax, Marlena.  Now I think you’re seeing things.  Don’t be so scared of that old fool.  I told you, he’s harmless.”

“No, I don’t think he’s harmless.  Do you know what his name is?”

“I have no idea, and I don’t care,” she replied pertly. 

“I swear he was just at the window.  He even had his nose pressed into the glass!” I insisted as Luz stayed cool.

“Well, even if he was at the window, so what? The guy’s a freak.  He does freaky stuff.”

“The guy’s a freak but he’s harmless?” I snorted, wondering why Eduardo and the weirdo had to be like passing ships in the night twice within a matter of minutes.  Why couldn’t they be in the coffee shop at the same time so that I could get Eduardo’s more caring input?  As I sprayed another puddle of bleach onto the table, all I could see were the man’s predatory eyes.  He’s not harmless.  He’s out to get me.  Like a python getting ready to swallow its prey whole.

Chapter 8

Noon couldn’t come fast enough, and I started counting the minutes down at 11:00 am.  At 11:58, I was already untying my apron and letting my long hair flow loosely out of its ponytail.  Fears of Reptile Eyes had distracted me throughout the plodding morning.  But my spirits instantly soared when I spotted Eduardo waving to me from the sidewalk and patiently waiting for me.

“Have fun!” Luz winked as she bubbled the inane comment.  If only she knew that my mission in Barcelona was anything but “fun.”

“Thanks.  See you tomorrow? Or am I off? When do I get a day off from this place anyway?” I asked testily as she pointed to a schedule taped to the wall.

“Looks like you’re doing the sunrise shift again tomorrow, but then you’re off for two days,” she informed.

“Good.  I really need it.  I haven’t had a moment’s rest since I got to this country,” I complained under my breath, walking towards the door and the outside world where Eduardo awaited.

“You’re right on time.” I smiled at Eduardo as he led me to his white Renault and opened the passenger door for me.

“I’ve been thinking about you all morning,” he revealed as my smile turned shy.  Swinging around to the driver side and starting the engine, he asked, “Do you want to stop by the inn and change your clothes? Or should we get right to work?”

“Let’s get right to work,” I replied, handing him the address.  “Is this place in a nice section of Barcelona?” I queried, recalling the stark poverty of Marcelo Sanchez’s tenement apartment juxtaposed with the grand opulence of Jacinta Canton’s mansion.

“Middle class, I would say.  The houses are nothing to gawk at.  Just your average suburb,” Eduardo replied casually, switching on the radio to a Spanish pop station.  “What kind of music do you like?”

“Actually, jazz is my favorite,” I told him candidly as his eyebrows raised in surprise.  Laughing lightly, I explained, “I’m from New York.  Jazz is very popular there.  There are jazz clubs all over the city.  And I think I’ve been to about half of them.” Okay, I was exaggerating, but my twilight hours had frequently been spent unwinding with a wine spritzer and live jazz guitar performance.

“You really are different from most girls.  I’ve never met anyone our age who likes jazz.” Eduardo surfed the stations until he found a smooth jazz love song.

“Mmmm, that’s Al Jarreau,” I murmured.  “Love his music.” 

Through the dark pools of his deepset eyes, Eduardo stared at me with admiration.  As we drank each other in visually, I almost forgot about Reptile Eyes and how much terror he had been causing me.  Almost.  But not quite.

“Totally off the subject, but…do you know a strange older man who lurks around Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique?  You must have seen him.  He’s there every day.  Sometimes with a cup of coffee and sometimes just trolling around with an awful look in his eyes.” I fought off a tremor.

“What does he look like?” Eduardo asked, frowning.

“Balding.  I would say he’s somewhere in his fifties.  About 5’10” maybe.  And he has the creepiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m not sure, Marlena.  I see so many people in and out of that shop every day.  Why?  Is he bothering you? If he’s harassing you, then you should tell your boss.  Or the police.” Eduardo’s face revealed sincere concern.

I sniffed indignantly.  “My boss doesn’t care about anything except his cigarettes and profits.  And the police haven’t been any help to me, like I told you last night.”

“Do you think the guy at the coffee shop was the one who wrote those threatening notes?” Eduardo inferred.

“Yes, I do.  He gives me the dirtiest looks every time he sees me.  But no one at the coffee shop knows his name or seems to think he’s a problem.  I just think of him Reptile Eyes because he has the coldest, slimiest stare I’ve ever seen.  It’s almost inhuman.” My guard melted away in Eduardo’s caring presence as I made myself more vulnerable than I had since long before losing Nana.  If I were honest with myself, I would be forced to admit that my walls went up when I was 7 and my mother never came back home. 

“I’ll find out who he is.  You said he’s in there almost every day, right?” Eduardo asked as I nodded.  “Okay, I’ll come by the shop tomorrow morning.  You point him out to me.  Subtly.  Then I’ll give him my speech about saving the park and see if I can get him to sign my petition.”

“That’s a great idea! Thank you, Eduardo,” I gushed, reaching over to stroke his strong shoulder.

With a warm sideways glance, Eduardo demolished my walls into gravel.  “I think this is the place.” He pointed to a modest two story ranch home with a flourishing vegetable garden and wild berry bushes. 

My breath became shaky at the prospect of knocking on yet another stranger’s door.  I looked down at the paper at some notes that Señora Marquez had scribbled for me.  Maria Elena Garcia.  Daughter of David Garcia.  Divorced according to public records.

“Do you want me to come with you or wait in the car?” Eduardo asked congenially.

“Well, I want you to come with me, but I think the woman who lives here could be all alone.  So she may not answer the door if she sees a man outside,” I reasoned.

“No problem.  I’ll be right here.  Listening to some jazz.” He grinned and turned the radio volume up a notch.

“Thank you.  I think I owe you about a hundred cappuccinos for this.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said gruffly as I grinned back at him and opened the car door.

Silently rehearsing what I was going to say to the woman, I admired the green beans and bell peppers growing from her garden.  This had to be a more successful visit than my first two.  Maybe the fertile garden was a good omen.  Never a very superstitious person, I was nonetheless drawing at straws in my investigation and needed every ounce of encouragement I could seize.

Feeling mildly faint, I rang the doorbell and waited.  Footsteps clattered and stopped at the door as I felt instinctively that the person on the other side was gazing out of a peephole.  A tense moment passed as I fretted that I would be ignored again just like at Jacinta’s estate.  But slowly, the door moved open as an attractive woman with short raven waves looked skeptically at me.

“May I help you?” She asked in formal Spanish.

“Yes, I’m looking for Maria Elena Garcia.”

“I am Maria Elena.  Who are you?”

“May I come in?”

“Not until you tell me who you are.” The older woman stubbornly blockaded the doorway and crossed her arms over her chest.

“I’m Marlena Falcon,” I stated simply, sensing that she would slam the door in my face if I withheld my identity for another second.

“Falcon?” Her face paled just as Marcelo Sanchez’s had.  “You are related to Silvia Falcon?”

“Yes, she was my grandmother’s sister and…”

“And what do you want from me? Why are you at my house? How did you get my name and address?” The flurry of questions was like a blinding snowstorm where the direction to take is unclear.  I had no idea which question to answer first.

“Well…” I faltered.  “You know her murder has never been solved and…”

“And what does that have to do with me?!” Maria Elena demanded stridently as the wheels turned in my head at her intensely emotional reaction.

“I don’t know what it has to do with you.  Or if it has anything to do with you.  That’s what I’m trying to find out.  I know that she was involved with your father at some point.”

“Do not speak of my father! Your aunt Silvia was a homewrecker.  She ruined my parents’ marriage! My mother was never the same after that disgusting affair.” Maria Elena lashed out at me as though she had been bottling all this anger for the past 50 years.

“I’m sorry about the affair.  It was wrong of both of them,” I emphasized as her eyes blazed.  “I never knew my aunt Silvia.  And I’m sure she wasn’t perfect.  But she didn’t deserve to be murdered.  I just want to know…”

Maria Elena interrupted me ferociously, practically baring her teeth at me.  “I don’t care what you want to know! I’m not obligated to talk to you! Get off my property!” Lowering her voice, she sneered, “You know you look like that whore Silvia.  Except she was prettier than you.” With those crude words, the infuriated woman slammed the door in my face.

Defeated, I walked back to the car where Eduardo was humming along to a Grover Washington, Jr. song, completely oblivious of the hideous confrontation that had just taken place.  “That was fast,” he said.  “Any luck?”

“None whatsoever.  Unless you count bad luck.  I’ve had more than my share of that on this trip.” I slumped in the seat, feeling like Nana had asked me to grant an impossible request.  I wasn’t a magic genie or fairy godmother.  I was just an ordinary woman from the Lower East Side.  There were no mystical doves or secret messages in a bottle to help me solve this crime.  As much as it killed me to admit, I was beginning to see why the police had sealed the file on this murder.  If the weapon had been a pillow, there wouldn’t have been any blood evidence to work with.  And DNA science hadn’t yet come on the scene in the 1960’s.  So all they had to work with were circumstantial clues and an assembly of uncooperative suspects.

“Don’t worry.  Your luck will turn,” Eduardo said gently, switching off the radio.

“Maybe you can just drop me off at the inn.  I’m not feeling too well,” I said glumly as he pulled onto the main road.

“Are you sure? I had a nice spot picked out for us to have lunch.” Disappointment was crystal clear in Eduardo’s voice.

“That’s really sweet, but I just want to rest for the afternoon.  Can we take a raincheck?”

“Of course we can.” Somberly, Eduardo headed back to the heart of the Gothic Quarter as I slumped deeper into my seat.

As we passed by the coffee shop, I noticed Reptile Eyes seated at an outdoor table with a cup of espresso and a magazine.  “That’s the guy!” I motioned to the table as Eduardo slowed the car down.  “That’s the one who keeps staring at me!”

“Oh, I have seen him before!  Okay, I have an idea.” Eduardo parallel parked the car two blocks away from Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique and undid his seat belt.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Not you.  Just me.” He grabbed his clipboard from the backseat.  “I’m going to find out who this guy is.  You wait here.  Put your sunglasses on.  I don’t want him to see you.”

Discreetly, I slipped my sunglasses on as Eduardo dove out of the car to confront Reptile Eyes.

Chapter 9

Through the prism of my sunglasses, I tried to see what was going on between Eduardo and Reptile Eyes.  Smoothly, Eduardo appeared to have the man’s attention and had pulled up a chair at his table.  I watched as Eduardo spoke with animated hands, no doubt explaining the importance of preserving the park.  Reptile Eyes was nodding, the first glimpse of humanity I had ever witnessed on his face.  I held my breath as Eduardo handed the pen over and the man held it tentatively in his hands. Sign it, damn it!  Just sign it so I know who you are!

My whole body deflated with a relieved exhalation as Reptile Eyes signed the petition.  Staying in character, Eduardo shook hands with the man and then approached another passerby on the street.  Hurry, Eduardo!  I didn’t think I could stand the suspense another minute.  But Reptile Eyes seemed to be watching Eduardo’s every move. Getting a few more signatures would make Eduardo seem authentic and prevent Reptile Eyes from seeing through the guise of a park petition. Hopefully. I touched my hand to my forehead, feeling a tension headache shoot through my temples. 

Finally, Eduardo started walking in the direction of the car just when I thought my head might split open.  “Well, what’s his name?” I demanded as Eduardo was sliding onto the seat.

Prudently, he closed the door and sound proofed the car before stating, “Jorge Canton.”

“What?!” I shrieked, my tension headache transforming into a migraine.  “Jorge Canton? That’s impossible! Let me see the petition!”

Eduardo leaned over and pointed to the signature on the petition.  “Why do you seem so shocked by that name?”

“Because Jorge Canton is dead!  And if he were alive, he wouldn’t be in his fifties!  He would be much older!”

“Okay, relax, take it slow and tell me who Jorge Canton is…or was.” Eduardo merged onto the road and made a U-turn towards the Flores Inn.

“He’s one of the names on the list that my grandmother gave me.”

“Okay, and what was his relationship to your aunt?” Eduardo asked calmly as my nerves continued to race.

“He was her boyfriend.  But my aunt was 26 when she was murdered.  That was 52 years ago, so she would be 78 if she were alive today.  How could that man have been her boyfriend?  He was born around the time she was murdered.” I figured the math as my head throbbed.

“Okay, obviously that Jorge Canton is not the same one who your aunt dated.  Maybe he could be the son?  Jorge Canton, Jr.?” Eduardo reasoned as a lightbulb switched on in my head.

“Jorge Canton, Jr.  That makes perfect sense!” My thrill at making the connection was short-lived as deep dread circulated through my blood.  “If that Reptile Eyes really is Jorge Canton, Jr., then it hasn’t been my imagination that he’s been singling me out.  He must have a reason to be giving me those evil looks and he must be the one behind those notes.”

“I think so too, Marlena.  I got a very creepy feeling from the guy when I was talking to him.  He was looking at me yet sort of looking through me.  I can’t explain it.  We need to go back to the police with those notes and see if they can trace any DNA evidence on them.” Eduardo pulled into the parking lot of the inn and regarded me gravely.

“But the notes have been exposed to all sorts of things that could have corrupted the DNA.  Probably the only DNA on them at this point belongs to me.”

“Well, we at least have to try.  In fact…” Before I could protest, Eduardo was jerking the car into gear and cruising out of the parking lot.

“Are you taking me to the police station?” I asked wearily, dreading another fruitless exchange with Officer Calderon or one of his uncaring colleagues.

“Yes.  Look, if the Jorge Canton who signed my petition really is the son of the man who dated your aunt, then we have a prime suspect on our hands.”

“Not a prime suspect for my aunt’s murder! Unless you’re trying to tell me that a baby committed the act!” I protested as Eduardo chuckled humorlessly.

“Of course not.  I meant that he’s a prime suspect for being the writer of those notes.  And his father may have been somehow linked to the crime.  What I don’t understand is how he knows who you are.  You’ve never spoken to him, right?”

“Never,” I confirmed as Maria Elena’s words rang in my head.  You know you look like that whore Silvia.  Except she was prettier than you.  “I’ve been told that I resemble my Aunt Silvia.  Maybe he’s seen pictures of her and put two and two together.  There were so many newspaper articles published about my aunt after her murder.  And there was an obituary.  And now some of the articles might be available online in news archives.” I thought of the images I had seen of Aunt Silvia in Nana’s photo albums and had to admit that there was a strong family resemblance. 

“Okay, you need to explain all this to the police.  From the beginning.  Come on, let’s go.” Eduardo parked the car in the police lot and gave my hand an affirming squeeze.  Our romantic tapas dinner seemed billions of miles away as I braced myself for another exasperating session with law enforcement.

“Ah, didn’t I see you here the other day?” The dispatcher asked as I walked ahead of Eduardo into the station.

“Yes.  I need to speak with a police officer.  Anyone but Officer Calderon.  Please,” I entreated as she gave me an amused look and paged for an officer.

“I can’t promise you who will answer my page,” she said snootily.

To my relief, an older police officer came to the front of the station and immediately led us to a private room.  “I’m Detective Mendez.  What seems to be the trouble?”

Detective?  I wanted to leap up and give the man a huge bear hug.  Glancing over at Eduardo for an infusion of strength and finding it in his gentle gaze, I cleared my throat and unloaded the whole complex story.  I wasn’t sure if it was because the officer was older or because I had a man with me, but he seemed to take me far more seriously than Calderon had.  There wasn’t a trace of humor in his features or sarcasm in his voice as he spoke.  “Do you have the notes with you?”

“Yes, I think they’re in my purse.” Against my will, my eyes began to water with gratitude for finally being taken seriously.  Trying to rein in my tears, I passed the note across the table, surprised when Detective Mendez refused to touch it.

“This is evidence, Señorita Falcon.  It can’t have my fingerprints on it.” Slipping on a pair of gloves, the detective grasped the papers in his hand before sliding them into individual plastic bags.  “There.  No one else’s hands will touch these.  They’re going straight to the crime lab.”

“So you’re actually going to help me and not turn me away?” I asked as some of the pressure released in my temples.

“Of course I’m going to help you.  That’s my job.  But besides, I’m very familiar with the murder of Silvia Falcon.  It’s a case that I’ve tried to get reopened over the years, but no one has been in my court.  This homicide needs to be solved once and for all.  If we let it go another 50 years, there won’t be anyone left to bring to justice.” The detective spoke passionately, stirring my emotions even more.

“But even right now, we might not be able to bring anyone to justice.  My aunt’s murderer may very well be deceased,” I pointed out.  “You still want to reopen this case even if there’s no one to prosecute?” I held my breath until the detective replied.

“Absolutely.  The actual perpetrator may indeed be deceased, but there could be people still alive who have kept secrets all these years when they were legally obligated to share information with the police.  If that’s the case, those people can be prosecuted for conspiracy,” Detective Mendez said confidently.

At that point, someone really should have restrained me because I was a heartbeat away from clobbering the detective with affection.  “Okay, so what do I need to do next?  How can I help?” I asked eagerly.

The detective gave me an avuncular look and said softly, “You don’t need to do anything now, Señorita Falcon.  Leave everything to me and my team of professionals.  What you did by knocking on people’s doors and basically accosting them for information was very dangerous.  Stay in the background now and let the police do all the heavy lifting.”

The detective’s advice was undeniably wise, but I’ve never been the type to sit still and be passive.  I couldn’t just go back to the inn and wither away watching Spanish sitcoms until there was a break in the investigation.  I needed to play an active role in solving the crime.  With a rebellious upturn of my chin, I argued, “But I really want to help.  And I need to know if you think our theory is right…that the man who’s been staring me down is really Jorge Canton, Jr.”

“Oh he certainly is,” the detective confirmed as I flinched with surprise.

“How do you know for sure without researching it?” Eduardo interjected, equally surprised by the detective’s certitude.

“The Cantons are a wealthy and influential family in Barcelona.  Not only is there a Jorge Canton, Jr., but there’s also a Jorge the third.  That family practically has a dynasty running around Barcelona,” the detective revealed.

“But how do you know the man who signed my petition is part of that family?  Couldn’t he be somebody else?” Eduardo pressed.

“Not likely.  Jorge Canton, Jr. is known to troll around coffee shops in the city.  And not just coffee shops.  Bars too.  And movie theaters.  People usually assume he’s homeless.  We’ve gotten quite a few calls at the station about the ‘homeless guy who won’t go away.’  People have no idea how loaded he is.  The guy’s got nothing better to do than waste his days sipping espresso at Dario’s shop.” Detective Mendez rose from his chair, carrying the two plastic bags in his hand.  “These are on their way to the crime lab,” he announced with satisfaction. 

“But you’re going to look into Canton’s history no matter what the lab results are, right?” Eduardo checked.

“Absolutely.  And I’m also going to look into the Falcon family history in Barcelona.  When the murder occurred, everyone assumed it was one of Silvia’s lovers who had committed the act.  No one ever looked into whether Silvia’s family had any enemies in Barcelona.”

“You mean that the murderer could have been someone with a vendetta against my family and not Silvia personally?” I clarified.

“Perhaps.  I’m keeping all doors open right now.  But the door I’m going to open the widest is the one that leads to the Canton mansion,” Detective Mendez assured.

“I think I was at that mansion the other day when I tried to interview Jacinta Canton,” I said, recalling how she had refused to open the door to me.  Maybe she hadn’t been afraid of intruders.  Maybe she had recognized my face and didn’t want to be subject to my interrogation.

“Yes, Jacinta is the granddaughter of Jorge, Sr.  And Jorge, Jr. is her father,” Detective Mendez explained the lineage that was becoming more complicated by the second.  In my mind, I sketched a family tree and saw the branches blowing wildly in the wind.

Chapter 10

“I guess we can go,” Eduardo said softly to me as I was still mentally compiling a family tree.  “I think the case is in good hands now.”

“Thank you, young man,” Detective Mendez said with a modest bow of his head.  Yes, the investigation was in the best hands it had been in for half a century.  I felt sure of that.

“Thank you so much, Detective Mendez.” Taking a slip of paper out of my purse and scribbling some digits on it, I requested, “Please call me on my cell phone as soon as you find out anything.  Even the tiniest detail.  I want to know about it.”

“Keep that ringer on high.  I will definitely be getting in touch with you.  Even if I don’t have much to report, I’ll be in touch within 24 hours just to touch base,” the benevolent detective promised.

“I really can’t thank you enough,” I said solemnly.

“Well, I hope you’re going to have real reason to thank me soon.  I’m going to make it my business to get this case cracked once and for all.” He assumed a peacock stance, and I could tell that Detective Mendez’s male ego wouldn’t let him abandon the case until every detail had been deciphered.  “By the way, don’t go back to work at the coffee shop right now.  Just lay low while I’m investigating Jorge Canton, Jr.’s connection to all this,” he advised firmly.

“Okay, I was supposed to work tomorrow, but I won’t go…”

“Don’t go back there at all right now.  Just heed my warning on that,” the detective’s tone turned paternal as I softened and nodded.

“I won’t go back there,” I assured.  So what if I would have to dip into my savings to support myself? With a competent investigator on the case, I estimated that I might only need to spend about a month’s worth of savings until I could fly back home to New York.  Or at least that’s what I hoped.

The detective shook my hand and Eduardo’s as we turned to leave.  “Should I take you back to the inn now? Or did you have a change of heart about lunch?” Eduardo asked once we were out in the fresh air.

“You’re very sweet.  And persistent.” I grinned at him.  “But I’m beat.” It was true, although I didn’t know which type of exhaustion I felt more: mental or physical.

“No problem.  I should get back to the office and enter the new petition signatures into the computer,” Eduardo said with a groan.

“You have an office?” I joked.  “You mean you don’t just roam the streets of Barcelona like a nomad with a clipboard?”

Chuckling, he replied, “I wish I did.  Being at the office is such a drag.  What I’ve really always wanted to do is open a coffee shop.  Green, of course.  Solar powered.  With recyclable cups and the whole deal,” Eduardo revealed as my eyes brightened with surprise.

“Wow, really? Do you make a good cup of coffee?”

“The best,” he bragged charmingly.  “I would just need a business partner to handle the financial end of things.”

“Then maybe we should go into business together,” I drawled.  “I was a sales VP back in New York, you know.”

Eduardo looked at me intently and said, “Then we would make a great team.”

“I was just joking, Eduardo! I love my coffee, but the last thing I want to do is run a business where I have to wake up every day while the moon is still out!” I laughed as Eduardo half-heartedly joined in.  Did he really think we would make a good team?  We hardly knew each other, although I did have that inexplicable déjà vu sensation with Eduardo that I had heard people talk about but had never personally experienced.  Wryly, I thought to myself how awful it would be if Eduardo turned out to be some long lost Spanish cousin. 

When we arrived at the inn, Eduardo seemed reluctant to let me go.  Slowly, he turned the engine off and unclicked his seatbelt.  “Let me walk you inside.”

“I’ll be okay.  It’s broad daylight…”

“I’m walking you inside,” he asserted as I shut my mouth and let him come around to the passenger side to open my door.

Passing by the reception area, we waved simultaneously to the owner who reciprocated with a wide, knowing smile.  He probably assumed that Eduardo and I were lovers, which was exactly what I wanted if I were being truthful with myself.  But it was much too soon for that kind of intimacy.  Besides, we could be cousins, right?

At the door to my room, Eduardo lingered, towering over me and drawing closer until his lips were hovering centimeters above mine.  Oh, how much sweeter it would be to kiss him now than after those potent garlic chili shrimp.  This was the perfect moment, and the chemistry crackled so fiercely that I knew there was no way he could be anywhere in my bloodline.

“I guess I should go,” Eduardo whispered as his breath touched my face. 

“Not yet,” I ordered softly, standing on my toes in an open invitation for a kiss.

Tenderly, deliciously, and much too briefly, he kissed my lips.  Crackling chemistry turned explosive in the fleeting moment that our mouths touched.  Just as I was twining my arms around his neck to bring him closer, he started to pull away.

“I better let you get some rest,” he said reluctantly.  “How about breakfast tomorrow?”

“I would love that,” I breathed.

“Good.  I’ll come by around 8:30.  Sleep in a little bit.” Eduardo placed a hand over my cheek and stroked my skin softly before hesitantly walking away.

***

Two hours later, I awoke from a well earned nap, stretching and yawning in bed.  That brief space of unconsciousness had been necessary for me to refresh and not think about the investigation.  Not think about anything.  But now I was wide awake and wired even without a caffeine jolt.  Grabbing a spiral notebook and sharpened pencil from my suitcase, I jotted down the names of the three prime suspects in my aunt’s murder.  Next to their names, I recorded my gut instincts about their involvement in the crime.

Marcelo Sanchez.  Sad old man, bitter, lonely, dejected.  Not likely the perpetrator.  Jorge Canton, Sr.  Highly suspect.  Shady family.  Detective Mendez, please do your job and figure this family out.  David Garcia.  A wild card.  As a cheating married man, he had more motive than anyone else.  But did he do it?

All roads seemed to lead back to Jorge Canton, Sr., but I couldn’t establish a motive.  Yet.  Then my line of thinking shifted to other possible suspects.  The murder hadn’t been overly violent or gruesome.  The weapon of choice had been a pillow.  Perhaps that meant that the smothering had been carried out by a woman who might have been squeamish about the sight of blood?  But I wasn’t sure if that theory held much weight.  After all, how squeamish could a murderer be? Supposing the murderer had been a woman, though, opened up a whole new Pandora’s Box of suspects.  David Garcia’s scorned wife could have been the murderer.  Perhaps Jorge Canton, Sr., had been dating multiple women and one of them had become enraged with jealousy over his relationship with Aunt Silvia.

I sighed in massive frustration, feeling like I was a hamster running around on a wheel that wouldn’t stop.  Ripping the page out of my notebook and crumpling it up, I leaned back against the pillows and stared listlessly up at the ceiling.  As I was contemplating how to spend the rest of the long, lonely day until nightfall, my cell phone rang and vibrated on the nightstand. 

“Hello?” I held my breath, hoping to hear Detective Mendez’s voice on the other end, and I wasn’t disappointed.

“Señorita Falcon?  This is Detective Mendez.” His voice sounded deeply troubled. 

“Yes? Do you have any news for me?” I asked breathlessly.

“I’d like you to come down to the police station so we can talk in person,” he replied mysteriously.

“Why? You can’t tell me anything over the phone?”

“I think this discussion would be better face to face. Can you be here in half an hour?”

“I can be there in 15 minutes! Let me just go grab a cab! I’m on my way!”

If I had glanced in the mirror, I would have seen the telltale signs of a nap railroad tracked all over my face.  But I didn’t have any time for vanity.  I could barely contain myself as I wondered what information Detective Mendez could have unearthed in the short hours since I had left the station with Eduardo.  It was too soon for the notes to have come back from the crime lab.  That process could take weeks even when expedited.  What could Detective Mendez possibly have learned in three hours that no one else on the police force had been able to uncover in 50 plus years?

Exactly twelve minutes later, I handed a wad of Euros to the cabbie and dashed into the police station.  Detective Mendez came out to greet me immediately, a stony expression chiseled into his features.  “Come with me, Señorita Falcon.  We need to talk.”

My heart was beating madly and my throat felt scratchy.  Sitting across from the detective at a wobbly round table, I grabbed for a glass of water and sipped.  But the water did little to tame my throat, and nothing could soothe my nerves until Detective Mendez explained why he needed to talk to me.

“Please, Detective Mendez.  Please tell me what you found out,” I begged as he opened a file folder and then closed it again, driving me to the brink of insanity.

“To your knowledge, has anyone in your family traveled to Barcelona since your aunt was murdered?”

The detective’s question caught me completely off guard.  What did my family have to do with anything? Certainly, he wasn’t insinuating that any of my relatives could have murdered Silvia?  Defiantly, I replied, “No. Not to my knowledge.  As for me, this is my first time ever in Spain.  And my grandmother could never bring herself to come back after her sister was murdered.”

“I see.  And what was your grandmother’s first name?” The detective probed as my impatience skyrocketed. 

“Margarita,” I said tightly, daring him with dagger-spewing eyes to just try and accuse my Nana of any misdeed.

“I’m not accusing your grandmother of anything, Señorita Falcon.” He accurately read my eyes. “Please don’t misunderstand.  In fact, it’s someone in the generation between you and your grandmother that I’m concerned with here.  But not as a suspect.  As another victim,” the detective replied cryptically as I felt a small measure of relief to know that no one in my family was under suspicion.  But what was he talking about, the generation between my grandmother and me?

“I’m not following you at all,” I said as a vein pulsed in my jaw.

“In March of 1992, a woman by the name of Angelita Falcon disappeared in Barcelona.  She was officially declared dead more than a decade ago, but no remains have ever been found, and we’ve never been able to reach her family.”

Gut clenching nausea swirled around in my stomach as I whispered, “Angelita Falcon? She was my mother.”

Chapter 11

Tears flooded my eyes as Detective Mendez quickly handed me a tissue.  “That’s what I was afraid of,” he said quietly. 

“But I don’t understand! My mother abandoned me when I was 7 years old! I never knew she came to Barcelona.  My grandmother never told me anything about that.” I felt my entire world and security crash down in pointy shards of glass all around me, digging cruelly into the center of my heart.

“And you’re 29 now?” The detective figured.  “That would match up with the timeline of Angelita’s disappearance.”

Wiping my eyes dry, I tried desperately to come up with an explanation for why my mother would have traveled to Barcelona alone…and why my grandmother had never told me.  Maybe my mother had come to solve Aunt Silvia’s murder just like I was doing?  And maybe she hadn’t told my grandmother because she knew her plan would be met with disapproval.  Utterly disillusioned, I vaguely watched as the detective reopened the file folder.

“I know this is very emotional for you.  And a huge shock.  But would you like me to tell you what else I found? Angelita’s disappearance is just the tip of the iceberg.”

“I’m listening,” I heard myself say, still lost in my inner world and feeling like an abandoned child all over again.  For my entire life, I had believed that my mother had walked out to start a new life without the burden of a daughter.  It was crushing to think how my mother might actually have wanted me and was stolen from me.

“Alright.  Let me just start by saying that I don’t know how all this was kept under the radar all these years.  But if any of the police officers who worked here decades ago hadn’t retired, they’d be fired and hauled to the curb.” Anger flared in Detective Mendez’s eyes.

“What do you mean? Has there been some sort of cover up?”

“I have reason to believe there has.  And I have reason to believe that Jorge Canton’s money paid for it.”

“Please.  Just start from the beginning.  I’m not understanding any of this.” Suddenly, the pressing issue was no longer learning who had killed Aunt Silvia.  I wanted to know what happened to my mother.

Detective Mendez took a big gulp from the coffee mug set in front of him.  Exhaling thickly, he began the story.  “According to the file I have here, Angelita Falcon was last seen with Jorge Canton, Jr.  Ironically, they were spotted having coffee together at Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique.”

My blood boiled at the detective word’s, and I knew he was only just warming up.  I wasn’t sure if I could contain my fury until he reached the end of his story.  Then, I remembered Dario’s offhanded comments to me when he hired me to work in his shop.  You look kind of familiar. Have I seen your face before? Sadly, I realized that he must have seen my mother all those years ago and her face had remained etched in his memory. “Go on,” I gritted, sickened to think of my mother interacting with Reptile Eyes or Dario. 

“For some reason---again, I’m guessing because of a shady payoff---that part of the story ends there.  No one pursued your mother’s disappearance, unfortunately.  The missing persons report was typed up in a hurry and the case was sealed within a week of her vanishing.” Detective Mendez’s weathered features contorted as he conveyed the injustice of it all.

“Okay, let me get this straight.  A beautiful young woman vanishes in Barcelona.  There are witnesses who actually saw her with a man who has been positively identified.  And then the case just goes cold? Was Jorge Canton, Jr. ever even questioned?” I demanded, already starting to piece the puzzle together in my head. 

My mother must have come to Barcelona to search for clues in Aunt Silvia’s murder.  Reptile Eyes had probably noticed the family resemblance---just as he had with me---and then killed my mother.  But why would he kill my mother?  Only if someone in his family had been responsible for Aunt Silvia’s death.  My guess is that the perpetrator was his father.  Junior likely knew that his father had committed the crime and was trying to protect him.  My mother’s presence in Barcelona was a threat to the Canton family’s wealth, prestige, and freedom.  Snuffing her life out had bought Jorge Canton, Sr. freedom until he died of natural causes as an elderly man. 

My poor grandmother probably never even knew that my mother had come to Spain and wrongly assumed that she abandoned me.  But why would she jump to that conclusion? That part didn’t make sense.  Wouldn’t she have filed a missing persons case in New York?  Gaping holes still left the puzzle unresolved.

“Unfortunately, that’s correct.  The case went by the wayside.  But Jorge Canton, Jr. isn’t going to walk free for much longer, I wager.  As of this moment, there are officers at his mansion conducting an interview.  And the police department has obtained an emergency search warrant to comb through his entire estate.” Detective Mendez took another thirsty gulp of coffee and pointed to his mug.  “I don’t care how many cups of coffee I need to drink to see this case through to arrest.  I’m not going to let two women’s deaths go unpunished.” A deep craving for justice was evident in the detective’s impassioned features and voice.  My confidence in the man was effectively restored, and I believed with every fiber of my being that he would solve both crimes or die trying.

“I just don’t understand why my grandmother thought my mother abandoned me.  Are you telling me that no one ever contacted my grandmother in the United States?” I asked, haunted by the idea that my grandmother could have let her only daughter go so easily. 

“Your grandmother, Margarita, was given misinformation.  Basically, she was lied to.  According to this file, it says that your mother made a phone call to her family in New York stating that she was moving in with a man she had met in Spain.”

“What?! That can’t be true!”

“I don’t think so either.  My guess is that it’s part of the cover-up.  The phone call could have been made by your mother under duress.  Or it could have been made by a woman posing as your mother.  Who knows what kind of phone connection they had across the Atlantic? Your grandmother might have thought she was speaking with her daughter when in fact she was being tricked,” Detective Mendez laid out his theories that seemed completely logical to me.

“So my grandmother was lied to? She was made to believe that my mother had met some random guy, fallen in love, and abandoned us forever?” I shook my head despairingly, half sad for how my grandmother had been deceived and half furious with her for being so gullible.

“Listen, I’ve just given you an earful.  Why don’t you go back to your hotel and rest a little?  I won’t be going home tonight.  I have a lot of work to do.  But you shouldn’t have to deal with all of this.  I’ll get you a taxi so you can just rest,” Detective Mendez offered gently as tears cascaded from my eyes.

As I was mulling over his fatherly recommendation for me to go rest in my room, a cell phone ringing made me jump.  But it wasn’t my cell phone.  “What the hell is going on?” Detective Mendez barked into his phone.  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me! Well, who’s on it?  Are there squad cars trying to catch him? Don’t you even think about letting him get away now after we’ve come so close to nailing him!” Detective Mendez huffed in exasperation as I inferred that somehow Reptile Eyes had slithered away. 

“And what about the girl?” He continued in a booming decibel.  “Do you have her cornered? Oh, so she’s cooperating?” A lengthy pause followed his question.  A minute later, Detective Mendez drawled, “Well good, it’s about damn time.”

Slipping the phone into his pants pocket, he said triumphantly, “We’ve got a confession.”

“From Jorge?” I probed.

“No, from his daughter, Jacinta,” he replied with satisfaction.

“Jacinta? But she’s too young to have been involved with any of this!” I had only gotten a glimpse of the woman when she wouldn’t let me into her mansion, but just from that one look I knew she couldn’t be more than my age.

“Not too young to have written and delivered those threatening notes.  Of course, all at the urging of her father,” Detective Mendez explained.

“It was Jacinta who wrote those notes?” I marveled, sitting back in my chair.

“Yes, she confessed to it about an hour ago.  The cops had her surrounded at her palace,” he sneered.  “But Jorge got away.  For now.”

“What else did she tell the cops?”

The detective’s face morphed into somberness and compassion again.  “She told them who murdered your aunt.  And your mother.”

“Who?” I whispered, although I felt almost 100% sure that Jorge, Sr. had killed my aunt and Jorge, Jr. had murdered my mother.

“Not surprisingly, Jorge, Jr. murdered your mother.  But, according to Jacinta, it was Mrs. Canton who murdered your aunt Silvia.”

“Mrs. Canton?”

“Yes, the wife of Jorge, Sr.  Jacinta’s grandmother.”

“So Jorge, Sr. was married at the time that he was dating my aunt?” I asked doubtfully, recalling how my grandmother had specifically designated him as Aunt Silvia’s boyfriend.

“He was indeed married.  And running around with several women.  Your aunt Silvia was the unlucky one who the jealous wife found out about and subsequently murdered.” Detective Mendez poured himself another cup of coffee.

“And he probably lied to my aunt Silvia, telling her he was single,” I surmised.  “What made Jacinta reveal all this now?”

“Who knows? A guilty conscience for keeping these filthy family secrets all these years.  Or maybe fear.  It’s not every day that a spoiled rich girl encounters a pair of police officers in her castle.” Detective Mendez shrugged, clearly unconcerned with how the information had been obtained.  To him, and to me, the crucial detail was the fact that the information had been secured at all. 

“But what about Jorge, Jr? Do you think he could make it out of Barcelona?” I asked wearily.  Nothing would gratify me more than to visit the reptile in prison and stare him down like hunted prey…the way he had made me feel.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” the detective seethed.

“And will Jacinta be going to jail?”

“Of course,” he replied, triumph creeping back into his voice.  “She won’t serve a whole lot of time, most likely, if she cooperates with the prosecutor’s office once this mess goes to trial.  But she committed more than one crime.  Harassment, terrorist threats, and conspiracy for starters.”

“Good.  Let the whole family rot in jail.  Except for Mrs. Canton, right? I mean, is she dead?”

“She is dead.  Unfortunately, we can’t bring her to justice, but I’ll bring her son to justice if it’s the last thing I do,” Detective Mendez swore.

His cell phone rang again as he hastened to answer it.  “Yeah? What now?”

I sucked in a nervous breath as Detective Mendez went silent and listened to the caller.  An irregular heartbeat later he murmured in a tone of pure astonishment, “Are you sure? That can’t be possible!”

Chapter 12

Outrage rocked the detective’s frame as he compressed his jaw and listened to whatever shocking news the caller was conveying.  I looked at him, trying to read his expression like tea leaves and coming up empty.  All I could discern was that he looked to be on the edge of a violent outburst.

Still reeling from the knowledge about what happened to my mother, I wanted to curl up into a ball and cry until my tears evaporated.  I felt doubly betrayed regarding my mother: first because she had been physically robbed from me and second because my memories of her had always been tainted.  I had spent all of my teen years despising her and thinking she had consciously left me.  If only I had known that in reality my sweet mother had been lured to her death by Reptile Eyes.

Finally, Detective Mendez set his cell phone on the table, bolting out of his chair and pacing the room.  “I can’t believe I have to give you more bad news!” he fumed.

“Nothing could be worse than the news you’ve already given me,” I said honestly.

Taking a seat across from me, he sighed roughly before speaking.  “Jorge Canton, Jr. has just committed suicide.  He drove his car into the Besós River a short while ago.” Before I had a chance to react, the detective’s phone was ringing again.  Practically foaming at the mouth, he answered the call.  “Yeah? What now?” He punched the table with his fist.  “All I know is that there better be a body.  Make sure you recover a body! I don’t want that bastard playing magician and trying to escape prosecution.  Either he’s dead or he’s in prison.  But he’s not going to walk the earth as a free man anymore!” Detective Mendez slammed the phone down on the table, swearing under his breath. 

“What a coward,” I whispered in disgust.  “He couldn’t stand the thought of leaving his palace and going to prison, so he killed himself.  What a pathetic coward.”

“Scum of the earth,” Detective Mendez added. 

“And they haven’t recovered his body yet?”

“They’re working on fishing his car out of the river.  But his body will be in a morgue by sundown.  I’ll make sure of it.” Detective Mendez jumped out of his chair and retrieved a chain of car keys from his pocket.

“Are you going down to the river?”

“Yes.  I’m going to make sure this thing gets done right.” Shelving his fury for a moment, he put a gentle hand on my shoulder and said, “Go back to your hotel room.  Like I said before, you need rest.  You’re a very courageous young woman.  If you hadn’t come to Barcelona, these crimes never would have been solved.”

“I guess that’s true,” I said softly.

“It is true.  And you put your own life on the line to do it.  I don’t even want to think what would have happened if Canton had gotten to you.”

“Neither do I.” A shudder afflicted my bones.

“Now there’s nothing else for you to do…except move on with your life.  But that may be even harder than anything else you’ve done so far,” he predicted wisely.

“That’s for sure,” I replied, standing up and strapping my purse around my shoulder.  “These murders never would have been solved without you either, Detective Mendez.  I’m very grateful for your help.”

Shaking my hand warmly, he promised in an ice cold tone, “I’ll notify you when they recover the body.”

***

Back at the Flores Inn, I crashed for a few mindless hours, watching TV without paying attention and nibbling on a small sandwich without really tasting it.  Detective Mendez had called me shortly after I got back to my room to announce that the body had indeed been recovered and was on its way to the medical examiner for positive identification via dental records.  I had thanked him again for his tenacity in the case before hanging up and trying my best to push all this morbid stuff out of my head.

Thoughts of having breakfast with Eduardo helped to ward off my melancholy as I finally got up from the bed to pick out my clothes for the next morning.  Since arriving in Barcelona, my wardrobe had consisted of nothing but drab tee-shirts and pants.  For my date with Eduardo, I wanted to sparkle from the inside out, so I selected a strapless yellow sundress with a white floral pattern.  Holding the dress against my body in front of the mirror, I already felt happier.  Grabbing a bottle of nail polish out of my make up bag, I painted my nails peony pink. 

As soon as the sun set, I was ready for sleep.  Closing my eyes, I imagined the faces of the three women in my family smiling down on me.  Vividly, I could see Nana’s sage, wrinkled visage and the smooth, forever young faces of Aunt Silvia and mama Angelita.  Intuitively, I felt like they were telling me to let go.  To accept that their murderers would never spend a day behind bars and find justice for them in some other way.  As I drifted off to sleep, I silently promised all three beautiful ladies that I would find a way to honor their memories.  Every day of my life.

***

As I slipped my feet into a pair of high heel beige sandals, a knock sounded at the door.  Checking the peephole just to make sure it was Eduardo, I flung the door open, ecstatic to see his handsome face in the morning. 

“Wow. You look amazing,” he marveled, looking me up and down in my yellow sundress.

“Thank you,” I said with just the tiniest hint of shyness. 

“Hope you’re hungry for a big breakfast.” He smiled weakly at me as I knew he was under my spell.  I silently vowed to permanently ditch the ugly shapeless garb and wear svelte sundresses on every future date with Eduardo.

He clasped my hand in his as we strolled out of the Flores Inn.  Rays of sunlight kissed our faces as we crossed the street to an intimate bistro on the corner.  I longed to tell Eduardo everything I had learned, but I didn’t want to ruin the romantic atmosphere.  Biting my lower lip, I contemplated just revealing a little bit of what had transpired.  The news about my mother was far too heavy for a breakfast conversation and deserved the respect of waiting until a more appropriate time.

“Reptile Eyes is dead,” I announced casually, shocked at myself for how much I enjoyed uttering the words.

“What?” He exclaimed, pausing outside the door of the bistro and giving me his full attention.

“It’s too complicated to get into right now, so let’s just say that the world---and my world---is a much safer place without him.”

“So it was him who was stalking you and writing those notes?” Eduardo asked protectively.

“Yes and no,” I evaded.  “He also had his daughter helping him to terrorize me, but like I said, it’s a complex story.  Let’s just enjoy our breakfast.” I grabbed the handle to the bistro door, but Eduardo placed his hand over my wrist so I couldn’t open it.

“Are you okay?  I feel like there’s a lot you’re not saying right now.”

“There is.  And I’m not okay right now.  But I will be,” I said, trying to wriggle my wrist out of his strong grip.

“Well, I’m here anytime you feel ready to tell me that complicated story,” Eduardo reassured, lifting my hand off the door and squeezing it inside of his.

“I will tell you.  But not right now.  Right now, I’m starved.  And I really need a cup of coffee!” I suddenly felt faint in my state of caffeine deprivation.

“Coffee coming right up.  They make awesome cappuccinos here,” Eduardo said, releasing my hand and finally letting me open the door.  “And now you don’t have to worry about anyone staring at you.  Well, except for me that is,” he said with a crooked grin.  “If it’s okay with you, I’m not going to stop staring at you, Marlena.”

“It’s more than okay with me,” I said huskily, gliding into the bistro ahead of him and feeling brighter than a shooting star as my dress sparkled in the sunlight.

Epilogue

8 Months Later

Madrid, Spain

Since that first shared sip of cappuccino, Eduardo and I had been out on countless coffee dates---none of which had taken place at Dario’s oppressive shop. Cups of rich coffee, glasses of smooth wine, and bowls of sweet flan had formed the cornerstones of our foodie relationship.  Now officially a couple, we made the move from Barcelona to Madrid where I had initially applied for a work visa and launched a search for a sales job at an international company.  I went on over a dozen interviews and was flattered with two job offers---neither of which I accepted.  Why should I hand over my business skills to a company that has a glass ceiling?  Why shouldn’t I just work for myself and let my earnings be limitless?

The answers to those two questions were simple: I shouldn’t work for someone else; I should work for myself.  My ordeal in Barcelona had set into motion reservoirs of strength that I never knew I possessed.  I felt like for the rest of my life, I would be working to make my mother, grandmother, and aunt proud.  I would live the kind of life that none of them ever had the chance to.  My mother and aunt because they were silenced far too soon, and my grandmother because she had sacrificed her own dreams to single handedly raise me.  Fortunately, I had the perfect business partner who was more than willing to jump on board…

“Did the shipment of porcelain coffee mugs arrive yet?” Eduardo inquired, slipping his arms around my waist and greeting me with a kiss.

“Not yet.  But the espresso machine is here.  Direct from Italy.  Tah-dah!” I pointed to the gorgeous silver contraption that had cost a good chunk of our investment funds.  But it was a top-of-the-line Italian model, and I knew the designer machine would multiply our investment many times over.

“Beautiful.” Eduardo whistled his impression.  “Want to make me a cup?”

“Um, why don’t you make me a cup?” I suggested, still not having mastered the art of brewing an exquisite pot of coffee (or a decent one for that matter).  I planned on leaving that task to Eduardo and the crew of fresh faced baristas we had just hired.  My role would be to handle the books…and Eduardo’s muscular body.  Exhilarated just to be in the same room with him, I had never in my 30 years felt so much in love.

“Will do,” Eduardo agreed with a grin, plugging the machine in and working his coffee bean magic.

As I admired my boyfriend fixing me a delicious drinkable treat, I reflected on how much he had helped me heal since we had been together.  Eight months after learning that everything I ever believed about my mother was false, I was still making baby steps in moving forward.  Through it all, including the pending conspiracy trial of Jacinta Canton, Eduardo patiently stayed at my side and encouraged me to cry whenever I needed to.  Even better, after brainstorming literally hundreds of names for our café, he had let me pick the one that resonated in my heart and added a sentimental touch to our business.

“Here you are, mi amor,” he proudly handed me a steaming cup of espresso.

“Gracias,” I whispered, pressing my lips to the rim of the cup and letting the sensual aroma fill my senses.

“So what do you think? Will we be ready to open for business next week on schedule?” He asked, pouring himself a cup and clinking mine in an informal toast.

“Definitely,” I replied confidently, feeling my eyes become misty with raw emotion.  “Nana’s Coffeehouse will be ready to open its doors to the world.”

***

*BONUS SECTION*

10 COFFEE & MOCHA-INFUSED TREATS

TURN THE PAGE TO BREW UP SOMETHING SWEET…

Recipe #1

Iced Mocha Decadence

12 cups water

5 tbsp coffee

2 tbsp vanilla

¼ cup cocoa powder

¾ cup heavy cream

1 ½ cups sugar

Whipped cream

Fudge topping (optional)

Add 12 cups of water to a coffee pot, and place 5 tablespoons of coffee into the filter. In a pitcher combine cocoa, sugar and cream. When the coffee is brewed, pour into the pitcher and whisk around until blended. Add vanilla extract for a flavor kick. Cool, then refrigerate for 2 hours, pour over ice and serve to as many as 8 guests. Serve with whipped cream and maybe even a few squirts of fudge topping!

Recipe #2

Caramel Chocolate Latte

¼ cup hot espresso

½ cup steamed milk

Caramel topping

Chocolate shavings (optional)

Espresso beans (optional)

Stir together hot espresso, steamed milk and caramel topping in a large mug. Top with foamed milk or whipped cream. Garnish with chocolate shavings or espresso beans.  Serve with butter cookies for dunking or your favorite sweet!

Recipe #3

Chocolate Peppermint Coffee

1 tbsp chocolate syrup

2 tbsp peppermint baking chips (melted)

½ cup hot coffee

Chocolate chip mint ice cream (optional)

Stir together the 3 ingredients in a coffee mug.  Top with whipped cream and chocolate shavings.  Serve warm.  Or, if you prefer a cold drink, add a scoop of chocolate chip mint ice cream to make a coffee float!

Recipe #4

Irish Coffee Experience

1.5 oz Irish cream liqueur

1.5 oz Irish whiskey

1 cup hot coffee

Whipped cream

Nutmeg

Combine liqueur and whiskey in a mug.  Add in coffee and stir.  Top with a cloud of whipped cream and sprinkling of nutmeg.  Make it a true treat from the Emerald Isle with a warm slice of Irish soda bread and clotted cream!  (Recipe contains alcohol and is intended for those of legal drinking age.)

Recipe #5

Pumpkin Spice Latte

2 tbsp pumpkin puree

2 tbsp sugar

1 tsp vanilla extract

1 cup milk

1.5 ounces hot espresso

1 tbsp cinnamon

½ tbsp nutmeg

Brew espresso. Mix pumpkin, sugar, vanilla extract, milk, cinnamon, and nutmeg in a saucepan.  Whisk until frothy.  Pour espresso into a mug followed by the mix in the saucepan.  Enjoy your pumpkin drink with a slice of spice cake or a scone.

Recipe #6

Cool Classic Cappuccino

1 ½ cups cold coffee

1 ½ cups chocolate or vanilla ice cream

1 cup crushed ice

Chocolate syrup (to taste)

Whipped cream

In a blender, combine coffee, ice cream and chocolate syrup. Blend until silky smooth. Pour over crushed ice. Spray on some whipped cream and delight in this refreshing beverage!

Recipe #7

Strawberry Coffee Shake

1 cup milk

2 scoops coffee ice cream

Fresh strawberries, sliced

Strawberry syrup

Whipped cream

In a blender, combine the milk and ice cream.  Mixture will be thick and creamy.  Pour into a tall glass.  Squeeze the juice of one fresh strawberry into the shake and stir.  Drizzle strawberry syrup on top and arrange a few sliced strawberries to float.  Place remaining strawberries in a dish and top with whipped cream for a side dessert!

Recipe #8

Mocha Swirl Cupcakes

2 cups sugar

1-3/4 cups flour

3/4 cup cocoa

1-1/2 teaspoons baking powder

1-1/2 teaspoons baking soda

1 teaspoon salt

2 eggs (organic, cage-free)

1/2 cup vegetable oil

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

2 teaspoons coffee extract

1 cup boiling water

1 cup milk

Can of dark chocolate frosting

Preheat oven to 350. Line cupcake pans. Stir together sugar, flour, cocoa, baking powder, baking soda and salt in a bowl. Add eggs, oil, milk, vanilla and coffee extract; beat on medium speed for 2 minutes. Stir in boiling water.  Pour batter into lined cupcake pans. Bake 18 minutes. Cool 10 minutes.  Enjoy with one of the coffee recipes in this section!

Recipe #9

Cappuccino Silk Pie

2 tablespoons of butter
1/2 teaspoon of ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon of ground nutmeg
12 oz. bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips
4 eggs, separated
2 cups of heavy cream
1 1/2 tablespoon of instant coffee granules
1/3 cups of confectioners sugar
3 tablespoons of orange liqueur

Baked pie shell

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Heat chocolate chips with 2 tablespoons butter, stirring until melted and smooth. Cool; beat in yolks. Set aside. Beat egg whites until stiff peaks form. Set aside. Beat cream with coffee until soft peaks form. Beat in sugar. Save 1 cup whipped cream for garnish. Beat liqueur into remaining whipped cream. Stir 1/2 cup cream mixture into chocolate mixture, then fold in remainder. Fold in beaten whites. Pour into baked pie crust. Garnish with reserved whipped cream and sprinkle with cinnamon and nutmeg. Freeze 8 hours. Defrost 30 minutes or until soft and edible.  A very smooth dessert that goes well with a glass of cappuccino!

Recipe #10

Coconut Mocha Paradise

1 cup iced coffee

Chocolate syrup

Whipped cream

Flaked coconut

Pour iced coffee into a tall glass.  Spray on some chocolate syrup and mix in.  Drizzle additional chocolate syrup on top followed by a dollop of whipped cream.  Scatter coconut flakes on the whipped cream and get ready for a taste of paradise!

WHILE YOU’RE SIPPING YOUR COFFEE

TURN THE PAGE

FOR A FEW SPECIAL PREVIEWS…

Special Preview of Anisa Claire West’s

A PASTRY THIEF IN PARIS

Prologue

Paris, France

Sometime after Midnight…

Forget all the romantic images of Paris where starry-eyed tourists climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower and kissing lovers sail along the River Seine.  Make no mistake.  Paris after dark is a ruthless jungle, and it’s no place for a woman to be roaming the streets alone.  Fatefully, on one chilly night when the moon was full and the air was thin, I learned this truth the harsh way.

Strolling outside my apartment by Collette’s Pastry Shop, where I worked part-time during daylight hours, I gasped to see a sleek figure dressed from head to toe in black.  Donning a ski mask and carrying a burlap sack in one hand, the figure slipped away into the Parisian night before I could make sense of what had just happened.  Creeping over to the shop, I flinched to see the door wide open.  The figure in black had been inside the shop! 

Softly, I made my way inside, holding my breath as though another criminal were about to jump out and attack me.  But the door hadn’t been broken or disturbed at all.  Oddly, the cash register was also in tact and not a single Euro was missing.  The shop hadn’t been looted and nothing appeared out of place.  Slithering into the kitchen, I used the moonlight drifting in to illuminate my view of the room.  All the appliances were in their proper spot and, again, nothing had been ransacked.

Opening up the refrigerator door, I blinked, wondering if my eyes were deceiving me.  Several trays of pre-made pastries were tidily lined up for the next day’s sales.  Thick orange mousse filled up cannoli shells and glazed strawberry tarts were in their designated place.  But one shelf of the refrigerator was conspicuously empty. 

“The cream puffs!” I exclaimed, realizing that an entire tray of the French sweets was missing.

Feeling like Alice in Wonderland, I groped around in my purse for my phone and called the police to report a most unusual robbery... 

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DEEP DISH LIES

                            Prologue

Buttercup Valley, Washington

A Rainy Afternoon in April…

I stared at the infuriating man with flames in my eyes and venom on the tip of my tongue.  The front bumper of my car was deeply bashed in, and one of my headlights was shattered.  Slamming the door, I flounced towards the insolent stranger as his piercing blue eyes challenged me unblinkingly.

“You’re a helluva bad driver, woman!” He bellowed, stomping towards me like a mating gorilla.

“Excuse me?” I squeaked indignantly as the chilled raindrops soaked through my spring jacket.  “You stopped short! This accident was your fault!”

“Listen, woman, you hit my car.  Meaning, you are at fault,” he said gruffly, running a frustrated hand through his rain-drenched dark hair.

If I hadn’t just been involved in a potentially fatal accident with the man, I might have found him very attractive.  Those blue eyes lit up the cloudy day like a raging forest fire.  But I was in no mood for flirting with a chauvinistic ass who kept referring to me as “woman.”

“Listen, let’s just exchange our insurance info,” I suggested with a shiver.  “I don’t want to get pneumonia standing out here in the rain arguing with you!”

I don’t know if it was from the biting cold or my biting tone, but the man recoiled visibly when I suggested exchanging our information.  A storm cloud overhead transformed from pale gray to ominous charcoal as he steadily backed away from me.

“Never mind,” he sneered, his sensuous upper lip curling.  “I don’t have time for this bullshit.  Just be careful how you drive from now on, woman.  Next time it could be a lot worse.”

Outraged, I watched as he clamored back to his black Audi and left me standing out in the pummeling rain.  With tires screeching at the shrill decibel of a dog whistle, the jerk rolled back into the storm as I trembled violently inside my jacket.  Fighting back insulted tears, I hopped into my car and slammed the door so hard that the rattling windows could have cracked the whole Richter Scale.

Chapter 1

5 Weeks Later

Deep Dish Delights Pie Shoppe

“Mmmmm, these smell absolutely divine,” Lori murmured, sliding a pair of Cling Peaches pies out of the oven.

“Don’t do that!” I scolded my younger sister as she dipped her finger into one of the pies to taste.  “I swear, sometimes it’s like you’re 12 rather than 28!”

She shrugged lightly, popping her finger into her mouth and mumbling, “This is a test pie.  We always have at least one test pie per batch, and Becca, honey, this is the one.” She winked and grabbed two forks from the cupboard.  “And just so you know, sometimes it’s like you’re 92 rather than 32!”

Halfway between a frown and a grin, I grabbed a fork from her and sank it deep into the piping hot pie.  “Oh wow, you’re right.  I think this is our best peach pie ever.  Even better than the blue ribbon one at the county fair last year if I do say so myself!”

“Don’t I know it!” Lori replied tartly, making a beeline to the freezer for a tub of vanilla ice cream.

“Just 5 more minutes of break time, Lori.  Then it’s back to work.  We have a ton of Mother’s Day orders to fill,” I said authoritatively.

“You’re right.  We’ve had a lot of requests for your Sticky Pecan pie today,” Lori muttered through a mouthful of syrupy peaches as she handed me a scrap of paper.

I sighed heavily, snatching the dog-eared paper out of her hand.  “How many times have I told you to put the orders on my pre-printed menu sheets?  We have a system around here, Lori!” As I picked up a whisk to playfully swat my scatter-brained baby sister on the rump, the chiming of bells in the front of the shoppe interrupted me.

“Customer,” Lori announced, giggling and shoving another truckload of our “test” pie into her mouth.

I shook my head as I made my way to the storefront, fretting over how many expensive ingredients had been wasted on “test” pies since I had opened my doors to the public two years ago.  But that’s what happens when you have your family work for you…everyone wants a piece of the pie, literally.

“May I help…” My words evaporated like milk as I recognized the dashing face of my customer…

Amazon.com: Deep Dish Lies eBook: Anisa Claire West: Kindle Store

HUNGRY FOR A BIG BUNDLE OF CULINARY MYSTERIES?

CHECK OUT THIS COZY ANTHOLOGY

SWEET AS PIE CRIMES

Amazon.com: Sweet as Pie Crimes eBook: Anisa Claire West: Kindle Store

INCLUDES 3 MYSTERIES:

DEEP DISH LIES

A PASTRY THIEF IN PARIS

CUPCAKE SHOP CLUES

PLUS

30 DESSERT RECIPES…

LEARN HOW TO MAKE

ORANGE ESSENCE CHOCOLATE CREPES,

CHUNKY S’MORES CUPCAKES, & MORE!

Special Preview of Anisa Claire West’s

CHAMPAGNE DECEPTION

Milan, Italy

A Black, Moonless Night in May

Inside the art gallery, Coretta put the finishing touches on a tray of Italian hors d’oeuvres set on a table lined with bottles of the finest champagne.  It was eight o’clock precisely, and the gallery was about to open its doors to introduce her paintings to the world.  Swallowing a breath of nervousness, Coretta smoothed the fabric of her scarlet cocktail dress while listlessly twirling her shoulder length mahogany hair.  It was time to open the doors to the public; she couldn’t wait another minute longer.

With trembling fingers, she unlocked the doors and opened them wide for the avid art lovers who stood queued up in the balmy spring air.  Immediately, they pushed through the doors, clamoring to reach the walls and place early bids on her best paintings.  Coretta smiled in stark disbelief; this kind of fame and popularity were completely new to her.  A few months ago, she couldn’t even get an art dealer to look at one of her paintings and now here she was with a gallery opening devoted to her work.  Discreetly, she pinched her forearm, giggling silently as she observed the customers fight over her paintings.

From the darkest corner of the gallery, Coretta continued to watch in awe as the elegant art lovers fussed over her labors of love.  Emerging from the shadows and strolling over to the buffet table for a glass of champagne, Coretta scanned the room for her lover.  They had quarreled earlier when he misplaced three paintings that she had planned to feature in the display, and now she wanted to make amends.

Coretta selected a flute of champagne and lifted the delicate glass to her lips, indulging in a sip.  The icy bubbles rolled smoothly across her tongue, and she closed her eyes, savoring the moment.  She pressed the rim to her lips for a second sip when a strident beeping assaulted the hushed atmosphere of the gallery and the lights simultaneously dimmed to black.  The recently opened gallery contained no back-up generator, and the entire space was immediately as dark as the moonless spring sky.  The glass of champagne slipped out of Coretta’s fingers and crashed onto the floor as she jumped in fright.

Groping in the blackness, Coretta bumped her knee against a metal table and squealed with pain as the group on the other side of the room became agitated.  The sounds of bodies bumping into each other and glasses crashing to the ground elicited a scream from one woman and grumblings in Italian from several of the other guests.

Coretta spoke up and addressed the crowd in her most authoritative voice: “I apologize for this inconvenience.  Apparently, there has been some sort of electrical failure that has caused a blackout.  I would advise you to take out your cell phones and use the lights from those devices until I can find some candles.  A candlelit art reception, not bad, right?” She spoke lightheartedly, trying to allay the concerns of her guests.

As a handful of people dug into their pockets for their cell phones, Coretta felt a body press against her backside.  “Excuse me,” she murmured to whomever had collided with her.  The moment she spoke, a gloved hand smacked against her face and covered her mouth while a menacing arm pressed into her belly and knocked the wind out of her.  Gasping for air, she wriggled in the death-grip of the gloved man, frantically biting on his covered hand to get him to release her.  As her teeth sank into the thick fabric, his grasp tightened even more around her waist until she thought her ribs would shatter.

Roughly, the man dragged her backwards towards the darker recesses of the gallery.  Lighting the way with a tiny flashlight clenched between his teeth, he pushed Coretta down the stairs into the cellar…

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Dear Reader:

Thank you for reading Cappuccino Twist.  I hope you enjoyed reading about Marlena’s sleuthing & romance with Eduardo!  I welcome your feedback and make an effort to personally respond to every email I receive.  Write to me at anisaclairewest@yahoo.com.

Happy Reading!

Cordially,

Anisa Claire West

Titles Available by

Anisa Claire West

ROMANTIC SUSPENSE

& COZY MYSTERY

A Pastry Thief in Paris

Cappuccino Twist

Champagne Deception

Cookie Dough Crook

Cupcake Shop Clues

Dark Chocolate Murder

Deep Dish Lies

Hotcake Homicide

Hot Fudge Fraud

Northern Moonlight

Wild Autumn

FANTASY

Silver Goddess Series:

Island Tango, Book 1

Orca Dance, Book 2

Leopard Rhythm, Book 3

Mermaid Gold, Book 4

Silver Goddess, Books 1-4

HISTORICAL ROMANCE

Eternal Melody

ANTHOLOGIES

Chocolate Covered Crimes

Exotic Daydream

Passion’s Raindrops

Sweet as Pie Crimes

Tasty Crimes

About the Author

Anisa Claire West graduated with honors from Yale University and also holds a Master of Arts degree in Literature and Teaching.  Learning about cultures is Anisa’s passion, and she has studied more than half a dozen languages including French, Arabic, and Italian.  A certified yoga instructor, Anisa embraces mind-body fitness, animal advocacy, and a compassionate lifestyle.  She also enjoys sweet treats and has sampled more than a few of the coffee & mocha recipes included in this book!