Death Before Decaf by Caroline Fardig

couldn’t put my finger on it. One thing that struck me as odd, though, was that, as a rule, professors and film buffs weren’t known for being particularly brawny or manly, and Seth was one big hunk of solid muscle. He looked like he had thrown guys out of places before. I knew I shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but still. And he had asked question after question, all about Java Jive and the staff. Maybe it was nothing, but I needed to find out more about Seth before I decided whether or not to get too involved with him.
    Seth swaggered back in, and I went to thank him. “I really appreciate that. He’s the guy who harassed me in the ladies’ room last night.”
    He grinned. “It was my pleasure. That scrawny little twerp had it coming.” Looking around, he observed, “It’s busy. Think you can get away to have lunch with me today?”
    “I don’t know, Seth,” I said apologetically. “If I can, it will have to be really late.”
    “Fine with me. I’m giving a lecture this morning, but I’m free all afternoon. Give me a call when you’re ready.”
    “No promises.”
    “I don’t mind waiting for what I want.” He winked at me and disappeared out the door. Odd feeling or not, I found myself looking forward to lunchtime.
    We were, obviously, down a cook, so after the reporter debacle, I headed to the kitchen to prepare for the lunch rush. Brandon and I were constantly running, trying to get all of the lunch orders filled and out to the horde of hungry customers. As soon as I got a break, I would put a HELP WANTED sign in the window and a job posting in every publication and website I could find. I also needed to find time to visit Dave’s sister and to go to The Dirty Duck to talk to someone about the guy Dave fought with last weekend. Based on the crush of customers we’d had so far, and the fact that I wanted to use some of my free time for a lunch date, my sleuthing would probably have to wait until after we closed tonight.
    “Juliet?” asked Brandon.
    “Yeah?” I said, not taking my eyes off the grilled chicken that I was dangerously close to overcooking. I hadn’t quite gotten back into the swing of professional cooking just yet.
    He looked a little embarrassed. “Do you know how to make a crab cake po’boy? Dave always made those because they’re kind of complicated.”
    I groaned. I hated making George’s nasty crab cake po’boy sandwich recipe. The other dishes that he had come up with were fantastic, but this was the one thing on the menu that was horrible, and everyone knew it. Everyone, I supposed, except the unwitting customer who had just ordered it.
    “Yes, I know how. I’ll do it.” I’d be damned if I used George’s recipe, though.
    I went into the walk-in freezer to find the crabmeat and spied a bag of it on the top shelf just out of my reach. Grabbing a step stool, I took the bag off the shelf and noticed a tub of cornstarch sitting behind it.
    Grumbling, I snagged the tub as well. Every cook should know that you can’t keep cornstarch in the freezer. “Brandon,” I called as I exited the freezer. “Since when do we keep the cornstarch in the freezer?”
    Brandon shrugged.
    “From now on, it needs to be kept at room temperature. In the freezer, ice crystals form inside the container, and when you take the tub out to use it, the ice melts and makes the cornstarch wet, clumpy, and unusable,” I explained.
    “Okay,” was his less-than-interested response, and he went back to work without another word. Brandon was no conversationalist.
    I went to the prep table to work on making the crab cakes, and after several minutes I had the sandwich ready. My crab cakes turned out way better than George’s, so I made sure to write down my recipe for the kitchen workers to use instead. After I placed the po’boy platter in the pass-through window for Rhonda, I turned my attention to the container of cornstarch, hoping it hadn’t formed one giant lump that would have to be