Uncommon Grounds by Sandra Balzo

run.”
    “Not too dry, I hope,” I muttered.
    Caron was looking towards the window. “Maybe you’ll get your wish.”
    I turned around. Sure enough, cars were pulling into the parking lot. One, then two, then three, then four. Since nothing else was open on this side of the shopping center, they had to be heading to Uncommon Grounds.
    Now I’m no fool, I knew they were coming partially—who am I kidding—mostly from curiosity. I’m not proud, though. Come for the crime, stay for the coffee.
    I manned the espresso machine and Caron poured the brewed coffees and handled the pastry. As we had planned with Patricia, we tried to greet everyone by name. We knew about half the people and would be working on memorizing the names of the other half, assuming they came back, over the next week or two.
    Among the first arrivals was Henry Wested, who walked over from the senior home. He ordered a double cappuccino and settled into the corner stool at the counter.
    Laurel came, too, (large decaf, steamed milk, to go) as well as Way (large breakfast blend, black) and Rudy (small breakfast blend—a token purchase before he headed over to Goddard’s for his real coffee).
    Gary, coffee purist that he was, wouldn’t let me talk him into something as exotic as a cappuccino or a latte when he arrived. He did ask for a cup of Breakfast Blend to go, though. As I was pouring it, Laurel passed by on her way to the condiment cart. Gary sniffed. “Do you call that coffee or is there a cinnamon bun stuffed in there?” He gestured to her road cup.
    Laurel laughed. “It’s ‘Viennese Cinnamon,’ you cretin.” She turned to me and winked. “If it doesn’t look and smell like motor oil, he doesn’t consider it coffee.”
    It was true. I could picture Gary sneaking back to his office and dumping the fresh coffee into his old pot to stiffen it up a bit over the burner before he doctored it up and drank it.
    I handed Gary his coffee and he toasted Laurel with the cup. “See you at the recount at nine, I assume?”
    “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Laurel muttered darkly as she left. Gary gave me a wave and a wink and followed.
    The next man in line was grousing about something to the woman behind him. When he turned, I recognized him. His name was Pete-something-or-other and he was one of the movers who had moved me out of my old house and into the new.
    I could see Pete trying to figure out where he knew me from, and his eyes turned speculative as he got it. First, he had moved me from a nice big house into a shack, and now here I was waitressing. He probably figured I’d been dumped and left destitute. He was at least half right.
    “Yeah,” he said, sidling up to the counter, “you might want to tell your bosses here that some working men need to get moving early. Maybe they should think about opening earlier.”
    I didn’t illuminate him about my ownership status, since God knows I might be waitressing at Goddard’s next week. “Oh, really? What time do you start?”
    Pete looked like he played football in high school—itsy-bitsy head set on a tree-trunk neck. The salt-and-pepper beard helped balance him out some, making his head look bigger and hiding part of his neck. He propped his arms on the counter and I feared for the glass-topped bakery case. “Me? I’m off to work by five, five-thirty, at the latest. I’m running late today. Had to take my kid to school.”
    He looked around to see if anyone was listening and said, in what he seemed to think was a quiet voice, “You know, I seen lights in here early the day your boss-lady was killed, when I was sitting at the stoplight on Civic. But I didn’t see nothing when I drove past. Wish I would of known, maybe I could have helped.” He handed me a bill and I pulled his change out the cash register.
    As I put it in his hand, I asked, “So you went by at about five?”
    He rocked back on his heels and considered. “No, not that early, probably more like quarter