Ted's and my pre-divorce swimming pool.
I poured Columbian decaf into her cup and Christy swiftly darted one end of the strip into the coffee, like a hummingbird at a feeder.
'OK, I'll bite. Just what are you doing now?' I asked.
'Testing for caffeine.' She continued to delicately hold the tester vertically in the cup.
'It is decaf.' I pointed at the pot I'd poured the coffee from. 'See? It has an orange handle so nobody gets confused.'
'I'm sure you're right, Maggy, but I can't take a chance. I'm very sensitive to caffeine. Makes me nervous, you know?'
Sarah made a choking noise, and I was right there with her. If this was Christy relaxed , no sane person would want to see her jazzed.
'How long do you need to keep that thing in there,' a man who looked like a reporter asked curiously.
'Thirty seconds,' Christy said. 'For absolute accuracy, anyway.'
'Your coffee will get cold,' a woman in line growled impatiently.
'Hot coffee is dangerous,' Christy said. 'Don't you know that a burn to the roof of your mouth is just an invitation for all kinds of unwelcome bacteria to take root?'
Talk about annoying organisms. And here she was planted in front of my window. 'Sarah, could you help Christy to a table?' I said.
Sarah obligingly took her own coffee and Christy's, so she could gather up her test kit and handbag. As they moved away, I heard Sarah say, 'Oh, yeah? Just like a petri dish, huh?'
Lovely. I turned to the next person in line. 'I'm sorry. Now what can I get you?'
The man who stepped up to the counter was probably a print reporter, since he had a notebook in one hand and wasn't dressed for the camera. Too bad. The guy, around forty, was better looking than ninety per cent of our local on-air talent, male or female.
'First of all, I'd love a cup of coffee,' he said, with a slow grin meant to ingratiate. 'I think I heard you had La Minita?'
'Small, medium or large?' I asked.
'Large,' he answered with a wink. I wasn't sure if he was talking about the coffee or his stir stick. What I did suspect, though, was that the slick patter was meant to befriend me in order to get information.
The fact I knew nothing made it easy to banter back. 'I bet.'
I poured him the La Minita. 'Anything else?'
He slid a ten-dollar bill toward me, but kept his hand on it. 'Some information, maybe?'
'For a ten? Your newspaper's got to provide you a bigger budget.'
'My charm and looks are supposed to make up the difference.'
'Good luck with that,' I said, taking the ten and handing him five back.
He looked down at it. 'Five dollars for a cup of coffee?'
'Plus tax and gratuity. Uncle Sam's got a deficit and – God bless – you're a good tipper.'
He nodded once and stuck the five in his pocket.
'Well done,' the woman behind him said to me. Now she looked ready to do a stand-up on the evening news. Lacquered hair, solid-colored sweater in a flattering blue, cute little hat for exterior live-remotes.
She nudged the print reporter aside and lowered her voice. 'Do you know where I can find Kevin Williams from Williams Props and Staging?'
'Why?' Sarah, having safely seated Christy and her caffeine-o-meter, had returned and even ventured to the 'working' side of our counter.
The woman in front of us replied, 'Williams is JoLynne Penn-Williams' husband. We'd like to get his reaction to his wife's death.'
Assuming Kevin knew. Which, come to think of it, should have been Brewster Hampton's stated reason for looking for the props man: to tell Kevin he was a widower.
'But nobody seems to know where he is.'
'I do,' Christy said from her table. She was shaking her caffeine stick like it was an oral thermometer and seemed oblivious to us.
'Ignore her,' Sarah said. 'She's on a day pass from the loony bin.'
One glance at the yellow rubber gloves seemed to convince the hat lady. 'So, when was the last time either of you saw him?'
'Listen, sweetie,' Sarah said. 'If we're going to answer questions, they'll be from the police and, so far,
I poured Columbian decaf into her cup and Christy swiftly darted one end of the strip into the coffee, like a hummingbird at a feeder.
'OK, I'll bite. Just what are you doing now?' I asked.
'Testing for caffeine.' She continued to delicately hold the tester vertically in the cup.
'It is decaf.' I pointed at the pot I'd poured the coffee from. 'See? It has an orange handle so nobody gets confused.'
'I'm sure you're right, Maggy, but I can't take a chance. I'm very sensitive to caffeine. Makes me nervous, you know?'
Sarah made a choking noise, and I was right there with her. If this was Christy relaxed , no sane person would want to see her jazzed.
'How long do you need to keep that thing in there,' a man who looked like a reporter asked curiously.
'Thirty seconds,' Christy said. 'For absolute accuracy, anyway.'
'Your coffee will get cold,' a woman in line growled impatiently.
'Hot coffee is dangerous,' Christy said. 'Don't you know that a burn to the roof of your mouth is just an invitation for all kinds of unwelcome bacteria to take root?'
Talk about annoying organisms. And here she was planted in front of my window. 'Sarah, could you help Christy to a table?' I said.
Sarah obligingly took her own coffee and Christy's, so she could gather up her test kit and handbag. As they moved away, I heard Sarah say, 'Oh, yeah? Just like a petri dish, huh?'
Lovely. I turned to the next person in line. 'I'm sorry. Now what can I get you?'
The man who stepped up to the counter was probably a print reporter, since he had a notebook in one hand and wasn't dressed for the camera. Too bad. The guy, around forty, was better looking than ninety per cent of our local on-air talent, male or female.
'First of all, I'd love a cup of coffee,' he said, with a slow grin meant to ingratiate. 'I think I heard you had La Minita?'
'Small, medium or large?' I asked.
'Large,' he answered with a wink. I wasn't sure if he was talking about the coffee or his stir stick. What I did suspect, though, was that the slick patter was meant to befriend me in order to get information.
The fact I knew nothing made it easy to banter back. 'I bet.'
I poured him the La Minita. 'Anything else?'
He slid a ten-dollar bill toward me, but kept his hand on it. 'Some information, maybe?'
'For a ten? Your newspaper's got to provide you a bigger budget.'
'My charm and looks are supposed to make up the difference.'
'Good luck with that,' I said, taking the ten and handing him five back.
He looked down at it. 'Five dollars for a cup of coffee?'
'Plus tax and gratuity. Uncle Sam's got a deficit and – God bless – you're a good tipper.'
He nodded once and stuck the five in his pocket.
'Well done,' the woman behind him said to me. Now she looked ready to do a stand-up on the evening news. Lacquered hair, solid-colored sweater in a flattering blue, cute little hat for exterior live-remotes.
She nudged the print reporter aside and lowered her voice. 'Do you know where I can find Kevin Williams from Williams Props and Staging?'
'Why?' Sarah, having safely seated Christy and her caffeine-o-meter, had returned and even ventured to the 'working' side of our counter.
The woman in front of us replied, 'Williams is JoLynne Penn-Williams' husband. We'd like to get his reaction to his wife's death.'
Assuming Kevin knew. Which, come to think of it, should have been Brewster Hampton's stated reason for looking for the props man: to tell Kevin he was a widower.
'But nobody seems to know where he is.'
'I do,' Christy said from her table. She was shaking her caffeine stick like it was an oral thermometer and seemed oblivious to us.
'Ignore her,' Sarah said. 'She's on a day pass from the loony bin.'
One glance at the yellow rubber gloves seemed to convince the hat lady. 'So, when was the last time either of you saw him?'
'Listen, sweetie,' Sarah said. 'If we're going to answer questions, they'll be from the police and, so far,
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