Grounds for Murder by Sandra Balzo Read Free Book Online

theirs and theirs alone. The contestants make four of every kind, one for each of the sensory judges, who judge them on everything from the color of the espresso, to the consistency of the foam, to the china used to present the drink.’
    ‘Sounds fascinating, but we’re talking television here,’ Sarah said, still sitting in the driver’s seat. ‘Do people get hysterical when they’re eliminated? Maybe throw cups?’
    I had closed my door, so I was forced to walk around to the other side of the car to continue the conversation. I thought as I walked. Sarah had a point.
    ‘Maybe some backbiting,’ I admitted when I got there. ‘But it normally wouldn’t escalate into violence. On the other hand, there is a lot of stress, not to mention hot water, steam, breakable objects. With the proper editing―’
    ‘Back to the name,’ Sarah interrupted. ‘You know what you should call this?’
    ‘Maybe “Uncommon Barista”?’ I ventured. ‘Then the show would have a natural tie-in to Uncommon Grounds.’
    Which was the one problem with my idea, of course. How did I maintain control of something – the barista competition – of which I had no ownership? The telecast was my idea, of course, but could you copyright . . .?
    ‘No, no, no.’ Sarah was shaking her head. ‘You, with all your movies, I can’t believe you didn’t think of this.’
    ‘Of what?’ I was getting impatient. I wanted to go in and call Mark. Maybe move on to Step Two or Three, whatever they might be.
    But Sarah wasn’t ready to give yet. ‘So when people are eliminated they have to leave, right? Some host, maybe you, gives them the boot?’
    Maybe me. It wasn’t a bad idea. I’d done TV before, after all. It was a few years back, but . . .
    ‘Right?’ Apparently I hadn’t answered fast enough for Sarah.
    ‘Right,’ I agreed. ‘Soooo?’
    ‘Soooo –’ Sarah revved the motor of the Firebird – ‘when they lose it’s. . . “Hasta Barista, Baby!”.’
    And with a wave of her hand and the screech of her tires, Sarah was gone, leaving me in a haze of burning rubber.
    It was only when I stepped into the store that I realized I’d forgotten to talk to Amy.

Chapter Six
    ‘Well? Did you talk to Amy?’ Caron demanded, wiping her hands on her apron.
    She’d just finished cleaning the espresso machine, despite the fact we didn’t close for another half hour.
    Ignoring her, I pulled out my cellphone and punched in Mark’s number. Funny how I could remember a phone number I hadn’t dialed for a year, but still couldn’t . . .
    ‘What did you say? What did she say?’ Caron was asking eagerly.
    I held up my hand as the outgoing voicemail message on the other end of the phone ended. ‘Hey, Mark,’ I said after the beep. Then I realized the voice on the recording had been neither Mark nor his secretary, Jamie. I didn’t have time to leave a message on an old number.
    ‘Never mind,’ I said into the phone. I pressed ‘O’ in hopes of connecting with a human being. It worked.
    ‘Hello,’ I said to aforementioned human being. ‘Could you connect me with Mark Strachota?’
    ‘Your name, please?’ the woman asked.
    I told her.
    ‘Could you spell that?’
    I did.
    ‘And how may I help you?’
    I told her.
    ‘Mark who?’ she asked.
    ‘Mark Strachota.’ I was trying to be patient. After all, I could be talking to a computer chip.
    ‘Could you spell that?’
    ‘S . . . t . . . r . . .’ I continued with each letter, rolling my eyes at Caron.
    ‘Did you dial the right number?’ Caron asked in a stage whisper.
    I nodded.
    ‘And you pronounce that, how?’ the woman was asking.
    ‘Station manager,’ I said flatly. OK, so I was losing it.
    ‘Could you hold?’ she asked. I was listening to canned music before I could respond.
    ‘They’re transferring me,’ I said to Caron hopefully. I’m a cup-half-full kind of person. ‘Now what were you saying?’
    ‘So what did you tell Amy?’ Caron asked eagerly. ‘Did you