Uncommon Grounds Read Online Free Page B

Chief Donovan asked me to give you the schematic for the espresso machine.” I stepped back and started to turn away. “But if you’d prefer to find it yourself...”
    He held up a booklet. “I already have. You might as well come in, though. I have some questions for you, Mrs....”He let it hang.
    God help me, I wanted to stick out my tongue like a five-year-old and say, “You tell me, if you’re so smart.” The idea of him going through our cabinets to find the schematic, which had been in the back of the bottom drawer, next to the box of emergency Tampons, really ticked me off.
    I behaved myself, though. “Thorsen, Maggy Thorsen. And it’s Ms.” I automatically asserted my pending independence and then, just as automatically, felt silly. I stuck out my hand to hide my confusion.
    He ignored it and stepped back. “Please come in, Ms. Thorsen, and take a seat. I’ll be with you as soon as I’m free.”
    I sat down to wait. Pavlik returned to the group that was still conferring near the condiment cart, and I turned my attention to the spot where we had found Patricia barely three hours ago.
    Her body was gone, evidently having been photographed, poked and prodded sufficiently. The scorch mark remained on the counter just to the left of the sink, along with the puddle of milk on the floor. The pitcher sat on the counter, encased in a giant plastic bag, the gallon of vitamin D milk next to it and Patricia’s latte mug next to that. All nice and neat. Patricia would have approved.
    Pavlik was finishing up and the group dispersing. A young man who looked like he was wearing his father’s suit took the schematic from the sheriff and went over to the espresso machine. A gray-haired woman with a camera and a man who looked like a present-day Ichabod Crane started out the door.
    Pavlik called to one of them. “Steve, hang on a second.” Ichabod stopped at the door. Pavlik pointed to me. “Get her fingerprints before you leave.”
    I really hate being called “her”—a carryover from my relationship with Ted’s mother, who called me “her,” “she,” “your wife” or “your mother,” depending on whom she was addressing. And all with me in the room.
    Steve loped over and fingerprinted me, politely asking my name and recording it before he repacked his case and left.
    Now I read mysteries, I watch TV, I know the police needed my fingerprints to eliminate mine, which belonged there, from others that didn’t. It still irritated me. By the time Pavlik finally deigned to speak to me, I was primed:
    “I don’t know how you treat people in Chicago, but here you’ll get a whole lot further with a little common courtesy.”
    Pavlik raised one black eyebrow at me. “I apologize.” He pulled out the chair across the table from me and sat down, flipping open his notebook. “Now, Donovan said there are three partners: Mrs. Harper, you, and...” He checked his notes. “Caron Egan.”
    He glanced up, his eyes suddenly looking steely blue instead of dirty gray. Weird. “Ms. Egan was with you when you found the body?”
    “Yes, Caron was with me.” She was there before I found the body, too; but if he wanted specifics, he could ask for them.
    “Uh-huh. Tell me about the partnership.” This time I raised my eyebrows at him. He shifted in his chair. “In other words, how is it set up? If one partner dies, for example, what happens to her share of the business?”
    I felt like I had stumbled into a bad movie. “Her interest would go to her next of kin. The remaining partners retain the option to buy that person out at a market value to be determined by an independent audit,” I said parroting the partnership agreement. “But since we rent the space and haven’t opened yet, we have no market share and no name recognition. The only thing we do have is the equipment, which is worth considerably less today than when we bought it two weeks ago.”
    Pavlik moved on. “Mrs. Harper evidently was here very early.