Murder on the Orient Espresso by Sandra Balzo Page B

working on setting up myself.’ I glanced out the window and saw that Missy was sorting out the ropes on the banner. ‘I’m Maggy, by the way.’
    The big guy wiped his hand and shook mine. ‘Boyce. Or,’ he pointed to his badge, ‘M Bouc – the head of the railroad.’
    Ah, Boyce/Bouc. ‘I understand you run the coffee concession at the hotel. I own a coffeehouse in Wisconsin and there’s no way I’d have the nerve to try to serve espresso to this many people at once. I’m impressed.’
    â€˜Don’t be. I’ll have brewed coffee, but I sure can’t do hot espresso to order, given the space restrictions and the fact there’s also a full bar next to me.’
    â€˜So, the espresso machine is just a prop?’
    â€˜Not at all, though I have to admit I considered it,’ Boyce/Bouc said with a wry smile. ‘But Missy was so excited about the
Murder on the Orient Espresso
theme she came up with that I knew I had to work something out. My plan is to pull shots ahead and let them cool down for espresso martinis.’
    â€˜Pulling a shot’ was our trade expression for grinding espresso, tamping it into a small filter and then brewing the shot.
    Boyce was looking a bit embarrassed. ‘Not ideal, I know, quality-wise. But …’
    â€˜Hey,’ I said, waving off his professional discomfort. ‘I think it’s brilliant.’
    â€˜Thank you. Where did you say your coffeehouse was?’
    â€˜Brookhills, Wisconsin. It’s near Milwaukee.’
    â€˜Oh, sure, I know the area. I went to college in Madison,’ he said, referring to the University of Wisconsin’s flagship campus in the state’s capitol. ‘And my parents still live in Milwaukee. Maybe I’ve seen your place. Where is it, exactly?’
    â€˜Originally in Benson Plaza on the corner of Brookhill and Civic. These days we’re in the old train depot.’
    â€˜Brookhills Junction? Great area, but I remember it being pretty much abandoned.’
    â€˜It was, but we’ve rehabbed the station, which is the westernmost stop for the new commuter train to Milwaukee.’
    â€˜Sweet,’ Boyce said, recognizing the value of being able to serve five-dollar cups of coffee to bleary-eyed workers before they were fully awake. ‘How long have you been open?’
    â€˜About two years.’
    â€˜Two locations in two years? I can’t imagine having that kind of energy.’
    â€˜Believe me, it wasn’t by choice. Our first place kind of collapsed.’
    â€˜Collapsed?’
    â€˜Yes, but we already knew we needed to relocate. Our landlord had decided not to renew our lease. That was before he had the run-in with the snow blower.’
    â€˜Snow blower?’ Boyce repeated. ‘What did he run into it with?’
    â€˜His head. But we think he was already dead.’
    Boyce’s eyes narrowed. ‘Wait a second. Don’t tell me you own Uncommon Grounds.’
    â€˜Oh,’ I said, surprised. ‘So you
do
know it.’
    â€˜Only through my parents. Wasn’t one of the owners found dead in a pool of skim milk the morning you opened your first place?’
    â€˜Well, yes, but—’
    â€˜And, just recently, a body in the basement of the new location?’
    â€˜Under the boarding platform, technically, but—’
    I was interrupted by tapping from outside the train.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ I said, grateful for the interruption. ‘I promised to help Missy hang the banner. Do let me know, though, if I can pitch in later with your espresso brewing or anything.’
    â€˜You bet.’ He said it automatically, though his expression was more in the vein of,
Right about when hell freezes over.
    â€˜Great.’ I was all too aware that trying to explain would only make matters worse. The truth was that Uncommon Grounds had more skeletons in its closet – and other environs