Part 10 (1/2)

Right in front of Caf-Fiends.

”You're kidding me, right?” I sat back on the leather seat, my fists propped on my hips. ”This is where we're having dinner? These guys are the enemy.”

When Declan looked over his shoulder at me, his gray eyes gleamed. ”Exactly!” He dismounted and offered me a hand and we stood side by side in front of the coffee shop. ”You can't know what you're up against if you don't check them out,” he said in a stage whisper that was totally for show since there was no one on the sidewalk but us. ”I thought we could do a little reconnoitering.”

”Reconnoitering.”

”It's not exactly dishonest and besides, it's for a good cause. It's all in the name of saving the Terminal.”

Just because I thought the Terminal was . . . well, terminal . . . didn't mean I was happy that it was public knowledge.

My shoulders shot back. ”What makes you think the Terminal needs saving?”

Declan's steady gaze moved beyond the brightly lit front window of Caf-Fiends, where a gigantic yellow coffeepot shared s.p.a.ce with oversized paper flowers, a couple kites shaped like b.u.t.terflies, and a half-dozen Beanie Baby stuffed bees that hung from the ceiling on fis.h.i.+ng line to make them look as if they were buzzing through the scene.

He leaned closer and, like it was some big secret, he said out of the corner of his mouth, ”They have customers.”

I responded with a grunt. ”We had customers today.”

”How many?”

I raised my chin. ”I didn't count. But look”-I dug in my purse-”receipts I need to enter into the accounting program. That proves we had customers.”

He made a move to grab the receipts and I had no doubt he would look them over and comment on the orders: coffee, pie, one lentil quinoa salad, some of our usual daily fare-and nothing else.

Before he could get ahold of them, I stuffed the receipts back in my purse. ”We don't need a trendy cutesy display window to bring in customers.”

His dark eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. ”We?”

I twitched away the implication of that single, loaded word. ”You know I was referring to the Terminal.”

”Your restaurant.”

”Sophie's restaurant, and not a smoothies-and-wraps kind of place. I have plans to make it a little more upscale than that. Fresh food from local growers. Dishes that push the limits beyond smoothies, if you know what I mean. This place . . .” I looked over Caf-Fiends. Like the Terminal, it was housed in a building that had been here long before smoothies were invented. It had a redbrick facade and what looked to be apartments on the second floor with flower boxes outside each of the four windows that faced the street. At this time of the year those flower boxes were empty, but in another month or so, no doubt they'd be bursting with pansies and brightly colored marigolds.

”It's cute,” I admitted, and then to make it perfectly clear that this was not necessarily a good thing, I was sure to add, ”In a cloying sort of way. I guess that draws a certain kind of crowd.” I tipped my head and gave the front window another look. ”What they really need is a few teddy bears.”

”You could loan them a couple.”

My stiff smile told Declan I was only kidding.

”Come on. It can't hurt to see why people are attracted to the place.” He tugged my arm. ”Besides, I hear they've got pastrami today.”

Pastrami is too fatty, too high in calories, and altogether too salty. I happen to love it.

Together, we stepped up to the door and Declan paused there, his hand on the k.n.o.b. ”With any luck, they won't know who you are. You can ask about the food and the service. You know, like a spy.”

I laughed. It was actually not a bad idea.

At least it wouldn't have been if the moment we stepped inside, the welcoming smile didn't vanish from the face of the middle-aged woman behind the cash register. ”Oh, it's you.”

She wasn't talking to Declan.

My cover-such as it was-blown, I extended a hand, introduced myself to the woman who said she was Barb, and threw out a few compliments on the decor that was (truth be told) what we in Hollywood would have described as positively ho-hum.

Faux hardwood floors, and not the good kind.

Aquamarine walls that didn't even come close to matching the touches of color in the fabric curtain in the doorway below the RESTROOMS sign and the cloth napkins piled on a nearby buffet.

Framed prints lined like soldiers on either side of the long, narrow room, each picture featuring coffee in some way, shape, or form. Coffee beans. Coffeepots. Coffee drinkers.

Barb showed us to a table and I tried (not very successfully) not to notice that despite the ambience, there were more patrons in Caf-Fiends than we'd had at the Terminal all day. A couple in the corner munched decent-looking salads. Other patrons were scattered here and there among the twenty tables, sipping coffee, eating wraps, enjoying brownies that looked both decadent and delicious.

”Two pastrami sandwiches,” Declan said the moment we sat down. ”And I'll have an espresso. My date . . .” He grinned at me across the table. ”Something tells me she's the iced green tea type.”

”Iced green tea will be fine,” I told Barb, and when she walked away, I added, ”though I could have ordered for myself.”

”Just being the perfect escort.” Declan sat back and looked around. ”So, what do you think?”

”Does it matter? What do you know about restaurant operations, anyway?”

”I know what I like. And I know where I like to spend my money.”

”Fair enough.” I nodded. ”Here or at the Terminal?”

Lucky for him, I may have put him on the spot but he didn't have to answer right away. Another woman hurried over. She set a tall plastic cup with my green tea in it on the table in front of me but she never looked at me once. She was too busy staring, dewy-eyed and practically drooling, at Declan.

”Nice to see you again, Declan.” The name tag that was handwritten in pink Sharpie and pinned to her blue and white blouse said she was Myra, and Myra twinkled down at my dinner date for all she was worth. ”You haven't been here in a while.”

”I've been kind of busy.”

Myra's hair was the color of a chestnut and pulled back into a ponytail and she wore blusher that was a little too plummy for her olive complexion. Even so, I watched her pale. ”You mean on account of the murder. Isn't it awful?” In a better, more perfect world-one that was not running strictly on the hormonal overdrive that had clearly taken over Myra's senses the minute she laid eyes on Declan-she actually might have asked the question of me, seeing as how I was the proprietor (temporary or not) of the place where the murder had taken place. But Myra had eyes only for Declan.

She put a hand on his arm and-I swear this is true-batted her eyelashes. ”It must be horrible for you. I mean, your store being so close to where the murder happened.”

”It's worse for Laurel.”

When Declan looked my way, Myra's smile wilted. He brought it back to life when he leaned just a little closer to her. ”She found the body.”

”Oh. My. G.o.d.” As if there were cooties a.s.sociated with the discovery and I was still carrying them around, Myra stepped back and away from me. Which, coincidentally, put her just a little closer to Declan. ”You must be, like, grossed out! We've got hand wipes,” she announced, because I either looked like I needed them or she thought that the remnants of Jack's murder could be so easily cleaned away. ”I'll go get you some.”

Big points for Declan: he waited until Myra was gone before he broke into a grin.

”She likes you,” I said.

Barb brought over his espresso and Declan added sugar and stirred. ”Myra's not my type.”

I couldn't possibly pa.s.s up an opening like that. ”So what is your type?”

”Irish,” he said quite simply. ”If I ever dated a woman who wasn't Irish, my family would disown me.”