Henry grabbed a couple packs of sugar from the wire packet holder pushed up next to the ketchup, ripped the tops off, and poured it in his coffee. "You look like shit, by the way."

        I grimaced. "So do you."

       He stirred his coffee like he had all the time in the world. "It's been a rough week."

       "Ditto." I'd opted not to order since I'd already eaten, so instead of busying my hands with eating I folded them together on my lap and watched my friend play with his coffee.

       "Can I ask you something?" He looked up with a grim resolve. "Why didn't you call Dr. Deb?"

       I looked away. "I don't know. I guess I didn't want to bother her."

       "She's paid to be bothered."

       I contemplated lying a little or joking but I wasn't in the mood. The tears had spent any energy left to keep up pretenses. "I guess I thought I would feel stupid to call her with something so trivial. I was basically crying for no reason."

       He took a sip of coffee. "It couldn't have been for no reason."

       I stared down at my hands. "I guess...I just felt...so overwhelmed."

       He nodded. "That's okay. We all get overwhelmed sometimes."

       "Oh? We all have a breakdown in our cars and cry like a baby?"

        "Not in the car. But when I was trying to sell my first manuscript and I got my hundredth rejection letter...in the bathroom. Just a little." He scratched at his chin. "What about Manny?"

       "We're in the middle of a fight. Just a little."

       He snorted out a laugh and the air felt less heavy. "Geez, I've only been in editing for a week and a half."

       "It all falls apart without you." I smiled a bit. "How's the book going?"

       "Final stretch." He took a tiny bite of his French fries, then talked while he chewed. "Good thing too. I was about to lose my goddamn mind."

        "You're the one who wanted to be an artist."

       He looked positively pompous. "Of course! How could I deny the world my brilliance?"

       I laughed. "At least it's not going to your head."

       "That's the first time I've seen you laugh all day."

       "All day? You've only been with me for ten minutes. Don't be so dramatic."

       He smiled. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

       "Me too."

       He gestured down to his plate where his million-calorie cheeseburger sat, still steaming. "Sure you're not hungry? 'Cause I'm about to fuck up this burger."

       "Go ahead."

       He grabbed the triple patty monstrosity and took a generous bite. As his jaw worked he mumbled, "I agreed to take out this girl from church."

       "Finally got you, huh?"

       He swallowed then rolled his eyes. "She wouldn't stop pestering me. 'When will you get married?', 'I want grandchildren'. It's too much."

       "There's a whole other son between you and Han she could pester first."

       "They gave up on Harley years ago. All they ask from him is that he doesn't embarrass them."

       "The joys of being the black sheep."

       "Tell me about it."

       "Maybe she'll be the love of your life."

       His face turned impertinent. "And maybe ten million dollars will just drop in my lap, and I'll never have to write another stupid fluff piece about reality nobodies in that gossip rag I freelance for ever again."

       "Boy, you get bitter after a week and a half." He laughed. I was about to ask more questions about the mystery church girl when my phone went off. I pulled it from my purse and felt my whole body tense when I saw it was Pasha. I answered. I didn't want to, but I answered. "Yes?"

       "Evie, thank God!" She was panicked. 

       I regretted this already. "What's wrong?"

        "After you left Jackson quit. On the spot!"

       Without Jackson that left Pasha and Lana on the floor by themselves. And Devonte's shift didn't start for another two hours. I could've called him but as I recalled he had something important to do today. I felt annoyance creeping up my neck.

        Deep breaths.

        After all I've done for that fat-headed son of a bitch (excuse me, Aunt Jackie...). I gave him a job when he was right out of prison, and no one would hire him. I let him have carte blanche over most of the dessert menu. I took personal time to help him study for the G.E.D goddamn it. And he'd leave me high and dry over some woman he met yesterday? Ain't that some shit? Where's the loyalty? Where's the integrity? Where's the good sense God gave a remedial gnat in the wintertime?

       I ought to slap him across his head with a baguette. I ought to throw a bagel at his eye—I ought to pop him in his mouth with a popover.

       The imagery made me laugh out loud.

        "Evie?" Pasha asked, clearly concerned for mental health.

       "I'm sorry." I simmered down to a chuckle then waved Henry off when he mouthed 'are you okay' from across the table. "Is Johnny still there?"

       "Yeah, I think."

       "Get twenty from the register and run it upstairs. Ask him to fill in for the hour."

       "Isn't he busy?"

       "Tell him it's an emergency. He'll help." After I hung up, I leaned back in my chair and groaned. "Fire, fire everywhere. And no one can extinguish it but me."

       "You gonna be okay? I wouldn't blame you if you took another twenty minutes for yourself."

        I don't hate that idea. Sure, my impromptu break was running long but three people could handle a mild crowd in the summer without me. Otherwise, how do I expect them to learn how to deal with fires by themselves? As for Benedict Jackson, I'd deal with him later.

        I relaxed back in my chair and watched Henry absorb his burger like he'd never eaten anything before. "You're right. They can handle another twenty minutes without me."

       Or at least, I hoped they could.

****************

        I just remembered the worst part about owning a café. Fucking baking. I hate it.

        The next morning, I went in extra early to prep the days baked goods since my baker abandoned me the day before. I stood in the kitchen, blasting music and trying and failing to knead the dough for a sourdough cinnamon bun recipe that was on today's menu. As I pushed and pulled and turned and folded, I felt a burn creep up my forearms. Why are my forearms so out of shape? Why am I breathing like I just ran a marathon? Why do they always make kneading bread look like a whimsical little activity one does in a forest cottage with your animal friends and not the actual torture it is? This is why I pay people to do this! This is work! Fuck lifting weights, just knead bread!

       And no matter how much I did it, it didn't look right. I googled pictures of dough but mine wasn't as full and fluffy as it was supposed to be.

       I needed Jackson. But I am loath to apologize...but I need my baker back.

       Fuck it, no bread today. I've got some emergency pre-made Pillsbury Doughboy croissant, biscuit, and pie crust dough in the pantry for those days when your baker ain't shit. And yeah, their puff pastries may not be as flaky with the pre-made stuff as usual but I'm not folding butter into shit! The only batter I need made is muffin batter. Matter fact, that's all I'm making! Muffins. Just muffins. It's goddamn muffin day in the House of Misfortune and God help anyone who complains about it.

       But after I finished all that, I needed to talk to David one more time. I was eighty percent sure he was the murderer or otherwise involved. Technically, he'd given me enough to exonerate Ashley, but his confession was tainted by intoxication. It would be slightly unethical for me to build a case around a confession that was coerced while drunk. Or at the very least I could give him a chance to clear things up while sober.

       So, I spent the morning putting out a very limited menu of overcooked omelets, croissants from a tin, some donuts, and every fucking muffin you could imagine.

       Lunch was much easier. That was just sandwiches, thank God. Complicated café style sandwiches but ultimately easier than kneading bread.

       After a lull in foot traffic, I made my escape and headed toward this building in Eastpointe where David had an office. The building was a one-story craftsman that stretched the length of the parking lot. I missed it at first. The free-standing sign was obscured behind the overgrown foliage of a nearby tree, so I'd had to U-turn.

       The businesses housed inside were varied and seemingly unrelated. There was a dentist, a tax office, a real estate office, and then David's office right on the end. I parked out front then walked right in without hesitation.

       Inside was a lobby decorated in warm woods and eye pleasing beiges. A woman sat behind the only desk in the room. She looked up when I walked in and smiled. "Hello. How can I help you?"

        Some good customer service at last. "I need to speak with David Howell."

       "Oh, I'm sorry Mr. Howell isn't free for a consultation right now. Can I make an appointment?"

       "Just tell him the garden waitress from the Regal Banquet is here."

       "Garden waitress?"

       "He'll know what it means."

       She nodded and gestured for me to have a seat, which I did. Then she picked up the phone and called David. After some hushed whispering into the phone, she hung up and looked at me curiously, "He said to give him five minutes."

       He wasn't so drunk as to not remember me, it seemed. Good.

       Five minutes turned into ten. Then ten into fifteen. I would've gotten upset if I didn't recognize it for the half-assed strategy, it was. Part of him probably wished that I'd just disappear, I'm sure. The other part of him—the practical side was trying to establish dominance by time wasting.

       "Mr. Howell will see you now."

       Twenty minutes exactly. How desperate. "Thank you." I stood and shoved my hand down my pocket and gripped the waiting recording device. I'd dumped the other after Manny told me the sound quality was shit—and somebody stomped it to death with his wing-tip loafers. The one I'd bought to replace it was a new and improved and Manny-approved model with sound that was clear as a bell.

       I walked into the open door of David's office and stood at the ready. He sat behind a large black executive desk that dwarfed him. He stood without word and crossed the room to firmly shut the door from prying ears.

        "Hey, David." I said arrogantly. "I hope you're feeling better."

       He raised a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. "Do I know you?"

       "I'm hurt. I practically held your hair back while you threw up all over Kelli's garden Sunday night."

         He sighed, then skulked past me to go and brood by his desk. "What do you want?"

       "The truth."

       "I didn't kill Noah. I didn't kill anyone."

       I crossed my arms. "But you hated him, didn't you? He's the reason, after all, that you're about to get raked over the coals in divorce court."

       "Fine." He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a half empty bottle of bourbon. "I hated him. So? A lot of people did."

       "The rest of them didn't pull a gun on him. A gun later used to kill him."

       A tumbler glass materialized and he poured himself a big splash. He didn't offer me any. Add rude to guests to his lists of sins along with sloppy drunk and murderer. "Just because it was my gun doesn't mean I killed him."

       There it was. A sober confession to ownership, and all on recording. "True but I bet the police will find this info very interesting. Even more interesting than I do."

       "And they'll know that ownership is not culpability." He took a deep swig of bourbon. "It could have been anyone! Me, Kelli, someone else!"

       "You know about Kelli?"

       "We're friends, okay."

       "But you know Noah was blackmailing Kelli too?"

       "Oh, yeah. We realized we were getting had by the same guy at the same time."

       That couldn't be right. Kelli's known about Noah for years and David's only been getting blackmailed for a few months. Did she lie to him? Some friend. "So you and Kelli are close?"

       "Kelli's a great lady. We've known each other for a long time. Our families holiday together, our kids are friends, the whole thing." He finished his glass of bourbon then started pouring another. Would I ever have a conversation with this dude that wasn't tainted by liquor? "We used to do business together too."

       "Used to?"

       "We made some investments together but it looked like it was going belly up so I pulled out. Jesus she was mad."

       "But you're friends now?"

       He chuckled right into his glass. "She doesn't hold a grudge. But serves me right because that investment made her millions in the end."

       "You're mighty loose lipped today."

       "Why not? My wife left me. Everyone thinks I'm gay when I'm not. I've got nothing to lose."

       Nothing but dignity at this point. And his freedom. "If you aren't gay—or bi—what was the thing with you and Noah?"

       "That was just about sex."

       "That was very nonchalant. You know you're a married Christian man, right?"

       "I, like anyone, am susceptible to sin. Noah was the one that contacted me first. It was ungodly, I know. But I was weak."

       Whatever he has to tell himself I guess. "But why'd you go to his funeral?"

       His eyes glossed over for a moment, and suddenly he seemed to be in pain. "It was just what I said. I wanted to make sure he was dead."

       "You missed him."

       "I didn't miss him. I mean, he was nice to talk to sometimes. What I mean is, that he would say some interesting stuff, you know? But all that was fake. He targeted me for my money like a lot of people do...but I thought...well, I thought."

       "You thought it was mutual." I said quietly. 

       He shook his head. "You don't know what you're talking about."

       "I know you had the means, motive, and opportunity to commit this murder. I know the police will be very interested in that information."

       "I wouldn't do that if I were you?"

       "Is that a threat?"

       His face darkened. "I'm a very powerful man. A powerful man with nothing to lose."

       I got out of there before things got too tense. 

       In the car I played back the conversation on my voice recorder. It was as clear as advertised but unsuitable for evidence in a court of law. I mostly wanted it as a failsafe in case David came after me in any way. 

       But more importantly was the information he'd let slip. He and Kelli knew about each other's blackmail situations. And neither went to the police? There's something else going on here. I'm sure of it. 

       The only left to do was figure out how it all fit into place.