Pint of No Return Read online

  Tomorrow would be filled with trouble, she had no doubt, but, at least for tonight, her heart felt content with Papa and Noodles cramming the corners of the tiny house.

  Soon she was lulled to sleep by the mingled snores of dog and grandpa.

  ***

  It seemed only moments had passed before her morning alarm blared. She’d already hit the snooze button three times. Her mind swam with jumbled thoughts and her muscles were sluggish. Papa Luis. Quinn. The strange doings at the open house.

  All her muscles jolted to life. To top it all off, it was Tuesday, the scheduled memorial for Kevin and a meager two days before the Shimmy and Shake Shop would explode on the scene. Her pulse pounded. Scrambling into some clothes that might pass as halfway decent, she scurried down the ladder. It was still early, barely six a.m., but she’d intended to be up before sunrise.

  Hastening down the ladder, she was heading towards the kitchen to start a pot of strong coffee for Papa when she noticed a neatly folded blanket resting on the sofa. A note written on a napkin lay on top.

  I have gone to meet the locals.

  The locals. She swallowed, remembering that it was likely some nefarious local that had bashed Quinn on the head and murdered Kevin. Many people in town were dubious of Trinidad and her connection to her jailed friend. She wondered what they’d make of the gregarious Papa Luis.

  “What a day to oversleep,” she groaned.

  Noodles popped open one eye to indicate that the word “oversleep” was not in his vocabulary. Remembering his splendid performance with Doug the day before, she mixed a mouthful of tuna in with his senior kibble.

  “You deserve some extra goodness,” she told him.

  Noodles wolfed it down in half the time it took her to eat her boiled egg and banana. There was a pile of candy left on the table, small rectangles that had lost some of their shine, miniscule scratches and chips marring their luster—the loot Papa had received at the open house.

  She grinned. Papa and his sweet tooth. As a child, she used to equate his roomy pockets with some kind of magical vending machine that dispensed a sugary treat whenever her mother wasn’t looking. Sugar was bad for the complexion and the waistline. How, she’d wondered as a child, could something so damaging make her taste buds stand up and do the tango? Not once had she had the same reaction to, say, an eggplant or lima bean. She scooped up the candy and set it on higher ground, away from the reach of her resourceful dog.

  With a to-do list in her pocket and a fierce determination in her gut, she loaded Noodles into the Pinto and sped to the shop. Papa was not there, but she saw his Bel Air parked on the curb. Outside Full of Beans, she caught a glimpse of his dark hair as he sat and visited with whichever local he had happened upon. The oatmeal-turned-ice-cream truck had been returned to the shop courtesy of Mr. Mavis. The morning was glorious with brilliant golden sunshine, and she hoped Papa Luis would find a good supply of chatty townspeople to entertain him.

  With Papa occupied and the twins not yet reported for duty, she had a precious few hours to start the custard base for what she’d intended to be another supply of vanilla, the perennial crowd-pleaser. Then she paused. Papa Luis’s suggestion for a mango and cream mixture caught hold of her imagination. How would a Tropical Twist Freakshake go over in Sprocket? She envisioned the creation piled high with a wedge of pineapple, chopped macadamia nuts, and a gaudy paper umbrella above the glorious mango cream shake.

  Caught up in the idea, she switched gears and found a can of coconut cream and some cane sugar along with the vanilla bean and vanilla extract and set it to simmer until the crystals dissolved. It would be creamy, and the extract would keep any ice crystals from forming. No eggs, no cow’s milk, a perfect vegan offering. The other base would be a straight mango sorbet, and the two would pair better than Fred and Ginger. She immediately put in an order for the paper umbrellas and splurged on overnight shipping.

  But how could she go about finding ripe mangoes? The small grocery store in town did not boast a large tropical fruit section, though she had spied a couple of pineapples there. Did she have time to go on a driving expedition to a bigger town to find them? Might it be a good errand on which to dispatch Papa? She was still mulling over her options when she realized it was approaching time for the memorial at the gazebo. Stripping off her apron and recapturing her hair into a neater ponytail, she let Noodles out into his favorite shady spot on the shop porch for his mid-morning snooze.

  The gazebo was three blocks past the gas station, set in a green swatch of grass that fronted a burbling creek. Quinn had told her it was familiarly called Messabout Creek, a tributary of Three Egg Lake. At the moment, the water level was low. Tall trees straddled both the land and creek, their roots emerging from the soil of the creek bed to plunge gnarled toes down into the water. She wished she could do the same, since she was hot and sticky from boiling custards and her brisk half-jog to the gazebo.

  The structure itself was a neat six-sided affair, painted blizzard-white and raised a few shallow steps off the grass. The shingled roof was decorated in red, white, and blue bunting for the upcoming holiday. How perfectly small-town America—very Sprocket. Vases of lush white roses and soft greenery adorned the gazebo steps.

  For a moment her mind again flashed on the pink rosebush at Kevin’s shop. Sad, to think of that gift that would never be given to Tanya, the woman he’d no doubt intended it for. Now she was presenting roses to him, after his death, a sad irony, a waste of a life.

  A large photo of Kevin, smiling and handsome, perched on an easel. Since the gazebo did not leave space for much seating, rows of folding chairs had been arranged on the grass. A linen-covered table offered a buffet of vegetables, finger sandwiches, and cookies on platters over shallow bins of ice. A round table held sweating glass pitchers filled with lemonade.

  Trinidad recognized Stan’s sister’s pecan tarts and realized that Full of Beans must have provided the sweets. That put her onto another train of thought. Stan had told her that the next step for Juliette was a pre-trial conference. Since she had pled not guilty, all that remained was to set a trial date. He’d already warned Juliette that there could be a delay, a long delay, six months or more, perhaps, before the case went to trial. Trinidad had nearly choked at that bit of news. Six months or more of Juliette locked up? And what happened if the trial didn’t go her way? Would she be facing a lifetime in prison?

  Trinidad sank down in a chair. A conversation to her left caught her attention.

  “It’s like the ex-wives are taking over the town or something. At least number two is locked up, just like her crooked husband.”

  The comment punched Trinidad like a fist to the gut. Who had said it? The casually dressed couple to her left? Mr. Mavis’s wife who sat next to him a few rows in front of her? Virginia Dempsey, who fanned herself as she spoke to a woman who quickly looked away when she caught Trinidad eyeing her? She realized that there were many interested glances in her direction.

  She’d been so busy with concern for Juliette, she’d forgotten that she herself was probably the subject of speculation by numerous people in town. Trinidad Jones…a Bigley ex-wife, defender of a woman condemned by the Sprocket court of opinion. Her throat ached with a combination of humiliation and outrage. This was the ugly side of Sprocket—gossip, judgment, people who would always paint her and Juliette and Bonnie with Gabe’s brush. Sprocket was too small, too smothering, just like Papa had hinted.

  What had she done investing everything in this locale? Would she ever be at home here? She clenched her jaw and forced herself to breathe normally. Calm down. What you need to do now is hold your chin up and not let them get to you.

  She was so lost in her thoughts that it took her a few moments to spot Papa Luis. He was standing by the buffet chatting animatedly with clergyman Phil Zapata, known to the town as Pastor Phil. She hastened over and received a bear hug from Papa and a handshake
from Pastor Phil.

  “Trina,” Papa said, beaming. “Who do you suppose I met at the coffee shop this morning? The good pastor and I are like family now.”

  She was grateful that Papa Luis was oblivious to the ill will that some Sprocketerians felt at his granddaughter’s presence.

  The ex-wife…her crooked husband… Though her jaw was still tight, she forced a smile. “How wonderful.”

  Pastor Phil, though probably only in his early forties, did indeed look as though he was greeting a long-lost brother as he thumped Papa Luis on the back. His broad smile revealed a chipped front incisor. “I have been here for a year so far, and I have not met anyone in Sprocket who speaks Spanish fluently until now,” he said. He arched a brow in mock disdain. “Though Luis and I have been arguing over which is the superior version, Cuban Spanish or Mexican Spanish.”

  “And we have agreed,” Papa said with a laugh.

  The two men spoke at exactly the same time.

  “Mexican.”

  “Cuban.”

  They shared another good laugh.

  Pastor Phil scanned the surroundings. “It will be a lovely service.” He sighed. “So sad. This would have been the perfect spot for the wedding, not a memorial.”

  “A wedding?” Trinidad stared. “You mean between Tanya and Kevin?”

  He flushed. “Well, yes. She mentioned it to me at the church last week. She thought…I mean…she was under the impression that he was going to ask her to marry him after he took care of a few things.”

  A few things like breaking up with Juliette?

  Pastor Phil must have seen Trinidad’s frown. “Perhaps I have misunderstood?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you didn’t.” How could she explain that it appeared the wedding bells were ringing in Tanya’s ears but not quite so loudly for Kevin?

  Pastor Phil wiped his brow and checked his watch, a cheap Timex with a frayed strap. “Excuse me, but I need to chat with Tanya.” His next comment was interrupted by movement under the buffet table.

  “Scram, squirrels,” he said. Two gray squirrels scurried from under the table back up into the tree, peering at the pastor with beady bright eyes, lush tails twitching. “They are the biggest pests. At our Sunday School Picnic, they actually snuck down and made off with a whole bag of chocolate kisses. Our children’s ministry leader was beside herself.” He squinted up at the critters chattering from the safety of their sturdy limb. “They have a ferocious sweet tooth and exhibit very little in the way of repentance.”

  “Sounds like me,” Papa said.

  Pastor Phil laughed. “Then you and I will get along like a house afire.”

  The squirrels hovered above them.

  Trinidad squinted at the mischievous rodents. “I’ll try to keep them away from the food.” She figured it would give her something to do besides obsess about the judgmental townsfolk.

  Pastor Phil gave her a thumbs-up. “Thank you. I think they’ve got an eye on the sugar cubes.”

  Trinidad had to admit the two critters did seem to be interested in the porcelain cup filled to the brim with sparkling cubes of sugar to accompany the carafe of coffee. She and Papa chose seats nearest the buffet, even though it set them off to the side of most of the group.

  Trinidad didn’t mind. It provided an opportunity to take advantage of the shade and distance herself from the guests. Determined to shake off her bad mood, she told Papa about her tropical Freakshake plans utilizing his mango and cream idea. “I need mangoes. Very ripe ones, since we’re almost to the Fourth, but I don’t know where to get them on short notice. Can you help?”

  He jounced in the chair. “Of course. Absolutely. Don’t worry at all. I will secure some mangoes, the very best fruit possible.”

  “Where?”

  He arched an eyebrow. “If you ask the magician for a dove, do you care which sleeve he pulls it from?”

  She had no answer for that. They watched the chairs begin to fill with the townspeople. Familiar faces, Warren, Cora, Virginia Dempsey, and Donald. Vince Jr. was there, several rows back, scowling at his phone. Candy and Sonny sat with heads together. Candy was wrapping something in a napkin. Stan’s pecan squares. She must have arrived earlier and helped herself to some free treats.

  Trinidad was surprised to see Quinn and Doug arrive and take seats in the back. She wiggled her fingers at them, and Quinn returned the gesture. He was moving gingerly, she thought, but he had even attempted to upgrade his look in honor of the occasion, wearing a plaid short-sleeved shirt, which she noticed was buttoned incorrectly. Doug’s hair was plastered down in a dark helmet.

  Tanya sat on the edge of the front row, gorgeous in a sleeveless black dress with a single strand of pearls and low pumps. Her eyes were hidden behind chunky sunglasses, but Trinidad could see her mouth was pinched tight with emotion. There was no sign of her father or any other family members accompanying her. Mr. Grant apparently did not feel Kevin’s ceremony was worthy of his time and attention.

  Pastor Phil cleared his throat, and the audience quieted. He began a speech, which highlighted Kevin’s business acumen, his theatrical endeavors, and his enthusiasm for the annual Fourth of July festivities. There was no mention of his extended family, and the pastor danced around the issue of his relationship with Tanya. He had just launched into the more spiritual part of his talk, when the flick of a fluffy gray tail caught Trinidad’s eye.

  Both squirrels had crept out of the tree and onto the grass. As she watched, they darted in furtive starts and stops toward the buffet table. She craned to look around Papa’s shoulder. The pastor introduced the local high school music teacher who began to sing a hymn to the accompanying music provided by an eighties-style boom box. The loud tune caused the audience to jump. “Be right back,” she whispered to Papa. Clearing the chairs, she crept towards the squirrels.

  “Shoo,” she whispered. “Or I’ll get my dog.”

  One of the rodents turned a beady eye on her. In a blur, the leaner squirrel leapt onto the table, snagged the cup of sugar cubes and hurtled off, sprinkling cubes in his wake. Trinidad gave chase. Instead of climbing the tree like his fatter counterpart, the thief dashed away from the park area and off along the sidewalk that led past the gas station and back towards town. “At least give back the cup,” she huffed as she jogged after him. A few minutes later she wondered what exactly she’d meant to accomplish by chasing the squirrel. Silly woman. It wasn’t as though she could confiscate the purloined sweets, and the cup would be found eventually. The pastor was right. Those squirrels had an insatiable sweet tooth.

  Sweet teeth, rather, like Papa.

  A bell pinged in her mind as an elusive thought finally took hold.

  Sweets. Old sweets. Specifically the pile of stale treats Papa had left on the kitchen table. She remembered how Diego had described the moment at the open house.

  “The way he was filling his pocket from the candy bowl, he must be some kind of weirdo. That candy was gnarly. Tasted like it was from a World War II army ration or something.”

  Gnarly. Old. Candy Simon was a cheapskate, a woman who could pinch a penny until it yodeled. What if she’d gotten those candies from a certain outdated penny candy machine?

  Candy’s comment came back to her when she’d spoken of Lupin and his collecting habits. “Everything from a busted-up candy machine to sixty-five coffee grinders.”

  The same candy machine that was now spiffed up and parked at the Vintage Theater?

  It must have been among the batch of unwanted items Sonny Petrakis had acquired in Edward Lupin’s storage unit purchase.

  Old, they’d likely determined, but not worth much.

  Not worth much, but what if they’d been wrong about that?

  She thought about the treasure-collector’s books in Lupin’s garage…with a whole chapter devoted to numismatics—coin collecting.

  Wh
at better place to hide a rare coin than nestled among its less-worthy counterparts? What if…? But, surely, it was not possible.

  A presence behind her made her whirl around and yelp.

  Quinn yelped right back. Doug chewed his lower lip.

  “Sorry I scared you,” Quinn said. “We saw you chasing the squirrel, and we decided to supply a rear guard. Did you catch him?”

  “No, but I just had the strangest idea. What do you know about coins?”

  He screwed up his face. “If you have enough of them, you can pay for things.”

  “I mean the special kind. The rare kind.”

  “Those would be good to have,” he said. “My uncle had a coin collection as a kid. I sure wish I had held onto those, but we needed the money to replant an acre of diseased trees a couple winters ago. Sold them to a collector for a couple thousand.”

  “Exactly. So, a penny, let’s say, could be worth a lot more than one cent.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “It would have to be a pretty out-of-the ordinary penny to be worth a ton.”

  “Bronze Lincoln,” Doug said.

  Quinn looked at him. “What’s that?”

  “Bronze Lincoln.” Doug fiddled with his phone and handed it to his brother.

  Quinn squinted at the screen, shading it from the sun with his palm. “It’s an article about rare coins. Says here the bronze Lincoln pennies were made in the 1940s. To preserve copper for the war effort, the U.S. Mint started making pennies with zinc-coated steel planchets instead of copper, but some copper planchets got caught in the presses and got struck in error and were released unnoticed.” He gulped. “Do you want to know how much one of these things went for? You’re not gonna believe it.”

  “$1.7 million,” Doug said.

  She stopped for a moment, struck dumb by the number. “Now that’s a penny someone would kill for, don’t you think?”

  Quinn gulped. “Uh-huh. I’m pretty sure they would. So, you think that’s what Lupin’s treasure was?”