On What Grounds

“Safe. Upstairs office.”

“Let’s go take another look.”

But the contents of the safe hadn’t been disturbed. Neither had anything in the office. We returned to the first floor.

“Anything else that could be missing?” pressed the detective. “Really look.”

I quickly surveyed the room, which displayed an eclectic array of coffee antiques gathered over the last century: from a cast-iron, two-wheeled grinding mill (used in the late 1800s, when the Blend was primarily a wholesale shop) to copper English coffeepots, and Turkish side-handled ibriks made of brass.

Behind the coffee bar hung a row of colorful demitasse cups collected from a variety of European cafés and a three-foot-tall bullet-shaped La Victoria Aruino espresso machine. Imported from Italy in the 1920s, and strewn with dials and valves, the machine was for show only and had since been supplanted by a much more efficient, low-slung espresso maker.

Antique tin signs from the early twenties advertising various coffee brands were all accounted for on the walls. And the shelf above the fireplace still held the Russian samovar and French lacquered coffee urn Madame had placed there years ago. Nothing seemed to be disturbed or missing.

Then I remembered. The plaque! I rushed to the front window.

“No. It’s there.”

“What?”

“The famous Village Blend plaque. It’s over one hundred years old, probably the most valuable antique in the store. It had been stolen by the previous manager. I believe your precinct took care of the arrest.”

“Moffat Flaste,” said Demetrios. “I remember. It was us, Ms. Cosi. We were the ones who booked him.”

“You? And Officer Langley?”

“Yeah.”

“You never stopped by for your Kona, did you? At least I haven’t seen you here before.”

The officers shrugged.

“Well, you be sure to. You don’t want to insult Madame. She never speaks idly about free coffee, especially when it comes to Kona—”

“Excuse me.” The detective looked a tad exasperated. “That’s the sign in the window, right? It’s there, right?”

“Yes.”

“What about Anabelle’s possessions? Was her purse on her when you found her?”

“No. She usually keeps it in the office upstairs, hanging on the coat rack. I didn’t see it up there. Or her jacket, for that matter—”

“Okay,” said Quinn, “we might have a lead here. Missing purse and jacket—”

“But if she was getting ready to close up,” I broke in, “she may have moved it down here.”

I stepped behind the blue marble counter again, remembering not to touch anything—I passed the used ibrik pot and amended my thoughts, resolving not to touch anything more anyway. Anabelle’s jean jacket and small leather handbag were on an empty spot of shelf behind the counter.

“Here,” I said, pointing. “Here they are.”

The detective came around the counter, put on his latex gloves again, and removed the jacket and small red leather purse. He opened the purse and pulled out the contents. A brush with strands of blond hair, clear lip gloss, a compact, a red leather wallet, and her keys.

“Keys,” he said tonelessly, resolutely, as if it were the final punctuation to a sentence.

“Are these Anabelle Hart’s keys to this shop?” asked Quinn.

I glanced at the thick ring of keys. I recognized the PETE’S PAINT AND HARDWARE logo on several of them. We used that shop to make all our duplicate keys—everything from the doors to the supply closets. Seeing the little silver ballet dancer charm dangling from the ring made me absolutely sure. “Yes, these are Anabelle’s keys all right.”

Langley and Demetrios glanced at each other and nodded.

“That’s it, then,” said the detective, putting Anabelle’s things back in her purse and placing it carefully on her jean jacket on the counter.

“What’s it?” I asked. “I don’t understand.”

“Locked shop. No forced entry. No sign of foul play. Keys weren’t stolen to relock the door. They’re right here. The hospital will examine the girl for sexual assault or any other sign of attack, but it looks like a tragic accident,” said the detective. “End of story. I’m sorry.”

“No. Wait. That can’t be it—”

“Don’t take it too hard,” said Quinn. “I’m sure the store has insurance, right?”

“For Anabelle’s hospitalization, of course.”

“And for the lawsuit.”

“Lawsuit?”

“Sure. Employees usually sue in these cases. Unsafe workplace.”

“This is not an unsafe workplace!”

The detective put his hands on my shoulders. He spoke quietly. “It was for Anabelle.”

I suddenly felt ill again. But this time I wasn’t losing control. The warmth of Quinn’s hands seemed to help; they were large and strong and steadying.

“It wasn’t an accident,” I told him. “Even though every piece of evidence may say it is, I know this coffeehouse better than the back of my hand. It doesn’t add up to an accident.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do. In my gut.”

“There are things our guts know and then there are things we can prove. The proof is what makes cases, Ms. Cosi. Isn’t that right, Langley?” The detective glanced back at the young officer.

Langley nodded. “I’m sorry, Ms. Cosi,” he said gently. “But the lieutenant’s right.”

I broke away and began to pace. “Listen to me: If Anabelle dragged the garbage can from under the counter, then why isn’t there a garbage trail along the floor? And why did I have to turn on the light in the back area when I arrived? If Anabelle’s fall had been an accident, surely the light would have stayed on. Who turned it off?”

“You’re talking about circumstantial evidence, Ms. Cosi,” said Quinn, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “There could be other explanations. Maybe the girl was in a hurry and didn’t turn on the light, then she lost her balance and spilled the can before she misstepped and fell down the stairs.”

“But Anabelle is a dance student, Lieutenant. She has exceptional balance. She’s so light on her feet. If only you could have seen her move around the shop. She’s so beautiful and graceful. She doesn’t walk, she glides, floats.”

I knew I was rationalizing, trying to find a logical justification for the feeling in my gut. I knew that Quinn had a point, that he’d seen a hundred crime scenes to my one. But my guts were never wrong. Well, hardly ever anyway, and it had taken thirty-nine years for me to learn to trust them, so that’s what I was going to do.

“No, no, no!” I shook my head violently. “Something wrong happened here. It wasn’t just an accident.”

“Ms. Cosi, you have to have grounds for theories of foul play—other than the ones on your floor.”

“But what if Anabelle wakes up and tells us what those grounds are?” I asked. “What if it turns out that someone tried to harm her? Don’t you need to collect evidence to prove her charges?”

Quinn nodded. “We’ve got a Crime Scene Unit coming down. Demetrios, check in with dispatch on an ETA.”

“Sure. They should have been here by now.”

“It’s been a busy night.”

“That Ivanoff shooting?” asked Langley.

“Yeah,” said the detective.

“You on that, too?” asked Demetrios.

“Jackson and I have been working it since past midnight. Drury’s on leave. Sanchez has the flu, and Turelli