Page 3 of A Box of Wishes
It wasn’t standard procedure for investigating burglaries, but if the owner of the coffeehouse needed to look after people to keep his composure, Ben would let him do so.
He ignored the Christmas trees dripping baubles and ribbon at each end of the long room and sat in the nook beside the unlit fireplace, imagining a roaring fire in the grate and the coffeehouse filled with an afternoon crowd, enjoying scones and jam, Danishes, and cheesecake with their tea.
It was easy to do.
Despite the stainless-steel counter and the high-tech coffee equipment behind it, the room felt warm and inviting. A space to stop in the daily rush and relax for a while.
Ben had spent much time in coffeeshops when he’d first moved to Manchester. Sat at a small table and read, baffled the baristas with requests for speciality teas, watched the other patrons and guessed at the kinds of lives they led.
Then he’d met Keith and his coffee shop outings had stopped.
Now he lived in a house with half the furnishings missing. With marks on the walls where pictures had told stories, and bookshelves that showed bare patches. He’d done nothing to the house since Keith had left. He’d stayed away from people and buried himself in work and workouts until he even forgot to go shopping for food. His home reeked of loneliness and heartache, with Morris the only bright, welcoming spot in his life. The tabby might go out for hours at a time, but he’d never desert Ben. Morris was loyal. Faithful. The way Keith hadn’t been.
“Here you are.” The barista’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. The soft baritone fit with the space, as much as the Christmas lights draping the walls, the trees in the corners, or the wooden tray that held a proper teapot, a cup and saucer, and two plates. A large cheese and ham croissant lay on one, a cherry and white chocolate muffin on the other.
It was what Ben would have chosen if he’d placed an order. “You watched me,” he accused, cheeks burning.
“That’s my job.” The man slid into the seat opposite. “I’m Ryan O’Shaughnessy. I own this joint,” he said, and watched while Ben poured himself a large cup of tea, added a little milk, and raised it to his nose to inhale the fragrant steam.
“You reported a break-in,” Ben began when he’d soothed his empty stomach with the croissant and muffin and had coaxed a third cup of tea from the pot.
“I did.” Ryan’s chin rested on his folded hands. He hadn’t moved while Ben enjoyed his breakfast. “I found the back door forced when I got here at five. My office looks like a tip. And don’t worry, Detective. I only peeked in from the doorway. I’ve not touched a thing.”
“You sound calmer than most burglary victims I get to see. Could you tell whether they’ve taken anything?”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “Like I said, I’ve not checked. Nobody touched the cash register. I’m not sure if they even came in here. All the damage is in my office. They’ve upended my filing cabinets and turned out all the drawers in my desk. I don’t know what they were after. Not money or my recipes, I don’t think.”
“Why not?”
“I lock my recipe book in the safe along with the petty cash, and the safe appears undisturbed.”
“Your recipe book… I take it that’s valuable?”
“My most valuable asset.” He waved his hand at the furniture and equipment. “All this is insured. My recipe collection? Not so easy to replace. Though…”
“Yes?”
Ryan shrugged. “It’s a recipe book. It’s not much use to anyone but another baker. I mean… you can’t sell it or anything.”
“You’d be surprised what you can sell. Do you keep cash on the premises?”
“About two hundred in petty cash. That’s in the safe. Front of house… most people pay by card. I keep a little cash on hand for change. Fifty quid at most. If there’s more, I bank it at night.”
Ben finished his tea and closed his notebook. “May I see your office?”
“Of course.” Ryan led the way into the back of the coffeehouse to a small room that looked as if a tornado had paid a visit. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight, and Ben retrieved his notebook and got to work.
Suspicions
“You reported it, right?” Cara’s voice betrayed mounting anger alongside a hefty dose of concern.
“I’ve reported it,” Ryan sighed, not sure what had possessed him to call the police. Attracting attention wasn’t always a smart move. Especially not at this time of the year, when he had the box sitting on the bar. He could have covered the repairs and nobody would have been the wiser. But no, he’d reached for his phone and called for help.
As if Fate hadn’t wanted him to stop himself.
“Ryan. Are the police taking it seriously?”
He thought of the detective who’d arrived on the heels of his call. DS Hobart was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a sweet smile and sad eyes, wrapped in an aura of despondent grey. He’d appeared so lost sitting at the table in the nook, cradling his cup of tea as if it were something rare and precious, only to change into a focussed, confident officer the moment he’d set to work.
