Page 9 of A Box of Wishes
“I bet. But that wasn’t what I was going for.”
“No?”
“When I came in, you looked relaxed, pleased about something, even.”
Ryan thought back to the moments before Ben had arrived. “I was. Pleased, that is. My favourite cousin turned up. That’s always a good thing.”
“Are you close?”
“We used to be. I don’t see him all that much these days. He travels for work, is out of the country for weeks at a time. And he’s a bit of a workaholic.”
“That seems to run in the family.” Ben’s tone was dry, his eyes on the cast-iron skeleton clock over the bar.
“Sure.” Ryan didn’t argue. “Do you have any news about that break-in?”
“No, not yet. I stopped by to see that you had your premises secured.”
“The carpenter finished half an hour ago,” Ryan said. “New doors, new locks, new security light. I’m all set for the night.”
“Think about installing a security camera.”
“Inside or outside?”
“Both, if you’re asking me. Have one watching the back door, and one wherever you expect the most trouble inside.”
“But that’s just it. This is a coffeehouse. We don’t have trouble. People come for food, for a break, or for business meetings. They sit, drink their coffee, and talk. I’ve never even had to break up an argument. Not like one of my uncles. He runs a pub, and that’s all very different. He has cameras in the hallway outside the bathrooms.”
“Not having booze in the mix helps, I grant you. Have the camera watch your office, then. Still no idea why someone wanted to search it?”
“Beats me. I’d understand if they’d been after money. I might even understand it if they’d nicked my recipes. My sales receipts and purchase orders? That makes no sense.”
Ryan watched Ben across the teacups, not wanting to break up the comfortable accord until he realised that Ben was doing the same. “How much longer are you on shift?”
Ben checked his watch. “About done for the day. The patrols in town know to check the courtyard on their rounds, and I’ll stop by on my way to work. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but—”
“It’s a deterrent. I get it. And I’ll make sure I have a pot of tea ready for you tomorrow morning.”
A wave of red engulfed Ben Hobart’s face. And Ryan loved it.
No extra furniture had materialised while he’d been at work. The bare patches on the wall hadn’t gained fresh memories and the gaps in his rows of books still resembled missing teeth. But when Ben settled on his couch with a pizza, a pot of tea, and Morris draped over his lap, his home felt much less lonely.
He ate his dinner with half an eye on a documentary about the Titanic, while he took stock of his day. From the phone call before he’d left for work to his afternoon in the coffeehouse, nothing had been routine.
Was this the reason he felt so different?
It couldn’t be the new case. He hadn’t interviewed victims or witnesses in a while, but he investigated break-ins all the time. He drank tea all the time, too, provided he didn’t forget to buy milk. Neither his selection of tea nor an exciting new case had ever made the world feel that much brighter. Not even his Morris had managed that.
Ryan O’Shaughnessy, though….
The man moved like a dancer in the narrow space behind his bar, turned and shifted and leaned while he reached for mugs, plates, and teapots. He watched his customers, anticipating their orders as if it were a game he played with himself, and smiled when he found he’d guessed correctly.
Ben didn’t want to think of Ryan as a drug dealer, but he couldn’t ignore the reports. Not after he’d seen what the tip-off had described: Ryan reaching under the bar and handing a customer a small paper packet.
“It was a sheet of paper, not a packet. And the woman wasn’t an addict,” he reminded himself. Her hands had been shaking with fear not need, Ben would swear to that. She’d reached for the pen and paper with near desperation, had written a few words and had dropped the paper square into the vintage box that stood beside the cash register.
At no point had the paper been out of Ben’s view. He was also sure that the lady had removed nothing from the paper, nor had she added more than ink to it. Had she been placing an order?
It hadn’t felt like that at all.
