Psycho #OpenNovellaContest

Chapter 11

Twenty minutes later, Alya arrives at Mott's Coffee Shop. She orders herself a small mocha from the male barista named Mark, even though she really does dislike the bitter taste that all coffee seems to have. Her phone vibrates on the table- a number she doesn't recognize. She rejects it, and takes another sip of the coffee. Still bitter. She sighs, and glances around the coffee shop. It's mostly empty, save for a couple in the corner and a woman sitting by herself near the counter.

Alya's phone buzzes again. She stares at it for a minute, annoyed, then picks it up. "Hello?"

"Alya Ledford?" a male voice says.

Alya hesitates. "How do you have this number?"

"That doesn't matter. Are you Alya Ledford?"

"Yes..."

"I'm Raymundo Martinez. I want to talk to you."

"About what?"

"What do you think?" He laughs humorlessly.

"If it's about what happened at the funeral, I don't want to talk about it."

"Alya, I want to hear your side of the story before I send my story to the publishers-"

"I knew it! You were just going to-"

"I'm a journalist, Alya. This is my job."

"Well, it's not right to benefit from other people's losses! You can't just-"

"Alya," he says. "I want to talk to you. Where can I find you?"

Alya pauses for a moment. "I'm at Mott's Coffee Shop."

"See you in ten." The line goes dead.

Alya huffs out her breath and slams her phone down. What right did he have to speak to her like that? What right did he have to barge right into her business? What right did he have to snoop around in a murder of a woman he didn't even know-

Alya heart stops. What if Raymundo is the murderer? Of course; why else would he be at the funeral? There are easier ways to find information about a murder, and why would he even care? 

Alya twists her hands together. What was she going to do? He'd be at the shop in ten minutes; what would she say?

Hands shaking, Alya picks up her phone. She slides a crumpled piece of paper out of her pocket. It had been in there ever since the woman had given it to her at the funeral.

Carmela De Anza, the thin words on the paper read. A phone number is scrawled beneath.

Alya punches the numbers into her phone and waits. Carmela picks up on the first ring.

"Hello?" a tense voice says at the other end of the line.

"It's Alya Ledford," Alya says, then adds, "We met at the funeral."

"Right, Alya Ledford." She hesitates. "What do you need?"

"Meet me at Mott's Coffee Shop in ten minutes," Alya says. "Raymundo Martinez wants to talk to me. And..." She lowers her voice to a whisper. "I think he's the murderer."

A pause, then, "I'll be right there."

Alya hangs up and sets her phone on the table. Her hands tremble and she doesn't know why.

She looks around the shop again. The couple in the corner is engaged in a make-out session. The woman at the counter finishes her conversation with the red haired barista and leaves, dropping her empty coffee cup in the trash can on her way out. Mark, the barista, sighs and goes back to cleaning one of the machines. Alya takes a deep breath. It's now or never.

Alya stands up and walks to the counter. She sits down in one of the stools and sets her mocha on the counter. "Hey."

Mark ignores her.

"Um, excuse me?" Alya tries again. "Mark?"

Mark sighs, and sets down the rag. "What do you want?"

Alya takes a sip of her mocha. "Who was that girl you were talking to?"

"No one important."

"Hm."

"I gave her my number and she threw it away. End of story. Now what do you really want?"

"I, um, just wanted to ask you a question," Alya says.

He raises an eyebrow. "A question."

"Yes," Alya says. "About one of your, uh, customers."

He rolls his eyes. "Oh goody."

Alya presses on. "Her name was Lizzie Hart. Black hair, blue eyes-"

"Listen, sweetheart, I get about fifty billion customers in here with that exact same description-"

"Fifty. Billion," Alya says slowly. " Does that really sound like a realistic number?"

"I don't know, does it?"

Alya sighs. "I'm not here to play games. I'm here on a special detective investigation-"

"Oh, cut it out," he says. "I know who you are and you're no detective, no matter how good you think your acting skills are."

"Excuse me? I'm a wonderful actor!"

"And who told you that? Your stupid husband?"

"No, I..." Alya's voice dies.

Mark smiles. "The only reason you're even famous is because of Tom. Not that I'm a fan, but he does know how to market to the people." His eyes rake down Alya's body, and she subconsciously pulls her coat closer around her. His gaze drifts up to meet hers again. "But you've been not too fond of him recently, have you?"

Alya's blood runs cold. "What do you mean?"

Mark lowers his voice. "Where is he, Alya? Where is your husband?"

"He's sick!" Alya says defensively. "Of course he's not going to be out in the public eye! He doesn't want people worrying!"

Mark pauses for a moment. "It's James Anderson, isn't it? That's the man you've been having an affair with."

"What are you talking about? Affair? I don't even know James Anderson!"

"Quit the charade; we both know you're lying."

Alya hesitates. "He's a friend. Not even a very good friend. I don't even like him." At least this is true.

"Can you stop lying?"

Tears of frustration burn in Alya's eyes. "I'm not lying!"

"You don't care," he says. "You don't even care about Lizzie, do you?" He holds up a hand when she starts to protest. "I heard you talking on the phone; you're going to meet Raymundo Martinez. You only want your name alongside that bastard in the newspaper so you can continue your little fantasies of being a detective to make up for the acting skills you obviously lack."

Before she can even think, Alya splashes her hot mocha in his face. "The only bastard we're talking about is you!"

The door behind her suddenly rings as it opens. "Alya?" a voice says.

Alya turns around. There, standing in the doorway, is Raymundo Martinez.

"Oh," Alya says, her voice faltering. "Hi Raymundo."

He gazes steely eyed back at her. "Hello Alya Ledford."