The Widows’ Cafe: A Short Story
Read The Widows’ Cafe: A Short Story Online
Authors: Camilla Lackberg
The Widows’ Café
Translated from the Swedish by Tiina Nunnally
HarperCollins
Publishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
Published by HarperCollins
Publishers
2014
Copyright © Camilla Lackberg 2006
Published by agreement with Nordin Agency, Sweden
Translation copyright © Tiina Nunnally 2014
Cover design layout © HarperCollins
Publishers
2014
Cover photographs ©
Shutterstock.com
Camilla Lackberg asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780007479047
Version: 2014-10-24
Table of Contents
The buns were arranged on platters. The biscuits were in fancy glass jars next to the cash register, and the satin steel of the brand-new espresso machine gleamed behind her. Marianne walked around to the front of the counter and took a couple of steps back to admire her creation. She’d done the exact same thing every morning since opening the Widows’ Café almost three years ago. Sometimes she found everything to her satisfaction. But sometimes she didn’t. Today she wasn’t entirely pleased with the way the glass of the display had been polished. Inside were the newly made open-face sandwiches, piled high with ham, cheese, roast beef, or shrimp. With a few expert swipes of a dishcloth, she polished the glass so it sparkled in the sun coming through the windows at the front of the shop. She could see her own face reflected in the glass. That round face, which had provoked so many sighs of dissatisfaction from her when she was young. These days she found it perfectly suited to her grey hair, still so thick and lovely as it framed her round face.
It was the location that had made her fall for this place. She’d been thinking about opening a café for ages, but her dream had never materialized because she couldn’t find the right premises. By chance she had come across the old village shop when she was out taking one of her long walks, and for some reason she couldn’t get the place out of her mind. Every little crack, every shabby detail of the building had become etched into her memory. Not that she had paid much attention to how shabby it looked. Instead, she’d seen the potential that was underneath. Now that potential had been realized. She’d put all the money that Ruben had left her into the renovation work, and it had been worth every öre. Best money she ever spent, as the Americans would say. And that was honestly how she felt.
Someone was trying to open the door, so Marianne went over to let in the first customers of the morning. The Widows’ Café was ready to greet the day.
‘Are you lying to me?’
His voice has that tone that makes her instinctively flinch and crouch down, trying to make herself as small as possible. But usually it doesn’t help. He takes a step forward. Now he raises his hand. She looks at the palm of his hand, seeing the lifeline and the heartline. Parallel, and yet intertwined. Then the blow falls. First the sound. That sharp, resounding slap. Then the pain. The burning sensation. And finally darkness.
‘Where would you like to sit?’
The bright voice made Marianne look up and study the couple who had just come in. The woman was thin and petite, her eyes flitting around nervously. The man was big, with a presence that felt like an intrusive and unwelcome guest.
‘Where do I usually want to sit?’ he said in a tone of voice that made the woman cringe.
‘Near the window,’ she said timidly as she led him over to a window table a few metres away. She cast a glance at Marianne, who hastened to smile in her direction. The woman looked as if she could use a good supply of smiles.
‘Just coffee for me,’ said the man, taking the seat with the best view of the sea, which was only a short distance away. Frowning with annoyance, he stared out of the window, as if the world outside was standing by to attack him. Then he turned to look at the woman, who was heading towards Marianne.
‘And make sure it’s strong. I don’t want any of that tepid dishwater like we got at the café in town.’
The woman merely nodded.
‘Two coffees,’ she said, staring at her hands, which were clutching her purse so tightly that her knuckles were white.
‘Would you care for a bun with your coffee?’ Marianne reached for the platter. ‘It’s on the house. You look as though you could use a little meat on your bones.’
The woman looked at the buns and seemed to hesitate. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the man sitting at the table and firmly shook her head.
‘No. No, thank you. He doesn’t like …’ Again she shook her head, allowing the rest of her sentence to fade away. Her blonde hair fell softly over her shoulders, and Marianne could see tiny scars on her face. Spidery little lines where the skin had split open and then healed.
‘But I’d like a Widow’s Special, please.’
Marianne gave her a searching look. ‘Are you sure, sweetie?’
She didn’t take her eyes off the young woman. For a moment, thousands of unspoken questions seemed to hover in the air, but they vanished as the woman slowly nodded.
‘Then that’s what you shall have,’ said Marianne, turning her back to her customer to fill the order with her usual efficiency.
When the couple left half an hour later, she quickly cleared their table and went into the kitchen to wash the cups. When you ran your own business, you had to be very careful.
‘You’re fucking useless! Do you hear me? I could crush you and not even break into a sweat. Do you realize that?’
He tightens his grip on her arm. Hatred and rage pour out of him. As if there’s something dark, something hollow inside of him. A hidden spot where all the hate and anger is stored – until it boils over because she doesn’t measure up, doesn’t do as he says. Fails to be the person she ought to be.
‘Why the hell should I keep you around if you can’t even clean things properly? Look at this! Do you see that? Do you?’
He twists her arm into an awkward position as he forces her down on the floor. With his free hand he presses her face against the kitchen floor, right in front of the cooker.
‘Do you see it? Do you see it now? Is that how it’s supposed to look?’
She looks as best she can with his fingers painfully gripping the back of her neck. But she doesn’t see a thing. The floor is gleaming after she scrubbed it for the second time today. It’s so spotless that she can see her own reflection in the wood. Not that it matters what she sees. Or doesn’t see. Because he sees something, so something must be there. She no longer asks any questions.
The girl who sometimes helped out in the café had just gone home when the bell above the door rang.
‘We’re closed,’ said Marianne, without looking up.
She was adding up the cash in the till, and she didn’t want to lose count.
‘I’m not here as a customer,’ said a voice, and when Marianne raised her eyes, at first all she saw was something shiny. Her glasses were perched on the tip of her nose, so she pushed them back up and realized the shiny object was a police badge.
‘I’m from the police. Detective Inspector Eva Wärn.’
‘The police?’ said Marianne, raising one eyebrow. ‘What’s this about? Don’t tell me one of the customers who was here when the boy swiped a couple of buns has bothered to report the theft. The kid looked so hungry, I don’t begrudge him a single crumb. I would have given him the buns for free, if he’d asked.’
Eva Wärn waved her hand dismissively. ‘This is about a more serious matter.’
The inspector nodded towards a table near the cash register. ‘Could we sit down for a moment?’
‘Sure. Of course. But can I offer you some coffee, since we’re going to sit down anyway? I’ve just bought this amazing machine, so I can have two cups ready in a matter of minutes.’
Marianne tenderly patted her espresso machine, which had quickly become an invaluable addition to the café.
‘Well …’ Eva Wärn hesitated, but the thought of drinking something other than the wretched police station brew seemed to defeat her instinct to decline, and she nodded brusquely. ‘All right. Thanks. I suppose one cup wouldn’t hurt. Could you make it a caffe latte?’
‘Certainly, my dear,’ replied Marianne, and she turned around to begin fiddling with the apparatus. After the machine had steamed and sputtered for a few moments, she placed a latte on the table in front of the officer, with a dusting of cinnamon on top of the white foam.
‘There you are. Now we’re ready to have a proper conversation,’ said Marianne with satisfaction. ‘So what’s this all about?’
Eva sipped her coffee, seemingly reluctant to broach the reason for her visit. But when the silence began to feel oppressive, she said:
‘We’ve discovered a rather odd coincidence.’
Marianne leaned forward with interest.
‘An odd coincidence? That sounds exciting.’
Eva gave her a stern look.
‘There have been a number of strange deaths lately. At first there didn’t seem to be any connection between them, because they occurred both in our own police district and in other areas. But when we noticed the coincidence …’
She took another sip of coffee, refusing to look Marianne in the eye.
Marianne didn’t say a word. Instead, she leaned back, calmly regarding the woman sitting across from her. After a lengthy silence, the inspector went on:
‘In the past three years, four men have died mysteriously. The youngest was twenty-five, the oldest fifty-three. Without warning, they simply collapsed, and for lack of any other explanation, the pathologist has blamed their deaths on heart problems.’
‘I see. But then what’s the problem? It’s not uncommon for men to die from a heart attack, and four men in three years …’ Marianne left her sentence hanging as she threw out her hands.
The detective inspector meditatively stirred her coffee with a spoon as she focused all her attention on the foam in the glass. That gave Marianne the opportunity to study the woman in more detail. She had a tired look about her. She seemed to be about forty, but in the bright sunlight coming in through the big shop windows, she looked older. Her dark hair was cut in a page-boy style that was practical but not particularly attractive. And a few strands of grey were visible here and there. Apparently she wasn’t sufficiently vain to colour her hair.
Eva Wärn raised her eyes from her glass to look Marianne straight in the eye.
‘You’re right.’ She paused and then went on. ‘It’s not unusual for men to die from a heart attack. But what’s odd is that all of them seem to have called in here for a coffee before they died. Since the cause of death was rather uncertain in each case, the wives were interviewed and asked to describe what they had done the day before their husbands passed away. I’ve read the reports from those interviews, and in every case, the Widows’ Café was mentioned. That’s rather odd. Don’t you agree?’
Her expression was cold and hard, but Marianne merely smiled.