Peppermint Mocha Murder (A Molly Brewster Mystery Book 1)

by Pam Moll

  Granny Dee stopped abruptly and stared googly-eyed at Timothy.

  From out of nowhere, Chris appeared from the kitchen wiping seemingly invisible specks of coffee grounds from the inside of a glass carafe.

  Granny Dee turned in surprise and her tray of cookies collided with Chris. A loud crash echoed as glass hit the tiled floor, but Granny’s startled shriek was louder.

  Silence followed.

  All at once everyone started talking.

  “Why’d you come barging in?” Granny demanded.

  “What are you doing standing in the doorway?” Chris replied.

  “Humph,” Granny sniffled. I was impressed she still balanced the plate of cookies upright, considering she could be quite clumsy without her cane.

  “Careless, sloppy baristas,” she mumbled.

  “Here, let me take those cookies,” I offered, guiding Granny gingerly away from the door. I grabbed the tray.

  Granny waved her hand. “Whatever. I’m just …”

  I held up a hand to stop her from berating my employee in front of customers. Sometimes I just had to take a stand. Even against Granny.

  “Granny, have a seat and get out of the kitchen doorway. Chris, get a broom and clean up that mess.” I calculated quickly that our second glass carafe had been destroyed today, and it wasn’t even noon yet.

  “Aurora and Bales, please get Mr. Carlin and his lovely granddaughters their breakfast and refill Kate’s mint Arnold Palmer.”

  Was I imagining it, or did Granny scowl?

  Chris swooped in from the kitchen holding a broom and dustpan. Granny paid no attention to the task, until she saw him start to sweep.

  “Here, let me you clumsy dunce. You won’t get it all.” She grabbed the broom. There’s the granny I love− taking control. I knew it was a form of an apology for scolding at my employees.

  Granny Dee loved drinking hot tea. She ruled the roost with a sharp tongue, whined about the cooler mornings while clutching a streaming cup in both hands, and at night she could be found watching re-runs of Murder She Wrote, anything on the Hallmark Channel or reading Agatha Christie novels.

  I admired my Granny, a.k.a. Edith D. McFadden. She was a tough cookie and quite grumpy. 79 years young, she’d turn 80 several weeks before I turned 30. She could be hard, sarcastic and mean-spirited, and her face was often scrunched up like she was eating something sour. She talked tough for such a tiny old woman, but deep down she was all about family. We McFadden’s stuck together. Technically I was a Brewster, my father’s surname, but having been raised by my mother and all my aunts, I often thought of changing it to McFadden. The name definitely matched my ginger hair which crowned McFadden heads for generations.

  Although Granny could be tough sometimes, she was a good helper around the café and would lay her life down for any of us. A former nurse, she liked to give advice on all things related to medical situations. Granny adored her family, even if she didn’t show it and she harassed me constantly about finding a man.

  “Mo, your biological clock is running out,” she declared, as if I was a spaceship zooming to earth, and when the clock stopped, BOOM!

  I rarely thought about settling down and having a family. I was doing quite well, thank you very much. At 29, I was broke, single, owned a café, partially working on a PhD, and living in an apartment above the café that I owned. Not too bad.

  “It could be worse, Granny Dee,” I always replied. “I could be 29, broke, single, back in school, unemployed, and living with you.”

  Yes, that was me a year ago. Indeed, I had lived with Granny Dee and loved her big house, but her grumpy attitude was a challenge.

  Today I lived in one of the rented apartments above the shopping village where my café was located. I was a flight of stairs and 182 weather-beaten boardwalk steps from my work, and less than 100 steps to a manicure and a haircut, which I indulged in once a month. A dry cleaner, dentist, yoga studio classes (which I never participated in), and a sub shop and Gator Joe’s Bait and Tackle were also within walking distance. My favorite shop in the Villages of Bay Isles was the guitar shop. Even though I don’t play the guitar, Snickers and I have been known to sit and listen to the guitarists while reading Agatha Christie.

  For the next 30 minutes or so, the Bean was back to business. Customers came and went. Fresh coffee brewed. My staff tended to customers and daily chores. Granny was situated outside speaking with Mr. Carlin and thrusting her secret weapon—sweets—on him and his granddaughters.

  For the hundredth time, I felt a huge swell of gratitude to my grandfather.

  Leave it to my granddaddy Lowes to be sensible. If he had left me money with no stipulations, he knew I’d have used it to pay off my college loans or go on a cruise to some exotic place or buy a new car. But instead, his Will stipulated I use the money to open a business. I also received money to set up a household in Bay Isles.

  Thank you granddaddy. He had been smart and wanted to keep me close to Granny Dee, but not underfoot. So, I rented one of the apartments in the building behind and upstairs from the café.

  One of the many perks of living in our village was that we’re located on a barrier island that’s barely five miles long and three miles wide, so I could ride a bike or take a golf cart or a boat to get to where I needed to be. A drawbridge connected the Village of Bay Isle to the mainland. Most of the area we lived was bordered by the Gulf of Mexico, Tampa Bay, and various inlets. It was truly an ideal setting for my business.

  I joke around a lot about not being a people person, but in reality, I love dealing with all sorts of people.

  I figured if I could grow up in a household with only my mom and an older brother, and no father since I was ten, then I could survive living close to Granny.

  Suddenly, Snickers dashed toward the front door, skittering on the tile. He only greeted a few customers this way. And without looking outside, I knew Deputy Lucky was in the vicinity.

  Two Palma County Sheriff’s Deputies walked in, dressed in tan uniforms and mirrored Costa sunglasses that hid their eyes. Sidearms always hung from their waists. At other businesses, the cops showing up meant trouble was afoot. But here, I knew them as two large lattes and a blueberry muffin and a biscotti. Deputy Drew “Lucky” Powell ate the blueberry muffin (a man after my heart) and Deputy Ted Walker the biscotti.

  Actually, I got the idea about analyzing people by the type of coffee they drink the first time Deputy Drew Powell walked into the Bean. I call him Deputy Handsome.

  It struck me as I handed him his morning latte that he saw it as just one of those small comforts that makes life truly worth living. And maybe he liked it because it took the bitterness out of the coffee, just like he wanted to take the bitterness out of life by serving and protecting the community.

  So, what started out as a little fun, fantasizing about the kind of person he was, well, turned into a habit.

  I smiled. I hadn’t seen Deputy Lucky in a few weeks. For reasons unknown to the residents of Bay Isles, Deputy Drew Powell had been nicknamed Lucky. I thought I heard it had something to do with their weekly fishing trips, but I’m positive it had to do with his uncanny apprehension of criminals.

  Our community of Bay Isles didn’t have its own police department, and instead residents were protected by the Palma County Sheriff’s office. Crime overall in Bay Isles was relegated to thefts, robberies and assaults. Deputy “Lucky” Drew had more arrests than half the department. Granted, he had a zero-tolerance rule, but his arrests tended to fall on the lesser offenses.

  “Hey guys,” I said with a slight sexy twang, wondering where in the world it came from. Have I been hanging around Erica too much? Erica, one of my part-time workers was quite the flirt.

  “The usual?” I asked, and managed to shake the twang loose, flashing the deputies my biggest smile. I was on my third cup of coffee, and it showed.

  “Hi Mo. Yes please, lattes,” Deputy Lucky said, while Deputy Ted was bent over petting Snickers.

&nb
sp; While I made their drink order, Aurora gathered their pastries.

  Lucky smiled warmly at me while I worked. He was a handsome guy with a pale complexion that tanned easily, large attractive green eyes, dimples, and pearly white teeth. He wore his sandy-colored hair cropped short and had the most distinguished walk I’d ever seen. He sauntered on a six-foot thin, but muscular, frame. If I was looking to date someone, which I wasn’t, Lucky was my kind of guy. He was around my age too.

  The deputies stopped at the Bean a few times a week. Lucky claimed they were addicted to my flavor-of-month lattes and came by for their fix on their way north to Bridgeport Falls, where the Palma County Sheriff precinct was headquartered. I’d like to think that Deputy Lucky enjoyed seeing my smiling face over a perfect cup of coffee, but that was my ego dreaming. Lucky’s partner, Ted Walker, was a distinguished mid-50s veteran.

  He asked, pointing in the case, “Are those peppermint cupcakes?”

  “They are,” I replied. “Would you like one? On the house.” I grinned.

  “How can I say no to a free peppermint cupcake?” Deputy Ted said, grinning.

  “Trust me, you can’t,” I replied.

  “Did you make them?” Deputy Lucky asked.

  “No, they’re from Doughy Doughnut Delights— Jack’s place over in Bridgeport Falls,” Aurora answered, passing over the pastries on a porcelain plate, and adding two cupcakes.

  “Oh, yes, close to our precinct,” commented Deputy Ted, directing his gaze at me.

  I handed the lattes to Aurora, who gave them to the two deputies.

  “Have you met Felix, Jack’s cousin?” I asked, reminded of our hot collision earlier this morning. Something about the second delivery still bothered me.

  Deputy Ted looked ready to spit peppermint sprinkles at me. He clutched his latte, frowned, and nodded.

  Lucky didn’t look my way, but said, “I know him. Do you?”

  “Yes. He delivered the pastries this morning,” I said from my spot behind the counter.

  Lucky gave a nod to his partner and ran a hand through his wavy cropped hair, looking somewhat troubled.

  “Hey, before I forget, there’s a Siamese cat that’s been hanging around back a few times this week.”

  “A stray?” Deputy Lucky took a sip of his latte.

  “Possibly, or a lost pet.”

  “We haven’t had any reports of a lost cat, but we’ll let you know if we do. We often find strays in Fort DeSoto Park. Boaters or campers leave them behind.”

  “That’s terrible.” My thoughts were on the stray I had named Kona when the bells on the front door jangled. I put on my greet-the-customer face.

  A group of fishermen entered.

  Amongst the group was Todd Clawson, son of the Bay Isle Mayor. Todd, a handsome eternal college kid, shot a smile at Aurora.

  Aurora couldn’t hide the little blush on her cheeks. I knew her too well. She was smitten. The very look that set off my radar roped in Aurora every time he flashed his picture-perfect smile. Why couldn’t she, and Bales for that matter, tell the difference between a nice guy who was interested and a guy who preyed on pretty girls? Sort of like me and Snickers candy bars after I go off my diet, I thought.

  Their voices floated over the room, “Jim was ahead of us from the first cast,” Todd said.

  “He was swinging those fish in the boat before we could bait our hooks,” said someone else.

  “Yah, every scorable fish counts, but Jim’s unfair,” the tallest of the anglers added. He stopped speaking when he saw the deputies.

  “Hey boys,” Deputy Ted said to the group.

  “Good day, officer,” a few responded.

  They stepped aside and let the officers by. I wished I could have spoken with Deputy Lucky a while longer, but we needed all hands-on deck.

  I recognized the group and especially the grungiest one, because whenever this particular fisherman came in the café, he was always in a foul mood. If there was a picture in the definition of grumpy in the dictionary, his face would be there. He even trumped Granny. I made a mental note to try and wait on him every time he came in to spare my staff his wrath. He was one of those impossible types of customers who had a snotty comment for everyone in the café. He just barely gave Kate Haskell a look, and she took off out the front door.

  The tall one, with mysterious dark eyes but a bright friendly smile, offered to pay for the other two fishermen. “I caught the least amount,” he said.

  Todd, the mayor’s son, tried to refuse, but the other one insisted.

  Todd’s a caramel double whip latte drinker. He often tells friends how much of a coffee expert he is, rating cafes across South Florida harsher than Gordon Ramsay. He should do everyone a favor and just get a milkshake.

  As the grungy fisherman grabbed his extra-large black coffee, he eyed Aurora up and down and muttered a comment. Aurora ignored him and seemed to be biting her tongue. She continued making the other two fishermen’s drinks. Mr. Grungy Grumpy looked disgusted as he ate a free sample of Granny’s award-winning gooey butter cake. He made a rude comment, something to the effect that it was decent, but not winning any prizes at the county fair.

  It doesn’t take a psychologist or his coffee choice to see that he’s trouble.

  Aurora leaned over to me. “I know he’s a customer and all and I shouldn’t say anything. But when he comes in the café, it’s like he’s sucked all the sunshine out of the room,” whispered Aurora.

  “I agree. With his attitude, maybe I should banish him from the café forever.” I whispered back to Aurora. He sure got on everyone’s nerves and how dare him insult my employees and our food.

  Deputies Lucky and Ted said their goodbyes, and I spied them whispering and glancing at Mr. Grumpy before they left. I was busy dashing around assisting the group of fishermen but managed to wave and say goodbye to the officers.

  Several of the customers had drifted to the book nook, and two of the fisherman chose a table nearest the kitchen.

  Mr. Grumpy didn’t bother to thank the other fisherman for paying and walked outside to smoke a cigarette. Snickers wagged his tail at him and the fisherman shooed him away.

  Snickers returned the snub with a bark directed at the fisherman as he walked away.

  “My sentiments, exactly,” I said. I’ve rarely forbidden a customer from the café, but he deserved to be added to the do-not-enter list.

  I spotted Erica in her brightly colored gypsy dress heading in the front door. Her long auburn hair was pinned up in a bun and her pink floral dress billowed in the light breeze. The grumpy fisherman stopped her.

  As I glanced at Erica and the fisherman, I caught a flicker of something in her face.

  Mr. Grumpy glowered. Erica wore a stubborn look. I’ve never seen Erica raise her voice, but she looked upset. Her face was flushed.

  I read her lips and all I could get was she mentioned something about money. Money?

  They turned their backs to me.

  Within minutes, they were having an all-out argument in the parking lot. I looked around to see if any of my baristas or the other customers noticed.

  Everyone seemed to be otherwise engaged. I wondered if I should intervene. Of course, I shouldn’t, but I certainly am, I decided. My employees are like my family.

  It was settled. I decided to sweep the outside porch and eavesdrop. If Erica needed help, I’d be there. I grabbed a broom, but Mr. Grungy had disappeared like a ghost. I was shocked to see a look of terror on Erica’s face.

  She entered the café and mechanically tied on her green gingham apron. I was concerned as she wandered slowly behind the counter.

  Erica blinked at me and looked preoccupied. She jumped when I asked, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. Her eyes, however, were scanning the parking lot. She seemed on edge. “I’m just tired.”

  “Do you need the afternoon off?” I was worried about her. >

  “Huh?” Erica was still staring out the window.


  “You seem in another world. Is everything okay?”

  She nodded but looked very uncomfortable. “I’m just upset over a horrible person.”

  Coffee helps me maintain my

  “never killed anyone streak.” ~ Anonymous.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It had been a long day at the Bean. The customers had come in a constant stream throughout the day. Despite the broken carafes, the day had been profitable, and I was pleased.

  I glanced over at the book nook. There were a plethora of colorful canes and walkers lined up against the wall. Some of the canes had been decorated in green and red, and one especially stood out. It had been wrapped like a candy cane. I didn’t realize until I moved to Bay Isles that walking canes were a fashion statement.

  I moved past the island’s reading group and said my hellos, and then went to grab my backpack from the office. I stopped to review the schedule. On the sheet pinned to the cork board above my desk, I ran my fingers over the names listed; Aurora, Bales, Chris, Granny Dee, (I did schedule her once a week at our slowest time), Erica and Fiona. Erica’s mother, Fiona, was on a cruise and wouldn’t return until a few days before the Christmas parade and annual Holly Fest event. Like last night, Aurora was scheduled to close. I smiled at the thought of a day off tomorrow. I would miss my team. The whole group was a quirky, special bunch, but they were my family.

  I said my goodbyes and left the coffee shop around six-thirty.

  I strolled along the village boardwalk toward my apartment situated in the last building. As I looked around the sleepy village, I hoped that nothing would happen to change the sweet ambiance of our quaint little town. It was like a timeless postcard, and I wanted it to stay that way.

  The newspaper machine I passed every day still held the free local paper. I pulled open the door and removed the Bay Isles Beach Beacon. By the glow of the street light, I saw on the first page a story about the manatees beginning their annual migration to warmer water. Flipping the pages, I read that Sarah Rosling had delivered her baby girl on Tuesday; Mary Dedham’s strawberry pie won first place in the Palma County bake off; and Jim Grist had caught a beast of a fish in the Palma Fishing tournament. Sarah and Mary were regulars at the café. And Jim’s photo hoisting the fish looked familiar to me too.