Peppermint Mocha Murder (A Molly Brewster Mystery Book 1)

by Pam Moll

  That was an understatement. But would a few cane holes in the sand and the mint plants be enough to make us suspects? What motive did we have?

  “Granny, did you know Jim or his family?”

  A long silence followed. Granny avoided my eyes and sipped her afternoon tea. When she set the cup down, she patted my hand. “I don’t want to worry you, my dear. But yes, I knew his father years ago. He’d lived here before marrying some Chicago socialite.”

  Panic welled up inside me as my thoughts shifted to the words Granny wasn’t telling me. “Were you just acquaintances or …”

  “Of course, dear.”

  “I’m just wondering why the police would think we were involved in some conspiracy to kill Jim.”

  Granny heard the concern in my voice. “This is dreadful. We’ll just have to prove them wrong,” she said, reaching out and squeezing my hand.

  I nodded. “We have to be careful that we don’t implicate each other.” I’m sure that’s what Detective Lacey was counting on.

  “Don’t forget to take your garden gloves and mask, dear.”

  Through the window, sunlight caught the water in tiny sparkles, and a glimmer of buttery hues kissed the mangroves.

  I told Granny I’d be borrowing one of Grandad’s many cars. I was grateful, as always, that Granny hadn’t sold Grandad’s collection of cars yet, which allowed me anonymous sleuthing. Even so, if the police were surveilling Jim’s house, they wouldn’t recognize a car belonging to my grandfather unless they ran the plates.

  I borrowed the dark blue Oldsmobile and within the hour, after helping Henrietta clean up the kitchen, I crossed over the drawbridge and traveled to the sleepy village of Claus Cove.

  It seemed everywhere I looked this time of year, the water communities did something to celebrate the holidays. But this merry-monikered city really went way out. Miles of garland and holly decorated the lampposts lining the streets. A two-story Santa statue welcomed visitors to the village. Signs around the town advertised horse-drawn carriage rides and boat tours with Santa.

  I followed the GPS directions through the Townsend neighborhood and thought about how I could get into Jim’s backyard.

  As I drove through the streets, I saw neon-colored signs tacked to stop signs advertising the estate sale. I followed one sign to the next.

  As luck would have it, when my GPS chimed You have arrived, I found myself staring at a small yellow painted house surrounded by cars and a huge florescent sign that read, One Day Only Estate Sale. The location was directly next door to Jim’s house.

  This would be a lot easier than I thought. I can mosey through the house pretending to shop, but who’s pretending? I love garage sales. Hopefully, the backyard held garage sale items. If not, I could slip out back and make my way to Jim’s yard to check for gardens, and if I got caught I could pretend to be lost.

  I followed a large group of elderly women up the driveway and porch and into the front door. They were discussing what desserts to bring to Bunco at their church the next night.

  As soon as the screen door shut behind us, I noticed a large, bearded man who sat immediately to the right at a table with a cash box.

  “Welcome ladies,” he bellowed. “If you see a room that is open, then everything in it is for sale. If you have any questions, let me know. Please do not go in the rooms marked, Do Not Enter.”

  A few ladies asked about porcelain figurines and were advised to check out the kitchen table or ask his wife. She was out back smoking. Good. I felt excitement. This was my lucky day, and the backyard was available.

  As if to read my mind he said, “Don’t go out the backdoor. The backyard is off limits, but the garage is open. Maybe you can find a tool or two for sale that your husbands may be interested in. Christmas is around the corner.”

  One glance down the hall and I could only see two bedrooms. A third door appeared to be a bathroom.

  I told the owner I was on the hunt for estate jewelry and old National Geographic magazines. I was directed to a table down the hall. Behind me other customers browsed over the pots and pans in the kitchen and Hummel porcelain figurines on the table. These must have been his wife’s collection. Another table held old lamps, ropes, shells and several fishing poles leaned against the wall. A few rusted lobster traps were scattered underneath the table.

  I needed a distraction that would enable me to slip out the back door and appear to be lost.

  Before I could knock over a stack of the yellow magazines, I saw a pair of shiny dark shoes and tan trousers in the driveway. I inched back down the hall and recognized that familiar saunter coming up the driveway. As the screen door opened to the house, I ducked into the hall bathroom.

  Even if the owner saw me slip into the bathroom marked, Do Not Enter, he would be too focused on the visit from a Palma County Sheriff’s deputy to fuss at a garage-sale shopper using the potty.

  Through the cracked bathroom door, I listened to the familiar voice of Deputy Lucky-Call-Me-Drew Powell.

  “Sorry to disturb you, but we’re looking for a young lady with red, curly hair, around five-five and thirty years old, freckly face. Do you know if you’ve ever seen her visit your neighbor’s house before?”

  I felt weak. Deputy Drew was checking on me!

  My hair was like a sports car in arrest-me-red. So, I’d gotten used to changing my appearance when snooping was involved. I was now very, very happy to be wearing a brown wig from Granny’s attic chest, under a ball cap and sunglasses.

  Changing my hair was the easiest thing for me to prepare for a bit of reconnaissance. I always acted and looked older when undercover. After all, it was obvious that I couldn’t just snoop around in a dead man’s backyard dressed as me. I gave a silent thank you to my paranoid and eccentric Aunt Tammera, whose lessons were proving invaluable right about now.

  As I listened, I pulled my powder compact from my backpack and dapped at my stubborn freckles, concealing them as best I could.

  “Hmm,” the bearded guardian of the cash box replied. “There’s been a lot of people through here today, so my mind is on overload. That poor man next door hardly had guests.”

  Poor man? He must have felt obligated to speak well of the dead, because you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who liked Jim.

  “Let me think,” continued the bearded man. “How does she dress? What car does she drive? How old is she?”

  “Not sure of her vehicle, but she probably wore a brown t-shirt and possibly jeans,” Lucky said.

  Ouch, I needed to make a wardrobe change. My coffee-colored shirt was all he could remember? I looked in the mirror and got a reflection of my brown polo, which doubled lately as my café uniform. Okay, maybe I’d taken the brown-is-the-new black wardrobe a little too far.

  “I can’t recall anyone fitting that description. Do you have a photo?”

  Oh no! My heart pounded faster. Would Lucky have a photo of me? Would the owner recognize me? I glanced around the bathroom for an exit. A small window about the size of a cereal box was cracked open in the bathtub-shower combination.

  “Let me check,” Lucky said.

  After a few minutes of silence, a lady’s voice barked from the kitchen door in the back of the house, “Les, you have a buyer for the riding mower. Can you come talk to him? He wants to know if you have spare spark plugs.”

  “Okay Gladis, I’ll be there in a minute,” Les, the owner, yelled back.

  “Here, “Lucky said. “This is her Facebook page. Do you recognize her?”

  Darn, he found a photo. I was grateful I hadn’t updated my Facebook profile page that displayed a younger version of me from college when I had first signed up on the social media site. I looked more mature now and had, um, filled out nicely because I couldn’t resist the decadent sweets at the café.

  Les was quiet, then said, “Pretty girl. I would have remembered that looker if she had come in today or ever visited my neighbor. Sorry I can’t be of any help.”

  “Okay, can y
ou look more closely. She’s known to wear hats, maybe sunglasses?”

  I heard a grunt of disapproval from Les.

  “Les, are you coming?” the female voice yelled.

  “Listen, I can’t help you right now. Can you check back later?”

  I could picture Drew glowering.

  “Can you call me if you see anyone that reminds you of the person I described, or looks like the one in the photo? My cell phone number is on the card.”

  Thank goodness I had parked the Olds a few blocks away.

  I heard the screen door slam, and after a few minutes I heard the police car’s engine starting. No one saw me slip out of the bathroom and pick up a floral silk blouse from the $1.00 rack. I buttoned it over my brown t-shirt and grabbed a floppy hat off the hat rack for good measures, plopping it over my hair after I removed the ball cap. I left several dollars on the unmanned cash table for my purchases.

  Exploring the backyard was out of the question now, and so was taking the Oldsmobile. I fell into line with the large group of church ladies leaving the property. I walked extremely close to them as they strolled down the driveway and sidewalk, just in case Lucky was still lurking around.

  One of the lady’s eyes widened as I moved passed them. Even though I wore the floral shirt, straw hat and sunglasses, she knew who I was, alright. She tugged on the sleeve of one of the other ladies.

  My heart stopped when they all paused and turned to look at me. Oh no, now what?

  “We don’t want to be rude, but we have to ask,” the oldest-looking of the group said.

  I hoped she didn’t notice my face crumble. “Um, ask what?” I tried to act calm, like the police weren’t just there asking about me.

  “Did you get that beautiful shirt for a dollar, or were you able to talk Gladis down?”

  “Well, you know Gladis,” was all I could mutter. “Have a nice day, ladies,” I said as I hurried down the sidewalk away from Gladis and Les Townsends’ house.

  I zipped along over the narrow sidewalks on the adjacent street. I had managed to learn a thing or two about being followed, thanks again to Aunt Tammera, the detective’s wife. She would have said, “Molly, follow your instincts, but keep your nose dry.” She was discrete too and always “had a guy” who could help locate anybody or anything. I had placed a call to her about Erica and Jim’s alleged marriage and divorce.

  It had been instinctive when I dressed in disguise before leaving Granny’s house. I had a hunch I’d either be followed or be followed up on, not to mention my plans to nose around in backyard gardens. I darted back along a side yard, happy to be incognito, until I came to an alley. Casually squatting down behind a garbage can, I took off the floppy hat and tucked it into my backpack. I adjusted the brown wig and placed my ball cap with the Dolphin patch on my head. I removed the floral shirt and turned it inside out. It would appear white from a distance. I put it on and tied it at my waist, exposing a patch of brown T-shirt. My dollar purchases were paying off. I strapped on my backpack and moved back to the street.

  I made my way for a few streets and there was no sign of Lucky or his team anywhere. No unmarked cars followed me. I decided it was safe to return to Jim’s street. I had another idea on how to get in his backyard.

  But that all changed in an instant.

  Coffee is not a matter of life or death.

  It is much more important than that.

  ~ Anonymous

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  At the end of the street before Jim’s house, I knew for sure I was being followed.

  I hurried my walk, and the golf cart behind me accelerated. I paused to pretend to tie one of my black Keds, and got a glance at the purple and gold golf cart trailing me.

  I stood up, and a soft, crackling voice behind me said, “Sweetie. Woo hoo.”

  Woo hoo? I pirouetted to see the golf cart driver motion me toward her. As I got closer, I recognized her as one of the church ladies from the estate sale.

  She reminded me of the octogenarian famed for swiping huge amounts of high-priced bling over the years. She looked as tough too.

  “Hop in,” she demanded.

  “Oh, no thank you. I’m on my way to pick up my car. But I appreciate …”

  “Get in,” she interjected. “I’ll drive you.”

  “Sure. Okay, thanks.”

  I hopped in the front bench next to her.

  “Hi, I’m Corinne, but you can call me Connie.”

  “Hi, Connie, I’m Mo—um—Molly.” First mistake. Aunt Tammera would have said, ‘Don’t use your real name. Use your middle name or another family member’s name, something easy that you won’t forget in case you run into the subject again.’

  “Good to meet you, Molly. Now where we headed?”

  “You really don’t have to do this.”

  “No, I insist. It’s getting so darn hot out, and you’re wearing a lot of clothes.”

  I glanced down at my multi-layered outfit and nodded. Maybe this would be a great way to get back to Jim’s house. A nosy Deputy Drew Powell wouldn’t be looking for two ladies in a golf cart. “My car is on the street that runs parallel to the house with the estate sale. I was checking out the neighborhood and looking at houses for sale. My husband and I were thinking of moving to this neighborhood. Do you like it here?”

  She glanced at me for a second and grinned. “Ah, the Townsend house. That’s the one having the sale. I’ll have you over there in no time.”

  Connie drove the purple cart as carefully as if it was carrying a cargo of nitroglycerin.

  “Do you live here now?” Her voice was crackling. She wore a pink golfing outfit, a pink visor, and white and pink golf shoes.

  “What?”

  “You said you were looking for homes. Where are you moving from?”

  Dang I was rusty on playing undercover. “Across town.”

  “Uh, huh,” she nodded. “Where’s your ring?”

  “My what?”

  “Your ring, sweetie. You said you and your husband were looking to move here. I didn’t see a wedding ring,” she said as we cruised toward the street near the Townsend house.

  I put on a sad face. “Sorry, did I say that? It’s just that I’ve had a tough week, and I was thinking about someone that recently died.”

  She stopped the cart abruptly.

  Oh no. Again, I’ve said too much.

  “Did you know Jim?” Connie gripped her steering wheel.

  My investigation could go in either direction at this point. If I admitted to knowing the guy, I could ask more questions. If I denied it, well, I’d be lying.

  I adjusted the tight blouse tied at my waist. And coughed. Geez. I need a lavender bubble bath and warm cup of Joe.

  “I, yes, sort of,” I responded, looking surprised, and then sad. I was not used to questions from left field.

  “That was terrible. Everyone in the neighborhood is shocked,” she purred.

  “Did you know him?” I made a strategic decision that today was not a good day to check out his gardens.

  She nodded. “We’re all just grateful it didn’t happen here. I mean, it can be a deal killer on selling our houses. If he’d been knocked off at his house, the values in the neighborhood could tank. A lot of us are retired, and who knows when we will have to sell, or our families on our behalf.” Connie accelerated the cart slowly. She was a bit distracted as she waved at a silver-haired woman somewhat on the high side of seventy who sat on her porch. “Hi Agnes,” Connie yelled.

  “Hello Connie. See you at Bunco?”

  “Yes dear.”

  I managed to keep my head turned away.

  We sat in silence for a few moments, until I asked, “You play Bunco here?”

  “Yes, every second Tuesday, except this month because of the holidays.”

  “I love Bunco. I also love to garden. Does anyone here have gardens?” I figured that my conversation could use a little bit of honesty, and I also had nothing to lose.

  “Maple and V
ernon have a wonderful vegetable garden, but the rabbits are hungry little buggers. They eat half of it. They’ve tried everything.”

  “Bone meal?”

  “What?”

  “Have they tried bone meal? They should sprinkle it in the soil when planting. It makes the leaves taste bitter to the varmints. And they’ll go get their meals in someone else’s garden.” I sank back in the bench.

  “Hmm.” She scratched her chin. “I’ll ask.”

  “Does anyone grow herbs? They can have great healing powers.” I wasn’t backing down now off the garden conversation. Plus, we crept along at a snail’s pace as she drove about an inch a minute.

  “Yes, we have several herb gardens in this neighborhood.”

  “How about the neighbor who passed? Will his house be for sale? And does he have a garden, or room for one in the backyard?”

  She gripped both hands firmly on the steering wheel and turned her head slightly toward me. “No, sweetie. That’s a rental house. I believe the landlord already has it rented again. Besides, there’s no room in his backyard for a garden. It has a small pool and hot tub.”

  That was good to know. Google Earth hadn’t shown a pool in the photos I reviewed.

  “So sad. Was he married? With kids?” My scheming questions kept coming.

  “No. None that we know of. He had a girlfriend, or many of them, so I’d heard.” Her eyes tinkled. “He liked ‘em young and pretty,” she added.

  The Olds came into view. “Well here we are,” I blurted out and pointed at Grandad’s Olds before we passed it.

  She smiled. “That’s your car?”

  “Yes, well it used to be my grandfather’s.”

  “My Rudy had one just like it. He loved that car. His was white.” Her eyes glittered behind her wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Thank you for the ride.” I said a quick goodbye and dashed toward the driver’s side door, noting that there weren’t any police vehicles or unmarked cars on the street.

  I watched as she accelerated and sent the golf cart hurtling down the street at breakneck speed, or which to say was about 9 miles per hour.