by Dana Mentink
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2021 by Dana Mentink
Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks
Cover art by Michelle Grant/Lott Reps
Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Mentink, Dana, author.
Title: Pint of no return / Dana Mentink.
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Poisoned Pen Press, [2021] | Series: A
Shake shop mystery ; book 1
Identifiers: LCCN 2020048818 | (paperback) | (epub)
Classification: LCC PS3613.E496 P56 2021 | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020048818
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
A Note from the Author
Excerpt from the next Shake Shop Mystery
Chapter One
Trinidad’s Easy Key Lime Ice Cream
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To my Grandpa, player of chess, solver of problems, teller of jokes, father of my hero.
Chapter One
It was an absolute monster.
Trinidad Jones rubbed at a sticky splotch on her apron and slid her offering across the pink, flecked Formica counter. The decadent milkshake glittered under the Shimmy and Shake Shop’s fluorescent bulbs, from the glorious crown of brûléed marshmallow down to the candy-splattered ganache coating the outer rim and the frosted glass through which peeked the red and white striped milkshake itself. Her own reflection stared back at her, hair frizzed, round cheeks flushed. Something this decadent just had to be a crime. “What should I call it?”
Trinidad’s freshly minted employees, twins Carlos and Diego Martin, were transfixed, eyes lit with the enthusiasm only fifteen-year-old boys with bottomless appetites could attain. They might have been staring at a newly landed spaceship for all the wonder in their long-lashed brown gazes. She still wasn’t entirely sure which twin was which, but they were doing a bang-up job helping her ready the shop for its launch in a scant seven days’ time.
Noodles, her faithful Labrador, cocked his graying head from his cushion near the front door and swiped a fleshy tongue over his lips, which she took as approval. He had already been consulted on a pup-friendly shake she’d dubbed the Chilly Dog, determining it to be more than passable. Noodles was an encouraging sort, which made Trinidad doubly glad she’d decided to adopt a senior citizen companion six months earlier instead of a younger pup. Besides, he had a wealth of skills she was still discovering.
Carlos whistled, running a hand through his spiky hair, sending it into further disarray. “It’s like a Fourth of July Freakshake.” He gripped the pink-coated paint roller he was holding as if it was a Roman spear. “Like, an eighth wonder of the world or something. You should put a sparkler on the top, you know, for the holiday. People would dig that.”
Diego shook his head. “Bad move. Those things can burn at two thousand degrees Fahrenheit, depending on the fuel and oxidizer. Of course, temperature is not the same as thermal energy, which is going to relate to the mass, so…”
“Dude,” Carlos said, punching his brother’s arm. “You’re such a dweeb. I mean, turn off your bloated brain and just admire it, wouldja?”
Diego ceased his impromptu physics lecture to join his brother in their mutual appreciation fest. He pulled a clunky video camera from his backpack, and his twin immediately grabbed a spoon and began speaking into it as if it was a microphone.
“This is Carlos Martin reporting live from the Shimmy and Shake Shop where an ice cream phenomenon is about to be revealed to the world,” he pronounced in a booming baritone.
Trinidad laughed. “I didn’t think people used video cameras anymore.”
Carlos grinned. “They don’t. We saw it at the flea market for two bucks along with a bunch of old history stuff and home videos no one will ever watch. We just thought it’d be fun to mess around with it since Diego wants to be a news reporter someday.”
“And a physicist,” his brother added.
“It’s good to have goals,” Trinidad said. “So, the shake gets a thumbs-up from the news crew, then? We’ll skip the sparklers and call it the Fourth of July Freakshake. What do you think about adding a hunk of a red, white, and blue nutty brownie star in the marshmallow?”
Diego smirked at her. “Is adding brownies a bad thing, like…ever?”
All three of them considered.
“Point taken,” Trinidad said. “I’ll bake them when I get back from my errands and freeze them for the opening. I have to run to the storage unit and pick up a few final things. Go ahead and lock up the shop if I’m not back when you finish for today, okay?” She knew Carlos had afternoon football practice, and they’d chatted about doing some additional odd jobs around town in their effort to bankroll a used Plymouth while they were both studying up for their driving permits. She eyed the fresh coat of pink paint the boys had been applying to the walls. “Looks like you’re almost done.”
Diego pointed to the longest wall. “We calculated the volume of paint just right, considering we had to apply a third coat. Weird how your husband’s name keeps showing through. Reminds me of a horror movie I watched, like he’s rematerializing in town again since all his ex-wives are living here now…” Carlos broke off as his brother elbowed him in the ribs.
“Ex-husband,” she said, “and that would be a good trick for hi
m to rematerialize himself out of jail.” She swallowed down a lick of something that was part shame, part anger, as she considered the spot where “Gabe’s Hot Dogs” was once emblazoned in blocky letters. Moving to the tiny eastern Oregon town of Upper Sprocket, hometown of her cheating ex-husband Gabe Bigley and his two other ex-wives, was her most mortifying life decision to date. At age thirty-six, she should have been settled, married, and raising a family, not jumping into a highly risky entrepreneurial endeavor in her ex-husband’s hometown, no less. Funny how pride took a back seat to survival. The faster her money ran out, the more palatable the notion of taking over the building Gabe had deeded her on his way to jail became.
Her grandfather, Papa Luis, used every derogatory word in his Cuban Spanish arsenal to convince her that Gabe “The Hooligan” Bigley should be obliterated from her mind and that moving back to Miami with him and her mother was the prudent choice. He was probably correct, but here she was in Sprocket anyway.
Now “Gabe’s Hot Dogs,” a store Gabe had never actually helped run, was being reborn as the Shimmy and Shake Shop, and it was going to be the most successful establishment in the entire Pacific Northwest if it killed her. Upon arrival in Sprocket, she knew the small town tucked in the mountainous corner of eastern Oregon would be the perfect home for her shop. A gorgeous alpine backdrop, sweeping acres of fields, a constant stream of tourists arriving to witness the wonder of Hells Canyon and participate in various festivals… It could not fail. Especially since it wasn’t a paltry run-of-the-mill ice cream parlor. Shimmy’s would specialize in extravagant, over-the-top shakes that would take Sprocket and the dessert-loving world by storm. Unless it had all been a massive mental misfire on her part. She swallowed a surge of terror.
Noodles shook himself, his collar jingling in what had to be a show of support. He gingerly pulled a tissue from the box on the counter and presented it to her, a throwback to his service dog training. “It’s okay,” she said, giving the dog a pat. “No tears right now.” She realized both boys were staring at her.
“That’s an awesome dog,” Diego said.
She nodded her agreement.
“Um, sorry, Miss Jones,” Carlos said. “Mom said we weren’t supposed to mention anything about, I mean, you know, your ex or the other exes or…uh…” His face squinched in embarrassment.
“No worries. I know the situation is a bit unorthodox.” And delicious fodder for the local gossips. Somehow, she’d managed to be in town for six weeks and had not yet run into Juliette or Bonnie, Gabe’s two other ex-wives, the ones she’d had no clue about until her life fell apart, but it was only a matter of time before their inevitable meeting; her own rented residence was only a short distance from Bonnie’s property. She put Carlos out of his misery with a bright smile. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s a weird situation.”
“Downright freaky,” Carlos said, earning another elbow from his twin.
“Right. Well, I’ll just go see to those errands.” On the way to the door, Noodles stretched his stiff rear legs in the ultimate downward dog yoga pose and trotted after her.
“By the way, boys,” Trinidad called over her shoulder. “I left two spoons on the counter. Someone has to taste test the Fourth of July Freakshake, right?” The door closed on the boys’ enthusiastic whoops. She chuckled. There should be some perks to a job that only paid minimum wage and took up plenty of precious hours of summer vacation. If only she could pay them entirely in ice cream.
On the way to her car, she admired the whimsical pink and pearl gray striping on the front of her squat, one-story shop. The awning the three of them had painstakingly put up would keep off the summer sun, and some artfully arranged potted shrubs enclosed a makeshift patio with a half dozen small tables. Noodles had already staked out a location in the coolest corner as a designated napping area. She plodded down the block to spot where she’d parked the Pinto beneath the shade of a sprawling elm. What she wouldn’t give to rest her aching feet. The doctor reminded her with ruthless regularity that losing thirty or so pounds would help her complaining metatarsals. Probably a nice vacation to Tahiti would do the same, but it was just as unlikely to happen. Her metatarsals would have to buck up and quit their bellyaching.
Trinidad regarded the shady main drag. Working from sunup to well past dark on a daily basis, she hadn’t had nearly enough time to explore the charms of Upper Sprocket.
Somehow the quirky name suited the town settled firmly in the shadow of the mountains, with old trees lining the streets and people who still waved hello as they drove by. Five hours east of Portland, surrounded on three sides by the Wallowa Mountains, Sprocket was plopped at the edge of a sparkling green valley, with soaring peaks as a backdrop and air so clean it almost hurt to breathe it. The mountains were considered the “Swiss Alps of Oregon,” and the nearest neighbor, Josef, hosted numerous events like the popular Alpenfest fall bash. Visitors had opportunities to take the Wallowa Lake Tramway to the top of Mount Howard—3,700 feet of eye-popping splendor. The multitude of outdoorsy activities and sheer loveliness brought plenty of visitors to the larger towns, and Sprocket, though more out of the way and shabbier than chic, pulled in its share of tourists too. Enough to keep Trinidad scooping ice cream in the warm weather months. Winter would be another challenge.
“One season at a time,” she told herself. She passed a trailer and exchanged a friendly smile with the driver. The RV was one of many in town to enjoy the upcoming celebration. There would be plenty to do before the Fourth of July. Sprocket featured its very own lake, an annual apple festival, and even a third-generation popcorn stand that was a favorite of snackers far and wide. She’d also heard tell of hot springs in the area, though she’d not yet clapped eyes on them. It amazed her how much sunnier this little town was compared to her previous home in Portland with Gabe.
Her spirits edged up a notch. Sunshine, a fresh start, and a darling shop all her own. Rolling down the window, she let the air billow in, bringing with it the scent of dry grass and sunbaked road. On the way, she ticked off the items she needed to retrieve from her storage unit—something she hadn’t yet had the time to tackle. There were three more plastic patio chairs she’d have the twins spray-paint a subtle shade of gray to offset the pink theme and her prized antique cookie cutter collection, passed down from her mother who had never so much as laid a finger on them.
Cruising away from the town’s main street, she waved to the gas station owner who’d erected a card table on the sidewalk with a cooler on top and a scrawled sign that read BAIT WORMS, FIVE DOLLARS/PINT. As she drove along, she wondered exactly how many worms one got in a pint. The turn onto Little Bit Road took her to what passed for Sprocket’s industrial center. It was comprised of an aged feed and grain store, a weedy property that used to be an air strip, and the Store Some More facility, a set of tidy white buildings with shiny metal corrugated doors. One lone tree in the lot next to the structure offered a paltry speck of shade and, nestled underneath, was a bird bath where a small brown wren was splashing with gusto. Parking the Pinto by the closest unit, she pulled out her key and unlatched the padlock that secured her space. The same young man who’d helped her sign the rental papers when she moved in was sweeping the walkway in front of the empty unit next to hers.
She waved. “Hi, Vince. Just back for a few supplies.”
He nodded, hiking up the jeans that hung loose on his skinny frame. He was probably in his early twenties, by the look of him, a cell phone poking from his back pocket.
A woman with long blond hair stepped out of the office and pulled his attention. She held a bucket. “Call for you, Vince. Your mom needs you to deliver a half dozen pepperonis and two veggie combos.”
Trinidad felt her pulse thump. Everything about the woman was long and lean, including the delicate gold earrings that gleamed against the backdrop of her hair. She appeared to do a double take as she spotted Trinidad. After a pause, she walked over.
“I’m Juliette Carpenter. Formerly…”
“Juliette Bigley,” Trinidad filled in. She’d known that Juliette owned the storage place, but she didn’t imagine the woman was engaged in the day-to-day running of it. She’d only ever dealt with Vince. The hour had arrived. She could practically hear the bells tolling as she cleared her throat. “And it seems like you recognize me, too.”
Juliette’s face was seared into her memory even though she’d only spoken with her briefly at the trial where Gabe was found guilty of embezzling money from various companies as their accountant. It had been a tense conversation. After all, Gabe had still been married to Trinidad when he’d started the relationship with Juliette, and neither of them had suspected a thing. When Trinidad had discovered Gabe’s cheating, and their divorce became official, it was followed quickly by Juliette’s whirlwind marriage and divorce. Juliette had not even known of Trinidad and their defunct marriage until a few weeks after Gabe was arrested. He was an accomplished liar. The final shoe had dropped at the trial, when they had not only met each other but also learned of another wife, Bonnie, Gabe’s first.
The turbulent storm of memories resurfaced as Trinidad stared at Juliette. She tried not to notice the generous five or ten years between their ages. You’re the older model. Gabe traded you in for one right off the assembly line. How was it possible to feel old at the age of thirty-six? Trinidad cleared her throat.
“I rented one of your storage spaces. I’m…uh…opening a store in town.”
“I heard. I meant to come by and reintroduce myself, but…”
But the whole situation was just too ridiculously awkward.
Juliette stared at the bucket, then continued. “I was, um, just filling the bird bath. It’s been so dry this year. You wouldn’t believe the animals that drink out of it: birds, deer, raccoons.” Her stream of conversation dried up.
Trinidad was desperate to fill the silence. Noodles, perhaps picking up on her tension, nosed her thigh, leaving a wet circle on her jeans. “This is Noodles. He’s very easygoing. His real name is Reginald, but the shelter workers named him Noodles since he has a thing for them. The noodles, I mean, not the shelter workers.”
