Live and Let Grind Read online

  Live and Let Grind

  A COFFEE LOVER’S MYSTERY

  Tara Lush

  For Dino, my heart dog

  Chapter One

  My Shih Tzu had murder written all over his furry little face.

  “Geez, he’s serious about ripping that toy bunny apart, isn’t he? That’s the second one this week.” My best friend, Erica, took a sip from her coffee mug as she eyed the dog. A lock of her chin-length hair flopped over her face, and she pushed it back with her hand.

  The pupper was between us on the large sofa, shaking his head furiously while clamping his jaws around the neck of the bright blue, plush toy. The stuffed bunny was nearly as big as he was, but that didn’t matter because he was on a mission of destruction.

  “Stanley, come on, dude.” I leaned over and tried to grab it from him, but my fluffy dog jumped down with a growl and ran out of the room, his apricot-colored tail wagging in excitement. My dad was in the kitchen, making some delicious-smelling muffins. Stanley probably wanted to enlist Dad in a game of tug-of-war. Or beg for treats. Dad was an easy mark for my dog’s machinations.

  I sank back into the overstuffed cushion. The sofa had been a sweet, recent find at a secondhand store, with buttery-soft, stainproof microfiber fabric. Combined with the botanical palm tree wall prints and mid-century modern accent pieces, it really tied the room together.

  “Oh well. What’s another toy bunny? Listen, Erica, what are we going to do for the drink of the month? It’s the end of January, and we need to change the menus and chalkboard signs this week.”

  My friend stretched her legs on the lounge part of the sofa sectional. She was the best barista at Perkatory, my family’s coffee shop on the island of Devil’s Beach, Florida.

  Well, my coffee shop. Technically I was only the manager, but Dad, who was the owner on paper, insisted the business was mine. After being a journalist for almost a decade—then laid off from my dream job at a paper in Miami last year—I was still getting used to the fact that I had a different career than I’d planned, one that brought me back to the charming, weird island where I was born and raised.

  One that involved my favorite thing in the world, aside from Stanley: coffee.

  This morning Erica was wearing what I called her tropical goth loungewear: black tank top, black sweatpants, hot pink fuzzy socks. She reached for her phone. “Hang on. It’s a text from the boat mechanic.”

  “Really? On a Sunday?” Erica normally lived on a sailboat at the Devil’s Beach marina, but the vessel had been in dry dock for the past two weeks. It made sense that she’d stay with me. We were practically inseparable as friends, we worked together, and my house was only a few blocks from Perkatory.

  “Lana, check this out. He says he has to order a new part for the generator, and it still might take a couple of weeks. Is that okay?” Her voice rose slightly as she tucked the phone next to her hip.

  “Of course, it’s fine.” I lifted my legs onto the sofa and gently pushed her knee with my bare foot. I was in gray sweatpants and a long-sleeved blue T-shirt that said “Welcome to Florida” next to a cartoon alligator. “It’s been great having you here. We’ve had a blast. Movie nights, Cards Against Humanity, our failed attempt to make limoncello.” The latter had ended in a large jar of foul, astringent, macerated lemons.

  As much as I loved living alone, life had been more exciting with Erica around. I was a natural introvert, and she coaxed me out of my shell. Plus, on my day off, she happily took Stanley for walks at five thirty in the morning, an hour when I preferred to sleep.

  “You’re sure I’m not cramping your style with your man?”

  I shook my head. I’d been dating Noah Garcia for almost five months now, and it was going better than I ever dreamed. Okay, he was up there as one of my favorite things, along with Stanley and coffee.

  But between my managing the café and his duties as the police chief of Devil’s Beach, we only had quality alone time a couple of nights a week. Usually we hung out at his beachfront condo, but he did spend the occasional evening here.

  He also visited his mom in Tampa, frequently, for a family issue that he hadn’t yet fully explained. The rest of the time, we’d grab coffee at Perkatory or eat a sandwich together on a bench at the beach.

  We were taking things slow, and that was fine with me. I’d only been divorced for two years and didn’t want to rush into anything serious. Noah and I had the perfect relationship, as far as I was concerned. Respectful, hot, and fun—and monogamous. Fidelity was a big issue for me, since my ex had cheated during our marriage.

  “Not at all. Noah’s been so busy with the department accreditation.” And the family issue. Admittedly I was a little salty he hadn’t told me more about why he needed to go to Tampa so often on his days off. Surely he’d reveal the details soon, I figured.

  Erica looked at me over the top of her earthenware mug. “And that monkey situation. Dunno how he’s going to resolve that. He’s in quite a pickle with that one.”

  “Yeah, they’ve really been a pain in his butt. It’s a total public relations nightmare for the police department and the entire town.” A colony of wild monkeys lived on the island’s nature preserve. Lately they’d been aggressive with tourists, who clamored to take selfies with the primates. So far no one had been bitten, but there had been multiple close calls, including one incident that resulted in a viral video that the island’s Chamber of Commerce had quickly tried to distance itself from.

  Neither man nor beast was fully innocent, in my book.

  State wildlife officials wanted to capture a few of the more hostile monkeys and relocate them to a sanctuary on the mainland in the eastern part of the county, and Noah agreed with the plan. But that led to a protest from local animal rights folks, who wanted them to stay put.

  I saw both sides of the issue. But as an up-and-coming business owner in town, I’d tried to stay out of the fray, which had recently escalated to people dressing in monkey costumes and parading down Main Street in a silent protest every week. While holding bananas.

  “The monkeys should stay here, but not if they’re going to bite people,” Erica said, shrugging. “Let them live their best monkey lives at a preserve or primate colony or something.”

  My dad walked in, followed by Stanley toting the de-stuffed bunny in his mouth. Dad carried a plate of muffins and set it on the coffee table, and the scent of vanilla filled the living room. My father had his own house on the beach, but lately on weekends he’d taken to coming to my place—which used to be his, back when Mom was alive—and making brunch. He said he liked my gas stove better, but I suspect he probably missed Mom, whose cozy touches were everywhere in the farmhouse-style kitchen.

  “Stanley massacred that toy. I had to throw away all the cotton innards. Are you two talking about the monkeys?” he asked.

  I winced. Dad was one of the leaders of the pro-monkey faction on the island, and he’d lobbied hard for Noah and state officials to allow the animals to remain in their habitat. It had made for some tense meals recently. Come to think of it, this was probably why Noah had stopped coming over for Sunday brunch, choosing to head to the mainland to catch up on county gossip with his friend Vern, the medical examiner.

  Duh. I should’ve put two and two together quicker. I made a mental note to ask Noah if this was truly why he was avoiding my house on Sundays.

  “Nope, we were talking about Erica and her boyfriend,” I lied. I didn’t feel like getting into another conversation about primate social structure. Dad had become something of an expert on monkeys in recent weeks, spending hours watching NatGeo documentaries and scouring Jane Goodall’s website.

  “Yeah, I have to get a move on. I wanted to start on my cushion upholstery project, and
Joey and I are driving to Orlando later today.” Erica stretched. She was fixing some of the cushions on her boat in my garage.

  “Oh, right, it’s your big water park trip,” I said. Erica had the day off tomorrow, and she and Joey planned to visit a new, volcano-themed water park that was holding an after-dark rave-type party.

  “Yeah, can’t wait. Not sure if Joey’s on board with those big slides, but we’ll find out.”

  “About those monkeys—” Dad started, but I interrupted.

  I had to divert his attention, so I pointed at the muffins. “Whoa! Those look delicious. Nice job, Dad. You really do bake better with my oven. Must be the gas.”

  “Heck yes, I can smell them from here. They definitely look better than the ones you made at your house, Peter. Gimme,” Erica exclaimed, knowing I didn’t want to get Dad going. She reached for one, and I followed.

  “I put my special sauce in.” Dad grinned.

  “Wait. Do these have weed in them?” I paused. Dad had a medical marijuana license for his “eye pressures,” claiming he had pre-glaucoma, whatever that was. In reality, he was an old hippie who liked to get high from time to time.

  “Oh my, no. I wouldn’t waste the good stuff on you two.” His voice was stern.

  I exhaled. “So what’s the special sauce?” I raised one to my nose. “Smells citrusy.”

  “Exactly. Orange juice. Fresh squeezed. From a friend who has an organic grove on the mainland.”

  Erica took a bite and chewed. “Oh my god, these are amazing.”

  They really were delicious. Fluffy and cake-like, just sweet enough, with a fragrant tang that was made even better with the addition of crunchy poppy seeds and a hint of vanilla.

  Erica and I each grabbed a second muffin and munched in silence as we watched Dad sit on the floor and play tug-of-war with Stanley and the deflated bunny. After a couple of minutes, Dad rolled onto his back. Stanley dropped the toy and climbed atop Dad’s chest, letting out a short, sharp bark.

  “This is it,” I said to Erica between the final bites of the muffin. “I’ve got it. This is our new drink at Perkatory.”

  “What? A muffin?” Dad asked, sitting up. Stanley stopped his wuffing and sprinted out of the room.

  “No. Citrus. We can do an orange-flavored coffee drink.”

  “Hmm?” Erica took a third muffin. She was a coffee purist. I was as well, but in my brief time as manager of Perkatory, I’d come to realize we needed to offer customers a rotating selection of sweet, novel concoctions. They kept people coming back for more, and folks were starting to anticipate the drink of the month.

  Erica usually came up with the monthly recipe; she’d done lavender, rosemary, and blueberry. The latter she’d dubbed “brew-berry,” and it was a hit all throughout the month of January. It had been so popular that I was considering extending it into February, which was only two days away. But that seemed like cheating somehow.

  Erica swallowed and held her hand up. “I was actually thinking of …” she swept her fingers in the air, “chaga.”

  My brows twitched toward each other. “Cha-what?”

  “Chaga. It’s a mushroom. It’s all the rage in Seattle now—I was reading about it online. Basically you delicately grind mushrooms along with beans. Or we could use reishi, lion’s mane, or turkey tail. There are a bunch that go well with coffee.”

  Dad perked up. “Like magic mushrooms? I once tried some of those before Lana was born, at a Dead show. Trippy.”

  “No, not those kinds of mushrooms.”

  Dad began to hum the song “Sugar Magnolia,” which made Erica dissolve into giggles.

  Ignoring him, I tried to imagine the earthy, full-bodied taste of mushrooms along with coffee, but couldn’t. “What’s the point, though?”

  “Antioxidants. Mental clarity and focus. Also it’s an interesting new flavor, and probably no one in Florida’s serving it.”

  I finished my muffin while pondering this. “We could try it, but also consider the flavors of chocolate and orange. They’re complementary. But not common, at least with coffee. We could use the Perkatory house blend. It already has notes of chocolate and spice, with a hint of citrus aftertaste. Adding orange to that will only enhance the drink.” I lifted my mug for emphasis.

  “It’s quite a European flavor profile,” Dad chimed in.

  “Exactly.” I pointed at him.

  “So what would we use? Orange extract? Juice? Hot or iced, or both?” Erica asked. I loved how we debated and decided on new drinks for Perkatory as a team.

  “Hmm.” I tapped my fingernails against the mug. “It’s been pretty warm this winter. I’d say iced. We need something light, something that makes tourists think of the beach and Florida. The iced coffee and the cold brew are still strong sellers, especially with the snowbirds from the north.”

  “Let’s see. I don’t think juice would work. Too overpowering and acidic.” Erica began swiping on her phone screen, her pale face pinched in concentration. “What about seltzer?”

  I tilted my head. “Like a nonalcoholic coffee spritzer? Is that weird and gross, or innovative and awesome?”

  Erica ran her tongue over her teeth. “I think it’s—”

  Her answer was drowned out by a high-pitched mechanical roar, and she groaned. “I can’t believe Gus is leaf blowing again. He used that stupid thing two hours ago. And last night at eight PM.”

  “He started leaf blowing at seven thirty in the morning on a Sunday?” Dad asked.

  I rolled my eyes. “That he did. You’re sure it’s not Jeri?”

  Jeri was the silver-haired retiree across the street, the only other neighbor on the block who used a blower. She’d never used hers much until Gus moved in next door to me several months ago, and she fired up her machine out of spite. Now it was like the Indy 500 on the weekends, and sometimes I couldn’t hear myself think over the roar of engines.

  Erica twisted her body so she could look out the window, which was directly behind the sofa. She parted the white, wooden blind with one finger. “Nope. It’s Gus. He got a new blower. It’s more powerful than the last one. Loud as heck. The kind that straps to his back, like a professional landscaper’s. Jerkface.”

  Dad rose and mimicked Erica while sitting in the middle of the sofa. He, too, raised one of the blind slats. “You know what I heard about Gus?”

  “What? That he has to remove every piece of organic material from his driveway three times a day because he wants to drive everyone on the street out of their minds?” Erica snorted.

  I, too, flipped in my seat and shifted a slat an inch and peered out. There was my neighbor and his industrial blower. With a slow movement of his hand, he ran the blower nozzle in a methodical pattern over his cement driveway.

  “I don’t see anything he can even blow,” I said, scanning his vibrant green lawn and lone palm tree for any evidence of leaves, dirt, or grass clippings, and finding none. “He has a lawn service come once a week. They use lots of chemicals.”

  “Don’t let Stanley pee on a lawn that’s been chemically treated, it’s bad for him,” Dad cautioned.

  “Don’t worry—I won’t. Gus already told me to keep the dog off his property.” That had been my first encounter with my new neighbor, and it hadn’t been a particularly friendly one.

  Gus was of average height and wore the unofficial male uniform of Devil’s Beach: sandals, cargo shorts, and a T-shirt. He acted curmudgeonly, like he was in his seventies, but had a muscular build and the face of someone much younger. I’d once overheard him talking on the phone about CrossFit on his way to his Corvette convertible.

  I hadn’t had much contact with him, mostly because of his curt command to keep Stanley off his lawn.

  Still, I’d tried to be friendly and, even after that rough beginning, brought over a tray of Nutella brownies to welcome him to the block. He’d grunted a thanks, then slammed the door. A woman, whom I assumed was a wife or girlfriend, had waved at me once, and I’d barely seen her since. I
pegged her as a nurse or someone who had an overnight job. Or perhaps since I’d stopped being a journalist, I wasn’t that observant anymore.

  Dad parted the blinds even wider.

  “We might as well open the blinds and stare at him,” I deadpanned.

  Dad reached for the string to lift the blinds but I grabbed his wrist. “I wasn’t serious.”

  He chuckled. “Oh. Anyway, his wife is a hot roller.”

  “Dad”—I thwacked him on the arm—“don’t be a pig.”

  “No,” he scoffed. “I’m not saying that in a pervy way. She’s quite talented.”

  “At what? I’ve only seen a woman over there a couple of times. Long blonde hair, much younger.”

  “That’s her,” Dad said. “She roller-skates.”

  I turned to grimace at him. What was he talking about? Did he just say that she roller-skates?

  “How long have they been married?” Erica chimed in before I could ask my question.

  “Can’t be that long, since she’s about twenty years younger than him and would’ve probably been in high school a few years ago,” I snarked. “Now that you bring her up, I haven’t seen her in a while.”

  “She’s around your age, so pushing thirty. Not that young,” Dad replied.

  “Thanks, dude,” I muttered.

  Dad ignored me. “They’ve been married for three years. Met online while he was still in Fort Lauderdale. They’ve only been here about six or seven months. But she travels a lot for work.”

  “It’s been six months? That long?” Jeez. I was losing track of time. Come to think of it, his leaf-blowing habits had increased in the last month or so.

  I shot Dad a side-eye. “How do you know all this about her?”

  “My crystal bowl meditation group.”

  I let this sink in while watching Gus pay meticulous attention to the area around his mailbox with the blower. Unlike others on the block, his mailbox was a plain black container on a white post.

  Dad was into all kinds of new age woo. Reiki, yoga, chakras. It didn’t surprise me that he’d attend something called a crystal bowl meditation group.