Death by Iced Coffee

Book 11: Bookstore Cafe Mystery

by Alex Erickson

Genres: Mystery; Female Sleuths; Animal Cozy Mysteries; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

A smart, well-crafted mystery set in a charming Midwestern small town, where bookstore-cafe owner Krissy Hancock has a sideline in sleuthing—just right for fans of Leslie Meier, Cleo Coyle, and Carolyn Hart.



Bookstore-café owner Krissy Hancock is stepping out from behind the counter to take part in the first annual Pine Hills, Ohio, marathon. But with a killer close by, she may soon be running for her life . . .



It's a brutally hot day in Pine Hills, and Krissy Hancock would love to be sitting in a shady spot and sipping her favorite iced coffee. Instead, she's lacing up her sneakers for a marathon—and swiftly regretting it. Especially when she finds one of the other runners lying motionless. At first Krissy suspects heatstroke, but the red marks around the man's throat tell a more sinister story.



The victim, it turns out, had brewed up all kinds of enemies thanks to his cheating ways—both romantic and financial. Krissy's not keen to get involved, but her friend Rita's boyfriend, Johan, seems to be mixed up in the mayhem. For Rita's sake, Krissy wants to help filter out the real killer. But can she do it before another Pine Hills resident gets permanently iced?

Release date: April 25, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Sweat dripped from my face as though I’d just walked through a rainstorm. The sun beat down upon me with a relentless heat that sucked the air straight from my lungs. All I wanted to do was go inside and find a tub of ice to curl up in, but I couldn’t. I’d made a promise, and despite how miserable I was feeling, I intended to keep it.

The inaugural Pine Hills marathon had yet to begin, but people were already dropping like flies. When I’d first arrived, there had to have been at least a hundred people here, ready to run. Now, after only fifteen minutes, we were down to maybe sixty, and from many of the expressions and complaints, I expected we’d lose a dozen more before we started.

“We can do this.”

Another runner stood next to me, looking as miserable as I felt. She was Black, extremely pretty, and nearly a foot shorter than me, which was saying something, considering my less than stellar height.

“Cassie Wise.” She stuck out a hand.

I shook. “Krissy Hancock. I hope you’re right. This heat is something else.”

Cassie glanced toward the sky. “When I woke up this morning, I felt so good, I was pretty sure I’d make it through today, no problem. Now I’m worried.”

“Me too.” Though, since I wasn’t much of a runner in the first place, I wouldn’t be too disappointed if the marathon were to be canceled. If it weren’t for the fact that it was for a good cause—and for my promise—I would have dropped out already.

“How are you feeling, Krissy?” I turned to find my current boyfriend and town’s police officer, Paul Dalton, watching me with concern. He was in full uniform as he was working security for the marathon. He nodded a greeting to Cassie as he approached.

“Very nice,” she whispered before taking a couple steps away to give Paul and me privacy.

I had a feeling I was going to like her.

“I’ll be fine.” I held up my water bottle, which was already lukewarm, despite all of the ice I’d put in it. “I’m going to keep hydrated.”

“Rita would understand if you dropped out. It’s too hot for this.” Paul took off his hat and fanned himself, though it didn’t appear to help. Considering I felt overdressed in shorts and a T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a number 138 pinned to my chest, he had to be downright miserable in his long pants and stiff uniform shirt.

“Where is Rita, by the way?” I asked, glancing around. My friend, Rita Jablonski, wasn’t running, but she had promised to be here to show support since I was taking part at her behest.

“I’m not sure.” Paul wiped his arm across his forehead with a glance toward the sky. “I’ll keep an eye out and let her know you’re looking for her.”

“Thanks.” If Rita had stayed home in the heat, I was so not going to be happy.

“I’d best make the rounds. This heat is sure to shorten some fuses.”

“Good luck.”

Paul waved and then melted into the crowd. Half the Pine Hills police force was here, not because they expected any sort of major trouble, but Paul was right; with heat like this, tempers often flared. Already, I’d seen one near scuffle between two women fighting over a sliver of shade.

I turned back to find Cassie, but she was talking to another woman who looked ready to pass out, and I didn’t want to intrude. Instead, I wandered over to a small tent that had been set up for runners and rooted around in my bag for sunscreen. I’d already applied it once, but I was sweating so much, I was certain most of it had come off by now.

“Have you even seen the route?”

The angry tone caught my attention as I squirted a glob of white sunscreen into my palm. The man was red in the face, and it wasn’t solely from the heat. He might have been good-looking, but it was hard to tell for sure with his face twisted in rage.

“It’ll be fine, Glen,” said a tall man with thick legs, thin arms, and a potbelly tucked into a threadbare tank.

“Fine?” The angry man, Glen, scoffed. “Do you want to run up those hills, Calvin? I sure as hell don’t. You don’t route a marathon through hills.”

“This is Pine Hills,” a Black man with a near-gray beard and bald head replied in a tone of voice that suggested he was used to Glen flying off the handle.

“And there are perfectly flat roads between and around these hills.” Glen gestured toward our starting point, which, while not entirely flat, wasn’t hilly either. “I swear, Trevor, you of all people should be throwing a fit. You’ll never make it through this thing with your knees.”

Trevor flexed said knees, which were encased in a pair of braces. “They haven’t let me down yet,” he said, though he did shoot a nervous glance toward the starting line.

“I should give Maxwell a piece of my mind.” Glen turned his angry red glare toward a small gathering of people I assumed contained Rod Maxwell, one of the organizers of the marathon, though I couldn’t see the short man among the group from where I stood. “He knows better than to run a marathon in the middle of a heat wave.”

A jangle of music had Calvin jumping nearly out of his skin before he snatched a phone from the bag next to him. “I’ve got to take this.” He hurried away before anyone could stop him.

“This marathon is going to be the death of all of us,” Glen said, continuing his rant. “They should have postponed it, altered the route. Something.”

I had to admit, I was kind of with Glen on this one. When I’d first seen the marathon route, which started near the hilly portion of town but not actually on the hills, I considered dropping out right then and there. The marathon would send us past my bookstore café, Death by Coffee, all through downtown, and then back through the hilly residential segment of Pine Hills. Just over twenty-six miles was already asking a lot. Sending us up and down hills in the middle of summer was downright cruel.

Trevor’s face went serious, and he started to say something to Glen, but before he could, Glen shouted at someone else and marched away, leaving Trevor standing there alone. He stared after his friend with a frown, and then he walked off in the other direction.

I realized I was still holding my dollop of sunscreen and quickly ran it over my arms before it could melt away. I noted hugs and concerned expressions among the runners and their loved ones. I was starting to feel like we were in The Running Man and only one of us would survive to the finish.

Maybe Paul is right and I should drop out. No one would accuse Krissy Hancock of being in running shape. I didn’t exercise, despite promising myself I would start nearly every other day. Something more interesting, and less exhausting, always came up.

I was shoving the sunscreen bottle back into my bag when I noticed movement near where the trees met a pair of storage sheds.

The woman I didn’t know, nor could I get a good look at her since she vanished behind the sheds almost as soon as I saw her. I’d caught a glimpse of blond hair, dark clothing, and then she was gone. The man, however, I recognized.

Johan? I frowned. Johan Morrison was Rita’s boyfriend, though that was most definitely not Rita he was with now. Johan ducked his head as he followed after the woman, and in seconds of me noticing him, he too was gone.

“What are you up to?” I muttered. I’d never taken to Johan, despite how happy he seemed to make Rita. There was just something about the man that bothered me. The way he stared vacantly ahead. The small, almost knowing smile he always gave me.

And now, here he was, sneaking off with some other woman.

There’s probably a perfectly good explanation for it. Just because I didn’t like Johan didn’t mean he was doing anything untoward.

“Oh, my Lordy Lou, it’s hot.” I jumped about a foot in the air and turned to find Rita standing next to me in a dress that hid much of her shape. She wasn’t looking toward where Johan had gone, so I could only assume she hadn’t seen him. “Can you believe this?” She was holding a handheld electric fan that was making an awful buzzing sound, as if it was seconds from short-circuiting. “I’m glad I don’t have to run in this.”

I gave Rita a flat look, which she completely missed—or ignored.

“It’s not the turnout I expected,” she went on, glancing around the rapidly dwindling number of runners in the tent. “But I suppose it can’t be helped. And to think there are still people out there who insist there’s no such thing as global warming. Look at this! It’s hotter than I can rightly remember, and we’re not even into the worst months yet.”

“Maybe we should talk to the organizers and get it called off,” I said.

Rita looked stricken. “Over a little heat?” She waved off my concern. “I’m sure you and the rest of the marathoners will be fine. I talked to Rodney, and he assured me there are drink stations set up throughout. He won’t let anything happen to anyone. I even saw a few doctors milling about, so if someone does pass out, they’ll be taken care of right away.”

That didn’t reassure me, but there was no sense in pressing the point. If Rod Maxwell and the other two organizers—women I didn’t know—wanted to hold the marathon, they were going to do it, no matter what I had to say.

But there was one thing I would be remiss if I didn’t mention.

“Hey, Rita,” I swallowed, nervous about bringing up Johan, but needing to do it. “Just before you came over, I thought I—”

Before I could finish, alarmed shouts erupted behind me as a scuffle broke out. I turned, like everyone else, to see what was going on.

It wasn’t hard to figure out. Glen had Rod Maxwell pressed against one of the tent’s supports, shirt balled up in his fist. Trevor was trying to pull Glen off the smaller man, but to no avail.

“You’re trying to kill us!” Glen shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. “To kill me!”

Rod pressed a hand to the side of Glen’s head and pushed, but the other man refused to relent.

“Oh, dear,” Rita said, hand fluttering to her chest, all while watching the fight with rapt fascination. I had a feeling she’d be on the phone with her gossip buddies as soon as the fight ended.

“Admit it!” Glen pressed his face close to Rod’s own. “You thought you were being so sneaky, but I know what you’re trying to pull. I won’t cave, not to you, not to them, not to anyone.”

“Come on, let him go, man,” Trevor said, still vainly trying to pry his friend away from Rod. “The cops are coming.”

Trevor was right; Paul was working his way through the gathering crowd, toward where Glen had Rod pinned.

Glen snarled and then stepped back, releasing Rod’s shirt as he did.

“It’s all right,” Rod said, making a “calm down” gesture with his hands as soon as he was back on his own two feet. “The heat is just getting to everyone. We all just need to cool off a little bit.”

“You know it’s more than that,” Glen spat, jabbing a finger toward Rod. “And I’ll tell everyone about it if you don’t take me seriously.”

“Come on.” Trevor’s grip was tight as he led Glen away. “That’s enough.”

Rod watched them go with a worried expression that vanished the moment Paul approached him. “I’m fine,” he said. “We’re all fine. Mr. Moreau and Mr. Conway and I were just talking.” He managed to smile, though I could tell he was shaken by the encounter. “How about we get this thing started?”

“Good luck, dear,” Rita said, touching my arm and then hurrying away, toward a covered area set aside for those who wished to watch the start of the marathon. Like the drink stations, there were many such areas set up throughout the route. It would allow spectators to keep an eye on their loved ones while standing in the shade.

The runners who decided to tough it out—me included, though I was already regretting it—headed for the starting line. There was no set order to the start, so most of us just milled about under the heat while we waited for Rod and the other organizers to get things started.

Cassie stepped up next to me and gave me a smile that hinted at the misery to come. “Here goes nothing, I suppose.”

“Good luck,” I told her. I had a feeling both of us would need it.

A moment later, Rod stepped up to face us at the front of the line.

“Welcome, everyone, to the first-ever Pine Hills marathon,” he said, raising his hands above his head. “I want to personally thank everyone for coming—runners, workers, and spectators all. We’re here for a good cause. I lost my mother to cancer. I hope that soon, with all of our help and donations, we will lose no one else.”

A smattering of applause met that. Rod clapped along with it, eyes darting over us, never landing on any one person for more than a heartbeat. I got the distinct impression he was searching for someone before he continued.

“I know it’s hot and we’re all anxious to get this thing started.” He paused, arms raised once more, and then he shouted, “So, let’s do this thing!”

A half-hearted cheer went up as Rod stepped aside. Someone handed him a flare gun, which he aimed at the sky. A beat passed, and then he pulled the trigger.

We moved as if we were made of molasses. I caught a glimpse of Paul out of the corner of my eye and shot him a wave as I slumped ahead with the rest of the overheating runners. He waved back, and then I turned my focus to the road ahead.

The first leg of the marathon wasn’t as bad as I expected it to be. I kept my mind focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on breathing in and out. The steady pat-pat-pat of feet on pavement had a rhythm to it that was easy to get lost in. I didn’t try to press, knowing that winning meant little. Just finishing was winning in my book, and I was determined to make it to the end, even if I had to crawl the last mile on hands and knees.

Cassie remained at my side, keeping pace with me, though I was pretty sure she could have gone faster without winding herself. I would have talked to her if I dared speak, but I feared that I would trip over my own two feet if I so much as opened my mouth. Cassie seemed likewise focused, though I did get a wink from her.

And then everything narrowed.

The only thing that mattered was the road in front of me. Some runners drifted ahead, while others fell behind. I didn’t fall to the back, as I expected, but managed to hover somewhere near the middle of the pack. My ears were ringing, and breathing was becoming difficult. Time passed, but I had no idea how much. Minutes. Hours. It was all the same to me.

Just breathe.

I was vaguely aware of people slowing and stopping around me. One skeletally thin man fell to his knees, muttering, “I can’t do this” over and over again. I considered stopping to see if he needed assistance, but before I could, Paige Lipmon, my doctor, stepped from a golf cart keeping pace with the main pack and made straight for him.

By the time we reached Death by Coffee, at least a dozen runners had dropped out, if not twice that. My hair was plastered to my face, and my shirt felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. Even my shoes felt squishy with sweat, but I refused to quit.

A faint cheer made me look up as we passed the store. My friend, and the co-owner of the bookstore café, Vicki Lawyer, stood outside with her husband, Mason, waving. I was too exhausted to return the wave, but I did manage a nod of appreciation. I could just make out a handful of customers inside the blessedly cool air-conditioning of Death by Coffee and longed to be among them.

I fell back into my zone, pausing only when we passed a drink station so I could take a sip of some sort of unmarked energy drink. I didn’t drink too much, knowing I’d make myself sick from it sloshing around in my stomach, but I did need to keep hydrated.

Waves of heat rose from the pavement, and I found myself fascinated with the way everything seemed to vibrate. It was either a by-product of the heat or I was about to pass out. At that point, either one was just as likely as the other.

This was a bad idea. My head started pounding, and my mouth and throat were dry. My next drink didn’t want to go down, and I feared I might be sick all over myself, but I somehow managed to swallow it before I continued on, around a curve, and toward the path that would lead us into the hills, which were shaded by hundreds of trees.

Just make it there, and I’ll be fine. The shade will make it easier. The hills would be another story, but I’d deal with them when I came to them.

Cassie was panting next to me, sweat coating her entire body.

Dizzy, and with legs burning with a heat that threatened to eat me from the inside, I pressed on. My shoulder started aching in a deep-bone way that made me realize it wasn’t fully healed from an encounter I’d had a few months back with a crazy killer who’d tried to take me out in my own home. Every step caused it to jar, and each time I moved my arm, spikes of dull pain shot through my shoulder.

I slowed, unable to keep up the pace. Cassie glanced back but didn’t slow down. I had a feeling that if she did, she’d come to a stop, and the race would be over for the both of us.

The crowd of runners had thinned considerably, and I didn’t remember losing most of them. I felt half-delirious, unable to tell exactly where I was. It took me a moment to realize I’d come to a near stop. I blinked, confused. I barely remembered slowing. When I tried to resume a quicker pace, my legs refused to obey. I thought someone called my name, but the ringing in my ears drowned nearly everything out.

“Somebody help!”

Now, that caught my attention.

My head jerked upright, and a wave of nausea washed through me as the world snapped back into focus. The shout had come from ahead, inside the bend of trees where the blessed shade awaited.

“Please! Help!”

I started running.

Okay, it was more of a shamble as I made for the source of the shout. I had enough wits about me to realize that the person who shouted was male, and that his voice had come not from the marked path ahead, but slightly off to the left. I veered off, toward a bike path that wound through the woods, not quite parallel to the marathon route, and came to an abrupt halt when I saw what awaited me.

A small crowd had gathered, maybe four, five people, though my vision was swimming enough that it looked closer to ten. They were all looking down, just off the bike path, toward where a pair of running shoes stuck out from the brush. It took my brain a moment to realize those shoes were currently being worn by someone lying half on, half off the path.

And kneeling down next to the shoes, eyes wild with panic, was Trevor and his knee braces.

“Is someone here a doctor?” he asked, voice cracking. “It’s my friend. I . . . I think he’s dead.”

My head was pounding with such an intensity, I wanted to throw up. This wasn’t a normal, everyday headache. The sun, the exercise . . . it was all too much for my poor, out-of-shape body to handle. I was almost thankful when the police sent those of us hovering around the scene away while they, along with the doctors on site, tried to figure out what had happened to Glen Moreau, the owner of the shoes that had been sticking out of the brush.

With how I was feeling, and how red in the face Glen was, even before we’d started to run, I had a pretty good idea what might have done him in.

I was sitting in Death by Coffee, an untouched iced coffee on the table in front of me. As soon as I’d come in, Eugene, a lanky new hire who was still in the trying-too-hard stage of his employment, had delivered the coffee to where I’d collapsed. I was parched, but I feared the coffee might interact poorly with my already dehydrated system. I wanted a water in the worst way but was too far away to get it myself.

At least, that’s what my jelly-filled legs were telling me.

“You look terrible.” Vicki sat down across from me, materializing from the black void growing around my vision like a specter. She slid a cup across the table with the tips of her fingers. A peek inside told me she’d read my mind.

“I feel terrible.” I gulped a mouthful of blessedly cold water, which instantly wanted to come right back up. I clenched my teeth, refusing to let it.

Vicki leaned across the table and put her wrist against my forehead, much like my mom used to do when I was a kid. Up close, her features were distorted, as if I was looking at her through cellophane. She was still gorgeous, with her movie-star looks and perfect hair, though she did appear a bit fuzzy around the edges.

“You’re burning up.”

“I feel cooked.”

“No, it’s more than that.” She sat back with a frown. “You really should go home and lie down. Or, better yet, see a doctor.”

“I’m fine.” Though I felt a. . .