Death Unfiltered

Book 4: Ground Rules Mystery

by Emmeline Duncan

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Culinary Cozy Mysteries; Female Sleuths; Mystery

Synopsis

A fresh-voiced and witty cozy mystery series set in Portland, Oregon, from rising star Emmeline Duncan, starring twenty-something master barista Sage Caplin. Perfect for coffee-lovers, cozy readers, and fans of Cleo Coyle’s Coffeehouse Mysteries.

Ground Rules isn’t the only newcomer set to open in Portland’s grand new Button Building. Fortunately, most of the fellow micro-restaurant owners and patrons are great—with two exceptions. There’s Rose, a true-crime podcaster and active TikToker who’s pestering Sage for an interview about her estranged con-artist mother; and Bianca, the familiar and perpetually unpleasant owner of Breakfast Bandits. Bianca is abrasive to everyone, so Sage doesn’t feel singled out. . . . Until Bianca falls dead at the building’s grand opening—a to-go cup of Ground Rules coffee in her hand. Laced with Ketamine, also known as Special K.
 
It doesn’t help that just before she collapsed, Bianca was publicly rude to Sage. Or that Bianca’s boyfriend points the police toward Sage. Or that Rose, still hung up on investigating Sage’s mom, has declared she’ll solve the murder. Now it will be up to Sage to sift through a complex blend of motives, blackmail, and old and new rivalries to get to the truth of a very bitter brew . . .

Praise for Double Shot Death

“A clever sleuth, music trivia, and plenty of West Coast vibes add up to an enjoyable read.” —Kirkus Reviews

“Solid prose, a well-crafted plot, and plenty of coffee lore draw the reader in. A socially liberal vibe . . . sets this cozy apart.” —Publishers Weekly

Release date: March 26, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Sometimes, when you spend years planning and dreaming of something, reaching the end goal feels anticlimactic.

But I had faith this wouldn’t be the case for me.

It was almost time: We were on the home stretch to open the Ground Rules brick-and-mortar store.

I wasn’t the only one feeling the crunch. My business partner, Harley, was splitting her time between the roastery and the coffee cart. She’d even worked our second cart with one of our baristas at a festival last weekend. We were both looking forward to the grand opening. When the shop launched, our new employees would be trained, and we could settle into our new normal. And, hopefully, we could both take a weekend or two off. Maybe even take a week’s vacation. Although not simultaneously, since at least one of us needed to be around to steer the coffee ship.

And, for me, when life slowed down, maybe it would be time to start wedding planning. But, even though my relationship with my fiancé, Bax, was a priority, planning a wedding had fallen down both of our to-do lists, as I had the shop to open. Meanwhile, he was on the home stretch of launching a new video game, which meant he frequently worked longer days than me. But we were solid.

I sometimes had to pinch myself because I was so close to the first Ground Rules goal I’d made, back when the entire concept had been a dream: opening a real-life coffee shop. I loved our carts and wanted to keep them going as long as possible. But this shop felt more tangible, solid. Which contrasted with one of the first things I adored about opening a food cart: the idea that we could hitch Ground Rules up to a truck and move it wherever we wanted. Not that we’d wanted to move. Our main cart was still at the Rail Yard, aka one of my favorite food cart pods in Portland. The city’s food cart scene was continually evolving, and the Rail Yard continued to be one of the prime spots.

With my two new hires for the shop, I was up to six baristas, plus Harley and me. Four of the baristas were pulling shifts at the carts while I trained the two newest, Nina and Colton, at the shop. But eventually, all of the baristas could work at any Ground Rules location. I suspected we’d need to hire two more baristas eventually, but I was waiting for the store to open first. The shop wasn’t a finish line, exactly, just a pause to celebrate. Since I’d transition into managing a store alongside both carts.

As I looked at the two newest baristas, and remembered their backgrounds, I suspected the training would be easy. Nina had worked for the same coffee shop where Harley and I had met during our university days. The shop, Left Coast Grinds, used to be the gold standard of how to train baristas and even offered classes for shops that carried their coffee beans. Now, their owner, Mark Jeffries, had pretty much turned himself into a caped villain standing outside Ground Rules, saying he would’ve been the best coffee roaster in Portland if it wasn’t for us obnoxious kids. He offered to buy our business at one point and hadn’t wanted to take no for an answer until a cease-and-desist letter from my attorney told him to avoid the Rail Yard. To my surprise, it had worked.

Nina, now maybe twenty-six, had left Portland and worked for a fantastic coffee roaster in the Columbia River Gorge for a few years before returning to Portland when her husband accepted his dream job.

While Colton had moved to Portland a few weeks ago with bona fides from a roaster in Austin whom Harley adored. So far, he’d shown me he could pull a perfect shot of espresso and also craft a latte with a heart or tree in the foam. I needed to get Nina and Colton into the cart to work a few shifts to see them interact with actual customers, but I had a good feeling about both of them. Colton looked peak Portland with his undercut hair, fondness for flannel, Carhartt, corduroy, and a neatly tended beard.

Colton would fit seamlessly into the new shop, which also looked like a quintessential Portland coffee destination, but with a few extras that would make it feel like Ground Rules. The entire Button Building would feel special, and the thought of the food my fellow cafés would produce made me feel hungry.

The Button Building reminded me of a Bundt cake with one piece missing. Each shop is like an individual slice of an octagon, with one door opening on the street and the back door opening to a central, communal covered courtyard with skylights. Customers could order food from any of the micro-restaurants and have their food delivered directly to their seats in the communal seating area.

A shop-sized breezeway, aka the missing cake slice, connected the courtyard directly to an outdoor patio with a fire pit and several rows of picnic tables. In the summer, we could open the garage door between the courtyard and patio, and it would feel like one cohesive space. But with the door shut in the winter, it was a great spot to dine. We were set up to be a hip destination, perfect for grabbing food or drinks with friends who didn’t have to agree on one café. One of the micro-restaurants, Déjà Brew, was a beer bar I’d known for a while since they also had an outpost in the Rail Yard alongside the first Ground Rules cart. They’d added cocktails to their Button Building lineup, and their liquor license included the whole facility. So people could buy a drink and take it anywhere on the property.

Fingers crossed, this venture would be a success. As a coffee shop, we planned to open earlier than most of our fellow micro-restaurants, who were generally focused on lunch and dinner.

But one restaurant would open in the morning alongside us: the Breakfast Bandits.

Aka the former food cart that had declared we were mortal enemies before I’d even had a chance to say hello.

And their owner, Bianca, glared at me as she walked past the Ground Rules order window that opened onto the street outside the shop. As a nod to our food cart roots, we’d built a walk-up window on the busy sidewalk outside, hoping to lure foot traffic into stopping. We’d already gotten a few questions from locals waiting to catch their bus.

I offered Bianca a big smile, and she scowled in response.

“What is her problem?” a peppy voice asked behind me. I knew the voice.

I turned to see Rose, true-crime podcaster and social media maven extraordinaire, standing at the counter.

“We’re not open yet, Rose,” I said.

Like always, Rose looked camera-ready. Her sweater and jeans were utterly on trend, with a studied casual vibe, and her makeup was on point. Her skill with eyeliner was impressive, and her skin looked dewy and glowing. Her chestnut brown hair framed her face in natural curls.

While Rose’s focus was on her Rose Investigates: Thorny Crimes & Intrepid Offshoots podcast that dove into true crime, she also had an active social media presence. She posted short videos discussing weird facts related to her podcast, which had gone viral last year, and small snippets in her life. Even though my hair is stick-straight, I’d enjoyed watching her humorous video about how she uses the curly girl method to maintain her perfect spirals. Rose couldn’t be more than nineteen, maybe twenty, and something told me she’d go far with her mix of tenacity, dedication, and sense of humor.

But Rose’s current podcast series put her at odds with me on a fundamental level: She was researching my mother’s crimes.

This made every interaction with Rose feel like a landmine. A perky, friendly landmine, but one filled with potential explosions.

Rose gave me a bubbly smile. “I know! I’m excited for your grand opening. I want to post about it, and I’d love to schedule an interview about the opening and your goals for the shop.”

“Umm . . .” The last thing I wanted was for my shop to be known as the place owned by a famous con artist’s daughter. It was already bad enough that we’d weathered a few suspicious deaths in our general surroundings, even if none had been our fault.

“I’m asking all of the owners to film one. Don’t worry. These are all fun snippets. I’m trying to give my followers a sense of the Button Building. It’ll tie in with my podcast, the owners, and my research here in Portland. I’ve found my viewers like these small behind-the-scenes looks into my life.”

Owners? Businesses or building? My uncle Jimmy, technically my great-uncle, owned the Button Building and his company ran it. He mostly skirted on the right side of the law versus my mother’s lifetime of grifts. She’d used me in scams a few times as a child, but I’d been a pawn.

I felt a sense of shame and guilt when I remembered my childhood, but I also knew it wasn’t my fault.

“I’m even scheduled to interview Bianca in a few days, Sage,” Rose said. “But I’m talking to Caleb today.”

“As long as you keep the questions solely based on the coffee shop, I’ll do it,” I said.

Rose held up her pink backpack from the well-known Swedish brand. “Want to film now?”

“I’m not exactly camera-ready,” I said. Granted, my teal Ground Rules T-shirt was clean, as I hadn’t doused myself in coffee yet today, and my hair was in a neat enough ponytail.

Nina and Colton both watched us. Colton smiled, like he enjoyed observing this train wreck.

Rose nodded at them. “How about they work behind you as we talk, and the end of the video can linger on a coffee drink they just made? Maybe a twelve-ounce mocha?”

I smiled. “So you’d like a mocha?”

“I would love one. But no whipped cream, please.” The podcaster reminded me of a flower in full bloom, fresh and vibrant, and something about her made me smile. I’m sure she’d have a Rose-like perfume if I stepped close enough to smell it.

“Okay.”

Rose set up her phone on a tripod and filmed us standing side by side next to the ordering counter while my baristas bustled behind us. Rose asked me about Ground Rules, and I told her about how we roasted our own coffee beans and sold them at our shop and coffee carts.

Rose turned and faced the camera.

“I’ve been to the Ground Rules cart at the Rail Yard several times, and it’s the bomb,” Rose said. “Trust me, you’re going to want to try their new shop early ’cause I know it’s going to be packed.”

As if on cue, Colton brought over the mocha, which he’d dusted with our house-made “magic dust.”

Rose paused filming and recorded a close-up of the tree in the foam on top of the mocha, all sprinkled with our aforementioned magic dust. Then, after she’d filmed the drink to her satisfaction, Rose took her spot back in front of the camera and filmed herself sipping the mocha.

“Perfection,” she said, then stopped recording with a small remote. “I think that’s a wrap.”

“That’s a relief,” I said.

“What? I don’t bite,” Rose said. She took another sip of the mocha.

Laura, the owner of Fowl Play, one of our neighboring restaurants, walked by the outside of our shop and waved. As I waved back, Rose spoke.

“You know her? Laura? She once had a hilarious fight in downtown Portland with Bianca. Let’s just say there was an embarrassing amount of screaming.”

“Really? How do you know about that?” I asked.

“The footage is still online. It went viral and was reposted all over the place. Some of the parodies are hilarious. Want a link?”

“That’s okay. I do my best not to gossip.” Although I sometimes fail.

Had Rose delved into the online drama around Ground Rules? So far, our name hadn’t been directly linked to a murder in the news, although it’d been close. And our nemesis, Mark Jeffries, had alluded to it a few times on social media, although he’d stopped from any direct accusations. Although I suspected he was still watching our business closely, biding his time.

Or maybe the stress over the new shop was turning Mark into a pantomime villain in my head. He just needed a hipster mustache to twirl to look the part.

But I did make a mental note to do a deep dive into the Ground Rules online presence when I had a moment to breathe. It’s always a good idea to keep an eye on our social media accounts and mentions, although I try to not take it personally. ’Cause some people are, simply, way too mean.

“And you know, we do need to talk about the elephant in the room,” Rose said.

No, we didn’t. “Did you know that some elephants like coffee? Or at least, there’s a company in Thailand that sells coffee with the elephants performing the same role as civets in Kopi Luwak.” I’d never tried either coffee, which are both considered delicacies, and both revolve around the coffee cherries passing unbroken through the digestive tract of the animals involved, only to be harvested intact from their waste.

“Umm, gross,” Rose said. “Do people really drink poop coffee?”

“It’s safe to drink, and supposedly, it’s delicious. But if I talk about animals and the world’s greatest beverage, I prefer the legend of goats discovering it. I also like knowing my coffee cherries were harvested by humans making fair wages.”

Rose looked outside the coffee shop into the communal seating area, and I followed her gaze. Laura and Bianca were arguing near the entrance of the Breakfast Bandits. Had they really had a high-profile fight?

“Good job almost changing the subject. But you know what I’m talking about,” Rose said. Her glance my way was knowing.

And she was right. I knew exactly what she was referring to.

Rumor had it my mother had died in a scam gone wrong. She’d been in a car chase in South America, and her car had gone off a cliff, killing her whole crew. Maybe her motto had been “live by the grift and die by it.” She’d spent most of her life on the wrong side of the law without caring about the collateral damage it caused to the people around her, including me.

The whole situation made me feel sick, and I did my best not to think of it since I wasn’t sure what to believe. I hadn’t seen my mother in person since she’d dumped me in Portland when I was barely a teenager. She’d sent a few messages over the years and somehow managed to call me a handful of times even after I’d changed my phone number.

“I’m not going to talk about my mother,” I finally said.

“That’s a mistake. You should get your side of the story out and tell everyone your mother doesn’t define you.”

“Not being interviewed does the same thing. My mother isn’t part of my life and vice versa. There’s no reason to insert myself into the story.” No more than I already, unwittingly, had been part. But those chapters were long finished and I was drafting my own narrative.

“Still, think about it, Sage. The first episode dropped yesterday. Listen to it; it might change your mind.” Rose’s tone was sympathetic, like she understood my stance, versus trying to wheedle me into doing what she wanted.

“We need to get back to work,” I said, turning away from Rose. But a sight made me freeze.

Mark Jeffries. Here. In the unopened Button Building.

Mark had to be in his late forties or early fifties but looked younger. It wasn’t just the artfully styled brown hair or the hip retro down jacket. If he wasn’t dressed for a crisp late winter day, I’d have seen coffee-related tattoos adorning both arms, like a moka pot on one forearm. Even though I disliked him, I had to admit there was something vibrant about Mark that drew people to him. It’s the same quality that causes devotees to rally around politicians.

Or charlatans.

I’d liked Mark when I’d first started working for him as a barista in my university days. But that was before I’d noticed the sketchy vein running through his charm.

And it was before he’d taken credit for Harley’s award-winning work.

What was Mark doing here?

And more importantly, why was he talking with Bianca?

Bianca looked annoyed as she walked away from Mark toward the Breakfast Bandits–storefront-to-be. But she always looked like she’d smelled something gross. She reminded me of people telling me not to frown or my face would freeze that way as a child. Something annoying must have happened to Bianca once, and her face had frozen into that expression as a default.

Bianca paused by the entrance of her shop, and Rose walked up to her.

To my everlasting shock, Bianca smiled.

“That’s a rare event,” Abby Best, owner of Best Burgers, said as she walked up to me.

“You’re on Bianca’s bad side, too?”

“You think she has a good side?” Abby asked.

“Everyone does, I assume.”

“Oh, don’t get me started about Bianca. We were at the same food cart pod downtown for a while, and it was an absolute nightmare. Her breakfast burritos are good; I’ll give you that.”

“I’ve never tried her food.”

“She’s really creative. She has this cheesy mashed potato burrito with cauliflower that’s clearly inspired by aloo gobi, given the spice profile. Plus, her traditional fare is excellent, like a pork verde that’s unbelievably tender. She had a special for a while of a brioche French toast with some sort of pear compote that was, supposedly, to die for, given the long lines at her cart. And her bacon breakfast burrito is perfectly balanced.”

“At least something about her shop is balanced,” I muttered, then immediately felt guilty.

Abby laughed, which made me feel worse about my cattiness. “You know, Bianca was bragging earlier about how the owner of the Button Building called her and personally offered her a spot in this building.”

“News to me.” I didn’t tell Abby that when I’d seen the list of applications, I’d asked my uncle Jimmy, the owner of the Button Building, to turn Bianca’s application down.

But he’d never said he’d invited her, although he’d ignored my advice and leased her a spot.

Did my uncle and Bianca know each other, beyond their current landlord and tenant relationship? If yes, how? More importantly, how intimately?

I pushed the thought out of my mind. I had enough to worry about. After Abby and I finished chatting about the upcoming grand opening, she returned to her café. At the Rail Yard and the handful of farmers markets Ground Rules had set up at, there was always one food cart . . .