Double Shot Death

Book 2: Ground Rules Mystery

by Emmeline Duncan

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Sage Caplin is taking her Portland coffee cart on the road to a sustainable music festival, but murder is an unwanted special guest . . .



At Campathon, an annual eco-friendly festival held on a farm outside of Portland, fans celebrate the Pacific Northwest's music scene in quintessential PDX style—with gourmet food carts, reusable utensils . . . and lots of coffee. How else to get through three days of nonstop entertainment? Sage has scored a coveted place for her Ground Rules coffee cart thanks to her new-ish boyfriend, Bax, who's friendly with Maya, one of the musicians performing.



The festivities begin with a stream of customers, friends, and acquaintances stopping by for Ground Rules' world-class blends, expertly brewed by Sage and her newest barista. But there are tensions between Maya and her former bandmates, who are on the cusp of making it big, and with Ian, the band's manager. When Sage stumbles upon Ian's dead body in the nearby woods—his hand still clutching one of her coffee mugs—it's clear that someone's grudge boiled over into murder. Can Sage work out who's responsible before another innocent life fades out, and the curtain falls on Campathon, and maybe her own future, for good?

Release date: April 26, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 240

Sample

A few years ago, if you told me I’d be humming while pulling a trailer down the freeway, I would’ve laughed. But that was before I’d decided to build a coffee empire. While I’m still a dedicated bike commuter and prefer to zoom around Portland, Oregon, on two wheels, some days, like today, I use the official Ground Rules Subaru to pull a coffee cart around town.

And I drive it with panache. I’d been raised to believe that, with practice and tenacity, not only could I learn to do anything, but to do it with style.

My copilot, Bax—aka my boyfriend singing along with the radio as I drove—was a side perk of starting Ground Rules, since I wouldn’t have met him if I hadn’t leased the warehouse space next door to his studio. The employee joining me for the weekend, Kendall, was making his own way to the festival.

Yet, here I was, co-owner of a coffee company consisting of a roastery, two food carts, and employees. The cart closest to my heart was stationed at the Rail Yard food cart pod in Portland. And I was backing the second cart into my designated spot at Portland’s beloved Campathon Music Festival.

Attendees were in for three days of music under acres of trees of a farm just outside the Portland city limits during the dog days of summer. They wouldn’t be caffeine free since Ground Rules was onsite. We were the first food cart to show up, and I knew by the end of the day there’d be seven others collected in the festival’s makeshift food cart pod.

A few minutes later, Bax waved me back another few inches, then held his hand up for me to stop as I backed the Ground Rules cart into its home for the weekend. So I put the Subaru in park and hopped from the car to scope out the situation for myself.

Bax gave me a high five, and I turned to inspect my parking job. The converted horse trailer turned into a coffee stand was centered inside the lines of Food Cart Spot 1, aka my assigned location. Exactly where I’d aimed for.

Alexis Amari, one of the Campathon organizers, looked up from her clipboard. “Sage Caplin of Ground Rules! You’re in the running to be my favorite vendor of the year. Thanks for showing up exactly when you were supposed to. I wish all of my contractors were so diligent.”

I approved of Alexis, whom I’d first met when she stopped by the Ground Rules cart to try our coffee before formally handing over our festival contract. I’d talked to her a couple of times since she was in charge of scheduling the bands and food carts. Everything about her, from her straight posture to her belted sleeveless shirtwaist dress and tidy bun—which were both heat-appropriate and professional—said she had everything under control and didn’t appreciate nonsense. But she also had a mischievous smile, which she flashed my way.

“Thanks again for including us. We’re excited to be here,” I said. Alexis nodded and started to open her mouth like she had something to say. But then her eyes widened, and she hustled by me. I turned to see two food carts, one a red boxy truck that said BREAKFAST BANDITS on the side, alongside a rectangular black cart pulled by a giant pickup, both in the middle of the parking lot.

The driver of the boxy red truck jumped out the passenger’s side door. “Back up!” she yelled.

“We were here first,” the driver of the pickup said through his open window.

I glanced at Bax.

He shook his head like he was disappointed in the drivers causing a scene. “The red truck just cut off the pickup for no apparent reason and blocked his way forward. If I were you, I’d avoid these carts over the weekend.”

“You’re in our way!” The woman stood a few inches from the pickup and glared at the driver like he’d insulted her mother. A guy from inside the red boxy truck slid into the driver’s seat.

“You back up. If you hadn’t cut me off, we’d be setting up our carts by now.” The guy in the pickup looked forward, like the woman glaring at him wasn’t worth his notice. But the set of his shoulders said he wouldn’t back up, even if you paid him a million dollars.

Alexis strode up. “Bianca, what’s going on?” Her voice was clipped.

“This truck is in our way.”

“I thought food cart owners were cool,” Bax said.

I laughed. “Most of us are. But there are a few strange apples in the bushel.”

“This should keep you in the running as favorite food vendor of the festival.” Bax swung his arm around my shoulders. Remnants of his citrus-and-sandalwood aftershave floated around me. He smelled like safety.

After a few hand waves by Alexis, Bianca had climbed back into her red Breakfast Bandits truck and backed up. But she inched back millimeters at a time. Part of me admired Bianca’s dedication to passive-aggressive compliance, although I also told myself to either avoid her or stay on her good side.

“Fingers crossed, especially since I want them to invite us back next year.” Regular gigs, especially high-profile ones like this festival, would show I’d been right to advocate for buying our second cart.

Once Bianca had finally inched far back enough for the black pickup to safely pull his cart through, he did. The side of his cart said KAUAI VIBES over the logo of a hand giving the shaka sign and a drawing of a surfboard.

Since the road rage show was over, Bax helped me unhook the Subaru from the Ground Rules cart. I carefully edged the Subaru away from the cart, taking care to avoid the Breakfast Bandits truck parked next to me in spot #2, and sedately made my way to the parking lot for vendors. After I parked, Bax snagged our tent and a giant bag holding our sleeping bags and camp pads from the backseat of the Subaru. “I’ll find us a great camping spot,” he promised. The smile on his face lit up his blue eyes. Bax’s enthusiasm felt like a jolt of espresso as the finish after a perfect meal.

“I can’t believe I almost didn’t come to Campathon this year,” Bax said.

“Come find me once you’re done,” I said and watched him head into the trees. We’d already discussed which section of the festival we wanted to set up camp in (the quiet area). One of the (many) advantages to bringing him included allowing me to focus on getting the cart up and running yet still have first dibs on a primo camping spot. Most festival attendees would pitch a tent somewhere on Campathon’s forested grounds, although there was also an area for RVs and campers.

I focused on getting the cart up and running. The action felt automatic, like the hours I’d spent running Ground Rules had trained all the muscles in my body on how to get the business ready to brew multiple forms of world-class coffee.

About an hour later, a low, melodic voice interrupted my thoughts.

“Someone needs to stop me. Else I’m going to stab Nate and then throw a party before spending the rest of my life pining away in jail, only able to play the blues for the rats who inhabit my lonely, barren cell,” a familiar voice said.

I looked up from calibrating the espresso machine and eyed Maya Oliveira, aka the woman standing in front of my cart. Something about her always gives me pause. I gave her a quick once-over. Glorious curly black hair loose over toned shoulders. Green eyes. Freckles over her nose. Skin the shade of driftwood foundation, with a mercurial temperament that reminded me of the sea. Even her tranquil moments have a restless undercurrent.

Maya held both hands to her forehead, then dramatically lowered them. As she leaned her elbows against the counter of my cart, Bianca of the Breakfast Bandits stared at us with wide eyes. I waved at her. She scurried back inside her van like a squirrel who’d just seen a dog and needed to flee for her life.

“Have you got anything ready yet?” Maya asked. Her voice was as addictive as espresso, and I wished she’d keep talking. “I’d kill for caffeine. I might even be desperate enough to drink instant coffee.”

“There’s no reason to resort to instant. If it stops you from committing homicide, you can try the next shot.” After drawing and sampling, and then dumping, multiple shots to ensure the quality met our Ground Rules standards, our espresso should sing as brightly as the singer-songwriters scheduled to perform (and maybe be more on tune than some). I quickly ground a fresh sixteen grams of our espresso blend, tamped it down, and set about pulling the perfect shot into a clean white espresso cup. When it finished brewing, complete with the perfect head of crema, I handed it over to Maya.

“Sugar? Cream?” I asked.

“I take my coffee black, just like my soul.” Maya grinned, then looked down at the shot. She closed her eyes as she sipped it, rolling it around in her mouth like she was savoring every molecule. She wore a vintage-looking Metallica T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Cutoff red corduroy shorts and black cowboy boots finished off her look. As usual, she managed to effortlessly look like a rock goddess.

“Who’s Nate, and what did he do?” I took a sip of bottled water, then held the ice-cold, sweating bottle to my forehead. August in Oregon can be mild and pleasant in the low eighties. But Mother Nature had decided we needed a heat wave. Hopefully we were on its final day, and the weekend would be mild versus a hot, sticky mess. Just in case, I’d borrowed a second generator to power our ice machine since I suspected we’d sell a lot of iced drinks and coffee sodas. If we hit triple digits, we might need to start handing out ice by the handful to help people cool down.

“Nate exists,” Maya said, like that answered my question. Her lips pursed together like she was replaying something annoying in her mind. Then she glanced around, and she smiled when her gaze settled on my small display of merchandise.

Maya picked up one of the Ground Rules–branded travel mugs I’d stacked to the side of the front counter. We had two styles: the camp cup I’d fallen in love with, and the slick keeps-coffee-hot-for-hours tumblers from Japan that my business partner, Harley Yamazaki, preferred. “These mugs are lit.”

“Thanks. I’m fond of them, too,” I said. The cups were our best-selling merchandise and a symbol of what we were becoming. Ground Rules had kept me hopping all summer. Between our cart at the hip Rail Yard, this festival along with a series of farmers’ markets, plus the brick-and-mortar shop in a development about to finally break ground, the business had kept me hopping for months. But being busy was good. We’d hired a couple of stellar employees. We were working on getting our beans carried by grocery stores and cafés around town. I’d framed an article from a local magazine when they called our brick-and-mortar shop one of the most anticipated coffee openings of next year.

Acquiring the smaller cart had been a stroke of luck. We’d bought the horse trailer from a coffee roaster who’d hated doing events. It was perfect for festivals, farmers’ markets, and special occasions. Hopefully a strong showing at Campathon would encourage other event organizers to book us, and our promise of excellent and creative coffee, to justify the investment in the second cart.

Campathon. The name sounded like a melody to my ears. Held on a farm not too far outside the Portland city limits, a few thousand people showed up to spend four days listening to music and camping out under the trees. Attendees had their choice of three venues—the City Lights main stage and the Pine Burrow stage, plus a kids’ area complete with its own stage. Campathon had declined our original bid to be part of the festival’s food cart scene, but when the coffee company they’d chosen bowed out, Maya had convinced Alexis to give us a shot. We’d been lucky she’d been in the festival office at the right time. I’d only met Maya a handful of times, but she frequently worked with the video game development company my boyfriend, Bax, co-owns and runs. Her band, the Banshee Blues, was in the festival lineup.

Spending the weekend at a music festival was part work, part fun, especially since one of my newish employees, Kendall, was splitting time in the cart with me. I’d handle the morning rush, we’d pass the torch around noon, and he’d take care of the afternoon crowd. We’d made a sign that said LAST CALL FOR COFFEE AT 3:30 since we’d close at four, and anyone still desperate for coffee could get on-tap nitro cold brew coffee in the beer tent, also provided by us. And I knew the main Ground Rules cart in the Rail Yard was in good hands, since my business partner, Harley, was taking care of it.

Maya took another sip of espresso, and I followed suit with my water.

“Oh, monkey on a cupcake. The almighty Nate himself approaches,” Maya muttered. She bolted down the last of her espresso.

Nate. I eyed the tall guy with longish brown hair decked out in ripped jeans and a faded black T-shirt who walked up. Like Maya, something about his swagger said he’d embraced the rocker look. Or maybe I was reading into it since the only people on site today were either bands or attendees who’d sprung for the VIP pass.

His face triggered a memory of the music section of the Willamette Week, the local alt-news weekly paper. He was the lead singer of a Portland-based band, the Changelings, who’d been getting national attention. They had one of the most played songs on all of the current hip music streaming apps. My memory clicked a few more times.

Nate Green. The article had called him the leading contender to be the new voice of his generation, highlighting his moody lyrics and unique chord arrangements. They’d said he wasn’t reinventing rock, just turning it upside down and stamping it with his unique spin. After reading the article, I’d listened to one of his songs and thought it’d sounded like an up-tempo Nirvana rip-off with layers of pretension. But while I like music, it’s not my passion. Maybe Nate’s revolutionary elements were lost on me. Perhaps musically, my taste was akin to cheap pit stop coffee.

As I watched her, Maya clenched her jaw again. I debated pouring a pitcher of water in case I needed to throw it on them to break up a fight like they were cats fighting over turf. Except I had to haul water to the coffee cart, and dumping it on dueling musicians would be a waste of my labor.

“Everything okay here?” Bax popped around the side of the cart, like a genie sent to cool troubled waters.

“Bax! Buddy! I haven’t seen you for a few years.” Nate nodded at him, then glanced at Maya, who stared off into the woods, her back to Nate. Maya strode away, her cowboy boots kicking up puffs of dust behind her.

Bax’s easygoing expression from earlier had already shifted into a wary look, like the world had resettled on his shoulders. I made a mental note to ask Bax about Nate later, since he and Maya both knew him but I hadn’t met him before today. And I expected Bax to tell me if he knew the people on the front pages of our local papers; that’s Relationship Logic 101.

Nate’s gaze returned to me, and he smiled. Charm practically oozed out of his hazel eyes and soaked my face, and slid through my hair. Something told me Nate had spent most of his life trading on his charisma. “Can I get an iced latte?” he asked.

Behind Nate, Bax lifted his lip in an Elvis-like lip curl, then smiled at me.

“Sure. Do you have a mug?” I asked, and tried not to laugh at my boyfriend.

Nate handed over his official Campathon tumbler. The festival strove for zero waste. Part of the vendor contract included no disposable cups or packaging, and I hadn’t even packed a single sleeve of cups. For the weekend, attendees needed to provide their own drinking vessel or buy a Ground Rules reusable mug. The festival sold sleek stainless steel tumblers with the Campathon logo, like the one Nate had, and attendees needed one if they wanted to order beer from the bar tent. Or attendees could bring their own cups for water and nonalcoholic beverages.

“Coming right up.” I set about crafting Nate’s latte.

“You know, Bax, you were in the crowd our very first show.” Nate’s voice sounded relaxed. Slightly lowered in charm, but more intimate.

“The first after you joined the band, you mean,” Bax said.

Nate continued like Bax hadn’t said anything. “Since you’re here to see us this weekend, you do realize you’ll be one of the few who’ve seen the band’s full progression?”

“I’m definitely looking forward to seeing Maya’s new band this weekend.” It seemed like Maya’s dislike of Nate had been transferred along to Bax. He was fully on Team Maya, making me wonder what game they were playing.

Another man walked up, most likely in his mid-thirties, dressed in a crisp button-down shirt rolled up over his elbows and dark jeans, followed by a girl, maybe twenty, who carried a phone in her hand and tote bag over her shoulder.

“Ian, have you met Bax?” Nate asked, nodding his head toward my boyfriend. “He runs the Grumpy Sasquatch studio in Portland. You’ve played some of their video games.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve met local musicians you’ve worked with. They say good things.” Ian’s voice had an overly smooth note that told me he was used to glad-handing people.

“Ian’s my band’s manager,” Nate said.

“Ian Rabe. Nice to meet you.” Ian offered his hand, and Bax slowly shook it. Bax’s professional look slid over his face, hiding the sparkle in his eyes. He glanced upward like he always does when he’s annoyed.

“This is my assistant, Faith,” Ian said and nodded toward the girl behind him. My eyes zeroed in on her hair since Faith’s light brown mane was twisted into an elaborate side braid. I almost asked her if she could show me how she’d managed it.

“Intern,” Faith said without looking up from her mobile phone. Her coral linen dress looked perfect for the weather. I noted her bag was a this-season Coach, which seemed brave given the dusty conditions. I’d brought my trusty Timbuk2 since it could handle an apocalypse with aplomb and just need a simple wipe down to look brand new at the end of the weekend.

As I handed Nate his latte, Ian was still looking at Bax. Maybe I imagined the gleam in his eye felt speculative, but then he said, “You know, I have some musicians who’d love to compose music for video games.”

Bax slid his wallet out of his pocket, moving slowly like he wanted to be anywhere else. As he opened it, he said, “I’ll give you my card, but I’m not thinking about work this weekend. I’m here to listen to music and help out Sage if she needs me.” Bax looked at me, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ian glance over. Nate wandered away.

“This must be Sage,” Ian said. He took the business card. . .