Fresh Brewed Murder

Book 1: Ground Rules Mystery

by Emmeline Duncan

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Master barista Sage Caplin is opening a new coffee cart in Portland, Oregon, but a killer is brewing up a world of trouble . . .



Portland is famous for its rain, hipsters, craft beers . . . and coffee. Sage Caplin has high hopes for her coffee cart, Ground Rules, which she runs with her business partner, Harley—a genius at roasting beans and devising new blends. That's essential in a city where locals have intensely strong opinions about cappuccino versus macchiato—especially in the case of one of Sage's very first customers . . .



Sage finds the man's body in front of her cart, a fatal slash across his neck. There's been plenty of anger in the air, from longtime vendors annoyed at Ground Rules taking a coveted spot in the food truck lot, to protesters demonstrating against a new high-rise. But who was mad enough to commit murder? Sage is already fending off trouble in the form of her estranged, con artist mother, who's trying to trickle back into her life. But when Sage's very own box cutter is discovered to be the murder weapon, she needs to focus on finding the killer fast—before her business, and her life, come to a bitter end . . .

Release date: March 30, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Cozies

Print pages: 242

Sample

I’m still waiting for the day when I magically turn into an adult. One day I’ll wake up, and my laundry will be washed, dried, folded, and even put away. I’ll like smooth jazz, and the thought of a long lease, let alone a mortgage, won’t scare me. My wardrobe will be elegant. I’ll relish responsibility.

Today was not that day. Although it should be since my fledgling coffee business was scheduled to launch.

The world was my chocolate-covered espresso bean.

Once I made it through today.

I unlocked the gate to the Rail Yard, a food cart pod in inner Southeast Portland. Once a trolley turnaround spot, the lot developed into one of the best food cart destinations in Portland. Eight carts, including my new business, circled a center stage and a decommissioned short school bus converted into a beer stand.

Visions of cold brew danced through my head, but I needed to finish getting the cart ready before I could crack open the fridge and pour a glass. A carafe of house coffee filled the air with the scent of promise as it brewed.

I brewed a double espresso and sampled it, checking the machine’s calibration. It was close to perfect, and after a few tweaks, and a few more shots, which I tasted and poured out, the espresso sang. I downed the final shot, hoping the jolt of caffeine would settle the jitters inside me.

Now I needed customers.

I carried a sandwich board out to the sidewalk and stepped back to look it over. The teal GROUND RULES logo was more retro than I’d intended, but it matched the feel of the cart, and it looked throwback hip. I loved the long window running the length of the trailer. An awning unfolded from the side and sheltered the ordering window from sun and rain.

“I didn’t know you were here,” my first customer said through a yawn as he ordered an Americano.

“We’ve only been open five minutes,” I said. I pulled two shots and mixed them with eight ounces of hot water.

“You’re the only shop open this early for blocks.”

“Let me know what you think.” I handed over his drink while he inserted his credit card into the tablet’s chip reader.

“Perfect,” he said after trying his coffee. He wandered to the bus stop on the corner.

My business partner, Harley, thought I was bananas for opening at 6:00 a.m. Few local indie shops open so early. But I wanted to catch as much of the morning commuter traffic as possible, even if it meant sacrificing sleep.

As I stood watching orange rays of the sun cut through the early-morning sky, I understood why shops chose to open later, especially in the winter, when the days are gray and drizzly.

Harley and I were doing this. The reality of the business opening hit me, leaving me proud and panicked. A jolt of cold brew steadied me.

A steady stream of customers trickled in. My nerves settled as I fell into the rhythm of pulling shots and bantering with people. Harley showed up at seven thirty and made drinks while I handled the customers. During a lull, I looked over, noting the purple stripes in her long black ponytail.

Harley looked at me and grinned. “Customers showing up on our first day is a good sign,” she said in her low, husky voice like she smokes ten packs of cigarettes a day even though she only has a caffeine habit. No nicotine allowed around her since it might affect her ability to smell the coffee she roasts.

“Hallelujah,” I said. “The sign on the street is working.”

“Along with the social media blasts.”

“Who can resist the siren song of coffee?”

Another customer walked up, and since I was in a good mood, I broke out the cold-reading skills my mother had taught me as a child. After all, a cold read pairs well with espresso.

I paused before I handed a mocha to a college-aged girl who’d struggled to make eye contact with me when ordering. “I sense you sometimes feel insecure, especially around people you don’t know well.”

“How’d you know? Strangers freak me out.”

“I’m psychic,” I said in an even tone as if I were serious.

“Oh yeah? Where am I going?”

I’d already noticed the PSU Vikings key chain dangling from the zipper of her backpack, and I knew the university had classes all summer. Her fitted V-neck T-shirt had the original cover of Pride and Prejudice printed on it. “You’re on your way to school, and you’re studying English.”

“Oh my gosh, you’re legit!” She stared at me with wide eyes.

I laughed, ready to confess I was teasing her and using the cold-reading skills used by mentalists, magicians, and con artists when a guy walked up. The girl turned to him. “She’s amazing! Awesome coffee and she’s psychic.”

“Let’s see proof.”

I tilted my head to the side like I was reading his aura or something, but I analyzed his clothing. Chuck Taylors, quality jeans, and a graphic T-shirt inspired by the video game Zelda, or I was misinterpreting the reference.

“You’re a kind person, and considerate, but when someone breaks your trust, you feel deep-seated anger. Keep that in mind today when you go to your job as a coder.”

He blinked as the words hit home.

I didn’t tell him most people would find meaning in the insight I’d busted out. I’d chosen it because it was an easy road to his trust. His profession was a guess, but multiple tech firms had opened in Portland, resulting in programmers roaming around the city, ordering coffee and arguing which brewery in town made the best IPA.

“What kind of drink do you want? Let me guess. House coffee, one sugar.”

He blinked again. “Yes, please.”

“See? She’s amazing,” the college girl said. They walked away together, leaning toward each other while talking.

Harley laughed. “What was that?”

I grinned at her. “The guy’s drink was a wild guess. I was going to confess I was teasing them, but they seemed interested in each other.”

“Now you’re going to be known as both the witty and psychic partner in our business.” Harley laughed again and started cleaning the espresso machine. But her phone rang, so she stepped outside.

“Well . . .” My words trailed off as I clocked a guy staring at me. He was older than my last two customers.

I analyzed him as he walked up. Stern face like he was angry or permanently unhappy. Hooded eyes. Even features. Button-down shirt, neatly ironed, tucked precisely into designer jeans, but finished with work boots. He’d be handsome if he smiled. I tried a cold reading on him. “You know, I bet you’ve faced some major problems in your life, but you’ve always found a way to overcome them.”

His expression didn’t waver. “Black coffee to go.”

I poured his cup quickly and handed it over. He swiped his credit card, tapped the surface of the tablet with a quick slash of his finger, and stalked away, his spine stiff.

Harley bounced back into the cart. “The co-op called me back! We’re meeting with them tomorrow at four p.m. Seriously, if they decide to carry our beans, we’ll be set!”

“I still think we should set up a coffee club and mail beans monthly to subscribers.”

“Like my aunt’s farm in Kona.”

No customers were in sight, so we poured a couple cups of coffee and sat down at the picnic table next to our cart.

A guy carrying several loaded bags of groceries walking through the entryway to the Rail Yard caught my eye, and his eyes locked onto our cart. His black hair fell into his eyes, giving him a pesky-younger-brother vibe. He detoured in our direction.

“Hello,” Harley muttered to me.

“You must be with the new cart,” he said.

“We’re Ground Rules,” Harley said. “We’re excited to open!”

She sounded breathless. I hid a grin.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ground Rules,” he said.

“I’m Sage, and this is Harley.”

He offered his hand, and we shook. “Sage is one of my favorite spices. I’m Zarek.”

“Most people say Harleys are their favorite ride,” Harley said, and I laughed. She blushed. “That came out wrong.”

Zarek smiled. It reminded me of a five-year-old getting caught stealing candy. “How’d nice girls like you end up in a place like this?”

“We’re starting a coffee-roasting business and needed a place to land,” I said.

“Sounds like you were fortunate. You even scored the only spot with plumbed water instead of dealing with tanks.”

“We definitely lucked out.” Harley still sounded breathless.

“All of the old carts from across the street wanted to move in, but I guess the owner . . .” Zarek’s voice trailed off.

“Introduced fresh caffeine?” I said.

Zarek laughed. “Exactly.”

“What’s happening across the street?” Harley asked. We all turned and looked. I remembered eating at a gyros cart there a few days before I left town last year to volunteer abroad. The old lot was fenced off, along with a couple of decrepit houses. A few people were standing next to the fence.

“The houses are being torn down, and a luxury apartment building will rise from the ashes. Some of the protesters are up in arms because none of the units will be affordable.”

“What does that mean?” Harley asked.

“I’m no expert, but some apartment buildings rent a percentage of units below market rate. This building won’t.”

“I’ve read about this,” I said. “Not this building specifically, but developers can get property-tax abatements if they rent units below market rate.”

“How do you know this?” Harley asked.

“I read the paper.”

“I’ve never seen you with a newspaper!”

“They have a website.”

Zarek interrupted us. “It was nice meeting you. I’ll see you around.”

“Do you want a coffee to celebrate our first day in business?” Harley asked.

“I’m vegan, so if you can do a dairy-free cappuccino, I’m down. Or an Americano.”

“One oat-milk cappuccino coming right up! I can bring it to your cart if you’d like,” Harley said. She bustled off to make the drink while Zarek carried his grocery bags to his cart.

I followed my friend into Ground Rules.

“Way to dominate the conversation, Sage.” Harley poured oat milk into a carafe.

“He’s all yours,” I promised.

“But now he’s going to think you’re the witty one.”

“I’ll purposefully say stupid things around him.”

Harley laughed and started making the drink. The buzz of the espresso machine was music to my ears.

When the drink was done, Harley said, “I’m going to take this to Zarek. You stay here.”

“No problem.”

Harley stepped out of Ground Rules and paused as she debated which cart was Zarek’s. Eventually, she spotted the partially opened door of the yellow Fala-Awesome cart and walked toward it.

I debated what to do, but I saw an older woman struggling to carry a box and several shopping bags into the Rail Yard. “Can I help you? I’m Sage. You must be a cart owner, so I’m one of your new neighbors.”

She let me take one of her bags. A peek inside showed it was full of flour, sugar, and boxes of butter. I wasn’t surprised when she led the way to the cart with the numbers 4 and 20 on the side with paintings of birds.

“What does your cart serve?” I asked. Was pot distribution legal from food carts since marijuana was now sold in licensed businesses? The mural of birds on the side of her cart was impressive, with lots of high-drama black-and-white contrast.

“Pie,” she said. “You know, ‘four and twenty blackbirds’?”

“Oh, the old nursery rhyme.” “Sing a Song of Sixpence” was the last thing I’d thought of.

She acted absentminded. Given the vague look in her light blue eyes, she could’ve been high, except her pupils were wrong for an altered state. Her curly gray hair looked ready to take flight on its own.

But she looked friendly, so I reintroduced myself.

“Oh, where are my manners. I’m Macie. My cart isn’t open on Mondays, but I wanted to drop off supplies and feed my babies.”

Babies? I blinked as she went inside and put the butter away in the fridge, and the dry goods into a cabinet. A green-checked apron with an embroidered slice of cherry pie caught my attention. It looked handmade, with bright red pockets. It hung on a hook shaped like a curved spoon.

“That’s my favorite apron,” Macie said when she saw me looking at it. “I made it.”

“It’s cheerful.”

“I sew daily. How many days of the week will you open? Pie goes well with coffee.”

“Our current plan is Mondays to Fridays until two p.m.”

“Too bad we’ll barely overlap. I’m open Tuesdays to Sundays, although I’ll take Tuesdays off after Labor Day.” Macie grabbed a baggie filled with brown crumbs from the counter. She walked around her cart to the fence behind and tossed a handful of crumbs onto the sidewalk.

Within seconds, the area was full of pigeons.

“Isn’t this a dainty feast?” she said as she scattered more crumbs.

I realized the birds must be her babies. There’s a phrase the locals like: “Keep Portland weird.” This lady was definitely at the forefront of the movement.

I walked back to my business.

My business. Literally. My cart. The words felt strange, but also right. Like I was meant to do this.

Harley was talking with Zarek as he chopped cabbage in his cart.

I paused. “What’s the story of the lady with the pigeons?”

“Macie always stops by to feed the birds. Be glad, ’cause it took us months to convince her to feed the birds on the sidewalk instead of inside the Rail Yard. Know what’s not fun? Trying to eat with pigeons flying around you.”

“Gross,” Harley said.

“I’m going to work on the cart for a bit,” I told Harley, and she flapped her hands in a shooing motion. I mock-frowned at her and walked back to Ground Rules.

Harley joined me in the cart a few minutes later with a giant smile.

“Have fun chatting up the new neighbor?” I asked.

“Remember I called dibs.”

I laughed.

Harley picked up her bag. “I’m off to roast beans unless you need me here?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Harley hugged me before racing off.

A few customers bought coffee before my brother marched up to the cart. His dark brown hair was damp, and he was dressed in a dark blue suit, so he was on his way to work.

“Pour-over?” I asked as he walked up and a too-rare smile lit his face, like a brief sunburst gone too soon.

“Please.” Jackson inspected the exterior of the cart before bounding inside, his dress shoes clattering on the steps.

“Customers stay outside.” I pointed to the door. But I couldn’t stop myself from grinning.

“I’m not exactly a customer.”

“Yeah, your great legal mind reviewed all my contracts.” I suspected he saw me as a little kid with a play coffee stand. I’d forever be the obnoxious teenager he’d babysat when he was a college student and my father worked nights.

I handed Jackson his coffee.

“It’s nice to have my barista back. How’s it going?”

“We’ve sold a decent amount.”

“We? You working with an imaginary friend?”

I flicked a bar towel at Jackson. He dodged it, snagged the end, and pulled it out of my hands.

“You missed Harley. She left a few minutes ago.”

“You still sure about all of this?” Jackson motioned at the cart.

My back stiffened. “Yes.” While setting up Ground Rules, Jackson had reviewed the business contracts for me. He’d also asked me daily if starting a coffee company in a city full of micro-roasters was the right choice.

“Just checking.” Jackson’s smile made me realize I should give him a break. In my brother’s mind, I’d always be the kid he watched out for. My last job in the nonprofit world hadn’t been as risky as starting my own business.

We chatted for a while, and he left, saying he had a long day ahead of him.

“Be sure to eat an actual lunch and not just drink coffee,” I told Jackson as he left.

“Make sure you follow your own advice.”

Our carafe of house coffee had been sitting for a while. It might be time to dump it and switch to Americanos or pour-overs for the rest of the day. I poured a few ounces and took a sip, tasting the medium roast with notes of dark berries and spiced dates. Dark roast is my jam, but I could almost switch to this daily. Maybe it was the mix of Bourbon and Caturra beans from a Fair Trade co-op in Guatemala. Or it’s because Harley’s a genius when it comes to roasting coffee beans.

We’d named our house coffee Puddle Jumper, in honor of Portland’s Puddletown nickname, ’cause a cup of this in the morning would make you happy enough to face the day, including jumping in puddles during your jaunts around town.

As I sniffed the brew’s aroma, I decided it was too old. As I poured the carafe out, I thought about the steps that went into producing a cup of coffee, from growing and harvesting the coffee cherries in areas far from Portland, processing the cherries until only the coffee beans remain, and shipping the green coffee beans all over the world. Would small farmers in Malawi be surprised to find out hipsters in Portland were digging their crops? But perhaps all this means is lots of things wash up in Portland.

Movement caught my attention. A girl in her midteens approached the cart like she was afraid I would chase her off. Her light brown hair was pulled into a greasy ponytail. Both her jeans and backpack were dusty.

“Do you need something?” I asked the girl gently. She still looked like she was debating whether to bolt.

“I was going to ask if you had pastries or drinks you can’t sell and want to give away.” She looked at the ground. She blushed.

Her words confirmed my suspicions. She had to be homeless. One of many, including kids. My heart twisted.

“You gave me an idea,” I said. “I read an article about a shop in the UK with a suspended drink board. Their customers pre-buy a drink or a snack for someone down on their luck. I’ll bring a whiteboard and start one.”

“So maybe you’ll have something tomorrow?”

“For inspiring the idea, you deserve a drink. What do you want? Coffee? Hot chocolate?”

“Iced mocha?”

I hid a smile, wondering if she’d meant to request the most expensive drink on the menu. “Take a seat and I’ll bring the mocha out in a moment.”

She nodded and sat down at the table by my cart. All of the furniture here was chained to the ground so it wouldn’t walk away on its own. But when I came out, carrying my cold brew and her iced mocha, she looked surprised, like she thought I’d been lying to her before.

I handed her the drink, and the last of the scones. Her eyes widened before she whispered thanks. . .