Irish Coffee Murder

by Leslie Meier, Lee Hollis, Barbara Ross

Genres: Holiday books; Mystery Anthologies & Collections

Synopsis

Someone may have spiked this year's Irish coffee brew with murder!



Irish Coffee Murder by Leslie Meier



Part-time reporter Lucy Stone is writing a piece for the Courier about four Irish step dancing students from Tinker's Cove on the cusp of making it big. But the story becomes headline news for all the wrong reasons when one girl's mother is found dead in her bathtub. Did a stage mom take rivalry too far, or is some other motive at play?



Death of an Irish Coffee Drinker by Lee Hollis



As owner of Bar Harbor's hottest new restaurant, Hayley Powell offers to cater the after-party for popular comedian Jefferson O'Keefe, who's playing his old hometown for St. Patrick's Day. But it's no laughing matter when Jefferson keels over after gulping down his post-show Irish coffee, leaving Hayley to figure out who decided this joker had gone too far . . .



Perked Up by Barbara Ross



It's a snowy St. Patrick's Day in Busman's Harbor. But when the power goes out, what better way for Julia Snowden to spend the evening than sharing local ghost stories—and Irish coffees—with friends and family? By the time the lights come back, they might even have solved the coldest case in town . . .

Release date: January 24, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Reader says this book is...: clever protagonist (1) escapist/easy read (1) female sleuth (1)

Sample

“Spring in Tinker’s Cove,” grumbled Lucy Stone. “It’s an oxymoron. There is no such thing. The calendar says it’s March, which meteorologists say is officially the first month of spring, so why is it snowing?”

Lucy, who had just entered the office of The Courier newspaper in Tinker’s Cove, Maine, was complaining to Phyllis, the receptionist, and Ted, her boss. She paused to stamp the snow off her duck boots, pulled off her gloves, and unwrapped the muffler she’d wrapped around her neck; then, sniffing the air and noticing how her breath hung in the chilly air inside, she hesitated before pulling off her hat and unzipping her barn coat. “What’s going on? How come it’s so cold in here?”

“There’s no heat,” growled Phyllis, whom Lucy now noticed was sitting at her desk behind the reception counter wearing her purple plaid wool coat.

“Little problem with the boiler,” said Ted, who was on his feet, pulling his black watch cap down over his graying hair and heading for the door. “Uh, I’ve got a staff meeting over at the Gilead office,” he mumbled, somewhat shamefaced as he headed for the door. “I’ve called Frost and Winkle. They’ve promised to send someone over . . . well, as soon as they can. Seems a lot of folks woke up to cold houses this morning.”

“Maybe Phyllis and I could work over in Gilead, too,” suggested Lucy, thinking of the modern building that housed The Courier office there, which was a stark contrast to the aged office in Tinker’s Cove. Sure, Tinker’s Cove boasted the antique rolltop desk that Ted inherited from his grandfather, a noted regional journalist, and a genuine Willard clock that hung on the wall and had been keeping the time correctly for over a hundred years, but it also had drafty windows that rattled the wooden Venetian blinds, cockeyed floors that tilted and creaked, and a very old furnace that grudgingly supplied minimal heat to the newly fashionable original steam radiators. And today, no heat at all.

“No can do,” said Ted, shaking his head. “They’re putting new carpet in and everybody’s jammed together in the conference room.”

“New carpet!” exclaimed Lucy. “They’re getting new carpet and we can’t even get weather stripping for the windows?” Lucy and Phyllis had both nurtured a suspicion that they were treated as second-class citizens by Ted, compared to the lucky folks over in the Gilead office.

“And my chair,” began Phyllis, chiming in. “This chair is busted and it’s breaking my back!”

“I know, I know, ladies,” admitted Ted, sidling toward the door. “It’s all on the list. We can’t do everything at once,” he said, repeating a familiar line as he opened the door, letting in a vicious blast of cold wind. “I haven’t forgotten you,” he said, stepping out and closing the door behind him. The little bell that announced visitors merely offered a sad little ping, apparently too chilly to produce its usual jangle.

“We’re on the list,” snarled Lucy, pulling her chair out and sitting down at her desk.

“We’re very low on the list,” said Phyllis, rubbing her arms to warm herself.

“Why don’t you go home?” suggested Lucy, powering up her PC. “I’ll stay and wait for Frost and Winkle.”

“No way. I’m not abandoning you.”

“No. You should go. There’s no reason for us both to freeze to death.”

“Ah. I see the truck outside. I think we’re saved.”

This time the little bell on the door jangled heartily as Seth Winkle himself entered, rosy-cheeked and dressed in his insulated work clothes with his name and the company’s logo embroidered in white on the jacket. “Bit cool in here,” he observed, with classic understatement. “I’ll see what’s the matter and have you warm and toasty in no time.”

“Oops!” exclaimed Lucy, noticing that the cellar door was blocked with boxes and bags of donated nonperishable foods that The Courier was collecting for a town-wide food drive. “Let me move some of that stuff out of your way.”

Seth pitched right in, helping Lucy move the foodstuffs into the morgue, then disappeared down the stairs to the cellar. Lucy and Phyllis waited anxiously, listening to an atonal symphony of bangs and clangs. Moments later he reappeared, shaking his head and tut-tutting. “Wow, I haven’t seen that model in a dog’s age. You’ve got a gen-you-wine an-tea-cue.”

“Can it be fixed?” asked Lucy, as if questioning the doctor about a sick child.

“Doubt I can get the parts,” he said, chewing on his lip. “I’ll call Ted. Tell him it’s done for, time to bite the bullet and get a new one. Better all ’round. More efficient, less costly in the long run. It’s long overdue.”

“In the meantime,” said Phyllis anxiously, “is there anything you can do so we can stay warm?”

“Yeah,” added Lucy, in a hopeful tone, “a temporary fix?”

“Space heaters. That’s what you gotta do,” advised Seth. “They’re on clearance this week out at the big box store. If I were you, I’d get out there before they’re all gone.”

“I’ll go,” said Lucy and Phyllis simultaneously.

“Maybe you should draw straws,” suggested Seth, with a chuckle, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket as he marched toward the door. “Have a nice day,” he said by way of farewell, and yanked the door open, once again jangling the bell and revealing Eileen Clancy, who was just about to enter.

“And a fine day to you, too,” said Eileen, grinning broadly and speaking with a slight Irish accent. “Goodness, it’s a mite chilly in here, is it not?”

“The furnace is broken,” said Phyllis, pushing her chair back and giving Lucy a questioning glance. “I’m just off to buy a space heater.”

“Get two while you’re at it,” suggested Lucy with a wan smile, watching enviously as Phyllis headed out to her car with its heated seat and working heater to make the toasty drive down the road to the gloriously overheated big box store. She rubbed her hands together, trying to restore her circulation. “What can I do for you, Eileen?”

“Mind if I sit down?” asked Eileen, eyeing the chair Lucy kept for visitors. She was a remarkably fit woman in her fifties, with fair skin, green eyes, and dark, curly hair, dressed in leggings, a puffy parka, and a tweed bucket hat.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t think you’d want to linger here in the Arctic. Please do.”

Eileen perched on the edge of the chair, back straight and knees together, just as she’d been taught by Sister Angelique at school in her native Ireland. “As you know, I teach Irish dancing at my little school.”

Lucy nodded, agreeing. She knew Eileen was being modest, her Clancy Academy of Gaelic Dance attracted students from far and wide. The walls in its lobby were lined with photos of her students along with the trophies they’d won in various competitions, sometimes even going to Ireland to compete. Eileen herself was a former Rose of Tralee winner, an annual talent competition in Ireland that attracted young women of Irish descent from all over the world.

“This year,” continued Eileen, “I am very fortunate to have four absolutely darling graduating seniors who are all extremely talented dancers who are competing in an upcoming feis in Portland. They’re lovely girls, and I believe each and every one has a very good chance of going on to the next level of competition, the oireachtas.”

Lucy, who was jotting down the information, paused. “How do you spell that?”

Eileen obliged, then continued. “The feis is a regional competition, drawing dancers from southern Maine. The oireachtas will be in Boston and dancers from all over New England will compete. I expect my girls will do well at the feis, wouldn’t be surprised if we had a few first-place wins, but it’s going to be very tough for the judges to choose. So I was wondering, Lucy, if you might be interested in writing a little story about these beautiful and talented young ladies.”

“I’d love to,” said Lucy, who knew this week’s news budget was overloaded with dry facts and figures in preparation for the annual town meeting where citizens debated and voted on various issues, including the all-important town budget. A feature story on these local girls would surely catch readers’ interest.

“Would it be possible for me to interview the girls? Will their parents give consent?” asked Lucy.

“I thought ahead,” confessed Eileen, producing four signed parental permission slips. “For interviews and photos, too.”

“Wow, you are way ahead of the game,” said Lucy, taking the slips with an approving nod. After reviewing them, she pulled out her calendar. “What’s a good time?”

“Well,” began Eileen, “they have a class this afternoon at four.”

“At your studio? I presume it’s heated?”

“Quite cozy. I’ll even give you a cup of hot Irish tea.”

“It’s a date.”

“I’ll have the kettle on the boil, Lucy,” said Eileen, standing up and adjusting her hat and gloves.

“Sounds lovely,” said Lucy with a sigh. She watched Eileen leave, then got up and went over to the coffee station, intending to make a pot. But when she went in the bathroom to fill the carafe with fresh water, she discovered there was none to be had; the pipes had frozen.

When the Willard clock announced it was half past three, Lucy was more than ready to escape the office, which was barely habitable thanks to the two space heaters, but it still had no water. After discovering that the pipes had frozen, she managed to get hold of Seth who returned with a gas-fired construction heater and a blow torch. The good news was that the pipes hadn’t burst; the bad news was the weather prediction that promised frigid temperatures for the next few days. “Your best option is to drain the system,” he had advised, “until I can get a new boiler installed. Otherwise they’ll just freeze again in the night.”

“That means no water, no bathroom, no heat?”

“Yup.”

“You’ve got the space heaters,” said Ted, who had returned later that morning to deal with the crisis. “You can bring coffee in a thermos and use the facilities at the library.”

Lucy was dubious. “Really?”

“I think that’s our best option. I don’t want to close the office; people drop by.”

“They could drop by in Gilead,” said Phyllis, who was busy unboxing the heaters. “We could put a sign on the door.”

“Folks are used to coming here,” said Ted. “Those heaters will make a big difference. You’ll see.”

“I doubt it,” said Lucy. “And doesn’t the fire department warn about the dangers of space heaters every year?”

“It’s just a temporary solution. The new furnace will be up and running in a few days,” said Ted, turning on his heel and walking to the door. “This new furnace is costing me a bundle,” he said. “I think you two could be a little more appreciative. And maybe you might hustle a bit for ads.”

Lucy was quick to reply, “Not in my job description.” But she was talking to a closed door and a pinging bell.

Ted’s attitude still rankled when she was finally able to leave for the interview, already imagining herself tucked up in Eileen’s heated dance studio with her hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea. And when she arrived, Eileen was as good as her word and had an electric tea kettle steaming in a corner of the roomy dance studio. Soon Lucy was installed in a rocking chair, wrapped in a colorful crocheted afghan, and provided with the promised tea. As she fussed over Lucy, Eileen instructed the four girls to continue their warm-ups. It was only when Lucy was settled that Eileen turned on the music, a lively Irish jig, and the four girls lined up, linked arms and began to demonstrate the intricate footwork involved in step dancing, including high kicks. Lucy took advantage of the performance to snap some photos on her cell phone, catching the girls in action. When they finished, she gave them a hearty round of applause.

“That was fabulous,” she said. “As I imagine you already know, I’m Lucy Stone from The Courier newspaper and I’m going to write a feature story about you all and your dancing. Now, can you introduce yourselves and tell me a bit about yourselves?”

They all seemed somewhat embarrassed and looked to their teacher for guidance. Eileen stepped right in. “Girls, why don’t you all take a seat?” She pointed to the row of chairs that lined one wall of the mirrored studio. “Let’s begin with you, Siobhan,” she continued. “Siobhan Delahunt has had quite a bit of success in competition, now haven’t you, Siobhan?”

Delahunt, thought Lucy, wondering if Siobhan was related to Deirdre Delahunt, who was the town’s top Realtor and a big advertiser in The Courier.

“I’ve done all right,” said Siobhan, blushing. “I love to dance, but I have to study, too. I’m taking a couple of AP courses and have to get ready for the exams.”

“You’ll do fine,” said Eileen. “You have a four-point-o average, don’t you? And you’re going to Boston College next year.” She turned to Lucy. “Early decision. And she’s already qualified to go on to the oireachtas next month.”

“Congratulations,” said Lucy, who was writing it all down and thinking how much pressure these high school girls had to deal with. Not that Siobhan was showing any signs of strain; she was obviously fit and healthy in her practice leotard, and her freckled complexion was clear, her blue eyes bright, her blond hair neatly confined in a ponytail. The only sign of teen rebellion was a tiny little gold nose stud.

“Thank you,” replied Siobhan, and Lucy was struck by her good manners which she hadn’t expected. Maybe, she thought, she should have been tougher on her own four kids, now grown, and raised her expectations concerning behavior.

“Now I’d like you to meet Brigid Callanan,” said Eileen, breaking into her thoughts. “Brigid is a talented dancer who has great discipline, and she also volunteers at the local food pantry.”

“My mom is a board member,” explained Brigid, who seemed a bit more mature than the others, maybe because she was the tallest. She had perfectly cut long blond hair, pearl studs in her ears and a silver bracelet with a heart charm that Lucy happened to know came from Tiffany’s, having seen it advertised in the New York Times. Her leotard and tights seemed to have come straight from their packages, and her dancing shoes were free of the scuffs and nicks on the other girls’ shoes. Brigid, she guessed, came from a privileged background, and Lucy wondered if she was related to the Dr. Callanan who had a thriving plastic surgery practice in Gilead. She also understood from Eileen’s careful phrasing that Brigid wasn’t as naturally talented a dancer as Siobhan but worked hard to compete successfully.

“And how long have you been step dancing?” asked Lucy.

“Oh, ever since I was four,” she said with a shrug. “We all have.”

The other girls all nodded in agreement, and Lucy was drawn to one girl who stood out from the others with a head of wild, red hair and a huge smile; she seemed to radiate energy.

“They start quite young,” added Eileen. “That’s why I’m so fond of them all. I’ve seen them grow up from adorable little tykes into beautiful and accomplished young ladies. Speaking of accomplished,” she continued, “Erin Casey is quite the artist and made her own costume for competition.”

“Really?” asked Lucy, thinking of the photos in the lobby that showed the dancers togged out in elaborate costumes and hairdos, complete with tiaras. “Those dresses are very complicated, aren’t they?”

“My mom has a business, making the costumes, and she’s taught me. It’s fun designing the patterns. I especially like the Celtic knots,” volunteered Erin, who was the smallest of the four, and the slightest, but also seemed more comfortable about being interviewed. She had dark hair, pulled back into two braids, and revealed uneven teeth when she smiled, which actually added a charming quirkiness to her appearance. Her hazel eyes sparkled with mischief and she spoke right up. “It must be fun being a reporter and interviewing people,” she said, making eye contact with Lucy.

“It is,” admitted Lucy. “I love my job. Are you interested in journalism?”

“I’m not sure. I’m going to the community college next year; I want to help people but I’m not sure exactly how.” She paused. “And I really love designing clothes, too.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” said Lucy. “Good luck.”

“Thank you. I’ll need it,” said Erin, laughing.

“You make your own luck,” advised Eileen, moving on to introduce Kelly Tobin, the redhead who had attracted Lucy’s notice. “Kelly, now,” Eileen continued, in a slightly mocking tone, “doesn’t practice like the others, but manages to captivate the judges nevertheless. I can only dream about what she’d accomplish if she’d work a bit harder.”

Kelly tossed her head and grinned broadly, a gesture that Lucy imagined would win over even the most hardhearted judge, and laughed, untroubled by Eileen’s critique. “I practice when I can,” she insisted, “but I’m busy, busy. I’m on the student council, I’m on the yearbook committee, I’m making a commemorative video for graduation, and I’m a captain of the field hockey team.”

“Wow,” said Lucy, struggling to write it all down. “How do you have time to study?”

Kelly bit her tongue and smiled. “I don’t sleep much.”

“I guess not,” said Lucy. “So tell me about this upcoming competition. A feis. Is that what it’s called?”

“Yes,” said Eileen. “It’s the Gaelic word for festival and it’s quite the affair. It will take place in the Tripletree Hotel in Portland next Saturday. Dancers from much of the state will come to compete and hopefully win a chance to advance to the next level, the oireachtas, which is the regional New England competition. After that are the nationals and a chance to go on to Ireland to compete in the world championships.”

“It’s not just competing, though,” offered Kelly. “There’s things for sale, and it’s very social. We catch up with girls we know from other areas. It’s a hoot.”

The other girls all smiled and nodded enthusiastically in agreement, which gave Lucy an idea. “I’d love to cover it for the paper. Would that be possible?”

“Sure. It’s open to the public, anyone can come,” said Kelly.

“I’ll give you the details,” said Eileen, indicating that the interview was over. Lucy stood up, preparing to leave, when Brigid approached her.

“Can I see the photos?” she asked, somewhat hesitantly. “I know you took some while we were dancing.”

“Sure,” said Lucy, pulling her phone out of her pocket as the girls gathered round. She displayed the photos, pleased to see that she’d caught their energy and enthusiasm. “Okay?” she asked.

“I guess so,” said Brigid, chewing on her lip. Lucy noticed that unlike the other girls, Brigid rarely smiled, and guessed she was self-conscious about the braces on her teeth.

“You look great, Bridge,” offered Kelly.

“I look fat. Look at my thighs,” said Brigid, pointing to a photo in which her skirt had flown up during a kick.

“Not at all,” said Lucy, suspecting that despite her enviable good looks, Brigid was suffering from some body image problems. “I’d kill for beautiful long legs like yours.”

“Time’s flying,” reminded Eileen. “You girls can work on your set pieces while I give Lucy the information about the feis.” She clapped her hands. “Chop, chop.” Out in the lobby, she made a copy of the feis announcement while Lucy zipped and buttoned up, preparing to go outside. “We usually go the night before and stay in the hotel so everyone is fresh and rested,” advised Eileen.

“Thanks,” said Lucy, thinking this might be a good excuse for a little getaway. She could use a break, she thought, picturing herself soaking in a hotel hot tub. Plus, it would give her an opportunity to catch up with her youngest, her daughter Zoe, who had finally flown the nest and was living in Portland.

Ted, however, was quick to bring her back to reality when she pitched the story to him. “I like the story, but I can’t swing the hotel. This new furnace is costing a small fortune; it’s imported from Germany,” he added, rolling his eyes. “Winkle says it’s superefficient and will save money in the long run. If I live that long,” he added, sighing, “or the darn thing doesn’t bankrupt me first.”

Realizing that her dreams of a hot tub were out of the question, she called Zoe and begged a bed for the night. Much to her surprise, Zoe was quick to issue an invitation. “That would be great, Mom. Charlie’s been spending most weekends with his boyfriend, so you can use his room.”

“Are you sure he won’t mind?” asked Lucy, hesitant to invade Charlie’s private space.

“Not at all, Mom, and he’s, well, kind of obsessive-compulsive about cleanliness. You’ll be right at home.”

Now where did that come from? wondered Lucy, who could hardly be considered obsessive about cleanliness. No matter, she thought, quickly accepting the invitation. “I’ll take you out to dinner Friday,” she offered. “You choose the place.”

“Okay, Mom,” trilled Zoe. “See you then.”

So Lucy quit work early on Friday and drove to Portland, where Zoe and Charlie shared an attic apartment on a side street near the medical center. There was plenty of parking since all the neighbors were at work, and after climbing two flights of stairs she found the key Zoe had left for her under the doormat. Stepping inside, she noticed a few recent improvements—an IKEA sofa and a bright new rug—but the retro red leatherette and chrome dinette set the landlord had insisted remain was still in place in the kitchen, cute as ever.

Charlie’s room was every bit as neat and clean as Zoe had promised, and he had even left a welcoming note for her taped to the mirror above his dresser. She set her duffel bag on the bed, went into the bathroom to freshen up, and when she came out, she found Zoe arriving home from work. After hugs and greetings Zoe suggested a nearby brewery and off they went for a girls’ night on the town.

Sitting at a table in the trendy gastro-pub, sipping on a foamy IPA, Lucy asked Zoe how she was getting on with her public relations job for the Sea Dogs Double-A baseball team.

“Fine, Mom. It’s really a lot of fun. The guys are great. . . .”

“Any romance brewing?”

Zoe laughed. “I don’t know. It’s hard to take them seriously. They’re mostly focused on the game, and their chances of making it to the majors.” She paused. “I have been seeing a guy who works for the Herald.”

“Oh no,” moaned Lucy. “Not a newspaper man.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t think it’s serious.” Zoe took a bite of her veggie burger. “You know what’s really weird? Leanne and the gang got all friendly with me when they realized I was working for the team.”

Lucy remembered how hurt Zoe had been when her best college friend, Leanne, backed out of. . .