Caffeine & Killers (A Roasted Love Cozy Mystery Book 3) Read online

  Caffeine & Killers

  A Roasted Love Cozy Mystery

  by

  Cam Larson

  www.EscapeInk.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.

  Copyright © 2015 EscapeInk.com.

  All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.

  Version 2015.06.15

  Cover by Alchemy Book Covers

  Website: EscapeInk.com

  Facebook: Facebook.com/EscapeInk

  Thank You

  Cam Larson here…

  Thank you for choosing to read A Cup of Murder!

  Wanna be in my private mystery readers group?

  I've got a secret group of readers that I share with. Sometimes, it's a pre-release book or an upcoming cover. Or, they help me choose the next cover or adventure.

  And I ALWAYS let you know when I've put a book on special discount in case you missed it earlier. So if you want to be a part of the group –

  Cam's Mystery Team

  .

  Click Here: http://CamLarson.com

  Join the team by clicking the link above.

  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  Cam Larson's Other Books:

  Roasted Love Cozy Mystery Series!

  A Cup of Murder

  Hot Coffee, Iced Santa

  Coconut Chronicles – Almost Tropical Mystery

  Coconut Chronicles: Burglar

  Coconut Chronicles: Ransom

  Chapter One

  There weren't too many homeless folks living around our little arts community of West River, New York, but we tried our best to take care of those we did have. The one that gradually fell under my care was a young-old man named John.

  Just John.

  But he knew me as Laila Rook, barista at Roasted Love Coffeehouse – a popular spot that was part of the pretty Italian architecture of the Piazza strip, right in the heart of town. As I arrived at 7:50 a.m. for my shift, I saw John waiting for me in his usual spot.

  I was a little early today, and he was sitting on the sidewalk and leaning against the building near our front door. It was a little cool on this April morning and he had his knees drawn up with his thin arms wrapped around them. He looked like someone encased in a cocoon.

  He'd once told me he was thirty-six years old. To me, he looked more like someone in his upper forties or early fifties at least. More than once he had been shooed from that same spot that he'd chosen as his own in front of Roasted Love, but he always returned.

  "Hello, John," I said, pushing open the door. "Come on in. Jacob's got the coffee ready. You can try the first cup of the day."

  John slowly sat up, and grinned at me. "Laila! How are you today?" He got to his feet, moving rather stiffly, and pushed back his long tawny hair from his face. Part of his hair fell down again over one eye, and the rest nearly touched his slim shoulders.

  The one visible eye was deep brown and had a look of kindness and warmth, even though he himself was obviously cold and hungry. I was certain that he still had a good heart, even with his very humble station in life.

  "Aw, I'm fine, John. Just glad to see you." And I meant it. There was always the reality among the homeless that they might simply disappear one day and you'd never know what happened to them, one way or the other.

  He wiped his worn shoes on the mat and followed me through the door while I held it open for him. In a few moments I'd put away my purse, greeted my boss, Jacob Weaver, and poured out some coffee for John.

  He sat down in the corner across from the counter, his usual spot. The regulars left it open for him and most of them spoke to him as if he was an old friend. They would nearly always stop to ask him how he was doing, or slip him a few bills.

  I brought him his coffee, served up in a heavy ceramic mug as was our custom here at Roasted Love. "You’re too good to me," he said, taking the steaming cup in both hands to warm his fingers.

  "You do know I only give you coffee in exchange for your stories, don’t you?" I said. It was true. I loved to hear him talk. His deep voice captivated me. I wasn’t sure how many of his stories were true and how many were not, but that didn’t matter. John gave our little coffeehouse some real spirit when he talked.

  He pushed a dollar bill toward me. I slid it back and handed him a Danish on a small ceramic plate that matched the cup he held in his hands.

  For the next hour or so I took care of the morning rush, making sure everyone who stopped had enough caffeine to get them through their morning work hours. After that, when the customers had gone on to work – or wherever they went when they left Roasted Love – I had the rather boring job of refilling all the sugar containers and salt shakers on all the tables and counters in the place.

  I was ready to be entertained. And John was more than happy to oblige.

  "Did I ever tell you about my college days, Laila?" he asked.

  "Yes, you have," I said, "but I’m sure I haven't heard everything. Tell me: did you go there to study, or to pull pranks?"

  "Well, I'm afraid I didn’t stay long enough to study very much. But there was this one time – "

  "Yes? I'm listening," I said wiping down a table and unscrewing the top of a tall sugar container.

  John cleared his throat. "I streaked through the gymnasium just as the fans came in for a game of basketball."

  I busted out laughing. I couldn't help it.

  "Oh, it was a big deal. The game, I mean. And I wasn't the only one streaking. I had several buddies who joined me on that one."

  "I’m not sure I want the full details on that one," I said, still laughing. For a moment, I forgot that he slept on the streets. "How long did you stay in college?"

  "I lasted two years before I decided it wasn’t for me." He paused for a moment. "You’re wondering why I didn’t stay. I don't exactly know. But I guess I'd probably be in a better place today if I had."

  I shrugged. "I’m not blaming you for anything. College isn’t for everyone. I spent a couple of years there, thinking I’d like to be a doctor. But that was as far as I got."

  I didn’t mention that I'd dropped out for financial reasons. But like me, John didn’t ask questions. I had never pried into his personal life and he didn't ask about mine. I liked our friendship the way it was.

  "You would have made a good doctor," John said. "You're a good listener."

  Then he paused, and turned to a different subject. "You know that councilman who’s trying to get rid of the homeless in town?" he asked. "Councilman Calvin Carpenter."

  I nodded.

  "Well, he thinks we give West River a bad name. He must not have gone through any bad times himself." John drained the last of the coffee from his cup. "Or maybe he’s just forgotten what bad times are like."

  I stepped behind the counter and brought out the pot, and refilled his cup with hot coffee. I remembered seeing that same councilman on TV campaigning, and how he'd compared the homeless to rats taking over the town. How could one human being refer to another as a rat?

  "He should get to know you on
a personal level," I said. "He would see that you're a real person, just like his neighbors or his family. We’re all people."

  "Yes, but not everyone is like you, Laila," said John. "That red hair of yours must be what sends fire through you when you think you have a cause." He laughed, and I joined him. I liked to think my hair was dark auburn but John would always tease me about being the redhead.

  "The ones who rule the town spend most of their time around their shiny oak table making up rules," he went on. "I think Councilman Carpenter gets out in the air just to harass us."

  "You're probably right about that," I said. He brushed his tangled, falling locks away from his face. Good humor sparkled in his eyes, despite his otherwise rough appearance.

  "Where will you go if the councilman gets his way and forces you off the street for good?" I asked.

  John shrugged his thin shoulders. "I don't know. I really don't worry about it."

  "Well, some of us worry about it. Isn't there a shelter anywhere in West River? I'm sorry to say that I don't know what we've got here."

  "There is. But they're far and few and to be honest, they're not that great. Crowded, noisy, you know. It's easier sometimes to just find a place.."

  Then I suddenly had an idea. "Hey – I've got a friend who would know where to get services for you. He – "

  "Oh, you mean that good-looking young paramedic you've been seeing, don't you?" His dark brown eye – the only one I could see under that mop of dirty-blond hair – twinkled as he spoke.

  I could feel my face turning red. "Yes. Daniel Jenkins. I could ask him. Maybe there are other places that will work. I'm sure he'd know where you could go."

  But John only shook his head. "No, thanks. I’ve survived this long. I’ll make it okay."

  All I could do was give him a slight nod. I'd never known anyone who lived on the street before, and I'd always wondered how someone like John could end up like this. He was intelligent and a good person. I wondered where he came from. He'd just sort of appeared one day, as if from nowhere.

  I glanced up as the door opened and two more customers walked in. "Okay, John. Just wait here. I'll be back in a minute," I told him.

  A young couple, new to me, sat down at a table near the wide front window. They ordered cheese scones and two lattes. They were engrossed in their own conversation, so I returned to John.

  His face held a sadness I hadn’t seen there before. "Are you okay, John?" I asked him.

  He hesitated and I could tell he wanted to say something. "I’m all right," he finally said, "but my brother worries me."

  "Oh, you have a brother?" It was the first time I'd heard him mention any family. Surely a family member would take him in! "What's going on with him?"

  John looked down, and shook his head. "He got into drugs several years back. He’s been in and out of rehab more times than I can count."

  "Well, some places can get people back on the right track. But there's no guarantee," I said. "I’m sorry to hear this. Do you see him very much?"

  He shrugged. "Well, yeah, I do get to see him once in a while. I've never touched drugs myself but I’ve seen plenty of it on the streets. I know what it can do to people. It’s almost impossible to get away from the poison. It’s an addiction that keeps pulling the person back down."

  This was the most I'd ever heard John talk about serious things. I offered him more coffee, but he shook his head and smiled at me. It seemed there was more he wanted to say, and I didn't mind. I was a good listener.

  John took a breath. "Steven, my brother, went to prison a bit ago because drugs. He told me he was clean, but when he got busted, I didn't know what to believe. It blew me away, The story was that he was dealing and trying to sell to an undercover cop. He says, of course, that he was framed," he laughed quietly. "I want to believe him, and the more I think about it... I just don't know. But the evidence was there and he was convicted."

  He sighed. "I'm still worried about him. You know, Laila, even in prison a person can get drugs."

  I nodded. "I’ve heard that, but I still find it hard to believe. Is your brother homeless, too?"

  "Well, not right now. He’s still in prison. I – I haven’t exactly been much of an example to my kid brother, I guess. You might say our childhood wasn’t the best."

  All I could do was smile at him in sympathy. He returned to his cheerful self and stood up. "I’ve kept you long enough, Laila. I’ll see you tomorrow. It’s hard to pass up a good cup of hot coffee."

  I stood and watched John as he walked out the door of Roasted Love Coffeehouse and headed back onto the street. The wind picked up as he left and it whipped his long hair and jacket all around him. It made me think of a leaf being carried off by the wind.

  Chapter Two

  After I got off work, I again thought about John. I realized I had no idea how many homeless lived on the streets of West River. They were hidden for the most part and I didn’t know where any of the others were.

  During the time I'd lived here, I had seen one or two like John but only rarely on streets that were familiar to me. The homeless men that I did see, struck me as being on the move – transients, as the police called them. Guys who were always traveling and never stayed long in any one place.

  John, though, had recently begun sleeping between the sidewalk and the building at the front of Roasted Love. He would settle there after dark and stay until the next day, when he was gently told to move on by the cop on the beat.

  There were very few mornings that he didn’t come into our coffee shop. Once he drank the coffee that one of us handed to him, he wasn’t seen for the rest of the day. He always did move on as he was told to do each morning. I knew he didn't want any trouble.

  This evening, though, when I left Roasted Love, the Piazza looked as calm and homeless-free as it normally did. I doubted that many people thought about those who had no home to sleep in. It was both frightening and depressing.

  But as I got in my car and started my drive home, I realized that I needed to change my mood. There was nothing I could do about John. I'd offered to help him find a place to stay and he had refused. He was not a danger to himself or anyone else, so there was no way to force him to go anywhere if he didn't want to.

  My thoughts went back to Daniel Jenkins, the "good-looking young paramedic" I'd been seeing. Daniel was expecting me at his Brownstone this evening, but I was running a little late and he might be getting worried.

  I hit speed dial and Daniel answered on the first ring. "Laila, are you on your way?" he asked. "I sure hope so!"

  I couldn't help grinning at the sound of his voice. It wasn’t hard to envision that tall muscular man as if he were in the car with me. I could see his black hair shining in the light and his eyes, so dark brown they were almost black, bright and cheerful as he gazed at me.

  Then I heard what sounded like plates crashing to the floor. "Hey! Are you throwing our dinner across the room, or what?" I asked him, with a laugh.

  His own happy laugh lifted my spirits even more. "No way. That was a lid. I wanted to do a stir-fry dinner and I'm trying to find the right skillet. You better hurry, though – I need your touch on the salads as soon as you get here."

  "Sure, but I have to take care of Thor first. It may be a half hour or so."

  "Oh, no problems. Just bring your Doberman with you. I still have some of his dog food here. He and Benji can have their dinner together."

  I couldn't help grinning at the thought of my huge, fierce-looking dog playing with fluffy little Benji. "I’ll get Thor out for a run and then head on over. We can walk them both after we eat."

  "Sure thing. See you soon."

  We both hung up, and for the rest of the drive the only thing on my mind was tall, handsome, dark-haired Daniel.

  But Thor bounded to the door the instant he heard me insert the key in the lock, and gave me the kind of sincere welcome home that only a dog can give you.

  After dropping my purse, I took Thor outside and th
rew a ball for him for a few minutes. Then I left him outside and went back inside to change clothes and freshen up.

  "Hey, we’re going out for dinner, Thor," I told him, when I let him back inside. He sniffed his empty dog dish and looked at me with accusation. "Don't worry. You're going to eat with Benji tonight."

  When he saw me reach for his leash, Thor forgot all about food. He leaped in my car and rode happily all the way to Daniel’s building. Once were inside his apartment, Thor and Benji ignored us both and took off for some serious dog play.

  "Mmm, smells wonderful in here," I said. And it did. In the kitchen, I saw a cast iron skillet with olive oil heating in a thin layer across the bottom. Chicken strips rested on a plate nearby. Sliced onions and green peppers sat ready on a separate dish. Containers of salt, black pepper and a little ginger were at hand.

  "Of course it smells great. Would you expect any less?" Daniel tossed a bit of green pepper into the skillet to see if the oil was hot enough – not quite yet, I saw.

  "Of course I wouldn't," I said with a grin. I opened the refrigerator and starting taking out lettuce, cucumbers, and tomatoes for the salad, and noticed some jalapeños on the top shelf. They were sliced on the diagonal into thin pieces.

  "Do you want me to use these for the salad?" I asked him. "I could put them on top."

  He shrugged, still poking at the oil in the skillet. "You’re the salad maker. You have free rein."

  While I looked for a knife and the cutting board, we chatted about our day. Daniel talked about several calls he had, especially one that had involved a child. "I told the little girl how proud I was that she called 911," he said. "Her mother was unresponsive and she knew something was wrong."

  "How old is the little girl?"

  "She told me she was four. Her mother had taught her how to dial the number in case of emergency. The mother is diabetic and had gone into a diabetic coma. One of the local news crews followed us to the house and shot some video as we brought the woman out."