Irish coffee murder, p.1
Irish Coffee Murder, page 1
Books by Leslie Meier
MISTLETOE MURDER
TIPPY TOE MURDER
TRICK OR TREAT MURDER
BACK TO SCHOOL MURDER
VALENTINE MURDER
CHRISTMAS COOKIE MURDER
TURKEY DAY MURDER
WEDDING DAY MURDER
BIRTHDAY PARTY MURDER
FATHER’S DAY MURDER
STAR SPANGLED MURDER
NEW YEAR’S EVE MURDER
BAKE SALE MURDER
CANDY CANE MURDER
ST. PATRICK’S DAY MURDER
MOTHER’S DAY MURDER
WICKED WITCH MURDER
GINGERBREAD COOKIE MURDER
ENGLISH TEA MURDER
CHOCOLATE COVERED MURDER
EASTER BUNNY MURDER
CHRISTMAS CAROL MURDER
FRENCH PASTRY MURDER
CANDY CORN MURDER
BRITISH MANOR MURDER
EGGNOG MURDER
TURKEY TROT MURDER
SILVER ANNIVERSARY MURDER
YULE LOG MURDER
HAUNTED HOUSE MURDER
INVITATION ONLY MURDER
CHRISTMAS SWEETS
IRISH PARADE MURDER
EASTER BONNET MURDER
Books by Lee Hollis
Hayley Powell Mysteries
DEATH OF A KITCHEN DIVA
DEATH OF A COUNTRY FRIED REDNECK
DEATH OF A COUPON CLIPPER
DEATH OF A CHOCOHOLIC
DEATH OF A CHRISTMAS CATERER
DEATH OF A CUPCAKE QUEEN
DEATH OF A BACON HEIRESS
DEATH OF A PUMPKIN CARVER
DEATH OF A LOBSTER LOVER
DEATH OF A COOKBOOK AUTHOR
DEATH OF A WEDDING CAKE BAKER
DEATH OF A BLUEBERRY TART
DEATH OF A WICKED WITCH
DEATH OF AN ITALIAN CHEF
DEATH OF AN ICE CREAM SCOOPER
Poppy Harmon Mysteries
POPPY HARMON INVESTIGATES
POPPY HARMON AND THE HUNG JURY
POPPY HARMON AND THE PILLOW TALK KILLER
POPPY HARMON AND THE BACKSTABBING BACHELOR
Maya & Sandra Mysteries
MURDER AT THE PTA
MURDER AT THE BAKE SALE
MURDER ON THE CLASS TRIP
Books by Barbara Ross
Maine Clambake Mysteries
CLAMMED UP
BOILED OVER
MUSSELED OUT
FOGGED INN
ICED UNDER
STOWED AWAY
STEAMED OPEN
SEALED OFF
SHUCKED APART
MUDDLED THROUGH
Jane Darrowfield Mysteries
JANE DARROWFIELD,
PROFESSIONAL BUSYBODY
JANE DARROWFIELD AND THE
MADWOMAN NEXT DOOR
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
IRISH COFFEE MURDER
Leslie Meier
Lee Hollis
Barbara Ross
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2023 by Kensington Publishing Corp. “Irish Coffee Murder” copyright © 2023 by Leslie Meier “Death of an Irish Coffee Drinker” copyright © 2023 by Lee Hollis “Perked Up” copyright © 2023 by Barbara Ross
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
The K and Teapot logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.
Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2022945647
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4029-8
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: February 2023
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4031-1 (ebook)
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
IRISH COFFEE MURDER
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
DEATH OF AN IRISH COFFEE DRINKER
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
PERKED UP
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
RECIPE
IRISH COFFEE MURDER
Leslie Meier
Chapter One
“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 bo
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?”
