Coffee Tea or Murder Me

  Coffee, Tea or Murder Me

  Book Three: Persephone Pringle Cozy Mysteries

  Smashwords Edition

  © Patti Larsen 2021

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  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Chapter One

  Mom and Ralph’s cheery duo on speakerphone always made me grin, the sound of someone cutting their lawn in the background reminding me spring was here now that we’d passed into April and another gorgeous Maine summer around the corner, though my mother and her new (well, compared to Dad who she’d been with thirty-seven years before he passed) husband would soon be heading home from their winter in Florida.

  “How are the girls, honey?” My mother’s question caught me a little flat-footed, though it was hardly a surprise she’d ask since it was a standard query from her every time we talked. While not a typical make-you-cookies grandmother, more inclined to learn to sail or bungee jump or take a safari in Africa while roughing it in a tent and carrying her own food and water, Marigold Pringle (now Stoddard) never failed to ask after my daughter and the young woman whose estate they both lived on.

  “Callie and Thalia are fine, Mom,” I said, stroking Belladonna’s soft, white fur when the cat rolled over to allow me the privilege of accessing her belly. She blinked those huge, green eyes at me, giant yawn showing her many pointed teeth and bright pink tongue that matched her triangle nose. Our sessions were over for the day, my adopted friend turned therapy cat (her idea) never failing to bring peace and focus to my clients who adored her more than me, I was sure. I took advantage of that offer from her myself as, not for the first time and certainly not the last, I pondered why my girls—yes, Thalia Vesterville was as much my daughter as my biological kid and had been since they met at age six—had, as yet, to come clean with me and tell me about the real nature of their relationship. Something I’d kept to myself because no way was I outing either of them until they were ready to tell me otherwise. It just made talking with Mom a little uncomfortable. I was excellent at keeping secrets, part of my job. But when my heart was involved, I fought an odd and nagging anxiety I’d accidentally blurt something I wasn’t supposed to at the most inopportune time.

  Therapist, heal thyself of thy fears already.

  “I’m sure they’re having a grand adventure,” Mom gushed.

  “That big old place,” Ralph said, his deeper and lovely tenor joining her more enthusiastic alto. “I’ve always wondered what secrets might be hiding in Vesterville House.”

  Mom giggled, the sound of her smacking him on the shoulder (her favorite expression of adoration he accepted with a smile on his white-bearded face) loud and clear over the phone. “Maybe they’ll let us poke around when we get home.”

  How was it I ended up the most mature of our particular family? No clue.

  “I’m sure you can ask them when you’re back next month,” I said.

  “Such a burden to bear for that poor girl,” Mom said then. “I don’t envy her even a little, Persephone. Thank goodness she has our Callie to help her.”

  Tell me about it, though Thalia Vesterville, orphan and now heiress to the entire Vesterville fortune of old New England money, had shown a surge in her self-growth the last few months since she’d been named the sole inheritor with her grandfather’s passing. I tried not to think about the events that led her to that position or the handsome uncle of hers who was not only far too young for me (sigh, Gaines, yum) but so far out of reach and propriety and every other reason I shouldn’t have been thinking about him including the circumstances of his exit from Wallace. Instead, a soft hum from my phone created the perfect distraction when my alarm went off.

  Just as Mom spoke again. “We’re going to be late for Bingo night,” she said. “Ralph promised me he’d let me have his lucky dabber, so we’d better go. Love you, honey!”

  I didn’t even get to say goodbye, Mom hanging up, Ralph’s voice echoing in the background as the line went dead. The snort that escaped made Belladonna twitch, eyes opening in suspicion, purr softening to a dull murmur. “Bye, Mom,” I said. Rubbed the kitty’s tummy one more time before kissing her forehead. “I’m going out for a bit,” I said. “You have a great sleep.”

  She seemed to realize I was leaving, rolled over and hopped from the kitchen peninsula where I’d answered Mom’s call before strolling to the sofa in the nearby living room and making herself at home on the big, fluffy white pillow Calliope had bought just for her, silver princess crown embroidered on the surface with “Your Highness” printed beneath.

  I could swear the cat knew what it said because she claimed it instantly and no one else was allowed near it. Not spoiled or anything, right?

  I was already at the door, keys in hand, my black leather motorcycle jacket (no, I didn’t ride, I just loved the look) over jeans and a T-shirt my choice for my evening out, when someone rang the bell. Knowing I had little time—the engagement my alarm reminded me of had me tsking at the interruption—I opened the door without checking to see who might be behind it. Which meant, when my gaze settled on my ex-husband, I was positive my reflexive smile faltered enough it hurt him.

  I didn’t mean it. Trent Garret and I might have parted ways—my idea, yes—after twenty-four years together, but I wished him well. The thing was, I knew how much he disapproved of so many things about my life, both pre- and post-divorce, that having interactions with him had that awkward uncomfortableness that sometimes felt like he was a school principal trying to figure out what to do with a carefree and independent teenager more than an ex-husband having an adult conversation with his former wife.

  While I was the adult in my particular unit, Supervisory Special Agent in Charge Trent Garret of the FBI (and whatever other fancy-shmancy titles or accolades or assorted awards he carried around with him like he bore it all in physical weight on his shoulders and face) was the most adulty adult I’d ever met. To the point that I internally flinched from the dour and melancholy expression on his face, the lines on his forehead creased in that perpetual worried look that seemed to carry him through life.

  Now, to be fair, the man chose to keep our family in Wallace through his entire career, opting to travel when needed instead of uprooting us, and still managed to climb the ladder at the Bureau to the point he led a team that hunted some truly horrific people around New England. So, the fact he appeared to bear the full load of humanity’s wretchedness across his average shoulders, the proof of it laced liberally as silver through his dark hair, wasn’t just earned, it was a badge of honor as impressive as the one he wore on his belt under his gun.

  “Hey, Seph,” he said in that middling alto of his, one hand rising and falling. At least he’d taken off his wedding ring finally. That made me happy enough despite the unexpected visit I smiled back and stepped into the entry to allow him to follow. He did, nodding thanks, his handful of inches in height over me almost eliminated by the height of my boots. “Sorry to just barge in like this. I was hoping we could talk.”

  “I’m on my way out,” I said, sudden tension knotting my stomach. Trent never just stopped by to talk. In fact, I hadn’t seen him in months, despite living in the same town, blissfully single and never encountering him regardless of where I went or what I did. More proof, as far as I was concerned, we’
d never really been the kind of couple who would have been friends let alone gotten married if we’d thought the whole thing through.

  She appeared like magic, her white fluffiness winding with delighted aggression between his suited legs, Trent’s eyes narrowing and a giant sneeze escaping. I had to fight off the giggle at his instant allergic reaction to Belladonna while she continued to show him affection he could never return without a giant dose of meds.

  “You got a cat.” He choked, coughed, backed out onto the step again, sneezed violently.

  Whoops and shrug. I shooed her into the house, closing the door behind me. “Yeah.” Didn’t apologize, despite his disapproving look. This was my house. Mine.

  Feeling protective of your freedom for some reason, Persephone Pringle? Might want to work on that. Because how I felt wasn’t going to change his judgment even a little.

  Trent slowly recovered, brushing at the hair clinging to his legs. “It’s about Callie.” What about my kid? Okay, our kid. “But I guess it can wait.” He sounded sad enough I relented, though I refused to continue feeling sorry for him when he was a grown man, after all, and it wasn’t like I’d minced words or left him wondering what I wanted all along. Like the six or seven million times I asked him if he was happy, told him I wasn’t. Only stayed because he said he’d do whatever I wanted to keep us together. Resulting—the therapist in me wailing her warnings for years—in only deeper determination and, ultimately, the end of us.

  I knew many people thought I was selfish and maybe trying too hard with my blonde pixie cut and gleefully acquired tattoo collection and skinny jeans. Surely being this happy on my own meant there was something wrong with me? Not my problem.

  “Why don’t I come by the office tomorrow?” I headed for my SUV, ending the conversation, furious with myself suddenly, with him, too, for being put into the position where I felt like I was the bad person for wanting to live my truth. Clearly, I had a lot of healing left to do if the spiral of thoughts around my ex led me so quickly into a knee-jerk reaction when he hadn’t done a thing really, to trigger it. If anything, Trent was one of the nicest people I’d ever met.

  Which meant, of course, I was the opposite, right?

  Growl.

  He didn’t respond with words, just stood there a moment, that mournful look I wanted to smack from his face placing everything that had ever been wrong with us into my possession like a pile of hot bricks I would never be able to set down before he finally nodded and got back in his sedan, driving away while I stood in my driveway, forcing deep breaths and contemplating my strategy to shed my ex-husband from my psyche forever.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket.

  Great. Not only was I unexpectedly dealing with the emotional turmoil that still surrounded my love life, I was going to be late.

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  Chapter Two

  It wasn’t until I was driving toward Vesterville House I had a horrible, crushing thought, shattering the anger I lingered in while I crossed town to pick up the girls. Trent’s visit—instead of a simple email or text—meant one of two things. Either he was lonely and wanted company or whatever he had to say was important enough it warranted the two of us sitting down to chat.

  Both scenarios involved Calliope, of course. He’d said as much. Since she’d moved into Vesterville House with Thalia, that left my ex-husband to fend for himself. Since he was able to track down and apprehend despicable monsters for a living, you’d think he’d be capable of cooking and cleaning and finding his own socks. Not so much, at least when we were married. And when I’d bought my place and moved out, our daughter confirmed little had changed, except she was then doing for him what I’d been doing for him all along.

  Which meant with both of us gone, he had to be at a loss. Not my problem, but a possible source of angst for him nonetheless that could have driven him to actually come to my house and see me in person.

  Except, as I pulled up the long, tree-shadowed and hedged-in driveway past the stone wall and towering gate that was the entry to Thalia’s family estate, I realized it was much more likely the other Calliope issue in question that had him ringing my doorbell at 6PM on a Thursday night.

  You might think I was jumping to conclusions and perhaps I was. The fact my daughter and her girlfriend (literally, though they hadn’t admitted it out loud yet) were living together and hadn’t, as far as I knew, told anyone about their real feelings for one another, didn’t mean Trent hadn’t noticed. He was, after all, a profiler and incredibly intuitive when he wanted to be. Which was never, with me, though often enough with Calliope when she was growing up she complained about failing to get away with anything.

  So, if he had sorted out their relationship, okay then. Not that it was a problem if he figured it out like I had. Unless.

  Unless he was judging them for it. Then we’d have a problem.

  But surely I was overreacting. I pulled up to the top of the circular drive and parked, waiting for the girls to emerge, scowling out into the early evening spring sunshine like it didn’t exist and could do nothing to warm the coldness engulfing me, my hands clenching on the steering wheel while I fought off the urge to text Trent what I thought of his reaction to our daughter finding love and happiness.

  Saved by the appearance of said daughter and the other young woman in question who bounded out the front doors of Vesterville House, smiling and chattering while holding hands, the sight of tall, elderly Lloyd Mitchem, the family butler, waving at me from just inside before he closed the way behind him.

  I just managed to smother the need to use that same expression on Trent with a firm pillow when Calliope pulled open the front passenger door and hopped in, her round cheeks pink, hazel eyes sparkling, those unruly dark curls of hers so like her father I had to remind myself to breathe. While she had his stocky build and facial features, she had my spirit, thank goodness, and when she leaned in to hug me I returned her embrace with a tight squeeze and whispered, “Love you, kiddo.”

  Thalia, meanwhile, made herself comfortable in the back seat behind Calliope, leaning in herself to kiss my cheek when I released Daughter #1 and offered an awkward hug thanks to the arrangement for Daughter #2. Her own blue eyes had that same glint of happiness, pale skin and long, fine blonde hair such a contrast to Calliope the pair looked like opposites in many ways. But though the Vesterville mistress, at a mere twenty-two, was tall and lean to the point of high-metabolism emaciation to my biological daughter’s 5’2” athletic build, there was something utterly right about the two of them I guessed had a lot to do with the fact they’d been best friends long before this new evolution in their relationship.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said. Almost told them why. Shrugged, smiled. “Hungry?” I didn’t like withholding anything from my daughter, but as I drove off toward town, I reassured myself any conversation I had with Calliope and Thalia about Trent would happen after I spoke to him bluntly and directly about what his problem was.

  Okay, Persephone. Big breath. Because that had to wait, too, until I actually knew what he wanted in the first place.

  Instead of letting it trouble me further, I sank deeper into my seat and let the happy chatter from the girls lighten my mood. They shared their day (Calliope rambling on about things I’d forgotten the moment she stream-of-consciousnessed (no judging, that’s a word now) into the next item while Thalia murmured her input in between her girlfriend’s breaths) while I chose to set aside my fear I’d be murdering my ex-husband for daring to be a jerk about who my daughter chose to love.

  So, not over it then. Awesome.

  By the time we parked across the street from our destination, I’d calmed enough I enjoyed looping my arm through Calliope’s, Thalia on her other side, the three of us joining fellow patrons who’d come to the grand re-opening of our favorite diner. I grinned at the flashing sign overhead, my friend, Ingrid Lowe, going with all layers of blues to complement the new name she’d chosen, sign’s logo repeated in co
lorful relief on the front door as I reached for the handle and pulled open the entry to The Blueberry Grill.

  Instant noise greeted us, though it wasn’t nearly as packed as I’d expected. There was even a booth left in the back which Calliope squealed over and rushed to occupy, sliding across the navy vinyl seat to the window filling the whole front of the diner with the light of the day, golden sunset still an hour or so away, mingling with the retro fixture’s incandescent bulb overhead, the shiny blue table-top lacquered over a sparkly inlay. I waved at Ingrid whose visibly weary face lit up at the sight of me, the short, petite woman hustling toward us in her blue t-shirt and matching apron, pausing a moment to chat with another group before heading our way again.

  The long, narrow diner with its classic counter and bar behind, the kitchen on the other side of the swinging door with its large, round window had the same layout but a brand-new feel from the rather tired and dingy state of affairs that the last owners left it in. Mind you, I hardly blamed Margaret and Martin Offers, since the pair of them opened this place more than fifty years ago, working tirelessly, sometimes just the two of them, to keep the business afloat. They might have failed to upkeep the décor, but they knew how to cook and serve. Which meant Ingrid had big shoes to fill.

  “Seph!” Ingrid landed at last, blowing Callie a kiss, giving Thalia a soft squeeze to her shoulder. “Thank you so much for coming.” It was obvious to me my friend’s state bordered on the frantic, her hands shaking just enough as adrenaline kept her going and likely little else aside from enough caffeine to sink a battleship, knowing her. “What do you think?” Her pause, her tension, the ache in her eyes had me instantly gushing.

  “Gorgeous,” I said, while Calliope sang, “Love it!” and Thalia murmured, “It’s so beautiful, Ingrid.”

  She blew out a loud puff of air, sagging in what looked like relief, leaning in with her voice at a conspiratorial tone I was sure they heard throughout the whole diner. “It’s so hard to know,” she said. “There’s been no time and everything was running behind. Three weeks! I wanted to be open Monday.” There’d been local grumbling about this favorite place closing for renos, but as far as I could tell, it was worth it. “I had to finish the menu on the fly and I can’t reach Martin to get the apple pie recipe he promised me, so I had to start from scratch.” She eye-rolled, her whole being vibrating. “They just had to run off to Mexico, didn’t they?”