MY FAIR LATTE Read online

  Praise for the Café Cinema Mystery Series

  “Chock full of engaging characters and engrossing plot twists, this buzz-worthy cozy is the reel deal.

  – Kathleen Valenti,

  Agatha-Nominated Author of Protocol

  “Charming doesn’t begin to describe the wonderful debut novel in bestselling author Vickie Fee’s new Café Cinema Series. From its quirky, small town setting to its delightful protagonist and gripping mystery, My Fair Latte is a book worthy of a cozy mystery Oscar!”

  – Ellen Byron,

  Agatha Award-Winning Author of Mardi Gras Murder

  “Love coffee? Love classic films? Love charming small towns, memorable characters, and intriguing mysteries? Then you’ll love My Fair Latte, the first Café Cinema Mystery, by Vickie Fee. She blends humor, suspense, and heart, swirls in a touch of romance, and sprinkles a dash of family drama to create a story as intricate as a cup of latte art.”

  – Alexia Gordon,

  Lefty Award-Winning Author of Murder in G Major

  “An old movie theater, a want-to-go-there tourist town, designer coffee, a plucky heroine, and a murder? Sign me up for Vickie Fee’s My Fair Latte and please send more!”

  – Barbara Ross,

  Author of the Maine Clambake Mysteries

  The Café Cinema Mystery Series

  by Vickie Fee

  MY FAIR LATTE (#1)

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  Copyright

  MY FAIR LATTE

  A Café Cinema Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition | March 2020

  Henery Press, LLC

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2020 by Vickie Fee

  Author photograph by John Fee

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-579-6

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-580-2

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-581-9

  Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-582-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Granddaddy Blair

  who always drank coffee for breakfast, lunch, and dinner

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to Steven at the Delft Bistro for giving me a peek behind the marquee. Thanks to the baristas around town for answering my questions and letting me stare as they work. Thank you to my fab agent, Jessica Faust. Big thanks to the whole Henery Press team—Kendel Lynn, Christina Rogers, Art Molinares, and a special thanks to editor Maria Edwards. For their friendship and advice, thanks to my blog mates at Chicks on the Case—Lisa Mathews, Marla Cooper, Kellye Garrett, Cynthia Kuhn, Leslie Karst, Becky Clark, Kathleen Valenti, and a special thanks to Ellen Byron who was an early reader on this one. And much love to my husband, John, who keeps me going and cheers me across my deadlines.

  CHAPTER 1

  I stepped out of my beat-up Honda and took a good look, scanning from sidewalk to sky. Broken lights circling the marquee, chipping paint on the glass block ticket booth, and a bullet-shaped tower with spire, all hinted at the theater’s former glory. While it may have been a glamorous leading lady in its prime, the Star Movie Palace was now a faded beauty whose slip was showing from beneath its tattered couture.

  Still gazing up, I felt a splat on my shoulder as a pigeon took flight from the roof. I took the unwelcome avian attention as a sign that maybe it was time to take a look inside. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a fast food place napkin leftover from lunch to wipe the pigeon droppings off my shoulder.

  The key the attorney had given me didn’t fit the padlock on the chain threaded through the shooting star door handles. I walked around to the back of the building looking for a way in. At the alley entrance, the key slipped easily into a windowless metal door. I gasped as the heavy door slammed behind me with a jarring thud and left me standing alone in a dark building. The smell of stale popcorn hung in the air. Using the flashlight on my cell phone, I fumbled into the lobby, where sunlight streamed in, revealing that the inside of the building was almost as shabby as the façade.

  “Eeew, what the…” I muttered, my shoe pulling against something sticky.

  Looking up, I spied a door labeled “Projection Room. Do Not Enter.”

  I’ve always wondered what it looks like inside one of those.

  Guided by my dim light I carefully ascended the dark staircase to the projection room. Once inside, I heard unnerving scratching and squeaking noises.

  “It’s only a ghost,” I whispered to myself.

  Not that I believed in ghosts, but I preferred the image of being haunted by a kindly spirit to the thought of being trapped in a dark building with a colony of mice.

  I was standing beside a projector, looking down at the auditorium through the little window when a voice behind me bellowed, “Who are you and how did you get in here?”

  Goose pimples raced up my arms as I spun around to see a shadowy figure in the doorway. It was no kindly spirit. It was a flesh-and-blood man, shining a light much brighter than a cell phone into my face.

  “I’m the owner of this theater,” I said, my voice quavering. I lifted my hand to shade my eyes from the interrogator’s spotlight. “Who are you?”

  “Leon Baxter owned this theater,” the voice continued to bark at me from the shadows.

  “My name is Halley Greer. Uncle Leon left the theater to me. And could you please move that light out of my face.”

  “He never mentioned you to me,” the raspy voice said as he lowered his flashlight a bit.

  “Maybe not, but he mentioned me to his attorney—the one who gave me this key.” I said, holding it up.

  He flipped a switch and an overhead fixture flickered before illuminating the small room.

  Why didn’t I think to try the light switch?

  When I’d recovered my sight from flashlight blindness, I saw a slim, hunch-shouldered man with wiry gray hair who didn’t look nearly as scary as he had sounded from behind the spotlight.

  “I’m George Mayfield. If you’re his niece, why weren’t you at the funeral?”

  “I’m his great-niece, and unfortunately, I didn’t hear about his passing until after the funeral. Uncle Leon and my mother hadn’t kept in touch in recent years.” I didn’t mention that my mother barely communicated with me, much less her late uncle.

  “Is he buried nearby? I’d like to visit his grave.”

  “You can do that tomorrow. I’ll take you, if you like. Have you checked into a hotel?”

  “No. I was planning to stay in the apartment.”

  “Oh. Come on, I’ll take you up.”

  “How did you know I was here?” I asked.

  George flipped on lights as we walked.

  “A neighboring business owner phoned and told me they’d seen someone wandering around the theater. I’ve been
trying to keep an eye on the place since Leon’s passing.”

  We continued down the hallway I’d first come through and up a staircase. The apartment door was unlocked.

  “Is there a key to this?”

  “I’m sure there is…somewhere. But Leon never locked it.”

  “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that.”

  “Of course. I’ll re-key the lock tomorrow and get a key and a spare made for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said doubtfully.

  I had no particular reason to trust this wild-haired stranger, except that he had known my uncle.

  “If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve straightened up a bit. Leon never was much of a housekeeper.” George opened a couple of windows a crack to let some air in.

  A quick glance around the living room-kitchen combo confirmed that Uncle Leon was a slob, and that he most likely didn’t have a female companion who spent time here. Even women who aren’t much for housekeeping would generally draw the line at unsanitary.

  “It’s fine. I’m sure it’s nothing a little soap and water can’t fix.”

  A bit of bleach and air freshener couldn’t hurt either, I thought.

  After a quick look around we returned downstairs and I asked where I should park. George directed me to a reserved spot in the alley. He carried my suitcase up to the apartment, and then offered to buy me dinner. I protested briefly—and only half-heartedly. The thought of letting George pay for dinner hurt my pride a little. But my pride could afford the hit more than my wallet. The lawyer had given me the key and five hundred dollars in expense money to check out my inheritance. I had far less than that in my checking account in Nashville. Not to mention no job, no prospects, and a deadbeat former roommate who skipped out owing me two month’s rent.

  A faded welcome sign proclaimed that the tourist town of Utopia Springs, Arkansas had a population of 2,281. But its outdoor theater productions, concentration of funky art galleries, Victorian bed-and-breakfasts, and the natural beauty of the surrounding Ozarks brought in a half-million visitors a year, according to the sales pitch on the chamber of commerce web site. George played tour guide, pointing out restaurants and other businesses as we strolled down the sidewalk, streaked with late afternoon shadows. And I do mean down. We walked downhill, my calf muscles in braking mode, as a trolley filled with tourists chugged up the steep incline and passed us on the street. The group climbing up the hill toward us was easy enough to peg as a family on vacation. A woman in a straw hat, a man wearing Bermuda shorts and socks with sandals, and a sullen teen dressed all in black trailing behind his parents.

  We passed a souvenir shop with t-shirts; a gift shop called Bell, Bath and Candle, with a display of wind chimes, handmade soaps, and candles in the window; and a bar called the Wooden Nickel Saloon, weaving our way through chattering tourists as they spilled out of shops and trudged past us. Tree-covered mountain peaks soared upward beyond the shops, making it seem the quaint town had been air-lifted in and dropped here.

  We bypassed a diner and a pizza parlor as we made our way to the bottom of the hill, where George made a quick turn and walked through the front door of a small art gallery. The sign on the door read, “Mayfield’s.” Paintings, mostly of downtown Utopia Springs and landscapes of the Ozark Mountains, hung on the walls. Prints and postcards were also on display, along with a case of handmade silver and copper jewelry.

  George locked the front door behind us.

  “I hate it when Trudy leaves the shop wide open and unattended,” he muttered.

  “Is this your gallery, George?”

  “Yep.”

  I followed as he walked into a back studio with clerestory windows. Propped on an easel was a half-finished painting of a chapel in the woods. Through the back door and up an outdoor staircase, he opened a door, unleashing the intoxicating aroma of garlic, onion, and basil.

  “There are fancier places in town to eat, but you won’t find spaghetti any better than Trudy’s.”

  A gray-haired woman, who couldn’t have been more than five feet tall or weighed much more than a hundred pounds, stood at a gas stove with her back to us, steam billowing around her.

  “Have you brought company home for supper again without giving me warning?”

  She turned around and I could tell she was surprised to see me.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t want to impose,” I said, embarrassed.

  “No, no. Come on in and let me see you.” Her kind hazel eyes looked me up and down before a broad smile crept across her face.

  “You’re younger and better looking than the characters George usually drags home for supper.”

  “Trudy, meet, er…sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Halley Greer,” I said, extending my hand to shake hers.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said.

  “She’s Leon’s great-niece and the new owner of the Star Movie Palace.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Trudy exclaimed, clasping her hands. “I didn’t know Leon had family. But I’m glad to know he did. Where are my manners? Please, sit down. Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “That sounds awesome,” I said. George and I sat down while Trudy performed a graceful figure eight move through the compact kitchen, collecting stemware and an open bottle of wine.

  Placemats with a sunflower design adorned each of the four places at the turquoise blue table. After Trudy had poured wine for each of us, she lifted her glass and said, “Here’s to family, and to absent friends.”

  I know a lot more about coffee than wine, but one sip told me this was a quality Chianti, not a cheap eight-dollar bottle, which was what my budget normally allowed.

  “I’m delighted you’re taking over the theater, Halley,” Trudy said.

  “Well, we still have to see about that. But I’m here to check into the possibility.”

  “What do you mean? If Leon left the theater to you, he obviously wanted you to have it. You’re not just going to sell it for a quick buck, are you?” George said, arching his bushy eyebrows, which made him look both fierce and comical at the same time.

  After a stunned moment, I said, “No one was more surprised than me to learn Uncle Leon had left me anything. I hadn’t seen him in…years.” I stopped short of saying how many years.

  “Well, maybe you should’ve—” George started, but Trudy interrupted.

  “George. This is a lot to take in. Inheriting a business, moving to a new city. Naturally, Halley needs time to think things through,” Trudy said as she firmly massaged his shoulder.

  “I s’pose so,” he said, avoiding eye contact with me.

  Part of me wanted to get up and leave. I didn’t need a perfect stranger telling me what to do. But part of me, mostly my stomach, wanted some of that spaghetti.

  Here’s some bread to tide you over,” Trudy said, placing a warm baguette on the table and pouring olive oil onto a plate for dipping. I moistened the edge of my bread in the olive oil and took a bite.

  “Mmmm, this is delicious,” I said with my mouth full.

  “I can’t take credit for making the bread. But we have a wonderful bakery in town, as well as a shop that sells the absolute best olive oils and specialty vinegars.”

  I and my grateful stomach decided to cut George some slack, since he’d been good friends with my uncle and was obviously still grieving.

  “Tell me about the gallery, George. Are all the paintings out front yours?”

  I had spotted his signature on a couple of pieces as we walked through.

  “Yes. I paint and Trudy makes the jewelry. She also teaches a yoga class three times a week.”

  “Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays,” Trudy chimed in. “You’re welcome to join us anytime. Strictly locals. There are pricey yoga classes that cater to tourists at the hotel spa, with lots of incense and flute music.”


  Trudy set down plates of spaghetti smothered with marinara sauce in front of us, before grating fresh parmesan on top and joining us at the table.

  “So, Halley, what kind of work do you do, or were you doing before you came here?” George asked.

  “I’m between gigs at the moment, but I’m a barista by trade.”

  “You mean you worked in a coffee shop?” George said.

  Trudy shot him a sharp look, and by his pained expression I’m guessing she also gave him a swift kick in the shin.

  “I believe baristas are trained experts in coffee, like sommeliers are trained experts in wine. Isn’t that right, Halley?”

  “In theory,” I said, sheepishly. “In college, with a major in International Studies, I spent two semesters in Peru as an intern with a coffee company. I fell in love with everything about the coffee business.”

  I’d also fallen in love with the plantation owner’s son, but didn’t mention it.

  “Dinner was wonderful,” I said after gorging on pasta. “Thank you, Trudy. And thank you, George, for inviting me to enjoy your wife’s cooking.”

  “I never said we were married.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, feeling my face flush.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” Trudy said with a generous laugh as she swatted at George with her napkin. I’ve been shackled in holy wedlock to this old coot for more than twenty years.”

  George gave Trudy a pat on the behind as she stood and started clearing the table.

  “Let me do the dishes, it’s the least I can do,” I said, picking up my plate as I stood.

  “No, ma’am,” she said, confiscating my plate. “You’re company. Besides, I cook and George washes the dishes. That’s our secret to a happy marriage.”

  Watching George slip on an apron made me smile.