A Bean to Die For, page 1
A Bean to Die For
A COFFEE LOVER’S MYSTERY
Tara Lush
To my bestie, Heather. I should’ve listened to you in the beginning when you suggested I write mysteries.
Chapter One
Ever since my mother handed me that first mug of java at the tender age of thirteen, I, Lana Lewis, have measured my life in coffee cups.
My high school days were marked with frothy, sweet drinks. In journalism school at university, I tried to show I was tough by consuming it black. While working at my first newspaper in Miami, I didn’t have time to spare between crime stories, so I downed shots of Cuban coladas that were like thimblefuls of jet fuel.
And now, as a thirty-something divorced woman and the co-owner of Perkatory, the best café on the island of Devil’s Beach, Florida, I drink what my mother did: house blend, a splash of cream, a scant teaspoon of sugar. Simple and classic. I want the richness of the beans to shine, need to savor the aromatics and enjoy the acidity of the coffee—all with a hint of sweetener to make it bloom.
But not today. Today I wasn’t savoring anything. I was hustling out the door with my best friend Erica Penmark while making sure my dog, Stanley, wouldn’t follow us out.
“It’s a shame he can’t come with us.” Erica pushed out a sigh as she slid a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers over her eyes. “I mean, it’s a community garden. What the fluff does Darla think is going to happen if we bring the doggo?”
Darla Ippolito was the elected president of the garden, and as far as I could tell, not a fan of dogs. “She’s worried the dogs will poop everywhere or dig up the plants.” Feeling terrible for my sweet shih tzu, I quickly shut the door and locked it. A whimper from behind the closed door tugged at my heart. I hated leaving him alone.
“We’ll be back soon, buddy. Go play with your tennis ball.”
“You don’t think we should wait for Peter?” Erica leaned against the house and ran a hand through her short, jet-black hair. With her lanky frame, she looked like something out of an ultracool eighties music video. How she’d landed on a tropical island in the Gulf of Mexico as opposed to some fog-shrouded city was still a mystery to me. About a year ago, she sauntered into my family’s coffee shop, looking for a job. Because she was the most talented barista I’d ever met, I hired her—and we became best friends.
“No. Dad’s probably overslept. Or woke up and smoked a joint and is running late. He’ll meet us there.” My father, Peter Lewis, was a well-known hippie around the island and had a Florida medical marijuana license so he could buy legal weed. He claimed it was for his “eye pressures” and “stress,” but I suspected otherwise, because his vision was like a hawk’s, and he was the most laid-back guy I’d ever met.
As if on cue, an older, weathered Prius came chugging up the street, the sound of bass and something else—air horn, I think—barely contained inside the vehicle.
“There he is.” I waved as Dad slowed to a park in front of my house.
Dad killed the engine. The music stopped and silence reigned once again on my beautiful, bungalow and birdsong–filled street.
“Sorry I’m late.” Dad did a little boogie by my manatee-shaped mailbox, then jogged up the walkway. He was wearing cutoff jeans, ratty sneakers, and a neon-green T-shirt that said “CLÜB LÏFE.” I had no idea what that meant, or how to pronounce it, but I suspected it had something to do with his newfound love of electronic dance music. It was a hobby that I’d been trying to ignore because I hated the stuff.
To my knowledge, Dad hadn’t been to any clubs lately. But one never knew with Dad.
I gave my father a quick kiss on his cheek. “Glad you made it. Nice goatee. Goes well with the ponytail.”
“Silver fox.” Erica pretended to shoot him with finger guns, and they both made little pew-pew noises back and forth. Both were ridiculous, and I adored them.
“Hey, did you remember to bring the tools?” Dad asked.
“Got ’em right here.” Erica slapped her duffel bag, the spades and mini shovels clanking.
We were headed to look at the plot and discuss our plan for the coffee crop. I’d gotten the idea that perhaps we could grow local coffee and sell the beans to customers. Although Florida didn’t have a mountainous climate like Jamaica or Guatemala, wild coffee plants did grow here. Those weren’t edible, however, but other varieties were a possibility.
I’d recently read an article about University of Florida researchers saying that because of climate change and temperatures warming, the state could become the next big coffee-growing locale.
My family’s café and Devil’s Beach were in southwest Florida—and we were ready to test the researchers’ theories with some coffee seedlings sprouting in a makeshift mini greenhouse in my backyard. It was the cutest little contraption, one that I’d bought online. It looked like a domed, plastic raincoat for a raised planter, and had zippered access so I could water and tend to the seedlings.
As we walked, Erica and Dad chatted about what they needed for the plot. I strolled a few paces ahead so I could check my texts. It was a Sunday, and my boyfriend, Noah Garcia, had a long-standing brunch date with friends from college. It was my day off from the café, and the one day that both Noah’s schedule and mine didn’t mesh.
I hate not seeing you in the morning at Perkatory, he messaged. Ruins my entire day.
This made me smile. Something had blossomed, and it wasn’t only the seedlings I was about to plant in the community garden. This week was a monumental milestone in my relationship with Noah.
I was meeting his mother in six days.
Ileana Garcia was scheduled to arrive on the island Saturday morning and would stay through Monday. Not only that, but I was cooking dinner for her, Noah, and Dad at my house. I had to contend with impressing Mrs. Garcia with my culinary skills, but also had to navigate conversation between my father, an avowed peacenik, and Mrs. Garcia, whose late husband was a Tampa police captain.
Noah was the chief of police here on Devil’s Beach, and while he and Dad got along, Dad also was trying to talk Noah into retiring and embarking on a new career in hopes of getting him out of law enforcement. He not-so-privately thought Noah shouldn’t “work for the man.” I had mixed feelings about that, and generally felt that Noah should follow his heart.
Dad thought Noah would be happier in a lower stress job.
I secretly agreed with him on that point but hadn’t told Noah this. His career was his business, and who was I to butt into something he’d done for decades? After all, Noah was nothing but encouraging to me when it came to Perkatory.
“Hey, guys?” I looked up from my phone and twirled around to face Erica and Dad. I bounced a little as I walked backwards for a few steps. “What do you think of lasagna for Saturday night?”
We all fell into step together on the sidewalk. Erica screwed up her face. “That’s labor intensive. Do you want to be sweating in the kitchen all day? I’d help, but I agreed to work the booth at the Funnel Cake Festival.”
“Good points,” I grumbled, wondering whether Noah’s mom was planning to visit the festival, which was famous statewide because, well, who didn’t love fried dough covered in sugar?
“I love a good lasagna. And you’ve made showstopper lasagna before.” Dad offered.
This was true. I had made an incredible, six-layer version last month, and both Noah and Dad had raved about it. “I still haven’t figured out the menu, and I’m starting to worry. I want everything to be perfect. I’m thinking tiramisu soaked in Perkatory house blend espresso, so we could do the Italian theme for every course.”
“You’ve got plenty of time. Six whole days,” Dad pointed out.
“Why not get something catered from Joey’s?” Erica asked. Her boyfriend Joey Rizzo owned the Square Grouper, a popular restaurant in town. “He’s making a ton of stuff to sell at the festival. I’m sure we can set aside some trays for you. How about funnel cake topped with strawberries and whipped cream for dessert?”
“Lana hates strawberries.” Dad shook his head in mock sadness, as if I’d disappointed him deeply.
“I need to wow Mrs. Garcia. Who, apparently, makes the best arroz con pollo this side of Havana.” In truth, I was a little intimidated at the prospect of meeting her. A couple of weeks ago, Noah had visited her in Tampa and returned with a dozen homemade guava pastries. Called pastelitos, they were so flaky, buttery, and sweet that I was convinced my cooking skills were subpar in comparison.
“Maybe I need to do something more local? Fresh-caught, pan-seared grouper and key lime pie for dessert?”
“You’re really stressing this. Look at you, little miss housewife. Next thing you know, Noah will have you barefoot and pregnant,” Erica teased.
A snort erupted from my nose. “Hardly. One can be a feminist and love the domestic arts, missy. And Stanley’s the only baby in this family.”
“You’ll figure it out, munchkin. Listen, I need to go over a few details about the garden plot before we arrive.” Dad’s voice took on a serious tone.
Laughter bubbled out of Erica’s mouth. “You say this like we’re being inducted into a secret society.”
“Peas on Earth is no joke, kiddo. It’s a serious, nonprofit business, and those of us lucky enough to get plots don’t mess around.”
That was the name of the community garden. Peas on Earth. Like many community touchstones around Devil’s Beach, it was founded by a group of hippies who settled here back in the 1970s and ’80s, back when it was a remote spit of land in the Gul
Mom, who passed going on four years ago, would be appalled at how upscale the place had gotten—but she would’ve adored selling coffee to the hordes of tourists coming into Perkatory, that’s for sure.
“We wouldn’t dream of making fun of such a weighty matter, Dad.” I stifled a snicker. “For a bunch of nonconformists, this garden sure has a lot of rules. I was looking at the rulebook the other day. It’s a fifty-page PDF.”
“It didn’t used to be like that. The garden used to be much more free-form. Casual. Your mother used to run a meditation session there during wildflower season. But none of that happens these days because Darla’s really laid down the law. You definitely don’t want to cross her.”
Chapter Two
Darla Ippolito was a newer Devil’s Beach resident, a few years older than me. According to what she’d said one day while getting coffee, she moved here about three years ago from somewhere up north, while I was working at the paper in Miami. When I was laid off and returned to run Perkatory, my family’s coffee shop, I got to know Darla as one of the many regulars who adored our coffee, and we’d become friendly acquaintances.
She worked retail, like so many of us on the island. She was a manager at a popular saltwater taffy joint a few blocks from Perkatory. Ye Olde Taffy Towne was in a small pink building, and it was a must-see on the tourist circuit of the island, along with the sugar-sand beaches and the plethora of tiki bars. Everyone raved about the taffy, and Darla received plenty of satisfied reviews online for her attention to detail with the candy.
I couldn’t stand the stuff, but she was always giving me free samples. Good thing Noah liked it, although sometimes he begged me to hand it off to someone else, because he couldn’t stop stuffing his face.
Darla was also, apparently, the supreme ruler of Peas on Earth. As annoyed as I was about Stanley not being able to come with us, I understood. Working behind the counter at Perkatory had given me a new appreciation of rules. More than anyone, I knew that if you let the public do whatever they wanted, chances were they’d probably muck it up somehow. And I only witnessed the situations involving drink stirrers, sugar, and milk; I couldn’t imagine how people would bend the rules with metal gardening tools.
Homicide would ensue, most likely.
“How did Darla lay down the law?” I asked Dad.
“Well, you know about the no-dog edict.”
“Which I think is absolute rubbish,” Erica interjected.
“So does Stanley, and so do I.”
Dad ignored both of us. “We can only use organic fertilizing methods. No planting in buckets or pots. Oh, and if you create nonorganic waste, pack it out. Darla’s worried about the critters.”
Erica arched an eyebrow. “Critters?”
“Raccoons, possums, squirrels.” Dad shook his head. “Now there are the giant lizards to contend with too.”
Erica visibly blanched and shuddered. “Please don’t say that word. I cannot even.”
The biggest news on the island recently was that a father of four had spotted a three-foot-long lizard scaling his window screen. The man had done what any self-respecting Floridian would do in that situation: filmed it for social media.
The video showed him banging on pots and pans. It scurried off, and wildlife officials feared it was a monitor lizard, a non-native species that could lay waste to the lush green foliage that blanketed the island.
The video went viral and the lizard was still on the run. Locals had dubbed it “Larry.” The residents of Devil’s Beach took their giant prehistoric critters in stride.
“Yeah, let’s not scare Erica away. We need to keep her around.” Although she seemed fearless, reptiles were my best friend’s weak spot. Even the mere mention of a cold-blooded, scaly-skinned creature was enough to make her gag. I’d seen her knees buckle at a mere glance at a snake.
Dad nodded. “Okay, back to the dos and don’ts of the garden. Don’t plant beyond your plot’s boundaries. Use non-GMO seeds. And whatever you do, don’t ever fail to put away the hoses when you water. That’s a major infraction, not putting the hose away.”
“How many major infractions before you get booted? I’m not great with rules,” Erica said.
“Hoses, two strikes and you’re gone. If you’re caught smoking, you’re booted immediately. So don’t toke up.” He stared at Erica. “Take an edible instead. And if you use nonorganic fertilizing methods, you will be publicly shamed on the garden message board and thrown out.”
Yikes. I didn’t smoke weed or take edibles, and I certainly didn’t want to be publicly shamed. Maybe I was in over my head. “Harsh. I’m shocked you were able to pull strings to get us in here.”
“Well, there were a few factors that contributed to you getting a plot. Mostly it’s because I’ve been giving Darla some of my mint crop. She’s fond of her mojitos.” Dad looked at me over his glasses, as if I was supposed to infer something important in his statement. “She likes you a lot, too, Lana. That helped.”
“My charming personality wins again,” I quipped.
“Hey, I know a weird detail about Darla,” Erica piped up.
“She likes saltwater taffy?” I countered.
“You’re weird for not liking that,” Dad said, and I made a face at him.
“Darla remembers things mne … mene … mnemonically. I can barely pronounce it.”
“Huh?” I often marveled at what Erica knew about people. She often wrangled the strangest details out of our customers. I considered it a superpower.
“She uses acronyms to recall things. She said she taught herself how to do that while in jail.”
“Oh, I know about this. I saw a documentary on it. A lot of doctors use it to remember details in medical school.” Dad gestured with his hands excitedly. “SCUBA is one. Do you know what that means?”
“No,” Erica and I said at the same time.
“Self-Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus. Isn’t that interesting?”
“Wait, why are we glossing over the fact that Darla was in jail? I didn’t know that. What for?” I asked.
Erica shrugged. “Dunno. Didn’t ask.”
Only a non-journalist wouldn’t think to ask the crucial details. “It is interesting that she uses acronyms to remember things. And it’s fascinating that Darla’s brain works like that. It’s so foreign to me. I think in images.” Whenever I’d written a news story for the paper, I’d have to visualize everything in my mind before, and during, the writing process. Like a movie. I recalled details better with visuals and couldn’t imagine trying to come up with an acronym to help with my memory.
“Anyway, Dad, what are you planning on doing with all that mint, anyway?”
He’d been growing a giant crop of mint for a while now. It started a few months ago, and what I thought was a mere hobby had turned into something closer to an obsession.
Dad stopped walking, which meant Erica and I did as well. He made a sweeping arc gesture with his hand in the air. “Paradise Perk Pops.”
Nodding, Erica repeated his words.
“And those are?” I asked.
“I haven’t wanted to tell you until they’re perfected, but it’s time, because I’m close. I’ve been tinkering with a mint and coffee–flavored popsicle. Kind of like a mint mocha popsicle. Or, to put it in a different way, an iced mint mocha drink in popsicle form. Perfect for the long, hot Florida summers. I’m thinking of going statewide, then national. Maybe even global.”
Sometimes Dad’s tastes ran toward the unusual, and his dreams were just that—fantasies. This, however, was intriguing. It also sounded hella tasty. “You’re planning on selling these at Perkatory?”
We all continued trooping down the street. Dad nodded. “First a small freezer for the café. Then I was thinking of a popsicle cart with an umbrella. Maybe a boom box, so I can play some tunes while selling Paradise Perk Pops by the beach. I’m working on a logo now. Thinking about a palm tree and a popsicle, but so far, the popsicle looks like a rocket ship, or something more salacious. It’s all wrong.”
