Grounds for Murder

By Lena Gregory

From author Lena Gregory comes a tasty new mystery with a killer twist...

Danika Delaney is thrilled to have taken over her uncle Jimmie's old fashioned malt shop on eastern Long Island and is working hard to make it her own. In an effort to increase business, Danika invites a mystery writer to the Coffee & Cream Café for a discussion and book signing. Things seem to be going well, until a guest shows up and confronts the author, accusing him of plagiarizing his work. Embarrassed by the incident, Danika goes to the inn where the writer is staying the following morning, hoping to apologize and offer him another chance to return. What she finds instead is his dead body—beside a cup of poisoned coffee! Now it's up to Danika to find out who wanted to silence the author... before the killer decides to write Danika a not-so-happy ending!

What critics are saying about Lena Gregory:

"Ms. Gregory does an amazing job...her writing style makes every mystery enjoyable."
~Moonlight Rendezvous

"This cozy was fast-paced and I didn’t want to put it down once I started."
~Brooke Blogs

"Author Lena Gregory sure didn’t disappoint. She cooked up tale so tasty I devoured it!"
~Lisa Ks Book Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gemma Halliday Publishing
• Release date: Nov 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215967454

Lena Gregory

Lena Gregory is the author of the Bay Island Psychic Mystery series, which takes place on a small island between the north and south forks of Long Island, New York, and the All-Day Breakfast Café Mystery series, which is set on the outskirts of Florida’s Ocala National Forest.Lena Grew up in a small town on the south shore of eastern Long Island, where she still lives with her husband, three kids, son-in-law, and five dogs, and works full-time as a writer and a freelance editor.

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GROUNDS FOR MURDER

a Coffee & Cream Café Mystery

by

LENA GREGORY

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Copyright © 2023 by Lena Gregory

Cover design by Daniela Colleo

of http://www.StunningBookCovers.com

Published by Gemma Halliday Publishing

http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Greg, Elaina, Steve, Nicky, and Logan,

You are my world. Thank you for believing in me!

Acknowledgements:

This book would not have been possible without the support and encouragement of my husband, Greg. We’ve built a wonderful life together, and I can’t wait to see where our journey will lead next. I’d like to say a big thank you to my children, Elaina, Nicky, and Logan, and to my son-in-law, Steve, for their understanding and help while I spent long nights at the computer. My husband and children are truly the loves of my life.

I also have to thank my best friend, Renee, for all of her support, long conversations and reading many rough drafts. I still wouldn’t know how to use Word without her help. I’d like to thank my sister, Debby, and my Dad, Tony, who are probably my biggest fans and have read every word I’ve ever written. To my agent, Dawn Dowdle, thank you for believing in me and for being there in the middle of the night every time I have a question. Words cannot express my gratitude to Gemma Halliday for giving me this opportunity. And thank you to Gemma and Chris for their wonderful advice and assistance in polishing this manuscript.

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CHAPTER ONE

Have you heard the saying, Anything that can go wrong will? Well, I am the poster child for that expression. Actually, pretty much all of Murphy's general laws apply to me. My mother often joked that instead of Danika Delaney, she should have named me Calamity Jane. Truer words were never spoken.

My current dilemma—rearranging everything I'd just spent two days setting up for Fletcher Stone, the mystery author I'd invited to speak at the Coffee & Cream Café's grand opening. Well, really Franklin Butts, as I'd found out when I wrote the check, but his assistant, Victoria Owens, had insisted (with stars gleaming in her eyes) that his pen name sounded so much more mysterious. I didn't care what he called himself as long as he showed up, spoke about his new bestseller, and signed books for fans. And the less drama he dragged along with him the better. Sad to say, the less drama part was pretty much null and void, considering Victoria had already caused more problems than I'd hoped to deal with.

Are you sure you want to move all the seating arrangements? My sister, Meghan, stared hopefully, pleading with big blue eyes that most often got her what she wanted, that I say no.

Unfortunately, that wasn't an option. Yup. Victoria said she doesn't want Fletcher stuffed in the back corner. She wants him visible to his fans as soon as they enter the café.

My best friend, Gwen Rothberg, pushed up the sleeves of the leopard print stretchy top she'd paired with yellow spandex yoga pants bright enough to blind you if you stared too long and rolled her eyes. But you set it up this way so we could keep the line of people waiting for their books to be signed from blocking the entryway and the counter and register if anyone wants ice cream or coffee.

Yup. A quick glance out the front door showed Victoria hadn't yet returned from whatever errand she'd had to run. Good—I was already up to my eyeballs in Victoria's demands and treading on thin ice with the woman. I didn't need her walking in on Gwen and Meghan's complaints, valid as they might be.

Plus, Meghan argued, we strategically placed the area rugs to cover the holes from where you removed the booths to put in the seating arrangements. If we move the furniture—

Again, Gwen interjected, as if I'd forgotten the past two days we'd spent getting everything set up just perfect. We'll also have to rearrange—

All right! Enough already. I held my hands up to ward off any more badgering. My head was already throbbing. After somewhat reluctantly taking over Jimmie's, my uncle's failing mom-and-pop malt shop in Watchogue (a small town on Eastern Long Island, New York's south shore) at my family's insistence, the last thing I needed was mutiny from the ranks.

It was bad enough I'd had to close down for a week after my ex-boyfriend's ex-wife was murdered in the basement. Now, all I wanted was to convert Jimmie's into a hopefully enticing trendy café and ice cream parlor, which I might just succeed at if Meghan and Gwen would cooperate for a little bit longer. I get it. Believe me, the last thing I want to do right now is rearrange this place again, but we are less than eight hours away from our grand opening, and the contract I signed specifically stated things would be set up to Fletcher Stone's specifications.

Yeah, well, I have yet to see Fletcher Stone, and I don't recall the contract saying anything about Victoria Owens being appointed dictator in charge. Meghan used the back of her wrist to wipe sweat from her forehead.

I started to argue then bit my tongue. Meghan and Gwen had both taken a few days off work to help me get the shop ready since my minimal budget didn't allow for labor costs. In addition to adding traditional tables and chairs, we'd removed the old red vinyl booths and replaced them with cozy seating arrangements. Sofas, loveseats, and armchairs purchased from local flea markets and yard sales surrounded old, scarred coffee tables positioned on clearance sale area rugs (at least until I could afford to replace the black and white checkered tile floor with something warmer, wood maybe). End tables (some homemade) bracketed other, more intimate, groupings. And if there was a coaster or two beneath the crooked legs to keep the tables from wobbling, who'd notice?

I'd arranged everything to my vision of a comfortable place for people to relax and unwind before or after a hard day's work. I'd even talked Harry, Jimmie's only regular customer and my uncle's best friend, into allowing me to recover his stool at the counter along with all the others. Now, instead of red vinyl with bacon-covered duct tape holding the tears together, they boasted a warm brown faux leather.

I sighed. Who knew? Maybe I was out of my mind. Maybe this wouldn't work at all. Maybe I'd watched one too many Friends reruns on late night TV while lying awake contemplating my life choices. Okay, we're not rearranging all the furniture again. We don't have time.

Gwen tucked a few strands of springy pink curls that had escaped her sloppy knot behind her ear and breathed a sigh of relief I chose to ignore.

We'll just switch the big table from the back corner with the two smaller ones by the ice cream cases. Even though I'd strategically positioned the big table for Fletcher to be seated in front of the brick wall that ran the length of one side of the shop. That seemed cozier to me, but what did I know?

Fine, Meghan huffed.

Gwen started to open her mouth then her gaze shifted over my shoulder, and she snapped it closed again, whirled on her heel, and headed toward the back of the shop.

When the front door opened, I didn't have to turn around to know Victoria the Ruthless had returned. She strutted past me, stiletto heels click-clacking against the tile, with a brown deli bag and large to-go coffee clutched in her hand after she'd ignored the pastries and coffee I'd set out for everyone earlier. She paused then turned to me. I thought you'd have this finished by now. I was clear about Fletch's needs, wasn't I?

To enhance the fact that she'd only been gone for fifteen minutes (three of which I'd used up figuring out how to accommodate what she wanted without having to rearrange all the furniture in the shop, the other twelve spent listening to Meghan and Gwen gripe) I glanced pointedly at the wall clock over the front door then returned my gaze to her. A wide range of comments flew through my head at lightning speed, from mildly sarcastic to outright vicious. Thankfully, my clenched teeth kept any from blurting out. Instead, I offered her a smile sweet enough to cause cavities. We're working on it.

Yes, well, work faster. She mimicked my look at the clock, lifted one perfectly sculpted brown brow, then perched on the edge of a chair (since the short, skintight skirt she wore probably didn't allow for actual sitting… or breathing) at the front table, one of the three we were about to move at her insistence. She leaned over her deli bag, ridiculously close to spilling out of her plunging neckline, and pulled out an apple turnover.

Meghan inhaled as if to speak, and I cut whatever she was about to say short with a heel to her instep and guided her toward the back of the shop.

We don't have time for this, I whispered in her ear once I figured we were far enough away from Victoria to be out of earshot.

Meghan just grunted and started yanking chairs out from the large round table in the back corner and setting them out of the way. When she tipped the table onto its side, Gwen and I stepped in to help. Together, we half-rolled, half-shimmied the large round table along the side wall toward the front of the shop. Each time we came to an obstacle—chairs, tables, bookshelves—I hurried around the table to shift it out of the way. I paused for one moment to stretch my aching back, and Meghan shot me a dirty look.

When the bell hanging on the front door clanged, I closed my eyes and sucked in a deep, calming breath then turned to tell whoever it was that we were closed, in case they'd missed both the bold sign on the front of the building proclaiming our grand opening would begin at 8 p.m. and the Closed sign on the door. But my scowl turned to a grin the instant I spotted Uncle Jimmie and Harry.

Hey, how's it goin'? Uncle Jimmie walked in then stopped short and scratched his head. His bushy eyebrows drew together until they reformed into one fat, hairy caterpillar over both eyes. Where ya goin' with that table? Didn't you just move it over there a couple hours ago?

It took everything in me to keep from shooting Victoria an I-told-you-so glare. Why bother? It wasn't worth the wasted energy. Yup, and now we're moving it back.

He just shrugged and shook his head, his jowls flapping like a basset hound who'd just finished lapping up a bowl of water—without the drool. All righty then.

That was the thing about Uncle Jimmie. He seemed to take everything in stride. Good thing, too, or having someone murdered in the basement of the shop he'd spent sixty years building, even if it had been more of a hobby than a profitable business for the past twenty of them, might have pushed him over the edge.

Harry, who'd probably seen eighty long before his nephew, Luca, had cheated on me at prom, covered a laugh with a cough and shifted his gaze. When it landed on Victoria, his eyes bulged out, and he did a double take then gave Uncle Jimmie's arm a backhanded slap.

Uncle Jimmie turned toward him and caught sight of Victoria, then yanked off the soda jerk hat he always insisted on wearing while in the shop and pressed it against his heart. Ma'am.

Victoria (or as I thought of her, the blue-eyed, bleached blonde bimbo) brushed crumbs delicately from her fingers, stood, then clip-clopped over to Harry and Uncle Jimmie and extended a hand, palm down, for each of them to kiss. The smile she aimed at them as she toyed with the ends of the silk scarf she wore like a headband was warm enough to melt all the ice cream in the shop, a far cry from the disapproving glares she usually favored me with.

Being gentlemen of a certain age, they both complied while I made the introductions. Good thing Aunt Helen, or any of the gossip mongers who regularly fed the Watchogue rumor mill, didn't choose that moment to walk in, or we'd have had a repeat of Luca's ex walking in on him and me under similar circumstances. Not that we'd been doing anything wrong, just poor timing and jumping to conclusions on her part.

Since even the thought of that made me squirm, I returned my attention to Uncle Jimmie. What are you doing here? Not that I'm not happy to see you, but I thought you and Harry were going fishing.

Yeah, well, seems a man can't just stand on a dock soaking worms all day long without getting bored. He slapped his cap back on. So, Harry and I figured we'd come on in and see if you needed any last-minute help.

Since Uncle Jimmie had decided to semi-retire when I took over the shop, it seemed he spent more time showing up to help out than he did enjoying his retirement. But I wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Sure. If you want to start moving some of those chairs up here, that would be great.

Uncle Jimmie opened his mouth to say something (and if his frown was any indication, it wasn't something nice) but clamped it shut when the front door opened.

Hello, all. A woman stood in the doorway laden down with duffel bags, a camera with a lens as long as my arm, a tripod, and a beach chair slung over her shoulder. My first thought was some kind of journalist, but her short choppy brown hair screamed I cut it myself, and her eyes, so brown they were nearly black, had that vacant, no-one's home look. Baggy wide-leg jeans, circa nineteen-ninety, rumpled oversized polo shirt (boasting horizontal stripes I'd never dare try wearing), fisherman's hat, and work boots made me think maybe not.

Can I help y—?

What are you doing here? Victoria stepped in front of me and stood toe-to-toe with the newcomer. You know you're not supposed to show up at Fle-uh-Mr. Stone's events.

Uncle Jimmie and Harry stopped in their tracks, lowered the chairs they'd just lifted, and plopped down to enjoy the show.

The woman pushed up black framed glasses with the thickest lenses I'd ever seen, snorted, and stepped around Victoria. She juggled her tripod and extended a hand to me. Hi. I'm Shiloh Erickson, Fletcher Stone's biggest fan and head of his fan club.

His unofficial fan club, Victoria interjected with a sneer.

I took Shiloh's hand. It's nice to meet you, Shiloh, but I'm afraid we're not open yet. As the sign out front says, we won't open until eight.

She huffed and blew her bangs off her face. Well, that just won't do. I need time to set up.

Um. I had no idea how to respond.

Victoria folded her arms beneath her ample chest, creating cleavage to rival the Grand Canyon, and glared. Apparently, she wasn't going to share why Shiloh wasn't supposed to be there. It seemed to me they'd want the president of his fan club, official or otherwise, to participate in the event.

I can let you in a little early to set up, but we're still arranging furniture and moving things around, so… Hopefully, she'd get the hint and go wait somewhere else.

She propped her tripod against the nearest table and pushed up her glasses again. Do you not understand I'm a superfan?

More like super stalker, Victoria muttered.

Gwen and Meghan sat on either side of Uncle Jimmie and Harry. Some help they were.

When I didn't respond quickly enough, she plowed on. I'm just going to set up at the table next to Fletch's so I can take pictures and whatnot for my blog.

Victoria and I stepped forward at the same time, ending up shoulder to shoulder in what could be perceived as a united front.

I'm sorry. I smiled in an attempt to soften the blow. If you'd like to come back around seven thirty, I'll be happy to let you come in and set up. But for now, we're still closed.

She huffed.

Which I took for agreement and hurriedly opened the door and shooed her out.

And don't forget you have to stay at least three tables away to honor the order of protection, Victoria yelled after her.

On that note, I swung the door shut and turned the lock. I whirled around, sagged back against the wall, then found five sets of eyes staring at me. If this was any indication of how my grand opening was fated to go, I should just cut my losses and hightail it back to New York City now. Of course, then my mother would disown me again, and who needed that?

CHAPTER TWO

Once I got everything set to Victoria's specifications, I ushered everyone out of the café and hurried through the kitchen and foyer areas to the back of the shop. Since my barely existent budget had been exhausted in the dining room, the kitchen still looked the same as it had the day Uncle Jimmie had opened (albeit a little more rundown), and the foyer was still a claustrophobic space made of concrete with a set of steps leading to the basement on one side and a flight leading up to my studio apartment flanking the other.

I took the steps two at a time. I had half an hour to get myself presentable, which after the day I'd spent trying to please Victoria while at the same time keeping Gwen and Meghan from taking her out back and tossing her in a dumpster with the rest of the trash, would be no easy task. I might just have to settle for clean and semi-put-together. But at least I no longer had to wait in line for the bathroom since moving into my