Restaurants and Revenge: An Abigail Ritter Mystery, #2

By Sandra Ulbrich Almazan

Abigail and her magical stuffed fox Sherlock are back for another puzzling mystery!

 

As Abigail prepares to open her bubble tea shop, she realizes running a restaurant is harder than she thought. Ben, the owner of the local bookstore and coffee shop, recommends she take a food safety course being taught at Magic Lake College by a restaurant inspector. When a wealthy but annoying restaurant owner also taking the class ends up dead, Ben becomes the prime suspect. Refusing to believe her longtime friend is guilty, Abigail investigates what really happened. But in between dealing with two potential boyfriends, a family feud, and a new tenant with a secret, she has her hands full. Will Abigail's sleuthing pass the final test, or will the killer keep her back forever?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Solar Unicorn Publishing
• Release date: Sep 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781944437145

Sandra Ulbrich Almazan

Sandra Ulbrich Almazan started reading at the age of three and only stops when absolutely required to. Although she hasn’t been writing quite that long, she did compose a very simple play in German during middle school. Her science fiction novella Move Over Ms. L. (an early version of Lyon’s Legacy) earned an Honorable Mention in the 2001 UPC Science Fiction Awards, and her short story “A Reptile at the Reunion” was published in the anthology Firestorm of Dragons. Other published works by Sandra include Twinned Universes, the sequel to Lyon's Legacy; Seasons' Beginnings, Book One of the fantasy Season Avatars series; and several science fiction and fantasy short stories. She is a founding member of Broad Universe, which promotes science fiction, fantasy, and horror written by women. Her undergraduate degree is in molecular biology/English, and she has a Master of Technical and Scientific Communication degree. Her day job is QA Representative for enzyme company; she’s also been a technical writer and a part-time copyeditor for a local newspaper. Some of her other accomplishments are losing on Jeopardy! and taking a stuffed orca to three continents. She lives in the Chicago area with her husband, Eugene; and son, Alex. In her rare moments of free time, she enjoys crocheting, listening to classic rock (particularly the Beatles), and watching improv comedy.  

Book preview

Restaurants and Revenge

An Abigail Ritter Cozy Mystery, Book Two

Sandra Ulbrich Almazan

Solar Unicorn Publishing

Hoffman Estates, IL

Copyright © 2023 by Sandra Ulbrich Almazan

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Sandra Ulbrich Almazan/Solar Unicorn Publishing

www.sandraulbrichalmazan.com

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

Restaurants and Revenge Sandra Ulbrich Almazan.—1st ed.

ISBN 978-1-944437-14-5

CONTENTS

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

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Other Works by the Author

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

Another day, another delectable drink created by Abigail Ritter, owner of the finest restaurant in Magic Lake! I declared to Sherlock. How does that sound?

Sherlock, the crocheted fox I’d found in my grandmother’s apartment, was a stand-in for a camera audience. Someday I planned to post videos online to bring customers to Isabella’s, my bubble tea restaurant named after my late grandmother. Before I felt brave enough to do that, I wanted to gain some experience recording myself. Sherlock, always eager to play with my phone, acted as both cameraman and critic.

Sherlock tapped the phone with a pencil held between his front paws. Could be punchier, he said. How comfortable do you feel about talking and using a knife at the same time?

I looked down at my fingers. I was still experimenting with drink recipes, but I was sure I didn’t want to add a super-personal touch like my own flesh to them.

I’ll take it nice and slow. I smiled for my audience. Today, I’m going to make a Citrus Delight. It’s going to have oranges, lemons, basil, sugar, and a couple of other key ingredients that will make this the most refreshing drink you could have on a hot summer day. So, let’s stir up something special! That was going to be my tag line.

I already had all my tools—measuring cups and spoons, citrus squeezer, and, most importantly, the wooden spoon I’d use for stirring my creation—spread out around my cutting board. The fruit was in a mixing bowl I’d borrowed from my mom’s kitchen. I grabbed an orange and sliced it into quarters. Then I squeezed out the juice. The orange quarters didn’t quite fit into the squeezer, but I managed to get most of the juice into the measuring cup. I grinned. Compared to what I’d seen chefs on TV do, this was easy. I should have left my old job and opened my own restaurant a long time ago.

Sherlock held up a paw. That meant the recording was already at a minute. I couldn’t expect people to watch me all day. I had to hurry this up.

Rather than slice and squeeze each fruit individually, I chopped up the next couple of oranges. As I grabbed the second one, my grip found a soft spot. The sweet scent of orange soured. Sherlock sat up, muzzle in the air. He must have noticed something wasn’t right. I glanced down at the pieces. The insides of the oranges all looked the same. I could stop the recording and try to figure out which section had gone bad, or just keep working and hope it would be diluted out when I added the rest of the ingredients.

It’ll be fine once I add the sugar, I thought as I extracted more juice. It was just a small bad spot. It won’t make the entire drink bad. Besides, the Magic Spoon will fix it. The spoon had been carved from Magic Island wood and was supposed to make my bubble tea shop a success.

I added some lemon juice, fresh chopped basil, sugar, then diluted it with sparkling water and mixed everything with the Magic Spoon. The color was a cheery yellow-orange with green basil bits, though slightly pale. I poured the drink into a glass of ice. All I could smell now was the basil. If I’d gotten the proportions right, the herb should complement the citrus without overpowering it. I took a sip. There was the basil, the lemon, the orange, the sugar—and then a foul aftertaste that made me run to the sink and spit my drink out. I grabbed the sparkling water and chugged it down, but the taste lingered in my mouth.

Sherlock hopped down from the shelf with my phone to the kitchen island. He prodded through the discarded peels and flipped one over. The outer part of the orange was grey-white.

Apparently even the Magic Spoon couldn’t fix a rotten orange. I raced for the bathroom, hoping that getting sick now would keep me from being really sick later.

Running a restaurant isn’t like running a lemonade stand, Abigail. Allen, the owner of Beans and Books, took yet another opportunity to lecture me as I stopped in for my weekly treat. If my budget allowed it, I would come in every afternoon for fresh-brewed coffee and a homemade brownie, scone, or cookie. But I still hadn’t opened my own restaurant, even though I’d run through almost all my cash. Every time I thought I was ready to announce the grand opening, Allen pointed out something else I needed to consider. Hair nets. Pest control. Suppliers for the ingredients, cups, and wide straws I’d need. It was almost enough to make me want to give up my dream and work for someone else. Maybe Allen was doing it on purpose to eliminate a potential business rival. I wasn’t going to let him scare me off that easily.

I know, Allen. I stared at him over my cup. It was hard to stay angry at him when his lattes were so delicious. Don’t worry. I plan to charge more than fifty cents per cup.

I should hope so. It’s not easy to make a profit in the food business—or the book business. He glared as a sneezing Mrs. Feldham left the bookshop/coffeehouse without a single purchase after she’d thumbed through magazines for half an hour. A closure at the wrong time can be fatal. He pulled a brochure out from under the cash register and dropped it next to me on the loveseat. That’s why you should sign up for this Food Safety in Restaurants course next week.

As he tidied up, I skimmed through the brochure. It described a two-day course being taught at Magic Lake College. I was currently living in my old room at my parent’s house, and since my dad still taught at the college, I could ride with him if I wanted to save a few cents of gas. Do you dread seeing the health inspector at your door? the front page of the brochure read. Learn how to prevent closures for code violations and keep customers—and their money—flowing to you!

Snappy copy, I murmured.

Tim does everything himself, Allen said as he refolded the magazines Mrs. Feldham had mangled and reshelved them properly. But he knows his stuff. I take his course every couple of years to keep current, and I’ve never had a problem keeping my food license.

A license? I said. I have to get a license?

You haven’t applied for it yet? Allen gave me a stern look over his glasses. It might have been attractive if he wasn’t at least twenty years older than me and firmly committed to his husband. You’re going to have to apply for a license with the town before you open your restaurant, Abigail. Why don’t you take the course with me? I can talk to Tim and get you a discount.

I flipped to the back of the brochure and gagged at the price. I still had to replace some of the broken tables and chairs and build up my supply inventory. Although my family had gifted me with a couple thousand dollars to open my restaurant, it wouldn’t be enough. I’d have to take out a loan against the building to afford this.

I looked at the remnants of the double chocolate donut on my plate. I didn’t have enough of an appetite to clean up the crumbs. Let me think about it, I said as I brought the plate to the bin for dirty dishes. Maybe some online research would confirm Allen’s advice.

Back at The Grand—the three-story, turn-of-the-twentieth-century building I’d inherited from my grandmother only a few weeks ago—I inspected the seating area of my restaurant. It was starting to look like a place where people could gather. The tabletops and chairs had been sanded and smoothed; I could still smell sawdust, even though I’d swept most of it away. The next step would be to varnish the furnishings and repaint the walls. I wanted purple walls with larger-than-life fruit murals, but custom art was sadly out of budget at the moment. My cousin Brian’s Lego replica of The Grand had been moved to the bay window and roped off. Considering Brian had been performing the building maintenance here for years, as well as living at The Grand, the model was quite detailed. I was happy he finally had a place to show off his creative modeling skills and hoped his work would soon help create a line of customers out the restaurant door.

Next, I walked behind the counter. Brian had finished rewiring this area so I could add blenders and electric kettles. He’d also painted a long rectangle above the counter with chalkboard paint where I could write drink names, descriptions, and prices. I’d already set aside an area to describe the daily special. Dad had cleaned and oiled the antique cash register to make it easier to use. Personally, I would have preferred a modern one, but this was one less item I had to buy. Hopefully, soon I’d be filling the cash drawer like magic.

I used to think the Magic place names in my hometown of Magic Lake, Wisconsin, were nothing more than tourist attractions, like the colorful dragon statues lining the downtown area. Then I found a crocheted fox named Sherlock, who’d been made by the Magic Hook (a crochet hook, not a fishing hook like I’d first thought) decades ago. Not only did Sherlock still look brand new, but he could move and talk on his own. I’d found him in my grandmother’s apartment after she died, and we’d become friends. While I remodeled the restaurant, I left him in Grandma’s apartment. No one in my family, including me, was ready to clean it out yet, but even though the apartment was on the top floor of The Grand, I’d started using it as a hangout—and a place to store my own things. Hopefully Sherlock was busy watching TV and not goofing off on my laptop. I’d had to change my passwords to stop him ordering random things online just for fun.

Finally, I peeked in the kitchen. The sink, refrigerator, and dishwasher gleamed. They weren’t the newest models, but they all still worked. Knives and cutting boards waited to process fruit. Boxes of tea, ranging from black to green to herbal, lined the shelves. Cartons of disposable cups, lids, straws, and drink trays occupied the pantry. The only part of the kitchen I hadn’t obsessed over was the stove. When I’d lived on my own, I’d practically lived on spaghetti, frozen meals, and takeout. Fortunately, I’d found a recipe for tapioca balls that was easy enough for me to make. If I was going to serve anything heartier than a smoothie, I’d have to find a chef. The thought of finding someone I could work with—no, someone I’d have to boss around—made me want to scream.

I was about to leave when I heard a faint rustling from the pantry. I eyed it suspiciously. Sherlock, is that you? He shouldn’t have been able to escape from Grandma’s apartment, let alone sneak downstairs into the kitchen. But he was more resourceful than you’d expect from a fox four inches tall with no toes.

I opened the pantry and noticed a sour odor. Had I overlooked some moldy food when I’d scrubbed it down? I was certain I’d scoured the shelves and floor. But there were little bits of cardboard scattered across the floor, and the carton of drink trays had a hole in it.

I screamed.

CHAPTER TWO

I set a personal record for sprinting up The Grand’s staircase to the third floor, where my grandmother’s apartment was. My hands shook as I tried to fit the key in the lock. What was I supposed to do? I’d never been in this situation before.

I finally opened the door, still panting. A game show host on the TV described the rules of a contest to a group of strangely dressed people. Sherlock sprawled on the recliner, on a pillow four times his size. The remote control lay next to him, along with a pen he could use to push the buttons. If he’d been able to eat, I’m sure he would have had a snack buffet in front of him too. I stared at him in resentment. I couldn’t expect him to paint or clean or handle inventory, but pest control seemed like something he could help me with.

Sherlock’s ears pricked up, but he continued to stare at the screen as if entranced. I walked directly in front of the TV and said, Sherlock, there are mice in the restaurant’s pantry!

Really? He leaned his head to the right, then the left. Do you mind moving? I want to see the silly string battle.

Do you mind? I put my hands on my hips. You’re a fox. You hunt mice.

He let out a high-pitched yip of laughter. Crocheted mice I can hunt, though only if they’re smaller. Real mice would chew me apart, Abigail. You know that.

I stared at the hand-sized creature, then sighed.

Is that all that’s bothering you? He patted the pillow with one of his front paws. Come sit down and watch. I’ve never seen anything like this.

I moved the pillow with him to the armrest, then took over the recliner. It was comfortable enough to make me want to take a nap—if only I wasn’t so worried about the mice. Even the silly string battle didn’t make me smile. What was I supposed to do about the mice, get a cat? I couldn’t have an animal in a restaurant kitchen, could I?

Time to turn to my secret weapon for getting things done: my dad. As the contestants peeled silly string off of themselves, I texted my dad: How do I get rid of mice?

Peanut butter traps, he replied. Works every time.

I grimaced. Do I have to handle the bodies afterward?

Where did you see the mice?

Pantry.

Oh no. Dad inserted a frowny face. Mom just stocked up on groceries too.

She was probably doing that because I’d moved back home. Not at the house. The restaurant.

Oh. You probably don’t want peanut butter traps there. They might bring in more pests.

I pulled Allen’s brochure out of my purse. Hadn’t I seen something in there about pest control? If I took this course, I’d know what to do. I’d learn a lot of other stuff too. But it was so expensive, and I still had more renovations and equipment to get.

I sighed. Allen was right about this not being a lemonade stand. Looked like I’d have to take out a business loan after all.

The next day, I reluctantly dug out one of my suits from my previous job, styled my hair in a bun, and put on enough makeup for me to look my age instead of a teenager. I’d done some research overnight and hastily threw some numbers together to make a business plan. I also brought along my deed to The Grand and, for good luck, Sherlock and the Magic Spoon. Both were hidden at the bottom of my purse, though the Magic Spoon complained much less than Sherlock.

The temperature was in the forties, and the sun shone brightly enough that I decided to walk part of the way to the bank. I parked behind The Grand, patted the purple dragon statue that guarded the corner, and strolled down the main street. The bank was next to the post office and across from the town hall. Next to that was Jude’s Pancake House, Home to the Best Breakfast in the County—at least according to their sign. Even though it was the middle of the week and too early in the season for tourists, the lot was still full. My mouth watered at the smell of maple syrup. My parents never liked it much, but maybe I’d talk them into going there to celebrate the grand opening of my restaurant.

I entered the bank. The only other customer there was a middle-aged white man, maybe late forties or early fifties by the gray in his carefully maintained stubble. He had a big, red nose and a bit of a paunch, but he smirked as if he thought he was as hot as a high school quarterback. I stood behind him, waiting for a teller. He turned and gave me one of those looks, the kind where a guy is trying to decide if you’re hot enough to be worth talking to. I decided he was too creepy for eye contact, so I took my phone out of my purse and checked the weather. We were supposed to get snow again later this evening. Great.

Where are you from, miss?

I checked for any messages from Sam, my cousin and best friend. The salon where she worked was close by. Got any appointments right now? I texted.

I said, where are you from, miss? Red Nose raised his voice and paused after each word.

Here. I kept my gaze glued to my phone.

No, really, where are you from?

I’m half Filipino on my mom’s side, and our extended family are the only Asians in town. If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me what my background was or where I was from, I wouldn’t need a loan.

I said, here. I was born in Magic Lake.

Really? He stepped closer to me. He smelled of cooking grease and cologne, a combination that made me want to gag. A gold Saint Christopher medallion hung from a matching heavy necklace. That’s impossible. I would have remembered a pretty young thing like you. You got any waitressing experience? I can always use another server. You can get big...tips at my pancake houses.

A middle-aged teller in black-rimmed glasses and a polka-dot blouse appeared in the closest window. Mr. Greenman, need more singles?

I’m always single, Linda. Laughing at his own joke, he stepped forward. I breathed a sigh of relief.

A tall, thin man with curly red hair took the window by Linda and said, Next!

This was it. My stomach ached, and my legs felt wobbly. I glanced again at the male teller and realized I knew him from high school. Greg? I didn’t know you worked here! The business plan slipped out of my grip.

I’d heard you were back in town, Abigail, but I didn’t believe you would stay. His long fingers twitched. A pale strip on his left ring finger suggested a wedding band recently removed. I’d skipped my high school reunion last year for a friend’s bachelorette party. I figured I’d rather get drunk with new friends than with old cliques. Add to that the fact that I hadn’t followed many of the people I knew from high school on social media, and that meant I was behind on local gossip. Unfortunately, moving back to Magic Lake put me right in the thick of it again. I squared my shoulders. Might as well use the gossip machine for free publicity.

"Then I guess you didn’t hear I inherited The