A Frosty Mug of Murder Read online

  A Frosty Mug of Murder

  by

  Constance Barker

  Copyright 2018 Constance Barker

  All rights reserved.

  Similarities to real people, places or events are purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

  Catalog of Books

  Chapter One

  “I’ll be there in just a sec.” I had to yell so she could hear me all the way downstairs. It was only quarter past ten and I could hear Dixie was early for work. My father and I live above the town pub and I was ready to get to work anyway. After taking one last sip of my coffee, I tied my wavy, red hair up into a pony tail, and left to join her. She greeted me when I was half way down the stairs.

  “Ginger, look at this! This is plain weird now!” Dixie blew past Good Morning I guess to get to the complaining. Not really unusual for her. But she had a point. I could see the pickled egg jar was once again smashed on the floor behind the bar.

  “Son of a ... I took it off the counter last night and put it in the condiments cabinet. Behind closed doors!” I knew I did. My theory was that one of Donna’s many cats was sneaking into the bar at night and knocking the big, lidded jar over. But a cat would not be able to get into that cabinet.

  Dixie hovered her hands over the large pool of juice, sprinkled with broken glass and pickled eggs, to emphasize the size of the puddle. “Well it did. It fell over, knocked the cabinet door open, and crashed on the floor. Look at this mess. It even got under the wet sink. I don’t like having my bar area trashed.”

  It always made a mess and smelled awful. This was getting out of hand and the eight broken jars cost me a fortune. Not only did I have to replace the jar, all the pickled eggs needed to be restocked too. Running a pub is hard work and making a profit is almost impossible. I know when something is costing us too much. And the broken pickled egg jars were burning money. “You know what Dixie, I’m not replacing it this time.”

  “Come on, Ginger. Guardrail is going to be upset if you don’t restock his favorite. He loves those pickled eggs. And he’s one of your best customers.”

  “Dixie, are you sweet on that big lug?” She tended bar here for thirty years, so I know her well. She’s not afraid to tell it like it is and rarely shows sympathy or concern, especially when she is on her hands and knees in pickle juice and broken glass.

  Dixie snorted. “You can’t be serious! No! He tips real good, especially when he drinks a little. And he drinks more when he is eating these nasty eggs.”

  I eyed her sideways, knowing better. I could swear she actually blushed a little but it was hard to see her clearly behind the bar.

  Guardrail’s real name was Brian, but no one called him that, and he runs a motorcycle shop not far from my pub. To look at him, he is a big, Harley riding brute. But looks can be deceiving and I know that he would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it. I’m not certain, but I think he may have even done Dixie a favor or two over the years.

  “Hang on. I’ll give you a hand. Let me get the grill on to heat up for the lunch crowd and get an apron.” I grabbed a dirty apron, because I learned from the past seven times it was impossible to clean up this mess and not get pickle juice all over you.

  Dixie threw the over soaked rag down on the ground in disgust. “Thanks, but I got it. You get the kitchen going. I know we got lunch to take care of, and after that, the food for Stitch N Bitch night needs to be prepared. And by the way, Bones isn’t here yet.”

  Carl and Bessie Houston owned Sew Fabric, the local yarn and fabric store. Every Tuesday night they sponsored a get together at The Grumpy Chicken for people to share sewing, knitting, crocheting, and any other crafting tips. There was no real sales pitch, but Carl and Bessie sometimes used the occasion to push projects centered around some new product they now carried. Bless their souls, they tried hard to make make it a party like atmosphere, but it always turned into more of a session for locals to complain and spread gossip. Juicy tidbits were traded far more than sewing tips, so Dixie and I called it Stitch N Bitch instead of Tuesday night.

  This may be a good time to mention that The Grumpy Chicken is an Irish pub in Potter’s Mill, Georgia, about forty-five minutes from Savannah. It’s a small town, and as cliche as it is, we just had our first traffic light installed. And I’m not kidding, but no one here seems to know how to use it right, or maybe they all just ignore it. Like I said, we are a tiny spot on the map.

  Gossip is a big deal in a small place like ours, so Stitch N Bitch is a not-to-miss event and normally well attended. It’s good for my business and we sell a fair amount of drinks and food. Tonight, we’re doing Buffalo wings and prepping enough chicken ahead of time for thirty or so people is a ton of work. But first, we have to get through the lunch rush.

  In a lick, customers were ordering sandwiches and drinks, and the early lunch rush was on. However, Bones, our busboy, who also helps with the cooking, was still missing. His real name is Jeff Lewis, and like most nineteen year old boys, he has a lot to learn about life. He is decent looking and tall, but skinny. And I mean thin, thinner than a sheet of phyllo dough. That’s how he got his nickname, all bones and no meat.

  Finally, just before noon when I had started half of the lunch orders on the grill, he tried slinking into the kitchen. I stopped him short. “Bones! Where have you been, we got lunch to serve and after that we need to rearrange the dining room. And the food order for Stitch N Bitch has to be prepped. Especially all the wings.”

  Bones replied in a soft voice. “I had to move again. My room mate threw me out.”

  “You mean your girl friend of the week? Well that’s not news, and not my problem, I need you here on time.”

  “I’m sorry Boss. I won't be late again.” Bones hung his head as he talked. He liked this job and wanted to keep it. Why, I’m not sure. He seemed nonchalant about his work at times, but was good at it when he focused. He sheepishly added, “I’ll make it up to ya, Boss, promise.”

  “Well, get your apron on and get started. Hit the grill, I’ll get the tables.”

  With my full team present, we easily handled the early lunch crowd, even after starting our day with a pickled egg disaster and Bones showing up late.

  I tended to a table occupied by Piper and Ida. “How was everything today?”

  “Fine, despite having an amateur like you cook my chicken breast.” Piper knew I was on the grill till Bones showed. I was best friends with Piper Freeman in high school. But she left town for college after we graduated. And after college she took a journalist’s job at a big paper in Atlanta, so she was gone for a few years. Eventually, she got fed up with the big city and office politics and returned to Potter’s Mill. I’m glad to have her back and we are best friends again. By the way, she now owns and prints her own paper
, The Potter’s Mill Oracle. Not sure what oracle we have here, I think Piper just fixates on some words and has to use them.

  I folded my arms. “Thanks, I think. I know how to use a grill, ya know.”

  “Oh, I’m just having fun with you. Lighten up. Hey Ginger, Dixie told me you had another egg jar broken last night.” Piper used her napkin to wipe some Dijon mustard from the grilled chicken sandwich off her lips while she spoke.

  “Yeah, that makes eight pickled egg jars killed in the line of duty at The Grumpy Chicken.” I held up eight fingers to emphasize the number.

  “You should have a wall of stars to commemorate them.” Piper laughed at her own joke. “Hey, y’all think it’s that chicken ghost thing that haunts this place. Has to be.”

  I snapped back, “No! It’s one of Donna Holland’s cats. She has so many of them and they’re always getting into something. Let’s not exaggerate.”

  Ida broke her silence. “I don’t know. I’ve heard a lot of stories about the ghoulish hen clucking and making noises in here at night. And don’t forget, the bird that haunts this place gave it the name Grumpy Chicken.”

  “Stop Ida! We don’t need you whipping up people to tell more false stories. Me and Dad argue all the time about whether that naming story is actually true.” But I knew Ida was right. This pub has been in my family for one hundred and fifty years and it was originally named after a chicken that supposedly haunts the place. The Grumpy Chicken has been handed down through generations, along with the name and the ghost stories. I tried to downplay the ghost stories, they spooked some of our regulars and I was afraid it could hurt business.

  My father, Tom O’Mallory, now owns the place, but I’m the one who has to run the daily business. My dad is out of town now, getting some much needed medical attention for a cough he can’t seem to shake. So lucky me, I’m alone and running everything right now.

  Digger, the local grave-digger, came through the front door and headed for the bar.

  Dixie greeted him. “You here for the remains of jar number eight? It died a horrible death last night and it is not a pretty thing to see.”

  Digger sighed in response, smiled, and then leaned on the bar. “Ha, Ha, Ha, Dixie. You might try teasing me with something a little different than grave-digger humor. Is my take out order ready?” He scanned the counter in back of Dixie. “Wait, the jar is really gone, so it took a dive last night?”

  Dixie chuckled. “Yep. Right in the middle of bar floor. Splat. I spent my first hour here this morning cleaning it up.”

  “Dang, that chicken really is grumpy. I can see where it would hate having pickled eggs around, though. Ya know, being a chicken and all.”

  Dixie tilted her head back. “That’s kind of obvious too, Einstein. Tell ya what, you get more original with your jokes, and so will I.”

  “Deal! I’ll work on writing new jokes if you do. Ya know, this jar thing is getting to the point I think we should start a pool. One of those guess how long the next jar ... ”

  Dixie interrupted. “No can do. Ginger says she’s not replacing it.”

  Digger snorted. “Who’s going to tell Guardrail.”

  Back at the table I was tending, Ida popped up in her seat. “Hey, Ginger, I got an idea. You’re so low tech here, lets bring you into the twenty-first century. I can set up a web cam, record the egg jar overnight and see if you’re right about a cat knocking it over.” Ida Bell was smart. She could do anything with a computer, and it was a miracle she never got into trouble because if she wanted something, she wasn’t afraid to do a little hacking to get it.

  “It’s a pub Ida, we serve drinks and food, not electronics. But ya know what, let’s do it. I am going to show y’all, it’s those pesky cats. By the way, it won't cost me anything, right?” I was a little too sure of myself about the cats, but hey, I knew I was right.

  “No, silly. I’m your friend and want to help! It won't cost you a penny.” Ida seemed too sweet today. She could be a pill at times, well actually most of the time. What was she up to?

  And as if on cue, a black cat wandered through the dining area. I knew the cat. It was Gypsy, and you may have guessed, it belonged to Donna. This particular cat could be a little mean and didn’t like people. Except for one. For some reason the animal seemed to tolerate me.

  “See, I wouldn’t be surprised to see it was Gypsy here that’s knocking over stuff.” I picked up the cat and could feel it purring.

  Dixie chimed in from behind the bar. “You need to get that cat out of here. An inspector won't like seeing an animal in here.”

  She was right. But we still had to finish lunch and get ready for Stitch N Bitch. “I can’t leave, we have too much to do.”

  “Oh no, that cat won't let anyone else touch it. You bring it back to Donna’s place, and come right on back. It’s not far and won't take long. I’ll hold down things just fine while you’re gone.” Dixie believed in some of the ghost stories, I knew, and I realized she perceived a black cat in the pub as bad luck. She wanted the feline gone, now.

  “Bones, help Dixie close out lunch and get set for tonight. I need to bring one of Donna’s nomads home.” I usually didn’t yell through the service window, but I wasn’t going to carry the cat into the kitchen.

  “What’s a nomad? Shoot, you’re leaving because you’re still mad at me for being late, aren’t ya Boss?” Bones flipped a few burgers and dropped some more fries into hot oil while he spoke. I have to admit, he could work when he wanted to.

  I added, “No. Don’t be so sensitive, or we’ll have to change your name to Baby.”

  “That might be confusing, Boss, that’s what I call my girlfriends. We can’t both be called Baby.” I saw him smiling at me through the order window.

  I smacked my forehead. “I can’t believe I am having this conversation! I’m taking the cat home. See y'all. Will be right back.”

  I was actually grateful to Gypsy for getting me outside in some fresh air. Bones had the grill under control, and while Dixie usually tended bar, she could wait and bus tables too when she had to. The pub would be just fine for a few minutes without me.

  I made it to Donna Holland’s house fast enough. It's located about four blocks from The Grumpy Chicken and hard to miss. The Holland's own an old home, and by far it’s the largest house in Potter's Mill. Donna had a number of additions made to the place, and it is hard to describe. Well it was plain weird, there I said it. But even with the bizarre add-ons, the original large round tower, steep roofs, and slate shingles still dominate the front facade enough to let you know this was originally a Victorian by design.

  The place is well kept, even with all the cats. At least a dozen ran off as I carried Gypsy up the front walk, but they moved too fast for me to identify them all. However, I did spot Snowball run across the lawn and Harry Potter jumped up and ran off when I turned up the front walk. I wasn’t sure if Harry ran from me or Gypsy. Tigger and Stewy were more brave, staying in their prized spots on the porch rail. I didn’t really know these two cats, so I just called them what seemed to make sense.

  I slowly climbed the porch stairs making my way to the front door. I don’t know why, but the big round tower on one corner of the structure and the large, dark front door made the house look like the bad place in a horror movie. And I was carrying a black cat, what was I doing? I briefly thought about dropping the cat and running off. For some reason I felt apprehensive. But I forced myself to stop being silly and approached the front door. Thank goodness it was light out.

  I used the fancy knocker to announce my presence at the front door. I didn’t want to break the pretty brass striker, so I gently tapped – clank, clank. But no one responded. I then banged on the door a little harder with my hand, causing the door to crack open slightly. I stuck my head in for a quick peek. “Hello. Anyone home?” Then I saw it, and unfortunately someone was home, lying strangely still on the floor. All I could see was the lower half of a single leg. The leg was nicely dressed in a lace stocking with
a high-heeled shoe laying on its side next to the foot. I instantly knew this was going to be a strange day indeed.

  Chapter Two

  I opened the door slowly and pushed into the entrance, just a little. Then I saw Donna Holland lying on her back, hands at her neck and eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling. Her legs were bent at odd angles and both of her high-heeled shoes sat nearby, apparently falling off during a scuffle. She looked dead. One of her cats didn’t seem to notice the horrific scene and sniffed an empty shoe lying on its side, then navigated around the still body and sauntered out of the room.

  I moved toward her, slowly, taking care not to disturb a thing. Especially the cats, they were everywhere and I almost stepped on Brandy. I made it to Donna and knelt by her side. I could see her chest was still; she wasn’t breathing. Worse, I cautiously touched the side of her neck and couldn’t find a pulse. Cher took the occasion to rub against me and I could hear her purring as I took out my cell phone to call the police. Deputy Mae Owens answered. “Mae, its Ginger.”

  “Oh! Hi honey, how are you doing?”

  “Aunt Mae, listen. I’m at Donna Holland’s place and I just found her on the floor. I think she’s dead. You should get out here ... Cher, shoo!”

  “What? ... Who are you talking too? ... Ginger, listen carefully. Don’t touch anything and wait outside. I’ll be right over.”

  “Send an ambulance too. I pretty sure she’s dead, but you know, I’m not a doctor.”

  “Sure, sweetie, I’ll be there in a few minutes. Don’t touch a thing and get out of there, that may be a crime scene now. I'm coming right now.” And Mae hung up.

  I clicked my phone off and looked around. Donna Holland was young and in good health. Mae said it may be a crime scene, and it was plausible that someone murdered Donna. I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened, so I took did a quick once over of the scene.

  Donna’s hair was elaborately done up in an Elizabeth Hurley knock off and she wore a pretty dress as if prepared for a night out. A little too formal for this early in the day if you asked me.