Charleston with a Clever Cougar: A Dance with Danger Mystery #6

Charleston with a Clever Cougar:

A Dance with Danger Mystery #6

by Sara M. Barton

Published by Sara M. Barton at Smashwords

Copyright Sara M. Barton 2012

This ebook is licensed for your personal
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this author.

This book is dedicated to all the people out
there like Cady, Doc, Daisy, and Carole, who are in the right place
at the wrong time and the wrong place at the right time. Real love
is a great healer, but sometimes taking that leap of faith is
terrifying. Sometimes you have to push yourself into action, even
when courage fails you. That’s how real heroes are made.

And for all the men and women of our
military, who, like Doc, put their lives on the line in faraway
lands because they believe in freedom. Thank you for your
service.

Chapter One --

“How long has this coffee been sitting in
that pot -- a week?”

“Excuse me?” I turned away from the counter
where I was rolling pie crust and looked at the disgruntled gnome
glaring at me from behind thick glasses.

“Bitter, too acidic, undrinkable,” he
declared. “You left it on the burner too long.”

“How about I get you a fresh cup?” I offered,
keeping an eye on the countertop convection oven, where I had a
batch of blueberry muffins due to come out. “On the house.”

“Only if it’s a fresh pot.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” I told him. “Just
give me one moment.”

He muttered something to himself as he turned
away and went back to his table by the window, trailed by his
oversized London Fog raincoat. It looked like it had seen better
days. I glanced over at Daisy, my part-time employee. As usual, she
had her earbuds in her ears as she was unloading the dishwasher. I
looked over at the coffee machine. She had left the coffee in the
pot, instead of pouring it into the thermal carafe.

“Daisy, what’s the rule about coffee?” I
asked, as I brushed past her. “Your customer complained.”

“Oh, I forgot. I had a big line of customers
and I never got back to it,” she explained, pulling out her
earbuds. She was good at forgetting.

“Please make a fresh pot and bring a cup to
the guy over in the corner.” I turned back to my pie crust, fully
intending to finish crimping the edges in the pie tins, but I saw
another customer enter the bakery, so I whirled around to notify my
assistant.

“No!” I cried, horrified as I watched her
pour the dregs of the offensive coffee into the thermal
carafe.”What are you doing?”

“Geez, Cady, take a chill pill!” She glared
at me, thermal carafe in hand. “I’ll dump it.”

“Daisy,” I said, softening my tone for the
teenager, “our reputation depends on the quality of our coffee and
baked goods. You can’t dump old coffee into the carafe. The coffee
is supposed to be kept airtight, so that it stays fresh. Customers
know when it’s bitter and they don’t like it. It’s really important
that you respect the coffee.”

“How about you respect me as much as you
respect your coffee!” she snapped, in a little burst of temper.

“Young lady!” It was the gnome in the thick
glasses, hunched over at the counter. “Where’s my coffee?”

“Coming up. I’ll bring it right over,” I
promised. Daisy gave me a roll of her eyes and emptied the carafe
before pouring in the contents of the fresh pot of organic Sumatra
blend, the roast of the day. While she screwed on the lid, I
grabbed the muffins from the oven and set them on the counter. I
plopped one on a plate, grabbed a couple of packets of butter, and
reached for a clean coffee mug, just as Daisy was about to pour
coffee into the returned mug.

“Stop,” I commanded. “I’ve got this.”

“Whatever!” She flounced away into the back
room, but not before sticking the earbuds back into her ear canals.
I made a mental note to have a short, but firm chat with her about
what was expected of her, preferably when the shop was empty.

With the fresh cup of coffee in one hand and
the plated blueberry muffin in the other, I crossed the shop floor
to the little table by the window.

“What’s that?” the gnome asked as I put the
offering in front of him.

“I thought you might enjoy a freshly baked
blueberry muffin,” I said, giving him a bright smile.

“I’m not paying for that!” he snarled. “It’s
not my fault the coffee was bad!”

“I don’t expect you to pay. It’s a peace
offering. I am trying to apologize for my inexperienced employee.
Obviously, you’re a man who knows his coffee, and I’m in the
business of making good coffee. Please, try the Sumatra.”

He looked up at me through those high school
science nerd glasses with suspicion. I waited as he sipped, oddly
wanting him to approve the taste of the fresh coffee. What did I
care if the guy liked it?

“Mmm...better. Who are you?” he wanted to
know. “The manager?”

“Actually, I’m Cady, owner of Cady’s Cakes.
I’m the baker and the coffee roaster.” I smoothed my cotton candy
pink apron.

“You roasted the coffee?” I saw interest in
those green eyes. “You went a little heavy on the Arabica beans.
That’s why there was too much acid in the blend. You should have
gone more mellow.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t looking for a dark roast
flavor,” I told him. “I wanted something more medium in body.”

“I’m just saying you could have knocked back
some of the acid with some dry-processed Harar,” he replied. I
looked at the man sitting in the seat with fresh eyes.

“A man who knows about Ethiopian beans? You
must be a coffee connoisseur. No wonder you tasted the acid notes,”
I replied.

“I like good coffee. I spent some time in
Africa and the Middle East. It spoiled my taste buds.”

“Ah,” I nodded. “Interesting. Well, your
coffee is getting cold. I hope it’s drinkable.”

“It’ll do.” When he smiled, I saw a mouth
full of white, carefully tended teeth, and I found myself oddly
disconcerted. It seemed to contradict the ratty raincoat and
tattered jeans. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I called over my shoulder
as I headed back to the kitchen. Daisy was texting as she stood
watch at the cash register. “Put it away, Daze. You know the
rules.”

“It’s an emergency,” she insisted.

“Oh? What’s the emergency?”

“Vicki’s upset.”

“About what?” I was busy cutting lemons for
the iced tea.

“Her and Bobby got caught making out behind
the tennis courts during assembly and they got detention for a
week. It’s her third detention in less than a month, so her dad
said she can’t use the car. And now I don’t have anyone to drive me
to school. That means I have to take the bus,” she said with great
emphasis. “
The bus
.”

“You’ll survive.
She
and Bobby will
survive. Put that away. I don’t pay you to play with your cell
phone. Go and refill the sugar and sweetener compartments,
please.”

“You’re mean,” Daisy decided.

“And you’re here to work for me. No work, no
pay.”

Daisy lived in the condo unit next to mine
with her mother and little brother Dylan. Carole was one of my
dearest friends and undergoing treatment for breast cancer. It was
taking a lot out of her. She didn’t really have the energy to
handle a wayward teenager, so I took it upon myself to mentor
Daisy. Letting her work in the shop allowed me the chance to know
what was going on in her life, to steer her, guide her in a healthy
direction. She made a big point of rebelling, but most of it was
bluster. The truth was she was terrified that her mother was dying,
and some days I thought she might be right. That’s why I did
everything I could to help Daisy have as normal a teenage life as
possible.

If you think I’m tooting my own horn, save
yourself. The truth is I was doing for Daisy what my Aunt Pinkie
did for me. I once stood in those teenage boots, and even more than
twenty years later, I can still remember the terror that welled up
in me as the life ebbed out of my mother. It was Aunt Pinkie who
kept my head above the tears, who taught me to swim through the
ache even as my heart was breaking. She got me through the
unthinkable and convinced me to go on when I wanted to give up.
Daisy and I were both the daughters of single women who battled
cancer. Aunt Pinkie said children should always be able to count on
the adults around them, even the adults who weren’t related. I owed
it to her memory to help Daisy. It’s what Aunt Pinkie would want me
to do.

“Time to take out the trash, Daze,” I
prompted the teenager. We were getting ready to close for the
day.

“Boy, it seems like all I ever do around here
is take out the trash,” she grumbled. “I never get to do any of the
fun stuff.”

“Such as?”

“Decorating the cakes. I’m really good at
calligraphy.”

“Food for thought.” I let that roll around in
my head for a bit, as I started shutting down the equipment and
cleaning it. Daisy wiped down the tables, straightened out the
chairs, and swept the floor, working around the lone customer while
he nursed his coffee and muffin, hunched over his book. When she
finished, I offered her a carrot.

“How would you like to help with the
Henslacker wedding later in the week?”

“You mean the cake?”

“No, no,” I said quickly, dashing her hopes.
I couldn’t afford to let a teenager decorate a cake with a price
tag of more than five hundred dollars. Any mistakes would ruin my
reputation. But I did have the perfect job for her. “I want you to
decorate the wedding cookies. They’re favors for the guests. You’ll
write the names of the bride and groom on each.”

“Cool. Can I at least watch you decorate the
cake?” Daisy had an artistic streak that hungered to be let loose
on the world. I well understood that passion. I came by it
naturally.

A war widow, my mother raised me on her own,
refusing to move home to Mississippi to live with her parents after
my father was killed. She was feisty, proud of her independence,
and wanted to stay in Connecticut. We moved off the Groton Navy
base and into civilian housing. She got a job as an interior
decorator with a small design firm, often traveling between
Connecticut and Rhode Island, doing everything from stately
mansions to museums. She even did hotels along the shoreline from
time to time. She always encouraged me in all my creative
endeavors. Daisy and I had that in common and more.

Over time, my mother started going out again,
dating one of my dad’s friends. They spent a lot of time together,
in between Roger’s deployments as a nuclear sub commander. They
fell into a nice routine and he was really good to her. He was good
to me, too. He treated me like an adopted daughter, taking an
interest in my life. We went to ballgames and sailing cruises along
the New England coast, right up until the day my mother broke it
off with him.

It came out of left field. Roger and I were
both baffled when she suddenly announced the romance was over. We
had no idea that she was terminally ill. He and I stayed in touch,
and when I finally found out the truth, I told Roger as soon as I
could, He had just started a year-long deployment in the Bering
Sea, but he managed to get a two-week leave just a month before she
died, and they spent it together, in her hospital room. He moved
heaven and earth to make those last two weeks memorable for her.
Every morning, he wheeled her down the hospital corridor, to the
day room, where she sat in the sunlight dozing. He read to her in
the afternoon, or sometimes just held her. At night, he broke all
the rules, crawling into her bed and wrapping her frail body in his
arms. The night nurses turned a blind eye to the hospital
regulations, because they knew Roger had to return to his submarine
and this would be the last time he ever saw my mother, ever held
her.

Aunt Pinkie was my mom’s best friend from
childhood. Never married, she was in love with a man who
persistently and consistently “unavailable”-- better known as a
married man. All they ever had were stolen moments snatched
whenever possible, usually in the middle of the week. Never on
weekends. Weekends were reserved for Allen’s family -- for his
wife, the Newport socialite Romy Klinghoffer, and his kids. Romy’s
father was Rheinold Klinghoffer, the king of German plumbing
fixtures. Allen used to tell people his wife was flush with cash.
He got a big kick out of that. He also got a big kick out of Aunt
Pinkie, said he couldn’t live without her. In the end, he had to,
when she up and died on him.