Cafe Mocha (A Zion Sawyer Cozy Mystery Book 7) Read online

  CAFÉ MOCHA

  A Zion Sawyer Cozy Mystery

  Volume 7

  ML Hamilton

  www.authormlhamilton.net

  Café Mocha

  © 2021 ML Hamilton, Sacramento, CA

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  First Print

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  For my readers, I can’t believe we are still in the midst of a pandemic more than a year later, but we will survive and be stronger on the other side. All my best!

  “Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord

  That David played, and it pleased the Lord

  But you don’t really care for music, do you?

  It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth

  The minor falls, the major lifts

  The baffled king composing Hallelujah”

  ~ Leonard Cohen

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  T ate braced his chin on his hand and watched as David pulled a napkin out of the napkin holder on the table and wiped the bench seat, his features twisted as if he smelled something foul. Daryl stared daggers at Tate from across the picnic table and Jaguar lounged against the wall, looking out at nothing, his fingers drumming a tattoo. A country song wailed from the jukebox in the corner and Marvin Shine leaned against it, trying to find a song that wasn’t “so loud”.

  David wiped his hands with the napkin and set it in a wad on the table, then sank down. “So does the waitress come over for our order?” he said, glancing around at the crowded pizza parlor.

  “Dude, you ever eat pizza before?” asked Jaguar, frowning.

  “Of course I have. I’ve just never frequented a place like this in person.”

  A muscle bulged on Daryl’s jaw. Tate shot him a tentative smile, but Daryl didn’t smile back.

  “We order at the counter,” said Tate.

  David nodded, then looked at the end of the table. “Where are the menus?”

  “Duude…” said Jaguar as if it hurt him.

  Tate shifted in the chair and pointed to the menu hanging over the counter. “They have paper ones up there if you want one, but we usually just get an extra-large pepperoni and a pitcher of beer.”

  “Two pitchers of beer,” murmured Daryl.

  “Maybe two,” said Tate.

  Marvin Shine came back to the table. “Well, our choices of music are limited. It seems they have only country and rock-n-roll.”

  “Duude…” said Jaguar.

  Marvin sat, his face lighting up in a smile. “So, what are we having tonight, boys?”

  “Duu…” began Jaguar.

  Tate kicked him under the table and Jaguar dropped his spiky head back against the wall, groaning.

  “I’ll just go order,” said Tate, rising. “Pepperoni good for everyone?”

  David gave him a skeptical look. “I’m not sure. That’s a lot of grease. And beer?” He made a face. “What’s their wine list like?”

  “Wine?” asked Tate.

  “Oh, I’d prefer wine myself,” said Marvin, then he looked anxious. “Unless that’s not kosher or something?”

  “I think they have wine,” began Tate.

  “Do you know what vintners they carry?” asked David.

  “White or red!” gritted out Daryl from between his teeth. “They got white or red.”

  David shot him a surprised look. “Why don’t I come with you to order?” he told Tate. “Which do you prefer, Marvin?”

  “Oh, I’d love a Petite Sirah if they have one. I think that’ll go beautifully with the salt from the pepperoni.”

  Daryl’s eyes lifted to Tate and his lips drew back against his teeth. Tate gave him another tentative smile, then hurried toward the counter. David followed him, but slowed as they passed the salad bar.

  “I’ve heard about these things,” said David. “That has got to be the most unhygienic thing I’ve ever seen.”

  A couple, dishing up plates, gave him annoyed looks. Tate grabbed the sleeve on David’s sweater and pulled him toward the counter.

  “Try to blend a little, will you?” he said.

  “I’m sorry, but what germs do they really think a little bit of plastic will keep out? And all that mayonnaise sitting there at room temperature?”

  Tate turned to face him, running a hand over his mouth. “Look, it’s not Corkers. It’s a pizza parlor. Just…”

  “Just?” said David, raising a brow.

  “Chill.”

  “Fine.”

  Tate placed the order, while David grilled the poor teenager behind the counter about vintage years.

  The teenager exchanged a look with Tate. “We got red and we got white,” she said.

  “Yes, I’ve been educated about that, but what year were they bottled?”

  Again the stare. “This year?” she said, looking worried about it.

  David shook his head. “Honestly. Fine. Give me two…” He coughed. “Reds.”

  When they got back to the table, Marvin was looking around excitedly. “So do they have darts here? I heard places like this have dart contests.”

  Tate poured the beer and gave Daryl the first glass. Daryl drained half of it in one swallow. “In the back,” Tate told Marvin, jerking his chin toward the back room. “They also have a pool table.”

  “What about air hockey? I like playing air hockey.”

  “No air hockey, but they’ve got foosball.”

  “Is that the one with the little men on sticks?” asked Marvin.

  “Right.”

  David sipped at his wine, then made a face. “I should have gone with the white,” he said, “but it doesn’t go with pizza.”

  “You know what goes with pizza,” said Daryl through a clenched jaw. “Beer. Beer goes with pizza.”

  Marvin looked down the table at them, his hands curled around the stem of his wine glass. “We should place a wager on the game play tonight, boys,” he said, nodding excitedly. “I got a ten spot that says I can whip your asz…I mean, behinds at foosball.”

  “Duuude,” said Jaguar.

  * * *

  Tate found Zion, sitting up in bed, reading a book, the light from the nightstand casting a golden glow around her.

  Cleo, her black cat, lay on the end of the bed, sleeping. She lifted her head and trilled at Tate, then closed her eyes again.

  Zion shut her book and gave him a smile. “How was your night?”

  Tate stroked Cleo’s side. “David grilled the teenager behind the counter on what year the vintage was and Marvin tried to kick our asses playing foosball.”

  “Uh oh,” she said, grimacing. “Did he?”

  “Kick our asses?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He managed to knock the ball out of the table where it landed in a family’s soda pitcher, so I had to buy them a new one.” Cleo rolled to her back so Tate could rub her belly. “Then David picked all the pepperoni off his pizza and patted off the grease, then placed it back on so that no slice overlapped the previous one.”

  “So it didn’t go well.”

  “Daryl glared so much that he got a migraine and Jaguar said dude for every part of speech.”

  Zion giggled, covering her mouth and making Tate smile.

  “How was your night?” he asked, moving around to her side of the bed.

  She scooted over, so that he could sit facing her, then she curled her hand in his. “We chose the colors for the she-shed at your house.”

  When he’d moved in with Zion, Tate had kept his house down the street from hers, and her parents had moved into it with Logan, his foster son.

  “Paint colors?”

  “Yeah. It’s gonna be red.”

  “Red?”

  “Like a barn with white trim.”

  “Red like a barn? My house is beige.”

  “I know.”

  “So, there’s going to be this huge structure in the backyard that looks like a barn.”

  “I can tell Mom you don’t want that.”

  Zion’s mother, Gabi Sawyer, was famous for her hobbies. She’d gone through a number of them since she retired, including piano playing, nude painting, ballroom dancing, and running with a motorcycle gang. The latest one involved ceramics, for which she’d needed a shed to hold her throwing wheel and space in the garage for her kiln. She hadn’t yet made any pottery, but Tate now had a monstrosity of a she-shed in his backyard.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Am I painting the she-shed?”

  “Logan said he would. He just needs
you to order the paint.” She leaned forward, cupping his cheek. “It’ll make her so happy.”

  “And when this fad is done?”

  “We’ll paint the shed beige, I promise.”

  “Uh huh.”

  She moved closer to him, curling her hand around his neck. “I know you’ve had a rough night.”

  “The worst.”

  “Maybe I can make it up to you?”

  A smile curled the lines of his mouth. “What do you have in mind?”

  She brought her mouth close to his. “I was thinking…”

  “Yeah…”

  “I could make you some hot chocolate,” she purred.

  He drew back and blinked at her. “Hot chocolate?”

  “Hot chocolate,” she repeated. “It’s very soothing, lawman.”

  “Is it?” he said, then he started tickling her.

  She screamed, dislodging a disgruntled Cleo, and fell to her side. He climbed on the bed after her, tumbling over as she squirmed out of his hold. Rolling, he drew her over him, staring up into her face, studying the painting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. Tunneling his hands into her dense red curls, he kissed her.

  She kissed him in return, curling her hand in his shirt.

  “I love you,” he whispered against her mouth. And he meant it. He’d never been this happy in his entire life.

  “Yeah,” she said, giving him a sultry look from her green eyes. “How much?”

  “More than anything.”

  She kissed him again. “Then maybe you should show me,” she said.

  And he did.

  * * *

  Zion was always up and gone by the time he dragged himself out of bed and into the shower in the morning. She liked to get to the Caffeinator in the early morning to help her baker, Dottie, make the baked goods for both the Caffeinator and the Half Caf, the coffee kiosk she’d opened by the highway. Tate never opened the Hammer Tyme, his hardware store, before 10:00AM, since most people were more in the market for coffee than a wrench before breakfast.

  After he showered, he pulled on a flannel shirt, jeans, and tugged on his work boots.

  Autumn in Sequoia was one of his favorite seasons. The temperature hovered around 60 or 70 and the snow hadn’t started. Since coming up from LA a few years ago, he’d learned to appreciate the changing seasons and the fresh air scented with pine.

  He wandered down to the kitchen, finding Logan eating cereal at the table. Logan had graduated high school in July and was taking general ed classes at the college in Visalia, but he’d arranged his schedule so that he could still work at the Hammer Tyme three days a week.

  “Hey,” Tate said, heading for the coffee maker.

  “Hey,” said Logan around a mouthful of food. “We’re out of cereal at my place. Hope you don’t mind?”

  Tate poured himself a mug of coffee and turned, placing his back to the counter as he took a sip. “You’re out of cereal? I don’t think Gabi would let that happen.”

  “Okay, we’re out of cereal I can eat. Mama Gabs buys tree bark and squirrel feed.”

  “Ah,” said Tate, coming to the table and taking a seat. “Not enough sugar, in other words.”

  “No sugar,” said Logan, grabbing his mug and taking a sip. He made a terrible face as he swallowed.

  Tate leaned forward and tilted Logan’s mug, looking inside. “Are you drinking coffee?”

  “Trying to, but it’s so bitter.”

  “I see you put some milk in it. Did you try some sugar?”

  “So much sugar. It’s still nasty.”

  “Then don’t drink it.”

  “I have to.”

  “Why?”

  Logan gave a huff of exasperation. “I’m in college now.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you think all the college students drink all the time?”

  “You mean the coeds.”

  “Coeds?”

  “Girls.”

  Logan made another face. “Why’d you call them coeds?”

  “It’s a term people use to describe female college students.”

  “What people?”

  Tate shrugged. “Just people.”

  “Old people.”

  “Fine, old people.”

  Logan gave him a what the hell look. “Exactly in what century did you go to college?”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean, you know most college students are women now.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s allowed. In fact, most people in the workforce with a college degree are women now.”

  “Fine!” said Tate, shaking his head.

  Logan held up a hand. “Just trying to eradicate your cisgendered social myopia.”

  “Oh boy!” said Tate, rolling his eyes.

  “Exactly. Why does it have to be oh boy? Why can’t it be oh non-gender specific nonbinary individual?”

  Tate covered his mouth with his hand and stared at Logan.

  Logan stared back. Finally, he shoved another bite of cereal in his mouth.

  “College has changed me,” he offered.

  “Not enough,” grumbled Tate.

  “I know learning new ways of thinking about the world can be threatening to someone of your age, but it’s healthy to explore your preconceived notions and break the chains of your linear thinking.”

  Tate didn’t respond, just sipped his coffee, watching this enlightened, newly minted young man chow down on a pound of sugared, multi-colored oat circles.

  “We need red paint for Mama Gabs’ she-shed.”

  “Don’t you mean non-gender specific, nonbinary framed structure made of wood.”

  Logan pointed his spoon at him. “Now you get it.”

  * * *

  Tate and Logan opened the Hammer Tyme on the days Logan worked, so that Tate’s other two employees, Joe Sawyer and Bill Stanley, could golf in the mornings. As Tate unlocked the door and turned on the lights, Logan went to the back storage room to grab his apron.

  Just as Tate was raising the blinds across the front of the building, his buzzer sounded and Jim Dawson, the owner of the Cut & Print and the president of the Chamber of Commerce, stepped through the door.

  “Hey, Jim,” said Tate, moving toward him. “How can I help you?”

  “Ms. Miles asked me to call an emergency meeting of the Chamber tonight. She says we need to discuss this year’s Fangtastic Howl-o-ween Monster Bash. She wants to do an entire month of celebration starting October 1st and culminating on October 31st. She wants to have a haunted house and trick-or-treating down Main Street for the entire month.”

  “Wow!” said Tate. When Zion’s best friend, Rebekah Miles, decided to take on something like this, it meant she dragged everyone into it with her.

  “Yeah, it’s a lot.”

  “It is.”

  “She even wants to get the Acorn Casino involved.”

  “Why?”

  “She thinks Lorenzo Whitefeather might be willing to host some poker nights and offer discounts on lodging to draw more tourists to the area.”

  Tate considered it. Besides the Back-of-Beyond Lodge, which only had six cabins, and the Tumble Inn B&B, the casino had the largest number of rooms available. “Are you contacting Enzo to see if he’ll be part of the meeting?”

  Jim shifted his considerable bulk. “That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you’d do that.”

  “Why me?”

  “Lorenzo respects you.”

  “Lorenzo hates me. He likes Zion.”

  Jim shook his head. “I don’t think that’s true. He explicitly asked for your help on the Deluca murder. He respects you.”

  “Lorenzo Whitefeather respects no one. He only asked for my help because he didn’t want what happened to reflect badly on the tribe.”

  “Well, that’s good enough for me.”

  “You’re the president of the Chamber, Jim. It should come from you.”

  Jim laid a heavy hand on Tate’s shoulder. “The captain is only as good as his crew. We all have to row together, Mercer.”

  Tate frowned. “What?”

  Jim patted him firmly. “Tell him we’ll begin at 6:00PM. You know how Ms. Miles is about punctuality.”

  Tate opened his mouth to respond, but Jim turned for the door.

  “Appreciate this, Mercer. See you at 6:00. I’m off to let Jerome know.”

  “Jaguar doesn’t get in until after 11:00AM.”

  Jim sighed. “I know. That boy never did get to class on time.”