Mocha Mayhem

Chapter One

Cold cases: they sting their freezer-burn down your throat like an icy beverage on a hot summer day. Every old cop worth her salt has a stack of unopened mysteries in her back pocket, ready for a slow July afternoon.

Of course, I am not an old cop, nor am I, technically, a "cop". I'm essentially a part-time private investigator, hired on a trial status, working as an assistant to my BFF Samantha Orwitz. Now, she is the real deal. She's not an old, cynical cop, but she is the Holmes to my Watson. More or less. Maybe she's a tad less obsessive and less male than Holmes. Also, she's a little more Ojibwe and a little less straight. Okay, so, maybe she and Sherlock are not that similar after all, besides their brilliant insight and distaste for unnecessary social interaction, but Sam has been writing the book on solving awkward small-town crimes. Today, she had a new case heavily infused with an old case. A half-caff cold case, if you will.

I received the call from Sam in my usual July day-off position- dipping my toes into Loon Lake and singing off-key classic rock to myself. Fortunately, the tourists in boats ignored the crazy singing lady on the end of the tilting, rot-pocked wooden dock. I tilted my head toward the bright July sunlight. I'd say I was working on my tan, which was only partially true, but I was mostly embracing a moment of peace. It had been a long year, recovering from my fiancé's murder, moving back home, and dealing with a passive aggressive popular, ex-high school cheerleader who was now my boss at my official, somewhat-bill-paying gig serving up lattes at the Coffee Cravin' Cabin. Not to mention the time I accidentally saved the town from getting blown up by a drone-wielding psychopath and becoming an official part-time, trial-by-fire Watson...

But these are all stories for another day.

Samantha, with the precise timing of a telemarketer on a rampage, chose this shimmering afternoon to shatter my dockside daydreaming. The ringtone I'd selected for her (Batman's theme song, naturally) boomed from my phone, and I nearly kicked the offending device into its depths. That would've sucked.

Instead, I snatched it up and flipped it open (because I'm a 20th century girl living in a 21st century world...or something...Madonna would be proud). I deduced the proper punishment for the interruption. "Bill's Pizza. How can I make your day cheesier?"

Sam wore her no-nonsense voice. "Regina Lucent went missing twenty years ago today."

"Well, she's clearly not getting any pizza."

"Jordan." Somehow my BFF had a way of making my name sound like a bad word when she was tense. It was a skill she must have acquired from my mother. I hadn't realized Mrs. Nimsby was giving lessons; I should probably see if she's charging- there must be some sort of finder's fee...or maybe I could get a cut for being her muse...

"Lucent went missing twenty years ago and last night someone at Elaine Johansen's resort saw her."

I straightened all the way up and stared out into the water. It glistened under the sun's brilliance and trembled slightly with waves from the jet skis and speed boats sending tourists shrieking with laughter across its surface. "Okay, okay! You've got my attention."

"How soon can you get down here?"

I rolled my head back on my neck and slipped my bare feet back out of the water and into my flip flops. "I mean, I'm kind of swamped here..."

"You out on the dock?"

Dammit. "I'll be there in ten."

***

The problem with cold cases is that, much like recommendations for a new coffee shop, you never really know the facts until you're elbow-deep in espresso grounds. Sometimes literally.