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  DEADLY DIRTY MARTINIS

  A DANGER COVE

  COCKTAIL MYSTERY

  by

  NICOLE LEIREN

  &

  ELIZABETH ASHBY

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  Copyright © 2017 by Nicole Leiren

  Cover design by Janet Holmes

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  TABLE OF 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

  EPILOGUE

  FREE EBOOK OFFER

  DANGER COVE BOOKS

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  BOOKS BY NICOLE LEIREN

  SNEAK PEEK

  Acknowledgements

  This story is dedicated in memory of A. Lynne Wall, an amazing supporter of authors and readers alike. Thank you for leaving us with a legacy of love for stories and each other.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  I inhaled deeply. The scent of freshly polished wood, mopped floors, along with an array of colorful bottles of alcohol filled my senses. A trifecta of amazing sights and smells that served to fuel a positive PLH factor for me. That would be my peace, love, and happiness quotient. No, I'm not crazy. Well, maybe a little. My thoughts on the smells have no bearing on my state of sanity, however. As a bartender and newly crowned assistant manager of Smugglers' Tavern, a reputable restaurant and bar in the small town of Danger Cove, Washington, those smells equaled the start of a fresh, new day. Life was good.

  "Hi, Lilly!" Mandi, a waitress and my best friend forever (BFF), bounded in, still riding the high from last night's concert, if the silly grin and starstruck shine in her blue eyes were any indication. Her fiery red hair gleamed in the low level lighting of the tavern.

  Freddie Maggiano, our newest busboy, ambled in behind her. His smile was present, but it was obvious he was still feeling the effects of partying the night before. My gaze was instantly drawn to the T-shirt he'd decided to wear for work today. "Seriously, Freddie?"

  Mandi came around to the bar, where I was getting everything set up for what promised to be a busy day, and gave me a hug. "Don't be mad. I know The Barking Spiders aren't your favorite people in the world, but Freddie is their number one fan. He even had backstage passes. Pretty sure he had the time of his life."

  I fought the urge to find some sassy Dirty Dancing reference as a comeback but couldn't be sure she'd been raised on movies from the eighties. And…she was right, but it didn't change my dislike of having to stare at that shirt all day long. "I don't have a problem with the band, just a couple people involved with the band." Noticing some water spots on the martini glasses hanging upside down on a rack above the bar, I grabbed a rag and went to work on the smudges. With our new drink, the DC Dirty Martini, being released today, I wanted to make sure everything was perfect. Plus, it distracted me from thoughts about The Barking Spiders. My father was the lead singer, and my mother was his biggest fan. Their love for each other, rock and roll, and being on the road meant there was no room for an inconvenience like a child, aka me.

  Freddie ran his fingers through his short black hair. He reminded me of a young Joey from when the television show Friends first aired. His sheepish grin told me he knew I wouldn't be happy with his choice of attire. "Not for nuttin', but I invited the band to stop in before they headed out of town. Don't be mad. The manager and I became Facebook friends after I kinda stalked them on social media. He's turned into a sorta dad—like the one I never had. Well, at least better than the one I have." He turned around to show me the back of his shirt. "Look, everyone signed it."

  I'd adored Freddie from the first time I met him. Not because he'd been the first hire that Hope, the owner, had let me make as one of my new management responsibilities. Alright, I'll be honest…that detail might factor in the tiniest bit. Mostly, I liked him because he was from New York. Not only a great state, but it also happened to be where my gram was born and where I spent many of my years growing up.

  He was a relatively new transplant to the Danger Cove area, which gave him a distinct accent. Usually, his words entertained us. This time, though, they did not sit well. While publicity from a semipopular band stopping in would be great for the tavern, I had to be honest and admit, for me personally, I had mixed emotions about being around any member of The Barking Spiders. "It's a great shirt, Freddie. Hope you don't get turkey gravy on it." Note to self, make sure to spill gravy on Freddie's shirt later. He could use one of Tanner's spare white T-shirts he always kept in his locker. No harm. No foul.

  The next several hours flowed faster than liquor during a naval seaman's first liberty. Freddie was on his way to the kitchen with another full pan of dirty dishes. He shook his head. "They must be pregaming for the holiday. I've never seen people eat so much in so little time."

  I exhaled a long stream of air to dislodge the unruly brown highlighted hairs that had slipped out of the ponytail. I loved varying the blonde highlights depending on the time of year. With Thanksgiving right around the corner, there was more brown than blonde but still enough to keep me in contention for the blondes have more fun club. Both colors of my hair had managed to plaster themselves on my face thanks to the sweat sheen I had going on. Not cool. "I think Clara and Tara's deconstructed turkey dinner sandwich is a big hit."

  My statement brought my chef and her sous chef, twin sisters, from the kitchen with another tray of food for Mandi to deliver. Time to offer up some praise. "Nice job, you two. The sandwich and sweet potato fries are a crowd favorite tonight."

  They both beamed at the praise. Clara glanced at her sister. "It was a joint effort. I came up with the sandwich, and—"

  "I came up with the idea for the fries," Tara finished.
>
  "And I helped them both." Abe, our gardener and groundskeeper, emerged from the kitchen wiping his hands with a dish towel. He had graciously volunteered to help in the kitchen while the owner, Hope, was on vacation in England.

  I held my hands up to indicate he should toss me the towel. I already had a stack going from the bar that would need to be washed. I'd add his to the ever-growing pile. "As much as I miss your fresh vegetables, I'm glad you're around to help out."

  He took a clean towel and wiped the sweat from his bald head before tossing it in my direction. "Thankfully, the weather has been mild enough I can work on my outside projects as well. The greenhouse is coming along nicely, and I'm making progress on repainting the old shed. No sense sitting around buffing my nails and eating bonbons." He held up his hands to look at the fingers. "The dishwater is making them baby soft. Back to the suds for me, then. Keep 'em coming. This old man is up to the task."

  A loud commotion outside the door drew my attention away. "Abe!" I said his name loud enough to stop his retreat and then inclined my head toward the door. Thankfully, he understood. As a retired school teacher, he knew how to handle unruly people. He also had the muscles to back him up should words fail. Too bad Tanner was still at school. Tanner Montgomery provided security along with a fill-in-wherever-needed when he wasn't away at college in Seattle. He lived here in Danger Cove with his mom and sister. Finals were finished today, thankfully. I was looking forward to hanging out with him. I should also mention he filled the role of boyfriend in my life…well, as close to having a boyfriend as I wanted to have anyway.

  The doors opened, and an entourage entered. An excited buzz filled the air. Whispers, ogling, and all the activities you'd expect when Brock Franklin and his band walked into the room. He stopped a moment and soaked up the attention. The woman next to him, midforties with long blondish-brown hair and light brown eyes bright with unshed tears, didn't look happy to be by his side. He slid his arm around her waist and placed a kiss on her forehead, no doubt to elicit the flashing of cell phone cameras all around the room. The moment the flashes stopped, she pulled away and walked over to sit on an empty barstool.

  It didn't take any type of college degree to determine who this person was. The woman who dropped me off as a baby to my gram and never looked back. My poor excuse for a mother: Harmony Waters.

  "Donny Z!" Freddie barreled into the crowd toward a man of medium build and height wearing a black fedora.

  At hearing his name, the man broke away from the band and met Freddie with a big hug. "You big yutz! How's our biggest fan? Thanks again for coming out to the show last night. Hope you had a good time. How long you been working here?"

  "I just started two weeks ago, and it was the best night ever. Thanks again for taking me backstage and for the T-shirt."

  I confess, I missed the popcorn exchange of information typical of a conversation in New York. Everyone was busy and in a hurry. No time for frills or pleasantries in conversation. Straight and to the point. Pop. Pop. Pop. As you moved west across the US, the pace slowed and more of an effort was made to relate. Nice, but not always as effective.

  Though I normally had plenty to say, I was at a loss for how to approach my mother and father. Brock was busy with his fans, and Harmony hadn't noticed me yet. Not that she'd recognize me. Though we looked alike, even down to the gold flecks in our matching brown eye color, the last time she'd seen me I was about twenty-three inches tall and thirteen pounds. Harmony was rummaging through the contents of her purse. Finally she pulled out a compact and powdered her nose. I'd imagined a million times how a meet and greet between us would transpire. Now that the moment was upon me—no words. Go figure.

  A moment later, Brock and Harmony had plenty of words for each other. He moved into her personal space. "Babe. Why're you angry? You know I don't like it when you're upset."

  He used that silky-smooth voice of his. I'm sure his vocal chords weren't all she'd noticed about him. Almost three decades after they met and she ran away with him, it was easy to see why all the women still swooned. Black shoulder-length hair, ice blue eyes and, of course, the bad boy rocker persona completed the perfect ensemble for stealing a young girl away from her family.

  I didn't want to interrupt—alright, part of me did. The other part, however, was okay with stalling a bit longer. My emotions were a cocktail of confusion. Hurt over the abandonment and elation over them being only a few feet in front of me combined into one frothy mess. Maybe I should introduce myself to them in grand fashion. That'd make the front page of some tabloid, for sure. Right, not the best way to make a good first impression. Maybe I would just offer a nice little introduction. Something like, "Hey, Mom and Dad, so nice of you to stop in. Maybe we should catch up on the last twenty-four years?"

  Depending on my tone of voice, that could border on snarky. Instead of endlessly debating with myself, I returned to the tasks at hand. "Freddie, can you please grab another case of gin? We're almost out."

  As much as I loved serving up the Smugglers' Hurricane that helped solidify my position here at the tavern, the DC Dirty Martini was easier on my biceps. Less shaking required. Hope and I had selected the dirty martini because it was known for its salty taste. A tribute to the many salty sailors who had passed through our little cove over the years.

  Inhaling and exhaling a large breath, I summoned the courage to break the ice and bring Brock's and Harmony's attention my way. "Can I get either of you something to drink?" Could I be any more lame?

  Harmony ignored Brock and all the attention he was giving her. It was hard to be sure if he really wanted to make her feel better or if this was all a show for the patrons. She stared at me for a long moment before her face lit up as recognition finally dawned. "Oh my God, it's really you."

  In the flesh. I couldn't fathom how she recognized me. Surely I'd changed a bit over the years. I knew I was taller and had gained a pound or ten. Okay, maybe a hundred, but I wouldn't confess to any more than that. Did women possess some kind of maternal instinct that allowed them to do an age progression in their heads and picture what their children would look like in the future? I'd had the advantage of being able to see pictures of her and Brock over the years when I couldn't resist the urge to do a web search for them. Google images had served as my family album. Don't judge. It was all I had.

  I smiled. "It's really me. Would you like to try our newest specialty cocktail? The DC Dirty Martini, extra salty, just like the pirates." Of all the scenarios I'd imagined—of all the words I'd planned to say—I'm certain the word pirates had never made a final cut in the theoretical first conversation with my parents.

  Where was Mandi when I needed her? She could find some useless trivia to help me bridge the almost-quarter-of-a-century gap that held my tongue securely in its grasp.

  Harmony stood, took my hand, and pulled me into an awkward hug. "I have so much to tell you. So much to apologize for."

  I pulled away from the hug. Again, mixed emotions vying for attention. I'd always imagined more of a Hallmark moment the first time I saw them. The flash of cameras, the buzz of the patrons, and people calling out for a refill of their drinks put this moment about as far away from Hallmark as possible. I shook my head. "I can't talk right now." A small portion of hurt and anger bubbled its way to the top of all the swirling emotions. "We'll have to find some time later. If you can fit me in before you leave town, that is."

  Wanting, no, needing to steer the conversation away from personal and get the cameras turned in another direction, I forced myself back into bartender mode. Awkward, considering the magnitude of this moment, but I didn't want to make a scene. And, I didn't know what else to do. "Let me make you a drink. I could whip up our Smugglers' Hurricane. Comes with a little show and is guaranteed to be sweet."

  She shook her head. "I'm tired of shows." Her brown eyes brimmed with tears. "Maybe a vodka lemonade?"

  The request struck a deep emotional chord of remembrance. Gram. It had been a few years si
nce she died. I missed her more each day. Though Gram didn't drink much, on occasion she would indulge in her favorite—a vodka lemonade. Said it reminded her of a perfect summer day. Great, that just added two cups of grief to my emotional cocktail, making it the size of one of those fishbowl drinks consumed at Mardi Gras. "One vodka lemonade coming up."

  Harmony returned to her seat visibly upset. What a mess we were. She offered a watery smile. "That was your grandmother's favorite."

  "I know." I set about mixing her drink. Clara and Tara made our lemonade from scratch, so it tasted especially good. Adding a twist of lemon on the trademark plastic sword for garnish, I placed the drink in front of Harmony. "Here you go."

  Brock had been watching our exchange but had kept quiet so far. Maybe he was one of those people who was shy unless on stage or in front of a camera. I couldn't be sure, as I didn't really know either of them. Not wanting to totally ignore him I asked, "Do you want something to drink?" Somewhere deep inside I think I blamed him for Harmony leaving me. He was at the bottom of every list I'd managed to come up with over the years regarding people, parents, and pricks. Wait, he may be at the top of that last list.

  "I'll have what she's having." He pointed to Harmony's drink. I heard him whisper as I moved away, "I can't believe it's her."

  Before I could choke down another swallow of my emotional fishbowl, Freddie shouted from the other end of the bar. "Hey, Lilly, I got your gin. Where you want me to put it?"

  "Just on the back bar, please. I'll unload it soon. Can you check on Ruby, see if she needs any help?" When I turned around to give Brock his drink, he offered a tentative smile and nod. Yeah, this was awkward for all of us. Maybe the way they'd pictured our reunion wasn't quite like this either. Assuming they'd pictured it…

  "Brock, baby." A woman, early twenties, long blonde hair, tattoos covering a good deal of her flesh, and ample cleavage, led a small group of people in our direction. Her ruby red lips were curled in a smile. She quickly shed the faded denim jacket she wore over the tank top and leather vest and draped it over the barstool next to Brock. My guess was she'd borrowed the jacket, since it was at least two sizes too big for her.