Small Town Scary (Cozy Mystery Collection) Read online

  2 c. flour

  1/2 tsp. baking powder

  1 1/2 tsp. soda

  1/2 tsp. salt

  1/2 c. cocoa

  Mix cookie ingredients in order. Beat until smooth. Drop by teaspoons onto greased cookie sheet. Bake at 400 degrees for 7 minutes. Cool.

  CREAM FILLING

  1/2 c. white shortening

  1 c. marshmallow cream

  1 tsp. vanilla

  2 c. confectioners sugar

  4 tsp. milk

  Mix sugar and shortening. Beat in other ingredients until smooth. Smooth cream filling between two cookies, wrap individually with plastic wrap. Pack one or two of these cookies for a special treat to sweeten up an ordinary brown bag lunch!

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  CAPPUCCINO TWIST

  Prologue

  New York City

  Brownstone on East 73rd Street

  “Promise me, Marlena, promise me, mi amor!” The strength had drained out of my grandmother’s voice, but her will was stronger than ever.

  “I promise you, Nana, I will find out who killed your sister.” I gazed into her warm cocoa eyes that had transformed from lustrous to dull over the past few weeks of her pneumonia.

  Accepting a few ice chips that I offered her, the dear woman who raised me wet her throat as tears moistened her eyes. “I always thought that I would be the one to solve Silvia’s murder. How can I leave this world without knowing who killed my sister?!” Her voice was scarcely more than a raspy whisper mingled with a cough.

  “Stop tormenting yourself,” I urged, squeezing her wrinkled hand. “You’ve done everything you can to solve Aunt Silvia’s murder. But she was killed in Spain. You’ve been in New York City for the past 50 years. It would have been a miracle if you had been able to solve the crime from here.” I offered her a tiny wedge of fresh orange, but she waved it away.

  “That’s why you must go to Spain. Go to my home in Barcelona. My land holds many secrets that you must uncover! Please! No matter what it takes! And bring this envelope with you. It will help you.” She pointed to the mahogany nightstand where a sealed envelope sat waiting for me to claim it.

  I picked up the envelope and tucked it close to my heart. “Yes, I will go to Spain, Nana. And I won’t come back to New York until I find out who killed Aunt Silvia. That’s a solemn promise.”

  Gently, I pressed my lips to her forehead as she sighed and her eyes fluttered closed like butterfly wings.

  Chapter 1

  Barcelona, Spain

  2 Weeks Later

  As the plane slid onto the runway at Barcelona El-Prat Airport, torrents of rain hammered down with it. I had cried my last tear somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean and wore a stony face as I yanked my carry-on out of the overhead compartment. Grieving for my grandmother wasn’t an option; I had a homicide to solve and needed to veil my emotions until my mission was complete. Faces were a blur as I stood in the cramped aisle waiting to get off the plane and catch a whiff of fresh oxygen. After the 8 hour flight from New York, my cascading mocha ponytail was caked in grease and my eyes were blotchy from crying. Feeling like a zombie, I squeezed my way off the narrow jetliner and wheeled my suitcase down the long corridor towards the front of the airport where taxis were queued up.

  Immediately, a taxi driver swept my luggage out of my hands and gave my figure a brazen perusal. “Bienvenidos a Barcelona, Señorita.” He gawked at my slender body as he spoke.

  “Gracias,” I replied curtly, sliding into the cab and hoping he wouldn’t try to make conversation. I had grown up speaking Spanish with my grandmother and could easily converse with anyone in the city, but I was in no mood to speak any language with some leering cab driver. “Take me to the Alonso Hotel in the Gothic Quarter. Por favor,” I requested, hoping the middle aged man would take the quickest route so I could get out of his suffocating cab. I desperately needed a shower and a huge glass of iced coffee.

  Trying to ignore the lewd glances the driver kept tossing me in his rearview mirror, I reflected on all that I had left behind in Manhattan. At 29, I had just been promoted to Vice President of Sales at my job at BoldTech, making me the youngest VP in the history of the company. My friends had all agreed that I was making a colossal mistake by quitting to go chase ghosts from half a century ago, but I needed to honor the promise I had made to my grandmother. The woman had sacrificed more than enough since my mother abandoned me when I was 7 years old. Now it was my turn to sacrifice for my grandmother and find out who had murdered her younger sister in 1962.

  “Are you here on vacation?” The driver asked in Spanish.

  “No,” I stated the syllable in a monotone, staring out the window at the Medieval buildings that whizzed by in a rainy haze.

  “Then what brings you to Barcelona?” The cab driver asked in a jovial tone that made me seethe. Why couldn’t he just understand that I didn’t want to talk to him? In New York, there’s a sign on the back seat of every yellow taxi that proclaims one’s right to a “silent ride,” but clearly things were different in Barcelona.

  “I’m here on business,” I evaded, scowling deliberately so he could see me in the rearview mirror.

  “Ah, a business woman,” he mused as my scowl intensified. “Well, you must find some time for pleasure as well during your stay in Barcelona. How long will you be here?”

  “As long as I need to be,” came my unfriendly reply. “If you don’t mind, I’m not feeling very well after my plane ride and just need to sit quietly.” My eyes met his in the mirror, and I could tell that he was offended, but I really didn’t care. If he knew how grave the reasons for my trip to Barcelona were, then he would understand why I needed peace and quiet.

  Long minutes later, we arrived at the Alonso Hotel as I tipped the driver fairly and rushed with my bag to the reception desk. “Buenos dias. I have a reservation under the name Marlena Falcon,” I announced to the bubbly front desk clerk.

  “Yes, I see here, Señorita Falcon. I’ll need to see your passport, please.” The young girl smiled at me as I smiled wanly back and handed her my identification.

  “Do you know where I can get a really good cup of coffee around here?” I asked, hearing the desperation in my own voice. “All they gave us on the airplane was some nasty, stale instant brew.”

  The girl, whose name tag read Talisa, replied with a soft laugh, “Yes, right down the block there’s a great place called Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique. Best coffee in Barcelona in my opinion.”

  “Mmmm, I can smell the coffee beans roasting now,” I murmured, rubbing my hands together in anticipation of a strong, frothy cup of java.

  Taking my room key, I wheeled my suitcase to the elevator, trying to prioritize the rest of my day: Coffee first. Shower later. Opening the door to my room, I frowned at the depressing décor all shaded in maroon and beige. The walls could use a new coat of paint, and the furniture was in dire need of shampooing. Oh well. I wasn’t going to be spending much time in my hotel room anyway. Armed with nothing more than my grandmother’s sealed envelope and my own intuition, I was sure to be spending countless hours combing the city for Aunt Silvia’s acquaintances…if any were still living. Knowing that the crime’s age was my one biggest obstacle, I nonetheless was driven to figure out who had smothered my aunt to death when she was just 26 years old…

  Amazon.com: Cappuccino Twist eBook: Anisa Claire West: Kindle Store

  Titles Available by Anisa Claire West

  COZY MYSTERY

  & ROMANTIC SUSPENSE

  A Fashion Felon in Rome

  A Pastry Thief in Paris

  Cake Battered

  Cappuccino Twist

  Champagne Deception

  Cookie Dough Crook

  Cupcake Shop Clues

  Dark Chocolate Murder

  Deep Dish Lies

  Hotcake H
omicide

  Hot Fudge Fraud

  Murder in the Outback

  Northern Moonlight

  The French Maid Murder

  The Scarlet Suit Murder

  Vexed in Venice

  Wild Autumn

  FANTASY

  Silver Goddess Series:

  Island Tango, Book 1

  Orca Dance, Book 2

  Leopard Rhythm, Book 3

  Mermaid Gold, Book 4

  HISTORICAL ROMANCE

  Eternal Melody

  ANTHOLOGIES

  Chocolate Covered Crimes

  Deadly Bites

  Exotic Daydream

  Fashionable Crimes

  Passion’s Raindrops

  Pick a Poison

  Silver Goddess

  Sweet as Pie Crimes

  Tasty Crimes

  About the Author

  Anisa Claire West graduated with honors from Yale University and also holds a Master of Arts degree in Literature and Teaching. Learning about cultures is Anisa’s passion, and she has studied more than half a dozen languages including French, Arabic, and Italian. A certified yoga instructor, Anisa embraces mind-body fitness, animal advocacy, and a compassionate lifestyle. She also enjoys sweet treats and has sampled more than a few of the cookie recipes included in this book!

  Sip

  of

  Malice

  Gypsy Sleuths

  Book 2

  Emma Blackcliff

  Prologue

  Legend of the Gypsy Sleuths

  Andalusia, Spain

  September of 1622…

  Deep in the Sierra Morena Mountains of southern Spain, an extraordinary baby girl was born on a breezy day halfway between summer and autumn. At birth, the baby did not appear extraordinary at all. Indeed, baby Placida bore no physical signs to reveal her unusual nature: no beauty marks or freckles or any other distinguishing features. In fact, aside from her rich onyx tresses and intelligent cocoa eyes, Placida was quite plain looking.

  One day, Placida’s mother served her a cup of coffee. Placida was only 6 years old and detested the bitter taste of the brew. She fussed and pushed the cup away, so her mother spooned a huge lump of sugar into the beverage to make it more palatable for the tot. Happily, Placida drank until the cup was nearly empty. When a thin sheen of coffee remained, Placida blinked and cried out.

  “Mama! I see something in the cup!”

  “Really, mi amor?” Mama murmured absently, stirring a pot of soup over an open fire. “What did you see? Some of the sugar didn’t dissolve yet?”

  “No, it’s Grandpapa! He’s crying out for help! He’s waving at us!” The child raved fearfully as her mother’s face turned waxen.

  “Grandpapa is on a journey to Gibraltar right now,” the frantic mother gulped ominously, slamming the soup ladle on the table. “We must send your papa and brother to see if he really does need help! But how did you know this? You saw it in the coffee cup?” Placida’s mother sounded frightened and incredulous.

  “Yes, Mama!” The girl nodded fervently. “I could see Grandpapa, and he’s in trouble!”

  Later that week, Placida’s grandfather was found incapacitated one mile from the Rock of Gibraltar. He had tripped and fallen and would have died of starvation had Placida not received the message from the mystical coffee. At first, the family believed that she was an aberration, perhaps even a witch. But as the family was rooted in proud Gypsy heritage, they knew that their people were sometimes capable of extraordinary things and Placida was ultimately held in high esteem.

  Placida grew up to have two daughters and two sons, who in turn spawned multiple grandchildren. None of her progeny inherited the gift of clairvoyance. In fact, the elusive gift disappeared in the bloodline for nearly 300 years until baby Catania was born in the year 1915. Catania could peer into any coffee cup or merely hold an espresso bean between thumb and forefinger and receive clues about secret matters. A Flamenco dancer, Catania married at the age of 20 and birthed three daughters, who produced many granddaughters, none of whom inherited even a wisp of Espresso Magic.

  In 1982, one of Catania’s rebellious granddaughters fled Gypsy country and transplanted to the United States, settling in Minnesota and marrying a sturdy young Midwestern farmer. The couple gave birth to two daughters, Marisa and Penelope, better known as the Gypsy Sleuths…

  Chapter 1

  Candlewick Falls, Minnesota

  Espresso Magic Shop

  November, Present Day

  My scream pierced the dry autumn air as the plastic bag split open and pecans scattered all across the dusty floor. Pursing my lips in frustration, I knelt on the floor and collected the ruined ingredients one by one. This had to be a bad omen.

  “Marisa, what’s going on?” Penelope called, dashing into the kitchen in a panic. “Why did you just scream?”

  “Look at this mess!” I grumbled.

  “You screamed bloody murder just because a bag of pecans spilled onto the floor?” Penelope demanded indignantly, snatching a trash bag from a counter drawer.

  “Yes,” I mumbled with a sulk. “It’s a bad sign.”

  “Oh cut it out! Don’t get all superstitious. I know you’re stressed about Thanksgiving, but we’ll get through it. We always do.” Penelope sighed wistfully.

  Every November, our parents boarded their old Ford sedan and drove from Minneapolis to the family farmhouse in Candlewick Falls. My mother insisted every year on hosting a massive holiday dinner stressful enough to make a toddler need antacids. While Mom prepared the turkey feast with all the trimmings, Penelope and I were responsible for whipping up an array of desserts. Wickedly Indulgent Pecan Pie was a perennial favorite, and I couldn’t help but feel nervous that the main ingredient for the beloved dessert had tumbled to its death on our shop floor.

  Getting up off my knees, I wiped my hands on my slacks and headed towards the door. “Gotta go buy some more pecans!” I called over my shoulder.

  “We don’t have any more in the cabinet?” Penelope asked incredulously.

  “Nope. See you in a few.” I hopped into my car and drove south towards the local farmers market.

  Foliage, so rich in color during the Halloween season, was now dimly fading and browning as the trees became skeletal. The air had a persistent nip that whispered of the need for knit scarves, hot apple cider, and warm mittens. No snow had touched the ground yet, but I could feel that a powdery blanket wasn’t too far off in the distance. Maybe a blizzard will hit on Thanksgiving morning and our family reunion will be cancelled. Naughtily, I wished for snow, and then stopped myself as I remembered how Thanksgiving is my mother’s favorite holiday. She would be simply brokenhearted if she didn’t get to dig her fork into a slice of my home baked Sweet & Spicy Pumpkin Pie.

  The farmers market was bustling with customers carrying wicker baskets overflowing with autumn supplies like cashew butter, fresh ground nutmeg, and gourds in amusing shapes. I strolled through the tables of vendors, inhaling scents of cinnamon and apple. Hopefully, the market wouldn’t be sold out of pecans because then I would have to trek to the grocery store on the other side of town and get a sterile, factory sealed bag. Yuck.

  “Well, well, well, look who it is,” an authoritative male voice called behind me with a twitch of humor.