If you had fun with Charlie and Gamma, you’ll want to meet Milly Pepper and her pet bunny Waffle. You can read the first chapter of Milly’s story below!
“It’s unheard of! A travesty.” My grandmother, Cecelia Pepper, sat on the edge of her seat at the coffee bar in the Starlight Cafe. “Why, the sheriff ought to be ashamed of himself. How are we meant to walk down the streets in this town with this… threat in the backs of our minds? Looming! Like some giant Sword of Damocles over our heads.” She tapped the newspaper, a copy of The Star Lake Gazette, she’d laid on the coffee bar the minute she’d sat down.
My grandmother was the definition of dynamite in a small package. At 75-years-old, she was brimming with vigor to make up for her height.
“I’m sure Sheriff Rogers will figure it out.” I fixed Gran a cup of coffee—a hazelnut latte with extra cream—and placed it in front of her. “It’s a small town, Gran. They’ll catch whoever’s doing this.”
“A small town that’s going downhill quickly.” My grandmother glanced around as if she was afraid of someone overhearing our conversation.
But the painful truth was there was nobody in my cafe this morning. Just like there’d been nobody in it the day before.
As I’d learned quickly, folks in Star Lake, Iowa, were insular. They didn’t care that my late father, a town favorite, had left me the cafe. I hadn’t lived in town long enough for them to trust me, and then there was the fact that I had absolutely no experience in the hospitality industry.
Not now. Just take a breath and smile.
“I mean, really. A mugger? Here? Nancy from the bakery told me her sister’s best friend’s cousin was attacked. Wallet stolen. Can you believe that? If I didn’t love the lake and the people so much,” my grandmother continued, lifting the latte, “I’d move away in a heartbeat.”
“Gran.”
“I’m serious.”
“Gran, you’ve lived here for thirty-five years.”
“Fine. I might not move, but I’ll protest this at the next town council meeting. You can mark my words on that.” Gran took a sip of her latte, pressed her lips together and fluttered her eyelashes. “Nearly as good as your father used to make.”
A silence ensued, filled with our shared sorrow. It was too soon to talk about him.
I cast my gaze away from Gran and studied the interior of the cafe. Light streamed through the windows and the glass front doors, illuminating the linoleum that was in need of a revamp, as well as the checked tablecloths and laminated menus. The chairs were comfortable and well worn. The cash register was an antique and the walls were dark wood.
Overall, the aesthetic was typical of my dad’s taste. Hastily thrown together but with plenty of heart.
“This really is good.” Gran must’ve noticed the lump in my throat. Metaphorically, of course. “You know, you’ll make a fine restaurant owner. As fine an owner as you would’ve made a detective.”
That was another touchy subject. “Thanks, Gran.” I forced a smile.
She reached over and patted my forearm.
Movement outside on the brick-paved sidewalk caught my attention. A homeless woman, wearing a shabby coat and carrying several plastic bags, walked up and took a seat outside the cafe.
“Oh dear,” Gran said.
“Do you know her?”
“Only by sight,” Gran replied. “She’s new to town I think. I’m not familiar with her story. Poor woman.”
I bit down on my lip then headed back to the coffee machine and started fixing another latte. Much to my surprise, the bell over the door tinkled, and Sheriff Rogers entered.
He was in his late fifties, with a gray mustache, balding, and wearing his uniform with pride. He sauntered over to the bar and eyed me. “Morning.”
“Good morning, Sheriff,” I said. “What can I get for you today?”
The sheriff didn’t immediately answer me. He scanned the interior of the cafe then pointed over to a new section I’d set up, with the help of my cook, Francesca. “What’s that?”
“That’s the waffle station,” I said, smiling. “Do you want to try it out? We prepare the waffles fresh, bring ‘em out to you, and then you decorate them as you see fit. There’s ice cream and maple syrup, there’s—”
“That wasn’t here when Frank was running the place.”
“No,” I said. “No, it wasn’t. I figured that people would enjoy—”
“Waffles?”
“Sheriff Rogers,” my grandmother said, and the sheriff jumped a little.
“Celia.” He sniffed, using Gran’s nickname. “Shoot. I didn’t see you there.” And he sounded truly regretful, like he was anticipating a volley of complaints. He wouldn’t have been wrong in that respect.
“What’s this I hear about a mugger?” Gran tapped the newspaper. “A mugger in our midst?”
“Well, yeah, there have been reports of muggings over the past week, but I assure you it’s under control.”
“Now, Sheriff, you know better than to shovel that level of manure around me,” Gran said. “I want answers, and I want them now. What am I supposed to tell the ladies in my book club? That we can’t walk to the library in peace?”
“I assure you…”
The conversation faded out as I finished off the latte, grabbed a cupcake from the display of about a dozen under the glass counter, and walked out into the sunlight.
It was the end of summer, the weather a temperate 70 degrees with a soft breeze brushing down the street. I stopped in front of the homeless woman.
“Good morning,” I said.
She glared at me, her skin tan, and her ire obvious. “What do you want, Red?”
The urge to brush my fingers through my red hair nearly overtook me. Thankfully, my hands were full. “Uh.”
“Let me guess. You want me to move. It’s a free country, you know, I—”
“No,” I said. “I just wanted to check if you were OK.”
“OK?”
“Yeah.” I handed her the coffee and the cupcake. “You need anything?” It was my experience, after working as a beat cop in the city, that everyone had a story. Just like everyone had a purpose. Sometimes life just… got in the way.
The woman blinked. “Uh. Yeah. I’m good. Thanks.”
“Sure. Just holler if you need a glass of water or something,” I said. “I’ll be inside.”
The woman, still full of mistrust, nodded then took a sip of her coffee. I headed back into the cafe and found Gran and Sheriff Rogers embroiled in their argument.
“—muggers on the streets. If you think that we’ll stand for this then you’re delusional. You know, I can call up the heads of the three factions, right now, and get them to arrange a meeting.”
Sheriff Rogers, blustery as he was, paled at that.
The “factions” as they were called, were the three unions that pretty much ran Star Lake. There were “the boaters”, “the butchers”, and “the bakers”—and they frequently disagreed on issues, to the point where the town was practically split into three. It was expected that you’d fall into line with one of the groups even if you weren’t an active member of said union.
“The bakers would be most interested to hear about your lack of action when it comes to crime on our streets. I mean, this whole area is packed with bakeries and restaurants. This is bound to affect tourism too. And then the boaters will get antsy.”
The summer months in Star Lake were famed for their fun boating activities, from tours on the lake, to fishing, to jet skiing and recreational activities.
“You’re complaining about mugging and crime on the street,” Sheriff Rogers said, finding his voice, “yet you won’t stop your granddaughter over here from feeding said criminals.”
Gran jerked back as if she’d been slapped—a strange effect on a tiny woman in a floral-print dress. “Feeding them? I think the heat is getting to you, Sheriff.”
“She just took out a coffee and a cupcake to…” He trailed off and gestured toward the homeless woman now sitting on a bench out front.
“And so?” Gran grew red and rose from her barstool, trying to tower at four feet eight inches.
The sheriff tugged on his collar. “All I’m saying is that if you don’t want trouble, don’t invite it into your home.” And with that, he swept from the cafe, trailing his overbearing spicy cologne.
“Idiot,” Gran muttered.
“Gran.”
“There’s no love lost between us.” She resumed her seat. “And for good reason.”
But she didn’t go into the reason. I fixed a cup of coffee for Francesa, who was in the kitchen, patiently awaiting orders that would likely never come, and then joined my grandmother at the counter.
Gran paged through the newspaper, stopping on an image and tapping it. “See, now, this is why you don’t want to get on the wrong side of those boaters. Look at that. A full page ad for their ‘Boating Blowout 2021.’”
I read over her shoulder. “Join us for a boating extravaganza as we celebrate the end of summer.”
“You’re going, I assume? Everyone’s going,” Gran said. “Everybody who’s anybody. It will be a great opportunity for you to network, dear. It’s been a year, and you’ve only made one friend.”
“Thanks, Gran.”
“I’m just saying,” she replied, “that it might be a good opportunity for you to get out there and meet someone.”
“Meet someone? The only person I’m interested in meeting is an accountant who can help me manage my finances for this place.” Things were not looking good. And I was not about to let down my father’s legacy by losing the Starlight Cafe.
“I’m sure there are plenty of eligible accountants around.”
“Not what I meant, Gran.”
She gave me a sneaky smile, and it cheered me up. I couldn’t stay mad at Gran.
“Are you coming by tonight for supper?” Gran asked. “I’m making chicken casserole. You can bring Waffle along.”
“That sounds great.”
It sure beat eating a microwave dinner over the kitchen sink.
Want to read more? You can grab the first book in A MILLY PEPPER MYSTERY SERIES HERE!
Happy reading, friend!