Sour Grapes

  Sour Grapes

  By Jeff Shelby

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Sour Grapes

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright ©2018

  Cover design by Alchemy Book Covers and Design

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the expressed written consent of the author.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Books by Jeff Shelby

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  THREE

  Thanks for reading SOUR GRAPES! If you enjoyed it, please consider taking a few minutes to review it wherever you purchased it! | And want to make sure you never miss a new release and find out about other book-related news? Sign up for Jeff's newsletter right here. | Would you like a sneak peek at the first chapter of Jeff's new Capitol Crimes series, featuring a character from the Rainy Day books? Keep reading!

  If you've read any of the Rainy Day books, the name Mack Mercy should sound familiar. He was Rainy's old boss in D.C. before she retired down to Latney. He's a bit of a cranky old private investigator. And now he's got his own series. Here's the first chapter of the first book in that series, NATIONAL MAUL.

  Books by Jeff Shelby

  The Joe Tyler Novels

  THREAD OF HOPE

  THREAD OF SUSPICION

  THREAD OF BETRAYAL

  THREAD OF INNOCENCE

  THREAD OF FEAR

  THREAD OF REVENGE

  THREAD OF DANGER

  THREAD OF DOUBT

  The Noah Braddock Novels

  KILLER SWELL

  WICKED BREAK

  LIQUID SMOKE

  DRIFT AWAY

  LOCKED IN

  IMPACT ZONE

  WIPE OUT

  The Moose River Mysteries

  THE MURDER PIT

  LAST RESORT

  ALIBI HIGH

  FOUL PLAY

  YOU'VE GOT BLACKMAIL

  ASSISTED MURDER

  DEATH AT THE DINER

  SCHOOL OF MURDER

  The Deuce Winters Novels (Under the pseudonym Jeffrey Allen)

  STAY AT HOME DEAD

  POPPED OFF

  FATHERS KNOWS DEATH

  The Rainy Day Mysteries

  BOUGHT THE FARM

  WHEN THE ROOSTER KILLS

  CRACK OF DEATH

  PLANTING EVIDENCE

  ONE BAD EGG

  BALE OUT

  LAST STRAW

  CUT AND DIED

  SOUR GRAPES

  Capitol Cases Mysteries

  DEAD ON ARRIVAL

  NATIONAL MAUL

  Novel for Young Adults

  PLAYING THE GAME

  Short Story Collections

  OUT OF TIME

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  ONE

  I stared at the hamburger cradled in my hands and tried not to cry.

  A thick patty was sandwiched between a toasted bakery bun, slathered with jalapeno relish. Two thick slices of bacon poked out of the bun, and a hunk of melting provolone held it all together. If I was the kind of person who shared photos on the internet, I would've arranged it perfectly on the plate, snapped the picture, and then put it out there for the world to be envious of.

  But I didn't want it to get cold.

  I sighed and took a bite. It tasted just as good as it looked.

  “Well?” Mikey asked, grinning from behind the bar.

  “It’s delicious. As always.”

  His smile widened. “Made that relish myself.”

  It was noon on a weekday, and I’d come into town to run a couple of errands, but I’d known as soon as I’d gotten into my car that a stop at the Wicked Wich was going to be on the agenda. It was Latney’s only restaurant, a small establishment that was more bar than sit-down, and that boasted a handful of tables and a single grill top and fryer as its kitchen. It was dark and outdated, and the smell of grease was permanently seared into the walls, but I loved it. Well, I loved the food. The owner, Dawn? Not so much.

  And I knew that everything was about to change.

  I picked up the soda in front of me and washed down my mouthful of burger. “I’m going to miss these,” I told him.

  Mikey grabbed a bar towel and wiped at the smooth surface, mopping up rings of condensation. A couple had just left when I’d sat down at the bar, out-of-towners by the looks of their collection of shopping bags. We didn’t get many visitors outside of the summer months, but it was a beautiful April day and it wasn’t completely unheard of to see strangers in town, especially if they were there to visit Sophia’s boutique, which had garnered a small reputation in the local antique and collectible circles.

  “You act like I’m moving a thousand miles away.” Mikey shot me a glance. “I’m not Declan. I’m not moving to Brazil.”

  I felt my cheeks heat a little at that statement. Declan Murphy had left a month earlier, on a mission trip to Brazil. He’d been tapped to help launch a church there, and his timeline for being gone was indefinite. As one of my best friends—and one-time lover—it had been hard to say goodbye to him, especially since visiting wasn’t an option and his return to Latney was unknown. I was still adjusting to not having him around and how his absence was a bigger deal to me than I'd thought it might be.

  “Heck, I’m not even moving,” Mikey continued. “I'm living in the same place. Just switching job locations is all.”

  I knew all this, but it didn’t make Mikey’s departure from the Wicked Wich any easier. His grandmother had died rather recently, leaving him a small inheritance along with the house he’d shared with her. He’d decided to invest the money by becoming part-owner of a small restaurant in Winslow, the neighboring town, which meant he would no longer be head chef at the Wicked Wich. Winslow wasn’t far, of course, but it wasn’t Latney and it wasn’t the Wicked Wich which, like it or not, had become part of my weekly routine since I’d moved to the area.

  I knew I would still be able to find Mikey and his great burgers...just not at the restaurant I’d been a regular at since moving to Latney.

  “Are you guys all set for your grand opening?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I think so. I mean, there’s a ton of stuff I still want to do but time has been a little tight.” He glanced down the length of the bar, his eyes landing on Dawn, the owner of the Wicked Wich. She had a clipboard in her hand and appeared to be taking inventory of something and it was making her snarl.

  Or maybe it was just a day than ended in the letter y.

  He quickly returned his gaze to me. “We’ll be as ready as we can be.”

  “And how is the statue? I haven’t seen the big unveiling.”

  Mikey and his partner had ordered an enormous cow statue to park next to the restaurant. It was being billed as the world’s largest cow statue, and the last time I’d driven into Winslow, a massive blue tarp had been draped over it, hiding it from view.

  “Hasn’t been revealed yet,” he told me. “Chuck wants to wait for the grand opening. Make it a big event. The statue reveal, or something like that.”

  “That’s a good marketing plan.”

  “He’s big into that kind of stuff,” Mikey said. “I just wanna cook.”

  That sounded like the Mikey I knew. I didn’t know much about the guy he was going into business with, but I was fully aware that Mikey’s interest lay in cooking. He’d wanted t
o go to culinary school but his plans had been waylaid when he’d committed himself to taking care of his grandmother. It was nice to see him being able to pursue a dream of his by buying a stake in a restaurant and taking on responsibilities as head chef.

  And he could cook. There was no doubt about it. I'd always appreciated a good hamburger before I'd moved to Latney, but Mikey had created a longing for them in me that I didn't know existed. His ability to turn a simple lump of ground beef between two pieces of bread into something magical was truly a talent.

  I picked up a French fry and dragged it through the puddle of ketchup on my plate. “When is the big day? It’s this week, right?” I hated that my memory wasn’t what it used to be.

  “Four days,” Mikey said. He rubbed his forehead, then shifted his hand and smoothed it over his short, buzzed hair. I couldn’t tell if he was nervous or worried or excited.

  “And today is your last day here?” I asked.

  “Yeah, Chuck and I both thought it would be a good idea to have a few days in between. I can do some soft runs on menu items, get the lay of the land in the kitchen.” He chuckled. “Will be a little different having a full kitchen instead of just a grill top.”

  I smiled. “I’m sure.” I reached for my hamburger again. “And you’re going to serve burgers just like these, right? No fancy schmancy stuff?”

  Mikey gave me a look. “It’s Winslow, Rainy. Fancy schmancy would fly just as well there as it would in Latney. I'm gonna experiment a little, but I'm not going to try and reinvent the burger.”

  He had a point. Latney, Virginia was about as small town as they came, and Winslow was no different.

  “Okay, good.” Relish oozed onto my fingers and I licked it off. “Well, I plan to be your first customer when you open.”

  “Am I paying you to stand around and chat?” a voice barked.

  Mikey and I both flinched. Dawn was as loud as a guard dog. And just as vicious.

  Mikey flung the towel over his shoulder and grabbed my drink. “I’ll top you off.”

  He walked my cup to the soda tap, which left me alone with Dawn.

  “Good burger,” I said, nodding at the sandwich in my hand.

  She nodded stiffly.

  I felt a pang of sympathy for her. She was losing her best—and only—cook, and I could tell she wasn’t happy about it. Come to think of it, though, I had a hard time naming anything that made Dawn happy. She was as dour and sour of a person as I’d ever met.

  I tried to voice my empathy. “I’m sure Mikey’s departure is throwing you for a bit of a loop.”

  She scowled. “Why would you think that?”

  “Losing your cook...”

  She brushed a loose strand of strawberry blonde hair away from her face. “I can cook,” she said frostily. “Who do you think did all the cooking around here before that punk showed up?”

  She’d told me this before. Several times.

  “So you’ll be on the grill and running the bar and waiting tables?” I asked, doubt threading through my voice. “That seems like a lot of work for just one person...”

  “I’ve got it covered,” she snapped. Her eyes narrowed. “And I don’t see why it matters to you. You’ll probably never set foot in here again now that your precious Mikey is leaving.”

  I bristled but bit back a retort. Instead, I forced a smile and said, “I’m sure I won’t be a complete stranger, Dawn.”

  “Shame,” she muttered, then turned around and stalked away.

  I bit into my burger, which was probably the only suitable response, even though part of me wanted to call her out on her comments.

  Besides, a part of me had a hard time arguing with what she’d said. I was in downtown Latney nearly every day, but that didn't mean I had to eat there. And I was retired. I didn't have any other real obligations that would prevent me from heading to Winslow for lunch once a week. Or twice.

  I glanced down the bar at Dawn.

  Without Mikey manning the grill, what reason would I have to come to the Wicked Wich anymore?

  It certainly wouldn't be for the hospitality.

  TWO

  “HOW WAS THE LAST SUPPER?”

  Gunnar was standing at my back door, holding a cardboard box filled with plants. He was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, along with his mud-caked work boots, and his cheeks were flushed, probably from having spent the afternoon out in the sun.

  I smiled. “It was my last supper at the Wicked Wich,” I clarified. “And it wasn’t supper, it was lunch.”

  He chuckled and stepped into the kitchen. “Is Mikey excited?”

  I dunked the coffee pot I was washing into the soapy water that filled the sink. “I think so,” I said. “A little nervous, too, but I guess that’s to be expected.”

  “New ventures can make anyone a little nervous.” He grinned. His sandy hair looked like it could use a trim, and stubble dotted his chin and cheeks. “Remember what a mess you were when you first moved to Latney?”

  I glared at him. “I found a dead body on my property. I’m pretty sure that would make anyone a little nervous.”

  “It was a skeleton, not a body,” he said. He shifted the box he was holding, resting it against his hip.

  “What’s the difference? Dead is dead.” I turned the tap on and rinsed the pot. “And it was traumatizing.”

  I sensed his presence before I felt his warm breath on my neck. “I’m glad you weren’t so traumatized that you decided Latney was too much trouble,” he whispered, his lips brushing my nape.

  I shivered with delight, then turned around and kissed him firmly on the mouth. “You really lucked out,” I told him.

  He arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  “Of course,” I said. “You have a much better neighbor in me than in old Len Konrath.”

  “Good point,” he said, chuckling again. “I like the perks of having you next door.” He nuzzled my neck and I leaned into his touch. “Plus, he didn't like it when I kissed him.”

  I poked my finger in his ribs and he laughed.

  There was no doubt about it: Gunnar and I were a couple again. It had been a gradual thing after the dust from the holidays had settled and Declan had left. I don’t know how it happened or what shifted. There were no momentous conversations or declarations of love. The time we spent together began to increase and we somehow managed to fall back into step with the relationship we’d started at the end of the previous summer. He didn’t ask for commitment and I didn’t offer. Instead, we just enjoyed each other’s company.

  And I was good with that.

  I turned back to the sink and drained the dish water. “So what’s in the box?” I asked, nodding at the box still in his arms.

  “Seedlings.”

  I wiped down the counter and draped the wet washcloth over the faucet. “I can see that. What kind?”

  He set the box down on the kitchen table. “Some tomatoes and peppers. A few different varieties. There are some Big Boy, some Roma, and some grape tomatoes. Peppers are a bunch of different kinds, too: banana, bell, jalapeno. A couple zucchini plants—they’ll grow like crazy. And some watermelon.”

  “Watermelon?”

  He nodded. “You have sandy enough soil in the garden; they should do well there. And you have the space. They’re a little pickier about how you plant them. We’ll want to hill them, but once they get going and as long as you keep them watered, you should get some nice fruit.”

  Hill them? It was almost as though he was speaking a foreign language.

  “And now is a good time to plant outside?” I asked. I still wasn’t confident in my gardening skills.

  In any of my homesteading skills, really. I counted it a small miracle that the chickens were still alive and producing eggs, and I knew that I couldn’t take credit for the apple trees that bore copious fruit in the fall. I could mow the lawn and do some basic yard work, but Gunnar still came to my rescue on things more often than I cared to admit. Just last week, he’d tilled th
e garden and added compost and repaired the fencing so it would be ready for planting.

  “It’s mid-April,” Gunnar said. “I’ve got my garden planted. Seeds and seedlings went in the ground today.”

  I peered at the contents of the box. The plants looked so tender, so delicate, their tiny leaves unfolding from thin, reedy stalks.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I said. “And I’ll plant them first thing tomorrow.”

  He grinned. “Better get out there early. Storms are supposed to roll in late morning.”

  “I’ll set an alarm,” I promised, with only a hint of sarcasm.

  As I said this, I glanced at the chicken clock on my wall. It was one of several décor items Declan had brought over when his sister Fiona had redecorated his own kitchen. A chicken clock, chicken towels and chicken trivets had all been in the box of decorations. I loved the whimsical touch they added to the space, the bright burst of color against the white-washed cupboards, but there were times now when I looked at them that I felt a twinge of sadness. They reminded me of Declan, and he was no longer in Latney. And even though it had only been a month since he’d left, I missed him. I missed stopping by church to say hi or running into him at the Wicked Wich. I missed telling him about Laura’s latest antics and Luke’s small successes in the music world, and I missed hearing him talk about the goings-on in Latney. He was never one to gossip; he managed to convey news about people in a genuine, caring way. Because that was just how he was.

  Gunnar cleared his throat and I glanced back at him, a little disoriented. I’d been lost in thought.

  “What?” I said. I’d clearly missed something he said.

  He leaned against the table. “I said maybe you won’t need one. An alarm clock.”

  “No?”

  He held open his arms. “Maybe I can be your alarm tomorrow...”

  My heart hiccupped. “Oh, yeah?”

  I stepped closer and he reached out and caught me, bringing me in for a hug. “Yeah,” he whispered.

  I was good with that.

  I’d never been a big fan of clocks, anyway.

  THREE