by Megan Marple
THE END.
(Continue reading for a SNEAK PEEK of “GIN & GHOSTS” – Book 1 in The Tell-Tale Tavern Mystery Series!)
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GIN & GHOSTS
Spring is one of my favorite times of year in Capers Cove; the air is just warm enough, the sun is soft, and the yelling is coming from inside the tavern.
Wait. Yelling?
It wasn’t even 9 a.m., there shouldn’t have been anyone inside at all. I opened the tavern every morning for the Workman’s and I was usually alone until the other staff showed up around ten. I wheeled my old green beach cruiser around the corner of the Tell-Tale Tavern, pushing it through the sugar soft sand towards the back of the two-story red clapboard building while I dug through my pockets for the keys to the deck door. One final shove through the sand and I dropped my bike, the clatter echoing down the beach and chasing me up the deck stairs.
The yelling was getting louder.
The shadow of a large bird crossed the deck before the animal itself dropped and perched on the railing. I looked over as I fumbled with the keys. The glossy black raven shook his feathers at me and let out a squawk.
“I don’t know what’s going on, Poe” I muttered.
The bird cocked his head and regarded me with one bright eye before cawing again.
“Shush,” I said, “I’m going to find out who’s in there.”
Quick flashes of my best friend Jessica Cho in her police uniform flashed across my vision.
“There’s not enough time for that. I’ve got to make sure no one is messing anything up in there,” I hissed at the bird. “But now that you mention it . . .” My eyes darted around the deck until I spotted a piece of a broken patio umbrella pole shoved in the trash bin near the deck steps. I fished it out and tested its rusty weight in my hand. “This will work.” I hurried back to the door and rammed the key into the keyhole, the darned island dampness had swelled the wood and rusted the metal, and shoved open the door, stumbling into the dim interior of the Tell-Tale Tavern.
The Tell-Tale had been on the island for over a hundred years. It was old and crooked and had survived a century of hurricanes and tourists. Once, it had belonged to my family and questionable family history said we were descendants of Edgar Allan Poe, who spent his short thirteen months in the U.S. Army on our tiny island. Evidently, it left quite an impression on him and the people he told about it. One of his relatives, a nephew or step-brother, depending on who’s telling the tale, came down after the war and established our lovely tavern. And my family had owned it until I was thirteen. Now, it belonged to the Workman’s and I worked for them.
And the two men yelling at each other near the bar were not the Workman’s. Neither one had noticed my tumble through the door. It was okay, at just over five feet, I was used to being overlooked.
I recognized at least one of them. Donald Schwein, rich real estate developer and all around pain in the butt. He’d been at every business owner on the island for a few years now, trying to get them to sell their properties so he could throw up high-rise luxury condos and turn Capers Cove into an island retreat for the super wealthy. That wasn’t going to happen around here. Most of the families on the island had been here for generations and we were attached to our tiny piece of Carolina paradise and we weren’t about to let it be turned into a land of golf courses and Starbucks. Just seeing Donald’s bloated, red face inside the Tell-Tale made my stomach churn.
I marched across the worn wooden floor, swerving around tables with chairs stacked upside down on them and pushed my way between the two men who were standing chest to chest and glaring at one another. I couldn’t believe they still hadn’t noticed me.
I dropped the piece of umbrella in my hand and took a deep breath. “What are you doing in my tavern?” I yelled.
That got their attention.
“Morning, Miss Allan. Lovely to see you again,” Donald smirked at me. Dear Lord, everything that man said grated against my nerves. He was smarmy and his voice was slick as goose poop. He was slimier than Carolina pluff mud.
“Donald, get out of my bar. We’re not open yet. And I don’t like you.” I gave him a none-to-gentle shove towards the door and finally turned to the other man. “And I don’t know who you are, but you have to get out, too.”
I stepped away from him and moved behind the bar, flicking on light switches as I went. The early morning gloom was swept away as the lights lit up the warm wood of the bar top, worn smooth by countless elbows.
“I’m Ben Sullivan.” He said it like I should have recognized the name.
I started pulling glasses out of the dishwasher rack left on the counter and began stacking them behind the bar. “Nice to meet you, Ben. Now, we’re not open just yet. Why don’t you come back in a couple of hours and have lunch?”
“I’m sorry, who are you?” He wasn’t from around here, that much was evident. His voice was low, deep, and annoyed, filled with Mid-Western flatness.
“I’m Edie,” I said, “and if you and Donald don’t cart your worthless tails out of my bar I’m going to call the cops. Which you can thank me for not doing earlier, by the way. Unless you’d like to start your day by getting arrested for breaking and entering.” I spun around to face him, my hands planted firmly on my hips. “And just how did y’all get in here, anyway? I swear, if you broke a window . . .”
“I didn’t break a window, Edie. I used a key,” this so-called Ben Sullivan replied.
“Now why would you have a key? And why are you in here without the Workman’s? And what’s with the early morning brawl?” I fired off. I crossed my arms and gave him a stern once over. He was tall, with a thick thatch of sandy blonde hair and eyes the same color as the ocean when the sun was high overhead. And his lashes, Lord, thick and black as Poe’s feathers.
He was a good-looking man, I’d give him that. But good looks don’t hold any sway with me.
I pinned him with a glare as he fished around in his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, letting them dangle off his forefinger.
“Because, despite what you said, this isn’t your bar, it’s mine. I’m the new owner of the Tell-Tale Tavern.”
Click here to find out what happens next in “Gin & Ghosts”
About the Author
Megan lives in the Lowcountry of South Carolina, with her family and feisty canines. She loves Gullah food, small dogs, Carolina sunrises on the beach, shopping on King Street, and curling up with about twenty different books on the weekends. When she gets the rare chance, she also likes to go exploring and learning more about Charleston’s rich history.