“I’m evidently good with crazy people. I suppose it takes one to know one.”
He took my hand. “I think you’re pretty great.”
This time, I was the one blushing. “Thanks. And thank you for coming to rescue me. It meant a lot.”
He chuckled. “If I’m being honest, it was a little anticlimactic for me seeing as how you already had the situation well under control.”
“I thwarted your plans to be the hero, huh?”
“Totally.”
After we shared a laugh, we descended into an awkward silence.
He dropped my hand suddenly and stood. “I’d probably better let you get some sleep.”
I wouldn’t have minded if he’d have stayed for a while, but I was dead tired. “Okay. Thanks again.”
“Sure.”
He shut the door quietly behind him and I drifted off to the best sleep I’d had in weeks. I didn’t need a sleep clinic. I needed normal.
—
“I can’t do this,” I fretted, pacing back and forth in the office at Java Jive.
Pete put his hands on my shoulders to stop me. “Yes, you can, and you will.”
It was nearly two weeks later, and I had for the most part healed. Physically at least. My mind was a mess, but mostly because I had very stupidly let Pete and Stafford talk me into playing the guitar for Pete during tonight’s open mic night. Worse than that, the song we were doing had a harmony part, and I was supposed to sing that, too. I would rather have been strangled again. Well, maybe not. Performing in front of a crowd was a marginally better choice.
“I need to vomit.”
“You don’t need to vomit, Jules.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “I think you’re forgetting something here—you’re only the backup. People are going to be looking at me, not you. You’re the help. The second string. The second fiddle, even. Don’t go all Diva von Selfishbrat when it’s not even your show.”
My mouth dropped open. I retorted, “Fine. Whatever you say, Dicky von Jockstrap.”
Eyes twinkling, he smiled. “There’s the real Jules. I knew she was in there somewhere.”
I shook my head and gave him a slug in his good arm. Leave it to Pete to figure out the way to snap me out of my stage fright woes would be to piss me off.
There was a knock at the door, and Shane stuck his head in. “Hey you two, it’s 7:05. The natives are getting restless.”
Pete turned to me. “It’s showtime.”
I picked up my guitar. Pete took my other hand and led me out into the front of the house, which was sickeningly packed tonight. He pulled me up next to the stage and gave my hand a final squeeze as he hopped up and took the mic. In spite of myself, I scanned the room. Maya, Mallory, Stan, Trevor, and Ryan were here, and Gertie had even ventured out at night to watch us perform. I noticed Stafford waving at me from near the middle of the crowd. I acknowledged him with a nod, too nervous to offer much more.
Pete quieted the crowd and said, “Good evening, everyone, and welcome to a very special open mic night here at Java Jive Coffeehouse. Tonight we have the illustrious return of our very own Juliet Langley to the Nashville music scene.” He turned to me. “It’s been what, Jules, six years since you’ve been up onstage?”
I glared at him in response, and he winked at me.
“Anyway since my epic fail at rock climbing made guitar playing a no-go for me, Juliet very kindly offered to back me up tonight. Give her some love.”
Amid clapping and cheering, I swallowed the terror bubbling up inside and set foot on the stage. It was a weird feeling—both intoxicating and frightening at the same time. As I sat down on the stool and positioned my guitar, I suddenly had no idea what chord to start on. I drew a total blank. My insides went cold, and I felt sweat pop out on my forehead. It was happening again. The panic. The urge to flee.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. Pete sat down on the stool next to me and murmured in my ear. “Key of G, Jules. Your favorite key. The intro is G, Cadd9, G, D. You know this. You wrote it. You can do it.” He leaned back and smirked, adding, “Second fiddle.”
I let out a pent-up breath and placed my fingers on the frets. I took a deep breath and started strumming. The room filled with the sweet sound of my guitar, and my heart suddenly felt lighter. I looked up at Pete and smiled.
He smiled back and whispered, “If you get nervous, focus on me.”
I nodded, keeping my chord progression going. Pete began singing “It’s You” in his scratchy, throaty voice. I kept my eyes on him (and sometimes on my fingers, if I had to make a big slide on the fretboard), and I had to admit it helped. I pretended the crowd was gone and it was just the two of us sitting here like old times, our impromptu jam sessions sometimes lasting late into the night. When it was time for me to start harmonizing on the last time through the chorus, I leaned toward the microphone and tentatively sang my first “ooh.” It sounded okay—a little breathy, but in tune at least. Pete nodded encouragingly, locking eyes with me. I kept singing along, our voices perfectly complementing each other as they always had. With each word, I became more and more confident, more and more alive. By the end of the song, Pete was grinning from ear to ear. After my last strum, the crowd erupted in applause, and Pete swept me up into a tight hug.
“You did it, Jules. I’m so proud of you.”
Tears in my eyes, I said, “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
He let me go and helped me down off the stage. “I think someone else would like to congratulate you, too.” He nodded toward Stafford and took my guitar from me.
I eyed Pete suspiciously. He was way too happy about the prospect of me spending time with Stafford. Then again, this week he’d gone several times to visit Brooke, who had come out of her coma and was currently in a rehab facility and doing better every day. She was expected to make a full recovery and had identified Dean as her attacker. Evidently she and Pete had hit it off quite well.
“Wait, you never approve of guys for me. You’re practically throwing me at Stafford.”
“He’s a good guy. I actually like him.” He gave me a little shove. “Go get him, tiger.”
A decidedly smaller tremor of panic went through me. I wasn’t sure I was ready to start anything new. Any amorous feelings I still had for Ryder had pretty much been squelched after the incident at the Genesis clinic. He hadn’t tried to contact me since then. I hadn’t reached out to him, either, even though I’d been concerned about his safety as well as his state of mind. I’d heard from Stafford that Ryder had taken a leave of absence and had gone off on his own in pursuit of Dean. Since it was thought that Dean had crossed state lines, the FBI got involved, so I didn’t know where that left Ryder. I only knew he wouldn’t rest until his wife’s killer was finally caught. Maybe after that he could finally move on. I knew I needed to.
When I approached Stafford, his face lit up, and he stood, enveloping me in a warm hug when I got near him. “That was amazing. You did it!” he said, offering me a seat at the table with him.
I sat down, still a bit dazed from my performance. “Yeah. I very nearly forgot the chords at the beginning. That was what Pete and I were talking about. My mind went blank, and I freaked.”
He smiled. “None of the rest of us knew anything was wrong. I’d say your first performance was a success. You did even better than when you let me listen in on your rehearsal.”
“Thanks.” I had worked up to the open mic night performance with an invite-only rehearsal with Pete last night after Java Jive closed. The only people I allowed in the building were Stafford and the Java Jive evening-shift staff.
The next musician began performing, so Stafford leaned closer to me and lowered his voice. “I know this is kind of a weird thing to ask…because you work at a coffeehouse, and because I come in here all the time and sit down and have coffee with you, but would you like to go sometime to…another place and have coffee with me?” A blush crept up his cheeks. “Not that I don’t like it here. I just thoug
ht maybe I could pick you up and we could go somewhere together and have coffee and then I could bring you home.”
I had to bite back a smile. He was so sweet, and at the same time so incredibly inept at asking me for a date. It was refreshing, actually.
“Are you asking me out on a date, Detective?”
His blush deepened. “Only if you’re saying yes.”
I smiled. “In that case, yes.”
To my husband, Matt
Someday, I’ll take your suggestion and put a pirate in one of my books—just maybe not in this series.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the following people for their hard work, guidance, and friendship: My agent, Ethan Ellenberg. My editor, Julia Maguire. The staff at Random House Alibi, especially Ashleigh Heaton and Erika Seyfried. Matt Fardig, Karen Franklin, Lisa Hart-Gray, Zanna Mackenzie, and Deborah Nam-Krane for their proofreading/beta-reading expertise. Niloufer Wadia for her magical cover art. The Honey Vines, Melanie Bozsa and Andrea Wirth, for their collaboration in the writing and recording of “You Are Mine.”
BY CAROLINE FARDIG
The Lizzie Hart Mysteries
It’s Just a Little Crush
That Old Black Magic
Bad Medicine
My Funny Valentine
Wedding Bell Blues
The Java Jive Mysteries
Death Before Decaf
Mug Shot
A Whole Latte Murder
PHOTO: JENNIFER VINSON
CAROLINE FARDIG is the USA Today bestselling author of the Java Jive Mysteries series and the Lizzie Hart Mysteries. Fardig’s Bad Medicine was named one of the best books of 2015 by Suspense Magazine. She worked as a schoolteacher, church organist, insurance agent, funeral parlor associate, and stay-at-home mom before she realized that she wanted to be a writer when she grew up. Born and raised in a small town in Indiana, Fardig still lives in that same town with an understanding husband, two sweet kids, two energetic dogs, and one malevolent cat.
carolinefardig.com/music/
Facebook.com/pages/carolinefardigbooks/
@carolinefardig
To hear Caroline Fardig perform the song “You Are Mine” featured in A Whole Latte Murder, look for the song wherever music is sold or streamed.
If you enjoyed A Whole Latte Murder, read on for an exciting preview of the next enthralling Java Jive mystery
Brew or Die
Chapter 1
“I got it!” I cried, bursting into the small office at the back of Java Jive Coffeehouse.
My best friend and boss, Pete Bennett, looked up from the payroll spreadsheet on his computer monitor. “Got wh—”
Too excited to even let him finish his question, I exclaimed, “My private investigator’s license!” I waved the piece of paper I was holding triumphantly in the air.
He groaned. “Jules, I still don’t get why you want to pursue being a PI. For one thing, it’s dangerous. And in the past you’ve come to the conclusion more than once that this sleuthing business isn’t for you. Plus—”
“Plus you don’t want me to do it. I know. You’ve only told me a thousand times,” I grumbled, bummed that he didn’t share my enthusiasm.
“And you’ve only ignored me a thousand times.”
I made a face at him. “Oh, surely I’ve ignored you more than a thousand times.”
“I’m being serious. Just because you have that piece of paper doesn’t give you the green light to dive headlong into mayhem and…and the underbelly of society.”
Fighting the urge to snicker, I replied, “The underbelly of society, huh? You know, being a licensed PI is actually going to put stricter rules on what I can and can’t do. It’s going to seriously hinder my usual ‘sleuth first and think about the ramifications later’ approach, which you have to admit isn’t a bad thing.”
Pete wasn’t convinced, even though we’d had a similar version of this conversation at least once a week for nearly three months. “Still, you’ll be tracking more bad guys more often.”
“But don’t forget I’ll be under Maya’s watchful eye.”
After my last sleuthing adventure, my friend Maya Huxley convinced me to come work for her part-time at her private investigation agency. Her business had boomed lately, and she’d been having to turn away clients left and right. She’d never wanted to take on a partner before because she liked to do things her own way. But, when we teamed up to get to the bottom of a bogus murder charge for a friend of mine, Maya actually saw something in me that she thought she could work with. So, she made me her apprentice, trained me, made sure I got my education requirements, and helped me study for the licensure test.
“She’s not always going to be with you now that you’re a full-fledged PI,” he pointed out. “And need I remind you that you already have a job?”
I smiled. Danger aside, that was what was really bothering him. Pete owned Java Jive, and I was the manager. Evenings, Saturdays, and lunch hours, when he wasn’t doing his real job of being an audio engineer at a big recording studio on Nashville’s Music Row, we worked and hung out together here. Normally, if the place was open, I was here, which meant I basically spent almost every waking moment in the coffeehouse. My new job would take time away from that, but it wouldn’t be a bad thing for me to get some fresh air and sunlight every once in a while.
“Yes, a wonderful job, which I love. But aren’t you the one who’s always saying I need to do something else besides work here day in and day out?”
He frowned at me. “You know I meant I wanted you to get out and do more performing. You’re going to waste your time on this PI garbage and have no time for your music.” His eyes widened. “Or maybe that’s been your plan all along—to find an excuse so you won’t have to perform.”
I let out a breath. Sure, being a musician was what I’d originally wanted to do with my life, but after an unfortunate incident onstage—I was struck with debilitating stage fright—I gave up performing. I’d been slowly working to conquer it, and I’d been able to perform a few times for the small crowd at Java Jive’s weekly open mic night, but I was still not ready to try to make it a career again. Singing in front of people frightened me a million times more than going up against “the underbelly of society.” My sanity was much safer doing PI work.
“That’s not what I’m doing.” Not entirely. “As I’ve told you time and time again, Maya mainly works with attorneys who need someone to gather evidence for court cases and rich ladies who want to know if their husbands are cheating. She doesn’t chase felons and psychopaths around, and neither will I.”
There was a knock at the door, and I went over to open it. Detective John Stafford was standing there, smiling down at me.
“Well if it isn’t my favorite person who does chase felons and psychopaths around,” I said.
Stafford gave me a puzzled look and a quick kiss on the cheek as he entered the room. “I feel like I heard the punch line but not the joke. Hey, Pete.”
“Hey, man,” Pete replied. “We were discussing—”
In my excitement to show Stafford my new license, I cut Pete off again and held the piece of paper in front of Stafford’s face. “Guess what I got today?”
He whistled. “Nice. Congratulations, Ms. Private Eye.” He swept me into a hug and whirled me around.
After he set me down, I couldn’t resist saying to Pete, “See? He gets it.”
Pete grumbled something under his breath and stood up. “I gotta get back to work. Later, guys.” He left the office without another word.
Stafford frowned. “I think the only time I ever see Pete in a foul mood is when someone brings up you becoming a PI.”
“He’s definitely not a fan of my decision.”
He turned to me, a serious expression on his face. “I understand where he’s coming from.” Gesturing at my license, he continued, “You know this doesn’t give you permission to run amok around town—”
I held up a hand. “Yes, I k
now. Pete gave me the exact same speech not five minutes before you walked in here.”
Encircling his arms around my waist, he said, “Great minds think alike. Just promise me you’ll be careful out there. What you’ll be doing is rarely going to be dangerous, but when it is, I want you to keep your head on straight and not take any chances.” He leaned down and kissed me. “I like having you around.”
I smiled as his cheeks flushed adorably just above his neatly trimmed beard. You’d never know it from looking at his big, strapping frame, but he was a total softie on the inside, and he blushed anytime he tried to say anything remotely romantic to me. It was quite refreshing, considering so many men in Nashville were either players or phonies. Stafford was the real deal.
“I promise I’ll be careful.”
“Good. Do you have time to go to lunch with me to celebrate?”
“Absolutely.”
—
After a quiet lunch with Stafford away from Java Jive, I had calmed down enough to concentrate on my work. Or very nearly. I texted Maya a picture of my new license, and she sped right over to see it in person.
At the counter, I was refilling a customer’s coffee mug when Maya breezed in and plopped down on the next stool.
“I hear some congratulations are in order,” she said in her lilting British accent, smiling wide.
I couldn’t wipe the grin from my face. “You’re looking at Tennessee’s newest private investigator.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t got your license pinned to the front of your shirt so everyone can see it,” she teased me.
“And run the risk of spilling something on it? Never. Want to see it?”
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