Wrecked by Rum is the second book in the Bohemia Bartenders Mysteries, funny whodunits with a dash of romance set in a convivial collective of cocktail lovers, eccentrics and mixologists. These cozy culinary comedies contain a hint of heat, a splash of cursing and shots of laughter, served over hand-carved ice.
Read an excerpt in the back of this book!
GET THE BOOK
Thanks for reading! Want a FREE story set in the Bohemia Bartenders world? In “Baffled by Bitters,” Pepper, Neil and Astra the dog set out to learn the secret behind a discovery they’ve unearthed behind Pepper’s bar. (Timewise, the story is set after Risky Whiskey and before Wrecked by Rum, but there are no spoilers!) Sign up for my newsletter to get the story, along with fun original content, giveaways, news and cocktail recipes.
* * *
I also have a Facebook group where readers can hang out and chat about books and life — please join us in Lucy’s Lounge. And you can always find me at LucyLakestone.com.
Acknowledgments
Risky Whiskey is entirely fictional, as is the Cocktailia cocktail convention. That said, the convention was partly inspired by Tales of the Cocktail, a signature New Orleans event I’ve attended as an aficionado and as a member of the media. The Hotel LeBeau is also fictional, as is La Bonne Vie and some of the novel’s other venues. But there are a few real places in my book, including Latitude 29, famous for its fabulous tiki drinks. And don’t miss the Hotel Monteleone’s Carousel Bar or the French 75 Bar at Arnaud’s if you visit the city.
Thanks so much to Eula Huffman for answering my random phone call and filling in the blanks in my knowledge of the layout of New Orleans’s beautiful Lakefront Airport. That said, any inaccuracies (or, shall we say, liberties with reality) are entirely mine. The airport is an art deco masterpiece and is open to the public; I recommend a visit.
Thanks also to Jeanne Vidrine for clearing up a detail or two about the city and for the tour on our last visit. I’ve been to the city several times, including not long after Hurricane Katrina, when I interviewed survivors of the storm for a newspaper project. I came away with a huge respect and tender heart for the people of New Orleans. Even now, the streets bear the scars of the storm.
I really appreciate the support and friendship of my fellow writers, especially Maria Geraci, Alethea Kontis, Naomi Bellina and Karen Ann Dell. Maria’s early read of the book was immensely helpful.
Mahalo to George Jenkins of the Straw Hat Barmen for the bartender reality check.
I also offer a toast to the savvy Holly Martin for her editing acumen and for a particularly good pun.
I wrote Risky Whiskey before the pandemic, and I was halfway through the second book when it took hold, changing our lives indefinitely. But, I hope, not forever. All of a sudden, I was writing a series about a time that seemed like science fiction, when people got together in large groups and had fun without a second thought. I had some real moments of doubt about continuing. But after some anguish, I decided we could all use an amusing escape from the harsh realities of the world. And in the Bohemia timeline, these books easily could take place in the before time … or what I hope is the happier, “normal” after time. Let’s all drink to that idea, shall we?
My final thanks go to you for reading Risky Whiskey. It’s definitely a departure from my previous books, or at least the steamy romances of the Bohemia Beach Series, of which this book is a spinoff (in that series, Neil is a minor character, and Pepper appears briefly, though she isn’t named). I have written mystery before—the standalone Desire on Deadline is, at its heart, a mystery.
I thought about launching this mystery series under a pen name, since it’s so different from the romances, but I’m confident readers are smart enough to know what they like and figure out which books fit their tastes. If you love hot romance, then you might like the earlier series. If you prefer mysteries, stay tuned. Wrecked by Rum is on its way!
* * *
Lucy Lakestone
SAZERAC
There’s no more quintessential New Orleans cocktail than the Sazerac. Sure, I think of the Vieux Carré, Pimm’s Cup, Milk Punch (brandy or bourbon), French 75, Café Brulot. But this is my favorite. And it’s quite simple to make once you have the ingredients.
* * *
Ingredients
1 sugar cube
2 ounces rye whiskey
1/2 ounce absinthe
4 dashes Peychaud’s Bitters
piece of lemon peel
* * *
Directions
First, you need a way to get your old-fashioned glass cold—stick it in the freezer for a bit, or pack it with ice and set it aside. And/or do as I prefer and prepare to serve this drink over one big ice sphere or cube.
In another old-fashioned glass, add the bitters to the sugar cube and muddle them together until the sugar cube is crushed. Add the rye whiskey (or bourbon, if you prefer) to this glass and stir until the sugar is dissolved.
Dump the packed ice from the first glass (if that’s how you chilled it) and pour in the absinthe, rolling the glass around until the insides are coated. Discard what’s left. Add a big ice cube or sphere (if you wish) and pour in the whiskey mixture. Twist your strip of lemon peel over the cocktail and drop it in. Serve and enjoy!
When rum collectors collide …
Preview of WRECKED BY RUM
Bohemia Bartenders Mysteries, Book 2
Chapter 1
While I looked forward to making rum cocktails at an unpronounceable tiki convention in Fort Lauderdale, I wasn’t fully prepared for a three-hour road trip with the man I couldn’t get out of my head, his lovesick employee and a flatulent dog.
Neil, the leader of the Bohemia Bartenders, drove his roomy SUV through South Florida’s bonkers traffic the way he did everything else, with cool, calm confidence. That cool was getting to me. On our recent adventure in New Orleans, we’d had a few moments of heat, but they’d all ended up being shaken and chilled over ice. Probably because they’d happened between moments of attempted murder and mayhem.
That was behind us now, though I still had the leather cord with the alligator tooth wrapped around my wrist, a good-luck token from a voodoo priestess that I hoped would get me through Hookahakaha with nothing more perilous than a hangover.
“Hey, Pepper. Tell me again why Melody is riding with Barclay?” Luke asked from the back seat, which he shared with the dog.
“She said she wanted to talk over rums with Barclay, plus she likes his car.” Barclay drove a slick old BMW convertible and was a rum nut.
“I guess that’s reasonable. He’s a walking rum master class.” Luke’s glum tone belied his words. With his good looks, including shoulder-length, gold-streaked brown hair and tropical tattoos, he could have snagged just about any woman he wanted. Thing is, I was pretty sure he wanted Melody, a knockout blonde and one of my best friends.
Luke worked for Neil at The Junction Box, one of Bohemia’s favorite craft cocktail bars. I was co-owner of Nola, a New Orleans-themed bar in our Florida seaside town. Barclay worked at a hipster bar in mainland Bohemia and Melody at a crappy hotel bar in Bohemia Beach, where she was the only one who knew what a muddler was.
Together, we were the Bohemia Bartenders, a group of elite (if I do say so myself) mixologists who went to events and made amazing drinks. As the newest member, I was just happy to be here, even if we did have a ton of work ahead of us at the tiki convention.
“And what the hell did you feed your dog this morning?” Luke added as Astra, an adorable caramel-and-white cavapoo, grinned up at him with her tongue wagging and released another fart. It wafted throughout the car like an invisible dirigible, bounced about by the vents blasting AC in the eternal struggle against Florida’s June heat.
“I fed her her normal gourmet dog food. My aunt wouldn’t have it any other way.” I neglected to mention that Astra had jumped up on my chair and snatched half of my eggs and bacon from the table when I was distracted by a phone call this
morning. Her vapors were even more painful for me, given my nose had superpowers.
“What are you going to do with her while we’re working?” Neil asked. Was he annoyed with me? I didn’t find out till last night that my aunt was flying off to some natural healing conference in Arizona for the week and couldn’t take Astra. Or maybe I selectively forgot her telling me that. Aunt Celestine and I lived in adjoining halves of a duplex and shared custody of the dog, but I’d been hyper-focused on my business as Nola launched a new food menu.
“My partner at Nola said his younger sister would watch Astra while we’re busy,” I said. “She’s a software genius in Miami with tons of vacation to burn, so it all worked out. I had to give up the tower room and book a double by the pool to accommodate both of us and the dog, but the hotel didn’t mind. There’s a waiting list for the tower rooms.”
“Hmm,” Neil said. “That’s too bad. I have a tower room.”
I looked at him sharply. Was he suggesting that it might be convenient for my room to be near his?
“They have great views from up there,” he continued. “You can see the intracoastal and the city from one side and the ocean from the other.”
Ah. He was talking about views. Not us. Not that there was an us.
I had to remember that Neil had been preoccupied lately, too. His grandfather had been missing for a couple of months, and the family was in a holding pattern, waiting for news. Police had given up searching, even suggesting that his grandfather might have just gone on a trip, pointing out that there was no sign of foul play at his house. Its extensive collection of artifacts from his treasure-diving days was untouched, up to and including the ancient dildo collection. Not that I would go around touching ancient dildos voluntarily.
Neil seemed to take the situation in stride, but I knew he was worried. Whenever I asked him about it, he didn’t say much. Not that he ever said much.
I really needed to stop chasing him. I’d had plenty of guys before I met him, and there were plenty more out there. And this weekend, I needed to focus on the cocktails. I wanted to build my reputation. Neil already had an award-winning cocktail book. Nobody knew who I was.
“So, what’s first on the agenda?” I asked.
“We drop our stuff at the hotel and then go right to Pau Hana for the opening presentation,” Neil said. “We’ve got to whip up a welcome cocktail, and then we enjoy the program. But not you, Luke.”
I glanced back at Luke, who was grinning. “Are you kidding? I can’t wait to be Fizz Martin’s personal errand boy.”
Neil laughed. “If you’re ever as famous as Fizz Martin, you can have an errand boy, too.”
Fizz Martin was one of the best-known tiki bar impresarios in the country. A transplant from Australia, he’d started with a bar in San Diego during the early tiki revival and had expanded to locations in Chicago, Kansas City, Atlanta and New York, each venue unique and fantastic. He’d won all kinds of awards.
“He’s been hinting on social media that he’s about to sign up for a reality show,” Luke said. “Maybe you should do something like that.”
Neil made a noise that sounded like a dragon blowing its nose. “Never in a million years.”
“Why not?” I asked.
He shot me a sidelong glance that was so full of irony, I winced. Right. Neil could do a seminar or present a cocktail with a great sense of theater, but he was an intensely private person. Maybe that’s why I wanted to crack that coconut so badly. You know what they say about opposites.
I was much more of an extrovert than Neil was—just look at the differences in our clothes. Today I wore a colorful, low-cut dress that made no secret of my curves. It was patterned in parrots, tropical flowers and palm fronds that brought out my gray-green eyes, and I had a flamboyant floral adornment in my hair (complete with parrot), along with candy-red lipstick and my geeky cat’s-eye glasses.
He was in khakis and a gray-blue guayabera shirt with a subtle pattern of tan palm fronds that ran down the front. His dark, red-flecked brown beard and mustache were trim—though at one time he’d had the bartender’s handlebar ’stache, and people never stopped teasing him about it.
More to the point, he was a handsome geek who loved making cocktails. And I couldn’t get enough of him.
We were definitely opposite sides of a coin. But even though I was more of a mingler than he was, I had to admit I wouldn’t want a camera crew following me around night and day either.
“Is that Barclay?” Luke asked. Amid the thickening traffic on I-95, we’d crept up on the little black convertible, whose cloth roof was wisely enclosed, given the June heat.
“They must’ve just stopped and gotten back on the highway, because Barclay drives a lot faster than you do,” I said to Neil.
He gave me another look, this one seeming to ask, And how do you know how fast Barclay drives? Maybe because we’d taken a couple of field trips to Sanford to check out the drinks at Bitters & Brass and Suffering Bastard, but let Neil wonder.
Barclay had slowed down a bit more to let us pull up in the lane next to him. He was the kind of handsome magazines kill for, with short, wavy black hair, light-brown skin, amber-green eyes and a sly smile.
Melody gave us a thumbs-up from the passenger seat. Barclay waved and hit the accelerator, shooting away from Neil’s SUV like a rocket leaving Cape Canaveral.
Astra barked.
“They look like they’re having fun.” Luke sighed.
“I just hope he doesn’t get a ticket on the way down,” Neil said.
I waved away the possibility. “We’re past the biggest speed trap and officially in South Florida. He’s not even driving fast enough to overtake your average Miami granny.”
“Which means I’m not driving fast enough to pass a six-year-old on a skateboard,” Neil said.
I chuckled. Astra barked again, and I let her clamber up to the front seat and get in my lap. Maybe she should’ve been secured in the back, but she was happy looking out the window as I ran my hands through her curly, silky fur. She made me happy, too.
About an hour later, we pulled up under the overhang at Wicker Wharf.
The hotel sat at one end of the causeway that led to the beach, across the Intracoastal Waterway from Fort Lauderdale. Long, two-story buildings wrapped around a landscape of pools and lush tropical greenery. On one side of this massive courtyard was the main building with the lobby, restaurants, meeting spaces and a retro tower that dominated the space. Room balconies poked out at angles all around the vaguely cylindrical structure, bringing to mind a giant game of Jenga. At the top of the tower, a spiky roof that resembled a UFO capped a round, glassed-in party space with a rotating floor. It used to be a restaurant, or so said the website that described all these amenities. I couldn’t wait for our big event there tomorrow.
But for now, we had to check in and get our bartender butts over to Pau Hana.
“Fifteen minutes,” Neil announced as we got out of the car. My glasses immediately fogged up as the tropical heat smacked us in the face.
Neil and Luke started yanking suitcases out of the back while Astra dragged me over to a pygmy date palm and watered it thoroughly.
A moment later, Melody popped out of the lobby doors brandishing key cards. Her wiggle dress, blue splashed with red hibiscus flowers, flattered her annoyingly slender figure perfectly. Her blond hair was piled high and adorned with an arch of tropical flowers.
“Where’s Barclay?” Luke asked.
“He went to park and load his stuff into y’all’s room,” Melody said, handing him and Neil their cards. “Can we all ride over together?”
“Sure!” Luke said, his mood brightening. Neil lifted an eyebrow at his enthusiasm, but the car was plenty big enough to take all of us.
I grabbed my key card from her. “Thanks. Has Gina checked in?”
“Yeah, she met me at the desk to give me your key. Ohhh, look at this sweet puppy,” Melody cooed, bending over to scratch behind Astra’s floppy e
ars. The Cavapoo panted happily. “Can I help you get her to the room?” Melody asked me.
“That would be awesome.” I handed her Astra’s leash, slung my canvas messenger bag over my shoulder, and grabbed the handle of my huge roller suitcase with one hand and the folded dog crate with the other. “I’ve got to brief Gina on the doggy drill. I’ll see you guys in a few.”
“Fifteen minutes!” Neil said again.
I narrowed my eyes at him, and he laughed.
Chapter 2
“Still no joy in the pursuit of Mr. Rockaway?” Melody murmured after we left the guys and made our way through the vast lobby, whose wall of windows offered tantalizing glimpses of palms and pools.
“I’ve just about given up. He’s pretty distracted, anyway.”
“I know. I hope his grandfather turns up soon. But I still think he’s interested. It’s in the way he looks at you.”
“Or laughs at me,” I scoffed.
“He’s laughing with you!” Melody grinned.
We passed through double doors that led to the corridor on the second floor of the first long hotel building. It wasn’t so much a hallway as an outdoor walkway, open to the sky, and rooms flanked the endless passage. Occasional staircases led down to the first floor and the courtyard.
By the time we made a right turn for the next leg, I was out of breath.
“Here it is,” Melody said halfway down that endless stretch of concrete.
“Thank Dionysus.”
Astra barked as I dipped my card in the lock and pushed the door open.
“Hello?” I called. “Gina?”
“In here,” came a soft voice.
I left my suitcase and the crate by the closet and headed down the narrow entryway, which opened up into a nice, big tiled room with two queen beds and the usual hotel furniture. Gina, whom I knew only from a phone call and my business partner Jorge’s description, was sitting up against the pillows on one bed, legs outstretched, tapping away on a laptop computer. She looked up and smiled. She and her brother shared the same big, brown eyes that crinkled at the corners and the same long nose, but she was more slender. And younger, of course—the youngest of Jorge’s four Listo siblings—early twenties, I guessed, so maybe four or five years younger than me.
Risky Whiskey Page 22