Any pot in a storm, p.1
Any Pot in a Storm, page 1
Contents
Cover
Also by Sandra Balzo
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Sandra Balzo
About the Author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Also by Sandra Balzo
The Maggy Thorsen mysteries
UNCOMMON GROUNDS
GROUNDS FOR MURDER *
BEAN THERE, DONE THAT *
BREWED, CRUDE AND TATTOOED *
FROM THE GROUNDS UP *
A CUP OF JO *
TRIPLE SHOT *
MURDER ON THE ORIENT ESPRESSO *
TO THE LAST DROP *
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING URNEST *
MURDER A LA MOCHA *
DEATH OF A BEAN COUNTER *
FLAT WHITE *
THE BIG STEEP *
FRENCH ROAST *
The Main Street Murders mystery series
RUNNING ON EMPTY *
DEAD ENDS *
HIT AND RUN *
* available from Severn House
ANY POT IN A STORM
Sandra Balzo
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2023
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
This eBook edition first published in 2023 by Severn House,
an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
severnhouse.com
Copyright © Sandra Balzo, 2023
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Sandra Balzo to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0674-9 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0679-4 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
Praise for Sandra Balzo
“Vividly drawn characters and dialogue crackling with wit”
Publishers Weekly on French Roast
“Balzo’s latest will keep readers on their toes … Solid cozy fare”
Booklist on French Roast
“The body count rises quickly as Balzo’s quirky cozy turns darker than a freshly brewed espresso”
Kirkus Reviews on French Roast
“Lively, intelligent characters … make this stand out from the cozy pack”
Publishers Weekly on The Big Steep
“Connecting murders past and present provides a welcome challenge for coffeehouse cozy fans”
Kirkus Reviews on The Big Steep
“Numerous plot twists, nicely delineated characters, dry humor … Suggest to those who enjoy Laura Childs’ ‘Tea Shop’ mysteries”
Booklist on Flat White
“Readers who like their heroines on the spunky side will enjoy Maggy’s company”
Publishers Weekly on Flat White
“Balzo smoothly blends eccentric characters, lively dialogue, and a fair-play plot with a touch of discreet romance. Cozy fans will happily keep turning the pages”
Publishers Weekly on Death of a Bean Counter
About the author
Sandra Balzo built an impressive career as a public relations consultant before authoring the successful ‘Maggy Thorsen’ coffeehouse mysteries, the first of which, Uncommon Grounds, was published to stellar reviews and nominated for an Anthony and Macavity Award. She is also the author of the ‘Main Street Murders’ mystery series published by Severn House.
www.sandrabalzo.com
ONE
‘Ohhh, Kate, this is just too perfect,’ antique shop owner Clare Twohig cooed, trundling her bag along the gravel path between forty-foot-high balsams and through the door of the massive log cabin. ‘This place just oozes charm. And inspiration.’
‘I think you’ll find’ – Sarah Kingston swiped her finger on one of the logs and peered at it – ‘that what Payne Lodge is oozing is sap.’
Sarah and I owned Uncommon Grounds, a coffeehouse in Brookhills, Wisconsin, roughly six and a half hours southeast of where we now stood. Payne Lodge was ‘Up North,’ as we Wisconsinites put it, almost to the tip of the ring finger of our mitten-shaped state and nearly touching Lake Superior. I hadn’t been this far north since I was a kid and, from what I recalled of that visit, northern Wisconsin hadn’t changed much. It was … woodsy. And animally. And – I slapped at my leg – buggy.
You might say I’m not an outdoorsy person.
‘Property backs onto 860,000 acres of national forest,’ Kate McNamara was saying as she came up behind me. ‘When Lita told me her grandparents had left her the lodge and she wasn’t sure what to do with it, I knew it could be just what the Brookhills Writers’ Club – hell, any writer or artist – needs. A retreat – a creative workspace away from the distractions of everyday life.’
Kate McNamara was the editor of our weekly newspaper, the Brookhills Observer, and president of the Brookhills Writers’ Club. From what I could gather, her friend Lita had given her a great deal on the lodge for the weekend. Which explained why the writers were retreating all the way up here, rather than to a nice bed and breakfast in our own little town of Brookhills or even a conference facility in Milwaukee, just fifteen miles to our east, or Madison, sixty miles to our west.
It’s not like we didn’t have ‘creative workspaces.’ They just weren’t plunked down in the middle of the woods. Which, honestly, was exactly how I felt right now.
Plunked.
Something unseen rustled through the underbrush by my feet and I backed away from the door, nearly colliding with Kate, who pushed around me with an exasperated sigh. I was sure she also rolled her eyes, but I was too busy dodging the fir-tree branches she sent snapping back at me in her wake.
‘Well, let’s just hope bears and wolves are conducive to creativity,’ I grumbled, trying to center my red wheelie bag on the gravel walkway so as not to disturb whatever deadly fauna might be lurking in the likely poisonous flora. ‘I would hate to get mauled for nothing.’
‘Stop being a drama queen, Maggy,’ Kate said, turning. ‘The most dangerous animal up here is the mosquito.’
Somebody had been reading the Middle-of-Nowhere Chamber of Commerce’s hype, apparently. Me, I had opted for a deep dive into the black hole of the Internet before embarking on this trip. ‘That’s because they carry Lyme disease,’ I retorted. ‘It doesn’t mean there aren’t vicious—’
‘You’re both half right.’ Clare liked to keep the peace, her sweet vintage glass eternally half-full.
Mine on the other hand, remained half-empty. At least today. ‘How is that?’
She smiled. ‘It’s deer – or deer ticks, to be precise – that carry Lyme disease, which would probably make the tick the most dangerous animal in Wisconsin.’
‘Ticks.’ I ducked away from the overhanging branches and ran my hand through my hair, searching for the ugly little bloodsuckers. ‘I think I would prefer bears.’
At least with bears you had the whole ‘don’t have to outrun the bear you just have to outrun the guy with you’ thing. And with us, we not only had a couple of senior citizens but also Kate who, despite the black leggings and white dry-fit T-shirt, I didn’t fancy as a runner.
Kate picked up on the theme. ‘You might want to have your roommate do a tick check before bed, Maggy.’ She grinned. ‘Just in case.’
Roommate? Would this hell never end? ‘We don’t have our own—’
Kate interrupted before I could get my question out. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Maggy. I know you’re not a participant in the workshop, but please try to get into the spirit of the weekend.’
‘Yeah, Maggy.’ My partner, of course, had to give us her two cents’ worth. ‘The whole idea is for us to get out of our comfort zones, per se.’
‘I am definitely that,’ I said, pulling a twig from the handle of my suitcase. ‘Per se or not.’
‘Case in point,’ Kate said, gesturing at my now dirt-smudged wheelie. ‘You brought a roller bag to the woods, when there’s nothing really to roll it on.’
‘But I say good for you, Maggy,’ Sarah chimed in again. ‘This is how we learn.’
I wasn’t sure if she was trying to help in her own perverted way, or simply piling on. I was leaning toward piling on.
Kate was surveying me. ‘Lesson one. If you’re so afraid of a little mosquito or big, bad tick – oh, and don’t forget poison oak and ivy – then wearing short-shorts up here wasn’t your best …’ she grimaced, ‘… fashion choice.’
‘They’re not short-shorts,’ I snapped, willing myself not to pull down the crotch of my blue shorts. They admittedly had been a little shorter than I remembered when I pulled them on this morning. Tighter, too, making the long van ride up uncomfortable enough without Kate rubbing it in, too. ‘Since it’s unseasonably warm for September, I—’
‘Whatever, Maggy.’ Kate flapped her hand, dismissing me and my shorts as she turned away. ‘But you are in your forties now.’
Yes, but not exactly dead yet. And I would damn well wear what I wanted to wear, including shorts. Even if they crawled up my butt.
I scrunched sideways and gave them a discreet tug.
‘Lift your leg much?’ Sarah’s voice was in my ear.
‘What is your and Kate’s fixation with my legs all of a sudden?’
‘They are very, very white.’ She stepped back to take in the entirety of me. ‘It’s kind of hard to look away.’
I stared her down.
Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘I was speaking figuratively, and you know it. I go to the trouble of arranging this gig – with all its possibilities – and all you can do is lift your leg on it.’
As the proud owner of Frank, male sheepdog, and Mocha, dominant female chihuahua who lifted her own leg on everything Frank marked, I understood the concept. ‘Fair enough, but this “gig” is for Tien and me.’
Tien Romano provided the food and baked goods at our shop and had agreed to do the same at Payne Lodge this weekend, thank God. As pretty much anybody who knew me would attest, I could brew coffee, but cooking was not my thing. And ordering out didn’t appear to be an option up here.
‘But not to worry,’ I continued, ‘you just go ahead and write your little stories with the rest of the kids, and we’ll work.’
‘Please,’ Sarah said. ‘My stories will not be “little.” They will be tremendous works of great literary worth.’ Unable to keep a straight face, she let out a chortle that turned into a cough.
As I pounded my partner’s back, Clare glanced back uncertainly at us.
I gave a little wave to assure Clare that no one was choking to death – yet – and she turned her attention back to Kate, who she had been chatting with. Or at least listening to.
Sarah had gotten her breath back and was talking again. ‘There’s nothing to say you can’t participate in the workshops. Or at least some of them.’ She snuck a look at Kate. ‘If it’s all right with Kate, when you’re not working.’
‘Are you afraid of her?’ I was a little surprised. Sarah wasn’t afraid of much. ‘Her bark is—’
‘Her bark is plenty bad,’ Sarah interrupted, lowering her voice. ‘She’s quite capable of tearing anybody in town to shreds with it. Take Harold Byerly. He blames her for his being forced into early retirement and he’s probably right.’
Kate’s editorials in the Observer had been less than forgiving when County Worker Harold left his snowplow for a bathroom break and said plow went rogue.
‘But that’s what I don’t get – why is Harold here? And Gloria, too. The Observer’s coverage wasn’t exactly sensitive when her husband was killed in that hunting accident.’
Gloria Goddard and her late husband’s pharmacy had shared the same strip mall as Uncommon Grounds until we moved to the train depot.
‘You think?’ Sarah asked. ‘Kate insinuated Hank was drunk and not where he should have been.’
‘Which may have been the case,’ I pointed out. ‘Deer hunting and alcohol are not mutually exclusive up here.’
‘Which is what Kate’s editorial was campaigning against,’ Sarah said. ‘And I don’t disagree that drunks toting rifles in the woods is a bad idea. It was just that she used Hank as an illustration. It didn’t go down well in the community.’
‘People loved Goddard’s Pharmacy and Hank and Gloria,’ I said. ‘And so, I ask again, why would Harold and Gloria want to come this weekend? I doubt it’s because Kate asked them nicely.’
‘People think twice before saying no to Kate,’ Sarah said. ‘They’re afraid of her.’
I would say ‘not me,’ but I was nearly four hundred miles north of where I wanted to be, so I couldn’t talk.
‘But I’m thinking Harold is here because he’s bored,’ Sarah continued. ‘He just moved into Brookhills Manor, and I’m not sure senior living is what he thought it might be.’
‘And Gloria?’
‘She’s fully recovered from her stroke, so she’s been stepping out lately, I hear.’ Sarah’s expression told me she was leaving something unsaid.
‘Are you insinuating there’s something going on between the two of them?’ I asked, glancing back toward the van where the rest of our party, including Harold and Gloria, were sorting out their luggage.
Brookhills Writers had moved their monthly meeting to our coffee shop about six months ago, having outgrown the cramped conference room in the Observer’s offices. And Harold Byerly had even more recently joined the group, always choosing to sit in the chair next to Gloria, if it was available. ‘And now she’s saving it for him,’ I mused aloud.
‘Her virginity, you mean?’ Sarah’s face was screwed up. ‘I think that maiden voyage sailed years ago. Or at least I hope it has. Gloria and Hank were married for like four decades. That’s a long time not to have sexual—’
‘No, not her virginity,’ I said irritably. ‘Gloria saves a chair at the writers’ meetings for Harold.’
‘Probably prefers sitting next to him rather than a poet or memoirist.’ Sarah grimaced. ‘They tend to be either too introspective or too self-involved.’
Sounded like the perfect person to sit next to. Maybe they wouldn’t talk. ‘That’s not the same thing?’
‘No way. The former thinks you’ll be interested in how they feel, the latter in what they’ve achieved.’
‘And they’re both wrong?’
‘If they’re sitting next to me, they are,’ she said. ‘Which is why I sit on Gloria’s other side.’
Three writers sat at each of our tables, so that kept them all safe from their comrades apparently. ‘But back to my question: are Gloria and Harold dating?’
‘And why shouldn’t they?’ Sarah asked. ‘Harold is maybe ten years younger than Gloria, but women outlive men by five years anyway, so this just evens the odds a bit.’
There was a perverse logic in that. ‘Is that why they’re here then? A rendezvous away from the prying eyes of the rest of Brookhills Manor?’ The senior living facility was just a block away from our coffee shop and provided some of our best customers, at least as long as they remained upright.
‘No secret is safe there,’ Sarah agreed.
‘I’m actually surprised more people from the writers’ group aren’t here.’ Attendance at the meetings usually hovered between fifteen and twenty, about a quarter of them seniors from Brookhills Manor. ‘Kate being your fearless leader and all.’
‘This weekend was by invitation only. Kate’s invitation, naturally, for members who want to write crime novels or short stories.’
‘Which is Harold, Gloria and Clare?’
‘And me,’ Sarah reminded me. ‘It’s kind of an honor. Kate is the only published author among us and she wanted us at this inaugural retreat.’
‘Published author,’ I muttered. ‘She publishes herself in her own newspaper.’
‘You know full well that she wrote for television before that. Even you can’t dispute she’s a good writer.’
But I could dispute she was a good human being.
‘Face it, Maggy,’ Sarah continued, ‘Kate is what passes for a bigshot in our little town of Brookhills. Better to be on her good side, rather than her bad.’
