A Double Shot of Ghosts by Alyn Troy

A Double Shot of Ghosts

A Double Shot of Ghosts by Alyn Troy: A Witch & Ghost Cozy Mystery (Welsh Witch Mysteries Book 3)
English | 2020 | Mystery & Thriller | ePUB | 2.7 MB

I’m an American from the midwest (Indiana) who writes The Welsh Witch series of Cozy Mysteries set in the magical Welsh village of Cwm Tylwyth (Valley of Fae).

A duo of deceased demanding justice. A ghost-whispering barista. Can she stop peril from percolating through her picturesque town?
Coffee connoisseur April Storm can’t wait to knock the socks off an acclaimed fae food critic. She’s even called in a world-class-barista friend from America to help WOW! the critic. But just as she proudly finishes polishing her Welsh café’s cups, the anxious witch is horrified to find the critic’s archnemesis dead in a nearby alley. She has to hide the magic of her village from her American friend while the deceased demands answers. It’s up to April to filter through her town’s suspects and roast the Killer.
Trouble is also brewing next door at Black Bart’s pirate reunion. The quiet village gets a double shot of murder when a sailor meets his doom. The main suspects are one of April’s new pirate friends, or a long-dead undead pirate returned from Davy Jone’s locker. April prefers it to be neither.
Add in the usual trouble from her over-caffeinated snarky feline, and how the local inspector is eyeing her American friend as a prime suspect in at least one of the murders, April fears her small community’s reputation will end up in the dregs. But when a yet another body stuns the town, this java girl races to scorch the assassin before another deadly déjà-brew.
Can April earn a Michelin star in serving up justice?

“Admit it,” Elain said. “You’re stressing.”

“I am not stressing.” I shot her a glare across my espresso machine. Even the carved wooden dragon atop it looked like it knew I was fibbing.

Elain sat at one of the tables in the café, nibbling on a pastry with an espresso next to her plate.

I hit the grinder button and filled another porta-filter, the handled metal cup we used to make espresso, with another round of grounds.

“One more gram,” I muttered, and noted the new weight in the recipe I was trying.

“You don’t need to change it,” Elain said. Her thin mocha-coloured fingers curled around the teal-blue mugs we used in the café. Her brown eyes followed me as I darted around behind my station. “Seriously, Ebrel. This one is great. Just do what you normally do. Mr Fedimore will be impressed.”

“He’s the food and drink critic for three different international publications,” I muttered.

“He’s also fae,” Elain said. “You won’t get special treatment because of that connection, but you’ll get a fair and honest assessment from him. There is no critic more ethical than Niles Fedimore.”

“He could walk in at any minute,” I said, my nerves adding a breath at the end that was half sigh.

I was correct. Fedimore could enter anytime he liked. Aunt Rose had keyed the wards on the kitchen door to allow fae through an hour before opening. Fedimore, as a fae, especially a food journalist, wouldn’t be above sneaking in early to observe me… I mean us. Usually, only a few souls ventured in before we officially opened, and then only to help or to drop off supplies. Roger Billingsley, owner and publisher of the Mystic Mystery, our local newspaper, should be around with this week’s stack in a few moments.

“I know I can do better,” I said.

“You’re stressing. Almost like a pixie on her first date,” Nia said. “Mum would have you in the plucking chair to make you behave.”

“Your mom has a wing-plucking chair? Ouch!”

“Well, she doesn’t pluck as often as Nia says she does,” Mia admitted.

The two sisters were our pixie staff in the café. Here, they were in their “tall” forms, without wings.

“The naughty chair has cut-outs for our wings to slide through while we sit and calm down. Mum makes it like a… What do you Americans call it? A time-alone? For a naughty child?”

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