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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2022 by Dana Mentink

  Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks

  Cover art by Trish Cramblet/Lott Reps

  Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Mentink, Dana, author.

  Title: A sprinkle in time / Dana Mentink.

  Description: Naperville, Illinois : Poisoned Pen Press, [2022] | Series: A

  shake shop mystery ; book 2

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021042283 (print) | LCCN 2021042284 (ebook) | (paperback) | (epub)

  Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.

  Classification: LCC PS3613.E496 S67 2022 (print) | LCC PS3613.E496

  (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021042283

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021042284

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Trinidad’s Browned Butter Apple Bar Recipe

  Cheery Cherry “Do-it-Yourself” Pickle Jar Ice Cream

  Excerpt from Pint of No Return

  Chapter One

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To Laurie, editor-in-chief and head of sprinkle operations. You add sparkle to my life.

  Chapter One

  Trinidad Jones had never before realized how much her senior dog, Noodles, appreciated yodeling. Some primal instinct prompted her failed service-dog rescue to chime in with abandon when the bearded visitor took the stage. Not a proper stage, but the small wooden platform adjacent to the charming train car bed-and-breakfast. A couple dozen visitors sat grouped around on folding chairs, tapping fingers and toes along with the music. Was it actually music? Trinidad was not convinced.

  Music or not, Alpenfest activities were bringing people to Eastern Oregon in droves and, if a yodelfest was a crowd-pleaser, that was fine by her. A parade, a freebie tasting and concert, a 10K run, and a genuine Alpenfeast were among the other events clustered around two weekends. The tiny town of Upper Sprocket was finally poised to rake in a share of the much-needed tourist money, and Bonnie’s recently finished bed-and-breakfast would be a draw as well. Trinidad intended to scoop up her own portion of the visitors with the Shimmy and Shake Shop, home of her massive Freakshake creations that would become famous if she had anything to say about it. There was no other choice. Start bringing in some money or lose her hard-earned dream. She’d spent the last few months in preparation, inventing creamy fall flavors. How could she fail?

  Upper Sprocket couldn’t compete with neighboring Josef for the number of amenities to offer tourists, of course, but when the hotels and lodges were booked up, the overflow yodelers had come to stay in Sprocket. Bonnie had barely finished preparations in time to offer them rooms. The assembled group had decided a small outdoor concert would be the perfect warm-up for the Alpenfest Yodeling Contest set to begin the following day in Josef. Storm clouds were gathering in the sky, and Trinidad hoped the rain would hold off for another hour or two to accommodate.

  She noticed the mayor of Upper Sprocket, Ramona Hardwick, sporting a smile that looked suspiciously like a grimace as she gazed at the yodeler. How did the mayor manage to appear so youthful when she had to be knocking at her mid-fifties? Trinidad would love to try some of Ramona’s skin cream on her own thirty-six-year-old face. The Miami sunshine had not been kind to Trinidad when she lived there with Papa Luis and her parents prior to her marriage to Gabe.

  Ramona looked disapprovingly in the direction of Trinidad’s dog and put a finger to her lips. The sun-speckled skin on her hand looked every bit her age, which made Trinidad feel both better and worse about herself.

  Trinidad again shushed Noodles. He made a valiant effort, but whines and howls kept spurting out of his lips like a teakettle venting steam. Every canine inch quivered to join in the yodel fest.

  “He’s a natural,” Quinn Logan said, striding up to grab a stack of the promotional flyers he’d volunteered to distribute. “You gotta get him signed up with the troupe.”

  Quinn’s blue eyes were framed by adorable little crow’s-feet. Why did everything that handsome hazelnut farmer say warm something deep down in her belly? One would think that, after her disastrous marriage to a liar and felon, she would be more on guard. Still, she found herself tucking her frizzy dark curls behind her ears and remembering her mother’s admonition to stand up straight. Silly. Trinidad was a generously pear-shaped woman with a sweet tooth and little regard for fashion. No amount of straightening or tucking was going to make her any more glamorous.

  She let the rain-scented wind blow the thought away as she took in the view. Glorious. It still stunned her to think that all of Gabe Bigley’s former wives were now collected in this one tiny spot on the globe: number one, Bonnie and her daughter, Felice; number two, Juliette; and now Trinidad herself, running her very own ice cream shop. She clutched her stack of flyers tight, calculating how many milkshakes the average yodeler might consume during the two weekends of Alpenfest.

  It was hard to keep her mind on business with such scenery pulling at her attention. This piece of land that Gabe had deeded Bonnie was exquisite, the perfect place for a quaint train-car bed-and-breakfast. Bonnie’s Sprocket Station exuded charm year-round, but it shone like a jewel in autumn. Tall trees and a thicket of succulent blueberries created a lush backdrop for the four brigh
tly painted railroad cars that now served as rooms.

  Bonnie’s beautiful piece of land might have made her envious were it not for the fact that Gabe had deeded Trinidad a storefront, which had given her a new lease on life. That storefront was now the Shimmy and Shake Shop, her own piece of paradise…if she could manage to hold on to it.

  “Don’t miss anyone,” Trinidad said to Quinn, handing him more flyers to disperse to the spectators in between yodeling numbers. The inn’s dining hall was still partially unfinished, and there was the slightest scent of fresh paint underlying the pine, but at least the first paying customers had arrived. Those new guests would surely meander into town to partake in artisan ice cream during their stay, wouldn’t they?

  Her insides quivered with the combination of terror and titillation. The bare-bones truth was the Shimmy and Shake Shop needed an infusion of income desperately, since her store had to be rebuilt after a criminal tried to destroy it, and her, two months earlier. So much for quiet small-town life. Murder, mayhem, and milkshakes. Who’d a thunk it?

  Quinn’s pleasant expression suddenly turned to stone. “Uh oh. We’ve got competition, headed our way.”

  A short, red-bearded barrel of a man, Forge Emberly, was thrusting his flyers into the hands of anyone in the vicinity of the yodel fest. His metal wheeled rail bikes were a hit with tourists who happily pedaled along unused train tracks to take in the sights.

  “Come experience the rails on the Forge Railriders pedal-powered adventure,” he said. “It’s a three-hour excursion following the tracks as they pass through timbered canyons and some of the loveliest farmland you’ll ever see. Definitely worth the price.”

  “Not in my book,” Quinn muttered savagely.

  Trinidad was caught by his uncharacteristic anger. He’d been opposed to Forge’s various plans to expand his business, since his ideas usually impacted creeks and forested areas, but she didn’t realize the depth of Quinn’s distaste for the man.

  “If you come back this summer,” Forge said to the crowd, as he pressed flyers into more hands, “we’ll have a second route that will take you right along the river with views of the Wallowa Mountains.”

  That last comment brought Mayor Hardwick to her elegantly booted feet. She cinched her knitted sweater against the late September chill and marched over, stopping inches away from Forge. Her blond hair flashed in the sunlight peeking through the gathering storm clouds. “You will stop touting that second route right now,” she muttered through clenched teeth. “There is no way the council and I will approve that project. We’re not cutting the trees just to suit your sight lines.”

  Forge’s latest proposed trail would connect the existing rail line with another set of unused tracks that swooped much closer to the grand Wallowas, Trinidad knew.

  Forge’s eyebrows formed a grizzled row. “Maybe you won’t be the mayor in November anyway.”

  Ramona went pallid, lips unhealthily red against the white. “You’re not going to win the mayor’s seat. People know you’re just in it to serve yourself.”

  He laughed. “Me? Talk about a hypocrite. Think people can’t see through your ‘Betty the Beaver’ scam?”

  Trinidad was a relatively new arrival in Sprocket, but even she had heard the accusations. Mayor Hardwick was hanging on to her seat by the skin of her teeth. Rumor had it that she “suggested” to organizations negotiating deals with the city that they purchase supplies of her children’s book, Betty the Beaver Brushes Her Teeth. The local dentist bought 3,000 copies and suddenly found the sidewalks outside his office repoured. The hospital board, upon which Hardwick served, ordered 50,000 copies while applying to the town for expansion of their facility.

  Now Hardwick’s complexion turned cranberry. She poked a finger at his chest. “There is nothing illegal about any of my actions. You’re not going to get that second route approved.”

  Forge shrugged. “Already got Quinn here to agree to sell me the two acres I needed as a cut-through. I’ll get the approval for the rest in time.”

  Trinidad gaped at Quinn.

  Quinn’s gaze was firmly fixed on his boots. No angry retort at Forge’s outlandish statement? Several beats later, she began to have a sickening feeling that Forge was telling the truth. But that was lunacy. Why would Quinn have agreed to such a thing, this man who was passionate about his privacy, his land, and his environmental principles? He’d fought Forge at every turn. She was stunned and overwhelmed by a growing sense that she’d missed something important. How? She and Quinn had spent time together almost every weekend for the past two months, in addition to daily texts, phone chats, and what Trinidad had tremulously started to consider “dates.” Why had he not mentioned something this momentous?

  Hardwick looked to Quinn. She appeared similarly thunderstruck. “Is this true?”

  Quinn raised his head but didn’t quite meet the mayor’s eyes. “Yes.”

  A one-word reply? No explanation? A cold clamminess took hold of her stomach. He’s been keeping things from you…like Gabe. Just like that, memories of Gabe’s betrayal made her doubt herself all over again. No, there had to be an explanation. She wanted to pepper Quinn with questions, but Forge started in.

  “I’m going to unseat you for mayor in November because you’re crooked.” Forge raised his voice. “And everyone in town knows it.”

  At that moment, the mayor lunged forward and, with one determined palm, knocked Forge Emberly onto his solid derriere. His flyers floated to the ground like lazy fall leaves in the quickening breeze.

  Noodles broke off from his yowling to eye the action with concern.

  “You saw it,” Forge cried from his position on the ground. Was he speaking to the crowd or Trinidad? “You saw her assault me. Did someone get that on video?”

  Someone did.

  Bonnie approached, towering over them. At six foot eight, Bonnie, the former professional basketball player, towered over pretty much everyone, and with an almost-six-year-old child perched on her shoulders and a cell phone in her hand, she loomed even larger. Bonnie’s hair was pulled into a ponytail, which Felice held in one small hand, but plenty of it frizzed around her face, the same pale color as her skin.

  Felice waved at Trinidad. Trinidad’s heart always skipped a beat when she saw Felice. Of the three wives—Bonnie, Juliette, and Trinidad—Bonnie was the only one with a child. Trinidad’s friendship with Bonnie was still in its infancy, yet she felt a strong connection, like she had to Juliette. It was that odd “sisterhood of exes” thing, she figured.

  “I was recording the yodeling,” Bonnie said as Felice twirled her mother’s ponytail like a propeller.

  Quinn was already helping Forge to his feet, dropping the man’s hand quickly afterward, as if the touch was disgusting to him.

  “I’ll need that video,” Forge said.

  Bonnie smiled. She always smiled. “No.”

  Forge frowned. “I’ll call Chief Bigley, and she’ll force you to turn it over.”

  Bonnie’s smile didn’t diminish. “Sorry, but the video will be deleted before she gets here.”

  “You better not do that.”

  Bonnie still smiled. “It’s my land, Mr. Emberly. I want people to love being here. This isn’t a place for politics or arguments. I don’t want that around my girl.” She held on to Felice’s little shin with one hand and toggled it playfully. Felice’s hair was caught up in a knit cap with a massive pink pom-pom on the top. Her luminous blue eyes were wide, taking it all in. Each tiny fingernail was stained purple from picking the blueberries Bonnie had generously offered to share with Trinidad.

  “Pollyanna,” Forge spat.

  Still the smile. “Not the worst I’ve been called. So let’s just listen to the yodeling, okay? This isn’t a place for name-calling either.”

  “You should be helping me,” Forge said to her. “A second railway will be a win for your
business.”

  Bonnie shrugged. “Some things are more important than winning.” She turned her back on the two bickering people and gestured for the yodeling to recommence. “I’m sorry,” she called out. “Let’s hear that again, okay? Verse two? Or are they stanzas? There’s a storm coming, and I don’t want us to get rained out.”

  Now two yodelers took their places and began a complicated choral jousting. Noodles wagged his tail and joined once again in hysterical accompaniment. Forge resumed his flyer delivery. No sign of Mayor Hardwick, who had slipped away after the confrontation.

  The collected crowd, an even mix of locals and visitors, did not seem too concerned about what had happened. Most were still seated in the chairs and occupied themselves with friendly chatter and sips of the free hot cider Bonnie had provided. The yodelers were equally calm as they finished one song and plunged into another. They looked straight out of a postcard in their poufy red skirts and gold-laced black blouses. Trinidad was disappointed the men wore long pants with their snappy vests instead of lederhosen.

  The chief yodeler cued them up for another song. Though Trinidad sported a smile, her insides were twisted up. She desperately wanted to have a private moment with Quinn, but he was already passing out Shimmy and Shake flyers during the pause, a smidge too focused, she thought. When the yodeling was done and the flyers all distributed, she couldn’t spot him at all. She looked at Bonnie, who was now chatting with her newly hired cook, Gretchen Torpine.

  “Where did Quinn go?” she asked.

  “Didn’t notice.” Gretchen adjusted the comb that caught her mane of white hair.

  Bonnie hoisted Felice down. “Felice and I packaged the blueberries. They’re all boxed up for Papa Luis. He said he’s coming by later.”

  Papa Luis, her dear grandpa, newly transplanted from Miami to the rescue. He’d made a bit of a business for himself, schlepping people and property around in his gorgeous 1951 Chevy Bel Air. For Bonnie, she knew, he’d do it for nothing. And that was another issue whirling through her brain. Was Papa intending to take up permanent residency in Sprocket? She knew it was not what her mother wanted, which probably explained the phone call she’d received but not returned.