Velda’s Coffee Shop, Sleepyside on the Hudson…

Sergeant Mart Belden took the first bite of his jelly-filled donut and sighed in bliss. “No one,” he said, grape jelly oozing from the corner of his mouth, “makes donuts like Velda.”

Chief Molinson took a sip of scalding black coffee and waited while Mart finished his donut. It was easier on both of them that way. Sergeant Belden got to enjoy his deep fried pastry in peace, and Chief Molinson didn’t have to watch the horrific spectacle sure to ensue when the young man tried to talk with food in his mouth.

“So, Wheeler’s requested extra patrols around his property.”

Mart patted his mouth with a napkin. Instead of removing the sticky purple jelly, he succeeded in smearing it in a straight line from the corner of his mouth to the base of his jaw. “Another fancy party?”

Molinson hesitated, his attention arrested by the white icing sugar moustache coating the younger man’s upper lip. “Not exactly,” he said, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. “He has a prominent political figure as his house guest.”

Mart licked the jelly from his index finger before releasing it with a wet smack.

“Senator Frayne,” Molinson continued. Mart moved on to the next finger and nodded, wiping his fingers on the same napkin he’d used on his face. What little jelly he’d managed to remove from his face transferred from the napkin to his hands, causing him to frown in consternation.

“Win Frayne,” he said, attention still fixed on his fingers. “Sure. He’s been in Sleepyside before.” He looked up sharply, grape jelly and powdered sugar forgotten. “Why is Mr. Wheeler asking us for extra security? He always hires his own.”

Molinson nodded in grudging approval. “Good catch. Senator Frayne is bringing his brother.”

“Half-brother,” Mart corrected. “Senator Frayne and Jonesy share the same mother.”

But not the same moral code , Molinson thought to himself. “The terms of Jonesy’s probation state that the senator needs to keep his half-brother in his entourage, so Jonesy will be staying at the Glen Road Inn. The senator has a number of rooms reserved to accommodate his aides.”

“Mr. Wheeler wants more eyes on Jonesy,” Mart surmised. “Smart. I wouldn’t trust him on Wheeler property. He’s an ornate one, all right.”

Molinson blinked. “Ornate,” he repeated, the wheel in his brain spinning madly. Working with Mart Belden challenged him in many ways, but deconstructing his vocabulary was by far the most entertaining.

Ornate.

Visions of gothic churches flitted through his mind, but he highly doubted that anyone would compare a work of art to the hard-boiled, sullen, criminal—

“Ornery!” he said, snapping his fingers.

Mart frowned. “That’s what I said.”

Molinson’s lips twitched. He was, in general, successful at deciphering Mart’s inadvertent code. He’d had absolutely no success convincing Mart that he’d misspoken. He’d learned the hard way that it was best to not even try.

“Anyway,” Molinson said, dispelling the image of the ornery Jonesy as an ornate gargoyle—the hunchback actually made sense!—“Anyway, I want you to do some research into Jonesy’s known associates. Rumour has it that Glen Road Inn might be housing some unsavoury characters.” He handed Mart a list of the known members of Jonesy’s former gang, the Cowhands. Mart skimmed it, but none of the names stood out. Comparing it against the hotel registry most likely wouldn’t help; it was almost certain they wouldn’t use their real names.

“You’ll want to have a talk with Shauna,” Molinson told him. “She’ll know right away if anyone is staying at the Inn who shouldn’t. Plus,” he added, unable to resist, “I hear she has a thing for men in uniform.”

Mart flushed to the roots of his untamed sandy curls. “I know!” he exclaimed. Lowering his voice, he said, “And I hate to admit it, but I find her flirting…” He paused, eyes darting from side to side, “discomboobalating.”

Molinson sputtered, coffee spraying out of his mouth. “Discom—” He couldn’t even say it.

“Yes,” Mart said earnestly, still flushed. “You know, on account of her huge—” He broke off and gestured vaguely to his own chest.

Sometimes, Molinson considered, Mart’s blunders were a little too accurate. Shauna was certainly well-endowed and wasn’t shy about showing off what she considered to be her best features. Luckily she also wasn’t shy about sharing information on the guests of the Inn. Belden would find her a valuable source of information. If he could teach himself not to blush or let his eyes stray to her chest and discombobulate him…

“You ready for your coffee, Sergeant Belden?” Velda asked, appearing as if by magic. She automatically refilled Molinson’s cup, earning herself a grateful smile.

Mart’s eyes brightened. “Bilingual?” he asked.

It had been a long week, Molinson told himself. He was hearing things. As creative as Mart’s vocabulary was, Molinson couldn’t even begin to imagine what he meant by bilingual coffee. And he certainly couldn’t fathom why it would cause Velda to respond with an indulgent smile.

“Only you,” she laughed. “Does your mother know what you order? Never mind. Don’t answer that. You are my best customer, after all.” She patted Mart’s cheek and left to refill the cups of the other patrons. Molinson watched her bustle away, her ample form covered with a striped waitress uniform and topped with a traditional Dutch apron. There really was no better place than Sleepyside to find a decent cup of coffee, he reflected.

“You have to try my coffee,” Mart said. “You’ll never believe how good—wait. On second thought, no. You don’t need to try it,” he decided, his eyes narrowing as if the older man were about to down the coffee Velda hadn’t even brought yet.

Molinson raised an eyebrow. “Afraid I’ll start making you write reports in Spanish if I drink bilingual coffee?”

Mart frowned. “No. Of course not! That doesn’t even make sense. Besides, it would be French.”

“Right. French.” It made as much sense as anything else, he supposed. Because it wasn’t as if they were in a Dutch coffee shop.

“Well, yeah. Because it’s French vanilla and English toffee. Get it? French vanilla? English toffee? Bilingual! Just like Canada!” Lowering his voice, he added, “It was Tim Horton’s that gave me the idea. But don’t tell Velda.”

Oh, lord. And this was the man he’d put in charge of making sure Jonesy didn’t wreak havoc on the town of Sleepyside.

“Here you are, hon,” Velda said, setting a steaming mug in front of Mart. “And I brought one for you, too.” She set a second mug in front of Molinson. “Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” she whispered, leaving a flowery handprint on his shoulder as she gave him a reassuring pat.

Molinson stared at the murky liquid, comparing it to his own cup of blacker-than-black coffee. Was there even any coffee in the bilingual one? Or was it all sugar and froth? There was only one way to find out.

“Not so fast!” Mart objected, stopping him before the mug touched his lips. “You can’t just drink it,” he said, aghast. “You have to savour it!”

Molinson felt a twitch develop in the area of his temple.

“You have to let it warm your hands,” Mart instructed, and Molinson saw that Mart was, indeed, cradling the hot mug in both hands. He reluctantly followed suit, hoping that he didn’t look quite as ridiculous as the younger man.

“That’s right. And then you have to smell it!” Mart lifted his mug and inhaled dramatically, an expression of bliss on his face. “Ah,” he sighed. “Vanilla. Toffee. And a hint of…” He blinked. “You’re in for a treat! Velda added a dash of cinnamon!”

Wondering when he had accidentally fallen into a wine tasting festival, Molinson gave his coffee a cursory sniff. “Can I try it now?” he asked, rolling his eyes and ignoring the fact that the bilingual coffee really did smell amazing.

Mart, engrossed in his own mug, waved him on. Molinson took a tentative sip. It was sweet. Sweeter than he’d even expected. But it was also… good. Comforting. Like his mother’s homemade turtles. He took another swallow and felt the warm course through him in a way that black coffee never had.

A third healthy swallow and he was hooked.

Not that he would ever let Belden know. No, this would have to stay between him and Velda.

“Say,” Mart said, setting aside the bilingual coffee. “Do you suppose we could monitor the sale of prepaid cell phone cards?”

Molinson raised an eyebrow. The only place in Sleepyside to buy prepaid phone cards was Lytell’s General Store, and the trick would be to get Frank to stop monitoring to whom he sold anything interesting.

He took another satisfying sip of coffee and reflected that perhaps Sleepyside wasn’t in such bad hands after all.