The smell of cinnamon and espresso was what kept Maplewood alive. Or at least, that's what Hazel Thompson told herself every morning as she flipped the sign on her café door from Closed to Open.
The Perk Up Café sat on the corner of Main Street, squeezed between the florist's shop and the post office, and for the past five years it had been Hazel's pride and joy. She'd poured her heart and her dwindling savings into repainting the walls a cheery yellow, stocking mismatched mugs from thrift shops, and perfecting a menu that blended comfort with creativity.
By seven-thirty, the first wave of regulars trickled in.
"Morning, Hazel!" Mrs. Whitmore, the town's resident gossip, tapped her coin purse against the counter. "Same as always. And don't skimp on the foam this time, dear."
Hazel smiled, already steaming the milk. "One caramel macchiato with extra foam coming right up. And how's your garden? Still keeping the deer away?"
Mrs. Whitmore launched into a ten-minute tirade about deer, raccoons, and—somehow—the mayor's latest budget cuts. Hazel listened with practiced patience, nodding and offering just enough commentary to keep the woman talking.
By the time the bell above the door jingled again, Hazel had delivered three cappuccinos, a half-dozen blueberry scones, and at least four sympathetic mmhmms. The café hummed with quiet chatter and clinking mugs. This was the life Hazel loved: steady, predictable, and caffeinated.
At least, until closing time.
The trouble started at eight-thirty that evening. Hazel had stayed late, wiping down tables and humming along to the old jazz playlist she kept on loop. The last customer had left an hour ago, and the town square outside was bathed in the soft orange glow of streetlamps.
She tied up the garbage bag from behind the counter and pushed open the back door. The cool night air hit her skin, carrying the faint scent of pine from the woods just beyond town. She dragged the bag toward the dumpster, yawning.
The lid creaked as she lifted it—
And she froze.
Inside, half-slumped against a pile of cardboard boxes, was a man. His eyes were half-open, staring at nothing. His skin looked gray under the flickering security light.
Hazel's stomach lurched. The garbage bag slipped from her hands and split open, spilling coffee grounds across the gravel.
"No, no, no…" She stumbled back, clutching the doorframe.
The man's face was familiar. Too familiar. It was Gerald Lacey—Maplewood's insurance agent, and one of her most reliable customers. He'd been in her café that very morning, ordering a black coffee and joking about how caffeine was the only insurance policy he trusted.
Now he was very, very dead.
Hazel's first instinct was to call 911. Her second was to run inside and lock the door. Instead, she did both in quick succession, voice trembling as she explained to the dispatcher what she'd found.
By the time the sirens wailed down Main Street, Hazel had wrapped her arms tightly around herself, rocking slightly on the back step. Her mind spun. Who would kill Gerald Lacey? And why dump him in her dumpster of all places?
The flashing red and blue lights snapped her back to reality. Two uniformed officers cordoned off the alley, murmuring into radios. And then he arrived.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair that caught the light from the streetlamps. He wore a plain gray suit jacket that fit him almost too well, and he moved with a kind of quiet authority Hazel had only ever seen in movies.
"Detective Callum Reed," he said, flashing a badge before sliding it back into his pocket. His voice was steady, low, with the faintest trace of an out-of-town accent.
Hazel swallowed hard. Of course. This had to be the new detective the town had been whispering about for weeks—the one transferred from the city after Maplewood's old sheriff retired.
Callum crouched beside the dumpster, speaking briefly with the officers, then stood and turned his gaze toward Hazel. His eyes were sharp, assessing.
"You're the one who found him?"
Hazel nodded quickly. "Yes. I—I run the café. This café." She gestured uselessly behind her. "I was just taking out the trash and—and—" Her voice cracked.
Callum's expression softened, though only slightly. "Take a breath. You said your name is…?"
"Hazel. Hazel Thompson."
He made a note in a small leather notebook. "And Mr. Lacey—did you know him well?"
Hazel shook her head. "Not well. He came in almost every morning. Coffee, no sugar. He liked to talk about his golf swing, mostly."
"Mhm." Callum's eyes lingered on her, unreadable. "Did you notice anything unusual about him today? Anything off?"
Hazel thought back. Gerald had been cheerful, as usual. He'd joked with Mrs. Whitmore, teased Hazel about raising her prices on muffins. Nothing unusual—until now, of course.
"No," she admitted quietly. "Nothing at all."
Callum snapped the notebook shut. "We'll need a formal statement tomorrow. For tonight, you should head home." His tone was polite, but clipped. Dismissive.
Hazel bristled. "Head home? My café is part of a crime scene. Someone put a body in my dumpster, Detective. Doesn't that… involve me?"
His brow arched slightly. "You're not a suspect, Ms. Thompson. Not yet. But lingering around an active investigation isn't going to help you, either."
Not yet? Hazel bit back the retort.
Instead, she lifted her chin. "This is my café. My customers. If someone thinks they can dump bodies here, then I'd say it involves me more than anyone else in Maplewood."
For the first time, Callum's mouth twitched—as though he were suppressing a smile. "I admire your civic pride. But let us handle it."
Hazel crossed her arms. "Fine. But don't expect me to sit quietly while someone turns my café into the town morgue."
Callum studied her for a long beat, his gaze lingering just enough to make her pulse quicken. Then he nodded to an officer and turned back toward the body.
Dismissed.
Hazel exhaled sharply and retreated inside, locking the back door behind her. But her thoughts raced as she sank onto a barstool, staring at the neat rows of mugs lined up on the shelf.
She wasn't a detective. She wasn't even particularly brave. But she was curious. And if Maplewood's newest cop thought she was going to stay out of it, he didn't know Hazel Thompson very well at all.
After all, someone had left a dead man in her dumpster.
And Hazel Thompson intended to find out why.