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  Praise for the Ice Cream Parlor Mysteries

  “Fun! Fresh! Fabulous! Abby Collette has crafted a delicious addition to the cozy mystery world with her superbly written A Deadly Inside Scoop. Delightful characters and a puzzler of a plot kept me turning pages until the very end. I can’t wait for my next visit to the Crewse Creamery for another decadent taste.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Jenn McKinlay

  “A deliciously satisfying new cozy mystery series. It’s got humor, a quirky cast of characters and ice cream. What more could you want?”

  —V. M. Burns, Agatha Award–nominated author of the Mystery Bookshop Mystery series

  “With an endearing cast of characters ranging from Bronwyn’s close-knit, multigenerational family to her feisty best friends, this intricate mystery plays out with plenty of suspects, tons of motives and an ending I didn’t see coming.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Bailey Cates

  “With a host of quirky friends and family members, Abby Collette’s new series is a welcome addition to the cozy mystery scene, and life at Crewse Creamery promises plenty of delectable adventures to come. Only one warning: A Deadly Inside Scoop causes a deep yearning for scoops of homemade ice cream, no matter the weather.”

  —Juliet Blackwell, New York Times bestselling author of the Haunted Home Renovation series and the Witchcraft Mystery series

  “What do you get when you put together a tight-knit, slightly quirky family, a delectable collection of ice cream flavors and an original mystery? A tasty start to a new cozy series. A Deadly Inside Scoop is a cleverly crafted mystery with a relatable main character in Bronwyn Crewse.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Sofie Kelly

  “This cozy mystery will leave you with a pleasant feeling when you read it, as you cannot help but love the characters that will steal your heart.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “The #OwnVoices debut novel of Abby Collette’s Ice Cream Parlor mystery series is a breath of fresh air. . . . An enjoyable ride from start to finish.”

  —Criminal Element

  “This setting is extremely appealing and the characters introduced are entertaining and memorable. . . . A promising start to a new series that will appeal to fans of foodie fiction.”

  —The Genre Minx

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Abby Collette

  A Deadly Inside Scoop

  A Game of Cones

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Shondra C. Longino

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Collette, Abby, author.

  Title: A game of cones / Abby Collette.

  Description: First Edition. | New York: Berkley Prime Crime, 2021. | Series: An ice cream parlor mystery; 2

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020035710 (print) | LCCN 2020035711 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593099681 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593099698 (ebook)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3603.O4397 G36 2021 (print) | LCC PS3603.O4397 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020035710

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020035711

  First Edition: March 2021

  Cover illustration and design by Vi-An Nguyen

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  pid_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for the Ice Cream Parlor Mysteries

  Berkley Prime Crime Titles by Abby Collette

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Crewse Creamery Ice Cream Recipes

  About the Author

  To my children, Kevan and Aaron. Because it’s a family affair.

  chapter

  ONE

  A wave of discontent settled over the dusty, low-lit room. The momentary stunned silence crumbled by a low growling hiss.

  “Booo.” The jeer lingered as all eyes fell on the speaker. Reverberating from a back corner of the room, the sneer seemed surprisingly appreciated.

  It was obvious he’d felt the disaffection his words brought. He ran his fingers through his summer bleached blond hair, pushing the stray strands back in place. The cheeky smile that had curled at the end of the lips when he first began to speak was put on pause as his eyes drifted to the place the word of scorn had emanated from.

  “We’re going to, uhm . . . to erect a mall.” He swallowed hard. “A mini mall.” Sputtering, he couldn’t seem to find the right words, obviously disturbed by the reaction in the room. “A vertical mall on the square.” He stepped beside the tabletop lectern, his eyes returning to focus on his audience. His voice ragged, the last words he’d read from the notes he’d now abandoned had spilled from his lips, hesitant and broken. They were out of character with the earlier poised, melodic tone he’d used with his words of introduction.

  The second attempt at making his intended remarks went off no better than the first. It birthed a rumble across the roo
m, low at first, the voices incrementally escalating. A ruckus soon ensued.

  “Boooo!” The second call of disdain came from a man standing next to a seamstress’s manikin draped loosely with material. He cupped his hands around his mouth and drew the word out, elevating his voice above the rumble, initially the only decipherable words made in the room.

  “We don’t have a square,” Mrs. Cro, the owner of the Flower Pot, our town’s flower shop, said, her voice raised, making her declaration known.

  “It’s a triangle,” another person corrected mockingly. I couldn’t tell who’d said that.

  It was true, and anyone who knew Chagrin Falls knew that where most small towns had their downtown built around a square, ours was built around a triangle.

  He didn’t seem to get it.

  Or maybe he didn’t care.

  Zeke Reynolds had entered the back room of Debbie Devereaux’s clothing boutique in his navy blue skinny three-buttoned suit with the mien of a politician. He straightened his tie, tugged on his suit jacket and followed the mayor’s lead as he gestured for him to take his place at the podium. An air of confidence and the woodsy sweet smell of musk followed him in, as did a woman.

  The woman carried a large black vinyl artists’ portfolio in one hand and an easel in the other. Once he stood in front of the lectern, he’d introduced her as Veronica Russell, a junior associate and his right hand. She bowed her head slightly at his acknowledgment, her bangs swaying with the tilt of her head, the rest of her hair pulled back into a tight chignon. She leaned the portfolio and tripod against the wall and stood there next to them at the back of the room, her hands at her sides, waiting, I guessed, for her cue.

  Her hair color matched his. But her emerald-green eyes, bright even behind her black-rimmed rectangle glasses, gave off sparks of light and warmth, something he, at the moment, seemed void of.

  “We’re trying to help usher the Village of Chagrin Falls into the twenty-first century,” he continued. He wiggled his fingers at Veronica and she jumped to action. She pushed her glasses up her nose with a flick of her finger then grabbed the handle of the portfolio with one hand, wrapped her other hand around the tripod and marched to the front, not wasting one moment in setting up.

  The village business-district people were gathered for a meeting of the Shop Owners of Chagrin Falls Association. We called it SOOCFA for short. Well, it’s what the members called it. I wasn’t one. Yet. Although with my new food truck under construction and sliding off the assembly line soon, all shiny and spanking new, and the ice cream shop doing good business, I’d need to join. But today, I’d come to support Maisie, one of my best friends.

  The room was sparsely filled. Old sewing machines, a long wooden table for cutting and a file cabinet—drawers hanging open, overstuffed with patterns and sewing materials scattered about. Ms. Devereaux had long abandoned the practice of dressmaking—designing and tailoring clothes. All the wares she sold in her boutique nowadays came ready-made.

  There hadn’t been an agenda circulated at the start of the shop owners’ meeting, and after Maisie’s plea for acceptance into the shop owners fraternity, everything had seemed to be winding down.

  That was until Zeke Reynolds took the podium.

  “Who is he, Win?” Maisie leaned in to me and pointed her finger.

  I hunched my shoulders. “He said his name is—”

  “I know what he said his name is,” she said, not letting me finish. “But who is he?”

  I shrugged. I was just as clueless as she was.

  As clueless, it seemed, as everyone else.

  I mean, I knew what he’d said—I’d heard what he’d read from his notecards, and so had Maisie. I think what everyone really wanted to know was why. Why was he here telling us what he was going to do to our little village? To us. How did he think he could?

  I glanced back at the doorway where he’d entered twenty minutes earlier. Escorted by Kevin Greer, the mayor of our little village, and Amelia Hargrove, owner of the Around the Corner Bookshop.

  Amelia had kept her eyes straight ahead, carried a small stack of colored papers. Expressionless, she sat at the front of the room. Hands in lap, she seemed placid and unperturbed by the speaker’s words.

  The mayor, however, seemed to have quietly slipped back out. He was nowhere to be seen.

  Mayor Greer, whom I hadn’t voted for in the last election because I was still in New York, was a good friend of my grandfather’s. I’d have to be sure to ask PopPop what the mayor had been up to bringing in a man who would cause so much confusion at a SOOCFA meeting.

  Had the two of them thought the crowd would be rowdy when they agreed to escort Zeke Reynolds in? I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes when this was over.

  I directed my attention to the others present and spied the reaction on their faces. Some of the faces I recognized, some I didn’t know. All, though, except for Amelia, were upset.

  “We’ve acquired all the necessary buildings but one, and there is still a plot or two of land we’re working to gain ownership of.” Zeke was back to talking. He’d built up a steady cadence, decidedly schlepping forward with his presentation. “It’s amazing how they were sliced up into such small parcels.” He drew in a breath and shook his head. “I’d hoped to come here tonight to get your support.”

  Veronica had pulled a poster board drawing out of her portfolio as he spoke, and placed it on the easel.

  “Our support?” Maisie turned and looked at me, the red curls of her hair thrown to the side with the jerk of her head. “For which buildings?” She tightly clutched the back of the metal folding chair in front of her, the knuckles on her hand turning white. “Which of the buildings around Triangle Park? My building?”

  I started to speak, but her curls, flipping the other way, gave notice she was no longer paying attention to me. She scooted forward in her chair, sitting on the edge of her seat, and eyed Zeke and his drawing board, intent on finding out what they meant.

  “It’s not really your building,” Riya, sitting on Maisie’s other side, leaned toward her and said matter-of-factly. “At least not yet.” She gestured with a head nod toward the front of the room. “Or maybe ever.” She raised an all-knowing eyebrow.

  I gave Riya the most disapproving face I could muster, then mouthed, “What is wrong with you? Don’t say that to her.”

  Riya’s face showed not one glimmer of contrition.

  Maisie glowered at Riya, then turned, her pleading eyes meeting mine. “But I am getting it,” Maisie squeaked. “Right? Everyone here was in agreement I should get it and that’s all the zoning committee cares about. Right?”

  Maisie Solomon had come to the meeting because she wanted to expand her community garden using an adjoining vacant shop on the triangle. Such an endeavor was a feat for Maisie and was contrary to the way she usually did things.

  Maisie never kept a job for long, or kept to anything for that matter. She’d get bored or disillusioned and would abandon projects, jobs or anything else just to come up with something new she wanted to try. She was usually good at her endeavors, whatever they were, even though they never held her attention for long. But the community garden had seemed to be a constant for her. She’d even grown spices for my ice cream recipes. That was why Riya and I, well, at least I, had come to support her.

  Hearing Riya, I was no longer sure what she thought her purpose of attending had been.

  Maisie came needing the shopkeepers’ support to convince the village’s zoning department to allow her to enlarge the windows, hook up sprinklers and lay plots in the building she wanted to purchase. She’d come bearing gifts—offering a community hall she had drawn into the plans as the meeting place for SOOCFA. She’d also use it, she’d told her rapt audience, for food drives and a fresh produce market in the winter months.

  Her pitch drew smiles and praise, and ended in applause.
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  Then Zeke Reynolds took the microphone . . .

  Riya leaned across the back of Maisie’s chair and, I supposed, thinking she’d made her voice too low for Maisie to hear, said, “Did you hear he’s buying plots, too?” Her voice strained to whisper. “Wonder if that’s Maisie’s garden he bought.”

  “My garden!” Maisie squealed and popped out of her seat.

  “We’re here to help,” I scolded Riya.

  “What?” She coiled back as if my remark had struck a nerve. “I am trying to help.”

  “Then be supportive,” I said and gave a yank on Maisie’s arm to try to get her back into her seat. That didn’t work. I stood next to her. “Maisie.” I bumped my hip into her. “You gotta sit down.”

  “I think he wants my community garden!” She wasn’t trying to contain herself. She made known her feelings loud enough for the entire room to get wind of them.

  “He wants all of our shops,” someone yelled. “But he’s not getting them.”

  “Talk about me? Hah!” Riya stood up next to us and leaned forward so she could see my face. “They’re the rowdy little bunch,” Riya said, jabbing her finger around the room at various people. “I”—now jabbing that finger at herself—“was trying to be reasonable.”

  Riya knew rowdy when she heard it. It was a major part of who she was.

  “He’s messing with our livelihoods.” A man one row up and to my right turned to us, gesturing at Zeke still standing beside the podium.

  “Whoa! I—rather, the company I work for is not trying to take anyone’s shop.” Zeke held out his hands, trying to calm the crowd. “We want to work with you. That’s why I’m here.”

  “What does he think he’s doing?” Maisie looked at the man who had spoken to us, then back at me.

  “I think he’s telling us that someone’s building a mall on North Main Street,” Riya said. “And it sounds like it’s a done deal.”

  “And you’re okay with that?” Maisie said to Riya, her voice going up an octave. She didn’t give Riya time to answer before turning to me, her eyes suspiciously red and blurry. “He can’t do that, can he?”