People always ask what a typical day looks like for me, and the truth is, there isn’t one. Not since I moved back to Whiskey Pines. Not since I inherited a crumbling Victorian full of secrets. Not since Dut Steeplepuss III showed up with his cheap cologne and a thousand unresolved issues. But if I had to choose a moment that remains somewhat predictable, it would be the hour between 7:00 and 8:00 in the morning. My sacred, non-negotiable, coffee-stained sanctuary.
It begins, as all respectable things should, with coffee. Strong. Black. The kind that could take the paint off a tractor. I make it in an old percolator that belonged to my grandmother Roxanne, mostly because it makes the whole kitchen smell like memories and defiance. That first sip is when the day and I negotiate terms: I promise to be civil, and it promises not to throw any Steeplepushes in my path before 9 a.m.
Kenzie, my beer-sniffing Bichon Frise and reformed speakeasy waitress in a former life (don’t ask unless you have time for the whole story), usually hops up on the bench by the window. She stares down at the lake like she’s remembering past lives or plotting the downfall of chipmunks. It’s hard to say which.
By 7:30, I’m usually dressed in something just shy of socially acceptable, and I make my way to Becky’s bakery. She opens early for the fishermen and the farmers, and me. She pretends it’s about convenience, but I know she just likes the company before the town wakes up. Becky is as sweet as her cinnamon rolls, and about as soft-spoken as a hymn. When she slides a cherry scone across the counter and says, “Rough night?” she already knows the answer.
The bakery is where I hear the best of the town gossip, especially from Old Man Tibbett, who drinks his coffee like it’s a religious sacrament and has opinions about everything from taxes to tire pressure. He swears he saw someone sneaking around Maxx Lighthouse last week, but Tibbett also once mistook a scarecrow for a drifter, so I take it with a grain of salt, and a pat of butter.
By 8:00, I’m at the Whiskey Pines Journal, sorting through the morgue, that’s newspaper-speak for the archives, not a place with toe tags (although in this town, sometimes the lines blur). I sift through old stories looking for clues, connections, cold cases that still whisper beneath the surface. And when I find something interesting, I tuck it in my notebook for later. Like breadcrumbs. Only mine don’t lead home. They lead to trouble.
Sometimes I get asked why I do this. Why I dig. Why I stir up old secrets when most people would rather let them lie. The answer is simple: because somebody has to. Because silence is comfortable, but it never solved a thing. Because a town isn’t just a place, it’s a story, and someone needs to make sure it’s told right.
So that’s my morning. Coffee, crime, and crumbs. A little ritual wrapped around a whole lot of mystery. It keeps me grounded. Keeps me curious. And if I’m lucky, keeps Dut out of my hair until at least lunchtime.
Stay caffeinated, Roxie Maxx Lady of the Lighthouse, Purveyor of Scones, and Local Nuisance (in the best way)
