Windmere Cove Cozy Mystery: Series Starter (Books 1-3)

• Books included: Murder at Buttermilk Cafe, Murder at the Historical Society, Murder at Calloway Hall
• Total length: 858 pages across three novels
• Format: Ebook (ePub delivered instantly via BookFunnel)
• Publisher: Thistledown Heights Publishing
• Language: English
• Series: Windmere Cove Cozy Mystery, Books 1-3
• Genre: Cozy Mystery
• Setting: Windmere Cove, a fictional coastal town in South Carolina
• Content: Clean read. No graphic violence, no strong language, no explicit content.
• Bundle savings: 33% off individual prices

Copyright © 2026 Harper Burton. All rights reserved. This excerpt may not be reproduced without permission.

Chapter 1: Murder at Buttermilk Cafe

The espresso machine hissed judgment as Izzy rifled through her recipe box, organized not by cuisine, but by emotional emergencies: Brownies for When You Regret Googling Your Ex or Cookies for Jury Summons.

She wasn’t sure why the unease had crept in with the morning fog, but it had. And when that happened, she trusted her recipe instincts more than logic.

The air hung thick with midsummer heaviness, the kind that made everything feel slower, heavier, like thoughts wrapped in damp wool. Even the garden seemed to hold its breath.

Izzy reached for something bold, Muffins for Moments You’d Rather Avoid, but her hand hovered, indecisive. The feeling in her chest wasn’t dread exactly. More like anticipation dressed up in uncertainty. Whatever it was, it had weight.

Then came the knock on the window, startling her mid-sift and launching flour across the counter.

Her sifter clattered to the floor like it knew better than to face him.

Izzy stared at Spencer through the window, heat prickling her skin like she'd been shoved into an oven set to broil. Her hands trembled slightly as she brushed flour from her apron, leaving ghostly fingerprints that matched the color draining from her face.

Her fingers instinctively found her grandmother's jade pendant, a habit when she felt unmoored.

Fifteen years of building her reputation as New York’s most discerning palate had been wiped out by one review and one vindictive chef.

Marcelo Santos hadn’t taken her critique lightly. On live TV he’d stated: “Izzy Harper has tastebuds as astute as a brown paper bag.”

The industry had laughed. Her editor flinched. Her column vanished.

Now Buttermilk Café was her sanctuary, tucked away in this coastal town where nobody cared about Michelin stars or celebrity chefs. Where her extraordinary sense of taste and scent could serve comfort rather than criticism.

For six months since opening, she'd been rebuilding herself through butter, flour, and sugar, creating recipes that matched moods rather than occasions.

The café had become her redemption, her customers a new family who didn't know about the food critic who'd fallen from grace.

Buttermilk Café had found its rhythm in the unconventional hours of noon to eleven, Thursday through Saturday. Izzy had discovered that Windmere Cove didn't need another breakfast spot, but a place where late lunches melted into long dinners, where afternoon tea could become evening wine.

It was into this carefully crafted sanctuary that Spencer Reed now intruded, the kingmaker of culinary journalism, whose words could elevate a roadside stand to a destination or reduce a five-star restaurant to empty tables. The man whose recommendation had once earned her that coveted critic position, and whose silence had been deafening when she'd needed allies.

Izzy’s golden retriever, Noodle, nudged her leg, his head tilting in the ‘Noodle stare’ way that seemed to ask a question. Whatever Spencer wanted, it couldn't be good. Critics like him didn't seek out small-town cafés for the ambiance.

"I know, buddy. He’s trouble with expensive shoes," Izzy whispered, drawing comfort from the warm pressure of Noodle against her leg.

Noodle's honey-gold coat caught the morning light streaming through the windows as he shifted his weight, those expressive eyebrows lifting in a way that made him look simultaneously concerned and curious.

For a dog who'd flunked out of service training for being 'excessively friendly,' which really just meant he thought every human was his soulmate, his restraint around Spencer was practically heroic. His tail, normally a blur of goodwill, just gave the floor a single, thoughtful swish.

Noodle's ear twitched as if considering the question seriously. He gave another head tilt, more pronounced this time, his amber eyes fixed on hers. An intelligence that sometimes made her wonder if he understood English perfectly well but had chosen a life unburdened by human conversation.

"What's he doing here?" Izzy glanced down at Noodle. "And why now?"

Izzy took a steadying breath, straightened her shoulders, and moved toward the door. Her fingers left floury prints on the handle as she opened it, letting in both the salt-tinged morning air and the man who'd once been her mentor.

"Spencer Reed." She managed to keep her voice level despite the anxiety churning in her stomach. "Bit far from Manhattan, aren't you?"

Spencer's smile stretched wide, flashing teeth so flawless they surely had a legal team. His tailored blazer and crisp oxford shirt looked ridiculously out of place in Windmere Cove, like a penguin at a beach party.

"Izzy Harper. Still hiding flour in your hair, I see." He gestured to what she knew must be a white streak above her ear. "Some things never change."

"What do you want, Spencer?" The words came out sharper than she intended, but politeness felt beyond her capabilities at the moment.

Spencer glanced around the café, taking in the mismatched vintage furniture and the handwritten menu board. His expression revealed nothing, but Izzy recognized the assessment in his eyes, the same calculating look he gave restaurants before deciding their fate in his column.

"I'm here on business. Writing a feature on reinvention in the culinary world. Former critics turned creators." He slid a business card across the counter. "I'd like to schedule a tasting. Tomorrow, perhaps?"

The request hit Izzy like ice water, a tasting meant judgment, criticism, everything she'd fled from.

"I don't do tastings anymore."

"Come now, Izzy. We both know that's not true. You taste everything, it’s your gift." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Your superpower, some might say."

Noodle let out a low groan beside her, as if warning her against what she was about to do.

"Fine. Tomorrow at seven. After the dinner rush."

Spencer nodded, satisfied. "Perfect. I look forward to it."

The door clicked shut. Only then did she realize she hadn’t breathed properly since the knock.

Izzy mentally filed the entire exchange under Recipes for When You're About to Make a Terrible Decision. The category was getting alarmingly full these days.

Today, as every day, Mr. Thornton was more than just a café regular; he was a vessel of the town’s stories and secrets. And, as Izzy sensed, today might unveil a new chapter in their shared narrative.

Despite the tension from Spencer's visit, Izzy smiled. A flicker of routine steadied her, and she slipped into hospitality like an old apron. "I'll put your coffee on right away." She glanced down at Noodle, who'd settled beside her, his golden coat gleaming under the pendant lights. The Noodle's Corner sign above his custom bed near the entrance wasn't just for show, it was practically a historical marker now.

As she reached for Mr. Thornton's preferred mug, the faint scent of cardamom from her earlier baking session drifted up. Instantly, she was transported back to her first encounter with Spencer Reed fifteen years ago.

The memory unfurled with photographic clarity, the Michelin-starred restaurant in Manhattan, table fourteen by the window, the slight chip on the rim of her water glass, Spencer's navy tie with subtle diagonal stripes. She could taste the cardamom-infused crème brûlée they'd shared while he'd offered her the position at the magazine.

"Your palate is extraordinary," he'd said, tapping his Mont Blanc pen against his notepad. "Most critics taste food. You experience it like a narrative."

He hadn't been wrong. Izzy's ability to recall flavors, scents, and the moments attached to them had always been her secret weapon. A single taste could unlock entire scenes from her past with vivid precision, conversations verbatim, the pattern of light through windows, the exact shade of a tablecloth.

Her grandmother had called it her "taste memory”, a gift that made her exceptional at her job but sometimes left her overwhelmed by the sensory world.

Izzy blinked, the memory dissolving as quickly as it had appeared. Spencer was the one who had called it her ‘superpower’. That same gift had only made Chef Marcelo Santos’ attack cut deeper. She could still taste every nuance of the signature dish that had led to her scathing review and subsequent downfall, the dish that had cost her everything when Santos went on television to destroy her credibility.

Mr. Thornton cleared his throat, pulling her attention back to the café. "He's becoming increasingly proprietary about that spot by the counter," he observed, his tone severe but his eyes softening a fraction when Noodle tilted his head. "One might think he owns the establishment."

"To be fair, he earned his place the day he pulled Mrs. Abernathy away from her car before she collapsed." Izzy reached down to scratch behind Noodle's ears. "Not bad for a service dog school dropout."

The memory still gave her chills. Six months after moving to Windmere Cove, she'd been setting up an outdoor display when Noodle, who’d been curled up in the shade, suddenly bolted across the parking lot. He'd gently but firmly tugged the elderly woman away from her driver's side door seconds before she suffered a heart attack. The paramedics later said those precious moments when she wasn't alone, when she didn't hit her head falling, had likely saved her life.

The unanimous town council vote declaring Noodle ‘Windmere Cove's Comfort Ambassador’ had followed a week later. Mr. Thornton had been the only abstention, not because he disapproved, but because "parliamentary procedure requires someone to play devil's advocate."

"His training wasn't entirely wasted," Mr. Thornton conceded, opening his journal with deliberate care. "Though I maintain that his excessive friendliness remains a liability in certain situations."

Izzy knew this referred to the incident where Noodle had enthusiastically greeted Mr. Thornton during last summer's town picnic, leaving perfect paw prints on his freshly pressed slacks. The fact that Mr. Thornton now carried dog treats in his pocket (a secret he thought no one had noticed) spoke volumes more than his complaints.

Since his retirement from the university history department three months ago, Mr. Thornton had appeared like clockwork each morning, claiming to "inspect the premises for health code violations" while actually helping her prep for the week ahead.

"Your pruning shears left gouges in the rosemary again," he commented, accepting the steaming mug. "One must maintain a forty-five-degree angle for optimal aromatic oil preservation."

"Is that what they taught you in Persnickety Professor School?" Izzy asked, returning to her scone dough.

She worked the butter into the flour with her fingertips, the familiar motion calming her racing thoughts. The cold butter yielded beneath her touch, unlike the knot of anxiety Spencer's appearance had tied in her stomach. That particular tangle would require more than baking to unravel.

"I volunteered at the botanical gardens for seventeen years," Mr. Thornton corrected, pulling a red pen from his pocket. "Your menu board still lists last week's special. Unacceptable."

What he didn't say, what he never said, was that he'd been at a loose end since retirement, his meticulous energy finding no proper outlet until he'd started reorganizing her spice rack alphabetically (and by region of origin, and then by flavor profile). The pretense of complaints barely masked his need for purpose.

"The blackboard is all yours," Izzy said. "But if you write 'lackadaisical preparation techniques' as the daily special again, we're going to have words."

Mr. Thornton's lips twitched in what, for him, constituted a broad smile. "Perhaps 'cavalier approach to citrus zesting' instead."

Noodle trotted over to Mr. Thornton's table and placed his chin on the man's knee, staring up with liquid brown eyes.

"Your animal is begging. Most unseemly." Despite his words, Mr. Thornton's hand disappeared beneath the table, and the rhythmic thump of Noodle's tail against the floor told Izzy exactly what was happening.

"He's not begging. He's supervising your handwriting."

With a soft chuckle, Izzy turned her gaze toward the café's inviting exterior. She needed to get some air after that encounter with Spencer; the weight of his presence still lingered in her stomach.

Stepping outside, she left the comforting bustle of the café behind and took a moment to appreciate the sanctuary she had created here in Windmere Cove.

Even the garden felt quieter than usual, as if the breeze were waiting for her to speak first.

Buttermilk Café greeted visitors with its enchanting pale green cottage facade, adorned with crisp white accents that danced in harmony with the vibrant surroundings. It sat nestled among several gently rolling acres, a sanctuary shaded by majestic oaks and stately magnolias, whose glossy leaves whispered secrets on the wind. As Izzy walked through the herringbone-patterned brick pathways, each step took her deeper into a world that felt as intimate as a well-loved recipe.

The café’s garden flourished with an eclectic blend of local flora. Whimsical water elements were tucked throughout the space, including a charming antique clawfoot bathtub fountain that bubbled cheerfully, offering both visual delight and the serene sound of flowing water.

Here, a cattle watering trough, transformed into a tranquil pond, provided a home for an array of turtles, longtime squatters who'd claimed the mosaic stone island like a timeshare no one dared dispute.

String lights crisscrossed overhead, waiting for evening to transform them into a canopy of stars, while morning sunlight dappled through the oak branches onto the round fire pit where friends and neighbors would gather later for heartwarming conversations. Noodle trotted about happily, his golden coat catching the early sunlight, embodying the café's spirit of comfort and community.

Just a short walk from the café stood the 5,000-square-foot Buttermilk Pavilion with its soaring exposed wooden beams, paper lanterns, and crystal chandeliers. Flowing sheer ivory drapes billowed gently in the breeze, transforming the space into an ethereal retreat.

Beyond the public spaces sat Izzy's charming pale blue cottage with its wraparound porch and vintage swing. The cottage was partially obscured by fragrant herbs and flowering plants, many of which provided ingredients for Izzy's famous ‘porch swing potions.’ The three structures created a harmonious trio that together embodied Southern hospitality, culinary creativity, and repurposed beauty.

With every corner of the grounds meticulously designed, from the white arbor gateway framing weathered wooden steps to the carefully tended herb gardens bordering the main building, Izzy felt an overwhelming sense of belonging.

The café wasn't just a place to enjoy delicious homemade treats, it was a vibrant heart of Windmere Cove where stories intertwined with flavors, creating cherished memories that lingered as sweetly as the delicate aroma of fresh pastries drawing locals and travelers alike.

Buttermilk Café had become more than just Izzy’s pride, it was a beloved gathering spot where the pulse of the town beat strongest.

Izzy took a deep breath of the fragrant morning air, drawing strength from the sanctuary she had built. Tomorrow at seven o'clock, Spencer Reed would be sitting at one of her tables, tasting her food, judging her new life with the same calculating eyes that had once elevated her career before standing by as it crumbled.

As she turned to head back inside, her fingers instinctively reached for her grandmother's jade pendant. The cool stone against her skin reminded her of the woman who'd taught her that food was more than flavor, it was memory, emotion, and sometimes even a weapon when wielded correctly.

Spencer wanted a tasting? Fine. She would give him a tasting he wouldn’t forget. Not because it would be flawless, but because it would be hers. One that might finally answer the question that had haunted her since his arrival: What did Spencer Reed really want from a food critic who'd fallen from grace?

What she didn't know yet was that by this time tomorrow, Spencer Reed's tasting would be the least of her worries. The recipe box waiting for her inside contained more than just instructions for comfort scones and courage cookies, it held secrets that someone in Windmere Cove would kill to keep buried.

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