Free Murder on the Rocks by Allyson K. Abbott

popular with my lunchtime crowd. It’s a coffee
     martini that I call the Macktini. Use chocolate vodka instead of the plain stuff and
     you have a mocha Macktini.”
    “Chocolate vodka?” Duncan said, grimacing. “Isn’t there a law against that? If there
     isn’t, there should be.”
    “Don’t knock it until you try it. I buy the chocolate vodka ready-made, but I create
     a lot of my own vodka infusions here and I’m experimenting all the time with new ideas.
     I’ve made ginger vodka, blueberry vodka, citrus vodka, vanilla bean vodka, habanero
     pepper vodka, cinnamon and apple vodka, rose—”
    “Okay, okay, I give,” Duncan said, holding his hand up to stop me.
    “It’s really easy to do,” I said. “And it makes for some very interesting drinks.
     All you have to do is put some vodka and whatever food or flavoring you want into
     a jar with a lid, and let it sit. Sometimes it takes a few days, sometimes a week
     or two, depending on what ingredients you use. Citrus fruits infuse nicely in about
     four days but the ginger takes a little over a week. I have several infusions going
     in the kitchen now, and while I’ve only played with vodka so far, it can be done with
     other liquors, too. I’m thinking of trying gin next.”
    Albright stared at me like I’d lost my mind.
    “Anyway,” I said, ignoring his skepticism, “the vodkas are popular for making many
     types of specialty martinis. And they’re all the rage these days, so you might as
     well start learning them now.”
    I grabbed a shaker from beneath the bar and scooped some ice into it. “I make a jar
     of espresso that I keep here in the fridge,” I told Albright, showing him where it
     was. “To make a Macktini you just add an ounce of the espresso, half an ounce of heavy
     cream, an ounce and a half each of vodka and Kahlua, and an ounce of white crème de
     cacao.” I poured each item over the ice as I talked and, since I was teaching Albright
     how to do it, I used a shot glass to measure, though I don’t normally. I’ve been able
     to eyeball an ounce with astounding accuracy for years now. “Once the ingredients
     are all in, you put the lid on and shake.” I showed him how to put the double lid
     on the shaker and how to take off just the strainer lid once the shaking was done.
     “Now I need a martini glass,” I told him.
    Albright looked at the array of glasses behind the bar and then back at me with a
     helpless expression. “I only ever drink beer,” he admitted. I rescued him by showing
     him where the martini glasses were. I poured out the concoction and offered him the
     glass.
    “I can’t,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m on the job.”
    “You don’t have to drink the whole thing,” I said. “Just take a sip.”
    He did so, and his expression changed from grimacing skepticism to surprised pleasure.
     “Wow,” he said. “That is good.” Apparently being on the job wasn’t that much of a concern because he followed
     the first taste with another, much bigger one before handing the glass back to me.
    Recalling that I had earlier pegged this as a four-martini day and not wanting to
     waste good booze, I chugged back the rest of it while Albright watched.
    “Okay,” I said, licking my lips and putting the empty glass in the sink, “let’s learn
     about some basics.”
    I spent the next half hour showing Albright each of the different sizes and types
     of glasses we have, from highball tumblers and martini glasses to red wine goblets
     and white wine glasses. By the time I got to the beer steins and mugs, he looked shell-shocked.
    “Don’t worry,” I told him. “No one is going to shoot you if you use the wrong glass.”
    “Bullets I can handle,” Duncan said. “This . . . I’m not so sure.”
    Time flew by as we readied the place for opening and continued our crash bartending
     course. Anxious to clean up the rest of the black fingerprint dust the crime scene
     techs were leaving