“You mean my jeans?” said Aria.
“Aren’t those my heels by the door?” I asked.
Aria met me with a coy smile. It was a fair trade and she knew it. It seemed both of our closets had revolving doors. We couldn’t keep track of who borrowed what.
“Speaking of fashion, did you hear that Winston’s was robbed last night?”
Winston’s was an upscale fashion boutique located downtown on the waterfront. It was Aria’s and my go-to shop for accessories like designer sunglasses and leather handbags.
“What? No way. That’s like the second break-in this week. Didn’t someone just hit up the yacht club?” I asked.
“Yeah, made off with the charity gala proceeds too.”
“What? I didn’t know that. Who would steal from a charity?”
“Not a clue, but there are a couple purses at Winston’s I’d like to get my hands on too,” Aria said.
“I know, right?”
I could drop a small fortune in that store if I wasn’t careful. It was actually after one particularly pricey shopping spree, which ended there, that I decided I would be a cash-only customer from that point forward. No cash meant no shopping. It was a tough rule, but I stuck to it. My credit score thanked me.
“Is that it?” Aria changed the subject in a hot second when she spotted my client binder on the table.
I smiled and slid the catalog out of the front cover. “Here you go. I don’t understand why you even need to look. You know you’re going to order the entire line.”
“Oh, shut up and give it to me.” Aria opened the catalog directly to the nail polish page and fell in love. “Oh, girlie, look at this one. Atomic Sun? It’s bright and citrusy. I love it, love it, love it. Oh, and these pinks are perfect. I have to have them,” she said.
“Told you,” I replied.
Over the next half hour, I proceeded to mark Aria down for all thirteen new shades, one for each week of summer, and I was confident she’d wear every one of them. I completed Aria’s order, detached the yellow carbon receipt for her records, and filed the white copy in my client binder with the rest of the orders I planned on processing the next morning.
My cell phone rang in my purse while we were wrapping up, and I didn’t need to look at it to know that it was Mrs. Birdie Jackson, aka Mrs. J., calling to hound me for being late. Having three Beauty Secrets clients in the same plantation saved time making deliveries, but it also meant you couldn’t socialize at one house for too long. Mrs. J. seemed to always know when I was in the neighborhood, and patience wasn’t a virtue she was blessed with.
Mrs. J. was sitting on her front porch, waiting impatiently for me to arrive. She started in with me before I even shut the car door.
“You know, this jam cake’s been sitting outside here for almost an hour? I can’t keep the sun from drying it out all day.” She motioned to the large slice of strawberry cake and tall glass of lemonade sitting beside her on the front porch breakfast table. Bless Mrs. J. I loved Aria, but a girl needs her sweets. How she survived on carrot sticks and humus was beyond me. What was humus anyway?
I doubted Mrs. J. had been sitting out there for an hour, but I didn’t say anything. The whole town of Port Haven knew not to make Mrs. J. mad, unless you didn’t like your reputation, or her cooking. You see, Mrs. Birdie Jackson was known for three things—her crazy sense of fashion, her love of gossip, and her amazing baking skills. Today, she was wearing a lime green suit and a matching white hat with lime green polka-dot trim. The bright color perfectly complimented her shiny red nails and matching lipstick. Only a rich southern woman could pull this look off and, believe me, Mrs. J. could. She had a style and a bank account that more than a few women in the neighborhood envied. Back in the day, Mrs. J. and my Nan were the best of friends. Those two ladies were the eyes and ears of Port Haven. You couldn’t step a toe out of line without them getting word of it, and knowing what you stepped in, too. My Nan had since passed on, but Mrs. J. kept the tradition alive.
“Morning, Mrs. J.”
“Morning? Sug’, it’s almost noon.”
No, it wasn’t. I had another hour before she could make that claim, not that it mattered. I looked down on her table and saw Justine’s card with a sample lipstick and her own company’s catalog. My heart sank. Not only had Justine beaten me there, but I had left Mrs. J.’s Passion Pout lipstick at home. My day started out so well.
“Mmm-hmm. At least someone can get out of bed before noon.” I knew what Mrs. J. was implying. Justine was an early riser. She had probably gone to the gym this morning too. Oh, how I hated her.
“I know, I know, but Justine doesn’t love you like I do,” I said with a smile. “Besides, today was a little extra crazy with the new catalog drop and all.” I sensed Mrs. J. wanted more details, but all she got was, “I had to stop by Aria’s first.”
“That girl’s still in town?” I ignored Mrs. J.’s rhetorical question. “I would have bet all the cornbread in Savannah that she’d hightail it straight back to India after Raja died last spring.”
“Aria’s from Atlanta,” I remarked. “And Raja passed away two years ago.”
Mrs. J. didn’t acknowledge my comments. “You know how those young girls are, always looking for an old man with money. I could’ve spotted her shovel from a Mississippi-mile away.”
This wasn’t the first time Mrs. J. had called Aria a gold digger, but I didn’t believe it. Aria wasn’t the money-grubbing type. Although, even I had to admit her late husband, Raja Patal, wasn’t much of a looker. Add that to their thirty-year age difference and Aria’s beauty, and I could see how someone could make the case.
I was still thinking about Aria and Raja when Mrs. J. said, “Did you hear? Someone broke into Winston’s last night. Patsy Ann told me all about it this morning at the Piggly Wiggly.”
Being friends with Patsy Ann pretty much eliminated the need for a police scanner. Her husband was a local deputy and told her everything.
“I know, I heard. I love that store,” I said.
“Who doesn’t? It sounds like the crook made off with a pretty paycheck too. At least that’s what her husband said. I tell you, this town is just swirling right down the drain.”
I agreed with Mrs. J. Port Haven was definitely changing, and it wasn’t for the better.
“Tell me you got something to cheer me up, sug’. I could sure use a reason to smile.” Mrs. J. looked downright depressed.
I opened my binder and handed her a new catalog, along with a couple extra free samples I knew she’d love, to remind her why I was the best. It worked. Mrs. J.’s face lit up. In that moment, I was reminded of why I loved my job so much. Somewhere during our visit, I mumbled something about her lipstick not being in yet (a flat out lie, I know), but Mrs. J. didn’t care. She pushed the jam cake my way and let the world of Beauty Secrets float her cares away.
Good thing I can set my own schedule because, if I had a boss, I’d be fired by now. My beauty consultant butt should’ve high tailed it out of Mrs. J.’s an hour earlier but, nope, I had to have a second serving of jam cake and get wrapped up in the gossip. Not that I ever said anything. That’d be a big Beauty Secrets no-no, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t be entertained. It’s just a fact that no visit to Mrs. J.’s was ever quick, and some days it was harder to leave than others. I would’ve socialized another hour away if I hadn’t remembered I wanted to talk to Marion about hosting another party. The last party she hosted had been a major success, earning me Consultant of the Month, and a couple new clients to boot. The new summer promos surely would tempt her into hosting again. At least I hoped so.
The Siebold house was just off Palmetto Court toward the back of the plantation. To me, it was a smart place to build a house, away from the golfers. I always thought it was crazy for people to place their houses smack-dab on the fairway, like a target waiting to be whacked by a golf ball. If you were lucky, and your house didn’t get hit, you still had to deal with strangers trampling all o
ver your property. What a waste.
The Siebolds didn’t have that problem. Sheltered by deep overhangs and a wraparound porch, their house was a fine example of Southern living. I adored that wraparound porch. Mrs. J. called them sipping porches because you could sip an afternoon away on them. I wasn’t so sure about that, but I never objected to sipping a glass of sweet tea or swinging on the Seiebolds’ porch swing while talking shop. But the closed-up nature of the house told me there wouldn’t be any sipping today and, honestly, that was fine by me. I’d already had enough sweets to sweat off after my visit with Mrs. J. I just hoped Marion was home. It wasn’t like her to be out when she knew I’d be stopping over, especially on a day when I had the new catalog and her product order to deliver, but the closed blinds didn’t offer me much hope. Of course, it wasn’t a huge deal if she was out. Like with all my clients, Marion and I had arranged a designated delivery drop-off spot, but no Marion meant no booked party, and I’d have to make another house call later in the week.
I gathered my client binder and Marion’s beauty-filled gift bag off the passenger seat, and bumped the car door closed with my hip. It shut with a hard thud. I was definitely getting a little extra junk in my trunk. Looks like I’d better add ten more minutes to tomorrow’s run … and get those leggings sooner rather than later.
Even though the house looked empty, I took a chance and headed to the front door first. One of Justine’s cards was slid in by the handle. I took the pink, glittery card out and read it. The woman was actually offering a twenty-five percent discount to all existing Beauty Secrets’ clients who booked with her this month. I couldn’t believe it. Justine was actively trying to steal my clients. She was nuts if she thought I was going to sit back and let her take away my business. Enough women lived in Port Haven for us both to have successful businesses, but Justine never thought that way. I wanted to rip her stupid card into tiny pieces or light it on fire, but instead slipped it into my back pocket to deal with later.
I rang Marion’s door bell and stepped back in anticipation of Charlie’s incessant barking. The silver Weimaraner was hyper, to say the least. He’d knocked my heels out from under me a time or two and slobbered on more than one pair of designer jeans. I’d learned my lesson.
But all was silent.
Marion was out, and she must have taken Charlie with her.
With gift bag in tow, I stepped off the porch and followed the slate walkway around back to the sunroom. I punched my code into the automatic keypad and waited for the door lock to release. Sliding the heavy glass door down the metal track, I stepped inside. Even with the door open, the room felt warm and stuffy. Sweat beaded on my brow, and I wiped it away with my hand while surveying the room. The sunroom was all Marion. A white velvet chaise lounge ran alongside a wall of windows, her home-designer magazines tucked neatly in a rack beside it. Two slipper chairs with bold, blue floral print created a cozy seating area in the far-right corner. Deep blue accent pillows contrasted with the rest of the white accents and cream-colored carpeted floor. A potted lemon tree sat in a beautiful blue ceramic pot in the corner. Marion loved when her tree would flower and she could have fresh lemons for her afternoon tea, but even her lovely tree looked a bit droopy in the heat. I assumed Marion’s air conditioner was on the fritz again. It went out last year at the end of a brutal Southern heat wave and seemed to act up every now again. That probably explained why she and Charlie were out. I wouldn’t stay in this sweat box if I could help it. I couldn’t leave her product in here either. Melted lipstick did no one any good.
I turned around to walk back out and caught myself off balance. I didn’t know if it was the heat of the room or a reaction to all the sugar I’d eaten, but I felt queasy. I sat down to steady myself. The room wasn’t spinning, but my mouth was parched. Maybe a glass of water would help to flush the sugar out of my system and make me feel a little more normal. I’d hate to have a dizzy spell overcome me while driving.
I stood up and headed toward Marion’s kitchen, intending to grab a bottle of water and drink it outside where the air was cooler, but something on the kitchen floor stopped me. It looked like Marion had stenciled a mosaic pattern onto her hardwood floor. An ugly mosaic pattern. What in the world? I hated to think it, but it reminded me of a home-show segment gone wrong. Marion needed to lay off the home-designer shows. Some things should be left to the professionals.
But when I looked again, I realized I was wrong. Stencils didn’t smear, not like that.
“Sweet sugar!” They weren’t stencils at all, but bloody paw prints, dozens of them all down the foyer! That explained why Marion and Charlie were gone. Poor pup, he must have cut his paw on something. On what, I had no idea. I looked around for a clue and a dish cloth. The least I could do was clean this mess up.
I walked to the sink and began wetting a washcloth, and that’s when I heard the growl. It wasn’t a warning, but the feral sound an animal makes before it attacks. I turned to see Charlie behind me. Congealed blood matted his silver coat and muzzle. Gone was the playful pup, only to be replaced by a wild animal. I had never been afraid of that dog until that moment.
My feet fumbled a few steps backwards toward the door. Making my voice as soothing as possible, I said, “Charlie, it’s okay. Calm down boy.” Getting worked up wouldn’t help the situation. I didn’t want to hurt the dog, but I needed to find a weapon in case he attacked. For all I knew, the blood on the floor and his coat wasn’t his own. Maybe Charlie was a mind reader because he wasn’t buying my act, no matter how soft I spoke to him.
Charlie crouched back on his hindquarters, lips barred, daring me to move. I had no idea what the hell had happened here, but I was in trouble.
With my full attention on Charlie, I didn’t realize someone had snuck up behind me until the man’s forearm rounded my neck and locked me in place. My wide eyes locked with Charlie’s. It took a second for my mind to catch up and tell my body to fight back. I dropped my binder and reached for the man’s arm, gripping his wrist to pull myself free. Charlie circled around us, barking and snapping. At first, I wasn’t sure whose side he was on.
I dug my nails into the man’s skin, hoping to cause enough pain for him to let go, but that only encouraged him to squeeze harder. One slight movement of my neck and I feared it would snap. My head swam and my lips started to tingle as I gasped for air. Charlie lunged for the man, but he was quicker and kicked the dog before it could bite. Charlie slid across the floor, visibly hurt. If only I could kick this guy. These heels could do some damage. I stomped on his foot and elbowed him at the same time, but I was too weak to cause any real harm. Everything around me went black.
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About the Author
I'm a mystery author with a soft spot for romance and humor, too. I love all things girlie with a dollop of danger, have a strong affinity for the color pink (especially in diamonds and champagne), and, not to brag, but chocolate and I are in a pretty serious relationship. My books feature fearless females, a little bit of love, a few laughs, and a whole lot of whodunit. I hope my stories keep you guessing and laughing all the way until the end.
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A Ring to Die ForStephanie Damore
Copyright © Stephanie Damore 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the Internet, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or ar
e used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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