Botched 4 Murder
Page 1
PRAISE FOR J.C. EATON
Staged 4 Murder
“An eclectic cast of entertaining characters that will keep you wondering whodunit!”—Nicole Leiren, USA Today bestselling author, Danger Cove Mysteries, Heroes of the Night Series
Ditched 4 Murder
“The wedding from hell embroils a bookkeeper with a talent for solving puzzles in several murder cases . . . A hoot.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Sophie ‘Phee’ Kimball has a lot on her plate in this captivating whodunit, but this feisty, take-charge heroine is definitely up for the challenge. Fun characters, a touch of humor, and a great mystery—the perfect combination for a cozy.”—Lena Gregory, author of the Bay Island Psychic Mysteries and the All-Day Breakfast Café Mysteries
Booked 4 Murder
“A thoroughly entertaining series debut, with enjoyable, yet realistic characters and enough plot twists—and dead ends—to appeal from beginning to end.”—Booklist, starred review
“You’ll chuckle all the way through this delightful romp through Sun City West, as Phee and her mother unravel the mystery behind the sudden deaths of several book club members. It’s so cleverly written, you won’t guess the perpetrators until the very end.”—Mary Marks, award-winning author of the Quilting Mystery Series
“Booked 4 Murder is a witty adventure that will leave you laughing out loud. Join Phee as she tussles with her wily mother, a cursed book, and a host of feisty retirees in this entertaining and charming cozy.”—Stephanie Blackmoore, author of the Wedding Planner Mystery Series
“Booked 4 Murder, set in an Arizona retirement community full of feisty seniors, is a fast-paced mystery with a mother/ daughter pair of sleuths who will keep you laughing until the last page. It will also make you think twice before choosing your next book club selection. THE END might come sooner than you think . . .”—Kathleen Bridge, author of the Hamptons Home and Garden Mystery Series
Books by J.C. Eaton
The Sophie Kimball Mysteries
BOOKED 4 MURDER
DITCHED 4 MURDER
STAGED 4 MURDER
BOTCHED 4 MURDER
And from Lyrical Press:
The Wine Trail Mysteries
A RIESLING TO DIE
CHARDONNAYED TO REST
PINOT RED OR DEAD?
(coming in March 2019)
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Botched 4 Murder
J.C. Eaton
KENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Teaser chapter
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by J.C. Eaton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1988-1
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1989-8 (eBook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1989-1 (eBook)
To the Sun City West Bocce Club
and all bocce aficionados, this one’s for you!
A special shout-out to the bocce-playing lady
with the floral hat who managed to hit everything
except the daily number.
You were our inspiration for this book!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
We’ve got an amazing flight crew that never lets us down. Thank you Beth Cornell, Larry Finkelstein, Gale Leach, Ellen Lynes, Susan Morrow, Susan Schwartz, and Suzanne Scher. And to the cozy mystery and romance authors at Blue Ridge Literary Agency, thank you so much for supporting us!
Dawn Dowdle, our agent at Blue Ridge Literary Agency, has been incredible in every sense of the word. We were neophyte authors with big dreams, and she has been paramount in helping us reach them. Our editor, Tara Gavin from Kensington Publishing, has been absolutely phenomenal, and we are so fortunate to work with her.
Behind the scenes are the dedicated and tireless copy and line editors at Kensington who have to put up with our pesky mistakes. Thank you so much for ensuring that our books are the best they can be.
This is indeed a team effort, and we thank our lucky stars we’ve got a winning one!
Chapter 1
Sun City West, Arizona
It shouldn’t have come as any surprise to me that my mother’s Saturday morning brunch ritual with her Booked 4 Murder book club ladies at Bagels ’N More would be anything other than agonizing. The lucrative little restaurant across the road from Sun City West featured an endless array of bagels, muffins, and all sorts of sandwiches reasonably priced. The gossip and rumor mongering were free.
The agony was a result of the constant bickering over the food or the endless gossip that came out of nowhere. That was why I tried to avoid it at all costs. Tried being the pivotal word. Sometimes, however, I got nagged and cajoled to the point where I acquiesced and joined my mother and her friends. Usually once a month, or every six weeks if I was lucky.
I’m the bookkeeper/accountant for Williams Investigations in Glendale, having moved out west at the bequest of my boss, former Mankato, Minnesota, police detective, Nate Williams, who relocated to Arizona once he retired. Nate needed someone he could trust, and, having known me for twenty years, it was a no-brainer. Plus, he had leverage—all those years of listening to me complain about snow and ice. Unfortunately, he relocated spitting distance from another misery, my mother’s retirement community. I could kick myself.
That particular Saturday in February was unlucky. It wasn’t that the ladies were more annoying than usual, it was the men seated at the table across from them. Mom’s neighbor, Herb Garrett, was surrounded by his pinochle buddies: Bill, Kevin, Kenny, and Way
ne. I’d gotten to know them this past fall when my mother decided she and her book club would take part in the local theater production of Agatha Christie’s The Mouse Trap. When the men weren’t playing cards, they were working on construction and lighting for Sun City West’s theatrical troupe. And when they weren’t doing either of those things, they were complaining.
The men had their noses buried in newspapers, and all I could see were a bunch of bald heads, with one exception—Wayne’s. He was the only one who still had all of his brownish-gray hair. There was less conversation at the men’s table but more grunting. That was, until they noticed my mother. It seemed each one of the men suddenly had a beef they thought she should deal with. It started with Bill Sanders, who got up from his seat just as I was about to bite into my toasted poppy seed bagel with cream cheese.
He glanced at the table and then at the entrance. “Psst! Harriet! I need a word with you before Myrna Mittleson walks in.”
My mother said “excuse me” to the group and swung her chair around.
It didn’t matter. Bill’s voice was loud enough to be heard in Idaho. That was three states away, no matter which route you took from Arizona.
“You’ve got to do something about Myrna. She’s destroying the bocce league. Not to mention the havoc she’s wreaking on our team. For criminy sake, Harriet, can’t you talk her into quitting? Maybe convince her to take up knitting or something?”
“Knitting? Are you nuts? Myrna’s all thumbs. Besides, she loves bocce.”
Bill let out a groan that made Cecilia Flanagan flinch and pull her black cardigan tight across her chest. Louise Munson and Lucinda Espinoza furrowed their brows and gave Bill nasty looks before returning to their food.
“Yeah,” he said. “She may love bocce, but she can’t toss the blasted ball. Lofts it all over the place. Last week it bounced into the miniature golf course next door and took out one of the blades on the windmill. And the week before, it bounced out of the bocce court and wound up on the garden pathway. That’s right next to the pool. Luckily it didn’t hit someone in the head, or they might have drowned.”
“It can’t be all that bad. Besides, these things happen,” my mother said.
“Not every day! Not every time people play! Look, I hate to be blunt, but Myrna’s a menace. She’s a regular Amazon. All of us are scared to death when it’s her turn. She tromps up to the start line as if she’s about to throw a javelin. And no matter how many times we tell her to gently toss the ball, she heaves it like a shotput. I’m begging you, Harriet, please get her to quit. The Sun City West Bocce and Lawn Bowling Tournaments begin in three and a half weeks, and she’ll get us disqualified.”
“You know I can’t do that. Plus—”
“Forget about Myrna and bocce ball,” Herb shouted, throwing his newspaper on our table, nearly knocking over glasses of water and cups of coffee. “We’ve got real problems in Sun City West. Did you read this article? Did any of you read this article?”
Then he motioned to his own table. “Check out Sorrel Harlan’s editorial on page fourteen. The one that says TURN THOSE GOLF COURSES INTO ECO-FRIENDLY PARKS. That woman is insane. I always thought she had a screw loose, but it was her own screw. Now that she got appointed to the recreation center board of directors, she’ll be turning it on all of us!”
He had a point. My mother and her friends weren’t all that thrilled to learn that Sorrel Harlan had been chosen to finish up Edmund Wooster’s term when he resigned a few months before due to family issues.
“They always resign due to family issues,” my mother had said earlier. “If you want to know the real reason, it’s probably because they can’t stand working with each other.”
Herb continued ranting, pulling up a chair so that he and his buddies could now face our table. “This is unbelievable. She wants Sun City West to close two major golf courses and convert them to neighborhood parks. That’s sheer lunacy. It’ll destroy our property values.”
“Let me see that article.” Shirley Johnson reached for the paper. Today her nails were deep mauve and looked stunning against her dark skin. “It can’t be as awful as all that.”
She picked up the newspaper, held it in bifocal range, and proceeded to scan the article, pausing every few seconds to shake her head. “Lordy! I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t read it myself. What’s gotten into that woman? Tot lots for the grandkids? Sandboxes instead of sand traps? Just listen to this—‘with ample solar lighting our community can enjoy evening festivities in the park as well.’ Evening festivities? Lordy! It’s an invitation for every teenage hooligan to smoke and drink behind clumps of trees. And I’ll bet that’s not all they’ll be doing while granny thinks they’re out for a stroll!”
“Who’s smoking and drinking? What did I miss? I got stuck on the phone with my sister-in-law. Sorry I’m late.” It was Myrna Mittleson, plopping herself into the empty chair between Lucinda Espinoza and Louise Munson. Suddenly the expression, “a rose among thorns,” came to mind, and I had to keep myself from laughing. Myrna was all dolled up with her bedazzled tortoiseshell glasses and her tight beehive hairdo, while Lucinda and Louise looked as if they had spent the last hour fighting off a windstorm. Much worse in Lucinda’s case, with her wrinkled clothing. At least those gaudy polyester blouses Louise wore were wrinkle-free.
“What you missed,” my mother explained, “is the latest editorial from Sorrel Harlan about converting some of our golf courses into parks.”
Shirley passed the newspaper to Myrna and motioned for the waitress. “Lord Almighty, I don’t even live on a golf course, but this doesn’t sound good to me.”
“Hells bells!” Myrna shouted as she read the article. “Get a load of this—‘we can have lovely dog walk trails, barbeque and picnic areas, small ponds for children to sail homemade boats, and a plethora of pleasing vistas for everyone to enjoy.’”
“Pleasing vistas, my ass!” Herb bellowed. “Pardon me, ladies, but honestly, what vistas? We’ll have every Peeping Tom in the neighborhood looking into our windows. And think about all the litter and garbage. The cigarette butts, the dog poop . . .”
“Take it easy, Herb,” Kevin said.
“That’s fine for you to say. You don’t live on the golf course. I do. And I paid top price for that privilege. Not to wake up to an eco-friendly circus in my backyard. And I’ve got news for you. Just because some of you don’t own golf course homes, it doesn’t mean you won’t be affected. Where do you think people are going to park in order to enjoy these parks? On our streets! The streets will be overcrowded with cars. And don’t let me get started about the sidewalks. They’ll be full of gum that the little kiddies drop on their way to enjoy the playground. And while we’re pulling the gum out of our shoes, we’ll most likely be sideswiped by the teenagers on rollerblades.”
“Yep, come to think of it, he’s got a point.” Louise patted her frizzy hair and looked at everyone. “I live right across from the golf course, and it’s bad enough at night when the lights from cars shine into my house. My poor bird can’t get any sleep. If they put in solar lighting, it will be like living across the street from a stadium.”
I leaned back, sipped my coffee, and listened to everyone complain at once.
Myrna managed to order her meal in between the grousing and grumbling. “So, what do we want to do about this? Write a response to the editor?”
“You can go ahead with that if you like, but it ain’t going to get you anywhere.” Kenny rubbed the stubble on his chin. “The recreation center board will be holding its monthly meeting Monday night. That’s the day after tomorrow. I say we all show up and give that Sorrel Harlan a piece of our minds. What do you all say? Are you in?”
More moaning. More grumbling. Finally, a consensus. The Booked 4 Murder book club and Herb’s buddies agreed they would all attend the meeting on Monday night.
I’d started on my second cup of coffee when, out of nowhere, Cecilia turned to me and said, “What about you, Phee?
Will you be attending?”
“Um, me? I don’t live in Sun City West. I don’t think I should—”
“Of course you should! They may be talking about legal matters, and who better than you should be there?” I couldn’t believe those words were coming out of my mother’s mouth.
“Legal matters? Who better than me? Anyone would be better than me. I’m a bookkeeper. Just because I work for a private investigation firm doesn’t make me an expert when it comes to the law.”
My mother wouldn’t give up. “Well, you’re dating someone who is. I’ll bet Marshall knows all about the law.”
“Marshall’s a private investigator, not a lawyer. And while he may have a familiarity of the law as it pertains to his business, I seriously doubt I’d call him an expert on legal matters.”
“It doesn’t matter. At least he knows something. That’s more than I can say for those buffoons who’ll be shooting their mouths off at Monday’s meeting.”
“You’re not suggesting I ask Marshall to attend that meeting, are you?”
My mother was silent for a moment and cleared her throat. A bad sign. She was going to use emotional blackmail on me. I was trapped. There was no way I was about to sabotage my relationship with Marshall by dragging him into another Sun City West escapade. It was bad enough he had to deal with the book club ladies a few months ago, when one of the actors turned up dead during the fall production. Talk about a real Agatha Christie murder. That investigation had fiasco written all over it. I didn’t need to introduce another one.