by Erin Huss
The Podcasting Sisters Mystery Series
by Erin Huss
MICROPHONES AND MURDER (#1)
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Copyright
MICROPHONES AND MURDER
A Podcasting Sisters Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | February 2020
Henery Press, LLC
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2020 by Erin Huss
Author photograph by Ashley Stock
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-563-5
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-564-2
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-565-9
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-566-6
Printed in the United States of America
To Debby Holt for restoring my confidence
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my agents Ella Marie Shupe and Sharon Belcastro—your faith in my work and perseverance means everything to me. Thank you!
To Heather McCoubery, Kathryn R. Biel, and Debby Holt for the beta read, blurb help, and proof reading.
To everyone at Henery Press—I am grateful to be part of the Hen House. This has been a dream!
And, most importantly, thank you to Jed, Natalie, Noah, Emma, Ryder, and Fisher. I love you all.
Season One: WHERE’S AMELIA CLARK?
New True Crime Series Coming October 10!
Missing or Murdered
“Halleluiah we’re here!” Camry drummed a celebratory tune on the dashboard. “And so begins the story of two sisters, setting out on a journey to solve a ten-year-old, cold-as-ice, minimal-evidence-provided, make-or-break-your-career, missing-person case. This moment has to be documented. Say cheese.” She held up her phone and took a picture of us using a big-eyed Snapchat filter. “Why aren’t you smiling, Liv? Aren’t you excited?”
“I’ll be more excited once we get settled.” I unbuckled my seatbelt and peered out the window. Hazel’s home looked like it was plucked from a Thomas Kinkaid painting. A two-story white farm-style house with teal shutters, dormer windows, a wraparound porch, and a beveled walkway lined with roses. This was the type of home where most people would imagine a happy family gathered around a dining room table, stuffed stockings on the mantel, kids playing catch in the backyard—the type of home where nothing bad ever happens.
But I was not most people.
When you spend your waking hours thinking, researching, and talking about murder and missing-person cases, your view on the world shifts. People are monsters. Monsters disguised as the handyman, the boyfriend, or the friendly neighbor in the cozy farm-style house at the end of the street.
Okay, I realize not all humans are monsters. Most are well-intended, law-abiding citizens. But I can’t help myself. I’m a true crime podcaster, or I’m trying to be. But, as far as I knew, Hazel’s house was just as idyllic as it appeared.
At least I hoped it was, because it was about to be my home for the next six months.
Sitting in a rocking chair on the porch was Hazel. Or so I assumed. We had never met. She’s my stepsister, Camry’s, great aunt on her father’s side. I pictured Hazel as Sophia from the Golden Girls. In reality, she looked like every stock image of Mrs. Claus I’d ever seen.
“You’re finally here!” Hazel tramped down the stairs with her arms open. “I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks.”
Camry slammed the car door shut. “Aunt Hazel, it’s been too long.”
The two hugged while I unloaded the car.
“Look how gorgeous you are.” Hazel held Camry at arm’s length. “I see so much of your dad in you. God bless his soul.” She made the sign of the cross.
So did Camry.
My arms were full.
“Come meet my sister, Liv Olsen,” said Camry.
Hazel casted her eyes in my direction. “Oh you sweet thing, I thought you were one of the neighborhood kids helping with the luggage. Come here.” She pulled me in for a hug. My head landed at her chest. When you’re five feet tall, you spend a lot of time in boobs.
“Thank you for opening your home to us,” I said, once released. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me.” I guess I could have told her, but I’d probably cry. Free boarding eliminated an entire section of my itemized budget for the show.
“Pffft, that’s what family is for!” Hazel grabbed a suitcase. “I could not be more excited about your radio show.”
“It’s a podcast,” I said.
Hazel paid no notice and wheeled the suitcase down the beveled walkway with her arm interlocked with Camry’s. I grabbed the last of our bags and stood at the curb, gazing up at the house.
I can’t believe I’m here.
I’m in Santa Maria.
I’m doing it.
Yikes!
Holy crap!
Oh my gosh.
Oh. My. Gosh. I’m doing this. I’m here. I’m investigating a decade old missing-person case. I’ve quit my job. Invested all my money. Never mind I have no idea how to actually create a podcast from scratch on my own—
I can’t feel my legs.
“Liv, are you coming?” Camry hollered from the doorway and waved for me to come in. “Hurry up!”
One foot in front of the other, I told myself.
One foot in front of the other…
The inside of Hazel’s house matched the front. To my left was a den with a brick fireplace, velvet armchairs, a floral sofa, and a grandfather clock. The carpet was teal, the walls were papered in a cherry blossom print, and there was a picture on every available surface—old photos in brown hues, modern school pictures of gapped-tooth children, Hazel with a gray-haired man I assumed to be her husband. Another one of Hazel and her husband on a cruise. Then Hazel and her husband in front of the Eiffel Tower. Then Hazel and her husband at a cemetery wearing all black and standing behind a cherry wood coffin with a splay of daisies on top. Two younger women with dark brown hair and Hazel’s narrow jawline were standing beside them. Their noses were red, tissues were clutched in their hands, and their arms were wrapped around each other. The next picture was of Hazel and her husband in front of this home, standing behind a young boy with a mop of brown hair, sad blue eyes, a suitcase in hand, and a stuffed sea lion tucked under his arm.
You could learn a lot from family pictures.
The rest of the house was homey. A straight staircase, cottage windows, and a comfy looking couch in the family room. The dining room was to my right, the table was set, and in the kitchen was a buffet-style spread waiting for us—and fifty of our closest friends.
Oh my word. That’s a lot of food.
Camry and I shared a look. We had stopped for dinner in Santa Barbara, but I wasn’t about to turn down a meal. Not when Hazel went through so mu
ch trouble.
We left our luggage by the door, and I filled my plate with tri-tip, barbecued bread, macaroni salad, beans with bits of bacon tossed in, salsa, and a green salad. I sat at the table and gave my intestines a quick pep talk.
Hazel came from behind and filled my cup with lemon water. “Have you ever had real Santa Maria Style BBQ, Liv?”
“No, but I’ve read all about it.” If you googled Santa Maria, California the first thing to come up would be Santa Maria Style BBQ, the second would be wine, the third strawberries, the fourth a guide to the local beaches (there are many), and the fifth would be a missing-person report for twenty-three-year-old Amelia Clark who was last seen October 10, 2008—which is what brought me here.
I took a bite of bread. Oh my. The crunch of buttery garlic filled my mouth. “This is amazing.”
“These beans are delicious, too,” said Camry with a mouthful. “And I don’t even like beans.”
“Special family recipe.” Hazel winked.
Camry was right. The beans were the best thing I’d ever tasted. Until I dipped the bread into them. Then that was the best thing I’d ever eaten.
Hazel took a seat across from us with a plate piled with all the fixings. “I’m going to make pancakes for breakfast tomorrow morning, and I thought you might like to try my homemade spaghetti tomorrow night. For lunch, we’ll do something simple, like salami sandwiches or macaroni salad. I’ll write out the daily menu for you.” She pointed to the chalkboard hung on the wall.
“You don’t have to feed us,” Camry said between bites. “Liv has a detailed budget. She even has a line item for toilet paper.”
“I have toilet paper,” Hazel said. “Is there a certain brand you need? I think mine is double-quilted let me check.” She started to stand, and I stopped her.
“What Camry meant was that we don’t want you to spend money on us. We have plenty set aside for food and necessities.”
“I would never let a house guest of mine pay for food or toilet paper.” She appeared hurt by the very notion. “If you want to stay at my house I get to feed you. That’s part of the deal.”
It’s official. I’m in love with Mrs. Claus.
“Sounds like a good deal,” I said.
Hazel settled down. “Now that we’ve got that nonsense out of the way, tell me more about this radio show.”
“Podcast,” said Camry.
Hazel ignored her. “When is it coming out?”
“We’re going to release the first episode on October 10, the anniversary of Amelia’s disappearance,” I said.
“That gives you less than two weeks.” Hazel waved a piece of bread around while she talked. “You can do a show in two weeks?”
“I’ve done as much work as I can from home already. We should be fine.” I think. I hope.
“Camry told me you used to work for a fancy radio station in San Diego.”
“Podcast,” I said. “And, yes, I worked for Cold in America.” I stuffed bread in my mouth, hoping the subject would be dropped. Talking about my old job gave me heart palpitations.
It didn’t, however, have any effect on Camry’s organs. “Cold in America is only the biggest true crime podcast in the world, hosted by the queen of podcasting herself, Mara Lancer.”
“Wow,” Hazel said in awe. I could tell she was genuinely impressed, which caused my heart to hiccup. “And you quit that job to come here?”
“She sure did.” Camry flung an arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. “The old detective on Amelia Clark’s case sent all the information to Cold in America, hoping Mara would do a season on it. Liv read the entire case file and thought it would make an interesting show. She pitched a spinoff called Missing or Murdered to Mara with Liv as the host.”
“And what did Mara say?” Hazel asked.
“No.” Camry removed her arm from around my shoulders. “Mara said there wasn’t enough information available, but Liv here thought differently and quit her job.”
Hiccup.
“Bought all the equipment with her own money.”
Hiccup.
“Draining all her savings. Gave up an apartment with a killer view and came here. Basically, her entire future rides on the success of this podcast.”
Hiccup.
Hiccup.
Hazel dropped her fork. “You must be really good at what you do.”
Camry nodded. “Mara said Liv was the best engineer she’d ever worked with.”
Oh geez.
What Camry failed to mention was that while, yes, Mara did say I was the best mix-engineer she’d ever worked with, she also said that I lacked the oomph required to host and executive produce a podcast under the CIA umbrella.
Talk about a punch to the ego.
But after much soul-searching, I realized she was right. I was a think-things-through, well-organized, wash-my-bra-daily, nonassertive-oomphless person. I was also a redhead. People expect more oomph from redheads.
Camry didn’t understand. She was born with oomph. Her mother was married to my father. I was seventeen and about to move out when the two got together. My brother was twenty-two and already in the police academy. Camry was twelve. Twelve-year-olds were annoying.
Twenty-two-year-olds were slightly less annoying.
Camry was Irish on her father’s side and black on her mother’s (she hated the term African-American. What are you? Angelo-Saxon-American then? she’d say). She had raven hair, bright hazel-brown eyes, flawless skin, lush lashes, and dimples. She was more of the life-of-the-party, wake-up-ready-for-the-runway, loud-assertive type of person. She also lived by the rule: what’s a hamper? Which should make sharing a room for the next six months interesting.
Hazel scooted off to the kitchen and returned with more food. “Have you talked to Richard and Janet Clark yet?”
“Not in person,” I said. “We’re going to stop by their bakery tomorrow.”
“Richard will be there. You’ll like him. He’s a nice man. But you won’t see Janet.” Hazel took a sip of water. “Speaking of Janet. If you’re looking for a scandalous story for your show, I’ve got a whopper for you.”
I eyed my audio equipment sitting by the front door, debating if I should grab my recorder. My hands were covered in grease. If the story was worth using, I’d interview Hazel later, I decided.
Hazel dabbed her mouth with the corner of the napkin. “I had asked Janet if she’d like to be on the Christmas parade committee, you know, to be polite since she’s never had friends. This was shortly before Amelia went missing, and do you know what she said to me?”
Hazel paused until Camry and I said, “What did she say?” in unison.
“She said no! Just like that ‘no.’ Excuse my language but, what the frog?”
I stifled a giggle.
Camry didn’t.
“It rubbed a lot of people the wrong way. Then, of course, when we heard about Amelia’s disappearance, I tried to bring the Clark’s dinner, but do you know what she said?”
“No?” said Camry.
“She said no! Not that I’m judging. Grief looks different on every person. And there’s no grief worse than losing a child.” She crossed herself. “All I’m saying is she should have allowed the community to help her. We were all worried about Amelia.”
“Did you know her?” I asked.
“Not well. She worked in the same building where my husband, John, got his weekly dialysis. Pretty girl. A little too thin toward the end, but she had a nice face. Rest her soul.” Hazel crossed herself. “As a matter of fact, Amelia disappeared the same day John passed.” She crossed herself again, and I wondered if there was a crossing limit.
“Did you see the YouTube video?” I asked.
Hazel cut her meat while shaking her head. “No. But it’s not right. Why would you take a video of a person and post i
t online without their permission? It’s awful.”
“It’s hilarious,” Camry muttered while loading her fork. I kicked her under the table. “What? It was funny. Why do you think it went viral so quickly?”
I blew out a breath, my lips making an involuntary raspberry noise, and directed my attention back to Hazel. “So, about the video. You didn’t see it, but did you hear about it prior to Amelia’s disappearance?”
Hazel held up a finger, signaling for me to wait until she’s finished chewing the food in her mouth. “Yes.” She paused to swallow. “Of course, I heard about the incident. Everyone was talking about it. Poor thing, she must have been humiliated. Channel Two did a whole story on it the day before she went missing.”
“The day before? Are you serious?” I’d spent hours scouring the Internet for information on Amelia, and I never came across any news reports published before her disappearance. I made a mental note to contact Channel Two tomorrow. Maybe they knew the true identity of HJZoomer22—the username of the person who posted the video. Neither Camry nor I have had any luck. HJZoomer22 created the account on October 3, 2008, uploaded the video of Amelia, and hasn’t posted a thing since.
“When we heard Amelia was missing,” Hazel continued, “most people thought she took off because she had been publicly humiliated. And who would have blamed her? Then they found the car with all her stuff in it...” her voice trailed off. “People don’t leave town without their wallet. They just don’t. That’s when the community came together to help find her.”
This I could use.
The parade story? Probably not. I didn’t want to cast doubt on the Clark’s character unless the story called for it.
“I’d like to interview you,” I decided. “Even if you didn’t know Amelia well, I could use the perspective of someone who was around during that time. I want the show to unfold naturally, that’s why I’m not recording all episodes before release.” Which is what Mara does. “I want the listeners to feel like they’re taking this journey with me.”