by Edie Claire
“You had rib sauce all over your fingers and you made her miss the pipit!” Bev chided.
Hap sighed dramatically.
“You won’t find me criticizing them,” Warren stage-whispered to Hap as he gave Leigh a hug around the shoulders. “They’re the only people I know who’ve ever been able to keep an eye on the missus.”
Leigh grumbled, albeit good-naturedly. Unbeknownst to her at the time, the Rangers had been keeping a pretty good eye on her, too, especially this morning. Eva Menlin’s hired bodyguard, who was known to Eva’s husband, had been located and interviewed at a local motel shortly after her body was identified. But he claimed that Eva had dismissed him from the job as soon as their business was concluded on Wednesday, and that it was a last-minute decision on his part to stay another few days and “soak up some sun.” He insisted he had no idea that Eva had failed to get on her plane, nor did he have any explanation for why her rental car had been found abandoned twenty miles from the airport.
The Rangers didn’t believe him, of course, and after receiving multiple reports of overnight footprints at the preserve, the real scenario had not been difficult to surmise. Still, they lacked direct evidence to tie him to Eva’s and Stanley’s murders, and thus had spent all of last night and this morning lying in wait at the wetlands, hoping to arrest the bodyguard with the loot in his grubby paws. But in order for that to happen, he had to find the diamonds.
Leigh still wondered if he ever would have. Considering how deeply her foot had smooshed the purse down, she doubted it. Not that she got any credit for having served up the Rangers’ evidence on a silver platter… Oh, no. All she got, as usual, was a dressing-down for interfering. But the bodyguard had taken the bait. Twice, in fact, since he’d attempted to take them from her by force, and then had retrieved them again just before the Rangers closed in. Leigh didn’t care to think about how close he’d come to being shot while standing within inches of her. Nor did she care to think what might have happened if he had seen the results of her pathetic toss, which had barely moved the purse six feet. What mattered was that she had bought herself enough time to get away from him — and out of range of the Rangers’ bullets. The only people who would benefit from those diamonds now were the company’s creditors.
“The birders did a good job of helping get those Finneys rounded up, too,” Bev said proudly. “Those kids may not be guilty of triple homicide, but single homicide is bad enough!”
“You got that right,” Hap agreed. Then he exhaled loudly. “You know, I keep hoping to hear that one or the other of them was innocent. Of the murder, or the fraud, or something. But no. That’s not what Bobby Jo’s passing on. It sounds like they all knew about the funny business with the stock. They couldn’t care less what happened to Cort’s company, I guess because they didn’t trust each other enough to keep a four-way partnership going. They all just wanted to get out of it as quick as they could with as much money as they could.”
“Even if it meant being chased after by the law the rest of their lives?” Bev questioned.
Hap shook his head. “I expect Janelle was the only one who really understood what was legal and what wasn’t, at least in the beginning. Bruce and Russell probably thought they could manage without getting caught, and Sharonna doesn’t think, period. By the time they all got the whole picture, there was no turning back.”
“How was the CFO involved exactly?” Warren asked. “Do they know yet?”
“Well, officially we don’t know anything, of course,” Hap said slyly, casting an eye toward his buddy Carl, who was driving the boat with headphones on. “But Bobby Jo hears things, and she told her daddy that the four of them have been telling four different stories ever since they were arrested. About the only thing they do agree on is that Ted Sullivan was no innocent. How things went wrong with him, though… Well, their stories are all so tangled up, Bobby Jo says she doesn’t think anybody may ever know what really happened out at the house that night.”
“He died at the Finney mansion?” Leigh asked.
Hap nodded. He threw a sober look at Bev. “They were all together that night. Did you know that? Cort always used to say he never even tried to get the four of them in the same room. Not after their mother died. I guess that first Christmas without her was a real doozy. Cops called out and everything. He used to joke with me — and it was only half a joke — that he was glad he was going to be dead at his funeral. Because the next time those four got together, something truly terrible was going to happen.”
“Good Lord almighty,” Bev muttered. “And to think I bad-mouthed Sharonna for staying in Fiji instead of flying back for her daddy’s funeral!”
“It was a good thing, I guess,” Hap continued. “Why they all got together that particular night to meet with the CFO, I don’t know. But something terrible sure enough did happen.”
“Which one of them killed Ted Sullivan?” Bev asked.
“Janelle says Sharonna crushed his skull by hitting him over the head with some kind of planter,” Hap answered. Then he paused.
“Do you believe that?” Bev pressed.
“Well, no,” Hap replied. “Because the other three all say Janelle did it.”
Nobody said anything for a moment. Leigh thought about asking who had disposed of the body, but the truth was, she didn’t care. The family owned a boat, and they were all guilty. Still, it would be easier to stomach, somehow, if one were guiltier than the others. “So, was Janelle the mastermind, then?”
“‘Mastermind’ is giving her too much credit,” Warren protested. “What she did required some accounting savvy, but it was still short-sighted and just plain dumb.”
“Yep,” Hap agreed sadly. “That’s what Cort always said about her. No common sense.”
“Poor Cort,” Bev said loudly, putting her arm around her husband’s waist. “He was a good old soul, and so was his wife, from everything I’ve heard. I suppose we can at least be grateful they died without realizing what a lousy pack of brats they’d raised.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Hap said skeptically.
“It’s just as well there were never any grandkids,” Bev mused.
“Only one spouse left behind, for that matter,” Hap added.
Bev let out a snort. “Misti? Please, that girl will divorce Bruce in a heartbeat once his money dries up. Sad to say it, but I don’t see anybody pining from loneliness over those four.”
Leigh felt a sudden pang. “Bev, that reminds me, have you decided—”
The shorter woman turned to Leigh with a chuckle. “Are you still on about that? Jiminy crickets, child, you’re as bad as Joyce!”
“What’s this?” Hap asked.
Bev laughed again. “Your cousin here’s done everything but get down on her knees and beg me to spend Sunday night over at Joyce’s motorhome, babysitting that crazy cat!”
Hap stared at Leigh. “But they’ll be back on Monday, won’t they?”
“Yes,” Leigh replied, her mind tortured once again with the image of a pitiful, mourning set of aquamarine eyes. “But we’re flying out early tomorrow, so Snowbell will be by herself all day, too. And I just hate the thought of her being alone all night, not having any idea when or if anyone is ever coming back. I just keep imagining her sitting up in that front window, staring out, with little kitty tears streaming down her—”
“Oh, good Lord almighty!” Bev conceded with a groan. “Fine! I’ll sleep with Snowbell. Maybe I can even get Hap to join us.”
“Say what now?” her husband interjected.
“Will that make you happy?” Bev asked Leigh.
Leigh grinned from ear to ear, then leaned down to give her cousin-in-law a hug. “Perfectly.”
Another dolphin made a leap, this time nearly clearing the water’s surface before splashing back into the chop of the boat’s wake.
The foursome cheered. Then, almost as if it were jealous of the attention, a brown pelican swooped down and began to glide along besi
de the boat.
Leigh laughed and gave the bird some applause as well.
“So, are you having a good vacation?” Warren asked, smiling down at her. “Despite all?”
She reached up and kissed him. “I am having a fabulous vacation,” she replied. And it was true. Despite everything unpleasant that had happened, in sum total for the week, she’d still had a darned good time.
Why shouldn’t she?
She was not involved.
Author’s Note
I hope you’ve enjoyed Never Murder a Birder! My goal is to bring out a new installment in the USA-Today bestselling Leigh Koslow mystery series every year, so if you’d like to receive an email announcement when the next book is released, please sign up for my New Book Alert! If you’re new to the series and would like to start reading where it all began, click here. Several of the mysteries are also available as audiobooks, narrated by the award-winning Gabrielle de Cuir!
“Port Mesten” is a fictional town, but if you’re looking to recreate Leigh’s experience (at least the good part!) I highly recommend checking out Port Aransas, Texas. Its nature preserve is truly a birdwatcher’s paradise!
I enjoy writing in a wide variety of genres, but always with the same feel-good, humorous voice and guaranteed happy ending. If you’ve finished all the mysteries and humor is your thing, you might check out my office comedy, Work, Blondes. Work! Skip ahead to read an excerpt!
To find out more about my novels of romantic and women’s fiction and my comedic stage plays, please visit my website, or my Facebook or Pinterest page. I always enjoy hearing from readers via email, so if you’re so inclined, please drop me a note. Thanks so much for reading!
Books and Plays by Edie Claire
www.edieclaire.com
ROMANTIC FICTION
Fated Loves Collection
Long Time Coming
Meant To Be
Borrowed Time
Pacific Horizons Series
Alaskan Dawn
Leaving Lana'i
Maui Winds
Hawaiian Shadows Series
Wraith
Empath
Lokahi
The Warning
WOMEN’S FICTION
The Mud Sisters
LEIGH KOSLOW MYSTERIES
Never Buried
Never Sorry
Never Preach Past Noon
Never Kissed Goodnight
Never Tease a Siamese
Never Con a Corgi
Never Haunt a Historian
Never Thwart a Thespian
Never Steal a Cockatiel
Never Mess with Mistletoe
Never Murder a Birder
HUMOR
Work, Blondes. Work!
COMEDIC STAGE PLAYS
Scary Drama I
See You in Bells
Excerpt from Work, Blondes. Work!
Copyright © 2014 by Edie Claire
All rights reserved.
Prologue
Looking at me, you wouldn’t think I’d be the type to get into such a mess. I’ve been described as “unassuming.” Five-foot-six, medium build, shoulder-length blond hair. (Yes, the color is fake. But I was blond as a child, so I’m entitled.) You don’t strictly need to know my measurements, but let’s just say that if I bought a two-piece swimsuit — which I assure you would happen only if the entire human race were struck blind — the bottom would be at least two sizes larger than the top.
When all this happened I was the mother of a third-grader and a preteen, and keeping our family’s heads above water was taking every dime of both my husband’s salary and my biweekly corporate paycheck. So I’ll admit that what I did was really stupid. My only defense is peer pressure. In other words, it was the blondes’ fault. They should have known that a guilt-plagued working mother driving a minivan with 178,000 miles on it and buying her socks at the Dollar Emporium had no business playing God with the lives of her corporate superiors.
No matter how much fun it was.
It was wrong, and no matter what happened after the dust settled and the ambulance pulled away, I still claim to regret the whole, sordid business.
Really.
I do.
At least every once in a while.
What? You’re getting judgmental on me? Don’t be so quick. Listen to my story from the beginning and you’ll see for yourself how it all unfolded, one diabolical misstep at a time. I really did try to do the right thing. But Morgan Bessel was just…
Well, you’ll see. Under the circumstances, I think I was quite restrained.
The blondes are another story.
Chapter 1
Corporation: A bunch of people working for a bunch of other people who report to another bunch of people.
I’m not sure who first termed us the Blonde Pod, or even when, but you don’t have to be a genius to figure out why. Darcy, Luba, Whitney, and I — four blondes by nature or peroxide — sharing a four-desk cubicle just big enough to keep our elbows from bumping. One slot down from the windows, just past the Wacko Pod. You don’t have to be a genius to figure out that moniker, either — all you need to do is spend ten minutes in the Communications Department of Zomar Industries, listening to Ivan Petersen’s plans for his 2020 presidential run.
Personally, I wouldn’t recommend it.
Learning things you never wanted to know is a downside of the cube environment. Most Zomarites would tell you that there is no upside, but I would disagree. Toiling in quiet privacy may sound good, but it all depends on what you’re toiling with. And I can assure you that when toiling with Solve-Pro Version 1.6, misery not only loves company, it clings to it with one-inch, fire-engine-red nails.
“Hey, Luba.”
The forty-two-year-old blonde who sat hunched before her computer in the back right corner of the pod couldn’t answer me. Her mouth was stuffed with onion bagel and veggie cream cheese, the same thing she had purchased at the cafeteria every weekday morning for at least two of the last four years we had been working together. Luba was short and curvy, with a pert nose and mobile, bushy eyebrows that expressed her emotions as vividly as did her attractive smoky-gray eyes. Her response consisted of a lift of said eyebrows and a friendly waggling of her sticky fingers.
I stepped to my own home-away-from-home, the left front desk, opened my bottom file drawer, and threw in my purse. My watch read 7:56 AM.
Luba swallowed. “Morning, Karen. Did your badge work?”
I looked down at the security badge I had just used to open the unmarked hall door. Karen Robertson, its other side proclaimed, Content Specialist. I always wore the badge with the front side down, hiding the hideous mug shot that had been taken on my first day of work, a few seconds after HR had mistakenly informed me that my job offer was a clerical error.
“Yes,” I answered, “why?”
She shrugged. “Mine didn’t. I’m thinking somebody’s trying to tell me something.”
“Ivan let you in?”
“Eventually. After I promised him my vote in the primary.”
“Bet he was happy.”
“He won’t be when he finds out I’m an independent.”
A low-pitched grumble wafted over the far panel. “I heard that.”
Luba smirked.
I pulled out my chair, leaned over to turn on my computer, and sat down. “So,” I asked her, “How’s the latest and greatest running today?”
“It’s not,” she returned in a deadpan. “I’ve been hourglassing for the last three minutes.” She picked up what was left of her bagel. “You need to check your email. Looks like something big is brewing.”
My jaws clenched. New management had taken over the Zomar corporate offices six months before, and ever since, change had been the norm. As far as any of us could tell, the new execs seemed to be following one simple formula: old = bad; anything else = good.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Don’t know.”
“Kira been by?”
“Not yet.”
I clicked into my email. The item to which Luba had been referring was marked with an obnoxious red exclamation point.
There will be a mandatory department meeting at 10:00 AM at the design table. The meeting will last approximately twenty minutes.
“What now?” I groused, clicking out of the program and beginning the laborious process of booting up Solve-Pro. “Do we ever get good news at these things?”
Luba scoffed. “Nikoly.”
Born and raised in Cleveland by Ukrainian parents, Luba hadn’t spoken English until kindergarten. In ordinary conversation her voice had no accent, but she tended to mutter in Ukrainian whenever she got irked. The recent string of near-daily crises in the department had done wonders for the rest of our vocabularies.
“Hey, guys.”
A skinny, freckled brunette with frizzy, shoulder-length hair leaned against the near side of the cube doorway, causing my calendar to sway on its pushpin.
Luba scooted back her chair. “Well?” she asked, sotto voce, “what have you got?”
Kira, the 23-year-old administrative assistant we had dubbed “the informant,” smiled smugly. She had gotten her reputation by virtue of her workstation, which was conveniently located within eavesdropping distance of the department director’s office. Her area was supposed to be a storage closet, but had been an early casualty of “intradepartmental consolidation,” otherwise known as workstation squishing. Kira’s cube had so little desk area she had to balance her keyboard on top of an open file cabinet, and even then, her monitor was at an angle to her chair. But no one heard her complaining.
She leaned in further, then mouthed her word with flair. “Reorganization.”
“Again?” Luba and I cried in unison.
Kira put a finger to her lips. “I don’t know when or why, but I do know who.” She offered a meaningful glare.
“Morgan?” I mouthed.
She nodded.