How touching. My eyes watered too. "I love you, Aunt Alfa."
Wwweee!!
"You too, Brownie." I scooped him up and cradled him. The three of us hugged as Seth bolted across the lawn with a rope in tow. We told him what happened, including how Manouchka had tried to shoot Brownie and how Aunt Alfa had clocked Manouchka with a wheatgrass juicer. He retrieved the gun from the rose bush and joined us.
He glanced at Aunt Alfa's device. "Is that the wheatgrass machine?"
"It's a handheld juicer," she said, picking it up from the lawn and wiping it off. "Comes in handy if you need to crank out some potent green juice or if you want to clock the real killer conch shell thief."
Seth tilted his head. "It looks like something they'd use in Men in Black."
I laughed. "That's exactly what I said."
He gazed at me for a moment. "Manouchka's been a good employee. She's works hard for the Osprey Inn." His tone held a hint of disbelief.
"Go inside Manouchka's quarters and find the real shell," I said.
He followed my suggestion and returned, eyes wider than scallops. Manouchka was starting to rouse, so he tied her hands together and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Relief rushed through me when he called the police. Despite the crazy night, the real thief had been caught, and the real shell had been returned.
It was time to go home.
"What'd you say, Pipe? Should we take 'em up on that free spa treatment tomorrow? After all this, I sure could use a massage and a mud bath."
Wwweee!
I sighed. "Did you have to say that in front of him?"
Aunt Alfa shrugged. "Sorry. We'll ask Seth when he gets off the phone if Brownie can get a free mud bath too."
Wwweee!
* * * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Patrice Lyle loves green smoothies, dark chocolate, mysteries, and humor. She wove these elements together when she created the Health Nut Mysteries, a cozy series about a naturopathic doctor who solves mysteries at health expos. Patrice also writes paranormal young adult and middle grade fiction, as well as holistic medical suspense. She has an MA in Writing Popular Fiction and a PhD in Holistic Nutrition. She's also a Certified Traditional Naturopath. She now lives in Florida with her husband and two kitties, and is a firm believer in the theory that laughter is the best medicine.
To learn more about Patrice, visit her online at:
http://www.patricebooks.com
BOOKS BY PATRICE LYLE
Health Nut Mysteries:
Killer Kung Pao
Killer Carat Cream
Holistic Medical Fiction:
Glisten
Teen Fiction:
Lethally Blonde
Tween Fiction:
The Case of the Invisible Witch
Non-fiction:
Many Genres, One Craft
THE PEN IS MIGHTIER
(Proverbial Crime Mysteries)
by
Dane McCaslin
* * * * *
CHAPTER ONE
Ah. She'd finally made it to the resort of her dreams. It had everything that could make her vacation perfect: several pools, an in-house masseuse, even a so-called celebrity chef to prepare meals. Better than all that, though, was the presence of several of her victims, as she liked to think of them. She had thoroughly enjoyed watching each of them squirm when they'd spotted her. She wished she could have seen them when the notes were delivered. Popping a forkful of delectable shrimp into her mouth, she smiled with satisfaction. The marinade was fabulous—a touch of lime and ginger and something else she couldn't name.
And then the smile faded as a burning sensation filled her throat and mouth. Nausea hit hard and fast, and she felt the dish slip from her fingers as her muscles began to seize. Before she could call out for help, she was unconscious, and in a few minutes she was dead.
* * *
I was hot. And bothered. Not in the pleasurable sense of the words, either. Going on vacation during the bleak winter without my hubby had seemed like a good idea at the time I'd booked the trip, but now…let's just say that I was not having the promised best resort experience of your life. Aside from the food, that was. I was certainly enjoying that.
My name is Caro Layton-Browning, cozy mystery author and wife of Gregory Browning, the absent spouse. His academic career often took him back to England, our homeland, and that was the reason he wasn't by my side as I lounged near one of the pools at the Casa del Mar luxury resort, one of St. Thomas' highly-rated getaways. Yes, it was nice to have someone who waited on me hand and foot, made my bed, and prepared all of my meals, but it wasn't the same without my hubby at my side. I sighed, took another sip of my fresh mango juice—and froze.
The hair was different, the face was partially shadowed underneath a straw hat, but I was positive that I knew the woman who sat on the edge of the pool, casually swinging her legs in the water as she chatted with the man next to her. Nona Belladonna, writer of book reviews and the scourge of any author who encountered her, was here. At my island resort. Enjoying my pool. With—if I wasn't mistaken—Clyde Van Heusen, local island television personality, looking decidedly uncomfortable. My curiosity concerning their relationship was halted with a new idea: with a new book out, I had no desire to catch the attention of the aptly named Poisoned Pen of Prose. I shuddered, feeling a chill that wasn't there earlier.
Waving off an approaching waiter bearing the ubiquitous tray of drinks, I slid off my deck chair and headed toward a vine-covered walkway. I needed to figure out why she was here and who her target was—with Nona, there was always a targeted prey, someone whose life she could make miserable with one sweep of her pen. Maybe there was another author staying here, one I wasn't aware of. That thought perked me up considerably. If she was focused on another writer, perhaps she'd leave me alone.
I walked through the lobby and headed for the concierge, a lovely young woman whose eyes could only be described as liquid chocolate. I could but dream of having her tan, not to mention her figure. I tended to keep my bathing suit—and body—hidden under a flowing caftan.
"Miss Caro, how delightful to see you!" Layla's smile, as perfect as the rest of her looks, was genuine—how she kept all of our names straight was a skill to be coveted.
"I was wondering if there is another writer staying here." I kept my tone casual, aiming for a nonchalant manner. "I happened to see someone I know through the business and thought she might be here to do an interview." Or to destroy someone's confidence with a book-bashing, I thought.
"Let me see," replied Layla, riffling through the leather-bound ledger on her desk. "Yes. We are expecting a Mr. Samuel Connery this evening. He is scheduled to sign his latest book in the Carefree Cabana tomorrow at two." She smiled up at me, dimples winking in her flawless face. "You should have scheduled a book signing as well, Miss Caro. That way you could write off your vacation and still enjoy our resort."
Not a snowball's chance in hell, I thought. Not with that harpy around. Aloud I said, "Maybe next time. Right now I'd better get dressed for dinner." With a breezy wave, I headed for the broad staircase and my room on the second floor.
I knew Sam Connery. He wrote his bestselling series under a nom de plume, but most people still recognized him from the picture on his book covers. It was hard to miss a moustache that large and that color. Although his facial hair was gray, the hair on his head was a suspect shade of red. I shook my head, feeling pity for him. Nona would be sure to humiliate him somehow and contrive to make it appear as if it was his fault. Poor Sam. I made a mental note to check on him later.
Dinner was a fantastic experience, per usual. I'd forgotten all about my diet and was thoroughly enjoying a garlic-braised lobster tail when a waiter hurried over to me with a note in his hand. I took it, thanked him graciously, and opened it on my lap out of the sight of my tablemates. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead, and I felt the lobster threatening to make a repeat appearance as I read its contents: It was nice see
ing you today. We'll have to talk. Nona.
"Over my dead body and preferably yours," I muttered, crumpling the offending paper in my shaking hands. I smiled around the table at the curious faces. "Just a reminder to call my agent," I said with a shake of my head. "Those dreaded deadlines." I let the paper ball drop unobtrusively to the floor.
They murmured their collective sympathy, and the conversation turned back to the beautiful beaches, the snorkeling, and the fabulous golf course just a few miles away. I hoped that no one had noticed how quiet I had become.
* * *
When the honeymooning couple looking for a little privacy stumbled upon Nona Belladonna sitting poolside in the dark, her sightless eyes fixed on the starry sky and a goblet of partially eaten shrimp cocktail in her hand, I was almost relieved. I say almost because although she was a thorn in my flesh when alive, she was doubly so in death. Until the local constabulary figured out who was responsible, the entire resort was on a veritable lockdown.
It didn't take long for the rumors to begin flying about the resort. Since Nona Belladonna had been found with a piece of shrimp dangling from her mouth, it was decided that she'd been poisoned. I decided to only eat from the communal dishes at mealtimes just to be on the safe side: no more special orders for me.
The mood during breakfast the next morning was somber, as one might expect. Since Nona's bombastic reputation had not preceded her to the resort, I overheard many guests express their sorrow that someone should pass on due to such extraordinary circumstances. That was a first for me. I typically called death what it was and did not consider it to be extraordinary in the least. In fact, I found it to be among the basest of all human actions, although it did help foster plots for my books.
And here was a plot to end all others, a real mystery for me to solve. I found myself searching faces for reactions to the news of Nona's death, although I wasn't sure what I expected to see. I did spot a few unhappy countenances, probably belonging to those whose rounds of golf or snorkeling expeditions had been canceled. Without a motive—aside from mine and Sam's, of course—it would be tough going to solve this case.
I found myself wandering near the concierge desk. Layla was there, speaking in soothing tones to a pair of older men, both of whom were gesticulating in the air as they spoke. It was clear they were unhappy, and I had to admire the manner in which Layla calmed them, using the promise of free rounds of golf, "as soon as we're allowed to leave." They left her desk with smiles on their faces and vouchers for the aforementioned golf in their hands.
I gave her a moment to regroup. I could see lines of tension in the set of her shoulders, and I couldn't blame her. She was, for all intents and purposes, on lockdown with a bunch of pouty guests whose main concern was their ruined vacation. I did not fault them one bit. Still, having to deal with them was Layla's job, one that I didn't envy.
"How are you holding up?" I approached the desk with a smile, its wattage mitigated, of course, by the murder. "I trust no one is being too difficult?"
Layla caught herself in mid eye roll. "I shouldn't say anything," she sighed. "But this couldn't have come at a worse time for me. My sister, Doria, is in town, and we are having a family party tonight. And my gran is one who will not understand why I am not there," she added with a rueful laugh.
"Oh, that's nice," I said. "The sister part, I mean. Has it been awhile since you've seen her?"
"Almost five years. She left to pursue her career as a writer for movies in the States. We are all so proud of her." Layla smiled and fished out her mobile phone. "Look—here's a picture of her with Nora Ephron, her idol. She looks so happy, doesn't she?" She looked at the image and sighed. "I should say she was happy until she got publically humiliated by someone who has no clue…" She broke off, glancing around the vast lobby with a worried look. "Never mind that I said that, Miss Caro. Someone might get the wrong idea."
Layla's sister smiled broadly from the small screen, standing arm in arm with one of the best-loved writers on either coast. I felt a twinge of envy; I would have loved to have met the woman who took a private sorrow and made a public celebration out of it, calling it Heartburn and giving those in the "newly single" group a good laugh. Her passing certainly left a gaping hole in the movie industry. I looked back at Layla with renewed interest. Was it possible that the concierge also had a bone to pick with the infamous Ms. Belladonna?
"Still," she added in a brighter tone, "it could be worse. The chef and sous chef could call out sick."
I shuddered inwardly. The juxtaposition of chefs and illness was not a good one: food poisoning came to mind. Nona's half-eaten shrimp cocktail was my next thought. Leaving Layla to fend off another wave of disgruntled guests, I headed for the kitchen. Time to talk turkey—and seafood—with an expert.
Eduardo, the resort's celebrity chef, was famous for his lobster bisque, seafood ceviche, and perfectly coiffured toupee. He was hovering over an enormous stainless steel pot, stirring with one hand and sprinkling judicious amounts of spice with the other. His sous chef, an aspiring celebrity named Gustave Brennan, stood nearby holding a bowl full of tiny pink blobs. Shrimp? My heart began a timpani rhythm as I sauntered over to the white-jacketed chef and his Mini-Me.
"Excuse me, please," I began in what I hoped was a friendly-yet-humble tone. One never knew how these celebs would respond to a complete stranger entering their domain.
Apparently this particular celeb had an issue with nerves.
Eduardo jumped as though shot, bumping into the sous chef and causing the bowl and its contents to go sailing through the air. Brilliant. That did not bode well for a heart-to-heart with Mr. Celebrity Chef.
"You!" His tone was definitely not conducive to an amiable chat. "Out! Out of my kitchen!" He brandished the dripping ladle in my direction, spattering the front of his immaculate jacket with lobster bisque. With one backward look at the stunned Gustave Brennan and an apologetic shrug to both, I scooted posthaste. This method of gathering information on Nona's shrimp cocktail had gone south in a hurry.
I headed back to my room to do more thinking and planning…and saw that two others had had that same idea. Not the planning part, unless they were making plans to lock me up for a while. And judging by the solemn expressions on their faces, the two island police officers were not there for a visit.
* * *
"I was just reacting to someone I didn't get along with," I protested. "That doesn't mean I actually wanted to kill her."
"Several people heard you say just that, Mrs. Browning." The older officer, a short man with a surprisingly large nose, looked at me sternly. "How else might we interpret what you said, especially since it was uttered in conjunction with this?" And like a magician, he produced the crumpled note from Nona Belladonna.
"I'd also said, 'over my dead body.' Did that mean I wanted to commit suicide?" I posed the question to the short cop, trying not to sound facetious.
"Who is dead, Mrs. Browning: you or Ms. Belladonna?" He raised one eyebrow in query, the ghost of a sneer on his lips. His silent companion didn't bother to cover his grin.
I sank back in my chair, beaten for the moment. I decided to take another tack.
"Am I being arrested?" My abrupt question startled both of the officers. "If not, then I'll thank you to leave." I stood to emphasize my point, glad of the long caftan I was wearing. It covered my shaking legs. "When I have accessibility to a lawyer, then you can question me."
To my surprise they stood as well, moving toward the door I was pointing at with dramatic flair. At the door, though, they paused to deliver the final salvo.
"Don't go anywhere, Mrs. Browning. We might want to talk again."
If this was an attempt at humor, I wasn't laughing.
CHAPTER TWO
I've often thought that being trapped in paradise would be a pleasant undertaking, something for which most folks would give their eyeteeth. If that was true, what would those of us give who wanted out? An arm? A leg? At that point, I was will
ing to pay someone to take my place at the Casa del Mar luxury resort. I'd had a restless night in an otherwise luxurious room and wanted out of there as soon as possible.
To make matters worse, I was homesick for both my own bed and my irascible dachshund, Trixie. I'd left her with my new neighbor, Meredith Holmes, owner of Seneca Meadows' only bookstore, Mystery by the Book. Trixie, bless her canine heart, was not particular about whom I left her with as long as she was kept supplied with her favorite treats and occasional tummy rubs. Still, I missed her warm little body curled against me as I lay in my luxurious resort bed.
It went without saying, of course, that I was missing my dear spouse as well. I could use his pragmatic way of viewing the world. He was the balance to my admittedly dramatic method of handling issues. Sigh. Perhaps if I called him… The ringing of my bedside phone made me jump. If it was Gregory, I'd add psychic to my list of accomplishments.
It wasn't. Instead, Layla was on the other end, her usually cheerful voice sounding frazzled.
"Miss Caro, you're wanted in the lobby."
It didn't sound like an invitation.
The two charming officers (not!) from the day before stood on either side of a woman whose build brought the word "Amazonian" to mind. She was broad through the shoulders, slim through the hips, and her short skirt showed off well-defined legs. In other words, they'd literally brought in the heavy muscle for this meeting, and I did not like it one bit. Well, until I had legal representation—preferably my husband—they were getting nothing out of me except name, rank, and serial number.
"Mrs. Browning, if you will come with us, please?" It was couched as a request, but it quickly turned into a sideshow of sorts. I felt as though the entire population had made it to the lobby in time to see the Princes Charming attach themselves to my elbows and escort me down a dim hall and to a small office. That did it. I'd either get my one phone call or I'd put up a fuss the likes of which they hadn't seen before.
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