by Nic Saint
Spooky Trills
Alice Whitehouse 2
Nic Saint
Puss in Print Publications
Contents
Spooky Trills
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Excerpt from Crime and Retribution (Saffron Diffley 1)
About Nic
Also by Nic Saint
Spooky Trills
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When a duck farmer and Elvis impersonator is found murdered, his million-dollar belt buckle missing, all evidence points to his sons, eager to lay their hands on the inheritance. Not everything is as it seems, however, and soon Alice Whitehouse, Felicity Bell, and the other members of the neighborhood watch are up to their ears in suspects. It doesn’t help that everyone is hiding something, and even the ghost of the murdered man is less than honest.
As if this is not enough to keep them busy, the watch members are being stalked by a mysterious individual, who has vowed to ‘make the neighborhood watch pay!’ And then there’s Alice’s budding romance with handsome cop Rock Walker, who may or may not have discovered her great secret.
Will Rock finally find out who Alice really is? Will the watch members root out their stalker and find the crooning duck farmer’s killer? And will Alice’s dad’s chickens finally lay eggs? Find out in this riveting and hilarious new mystery, the second book in the Alice Whitehouse cozy mystery series.
Prologue
Banning Pender was leaning on the fence, fondly gazing at his flock of ducks. There they were, pecking away at the dirt, softly quacking amongst themselves as was their habit, from time to time casting a curious eye at him, wondering why he was just standing there like an idiot instead of feeding them as he was supposed to.
Banning was a tall, stringy fellow with a mop of unkempt gray hair going on white. He’d owned this farm since his daddy died and left it to him, and it was all he’d ever known. Ducks were his life, and had been for as long as he could remember. Heck, he lived and breathed ducks—at least when he wasn’t eating ‘em.
Only that wasn’t necessarily true, of course. Duck farmer Banning Pender, proud owner of the Pender Duck Farm, one of the last duck farms in Long Island, had a not-so-secret hobby that had slowly been taking over his life these last few years. For Banning was an Elvis impersonator, and had long been contemplating turning his hobby into a business. He had the gold lame suit. He had the belt buckle. And he had the voice. Or at least he thought he did.
He was staring at his ducks with a mellow look in his eyes, and softly crooned, “Wise men say only fools rush in.” A particularly curious duck waddled up, directing its beady eyes at the farmer. “But I can’t help falling in love with you.” The duck made slight jerky movements with its head and squawked a plaintive quack. Banning smiled. “I’m not talking to you.”
He turned away from his feathered flock and lovingly fingered his belt buckle. It was the one thing that set him apart from other duck farmers. He might look like a duck farmer, smell like a duck farmer, and even sound like a duck farmer—in all fairness he was not a very good Elvis impersonator—in his heart of hearts he was the King and always had been.
He glanced up when there was a rustling sound behind him. He turned, half expecting to see one of his ducks making a rash dash for the great unknown. When his eyes fell on the gun, he opened his lips to utter a startled cry. The cry stuck in his throat, however, when the gun discharged with an explosive sound, and he felt a sudden pain in his chest. He clutched at it, his gaze rising to catch a glimpse of his killer. In spite of the pain blooming in his chest, he started violently when recognition hit. The white zip-up collared jumpsuit. The gold embroidery. The matching belt. The red scarf. And of course the coif, the sunglasses, and the elaborate sideburns. “Elvis? Is that you?”
“You better believe it, baby,” said the famous singer in his trademark drawl, and then shot him again.
“Why—why are you doing this, Elvis?” he croaked. “I’m—I’m your biggest fan!”
Elvis displayed a grin. “Well, you took something that belongs to me, baby.”
Banning fell to earth, the rich scent of duck manure filling his nostrils. The last thing he knew was that Elvis was tugging at his belt. In a desperate attempt to hold onto it, he reached out a trembling hand, but it was slapped away.
“Thank you,” said Elvis. “Thank you very much.”
And as he felt himself go numb and cold, his ducks suddenly erupted into a loud clamoring. And then the unfortunate farmer knew no more.
Chapter 1
I pushed open the doors of Charlie’s Funeral Delight with a happy smile on my lips. Have you ever had one of those days when you wake up feeling that this day is going to be just great? Well, that was how this day had started for me. The moment I’d opened my peepers and had greeted the rays slanting in through the curtains, I’d known this day was going to be a super-duper day. I’d stretched and yawned and had practically jumped out of bed, which was an unusual thing for me, as on most days I tend to crawl out of bed and only start feeling halfway human once I’ve hit the shower and have gotten at least two cups of coffee in me.
But not today. Today was one of those rare days I was feeling all sunny and bright. Even my housemate Felicity had wondered what was going on when I practically came skipping into the kitchen, all dressed up in a cheerful pink crop top and Daisy Dukes and blithely caroling the latest Taylor Swift hit. And as I closed the glass doors to my uncle’s funeral parlor behind me, I checked my reflection. My Julianne Hough-styled blond bob was as bouncy as ever, and my green eyes sparkled with an unusual zest for life—unusual for someone who works at a funeral home, that is.
Since breakfast, I’d changed into more conservative attire, namely a gray pantsuit and sensible white blouse. People tend to balk at buying quality caskets, urns and cremation products from a woman looking like a beach model. Likewise, I now removed the cheerful expression from my face and adopted a more appropriate look of solemnity and pensiveness.
I glanced around the showroom at the caskets on display—neatly arranged according to price class—and called out, “Uncle Charlie—I’m here!” A loud sob sounded in response and I frowned. “Uncle Charlie?”
I walked through to the preparation room, where my uncle prepares the recently departed before the viewing and subsequent interment, as the sobbing seemed to come from there. I walked in to find my uncle, fully dressed in his best Elvis costume, seated on the embalming table, sobbing inconsolably, his spindly legs dangling freely, slumped over his potbelly.
“Uncle!” I cried, streaking over. “What’s wrong?”
He glanced up, and even though it was hard to make out his eyes behind the dark sunglasses, it was obvious he was in tears. “He’s dead, Alice. The King is dead.”
“I know,” I said, awkwardly patting him on the back of his white sequined suit vest. “It’s a truly terrible thing.”
Even thoug
h I sympathized with Uncle Charlie and all the other Elvis impersonators out there in the world, I sometimes found it hard to share in their grief. Their idol had been gone for a long time, after all, and at some point you just have to let go of the past and look to the future. Elvis might have been a great singer, but there were other, possibly even greater singers working nowadays. Wonderful artists like Harry Styles. And Zayn Malik. And, of course, Niall Horan.
In the background, Are You Lonesome Tonight was softly playing, and I inwardly groaned. No wonder the man was crying in his muttonchops. “Why don’t I put on something a little more cheerful, huh?” I suggested. “These sad songs aren’t doing you any good, Uncle Charlie.”
“They reflect the way I feel,” he said, taking out a large Elvis Presley-themed handkerchief, and noisily blowing his nose in the King’s visage.
“Of course they do,” I said, patting him on the back some more. “So is it Elvis’s death anniversary again? Didn’t we do that just the other day?”
“It’s not Elvis I’m mourning,” said Charlie a little peevishly, taking off his overly large sunglasses to give me a look of censure. “The King died.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Sure he did. And the King is…”
“The King!”
“Of course,” I said pacifically. When Uncle Charlie was in one of his moods, it was best not to argue. “He truly was a great singer, wasn’t he?”
“The best.”
“And he would have appreciated you crying over him like this.”
“I’m sure he would. He was one of my best friends, after all.”
“Uh-huh,” I said dubiously. To my knowledge Uncle Charlie had never met the King at all. He’d never even seen him live on stage, as he’d just been born when the King had passed to that great Graceland in the sky.
Uncle Charlie carefully wiped his rust-colored mustache. It was one of the things that set him apart from other Elvis impersonators, as was the fact that he couldn’t sing, even though he was the chairman of the Happy Bays Elvis Presley Fan Club and a regular at all those Vegas Elvis meetups.
“Why don’t you clean yourself up?” I suggested. “Before the customers arrive.”
“There will only be one customer today,” he said mournfully, “and that’s the King.”
“Right,” I said after a pause. I discreetly sniffed my uncle’s breath. Nope. He hadn’t been drinking. Drugs, perhaps? But as far as I knew Uncle Charlie wasn’t into drugs. He was into BDSM with the butcher’s wife, but that hardly qualified as an illegal substance. Then I got it. “Did Jackie break up with you again?”
Jackie Bouchard, the butcher’s wife and something of a local harlot, had a tendency to change lovers like other people change underwear. Uncle Charlie fixed me with a suspicious look. “What do you know about Jackie?”
I rolled my eyes. “Uncle, everybody knows about you and Jackie Bouchard. In fact the only one who doesn’t know is Bud Bouchard.”
“And I hope he never finds out,” muttered Charlie. “Cause if he does, he’ll come after me with his meat cleaver.” He frowned. “You mean people talk about us?”
“Of course. This is Happy Bays. Everybody talks. About everybody.”
He looked appropriately embarrassed. “What else do they say?”
“That one of these days someone will find you hanging in your closet.”
He started. “What?!”
“It’s called erotic asphyxiation. At least that’s what Rick told me.”
Rick Dawson is Felicity’s live-in boyfriend. He’s a reporter for the New York Chronicle and knows all kinds of things nobody else knows—or is even remotely interested in. Fee says that’s because he’s an intellectual. I think it’s because he’s a nerd. He’s nice, though, even though he’s a fan of heavy metal music. We all have our faults.
“What?!” Uncle Charlie cried, jumping from the embalming table. “I’m not into erotic asphyxiation!”
“Look, we don’t have to talk about this,” I said soothingly. I so didn’t want to discuss my uncle’s sex life with him. “Whatever you do, it’s fine by me.”
“But I’m not!” he cried plaintively. “So that’s why people all look at me strange. They think I’m into some kind of kinky stuff!”
“It’s not kinky if you like it,” I offered.
“But I’m not into that kind of thing!” He gave me a pleading look. “You have to tell them, honey. You have to tell them that I’m just a regular Joe.”
“Tell who?”
He swung his arms in the direction of the door. “Everybody!”
“You mean go out there and tell people my uncle isn’t into kinky sex with the butcher’s wife?”
He buried his face in his hands. “Oh, God. This is a nightmare. First the King is murdered and now this.”
I groaned inwardly. My uncle was one of those people who believed Elvis had been murdered by the Mafia. “Uncle Charlie, when are you going to get it into your head that Elvis wasn’t murdered?”
He stared at me. “What are you talking about?”
“Elvis wasn’t murdered. I think it’s time you finally start to admit it.”
“Of course Elvis wasn’t murdered,” he said with a puzzled frown.
“So why did you just tell me he was?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t. I said Banning was murdered.”
“You said the King was murdered.”
“Well, Banning was the King. The King of Elvis impersonators. And I’m not just saying that because he was my friend. Everybody says so.”
Now it was my turn to be confused. “Who is Banning?”
“Banning Pender. His widow just called. She told me her husband was shot to death this morning, and asked me to take care of the funeral arrangements.”
Something dawned. Something to do with… ducks. “Pender Duck Farm?”
“That’s right. But his true passion was his impersonations. He was the absolute tip of the top. Here, let me show you.”
He took out his phone and fired up a clip he’d obviously been looking at before I arrived. It showcased a thin Elvis lookalike with a serious underbite blithely slaughtering A Little Less Conversation on a stage somewhere.
“This was Las Vegas last year,” said Uncle Charlie with a wistful smile. “At the Ultimate Elvis Competition. He won, you know. Grand prize.”
“Good for him,” I muttered, wincing slightly as the man’s performance actually hurt my ears.
Uncle Charlie suddenly took hold of my arm. “Alice. You have to find out who did it.”
“Did what?”
“Murdered Banning! He didn’t deserve to die like this. A talent like him only comes around every few decades. We have to find out what happened.”
“Of course,” I said, more in a bid to get him to release my arm than as a hard commitment.
“So you’ll do it? You’ll solve Banning’s murder?”
“Um…”
“Oh, come on, Alice. I know all about you and that neighborhood watch you run. You caught Gemma Weston’s killer before the police ever had an inkling.”
Well, that was true enough. The neighborhood watch I run with four friends of mine had been instrumental in catching the killer of a bank teller who’d recently been murdered. Though I really didn’t feel I could take all the credit. Somehow I’d just stumbled upon the killer. In fact I still didn’t know how I’d done it. “Why don’t I talk it through with the girls?”
“Please do,” he said hopefully. “And while you’re at it, tell the Holy Trinity that I’m not into any kinky stuff and ask them to spread the word.”
The Holy Trinity was the name Happy Baysians had given three members of the neighborhood watch. They were arguably the biggest gossipmongers in town, seeing all, knowing all, and telling all, which made them perfect for the watch. “I’ll see what I can do,” I promised my uncle.
He finally released my arm. “He was going to leave duck farming, you know,” he said softly. “Wanted to move to Las V
egas and go pro.”
I darted another glance at the thin man on the screen, sliding his fingers through his Elvis wig, shaking his hips like a geriatric giraffe and massacring another Elvis classic, and I shivered. Tip of the top indeed.
Chapter 2
Since Uncle Charlie had given me the day off—on the condition I found him a killer—I decided to head over to Bell’s Bakery and get Felicity involved. By now she would be hard at work, dispensing pastry to the carb-and-sugar-starved customers that habitually flock to the bakery at this time of the morning. In fact I suddenly felt a craving for a bit of pastry myself. So I mounted my pink bicycle and rode myself over to Lake Street, which is only a few blocks from the funeral home.
I strode into the shop, the doorbell clanging merrily, and immediately was hit by the intoxicating scent of pastry and freshly brewed coffee. I closed my eyes and told myself to be strong. I was only here to pick up Fee and get this murder investigation going, not to indulge myself in one of my favorite hobbies: stocking up on empty calories.
Fee gave me a wave from behind the counter and I walked over. She was just handing Sheniece Harlot a paper baggie containing assorted mini pastries. Sheniece is an elderly lady and one of Bell’s best customers. She gave me a toothy smile and I grinned back at her. She placed a hand on my arm. “Try the fruit mince scrolls, honey. They’re to die for.”