by Cassie Page
Olivia flushed. “Of course, I’m sorry. This is Detective Richards’ wife.”
Friggin frig. How could she not have figured out that he was married. Just her luck, though what was she thinking anyway. Both she and Tuesday agreed he was definitely not a MAD man.
Richards was shaking his head and for once, flashing Olivia a blinding smile. “No, not my wife. My sister.”
Chapter Thirty-Two: BFF’s
Olivia tallied up her proceeds while Tuesday started packing. She was taking a six am flight in the morning from SFO to Burbank to make her nine am Monday morning standing appointment with Holley Wood, star of Warner Bros. latest blockbuster about aliens taking over the body of a time-traveling princess. Tuesday had said when she told Olivia, “God’s truth. She showed me her birth certificate. I could slice her in ribbons. She got the name first. But she probably needs all the help she can get. She calls them alients.”
She zipped up the last of her cases. “Well, I guess that’s it. The only thing left is for you to tell me what’s up with the shoes.”
Olivia bent over into a downward dog, straightened up into warrior pose and said, “I’ve got to get back into yoga. I have so much tension in my back from all this. The shoes. You won’t believe this.”
She explained the tortured murder plan and Greta’s foiling what would have been a perfect crime out of jealousy.
”Over a man she conspired to murder. That’s some serious crazy. Oh, don’t let me forget my herbs.”
Olivia said, ”Puleeze don’t forget them.” Then she went on to explain how they nailed the doctor when they found the sliced up puffer fish in his freezer and vials of toxin he had been able to extract.
Olivia did an I don’t get it eye rolling head shake. “Who even knows how to do that? Anyway, Richards told him that they could trace the DNA from the fish to the DNA in Blackman’s tissues. Richards pulled that one out of a hat, but it worked. Chandler bought it and caved and gave up Greta in the process. They’d been getting it on since Blackman cheated everyone out of the biotech deal. He was really just into Greta so he could figure out a way to get back at Blackman. She killed her husband for the diamonds. She wouldn’t share them with him but was willing to give half to Chandler because, get this: She believed he loved her.”
Now Tuesday did the eyerolling thing. “When will they learn?”
Olivia explained that Chandler moved to DV and set up a practice for the rich and richer to be closer to Blackman, keep an eye on him. Then the others showed up. The shirtmakers and Harmon. They weren’t just after Blackman. The doctor’s hands weren’t any too clean in the deal either and those three were after both Blackman and Chandler.
Olivia stretched out on the floor and threw her feet behind her head, then moved into a shoulder stand. She huffed and puffed as she spoke. “So he did his first experimenting with puffer fish, he really is an expert, on Harmon. ME said heart attack and he knew finally had a magic formula. He then slipped it to the shirt couple, apparently it’s not hard to smear it on something and it seeps into the skin. He really isn’t sure how they got into the lake. They should have just collapsed on the ground.” Which is what she did, rolling herself down and touching her heels to the rug again.
“Then when Greta told him she’d heard through the grapevine about the drugs and confronted her husband, I don’t know what grapevine she hangs on, but he admitted it, Chandler had his solution for Blackman. But hell hath no fury. If Greta had left well enough alone, they would have gotten away with it. Blackman told her about the drugs, the safe deposit box, the works. She probably was on him for losing so much money in the Silicon Valley deal. So she decided to have the diamonds to herself and then Chandler swept her off her feet with his bedside manner and they thought they had it made. But Roger got high and was complicit in unknowingly helping her send the body to an amateur sleuth.”
Olivia sat up and shrugged innocently. “That’s where I come in. Who knew?”
Tuesday sat on a case to zip it shut.
“How much do you have to pay for all that luggage?”
“What’s money for? So everybody’s happy, now, right? Richards has the killers, Cody has Jessica. How did he figure out Mrs. Harmon was BFFs with the wrong Blackman sister?”
“He asked her. Funny how communication works. The daughter I heard about was adopted. Once Jessica was born, she took center stage. Apparently, Brenda, the adopted one, wanted their father to make a business loan to her husband and he refused. The husband took a powder and she blamed it all on her father. She found a willing listener in Mrs. Harmon. They knew each other fro when they all lived in Silicon Valley. So that’s it. Last thing. Richards and Mrs. Harmon are tight because she and her husband lived in Mumbai for a while and she befriended Tasmania. Mrs. Harmon is like everybody’s favorite mother. Could have fooled me.”
The two friends said goodnight and hugged goodbye, promised there would be no tears, hugged some more and raced each other for the box of tissues.
“Tuesday, I’d beg you to move up here with me but I know you would hate it.”
“And I’d beg you to come back to LA but I’ve looked deeply into Detective Richards’ eyes. It would be cruel and unusual punishment to tear you away from those brown beauties.”
Olivia pooh-poohed that idea. “Seriously, he’s not my type and I have a business to get off the ground and a car museum commission to snag.”
“Did you finally hear from George Clooney, er Mr. Bacon?”
“Yeah, he came to the sale. Figured it was the only way he could talk to me. I looked for you to introduce you but you must have been in the house. We have an appointment next week.”
“Now there’s an interesting proposition,” Tuesday said seductively.
“No, it’s not like that. He’s a widower still grieving for his wife.”
“And I know just the chickadee to cheer him up.”
“Honestly, Tuesday, if that came out of anybody else’s mouth I’d never speak to them again. Have you no respect? And you know how he got his money? He won the country’s two biggest Powerball lotteries, three years apart. Three hundred million and change in the first one and four hundred million and change in the second one. Before that he was a dispatcher on the Hoboken public transit. His wife died just before he won the first one. He can’t get over her.”
Tuesday shook her head. “What I have is a deep and abiding wish for my best friend’s happiness. Now give me one more hug and let me get some sleep. Promise me we’ll get together again before Christmas.”
Olivia crossed her heart. “Promise.”
Tuesday said, “Preferably so I can catch your bouquet.”
Olivia threw a pillow at her and then blew kisses all the way out of the room. “Travel well, Tuesday.”
“Stay out of trouble, princess.”
“Which one of us will fulfill those wishes?”
“You better.”
“No, you better.”
“Love you.”
“Love you more.”
“I give up. Let me sleep.”
The End
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Book 2 of the Darling Valley Cozy Mystery Series
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One: Monday: Getting Ready: When Olivia Hath OCD
1:1
1:2
1:3
1:4
1:5
Chapter Two: Groundbreaking Murder
2:1
2:2
2:3
2:4
2:5
Chapter Three: The Usual Suspects
3:1
3:2
Don’t Blame Me
Chapter Four: It’s In The Ca
rds, No, The Tea Leaves
4:1
4:2
4:3
4:4
4:5
Chapter Five: Cover Your Assets
5:1
5:2
5:3
5:4
Chapter Six: Spells And Misspells
6:1
6:2
6:3
6:4
6:5
Tea For Two
Chapter Seven: The Moving Finger Writes
7:17:2
7:3
7:4
Film At Eleven
Chapter Eight: This Land Is Our Land
8:1
8:2
8:3
Chapter Nine: Win One For The Gipper
9:1
9:2
9:3
9:4
Chapter Ten: You Shoulda Seen The Other Guy
10:1
10:2
Can You Hear Me Now?
Chapter Eleven: I Don’t Know Much About Art, But
11:1
11:2
11:3
11:4
Chapter Twelve: Take Out
12:1
12:2
12:3
12:4
Chapter Thirteen: A Visit To Venus
13:1
13:2
13:3
13:4
Chapter Fourteen: The Pool Party
14:1
14:2
14:3
Prologue
He hated working on these do or die construction jobs. He should get hazardous duty pay for putting up with the aggravation.
Rivulets of rainwater curled around his feet and earthworms crawled out from under rocks. A small river had opened up, an underground spring, bringing more muck and mire to the site. And something else. What’s this?
With the tip of his hookaroon he cleared away a slick of mud, exposing what looked like another shard. More trouble for the powers that be. The boss was supposed to report the last one he’d found, just like the law required. But the guy was dragging his feet on anything that would slow down the project.
He’d just finishing marking the last of the trees to come down, but it was anyone’s guess when the trucks could get in to haul them away. A week of rain had already messed up the schedule and turned the contractor into a raging bull.
The last shaft of afternoon light peeked through the canopy of trees that would become a meditation center when the museum was finished. The thin rays allowed him to examine this latest discovery up close. He tucked his hookaroon under his arm carefully. He’d stabbed himself once with the sharp, spiked tip. It wasn’t going to happen again.
“Wait until he gets a load of this,” he muttered, picking up the thing and turning it over in his hand.
Maybe the boss could brush off the pottery shards and arrowheads, but not this. He stuck it in his pocket and added, “There goes this job.”
It was past quitting time. He turned to collect his chainsaw and head out to his truck. He’d call the boss after dinner. It was a federal crime not to report this. He had to make him see that.
Eager to get home to his family, he picked up his pace, almost tripping over a shovel someone had tossed on the ground. He was new to this crew. Their sloppy work habits ticked him off, leaving tools out to get wrecked by the elements.
Just as he reached for the shovel, he sensed movement at the edge of the trees. Someone was there. The guard and German Shepherd in the security shed at the far end of the property seemed not to have heard. This part of the fence abutted the forest. People curious about the project gawked from the street. Not even hikers ended up back here. The other workers had clocked out for the day. He should be alone.
From his size he could tell the guy was too old to be one of the kids that came nosing around looking for mischief among the big earthmovers and cranes.
“Can I help you?”
His voice carried. The dog should have heard him and started barking. The guard was a sucker for that dog. He was probably feeding him from his lunchbox. If the dog heard anything, she was not interested at this moment.
“This is private property.”
He raised his voice a few decibels. “A construction site. You could get hurt if you’re not careful.”
The man picked up something and stuck it in his pocket.
He walked towards him. “What you got there, sir? You’re not supposed to take anything from this site.”
The man came closer so he stuck out his hand, friendly like because that was his way. Then he smiled, relieved. “Oh, it’s you. I didn’t recognize you at first. I was going to accuse you of trespassing.”
He pointed to the man’s hand.
“Did you find what I think you did?”
The man came closer, then rushed him, surprising him by snatching the hookaroon from under his arm. He raised his hands to protect himself, tried to get away, but lost his footing on the muddy ground.
Chapter One: Olivia Hath OCD
Monday Morning
1:1
“Son of a beehive. Those pinheads couldn’t design a hole in a wall if I handed them a sledgehammer!”
Olivia slammed her computer shut, which responded by lengthening slightly the crack in the cover that had opened up the last time she threw a fit when a blogger criticized one of her projects.
“The Bacon-Paatz Museum? Sounds like a pork store in Boston.”
So wrote Auto Classics and Design, the snobby publication and blog for elite car collectors, their way of saying they would not be sending a representative to the groundbreaking ceremony for her museum today. Thank you very much.
First of all, it wasn’t her museum. Exactly. She was just the project manager. Bacon stood for Charles Bacon, the former New Jersey transit dispatcher cum billionaire thanks to two mega lottery winnings and subsequent smart investments. He was also her new friend and client.
Paatz was for his beloved late wife, Ellie Paatz, who died before Bacon earned his winnings. As a way of coping with his grief, he’d immersed himself in collecting antique cars. He had 102 and counting. The museum was his tribute to Ellie, a way, he hoped, to fill the hole she had left in his life. He’d been rich and retired for only two years, a Darling Valley resident for less than ten months.
Olivia knew that, like a mourning dove, Charles had mated for life. He would never find anyone else, never get over losing Ellie. Though she’d been dead fifteen years, succumbing to a mysterious virus before they’d even had time to have children, the pain at times was still fresh as a slap in the face.
Charles must not see this insulting blog post. Especially this morning, when the Governor, the financiers and the media would hover over this upstart philanthropist and his crazy museum like a hawk, the cable news outlets hoping for a misstep they could use to boost their ratings.
While Olivia pinned one of Xavier’s jade creations to the lapel of her jacket, Xavier was Darling Valley’s premier jeweler, she mouthed expletives at the blog’s editors. They had made their decision based on a rough mockup of the museum she’d sent out in a media blast about the groundbreaking ceremony. Didn’t they realize how important classic car museums were becoming in the global art world? Auto Classics and Design needed to stay ahead of the curve, but she needed their coverage.
The jade was for luck.
She grabbed her purse, checking once again that she had tucked her speech inside. Last, she picked up the stack of programs for the event.
Cody announced his arrival with his oogga oogga horn. She winced and muttered, “Please, Cody, you know I’m trying to get the neighbors off my back.”
Her loft was on the top floor of the house she used for both her residence and her business, Darling Valley Design and Antiques. The street was zoned for mixed residential, the other owners still lukewarm about her arrival in the pristine town less than a year ago. Two of the homeowners had arrived only weeks before she had, but the pecking order was fierce.
; On her way out the door, she paused in her office and shouted down to the basement apartment. “We’re leaving, Mrs. Harmon. Are you sure you don’t want a ride?”
Her elderly tenant came to the bottom of the stairs, dressed in one of her many St. John suits and fastening her pearls around her neck, her beautiful silver hair and makeup impeccable as usual.
“I’m fine, Olivia. I’ve told you. The orthopedist cleared me for driving. I can get there under my own power.”
Olivia tried to overlook the reprimand in Mrs. Harmon’s voice. Queenie, as some called the widow behind her back, had sprained her knee last week while emptying her trash. Olivia was just trying to help. Annoyed, sometimes Queenie could sound just like Olivia’s mother, she slammed the screen door harder than necessary and dashed down the driveway.
She wasn’t normally so sensitive, but today was a big deal, the groundbreaking six months in the planning. The museum would give her important credentials in the international design community. Nerves had kept her awake most of the night. She didn’t need a bad omen, such as a grumpy Mrs. Harmon nagging at her.
“Oh, sheep dip,” she muttered. “I didn’t meditate this morning.”
It was Matt’s suggestion, the meditation, to help her achieve balance. Juggling two high-pressure projects at once was rattling her nerves. And the meditation helped. The two times she had tried it.
Matt was Detective McDreamy, as Tuesday, her BFF, called him. Gurmeet Richards or Matt for short. Olivia’s on-again, off-again sweetheart since they’d met on a murder case soon after she’d moved to Darling Valley.
OMG, as she was known to her friends (short for Olivia M. Granville), needed all the help she could get this week. Her other huge project, the Fredericks’ anniversary party, was coming up on Friday. The couple had timed it to coincide with the unveiling of their new pool house, a little shack Olivia had designed that would comfortably house a family of twelve.
Marguerite Fredericks had let her know that if the cabana unveiling went well she could count on the job of renovating her twenty thousand square foot abode. This would have Olivia sitting pretty in Darling Valley as the town’s premier designer.