Boxed Set: Darling Valley Cozy Mystery Series featuring amateur female sleuth Olivia M. Granville

by Cassie Page

  Tuesday asked, “What was that all about,” when she returned upstairs.

  “Legally, I can’t stop them from taking my picture. The if you can see it you can photograph it rule. But I can throw them in the clink if they so much as put a toe on my property. Thank goodness they didn’t happen on the rumble in the jungle.”

  The catcalls and pleas for a statement continued, but since the paparazzi had backed out onto the sidewalk near the mailbox now, the decibel level was low enough to allow Tuesday to plead her case for a reading.

  Chapter Twenty: A Snake In The Grass, er, Teacup

  “When have I steered you wrong, snookum?”

  The sandwich was having its desired effect on Olivia. The flavor-burst of sweet, tangy chutney and crisp apple had washed away some of the tension of the morning. But she worried that a reading by Tuesday could undo all the good work of the delicious carbs.

  Olivia mopped up the crumbs on her plate with the tips of her fingers. “It’s not that you steer me wrong. I just don’t always know how to figure out what to do with the information you give me.”

  But then Olivia did an abrupt about face. As long as she was going to have a cup of tea with her lunch, why not let Tuesday do her thing? She planned to check out a few of Jocelyn Payne’s boy toys after lunch, but waiting another half hour wouldn’t hurt.

  Tuesday’s face lit up with a Cheshire cat smile. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” While she waited for Olivia to finish her cup of chamomile, she retrieved her special silk scarf to wrap around the cup, part of the pre-reading ritual that she swore gave her insight to the deep meaning of the tea leaves.

  The herbal aroma perfumed the kitchen. She inhaled the fragrance, but when she pondered the arrangement of leaves, she let out a gasp.

  Olivia pitched forward. “What’s wrong? What do you see? Tuesday, don’t do this to me.” She recognized nothing in the bits and pieces scattered on the bottom of the cup. “I can’t take any more bad news. What is it?”

  Tuesday scratched her head and ran her fingers through her tangle of bright green curls. “Hmm. I don’t know how to tell you this but, well, let me show it to you. What do you see?”

  Tuesday tilted the cup and Olivia leaned over and wrinkled her nose. “Yikes. You mean that slivery looking thing? Please tell me that it’s one of those reverse symbols that looks like bad luck but is really good luck. Like that black candle that time?”

  Tuesday’s shoulders sagged. “I wish I could, doll. But a snake is a straight up bad omen. Someone is out to get you.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes and sat back. “Like, no sheep-dip, Sherlock. How hard is that to figure out? Have you seen the list of folks screaming for my hide?”

  Tuesday bit her lip, her face grim. “Girlfriend, I see what I see. Are you expecting a visit from one of those religious freaks that handle snakes? What about an Indian? I mean an India Indian. Don’t they mess with snakes a lot?”

  Olivia threw up her hands. “Uh, duh. Do I know an Indian? How about Matt Richards? As in Gurmeet Richards. Well, Indian American, but still. But he’s not a snake charmer, and neither is anyone in his family. Let me see that cup again. I think it’s a rope actually. Or a belt. Maybe it means I need to get that gold studded belt I saw in the Neiman Marcus catalog.”

  Tuesday snatched the cup back. “It’s one of those slithery suckers all right, and it means someone is going to do you harm. Someone with a lot of hatred.”

  “Tuesday! Who would hate me? And what would that have to do with Jocelyn’s death. I hardly knew her.”

  Tuesday let out a slow breath. “The tea leaves don’t lie, baby doll. I didn’t say it had to do with Jocelyn Payne, I’m just saying it’s there. What about the boy wonder? Doesn’t he work with reptiles?”

  “You mean Jocelyn’s stepson? Treatment for bites as I recall. Not the same thing. I’m sure he’s on his father’s side in all this and has taken me off his Christmas card list. But how could he hurt me?”

  Tuesday took another look inside the cup and winced this time.

  Irritated now, Olivia threw her napkin on the table. “Now what?” She regretted letting Tuesday talk her into this. Fortune telling was Tuesday’s thing, not hers.

  Tuesday stuffed her silk scarf back into her bag and closed up shop. “Well that’s all.”

  She gathered up the lunch plates and headed for the sink. “Now where did you say you saw a gold belt? Sounds like something that would go with my harem pants.”

  Olivia rushed after her, snatching back her unfinished sandwich. “Oh, no you don’t, Tuesday. You’re not going to leave me hanging like this. What did you see this time? Tell me.”

  Tuesday deposited her dish in the sink, turned to her and admitted, “A scissors riding shotgun with the slinky thing that shall not be named.”

  “So?”

  “It means lovers will be separated.”

  Olivia returned to the table, disgusted. “That’s yesterday’s news, or haven’t you noticed the absence of male energy around here? But how did the tea leaves know about it?”

  She tried to finish her sandwich but lost her appetite and threw the rest back on the plate. “It’s Matt.”

  “What do you mean?” Tuesday was cleaning up the sink.

  “In the tea leaves. The hating thing. It’s talking about Matt. He hates me. He won’t speak to me. It’s like we’ve become enemies.”

  “OMG, have you heard the expression, jumping to conclusions? I think the principle applies here.”

  Olivia looked wistfully out the window to the back garden. “I don’t know, Tuesday, maybe I made a mistake coming to Darling Valley. I just can’t seem to catch a break here.”

  Tuesday held up her hand and started counting. “Yeah, let’s inventory your rotten luck. First, you landed a huge gig called The Bacon-Paatz Museum. Second, you are finally your own boss instead of designing killer houses and remods in LA and having that bloodsucking firm you used to work for take all the credit. Third, you had the good fortune to meet your soul mate, and let’s not forget fourth, the most important reason for being here. You are within walking distance of the best ice cream and chocolate sauce on the planet.”

  Olivia smiled. “And don’t forget the opportunity to hone my self-pity skills.”

  Tuesday said, “There’s that,” as she hunted down a package of cookies in the back of the cupboard. “But I think you can scratch the soul mate item. The ending to that story has yet to be written.”

  “Oh, did you see that in my cup, too?”

  Olivia’s phone pinged, interrupting their verbal joust with a news flash. She studied her phone and cried, “Tuesday! Listen to this! Jocelyn’s husband has had a heart attack.”

  Olivia read the headline out loud. “Arthur Payne collapses. Possible heart attack. Rushed to hospital.”

  She quickly turned on the TV. A young man, identified by a reporter as Dr. Arthur Payne, Jr., the patient’s son, approached a crowd of reporters outside an unnamed hospital. He was backed up by unsmiling bodyguard types and several doctors in scrubs. He set his briefcase down and Olivia observed, “He must have come from work. And look at those linebackers behind him. Could he be afraid that whoever killed his stepmother is coming after him? I bet that’s it.”

  He introduced himself as JR Payne. He’d been quoted as saying in one of the articles Olivia had read that he took a nickname because he didn’t want to be confused with his famous dad. JR, sometimes just Jay, was preferable, to the hated Junior. JR confirmed that his father was a patient in the institution behind him.

  “I blame Olivia Granville for the death of my stepmother,” he said in a breaking voice. “The grief she caused my father literally broke his heart.”

  When asked how his father was doing, he looked straight into the camera. “I just hope there aren’t two murder victims my sister and I have to mourn.”

  A reporter asked, “Can you elaborate? Has Jocelyn Payne’s death been officially declared a homicide? Did Olivia Granville try to
kill your father, too?”

  The camera zoomed in on the tears collecting at the corner of the young man’s eyes, the blond, fair-skinned son a spitting image of the regal-looking father in the photographs on the screen.

  He cleared his throat. “It doesn’t take much of a brain to connect the dots, and then to see that the Darling Valley Police Department is involved in a cover up. That’s all I have to say.”

  Having made his point, he moved back, refusing more questions. Next, a physician with a highlighted side ponytail that added some style to her shapeless blue scrubs stepped up to the microphones. Her security badge identified her as the director of Emergency Services.

  “I was on call when Mr. Payne was brought in to our ER. He received excellent care at the scene by the paramedics that no doubt saved his life. Our team took over and he is undergoing tests to evaluate his condition. It is quite grave at this time and we are doing all we can.”

  A veteran journalist that Olivia recognized from the local TV station asked the physician if she agreed that the death of Payne’s wife caused his collapse. “I have no further comment at this time,” she said, turning and entering the glass doors behind her to end the press conference.

  Tuesday said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say there’s someone hating all over you. But that’s just me.”

  The scene instantly switched to the studio and a camera caught an anchor sitting at a news desk in a sleekly tailored suit and lavender power tie that complimented his bleached blond hair. He wore a bored gaze until he realized he was on camera, then snapped to attention to give a chipper account of Mr. Payne’s life.

  “The patient is a venture capitalist who has funded a number of very successful airlines in developing countries, allowing for the growth of third world tourist economies. He has most recently branched out into the technology sector, reportedly as the mastermind behind Cocoon Your Life, a platform that analysts say will outperform all other players in the tech sector in the next six quarters. Insiders consider his technology expertise on a par with his skills as a brilliant businessman.”

  The anchor talked over several photos of Jocelyn and Art Payne in happier days.

  “On another note, tragedy seems to be stalking the Payne family. It was reported recently that the young Arthur Payne, whom you just saw speaking to our reporter, has been battling cancer. Quite successfully we are happy to report. We are trying to get information on the sister Dr. Payne referred to, the youngest in the family.”

  Olivia said, “Wow, that’s young for cancer,” then stopped listening. “Talk about six degrees of separation. Matt just told me he bought some of that stock. The Cocoon thing.”

  “No kidding.” Tuesday had folded herself onto the couch, having to make several adjustments to her dress to accommodate the hooped petticoat. “Move over Darling Valley’s billionaires and make room for Detective Moneybags.”

  “He wishes, Tuesday. I think he only bought two or three shares. I wonder if Payne’s illness will hurt the stock? You know how finicky the market is.”

  “Ya think?” Tuesday said in an eye-rolling attempt at humor. “You may remember that onetime I put a hundred dollars into this investment that was supposed to be a sure thing. A client recommended it. I started planning my retirement, then it turned out to be Bernie Madoff. After that I decided that the pillowcase under my bed is going to hold my wealth the next time I have a hundred dollars to play with.”

  Olivia whispered to the ceiling, “I don’t want to say I told you so, but if you remember, I did tell you so. Just smelled a bit ripe to me. Course if I’d had some cash at the time and was promised a fifteen percent return in six months, I’d probably have jumped at it, too.”

  The anchor was still talking. As if he had overheard her question, he reported, “Stock in Cocoon remains steady, up two points since the news. All of Payne’s platforms have been solid in the past and our John Gold tells us it’s no surprise the man’s companies are not affected by his health crisis. Here’s John.”

  The camera switched to another sartorially enhanced young man. “Thanks, Gabe. Yes, Payne is known for building bulletproof companies. Strong management that will survive anything, including his death. So this development, while terrible for Payne personally, of course, will not affect his financial empire. Back to you, Gabe.”

  Olivia lost interest in this newscasting Ping-Pong game and turned the TV off. She peeked through the blinds and pointed to the street. “One of the paparazzi must have said, ‘Oh look, there’s a squirrel,’ and they all took off.”

  “The hospital,” Tuesday surmised. “They must have scanners in their cars.”

  Olivia nodded. “At least they’re gone. For now. Where were we?”

  “I don’t recall,” answered Tuesday, “but we have to figure out who offed that guy’s wife, because after the bashing the son just gave you, this town is going to string you up like Christmas tree lights.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, that’s been done already. You good for an hour or so? I need to finish up some things on my desk and then you and I have some sleuthing to do.”

  “Sure thing. I need to pester some clients to contribute to my century. Did I tell you what it’s for? We’re going to set up a therapy center for women with facelifts gone wrong.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious. What, you don’t think I can finish a century?”

  Chapter Twenty-One: Messages From The Underground

  The next hour passed without Olivia noticing the time. She’d forced herself to work on her to-do list and had ordered bathroom fixtures for one client, chosen paint colors for another and scrolled through one of her favorite antique sites to look for bargains she could resell. She came across a tall, blue and white tiled stove from a manor house in Scania, circa 1750, that set her daydreaming about redoing her loft in Swedish provincial.

  Reimagining her space was one way she de-stressed, which was exactly what she needed right then. However, the front door bell jerked her out of her work trance, postponing her decision about whether to go with old world northern European elegance or start from scratch with a chrome and glass industrial vibe for the remodel that would remain a fantasy until she seriously upgraded her bank account. She made a mental note to research Scania. How had that eighteenth century center of Scandinavian power and elegance escaped her notice? It sounded like Darling Valley in a previous life. The visit from Tobey Carverman set her thinking she needed to make a few cosmetic changes to her digs.

  The bell rang a second time, signaling a serious visitor, so she forced herself to pull away from her decorating daydream and head through the French doors into the showroom. Though she never turned away business, she wasn’t in the mood to chat up someone else right now, Bonnie and Ron’s nice visit notwithstanding.

  In the distance she could see a man behind the paned glass. He was peering into the shop with his hand shading his eyes to get a better look. Closer up she recognized Detective Johnson, his aging suit jacket open to reveal his holster, his hand resting on his gun. This didn’t look good. Her heart pounded a few beats as she welcomed him inside.

  “Miss Granville, I need a word.”

  Johnson looked pensive, hooking his thumbs into his gun belt, drawing it down further over the bulge at his waistline. The spare tire Matt said he was always threatening to exercise and diet off. It had been more than a year since Olivia had first heard that promise and the roundness that he tried to hide behind his worn sport coat had ballooned from a family-size watermelon to a prize-worthy pumpkin.

  “Of course, Bob, but you know you can call me Olivia.”

  “Thank you, Miss Granville. I won’t take up much of your time.”

  From the grim set of his mouth, Olivia knew this wasn’t a social call. “Would you like to sit down?” Given the tone of their last interaction, she was surprised to see him at all, especially without handcuffs in her size.

  “Oh, no. Don’t go to any trouble.” He gla
nced uncomfortably at the ceiling before clearing his throat.

  She folded her arms and leaned against a heavy colonial era desk. “What can I do for you, Bob?”

  Johnson pulled out his electronic tablet and scrolled through it until he found what Olivia guessed were a list of questions.

  He started with, “Mr. Payne claims you had access to his home and that you broke in and drugged his wife.”

  “What?” Olivia said, taken aback. “That’s ridiculous. I did work on their house, but I never entered it unless Jocelyn or the housekeeper was there to let me in. I wouldn’t know how to get into the premises with all the bells and whistles they have guarding it.”

  “That’s what Richards remembered,” Johnson said, widening his eyes as though he were coming up for air. He entered a few notes into his tablet. She had to admire the dexterity with which he typed on the tiny thing which, according to Matt, was a bargain basement model provided by the department.

  Then Olivia tilted her head as though she hadn’t heard correctly. “Matt talks about me?”

  “Well, he’s officially off the case, but since he knows the principals, you and Xavier, for instance . . .”

  Olivia interrupted. “And don’t forget the deceased,” she said acidly.

  “You mean those photographs?” Johnson dismissed them with a wave. “They were obviously doctored. Who ever put those images together didn’t know much about Photoshop.”

  Olivia brightened a bit. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that theory, actually.”

  Johnson chewed on that for a second, then said, “What we can’t figure out is who doctored them and then circulated them to the media.”

  “Magic?” Olivia said helpfully.

  Johnson said disparagingly, “Of course not,” before he realized she’d said it in jest.

  Olivia gave him a cold stare. “I can’t help noticing, Detective, that you’ve changed your tone since the last time we met. I had the distinct impression that you wanted to string me up for the murder of Jocelyn Payne. Preferably before sundown.”