Dying for a Deal

by Cindy Sample

  PRAISE FOR CINDY SAMPLE

  “Don't miss the Laurel McKay books. Like me, you'll be ‘dying’ to read the next one.”

  Brenda Novak, USA Today Bestselling Author

  “Dying for a Deal, Book Seven of the Laurel McKay Mysteries, is another worthy addition to this crackerjack whodunit series. Known for their humorous dialog, fast pacing, and intriguing plots, this go-round author Cindy Sample offers the reader even more, highlighting Laurel's growth as a woman and sleuth. It is a total and complete delight.

  Heather Haven, IPPY Award-Winning Author

  “Sample’s sleuth is an endearing character readers will adore.”

  RT Book Reviews

  “Dying for a Deal showcases author Cindy Sample’s talent at dealing readers a mystery from a trick deck of cards complete with Jokers. Laughs, surprises, and danger mingle when Laurel McKay Hunter joins the PI agency formed by her detective husband and stepfather. Laurel’s first cases prove to be real killers as she takes on a shady Lake Tahoe timeshare resale company preying on old folks and attempts to shadow the fiancé of her former boss to determine if he’s cheating. The heroine’s whole lovable but wacky cast of friends and relatives add to the fun.”

  Linda Lovely, Author of the Brie Hooker Mystery series

  “Cindy Sample’s writing is positively fun, imaginative and all around tantalizing.”

  Romance Junkies

  “Cindy Sample knows how to weave a story that satisfies and excites. Time literally flew by as I turned the pages…simultaneously harrowing, exciting, tender, and uplifting, a true who-done-it combined with a romance that will warm the heart and sheets.”

  Long and Short Reviews

  “Cindy Sample has mastered the art of REAL dialogue. The characters are wacky and believable. Any woman who constantly finds herself in awkward situations will love this book. This is a story that will make you wonder "who did it" and make you laugh out loud. Of course, the romance simply is divine!”

  BookReviewsRus

  “All of the elements of an excellent cozy mystery. Interesting characters, plot and setting. Fast paced writing. I struggled to figure out what it was that stood out that made me really enjoy the book and I decided it was the tone. Dying for a Dance is a feel-good book, it makes you smile.”

  Examiner.com

  “Dying for a Date is packed with zany characters, humorous situations, and laugh-out-loud narrative. Consider reading this book in one sitting, because once you start, you will be reluctant to put it aside.”

  Midwest Book Review

  DYING FOR A DEAL

  By Cindy Sample

  Copyright 2018 by Cindy Sample

  Cover Art by Karen Phillips

  All Rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead is coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold, lent or given away, or otherwise circulated or distributed in any form whatsoever, without the express written consent of the publisher. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Visit us at www.cindysamplebooks.com

  DYING for a DEAL

  A Laurel McKay Mystery

  By

  CINDY SAMPLE

  THE LAUREL McKAY MYSTERY SERIES

  DYING FOR A DATE (Vol. 1)

  DYING FOR A DATE (Vol. 2)

  DYING FOR A DAIQUIRI (Vol. 3)

  DYING FOR A DUDE (Vol. 4)

  DYING FOR A DONUT (Vol 5)

  DYING FOR A DIAMOND (Vol. 6)

  DYING FOR A DEAL (Vol. 7)

  Table of Contents

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my wonderfully supportive children, Dawn and Jeff. How lucky and proud I am of both of you. And to my mother, Harriet Bergstrand, who came up with the title. We miss you, Mom.

  Also to those readers from around the world whose emails make this journey so much fun. Your words bring a smile to my face and magic to my fingertips.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Day fourteen on the job, and I already knew the real reason fictional private eyes kept a bottle in their lower desk drawers. As I tapped my pen against the barren surface of my desk, my gaze roamed around the freshly painted walls of our brand new detective agency. The silence was deafening. Almost enough to drive a person to drink.

  I glanced at my watch. 10:00 a.m.

  A tad early for a cocktail. Not that I had any whiskey stored in the bottom drawer of my desk. My secret stash consisted of a jumbo bag of M&Ms if needed. Which, at the rate business was coming in, could be sooner rather than later.

  I picked up my nameplate from the desk and blew a speck of dust
off the shiny gold letters: Laurel McKay Hunter, Investigator.

  If only a new client would walk in the door.

  Or a dead body. Even a zombie.

  At this point, I wasn’t too picky.

  When my new husband, Tom Hunter, suggested I join Gold Country Investigations, the agency he and his former partner, Robert Bradford, had started, I was ecstatic. Bradford, as we affectionately referred to him, also happened to be my stepfather.

  But so far this job was not the glamorous profession I’d envisioned when I agreed to quit my previous job at a local Placerville bank.

  My caseload, at best, could be defined as light. Or—to be precise—nonexistent.

  In the short time I’d been with the agency, my duties had encompassed such important tasks as selecting our coffeemaker and choosing the font for our signage. My most significant accomplishment to date was scoring forty-eight rolls of toilet paper for $9.99.

  Since both men were retired homicide detectives, and I was merely a person who stumbled through life occasionally tripping over corpses, I shouldn’t complain. Plus, I needed to put in six thousand hours of casework before I could become officially licensed as a detective.

  At the rate my casework was progressing, my first social security check would arrive before my P.I. license.

  The tiny bells over the front door tinkled as someone entered our Main Street office. A new client? If this were a scene from one of my favorite hard-boiled detective novels, the visitor would be a tall blonde dressed in a designer suit, with a mysterious past and an intriguing case for me to solve.

  I swiveled my chair in anticipation. My shoulders drooped as I contemplated the new arrival—a five-foot-tall octogenarian in a Shirley Temple wig, a vision in pink from her polyester jogging suit to her sequined tennis shoes.

  Virginia T. Sprinkle. My eighty-nine-year-old grandmother.

  Not quite as enticing as a mysterious blonde or a dead body, but definitely better than spending the morning talking to myself and devouring my candy stash.

  I walked around the desk and bent over to air-kiss her soft, wrinkled cheek. She handed me a cardboard carrier containing two heavenly smelling cups of coffee. I sniffed again. One of the cups exuded two of my favorite scents: chocolate and cinnamon.

  They didn’t call me a detective for nothing!

  Gran settled into the visitor chair across from my desk. She straightened her wig, which tilted to the left, then reached for her coffee while I sipped on the hot Mexican-style mocha. She glanced around the agency nodding approvingly at the almond walls, taupe carpet, and mahogany furniture.

  “Nice digs,” she said. “Where’s the menfolk?”

  “Tom and Bradford are in San Francisco working on a big insurance case. Did you want to talk to them about something?”

  “Nope.” Gran pointed at me. “I want to hire you.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I choked on the hot liquid but managed to swallow without leaving any mocha splatters on my white blouse.

  “You want to hire me?” I repeated. “For a case?”

  “Of course, isn’t that what you do?”

  I narrowed my eyes at my grandmother. “What kind of trouble did you get into now?”

  She put her palms up and met my gaze with sincere pale blue eyes. “Not me. A friend of mine needs help.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the problem?”

  “Well, it’s kinda complicated, and I’m not sure I’ve got all the facts down. I was hoping you could meet with her tomorrow.”

  I looked at my old-fashioned desk calendar. The blank pages stared impertinently back at me.

  “What time tomorrow?”

  Gran shifted in her seat. “Here’s the thing. Iris is a tad embarrassed about her situation and isn’t comfortable seeking professional help. Plus, she doesn’t have a lot of money. She’s a widow and barely getting by on her social security checks. So I came up with a plan to get the two of you together. I think she’ll really warm up to you. And you’re darn good at worming stuff out of folks.”

  What a recommendation. Maybe I should add it my business cards—I can worm my way into anyone’s confidence.

  “So where are we going to hold this semi-clandestine meeting with my prospective client?”

  “I thought of the perfect setting,” Gran said, her smile so wide it displayed every one of her gold fillings. “The all-day senior bus trip from Placerville to the South Lake Tahoe casinos. It will be perfect.”

  Perfect for whom?

  “But I don’t qualify. I’m forty, not sixty.” For a visual effect, I fluffed my coppery curls. Nary a silver thread, but only because I’d yanked out two of them this morning.

  She flipped a liver-spotted hand at me. “Pish, tosh. They don’t care. If you want to go incognito, you can borrow my Queen Elizabeth wig. You’ll fit right in.”

  Unfortunately, that’s what I was afraid of. But it wouldn’t kill me to spend a day with Gran. And meet her friend, a potential first case for me.

  I might even win a jackpot and come home with a pile of money.

  Although, with my luck, I was more likely to come across a crackpot than a jackpot.

  I left the office a little after five, stopped at the store and picked up a roasted chicken with a couple of sides, a salad mix and dessert. In our house, this was considered a home-cooked meal. Somebody cooked it, right?

  I was pleasantly surprised to see Tom’s car in the driveway. Then I realized he’d been forced to park there because my ex-husband’s truck blocked entry into our garage. Since my marriage to Tom four months ago, the two men in my life had stopped circling each other like combative lions and formed a somewhat amicable relationship. Hank had finally realized I was no longer in the picture as far as he was concerned, and Tom had concluded my kids’ father would remain in our blended family picture frame for the rest of our lives.

  I’d even gone so far as to create an online dating profile for Hank, thinking it would be one way to keep him from being underfoot. But the man was way too fussy. I’d like to think it’s because I’m irreplaceable.

  I chuckled to myself before attempting to walk through the front door juggling three shopping bags.

  “I could use some help here,” I called out to anyone within listening distance. Our cat, Pumpkin, appeared instantly, the scent of roasted chicken wafting through the entry. Seconds later a set of strong arms grabbed two bags while another set snatched the third.

  A duet of “Hi, hon” greeted me.

  Tom glared at Hank before placing a soft but sensuous kiss on my waiting lips. I would have gone for round two if Hank hadn’t cleared his throat and interrupted my welcome.

  I pointed toward the kitchen. “Thanks for the help. Goodbye.”

  Hank headed down the hallway. I turned to Tom and frowned. “What’s he doing here?”

  Tom shrugged. “Who knows? He’s here so often, I regard him as part of the furnishings.” He plopped another kiss on my lips, hefted a bag in each arm, and then led the way into the kitchen, leaving me with one of my favorite scenic viewpoints.

  Tom’s jeans-clad posterior.

  It took less than ten minutes to assemble dinner for our combined families. My marriage to Tom meant adding another member to our household—my eight-year-old son Ben’s best friend, Kristy, who happened to be Tom’s daughter.

  Since my house had been my children’s home for most of their lives, Tom and Kristy had moved in after we returned from our honeymoon. The sale of Tom’s house provided the funds needed to open up the agency plus pay salaries, albeit small salaries, to all three partners.

  The only negative with the move was that my house contained only three bedrooms, so my eighteen-year-old daughter, Jenna, was forced to share her room with an inquisitive stepsister. Since Jenna would be leaving for college in the fall, it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience. For me.

  I’m not sure my daughter would agree with that comment.

  Thinking of Jenna’s upcoming mov
e made my eyes grow misty. I swiped at my right eyelid as I set the salad bowl on the table.

  “You okay?” asked a soft voice in my ear.

  I glanced up at Hank. “Sure.” I rubbed my eye once more before adding, “Just thinking about Jenna going off to college.”

  Hank placed a calloused palm on my shoulder. “It’s hard to believe she’s heading out on her own.”

  “Not quite on her own,” I replied, thinking of the impending tuition and dormitory bills. “We have some big bills coming up.”

  “I know. I’m prepared to pay my share,” he said. “I’m bidding on a new job this week.”

  As a contractor, Hank’s bottom line was more of a hilly slope than a flat line of profit. But I was grateful for whatever contribution he could make to our college fund. Speaking of which, the fund’s beneficiary, our star pupil, popped into the dining room.

  Jenna grabbed a plate and began loading it with her dinner.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” I asked her. “We’re ready to sit down and eat.”

  She shook her head so fiercely her long auburn ponytail smacked against her freckled cheek. “I’m taking it to my room. I need to study. Finals begin next week. And then I’m done.” My five-foot-eight daughter punched a fist into the air, narrowly missing the brass light fixture over the table.

  Jenna had inherited my klutziness along with my chocolate addiction. Not to mention my love of crime investigation.

  “I’m so over high school,” she announced with a dramatic sigh. “College can’t begin soon enough.”

  My checking account somewhat disagreed with her. But I remembered the excitement of my freshman year attending the University of California at Davis, which ended up being Jenna’s university of choice.

  “Did you line up a summer job yet?” Hank asked with a worried look.