Bound To Be Dead: Cozy Mystery Bookshop Series Book 3

by Tamra Baumann

  Bound To Be Dead

  Cozy Mystery Bookshop Series Book 3

  Tamra Baumann

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also By Tamra

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2021 by Tamra Baumann

  All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-947591-13-4 (ebook) 978-1-947591-14-1 (print) 978-1-947591-15-8 (Large Print)

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of Tamra Baumann, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published by Tamra Baumann

  Cover Art by The Cover Vault

  Printed in the United States of America

  Bound To Be Dead

  This book is dedicated to Carol Potenza, the smartest college professor I know. Thanks for inspiring the unique murder weapon in this book.

  Chapter 1

  Agreeing to let my dad throw knives at me while he’s blindfolded might not have been the smartest decision I’ve made in my thirty-two years here on earth. Yes, he’s a magician, and it’s all part of his show, but still. It isn’t like a trick hasn’t gone wrong before. And he hasn’t done this one in a very long time.

  “Sawyer Davis, you’ve got to learn to say no,” I whisper to myself as I lean back against a giant painted bull’s-eye. Forcing a smile, I try to calm my nerves while my dad straps my hands and legs onto the big wheel. Then he flips a switch to make the target spin.

  The crowd at our little community theater in Sunset Cove goes from right-side up to upside down, making me so dizzy, I might lose my lunch. I probably should’ve waited until after the magic show to eat. But the trick never bothered me when I was a kid. When I was much smaller and left more room for the knives to pierce the wood.

  We really should have practiced the trick at least once. If our annual talent show weren’t for a good cause, I would’ve bailed on the show and my dad for sure.

  My tall father, who looks fetching in his dark suit, long cape, and with dramatic white streaks at his temples, steps a few paces away. He picks up a blindfold and calls out, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, do not try this trick at home. Only those with ‘true magic’ can successfully perform this fantastic feat. Are you ready, Sawyer?”

  Not really, but I nod for the sake of the show, careful not to move too much or my costume might slip down. Dad’s usual assistant has implants, looks like a Playboy bunny, and properly fills out the skimpy spandex costume I’m wearing. I’m a solid B on top, and I’m afraid I might have a wardrobe malfunction on the next rotation. I wish Dad would hurry up and get the trick over with before everyone in town gets firsthand knowledge that my body parts are what I was born with.

  My nausea level continues to rise as my father, Max the Magnificent, makes a show of slicing paper so the audience will know the knives are real. The faces of the talent show’s judges spinning before me aren’t helping my tummy matters.

  The judging panel consists of Emily Kingsley, the wife of the town’s merchant association’s chief rule enforcer, Joe Kingsley. She grimaces like she’s worried my brains might be getting overmixed. Or maybe because she knows my dad well enough to know things could go terribly wrong in the next few minutes.

  The second judge, Pattie, our local hairdresser, is wearing her signature pink, making me wish I had an antacid that same color. And the third judge is my mean Uncle Frank, smiling like he’s enjoying my humiliation. Actually, I’m sure he is enjoying my pain.

  Still smiling through gritted teeth, I hiss, “Get on with it, Dad!”

  He winks at me before he pulls his blindfold up and over his eyes. With a shiny sharp knife in his hand, he says, “Count with me, everyone. Ready? One, two, three!” He flips his wrist in a way he’s spent hours practicing, and a thump sounds next to my head.

  One knife down, four more to go. I’m not sure my stomach or my costume can take much more.

  Applause fills the air, causing my dad to tap a finger against his lips. “This takes all my concentration, folks.” He waves a knife in the air and says, “Silencio, please.”

  My dad is such a drama queen. I guess that’s why he’s a performer. Me? I’m a chef who has inherited a mystery bookshop from my recently dearly departed mother. I’m secretly working on a plan to open my own restaurant, figuring out what to do with my ex, who happens to be the town’s sheriff, and how to be a good surrogate mother for my newly adopted fifteen-year-old sister. But all my life’s complications pale when compared to being strapped to this giant spinning wheel like a crazy person.

  Suddenly, the audience quiets, and everyone leans closer to the stage to see if the next knife is going to miss and pierce my heart. At least if that happened, it’d hold up my top. I wouldn’t die with silver spandex pooled at my waist.

  After another successful knife throw lands above my head, my fingers and toes are becoming numb from the straps. But by some miracle, my top has stayed put, so I’m grateful. Only one more trick after this one, and I can exit stage right.

  At that point, my dad will be on his own to finish the show with a bang. Literally. He’s going to shoot himself out of a cannon and into a vat of ice cream outside. My father somehow convinced my Uncle Frank, the mayor, to spring for the crazy contraption because it’s a fundraiser. If you ask me, my dad should shoot Uncle Frank—who’s been trying to run me out of town and steal the contents of my inherited trust—from the cannon, but we can’t have everything we wish for.

  Next, my dad makes a show of holding up two knives. “Now I’ll attempt to throw both of these knives at once. Cross your fingers and toes, ladies and gentlemen. This is the most dangerous attempt so far.”

  I close my eyes and screw up my features to make myself look scared as my dad grunts, and two more knives magically appear at my waist. One blade on each side just as planned. It garners thunderous applause from the crowd while my dad prances around the stage, whipping his cape around with all the flair of a matador.

  After another bow, my dad holds up a finger. “Ladies and gentlemen, for the last knife, I’m going to do something special for my hometown crowd. It’s only worked once, so will you all please cross your fingers for Sawyer?”

  As my dad turns his back on me and winds up to throw the last knife over his shoulder, a louder than normal thump sounds, causing me to glance at my feet. The blade is sticking out between my high heels, but my dad never threw the knife in his hand.

  Whoops.

  Tina in the back must’ve pushed the button too soon. She has one job. To push the button when my father yells out, “Three.” It’s tough getting good help these days.

  While people’s faces crunch in bewilderment, my dad quickly tosses the knife on the table beside him, tugs off his blindfold, and trots over to release me. To cover the mistake, my dad bellows, “With the power of magical misdir
ection, you all watched the knife in my right hand, didn’t you? But I threw one with my left, making this trick even more difficult. How about a big round of applause for Sawyer?”

  Slow applause builds as people are seemingly trying to decide if they believe my father or not. I’m so dizzy, I have to hang on to my dad as he removes the straps from my ankles. When he’s done, he whispers, “Now give the crowd some razzle-dazzle like you mean it.”

  Brother. I hate this part most.

  I force another big smile and lift my hands above my head in a silent “Taa-daa” gesture, and then strut around the stage like a prize pony at a horse show. Just the way my dad taught my sister and me when we were kids.

  Not wanting to make eye contact with anyone, my gaze drifts toward the back of the auditorium. Dylan, our town’s sheriff and the man I have a complicated relationship with, is standing in the rear. For a moment, I’m grateful for a friendly face, but he’s not even trying to contain his amusement. The tall, dark, and built sheriff is smiling from ear to ear either because he knows strutting is not my style or because this is the one and only time he’ll ever see me in spandex. His eyebrows hitch in appreciation, so yeah, it’s probably the spandex.

  When the applause reaches a thunderous level, my dad’s face lights up again with pride. I’m not sure how I’ll ever show my face in public again.

  Dad takes a sweeping bow, then stands up and turns as white as the starched shirt he’s wearing. When his eyes start to roll into the back of his head, I take off across the stage in my high heels to save him before he faints. He has a habit of doing that now and then.

  Dad calls out, “Dylan! Come quick. It’s ba, blah, blood,” as his knees threaten to buckle.

  Luckily, I reach my father before he crumples into a total heap. I grab his arm and help him slowly to the floor. “What’s wrong, Dad?”

  He throws a hand over his eyes and points with the other one toward the bull’s-eye I was just strapped to. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

  Dark liquid pools from under the black curtain behind the wooden bull’s-eye. It’s where Tina was standing and pushing the buttons to release the knives. They mechanically shoot from the back of the target. My dad doesn’t really throw anything. The blades he shows the audience get artfully tucked into a pocket inside his cape. At the same time, someone else stands behind the drapes and pushes the remote to activate the blades on the target. Could that puddle be oil from the motor that turns the oversized bull’s-eye?

  I leave my dad’s side and move closer to the ever-growing pool of dark liquid. The metallic tang in the air confirms it’s not motor oil. It’s blood.

  My stomach takes a dive.

  I hate the sight of blood too, but I have to help whoever’s bleeding. Just as I head to the curtain, Dylan’s big hand wraps around my arm to stop me.

  He says, “Help your dad. I got this.”

  “Okay.” I turn around and nearly bump into Uncle Frank. He glances at the blood and then quickly jogs toward my father. Ripping the lapel mic from my dad’s suit, Uncle Frank leans down and says, “Who’d like to see Max get shot into a huge vat of ice cream? Let’s all head to the parking lot to watch the show. Renee even offered free scoops for anyone who makes a donation!”

  A cheer goes up from the crowd as people rise and head for the doors.

  Dylan reappears and takes the mic from my uncle. “Everyone take your seats, please. There’s been an accident. I need everyone to stay put for a few minutes so we can get the EMTs in and out quickly.” He motions with his head to one of his deputies in the audience to man the back doors.

  My Uncle Frank, who’s tall, big-boned, and bald-headed, says, “We need their donations. Why are you making them worry?”

  Dylan ignores the question and heads toward the curtains again.

  My uncle calls out, “Hey. Are you forgetting who signs your paychecks?”

  Dylan growls, “You need to stay put too, Mayor,” before he disappears behind the curtain.

  That’s one of the things I love about Dylan. He won’t be threatened by anyone, even at the cost of losing his job.

  My father seems recovered, and I don’t like being anywhere near my uncle, so I follow Dylan’s path to see what’s going on.

  I push the curtain aside, slip behind it, and stop. Tina is lying on the wooden stage with her eyes open. Blood is pooling behind her head, and she doesn’t appear to be breathing. Now I really might lose my lunch. I lay a hand on a stack of boxes to support my wobbly knees until I can pull myself together again.

  After my heart rate has settled, I glance at Tina again, but this time, I’m filled with sympathy. My dad dated Tina, but they recently had a friendly breakup. She’s a nice woman.

  My friend, and the leader of my store’s book club, Admiral Wright, is by her side, so I ask, “What happened? Did she fall?”

  He slowly meets my gaze. “I’m supposed to be keeping people away for Dylan, but I suppose you don’t count, being his girlfriend. Just don’t get too close, please, Sailor.”

  He calls me Sailor instead of Sawyer for some unknown reason, and he used to date my mom. He’s either a genius retired Naval officer or losing the marbles he has left—no one is quite sure.

  The Admiral stands and swipes the dust from his pressed slacks. He’s wearing his usual cardigan sweater and a familiar confused look in his eyes. He says, “She fell and hit her head. But she seemed to be in distress before she collapsed. A heart attack, perhaps? I was across the stage when I heard her yelp. By the time I got here to assist, she wasn’t moving.” The Admiral’s forehead crumples with sadness.

  I don’t want to gawk at Tina, but I can’t help another look. She still has the big switch to pop the knives out in her right hand. When she fell, she must’ve hit the button for the last blade to pop out too soon.

  I whisper, “Tina is barely in her fifties and seems fit. Way too young for a heart attack.”

  “I agree.” The Admiral points to a pink rose lying beside Tina’s left hand. “I thought she yelped because she poked herself with a thorn. You can see there’s still a drop of blood there.” He points to Tina’s index finger. “But then her eyes grew wide, and I realized something else must be wrong. I regret I don’t move as fast as I used to. Perhaps I could’ve saved her from hitting her head.”

  The tears in the Admiral’s eyes make mine mist too. I lay a hand on his back and give him a quick pat. “I’m sure there was nothing you could’ve done, Admiral. It sounds like it happened too fast.”

  He slowly nods. “Maybe.”

  Dylan and two paramedics arrive, so the Admiral and I move to the back where all the people helping with the show are lined up. Deputy Ben is asking everyone questions about Tina and if they saw anything before she collapsed.

  Uncle Frank’s voice over the speakers out front announces my father will do more tricks outside to keep the crowd entertained. I should probably be a good assistant and help my father, but I feel compelled to stay in the back and help there if I can.

  One of the paramedics says, “I’ve got a heartbeat, some shallow breathing.” They both spring into action to save Tina. I hope they can.

  The Admiral leans close. “How is that possible? Her eyes are wide open, and she wasn’t blinking.”

  Before I can tell him I have no clue, Dylan slips by my side and whispers, “How did Tina end up running the trick? I thought you were going to do it.”

  “I was, but my dad’s assistant had a family emergency a few days ago, so he asked Tina if she’d run the back. Of course, he waited until this morning to ask me to help him out front, so I couldn’t say no.”

  A frown creases Dylan’s forehead. “Who helped your dad set up this prop?”

  “I don’t know. It was together when I got here.”

  Pete, the local barber and the volunteer stage manager, joins us. “Couldn’t help but overhear your question, Sheriff. The mayor helped Max set up the trick.”

  Pete is stout, has a han
dlebar mustache, and is the nosiest man I’ve ever met. There’s more gossip at his barbershop than at Pattie’s beauty parlor by far. And that’s saying a lot. But my uncle can’t stand my father, so I ask, “Why would Uncle Frank help Dad?”

  Pete lifts a big shoulder. “Everyone else was busy, and Max was clogging up space with his parts. You know the mayor wouldn’t let anything stop his fundraiser from starting on schedule.”

  That’s true. My uncle is a tyrant for his schedules.

  After the paramedics rush Tina away, Pete gives his mustache a nervous twist. “They were having some electrical issues with the trick at first. But then they finally got it up and running. It was like the blind leading the blind, if you ask me.”

  I ask Dylan, “Do you think Tina was electrocuted? Would that explain her eyes?”

  “Not sure. Best to document the scene just in case.” Dylan turns to Pete. “Who had access to the backstage area before and during the show?”

  “Well, let me think.” Pete chews his lower lip. “All the performers, the mayor, and the judges, of course.” He turns to me. “The ladies all stopped by to admire those beautiful flowers from your mom’s place.” He smiles and holds a hand toward a table at the rear.

  “I can’t take any credit. The Admiral arranged them.” I turn to Dylan, “My uncle asked me to give the women judges and Tina bouquets of roses from my mother’s hothouse for helping with the talent show.” The Admiral has been helping me care for the flowers so I can concentrate on keeping my inherited crumbling Victorian house in one piece.

  Dylan says, “Everything, including those flowers, is staying put for the moment. Admiral, will you let the mayor know he can take the show outside now?”