A Viola Roberts Cozy Mystery Collection

by Shéa MacLeod

  With Natasha gone and the fight over, bystanders drifted off either to the bar or their rooms. Nothing to see here, folks.

  “Can you believe the nerve of that...woman?” Cheryl huffed as we exited the ballroom. The way she said the word “woman,” I was pretty sure Cheryl had a stronger word in mind. “Jealous? Of her? As if! At least I don’t need to drape myself all over some kid to get attention.”

  “Well said,” I murmured. I didn’t bother pointing out it was Cheryl’s loud mouth that started the problem in the first place.

  The wide double doors swished open, and we stepped from the frigid air conditioning of the main resort building into the humid heat of the Florida night. The Fairwinds Resort was made of several individual buildings, four of which framed a peaceful central courtyard complete with swaying palm trees, umbrella shaded bistro tables, and a bubbling fountain.

  I let out a huge yawn. “Boy, I’m exhausted. I think it’s time to hit the hay.” I was hoping Cheryl would catch the hint. She did.

  “I could use a hot shower,” she agreed. “And eight hours of sleep. Classes start tomorrow, and I want to be fresh.” She gave me a perky, albeit slightly tipsy, smile.

  Since we were housed in separate buildings, she waved goodbye and tottered off across the brick paved courtyard. I sank down on one of the benches lining the walkway. It was well past midnight, but I wasn’t ready to go to my room. My blood was still thrumming from the earlier excitement. Hopefully by tomorrow all the gossip would be about Natasha’s behavior rather than about Cheryl. Poor thing would be so embarrassed come morning. She was usually so quiet and reserved, but put a few drinks in her and anything could happen.

  “You look like you could use a drink.”

  I glanced up. “Are you following me?”

  Lucas’s brilliant white smile flashed, and he gave an elegant shrug. I noticed his suit jacket was gone. Likely in deference to the lingering heat of the day. “It’s a small resort. I’m buying.”

  “Well then,” I said, standing up and smoothing the skirt of my mint-green sundress, “I’m drinking. Lead on.”

  The lobby bar was the only place open that late at night. The round bar, ringed by black leather barstools, sat in the center of the hotel lobby, serving coffee in the morning and booze at night. A couple of other NWA members sat chatting over glasses of wine. Either they’d missed the excitement in the ballroom or they didn’t care, as neither of them gave us a second look.

  The bartender of the evening was a middle-aged man with a buzz cut and a cheerful expression. He was slicing lemons, wielding the very large butcher knife in his hand with the sort of grace I always envied.

  “What’s your poison?” Lucas asked as the bartender came around to take our orders.

  I settled carefully onto the barstool, careful not to tip it over. I was not a small woman, which could make such perches rather treacherous. “Blackberry bourbon, please. On the rocks.”

  He lifted an eyebrow as if he found my beverage choice interesting, but said nothing. He ordered an Old Fashioned for himself, and we sat in silence, watching the bartender work his magic.

  Drinks in hand, Lucas lifted his glass in a toast. “To new friends and interesting times.”

  “Isn’t that a curse?”

  He appeared amused. “Only if you want it to be.”

  I took a thoughtful sip of my bourbon. “I guess time will tell.”

  I had no idea how prophetic my words would be.

  Chapter 2

  A Diabolical Discovery

  LUCAS WOULD HAVE BEEN happy to buy me another drink and continue talking, but I was mere chapters from finishing my latest novel, The Studly Cowboy’s Mail Order Bride. Dixon and Daphne, the aforementioned cowboy and his bride, were cornered by a gang of notorious outlaws, and Dixon had only two bullets left. All very exciting. I was sure my readers were going to love it.

  When I first started writing, I’d decided thrillers were where it was at. Romantic ones, of course, but that was four years before the genre became popular, and my books didn’t sell. Plus, I might have had a flair for the melodramatic. Just a touch. After that, I’d tried just about every genre you can imagine: erotic romance, paranormal, contemporary. Nothing worked. And then I tried a historical romance with just a touch of over-the-top drama. It sold like proverbial hotcakes. And the rest, as they say, was history. My rabid readers couldn’t get enough of the bodice rippers I gleefully churned out. I love it. They loved it. It was sort of perfect. Sure, people looked down their noses and called my books “trash,” but I laughed all the way to the bank.

  As I wove my way across the courtyard of the resort, perhaps a tiny bit tipsy from too much blackberry bourbon, my mind was completely focused on the next scene I would write. How was I going to get Dixon and Daphne out of their dreadful situation? I smirked a little as a couple of different options came to mind. Followed, naturally, by Daphne throwing herself at Dixon. I could see it all very clearly in my mind. Talk about steamy. My fingers itched for my keyboard.

  Loud voices derailed my train of thought. Frowning, I glanced around the courtyard trying to find the culprits. When I caught sight of the shadowy figures beneath a small cluster of palm trees, I shook my head. Of course, Natasha Winters was right in the thick of it. She was yelling rather drunkenly at what looked like her almost-ex-husband, Jason. It was hard to tell what with the shadows, but he was the right height and build, and he had on the same color shirt I’d seen Jason wearing: that awful striped shirt, which suited his frame and complexion not at all.

  “Listen, you nitwit,” Natasha snarled. “I am tired of financing you and your little floozy. I’m done.”

  Oh, juicy. I knew Jason had cheated on Natasha. Everyone in the romance industry did. That was why their marriage broke up. Natasha had gone on a drunken social media rant. There’d even been pictures, though those had been taken down eventually. But plenty of screen shots of her meltdown remained. Most writers would probably end up with their careers in the toilet. Not Natasha. Her sales had skyrocketed. The bigger and crazier her rants, the more people gobbled up her books.

  Of course, the ridiculous thing was that Natasha had been cheating on Jason for years. Everyone knew that, too. Or at least everyone who went to writer conventions. Natasha would always end up with some random waiter, bartender, or male stripper for the weekend. Somehow that was okay, but the minute Jason strayed, she was done. Frankly, if I were Jason, I’d have dumped her ages ago. Of course, there was the money to consider. From my understanding, Jason hadn’t worked at a regular job in years, thanks to Natasha’s income. For a while, that had been fine. Apparently, Natasha finally grew tired of Jason and his girlfriend sponging off of her. Couldn’t say I blamed Natasha.

  Jason held up his hands, placating. “Listen, Tash—.”

  “Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that,” she shrieked. I wished I could see her face. Still, my imagination sufficed. “Okay, fine. Geez, calm down. You’re making a scene.” He glanced around, but he didn’t see me, secreted as I was behind the corner of my building.

  That really got her going. I won’t repeat the words that came out of her mouth. Let’s just say it would have made a sailor blush.

  The gist of it was that Natasha was done paying and Jason was trying to change her mind. Part of me wanted to stay and listen to the argument. Kind of like a rubbernecking at an accident on the freeway. But Dixon and Daphne were calling, and who was I to ignore the call?

  The elevator pinged, and the doors slid open. Right before I stepped inside, I heard Jason yell, “You owe me, Natasha. You do this and you’ll be sorry.”

  MY ROOM AT THE FAIRWINDS was more of a mini suite. The front room, next to the door, held two double beds with smushy pillow-top mattresses and perfectly pressed white cotton sheets. A short hall—the bathroom just off it—connected the bedroom to the front room. It was a nice bathroom. Nothing fancy, but it did have a rainfall showerhead and a very large tub. I decided I needed one in my
own cottage back home. The rainfall showerhead, I mean. I already have a rather nice claw foot tub.

  The front room contained a tiny kitchenette and sitting area to the right, and a dining table on the left. The wide glass doors opened up to the most amazing views of white sand beaches, the turquoise Gulf beyond. Breathtaking. And nothing like my own Pacific Ocean back home.

  Unlike this stretch of Florida coast, Oregon sand was made of rocks, so it was dark, more tan-colored than white. Except on the sunniest days, the water tended toward a rich, stormy blue-gray. I missed it already. I loved the wildness of that rugged coast.

  Still, the Gulf called to me. Suddenly the trials and tribulations of Dixon and Daphne couldn’t hold my interest. I needed a walk on that beach. Maybe clear my head a bit. Get over my annoyance with Natasha Winters and her nonsense so I could write.

  Closing down my laptop, I threw on a pair of jeans capris, a thin t-shirt, and my flip-flops. I wrapped my long, dark brown hair into a bun—otherwise I’d end up with a rat’s nest— and tucked my cell phone in one pocket and my room card in the other. I quickly made my way to the elevator, across the courtyard, and out onto the beach.

  The sand glowed softly beneath the nearly full moon, and the sound of the waves drowned out most everything else. They weren’t the loud booming crashes of the Pacific, but a softer, slower rush. Soothing.

  Between me and the Gulf, rows of beach chairs huddled, dark shapes against the light sand. Two cabanas stood sentinel against the dark sky, their white canvas sides flapping slightly in the light breeze.

  A breeze which in no way dispelled the oppressive humidity that lingered. According to the taxi driver on the way in from the airport, there had been a storm a couple days before. He’d assured Cheryl and me that the humidity would lift soon. I wasn’t holding my breath.

  Wiping a light sheen of sweat from my brow, I strolled slowly across the firm sand, winding my way between the huddled shapes of folded-up lounge chairs. The cabanas were still up, which was unusual this late at night. Apparently whoever was responsible was having a lazy day. As I passed the cabanas, something caught the corner of my eye. With a frown I stopped, turning toward the second cabana. A dark shape was sprawled across the seat. Someone was inside.

  I started to turn away, figuring it was a pair of lovers getting romantic in the moonlight. Couldn’t say I blamed them, except it was so darn humid the thought of touching another human being made me squidgy. Then I realized the shape wasn’t moving. Maybe someone had fallen asleep or passed out. I shook my head. Not my business.

  But, of course, curiosity had always been my downfall, so I carefully picked my way across the sand and entered the cabana. It was so dark I couldn’t make out much of anything other than the person appeared to be a woman. She was on the slender side and wearing one of the white bathrobes the resort passed out to the better-paying guests. Her blond hair spilled across the white fabric of the cabana’s seating area as she lay prone on the lounge chair, her face turned slightly toward me, though I couldn’t make it out.

  “Excuse me.” I cleared my throat. The woman didn’t move. I tried again. “Hello? Ma’am?” Still not a sound or flicker of movement.

  One pale arm dangled from the couch. It was so still. Suddenly I had a really bad feeling.

  Swallowing hard, I moved closer and reached down to touch that hand. Cold. Far too cold. Feeling a little queasy, I checked for a pulse like I’d seen people do in the movies. Of course, I had no idea what I was doing, so the action was pointless.

  Then I saw it: the handle of a knife sticking out of her back, a dark stain spreading across the white robe. I swallowed hard. I should call the police.

  I will, I assured myself. Just as soon as I see who it is.

  I leaned over until I caught sight of her face. Holy crackers, it was Natasha Winters, and she was stone-cold dead.

  Chapter 3

  Detective Hottie

  A UNIFORMED POLICE officer arrived first at the scene. She was short and stocky with mousy hair slicked back in a tight bun. Her pleasant, but serious, expression never wavered as she confirmed I was the 911 caller, then she ushered me away from the body and quickly set up a perimeter with crime scene tape. Just like in the movies. Then she pulled out a cell phone and began tapping wildly at the keys while keeping a gimlet eye on me.

  “You discovered the body?” she asked without preamble, fingers flying over the touch screen. Light glinted off her nametag and badge. It was dark, but it looked like her innocuous last name was “Smith.”

  I glanced at Natasha’s body still lying in the cabana, her blond hair swaying in the slight breeze, the bloodstain locked in my mind forever. Creepy. Something niggled at the corner of my mind. Something about the crime scene. Unfortunately, I couldn’t quite grasp it. Shock, maybe.

  “Yes. I found the body.” What else was there to say?

  “Your name and address, please.”

  “Viola Roberts,” I said and then rattled off my home address in Astoria, Oregon. All standard procedure. I knew this from watching true-crime shows on television. The Investigation Discovery Channel was my guilty pleasure. I was particularly enamored of Lt. Joe Kenda, Homicide Hunter. I’d even gone so far as to buy one of his mugs.

  “Walk me through what happened leading to the discovery.” Her expression was deadpan. She’d make a great poker player. All business, this one.

  I cleared my throat and swiped a thin layer of sweat off my upper lip. It was humid as all get out. I would have liked to take this into the air-conditioned hotel, but I got that she couldn’t leave the body unattended.

  “I was trying to work, but I couldn’t focus, so I decided to take a walk along the beach.”

  “What do you do for a living?” Officer Smith asked, sounding almost bored. I knew she wasn’t. I could see the glint in her eyes that told me she was taking in absolutely everything.

  “I’m a writer. I’m here for the conference.” I wasn’t sure she knew there was a conference at the hotel, but she likely would before the end of the night.

  She nodded sharply. “You took a walk.”

  “Yes. I was headed to the water when I caught sight of Natasha, er, the body out of the corner of my eye. I thought maybe she was passed out or something, so I figured I’d better wake her and get her inside.”

  “You knew the victim?” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  Great. Not only was I probably a suspect since I’d found the body, but the fact I knew her could really get me in hot water.

  “I know of her,” I corrected. “We run in the same circles. Go to the same conferences. We’ve met, but nothing more than that. We don’t hang out or anything.”

  “Why? You have a problem with her?” She tapped one blunt finger against her phone screen.

  Well, darn. My mother raised me not to lie, but if I admitted what I thought of Natasha, they’d probably throw me in the slammer and toss away the key. Did Florida have the death penalty? I shuddered.

  “Not a problem, really. Natasha is, was, just never my sort of person. We’re civil, but not BFFs or anything.” Which was true. Natasha and I had never gotten into an argument. Her disagreement had been with Cheryl, which I figured Officer Smith didn’t need to know since Cheryl wasn’t the killer. Of that I was certain. “These conferences attract all sorts of people. You can’t be tight with all of them.”

  “All right,” Officer Smith said as the paramedics arrived, followed by two more uniformed officers, some CSIs, and a plainclothes policeman. “Stay here. The detective in charge will likely have some questions for you.”

  I nodded and sank down onto one of the nearby lounge chairs. Might as well make myself comfortable.

  What looked like the head of hotel security and probably the night manager swarmed over the sand to join the plainclothes policeman. Bet he was the detective in charge, if the gold shield was anything to go by. I’d never met a real homicide detective. I couldn’t help but feel a little thrill, even as I told m
yself not to be so macabre, what with Natasha lying dead just a few feet away.

  One of the CSIs set up a flood lamp. As he switched it on, I got a good look at the body for the first time. The whole scene looked unreal, the dark stain like something from a movie. And the knife... I froze for a split second. That was what had been niggling at me. The knife was identical to the one the bartender had been using to cut up lemons. Should I mention that to Officer Smith? Surely that would be important. It meant the killer was the bartender. Or one of them, anyway. Didn’t it?

  I turned to glance at the detective, and my breath caught in my throat. He was young, or at least younger than I was—probably in his mid-thirties— taller than the other men around him and leanly muscled. Or at least he looked that way under the rumpled, cheap suit. His brown hair needed a trim, and he was clutching a large cup of coffee in one nicely shaped hand. The man could have been a movie star, he was that good looking.

  And here I sat looking like the victim of a reverse makeover with my makeup washed off and my hair a disaster, thanks to the humidity. My usual glossy waves had turned into a frizzy hot mess. Figured. First really good-looking man I’d come across, and he probably not only thought I was a homeless person, but a murderer to boot.

  Of course Lucas Salvatore was a darn fine-looking man, too. Although he didn’t have that wonderfully dangerous edge that the detective had. Detective Hottie was one interesting man. I couldn’t wait for the interrogation to begin.

  THIRTY SECONDS IN AND I’d changed my mind. Interrogation wasn’t fun, and it had ceased to be interesting fifteen minutes ago. Detective Hottie was a jerk. I tried really hard not to glare at him. I doubted I was successful.

  “Giving me dirty looks isn’t going to help you, Ms. Roberts,” he said sternly. I usually thought of hazel eyes as being warm, but his were icy and cold. “I’m just doing my job.”