A Viola Roberts Cozy Mystery Collection

by Shéa MacLeod

  I sighed. It was true. “Sorry, what was it you asked, Detective...?”

  “Detective Diego Costa, ma’am.”

  I wished he’d stop calling me “ma’am.” It made me feel ancient. “I’m not that old,” I muttered under my breath.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  I barely resisted the urge to growl. “Nothing, Detective.”

  He gave me a blank look that was downright scary. “When was the last time you saw the victim alive?”

  “Like I told Officer Smith, Natasha Winters was alive and well at about ten p.m. I saw her in the courtyard arguing with her almost-ex-husband, Jason Winters.”

  “Almost ex-husband?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  He stared at me with those scary eyes. “I’ve got time.”

  “Most of what I know is only third-party gossip, mind you.”

  “Understood.”

  “Fine,” I agreed. “When Natasha first started making money as a writer, she hired a personal assistant, Piper Ross. Piper was young, good looking, and...well, one thing led to another.”

  “I see.” There was zero expression in Costa’s voice. I had no idea if he approved, disapproved, or plain didn’t care.

  “Basically, word is that Jason and Piper had an affair, so Natasha fired Piper, threw Jason out on his, er, backside, and filed for divorce. They’ve been fighting nonstop over the money and the divorce still isn’t final.”

  “No pre-nup then?”

  I shrugged. “Wouldn’t think so. Natasha and Jason were married for something like twenty years before Natasha hit it big. Until then it was Jason supporting them.”

  “I’ll check on that,” Costa assured me. “The fight. What was it about?”

  I relayed what I’d heard, knowing the almost-ex-husband would be suspect numero uno. I felt bad for Jason. He didn’t seem like a killer, but he had been the last person to see Natasha alive. Probably. Still, I couldn’t see him committing cold-blooded murder. Or hot-blooded murder, for that matter. He was just so...mild. There was always the possibility that after their argument, Natasha had met up with someone else who had it in for her.

  Wow, that really narrows it down, I thought wryly. Half the convention had it in for Natasha. Probably half the hotel staff, too, by now.

  After a few more questions, Detective Hottie, I mean Costa, gave me a stern look. The kind meant to make suspects quail in their boots...or flip-flops. I bet he practiced it in the mirror. “That’s all for now, ma’am.” Ugh. There was that foul word again. “You can go back to your room, but please don’t leave the island.”

  Which meant I was a suspect. Goodie. Of course, since I’d found the body, I wasn’t terribly surprised.

  “Of course not,” I said, giving him a guileless smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Have a good evening, Detective.” And with that, I strode across the smooth, white sand, putting a little extra sway in my hips. If I thought that would distract Detective Costa, I was bound for disappointment. A quick glance over my shoulder told me he was completely focused on the crime scene. He hadn’t even given me a second glance. More’s the pity.

  My natural curiosity got the better of me, and with the detective focused elsewhere, I slid behind the first cabana that was a few feet away from the one housing Natasha’s body. Huddled behind the billowing white canvas, I attempted to eavesdrop. I’d seen Jessica Fletcher do it plenty of times. Surely I was smart enough to pull it off. Maybe I could learn something. After all, Cheryl would want all the details, and I couldn’t disappoint. Not to mention, with myself as one of the prime suspects, I felt the need to clear my name as soon as possible. Couldn’t do that unless I knew what was going on, now, could I?

  Costa’s voice was a low rumble against the background of wind and waves. I tucked a strand of errant hair behind my ear, as if that could help me hear better. He was talking to Smith. No doubt getting her recorded version of events. She’d been first on the scene, and I knew from my crime shows, that meant her observations would be important to the lead detective. I wondered what she was saying about me. I couldn’t make out their conversation.

  Frustrated, I finally gave up, right about the time the coroner prepared to load the body on a gurney. I really didn’t want to stick around to watch them haul Natasha away. The thought of her lying dead squidged me out. Even more, I didn’t need Detective Costa catching me lurking around the crime scene. No doubt I’d go to the top of his suspect list pronto.

  With a quick glance to make sure no one was watching, I slipped through the shadows toward the pool. My bare foot hit something hard, sending the small object skittering across the sand. With a frown, I leaned over to pick it up. It was a simple, narrow, silver bracelet. The adjustable kind. It looked like maybe there was something etched on it, but the light was poor. I thought for a split second about turning it over to Costa, then hesitated. The bracelet might have nothing to do with the murder. It was nowhere near the body, after all. Plenty of people played on the beach every day. It could belong to anyone. I’d do a little research on it. If I couldn’t find the owner, well, then I would think about turning it over to Costa.

  Mind made up, I tucked the bracelet into my capris pocket and hurried across the sand toward the resort. Circling the pool, I huddled against the side of one of the buildings as the coroner passed by with his burden, then slipped down the passageway toward my building. I didn’t relax until I was inside my room with the door locked and bolted.

  Chapter 4

  The Mystery of 415

  VIOLENT POUNDING STARTLED me from a dead sleep. I sat bolt upright in bed, hair half covering my face. Flailing wildly, I managed something resembling, “Wha... Where... Who... Ack!” That last one was shrieked as I hit the floor with a resounding thump.

  I grimaced. Maybe I shouldn’t use the word “dead” quite so freely. There was way too much of that going on already.

  From my position on the floor between the two beds, I squinted at the clock. Three a.m. Who on earth would be banging on the door at this hour? Grabbing my robe off the other bed, I staggered to my feet and wobbled my way to the door. Peeking through the peephole, it was hard to make out the other person in the dim light, but I recognized her form immediately: Cheryl. Whatever was going on, it couldn’t be any good to drag Cheryl out of bed at this ungodly hour.

  Flipping back the deadbolt, I threw open the door. “What on earth...?”

  Cheryl didn’t give me a chance to say another word. She launched herself at me, nearly taking both of us to the floor. I staggered back, letting the door slam shut. She was babbling incoherently and sobbing so hard, I was half afraid she’d break a rib. Mine or hers. Could go either way.

  Cheryl is a slender woman. Tiny even. Not at all like my robust self. It would take quite a bit to snap anything of mine.

  I patted her back. She was wearing a fuschia silk robe with giant blue flowers, and it was slippery under my fingers. “There, there.” I felt like an idiot, but wasn’t that what people said to comfort the distraught? “The big, bad bogeyman is gone. You’re safe.”

  She pulled back, giving me a wide-eyed stare. She’d obviously fallen asleep with her makeup on because the remnants of mascara gave her raccoon eyes. On her, it was kind of adorable. “No, he’s not!” she gasped.

  “What?”

  “The bogeyman is in my room.”

  I gave her a look. “Did you have another nightmare?”

  Like most writers, Cheryl was prone to some rather creative dreaming. One time she’d dreamed that it was Thanksgiving and she’d forgotten to bake pie. So, she got up at four in the morning and started baking a pumpkin pie. Frankly, it’d been a win for me since I got to eat it. Another time she called me scared to death that she’d been kidnapped by aliens. In her defense, she was still half asleep when she called. She was embarrassed to death when she finally woke up fully and realized what she’d done.

  “No. I swear. His name is Detective Coaster.” She frowned. “No, that�
��s not right.”

  “Costa?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Oh, yes. That’s it. How’d you know?”

  “Come sit down. Tell me about it.” I dragged her into the living room and pushed her onto the couch. Normally I would never buy anything from the mini bar, but these were extenuating circumstances. I snagged a mini bottle of tequila for Cheryl and a whiskey for me. I prefer bourbon or brandy, but desperate times...

  I twisted off the cap and handed her the tequila. “Drink.”

  She frowned. “Don’t you have any fruit juice?”

  “Fresh out. Down it fast. That’s my motto.”

  She tossed it back in one gulp, making faces at the burn, while I joined her on the couch, sipping a little more delicately. “Okay, tell me what happened,” I demanded.

  Cheryl took a shuddering breath. “I was asleep. You know, totally out of it. And there was this knock at the door. It was the police.” Her eyes were a little too wide. I handed her the remaining half of my whiskey, which she downed like a champ. “Like the actual police. With badges and guns and everything.”

  “Yes. I’m familiar,” I said dryly.

  “This detective was there. Costas.”

  “Costa. What did he want?”

  “I don’t know!” she wailed, fingers twisting around the empty whiskey bottle. “He just kept asking me all these questions about Natasha Winters and our kerfuffle.” Only Cheryl would call a knock-down, drag-out catfight a kerfuffle.

  “Go on.”

  “He was acting really weird. Like he thought I did something bad. Then he told me not to leave town or he’d arrest me,” she wailed.

  My eyes really narrowed at that. “Did he tell you Natasha is dead?”

  Cheryl tried to take another drink from the bottle and frowned when she realized it was empty. “What?” she asked, only half listening.

  “Natasha is dead, Cheryl.”

  She turned white. “Dead?” she whispered. “How did she die?”

  “Knife in the back. Literally.”

  “It was murder? N-no. He didn’t say anything about that. Oh my goodness. He thinks I did it, doesn’t he?” Cheryl was no dummy, which was one of the reasons we were friends.

  I nodded. “I’m thinking he’s definitely got you on his suspect list. You’re in good company. I’m on there, too.”

  “Why? You didn’t get in a fight with her.”

  “Nope. I found her body.”

  Cheryl’s mouth dropped open. She forgot her upset in the face of such scintillating gossip. “What? Tell me everything!”

  I gave her a quick rundown on my rather grisly discovery, followed by my equally grisly interrogation by Detective Costa. “I’m right at the top of his suspect list. Along with Jason, of course.”

  “And me,” Cheryl said mournfully. “I can’t believe you discovered her body. How awful.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  She gave me a look.

  “Okay, it was bad, but I didn’t see much. Touching her was the worst.”

  “Ew! Why on earth did you touch her?”

  “To check for a pulse, of course.” I then told her about the bracelet.

  “You didn’t turn it over? Isn’t that withholding evidence?” she asked.

  “Only if it is evidence. It could be nothing. Don’t worry. I’m going to do a little digging and if it turns out it’s important, I’ll fork it over.”

  Cheryl sat back with a sad look. “You’re so much braver than I am, Viola. I don’t know what I’m going to do. How am I going to tell my mother I’m a murder suspect?”

  “Don’t worry.” I patted her knee. “I’m going to prove once and for all that neither of us murdered Natasha Winters.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  I smiled. “I’m going to find the real killer.”

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE WE’RE doing this,” Cheryl hissed in my ear. She was dressed in black from head to toe. Even her flip-flops were black. Which was unnecessary since it was broad daylight, but she’d insisted on dressing the part. I never heard of a cat burglar in flip-flops.

  “We’re not doing this. I am. You’re standing guard, remember?” It was early the morning after I’d found Natasha’s body, and we were huddled outside her room just beyond sight of the housekeeping cart. It was piled high with clean towels, rolls of toilet paper, and an assortment of cleaning products. The maid was inside room 410, just a few doors down from Natasha’s room, number 415.

  “How are we going to get the key?” Cheryl whispered.

  “We’re not. I’m going to get housekeeping to let me in.”

  She shot me a look of disbelief. “She’s never going to do that. Look at all the crime scene tape. No way is she going to let you waltz in there.”

  “You just watch. And stay out of sight.”

  She nodded, clearly happy to not be part of the breaking and entering. Well, technically it was only “entering,” since I was going to get in using a key. Totally legit. Well, semi-legit, anyway.

  I dashed across the hallway to room 415 and ripped the crime scene tape away from the door. Wadding it into a ball, I stuffed it into the nearest trashcan before dusting off my hands. Straightening my shoulders, I made my way casually toward room 410 and the housekeeping cart.

  It would have been so perfect if the housekeeper had just left her key card on the cart. But, of course, that would have been too easy. I peeked into the room to find a small, round woman with graying hair in a thick braid down her back. She was in the middle of remaking the bed, her movements quick and efficient. Around her left wrist was a purple wristband, and from it hung a key card. Now the question was how to convince her to open Natasha’s room for me. If I was lucky, she’d never actually seen Natasha. After all, we’d only been here a couple days.

  I knocked loudly on the open door, and the woman started, whirling to face me. She had a wide face and soft, brown eyes. I hoped her temperament was as sweet as her expression.

  “Excuse me,” I said, giving her a friendly smile. “I seem to have locked myself out of my room with my keycard inside. Could you let me in?”

  She frowned in confusion and said something in Spanish. I frowned, too—my Spanish was more than a little rusty. No way could I rephrase what I’d just said in that language. So, I tried again—in English—adding a few hand gestures to get my point across. Her expression cleared, and she bobbed her head in agreement as I motioned her down the hall to Natasha’s room.

  Either she hadn’t seen Natasha before or she didn’t care, because she let me in the room, no problem. I thanked her in Spanish, which was about all of the language I knew, and she gave me a wide smile before disappearing back down the hall into room 410.

  I waved Cheryl over. “Okay, the plan. You stand guard. If the cops show up, text me.”

  “Why would the cops show up? Haven’t they already been here?” she asked, peering into the darkened interior of the hotel room.

  “Of course. But they might have to come back.”

  Cheryl’s eyes narrowed. “Wouldn’t they notice their tape was missing?”

  Good point. “Sure. But they won’t know who took it down.”

  “Unless they dust for fingerprints.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Stop being so logical. Just stand guard while I check out Natasha’s room. They could have missed something important.” They did on Murder, She Wrote. Jessica Fletcher would always find the clue, and it would be the key to solving the case.

  Probably getting my investigative know-how from a television show wasn’t the best thing in the world, but it was what I had to work with. No way was I letting Detective Hottie lock Cheryl or me up because he was too busy pointing the finger at us instead of hunting the real culprit.

  Cheryl hurried back to her hiding place and gave me the thumbs-up. I nodded and entered the room, letting the door close softly behind me. I didn’t throw the deadbolt just in case I had to leave quickly.

  Natasha’s room was identi
cal to mine: two rooms connected by a hallway. The first room contained two double beds, just like mine, and the front room had a wide slider door facing the ocean, just like mine. It even had the same gold faux-silk curtains. The only real difference was that the rooms were a little bigger, and there was a very narrow balcony off the slider. Just wide enough for a miniscule bistro table and two ornate wrought-iron chairs. My room only had a Juliette balcony. Which was fine. The weather was too humid to leave the slider open anyway, and I’d just as soon enjoy my morning coffee in the comfort of air-conditioning rather than the glaring sun.

  The beds were neatly made. Apparently Natasha didn’t make it back to her room before she was killed. Or, at least, she didn’t make it to bed. The wooden nightstand in between the two beds held a collection of hand creams, throat lozenges, and a stack of paperbacks, all romances. Apparently Natasha hadn’t graduated to e-readers like the rest of us. I perused the titles but found nothing of interest. I’d either read them already, or they weren’t my thing. Not that I planned on stealing from a dead woman, mind you. Not unless it was absolutely essential to the investigation.

  The closet contained nine pairs of shoes. Most of them sandals with varying heel heights and levels of sparkle. Several dresses hung neatly from their hangers, and three empty suitcases were tucked back in the corner. I winced at the thought of how much she’d spent on checked luggage, but I guess you can do that when you make seven figures.

  In the upper corner of the closet, the small safe stood open and empty. I had no idea if the police had opened it and taken whatever was inside, or if Natasha simply hadn’t used it.

  Moving to the dresser, I pulled open one drawer at a time. More clothes. Enough underwear to open a lingerie store. All of it lacey and fussy. Exactly what I would have expected of a woman like Natasha Winters. Personally, I preferred comfort. Which, I supposed, could partially explain why I was still single at over forty. I just didn’t see the point in having a skinny piece of satin wedged up my backside.