by Shéa MacLeod
“Smart thinking,” Lucas said approvingly.
“I still think you’re an idiot,” Cheryl snapped. “You could have been killed!”
“But I wasn’t,” I said reassuringly. “I knew I could count on you to call Detective Costa. Unfortunately he ran a bit later than I’d hoped,” I said wryly, “but it all worked out in the end.”
“Let me get this straight,” Lu said. “Kyle wanted to kill Andrea because she was planning to tell Natasha that Kyle was only into the relationship for the money?”
“Exactly,” I said. “He was stupid enough to believe Natasha planned on taking him with her when she left Florida.”
“As if that would happen,” Cheryl said. “Natasha would have ditched him the minute the conference was over.”
“You and I know that,” I agreed, “but Kyle didn’t know her like we did. Of course, once he accidentally killed Natasha, he had to kill Andrea,” I said.
“Because she witnessed it, of course,” Lucas surmised.
I nodded. “And if her fate wasn’t sealed before, it was then. When he saw the bracelet, he decided Andrea had to die. He couldn’t risk her telling anyone what she’d seen.”
“That’s just nuts,” Maggie snapped. “What is the world coming to?”
“What about the plagiarized book?” Lucas asked. “The one Natasha was trying to pass off as her own.”
That involved another round of explanation. “The publishing company has now seen proof that Piper is the author. Greta has backed her up. Even Yvonne finally admitted her part in the theft. So the publishing company fired Yvonne, voided Natasha’s contract for the plagiarized book, and issued one to Piper. They’re going to publish the book, but the right way.”
“That’s wonderful!” Lu gushed, clasping her hands over her ample bosom. “I’m so pleased.”
“Hopefully Piper doesn’t turn into another Natasha,” Maggie muttered over her glass of wine. She didn’t sound hopeful. I wondered if Piper would stick with Jason once she was a successful author. I kind of doubted it, but then people had a way of surprising you.
The night finally wound to a close, and we all bid each other goodnight, promising to stay in touch. As the others headed to bed, Lucas pulled me aside.
“I’d love to see you again,” he said softly, looking at me as if he wanted to kiss me on the lips again. This time on purpose.
“I don’t see how that’s possible,” I said. “We live so far away.”
“Portland isn’t that far from Astoria. It’s what? An hour-and-a-half drive or so? Two max.”
I blinked. “Wait. What? Portland? As in Oregon? I thought you lived in New Hampshire or something.”
“Maine. But I’ve decided it’s time for a change.” He flashed me one of those sexy grins. “How about it, Viola? Dinner when we get back?”
THE NEXT MORNING, CHERYL and I checked out of the Fairwinds Resort and headed to the front entrance, luggage in hand, to catch a taxi. Instead, an unmarked police car slid to the curb, and Costa got out. He was looking particularly delicious in a rumpled, sky-blue shirt, his maroon tie askew.
“Why, Detective,” I called cheerfully, giving him a little finger wave. “Come to see us off? I know you’re going to miss me, but really, you needn’t have.”
He glared at me as if I were personally responsible for all his woes. “Actually, I’m giving you a ride to the airport.”
“Really?” I bit back a laugh. “Why would you do that?”
“Because my captain ordered me to,” he said, his tone nearly a growl. “He said, ‘Get that Roberts person off my island before I have her thrown in jail.’ I wouldn’t have cared, except he also threatened my person.”
“Well,” I said with a grin as I strolled toward his car, “you can’t say my visit wasn’t interesting.”
Cheryl and I ignored Costa’s glare as we burst into peals of laughter. Hey, at least we’d save on cab fare.
The End.
Join Viola on her next adventure in The Stiff in the Study. Keep reading for Viola Roberts Cozy Mysteries Book 2...
The Stiff in the Study
Viola Roberts Cozy Mysteries Book 2
Shéa MacLeod
THE STIFF IN THE STUDY
Text copyright © 2016 Shéa MacLeod
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Cover design by Mariah Sinclair / www.mariahsinclair.com
Editing by Janet Fix of www.thewordverve.com
THE CHARACTERS AND events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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 the publisher.
Acknowledgements
So many people have helped with Viola’s second story that it’s hard to thank them all properly, but here goes.
To Alin Silverwood for coming up with one of Viola’s more hilarious exploits. To Dan J for the vehicle expertise. To B for the brainstorming sessions. And to the wonderful people of the city of Astoria, Oregon, who welcomed this crazy writer on her researching journey, particularly the women who give their time and attention to the glorious Flavel House Museum. I learned so much.
Dedication
To my aunts, Becky and Charline, who are always up for shenanigans.
Chapter 1
A Juicy Murder
I’d have given anything for a really juicy murder.
A romance novelist’s life involved skirting one unmitigated disaster to another. Or maybe that was just me. The current disaster was a raging case of writer’s block, so bad that dead bodies were starting to sound good. Even relocating from my writing den at home to a table at my favorite wine bar wasn’t helping. Maybe I should give up historical romance and write crime thrillers?
I sighed and glanced around Sip. It was a cozy place with a wide front window overlooking the Columbia River, warm red walls, and wide plank floors. Racks of wines—all from Pacific Northwest wineries— lined nearly every wall and a great deal of floor space. The rest of the room was taken up by little round tables covered in cheerful red and gold cloth so patrons could sit and enjoy a glass. Or bottle.
Nina Driver, who not only owned Sip but was a good friend of mine, was busy behind the bar unpacking boxes of newly delivered cabernet. Her long, honey hair tumbled about her shoulders as she hummed softly to the old-school jazz playing over the stereo system.
At the end of the bar sat one of the more colorful denizens of Astoria, Oregon. A regular at Sip, Lloyd was somewhere between sixty and eighty, his craggy features and wild beetle brows making it impossible to tell which. His white hair stood straight up as if he hadn’t brushed it in days, maybe a week even. He leaned heavily on the bar, staring soulfully into a glass of red.
I scowled at my laptop screen, willing words to appear. No luck. I had a looming deadline, and the story was stuck.
“You lied to me, Scarlet,” he said, his manly chest heaving. (Did manly chests heave? I’d have to look into that.) “I can never forgive you.”
“But Rolf,” she cried, “I did it for your own good.” Tears poured down her beautiful face, turning her blue eyes a stormy gray.
Good grief, that was melodramatic. My readers would love it. But what did Scarlet lie about? That was the million-dollar question. And if I couldn’t answer it, I’d be the next dead body, thanks to my editor.
“I could kill him!” Portia Wren stormed into Sip and slammed her turquoise designer purse on top of the polished wood bar, hard enough to make a substantial thwack. She hiked herself onto one of the tall stools. Her snug blue and green dress slid up her thighs like it was trying to escape the laws of gravity. She didn’t seem to notice, but Lloyd sure did. His eyeballs nearly popped out of his head, despite him being three sheets to the wind already.
“Keep your eyeballs in your head, Lloyd.” The order was snapped out from behind a rack of Bordeaux where Nina was stocking up. I would swear the woman had eyes in the back of her head.
Portia and I shot Lloyd a scowl, though he couldn’t see me since I was sitting behind him. He dove back into his wine glass with gusto. It wasn’t that anyone could blame Lloyd, exactly. Portia had a way of attracting attention. The woman had curves that wouldn’t quit and dressed like a runway model, despite Astoria being a small, wet, coastal town and not Milan or Paris.
“You look like you could use this,” Nina said, emerging from behind the rack. She was a tall woman, though not as tall as Portia, and her voluptuous figure was crammed into a cranberry knit dress. She set off the ensemble with knee-high, black boots and her naturally pouty lips painted with a cranberry-color lipstick. She may have passed the fifty mark, but I could only aspire to be half as sexy as Nina.
She set a large wine glass in front of Portia and held up a bottle. I knew without looking that it would be a dry, oaky chardonnay—the only kind Portia ever drank. The minute the glass was full, she snatched it and chugged back half in one go.
I used the interruption as an excuse to escape my laptop. I got up and joined Portia at the bar. “Who do you want to kill? And can I help?” I asked, only half kidding. Mess with my friends, feel my wrath. I may not look scary, being of the short and plump variety, but believe me, I’m devious.
Portia snorted delicately. “The Louse.”
“Oh,” Nina and I chimed in unison.
“The Louse” was August Nixon, Portia’s boss at the local museum, Flavel House. The gorgeous landmark Victorian that drew tourists from around the globe was, unfortunately, run by a big, fat jerk.
“Better be careful about making murder threats,” Nina joked. “Viola will have to hunt you down and see that justice is served.”
I rolled my eyes. One time. One time, I—Viola Roberts, author of bodice-ripping Western romances—solved a murder and now it was an eternal joke among my friends. “More likely I’d help her hide the body. What happened, Portia?”
She sighed and swallowed her remaining wine before handing the glass back to Nina for a refill. “I was in one of the storage rooms doing inventory, and he cornered me. Started putting his gross, sweaty hands in places he shouldn’t.” Her face was nearly as red as the walls of Sip, making her short, platinum hair look like a nimbus of white fire.
“You need to report that...jerk,” Nina said. Clearly, she’d wanted to use a stronger word, but Nina didn’t like to swear at work. Outside of work, she swore like a longshoreman. “No wait, forget that.” Nina waved off the idea of reporting Nixon. “Knee the sucker. Right in the—”
“I think reporting him is the better option,” I interrupted. While kneeing her boss in the delicates would probably be satisfying, Portia would likely be the one who ended up in trouble, in this day and age. “Turn him in. Report him for sexual harassment. This is not okay.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Portia scowled. “But who am I going to turn him in to? He’s the boss. And it’s not like we have an HR department. I am the HR department.”
She had a point. Astoria was a small town, and the museum had just four employees, two of which were part-timers. There were another half dozen volunteers who showed tourists around on weekends and during the summer months. Basically, August Nixon was king of his Victorian castle.
“How about the head of the historical society?” I suggested. “Surely they have some say in the matter.”
“Please. The Louse is loaded. And he’s got all kinds of powerful friends, including the mayor and a judge. No way they’re going to kick him out. Not as long as he wants the job.”
I grimaced. That was the problem with this world. Those in high places got away with murder, sometimes literally, while the rest of us paid for it. But I didn’t want to focus on the negative. I needed to help my friend.
“You could report him to the police,” I suggested. “That won’t look too good for him with his fancy friends. Might knock him down a rung or two.”
“Yeah, and he’ll make my life even more miserable,” Portia groaned, taking another deep swallow of wine from her glass, which had been magically refilled. Every move was elegant. I caught Lloyd peeking at her again and threw him another scowl.
I stared out the large front window. It had been a rare sunny spring day, and the early evening light glinted off the water below. It was nearing sunset. Magic time.
The bell above the door jangled as a group of tourists walked in. Nina excused herself to greet them and hand out the daily wine list. Sip was one of those places where you could buy a bottle (or case) of wine and sit at the bar and drink it. Or just have a glass. It was also the local watering hole of sorts for those who preferred wine over beer and conversation over ear-bleeding music or giant TV screens full of sports. It was also about the best place to catch up on town gossip, which was why I liked it.
“So,” said Portia, changing the subject, “have you heard from Lucas lately?”
I felt myself blushing and told myself sternly not to be an idiot. “Oh, you know, now and then,” I said, trying to play it cool. I fooled no one, certainly not Portia.
I’d met Lucas Salvatore several months earlier at a writer’s convention in Florida. The same convention where I’d found a dead body, been accused of murder, and managed to get both myself and my best friend Cheryl Delaney into and out of trouble. Like Cheryl, Lucas was a thriller and mystery writer. He also had a secret love of romance novels. Go figure. Although we’d been on a few dates, it was difficult, what with him living nearly two hours away in Portland.
Portia and I chatted over wine as the sun sank into the bay and our stomachs began to rumble. Lloyd had long since staggered off, and the tourists had departed to the nearest eateries. Only a couple die-hard locals were left.
Portia and I waved goodbye to Nina and headed out into the cool evening. “I’m meeting Cheryl for dinner. You want to join us?” I asked Portia as I shrugged into a lightweight jacket and twisted my long, dark brown hair up into a quick bun to avoid wind tangles. Clouds were beginning to scuttle across the darkened sky. No doubt there would be rain before morning.
Portia shivered. She hadn’t brought a jacket, silly girl. “I’ll take a rain check. Right now, all I want to do is get my pajamas on and curl up with some mind-numbing TV.”
We said our goodbyes, and Portia sashayed away, nearly giving a passing tourist a heart attack. He did a double take so hard he nearly tripped over his feet. His wife angrily smacked him on the back of his head and stormed off. He stumbled after her making loud protestations of his innocence. I hid a smirk as I turned to walk uphill toward Fort George Pub.
Astoria is built on a hill where the Columbia River meets Youngs Bay before flowing out to join the Pacific Ocean. The docks are on the waterfront, naturally, with the town center running parallel to the river a couple blocks in. From there, the city marches uphill toward the Astoria Column, the crowning glory of Coxcomb Hill. I’d read once that the monument was patterned after the Trajan Column in Rome. I’ve never seen it— the one in Rome, I mean—so I couldn’t tell you if that’s true.
Most of the houses in Astoria were glorious old Victorians painted in wildly bright colors. Made the town look like a mini San Francisco. But sprinkled in between were Craftsman cottages, a few Cape Cods, and the odd modern home.
Fort George Pub was in a renovated warehouse a block up the hill from the main drag. I made it in record time to find Cheryl already there, sitting at one of the rustic tables, a pint of something golden in front of her. Personally, I hated beer, but Cheryl enjoyed the odd glass. She waved me over with a grin.
She was dressed similarly to me in jeans, boots, and a casual top. On me, it looked relaxed and comfy. On her, it looked stylish and charming. Her short, brown hair stood up in cute little spikes that would have made anyone else look like they’d just rolled out of bed. O
n her, it was artistic and stylish.
“So, how goes the writing?” she asked as I took the chair across from her.
I rolled my eyes. “Same as ever.”
She gave me a look of sympathy. Only another writer could understand the frustration of writer’s block. “Really? Getting out of the house didn’t help?”
“Not even a little. Maybe I need a trip to Eastern Oregon or something. See some real cowboys. Visit a ghost town. I don’t know.”
She gave me a look. “You don’t even like cowboys.”
I shrugged. “Anything for my readers.” It was true. I didn’t much like cowboys, ranches, country music, or any of that other stuff that one might think went along with writing historical Western romances.
“Speaking of...how is the gorgeous Lucas?”
“Were we speaking of that?”
She glared at me. “What is your problem, Viola? You’ve got a gorgeous, smart, talented, not to mention rich guy who is totally into you, and you act like you’re about to visit a dentist’s office.”
She was right. It was nuts. I should be throwing myself at the man, but that wasn’t my style. Plus, I’d gotten used to being alone. Other than a brief flirtation with marriage in my early twenties, I’d avoided long-term commitment. It wasn’t for me. Although Lucas Salvatore seemed to be shaking that long-held belief. Still, I wasn’t ready to go there.
“How about you?” I said, switching the subject. “Meet anyone interesting lately?”