A Viola Roberts Cozy Mystery Collection

by Shéa MacLeod

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Cheryl insisted. “All I know is what I just told you.”

  “Oh, come on.” I rescued my mug from beneath the coffeemaker and splashed in a liberal dose of vanilla creamer. “Agatha is a world-class gossip. Surely she gave you more than that.” I rested my feet on the other chair and leaned back to enjoy my beverage. Nirvana.

  Cheryl sighed, and I could hear her sipping on her own coffee. “Very well. But you didn’t hear this from me. And you can’t go off half-cocked.”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  “Promise me, Viola.”

  It was my turn to sigh. “All right. Just tell me.”

  “According to one of the officers on the scene, the police have hard evidence that Portia killed Mr. Nixon.”

  THE LOBBY OF THE ASTORIA Police Department was pretty typical, at least from what I’d seen on crime shows. Not the flashy, fictional types, but the real-life stuff on Investigation Discovery Channel. I was mildly addicted to Homicide Hunter. Off-white lino smudged with black scuffs from the bottom of police-issue shoes, off-gray walls that were at once glaring and depressing, photos of retired and/or fallen police officers lining the walls, flickering fluorescents the ratcheted up the headache to migraine proportions. Rather grim. They seriously needed to have a discussion with their interior decorator.

  At some point in the distant past, someone had made a half-hearted attempt to lighten up the place. There was a fake ficus in one corner, its droopy plastic leaves coated in dust. Above it hung an equally dusty photograph of the Astoria Column.

  Directly across from the glass entry doors was a faux-wood desk topped with bulletproof Plexiglas. The on-duty officer was perched safely behind the glass, a tiny speaker turning her voice into a tinny, crackly mess. She was young, no more than twenty-five, with curly, dark hair twisted into a bun. Her bronze nametag read “Bilson.” Neither she nor the name were familiar.

  Behind her, a portable room divider blocked the view of what I assumed was the bullpen. It also did double duty as a bulletin board, peppered with pinned notices and reminders.

  I rapped on the Plexiglas, and she looked up from the magazine she was flipping through. “How may I help you?” She looked bored. I couldn’t blame her. Not a lot happened in Astoria, especially during the off-season when the tourists from Portland stayed home to avoid the excessive amounts of rain on the coast.

  I gave her what I considered to be my most charming smile. “I’m here to see Bat. I mean, Detective Battersea.”

  She was unimpressed. She strummed long, red nails on her desk. “In regards to?”

  “The arrest of Portia Wren.”

  She gave me a blank look. Surely she wasn’t that dim. I tried again.

  “The murder of August Nixon.”

  This time she perked up. “Is that what her name is? I hadn’t heard.” She shot a glare over her shoulder at some unseen person no doubt out of sight behind the divider. “Idiots won’t tell me anything. I’ll see if Battersea is available.” She picked up a black phone that looked about the same vintage as my high school yearbook. Tapping out the numbers, she waited with pursed lips until someone answered on the other end. I couldn’t hear what she said, but she put down the phone with a nod and leaned closer to her mic. “He’ll be right up. Have a seat.”

  I nodded and searched for said seat. The only chairs available had cracked, peeling faux-leather cushions marked with stains of dubious origin. I decided to stand.

  It was a good ten minutes before Bat finally showed himself. By then, steam was roiling from my ears, and I wished like anything that I wouldn’t get thrown in jail for the epic rant I wanted to deliver I stiffened my spine and shot him a death glare, which he promptly ignored. He was dressed in a black suit with a pale-blue shirt and the exact same tie he’d been wearing the day before. Did the man only own one tie? He clutched a cup of coffee in his left hand, steam trailing from the hole in the brown lid. I sniffed. Not coffee. It was definitely tea. Chai, if the spicy scent was anything to go by. That was unexpected. He took a long, slow sip before speaking.

  “Good morning, Ms. Roberts. This is a rather early surprise.”

  I snorted. “According to the rumor mill, you’ve arrested Portia Wren for Nixon’s murder. Is that true?”

  One dark brow lifted. “The rumor mill is surprisingly fast. Yes, we arrested Ms. Wren this morning.”

  “Are you nuts?” I blurted, propping my fists on my ample hips. “Portia is one of the nicest, sweetest people you’ll ever meet. There is no way she killed Nixon, no matter how big a louse he was.”

  He gave me a long, slow look that I couldn’t interpret. “I’m afraid the evidence says otherwise.”

  I glared at him. “What evidence?”

  He smirked, and a dimple flashed at the corner of his mouth. “Good try, but you know I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”

  “Wait a minute. What about the wineglass? That wasn’t Portia’s lipstick on it. And she doesn’t drink anything but chardonnay. Someone else was there. That person could have killed Nixon.”

  He paused a beat. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Roberts.” And with that, he turned and strode off, the slick leather soles of his dress shoes making a smart sound on the linoleum floor. I tried to refrain, but I couldn’t help grinding my teeth. I needed to know what they had on Portia if I was going to show them the error of their ways.

  “Pain in the butt, isn’t he?” The desk officer had come out from behind the glass. She clutched an e-cigarette in her hand. Smoke break. “Hot, though. Even if he is an old guy.”

  I wasn’t sure that late forties denoted “old,” but I mumbled agreement. She was right on all counts. I eyed the desk officer. Maybe she had the information I needed.

  “Have you worked with him long? Detective Battersea?” I asked innocently.

  She giggled at the thought of her working with the lead detective. “I just started three months ago. I haven’t got to work with him. Yet.”

  I leaned a little closer, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “Give it time. A person with your intelligence and drive is sure to climb the ladder in no time.”

  “You think?” She beamed at the idea.

  I nodded sagely. “I’m rarely wrong about these things.” I tapped the side of my nose as if I could smell her success in the air. What I smelled was stale coffee breath. Girl needed a stick of gum.

  She held the door open for me, and we both exited into the rare sunny day. In a state known for its rain, Astoria got more than its fair share.

  “I wonder what they have on her,” I mused out loud.

  The officer started up her cig and took a puff. “What they have on who?”

  “You know. The woman they brought in. For murder. Portia Wren.”

  “Oh, her. The one you were talking to the detective about? Something about fingerprints.” Her eyes widened as she realized her slip. “You didn’t hear that from me, though, okay? I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?” I batted my lashes.

  She grinned. “Thanks. I’d hate to lose my job so soon. Especially after last time.”

  “Last time?” “Used to work down at the Safeway,” she explained, pointing vaguely in a northerly direction. “I accidentally short-changed a customer. I didn’t mean to. It was an honest mistake, but he complained, and they had to let me go.” She looked sad for a moment, then perked up. “Lucky my uncle is friends with the chief. He was able to get me this job, so I better not screw it up.”

  “Oh, I’m certain you won’t. I think you’re quite good at it. Very professional.”

  She smiled at me through a cloud of vapor. “Thanks.”

  “I don’t suppose you know any more about the fingerprints? Like, what they were on, for instance?”

  “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you’re a nice lady and I know she’s your friend. I also know what it is to be kept in the dark just because you’re new. And female.” She gave a snort o
f disgust then glanced around before leaning closer. I could smell the sweet scent of cloves in her smoke, which was marginally better than coffee breath. “It was the statue. The one of some Greek god or something. They found it next to the body, and Portia Wren’s fingerprints were the only ones on it.”

  Chapter 4

  A Clue in Pink

  “I can’t believe they think Portia capable of murder. I’ve only met her a few times, but she’s a lovely girl. Then again, darkness can lurk in the most unexpected places.”

  I jerked my cell phone away from my ear and glared at it, even though I knew Lucas couldn’t see me. Was he serious? Slapping it back against my ear, I practically shouted, “Listen to me, Lucas Salvatore. Portia did not kill that...jerk. There is no doubt in my mind. And you can take your ‘darkness’ and...and...shove it.”

  It was a dumb idea to call Lucas. I thought he’d be supportive. After all, he’d totally had my back at the writer’s conference in Florida. Plus we were dating. Kind of. I was hesitant to call him my boyfriend. It seemed like such a juvenile word. Right now, though, his name was mud.

  “Hey, hey,” he soothed, his voice a rich baritone in my ear. “I didn’t mean to upset you, but you know as well as I do that people can surprise you. They can be very good at keeping secrets.”

  “Not Portia.” Though a seed of doubt had already niggled its way into my brain, which annoyed me to death. No. Portia was innocent of The Louse’s murder. Of that I had no doubt. Some people thought she was snobby or whatever because she always dressed like a runway model rather than in jeans and flannel shirts, but she was a sweetheart. She happened to like pretty clothes and dressing up. What was wrong with that?

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Of course I am,” I snapped. “I was right last time, wasn’t I?” Last time being when I found a dead body on the beach in Florida, and Cheryl and I ended up suspects. Fun times.

  “Speaking of last time, maybe you shouldn’t get involved this go ’round. You nearly got yourself killed. Perhaps you should step back and let the police handle it.”

  I snorted. “As if. I’m not letting my friend rot in jail any longer than necessary just because the police think they know something.” I turned on the tap and rinsed out my coffee mug. “They have no evidence.”

  He cleared his throat. “Fingerprints on the weapon seem like a pretty solid piece of evidence.”

  “Sure. They seem that way,” I admitted. I swung open the fridge door and stared inside. Empty. I hadn’t had time to go grocery shopping what with my deadline and everything. “But these things can be faked, you know.”

  “It’s true,” he admitted. “But according to my research, in most instances—”

  “Listen, I’ve got to go,” I said, cutting him off. I didn’t want to hear anything negative from him. It would only piss me off. “Need to hunt down some lipstick.”

  “That’s a new one.”

  I laughed. “I’ll tell you all about it later. By the way, when are you headed this way next?” I fidgeted with the blue and white dish towel hanging from the fridge handle.

  “I was thinking I’d come by this weekend. We could have some dinner. Maybe a bottle of wine. If you’re not too busy trying to solve another mystery.”

  “We’ll see,” I said slyly. “If you’re lucky.”

  THERE WERE EXACTLY five places in Astoria a woman could buy cosmetics. For inexpensive to downright cheap stuff, there was the local grocery store and two independent pharmacies. The selections were small and the prices exorbitant. Then there were two salons that sold higher-end cosmetics. Based on the neon-pink color of the lipstick on the second wineglass, I was guessing cheap. But then, I tended toward neutrals, so what did I know?

  I hoped that if I could find out who carried lipstick that color, I might be able to find out who bought it. That particularly shocking shade of pink hadn’t been popular since the eighties, so I couldn’t imagine too many women in Astoria wearing it. I hadn’t found it online, so I was hoping I’d have better luck in person. Maybe it was a fool’s errand, but I had to try.

  A quick stop at the grocery yielded nothing. They had six colors, none of which matched the picture on my phone. I had equally disappointing results with the drugstores. The first of the two salons, however, showed promise.

  The salon was in one of the storefronts along Commercial Street, the main drag of downtown Astoria. The three-story brick building had been built sometime at the turn of the last century. More recently the brick had been painted white. Large front windows were filled with spa-like elements from river rocks meant for hot-stone massage to tiers of candles in glass globes. Swirling letters proclaimed it to be Viviana’s Salon and Cosmetics. I pushed the door open and stepped inside to the pungent odor of hair products and too much perfume. My eyes began watering immediately. My head throbbed in time to the beat from the radio. Something catchy and fun. Unless you had a headache.

  The girl behind the front desk, which looked more like a podium than an actual desk, glanced at me through eyes lined with thick, black kohl. Her pale-blond hair was artfully wispy with a bubblegum-pink streak over her left ear, which matched her pink and white striped shirt and pink combat boots. Her skinny jeans had artful rips in interesting places.

  “Welcome to Viviana’s. How may we enhance your beauty today?” she chirped perkily, though her eyes were glazed with boredom. Or pot. Who knew around here?

  “I’m looking for lipstick.”

  “Oh, sure. Over here.” She tromped to a display of makeup only marginally more extensive than the drug and grocery stores. “We carry Viviana’s own line of mineral makeup. Non-toxic. All natural. So good for your skin.” She waved to one of the shelves, her pink, glittery nails flashing in the light streaming through the window. “Lipstick. What color?”

  “Pink. Bright pink.”

  That startled a response out of her. She eyed me doubtfully. “Are you sure?”

  I stared her down. “Of course. Why?”

  “Just, um, it’s not the right color for you.”

  I scrambled for an excuse. The bonus of hitting the other stores was that nobody cared. They were totally anonymous. I could browse the makeup section without anyone batting an eyelash or asking silly questions about my color choices. “It’s for my mom. She loves bright pink.”

  “Ohh!” The girl’s eyes widened as if it suddenly all made sense. “I have noticed older ladies tend to like bright colors.” She snagged a couple of tubes from the shelf. “These are our brightest.”

  I took them from her and slipped off the lids. One was a shocking purplish color, and the other more of a raspberry. Neither of them were anything like the lipstick on the glass.

  “This is all you’ve got? No pink?”

  She shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  The other salon was a few doors down from Viviana’s, but it was closed. It looked like a one-woman operation with a note on the door explaining that it was by appointment only. I couldn’t see any makeup on the display inside, so I was betting it was mail-order only.

  I was having zero luck with the lipstick hunt, and my feet were starting to hurt. It was nearing lunchtime, and I was running on coffee fumes, so I decided to head to the bakery for a sandwich and more caffeination. Then I should get home and do some work.

  I’d decided to swap to a different work-in-progress since I was having fits with Scarlet and Rolf. In The Rancher’s Virgin Bride, Matilda had run away from her evil, murderous husband back east and into the arms of the hot, sexy cattle rancher, Blade. Unfortunately, Blade thought Matilda was a nun. I had all kinds of interesting ideas about how to get her out of that conundrum. At least two of which involved ropes and lacy undergarments. I smirked to myself. A writer’s work was never done.

  I was in my car, headed to the bakery, when the Flavel House loomed up on my left. I paused, and, without thinking, pulled my car over in front of the museum. Cardamom scones could wait. Maybe ther
e was something yet to be learned inside the scene of the crime.

  Chapter 5

  Curiosity Killed the Cat

  One of Portia’s coworkers at the museum was a young woman with the unfortunate name of Annabelle Smead. Not that Annabelle was an unfortunate name, but Smead?

  I knew little about her, except that she was a single mother and had a penchant for wearing sack-like dresses in ghastly colors that clashed with her bright-red hair. What we called “carrot” back in school, but a kinder person might call “sunset.”

  She jumped up from one of the armchairs the moment I walked in the front door. “Oh, Viola! Did you hear about Portia?” she blurted. She was even paler than usual, making her freckles stand out like big, brown spots. She wrung her boney hands together repeatedly. Clearly the whole mess had gotten to her.

  “I did,” I assured her, noting the crime-scene tape that crisscrossed the closed doors to the study. That section was definitely off the tour today. “I went to the police station this morning.”

  Annabelle’s blue eyes grew wide. “So you saw her? She’s okay?”

  “No. They won’t let anyone in but her lawyer. I’m sure she’s fine, though. She’s strong.” This was Astoria, after all. Not Portland. She likely had the entire jail to herself, and they were probably feeding her fast food. Which she might consider torture, but most people would be happy with.

  “Oh, she is. Such a strong woman. I admire her so much.”

  Good. That was something I could work with.

  “Do you think she killed The L— uh, Mr. Nixon?” I asked.