A Viola Roberts Cozy Mystery Collection

by Shéa MacLeod

  She glanced at me, blue eyes wide. “How?”

  “Don’t worry about the how, just know I’m on the case.”

  “Are you sure? You could get hurt.”

  “This is me we’re talking about.”

  “Yes,” she said grimly. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  I waved airily. “I can handle myself. I’ve done this before.”

  She looked doubtful. “Thanks, I guess.”

  “Sure thing. Now listen, I need to ask some questions, okay?”

  “Sure. What do you need to know?”

  “I talked to your coworker, Annabelle. She said that you got into an argument with The Louse the day he died, and you threatened him. Is that true?”

  She gave me a half-hearted smile. “It’s true.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? If the police find out—”

  “Because it’s not what you think. He put his hands on me, and I snapped. Yelled at him. I told him he’d pay, but I didn’t mean that I’d kill him. I meant that I was going to turn him in. Finally.”

  “I thought you said turning him in would do no good.”

  She shrugged. “Probably wouldn’t. But I figured threatening him might get him to stop. At least for a while.”

  “Okay, I get that. One other thing.” I wasn’t sure how to phrase it, so I blurted it out. “I hear you’re dating Blaine Nixon.”

  She went even paler, if that were possible. “How’d you hear that?”

  “So it’s true?”

  She stared at her hands. “Yes.” The response was so soft I barely heard her.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She sighed. “Blaine didn’t want his dad knowing about us.”

  “Oh, gee, that’s real manly of him,” I said dryly.

  “It isn’t like that,” she insisted. “In the past, his dad has done some pretty awful things to Blaine’s girlfriends.”

  “Like sexually harassed them?” I guessed.

  “And worse, if you can imagine.”

  Unfortunately, I could. “What else?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There has to be more to it than Blaine being afraid The Louse would come on to you. I mean, that boat already sailed, if you know what I mean.”

  She sighed. “I don’t have the right status. His parents, especially his dad, wouldn’t approve, and since he’s living with them...” She shrugged.

  Sounded like a major weenie to me, but I didn’t want Portia feeling any worse than she already did. “Don’t the Nixons have, like, a ton of money? Why do they need more? It’s not like you’re some kind of gold digger.”

  “I have no idea. All I know is that Blaine was convinced they wouldn’t like us dating, and he wanted to keep it secret. At least for a while.”

  I thought it was idiotic, but it was Portia’s life, not mine. It did seem like there was more to this than what she knew. It was time to confront Blaine.

  THE DIRTY DOG WAS A pseudo-English pub down near the waterfront. It boasted the appropriate atmosphere of dark wood, gloomy lighting, and dozens of beers on tap. There was even a dartboard in one corner, although I’d never seen anyone play. The food was good, if simple, the drinks cheap(ish), and the denizens cheerful. And it was there I found one Blaine Nixon sitting at the bar, nursing something that smelled vaguely of rotten mulch. In case you missed it, I’m not a fan of beer.

  “Hey, Blaine,” I said, skootching onto the stool next to him. “How’s it going?”

  He turned bleary eyes in my direction and let out something vaguely resembling a grunt before returning to his pint.

  “That good, huh? Watcha drinking?”

  He ignored me.

  “Yeah. Looks real appetizing. Like I can’t wait to just dive in.” I let out an awkward laugh. Why was this guy so hard to talk to? How on earth did I get him to open up and spill his guts?

  “What’ll it be?” The bartender leaned over the counter and gave me a look that told me dillydallying was frowned upon.

  “Sarsaparilla. And make it strong!” I laughed awkwardly again. “Always wanted to say that.”

  The bartender gave me a look and braced his beefy arms on the counter. “Everyone’s a comedienne. Try again.”

  “Heh. Okay.” I squinted at the fridge behind the bar. “How about some apple juice?” I said lamely.

  He shrugged and turned to grab a bottle from the fridge. A quick flick of the wrist, and the cap sailed off onto the bar top. He slid the bottle across. “Five bucks.”

  My eyes widened. “Are you kidding? Beer doesn’t even cost that much.”

  “You want beer prices, you buy beer.”

  “Fine,” I grumbled. “But I want a receipt.” I dug a five-dollar bill out of my handbag and slapped it on the bar. “Receipt?”

  “Coming right up.”

  I turned back to Blaine who’d ignored the whole altercation. “I just saw Portia.”

  He perked up. “You did? How is she? Is she okay?”

  “She’s holding up.” I took a sip of my apple juice. It was nothing exciting. Certainly not worth the insane price. I was going to have to write a strongly worded letter to the manager.

  “I wish there was something I could do,” he said morosely.

  “How about paying for a good lawyer? Getting her out of there?”

  He snorted. “With what money?”

  “Aren’t you guys rich?”

  He gave me a look. “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “The almighty August Nixon had a serious gambling problem. There’s nothing left. Or not much, anyway. What little there is left went to my mom, not me.”

  “Oh.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. “Is that why you were hiding your relationship with Portia?”

  “Partially. I know it sounds stupid, but both of my parents were hoping I’d marry well, you know? Prop up the family name. Which is ridiculous. Anywhere else on the planet, we’re total nobodies, but in Astoria, we’re Big Deals. They’d do anything to save face and keep their status intact.”

  “So, neither of your parents would have appreciated you dating Portia?”

  “Nope.”

  I scowled at him. “Geez. Grow a spine, why don’t you?” Sometimes I really should keep my mouth shut.

  He glowered at me. “I tried. I did. But my mother was barely holding on as it was, and my father was becoming increasingly unstable.”

  “Like losing his mind?”

  “Sort of. The gambling losses were causing a lot of stress. He snapped at the least little thing. I did not want to set him off. I figured things would settle down eventually and then I could tell them. In my own time.”

  “Portia seemed to think you were also trying to protect her from your father’s unsavory advances.”

  He snorted. “As if I could do that. She worked with the guy. But it kept her off my back. At least for a while until I could figure things out.” He shrugged. “Guess it doesn’t matter now. Mom may be disappointed, but tough. Everyone will find out the truth about good ole August Nixon soon enough.”

  I mulled that over as I sucked down my bottle of juice. “So, you knew all about the money being gone.”

  He swallowed. “Sure.”

  I knew he was lying. “You had no idea! You thought you’d inherit.” And that was a darn good motive for murder.

  “Listen,” he snapped, “I may not have known, but that didn’t mean I killed the bas—my father. I had no reason to.”

  “How about needing money?”

  “Why would I need money?” He didn’t quite meet my eye. “I’ve got a job. Might not make me rich, but I do okay.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that, but until I could prove otherwise, I decided to let it go. “How about an alibi?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Who do you think you are? Jessica Fletcher?”

  “I’m trying to help Portia. You want that, don’t you?”

  He sighed. “Sure. Fine. I was in Seaside a
t a concert.”

  I nodded. I would definitely check that out. “Thanks.” I slid off the barstool. “I might have more questions later.”

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  I was nearly to the door when a thought struck me. “Hey, Blaine, do you know anyone called Mrs. A?”

  He frowned. “You talking about that old biddy that donates to the museum?”

  I stepped a little closer. “Old biddy?”

  “Sure. She’s been donating for years. Dad used to kiss her backside on a regular basis.”

  “You remember her last name?”

  “Um.” He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling as if it might have inspiration. “Yeah. Archer. Mrs. Glennis Archer.”

  I beamed at him. “Thanks!” I was out the door and nearly to my car before I realized I never got my receipt.

  Chapter 12

  Winos and Riffraff

  “Are you sure she has anything to do with it?” Cheryl asked, peering over my shoulder. She’d come to my place to help me investigate the mysterious Mrs. A, and now we were both sitting in my breakfast nook, staring at a picture of Glennis Archer on my laptop screen.

  She was an elegant woman with her silver hair cut into a smooth bob, makeup perfectly applied, and expensive but understated jewelry. She stared back at us from a business website with an article about how she had taken over operations of the family business from her deceased husband and actually increased the company’s income tenfold. That meant she was smart and savvy. Or had excellent advisers who she was intelligent enough to listen to.

  “I have no idea,” I admitted. “But we need to talk to her. She had an appointment with The Louse the same night he was killed. Maybe she did it.”

  “She doesn’t look like a killer, but then they rarely do.”

  She made an excellent point. “Even if she didn’t do it, maybe she saw who did.”

  Cheryl scrunched up her nose. “Any ideas how to get close to her? I doubt we could waltz into her place of business and demand to see her. They’d probably have security throw us out.”

  “I already tried to make an appointment. Her assistant claims she’s booked for a month.” Not that I believed that for a minute. “I think I need to use some finesse with her.”

  Cheryl gave a sort of gigglesnort.

  “Hey, I can finesse when I need to.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got a better idea. I think we need to approach her somewhere away from her office. Somewhere she’ll have her guard down and won’t suspect anything.”

  “Like?”

  “Like when she’s getting her nails done or something.”

  “It’s a good idea,” I agreed. “But how are we supposed to find out when she’s getting her nails done?”

  “Social media, naturally.” She gave me a smug look.

  “You think a woman as smart and rich as Glennis Archer is going to plaster her itinerary all over the web?”

  She shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to look.”

  I pulled up one of the most popular social media sites and did a search for Glennis Archer’s name. I got a big, fat goose egg.

  “Nothing. Any other ideas?”

  “Try her maiden name. Maybe she’s trying to keep a low profile.”

  Which is exactly what I would do if I were a mucky-muck like Mrs. Archer. Question was, what was her maiden name? Google searches yielded nothing. Likely she and Mr. Archer had been married years before the advent of social media. “Maybe we should ask Agatha,” I suggested, only half joking. “That woman knows everything.”

  “Oh, good idea! Let’s call her right now.”

  “At ten o’clock at night?”

  “Sure. Apparently she doesn’t sleep much.”

  Which might explain her propensity for gossip. Sheer boredom, no doubt. Maybe she needed a hobby besides bunco and painting. Her house was already over flowing with art.

  “Agatha, hi, it’s Cheryl. Mmmhmmm. Yes. Mmm. Right.”

  I rolled my eyes. Who knew what Agatha was going on about now? Although likely it was juicy. To somebody.

  “That’s so interesting,” Cheryl finally blurted, “but I have a question for you.”

  There was excited chatter from the other end of the line. I gave Cheryl a sympathetic look.

  “Actually,” she said, giving me a sly look, “Viola wants to ask you herself.” She shoved the phone at me and nearly doubled over in laughter.

  I glared at her, but took the device. “Hi, Agatha.”

  “You need some information? Is it about the case?” She sounded a little too enthusiastic.

  “Um, yes. It is. And we need to keep this on the down-low.”

  “Mum’s the word,” Agatha said cheerfully. “How can I help?”

  “Do you know Glennis Archer?”

  “Not personally,” Agatha admitted, “but everyone knows Glennis Archer. I mean, her wedding was a six-day wonder.”

  I had no idea what that meant, but it sounded like good news. If Agatha could remember the wedding, she might remember a lot more. “Do you remember Mrs. Archer’s maiden name?”

  “Of course. I mean, everyone was so stunned. It was a big deal back then.”

  I frowned. “What was?”

  “Well, the Archers were the High and Mighty, you know. Big wigs around here. Wealthy, residents for generations, that sort of thing. Fingers in every pie.”

  “I take it Glennis was not.”

  “Goodness no. She was a Clay.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” I admitted.

  “The Clays were a notorious family from the wrong side of the tracks. The very wrong side, if you get my meaning.”

  I did. “And yet, Archer married her anyway.”

  “She was beautiful back then. Extremely so. And a good actress. She knew how to put on a show. Pretend to be what she wasn’t. Most people have forgotten by now. Those that were around have died or moved away. Nobody remembers.”

  “Or cares, I imagine.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. Glennis is a proud woman. She worked hard to create that gloss of high society. I don’t think she’d be pleased if the town were reminded of where she came from.”

  Which could be an excellent motive for murder. “Thanks, Agatha. See you next month at bunco.”

  “If not sooner!”

  After we said our goodbyes, I did another Internet search while catching Cheryl up on the conversation. “Here it is.” I pointed to the profile. “Glennis Clay. She lists her hometown as Rock Beach.”

  Cheryl made a face like she’d smelled rancid fish. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Why? It’s a decent place. Nice beach. Good cafes.”

  “It is now, but ten years ago that place was a dump. One of the worst towns on the northern coast. There were a few rundown houses, a dodgy bar, and that was pretty much it. The residents spent most of the time drunk. Locals avoided the place like the plague.”

  “And Glennis came from that?”

  “Yep. It was only about a decade ago that tourists discovered the beach and started buying up plots of land for weekend getaways. The town changed practically overnight.” Cheryl nodded at the profile picture of Glennis Clay Archer looking sassy in a red and white striped sweater with perfectly coiffed hair. “Amazing. You’d never know it looking at her.” She certainly didn’t look like someone who came from the place Cheryl described.

  I scrolled through Glennis’s profile, trying to find something, anything that would give me a clue as to where we could track her down. Then I found it. She’d liked the page of a bar in a nearby town called Winos and Riffraff.

  “That sounds promising,” Cheryl said with a giggle. “Talk about truth in advertising.”

  “Well, we can’t just show up there and hope for the best. Even if she goes there—which it doesn’t seem like her kind of place—we have no idea when she goes there. “

  Cheryl sighed. “Good point. Does that mean we’re back to a stake-out?”

  “Looks like.”


  IN BOOKS AND MOVIES, they always talked about how stakeouts weren’t fun. How they were boring, tedious, and so on. Well, they were actually worse than you could possibly imagine.

  Cheryl and I decided to stake out Glennis Archer’s house Friday evening. We figured that if she went out that night, she’d have to come home first to change or whatever. So, about four o’clock we pulled up and parked across the street a few doors down. And waited. And waited.

  An hour in, I had to pee.

  “Can’t you hold it?” Cheryl asked.

  “You know I can’t. I’ve got a bladder the size of a peanut.”

  Cheryl rolled her eyes. “I should have kept you from drinking that last cup of coffee.”

  “I needed it to stay awake.”

  “Why don’t you pee in the empty coffee cup?”

  I stared at her. “Are you serious? No way. Gross.”

  “Well, I don’t know what you’re going to do, then. We can’t leave or we might miss her. And you can’t go in the bushes. It’s broad daylight in the middle of an upscale neighborhood. You’ll get arrested.”

  She was right about that. Glennis Archer lived at the top of the hill almost to the Column in an enormous, rambling, pristine white house with a lawn that had been manicured within an inch of its life. It was not the sort of place where you squatted behind a bush.

  “Fine. We’re like twenty blocks from Commercial Street. There are plenty of shops and whatnot still open. I’m sure I can find a place that will let me in. I’m going to need the car, though.”

  She sighed. “And what am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”

  “Up the hill a little way is a pull out. You can still see the house from there, but you can pretend you’re resting from a hike or something.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Well, hurry up. We don’t want to miss her because you’re off messing around.”

  “Text me if she gets home.” With that, I pulled out down the hill toward Commercial Street, Astoria’s main drag. Fortunately, the first cafe I came to knew me well and let me use their facilities. Out of gratitude, I bought two muffins and headed back up the hill. I pulled the car into place, and Cheryl climbed in.

  “Better?” she asked.

  “Much,” I said, tossing her one of the muffins.