by Shéa MacLeod
“Sure,” the other three women said in unison. “What? I did.”
The bell above the door chimed, and in strode none other than Detective Battersea. Speak of the devil. Not that we had been. I just liked calling him the devil.
“Ladies,” he said, his voice low like he was trying to be sexy or macho or something.
The ladies simpered back in an annoying manner. I rolled my eyes.
“I guess Viola shared the story of how we found the murderer,” he said.
“We?” I all but shrieked as he settled himself on a barstool at the other end of the bar, out of reach. Smart man. “What ‘we’?”
“Takes a village, Viola,” he said with a smarmy smile. Oh, I could have punched him right in his smug face. “Can I buy you ladies a drink?”
“No thanks,” I snapped. “We’ve got one.”
“Speak for yourself, Viola,” Cheryl said, shoving her glass toward Nina. “Fill her up.”
I glared as my best friend played nice to my nemesis.
I never did get that apology.
The End.
Did you enjoy The Stiff in the Study?
Then keep reading for Viola’s next adventure:
The Poison in the Pudding.
The Poison in the Pudding
Viola Roberts Cozy Mystery Book 3
Shéa MacLeod
THE POISON IN THE PUDDING
Text copyright © 2016 Shéa MacLeod
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Cover Design by Mariah Sinclair/mariahsinclair.com
Editing by Alin Silverwood
Proofing by Yvette Keller
Formatted by D2D
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
With thanks to Alisa, Tara, and B. Your feedback was invaluable.
Dedication
In memory of my Uncle Roland who knew how to weave a good story.
Chapter 1
Good Luck At The Party
“I can’t believe you got us into this, Viola Roberts.” My best friend and fellow author, Cheryl Delany, stood on a step ladder glaring down at me. There was a smudge of dust on her forehead and I was pretty sure -I saw a cobweb in her spiky, brown hair. She clutched a string of white Christmas lights in one hand and a box of black wall clips in the other. Her job was to string enough lights across the ceiling of the banquet hall that no one would notice the ghastly off-white acoustic tiles with their large, rusty stains. Fat chance, but it was worth a shot. The Masonic Lodge was the best and only place for a holiday party.
“I didn’t, exactly. It was the mayor. He annoyed me into it.” I frowned at the tangled ball of multi-colored lights I was holding. Why was it that regardless of however carefully you stored Christmas lights they always ended up in a hot mess?
Cheryl snorted. “Sounds like him.”
Charlie Bayles was the mayor of Astoria, Oregon. He had lots of Very Big Ideas. Unfortunately, he was mostly inept and managed to rope other people into doing the dirty work. Like yours truly. Because I didn’t have a book to finish or anything.
“This is an important event,” I said, dumping the ball of lights back into their box and walking over to wrestle with the tree stand. Charlie had promised the local Elks would be delivering the Christmas tree at noon and it was a quarter 'til. “The library is an essential part of this community and the funds raised at this party will ensure it stays that way.” At least, that was Charlie’s idea. I was cautiously optimistic.
“I’m still annoyed he didn’t think we were a big enough draw that he had to bring in other authors.” She pouted a little as she clipped up a strand of lights and moved on to the next.
I laughed. “A hero is never appreciated in her hometown; don’t you know that?”
Cheryl was a thriller writer and I was a historical romance writer. I wouldn’t say either of us were famous. Not Nora Roberts or Stephen King famous anyway, but we both made a very good living at our chosen profession. That, however, wasn’t good enough for Mayor Bayles. He wanted a Big Name Author. Someone who would draw in the masses and convince them to spend fifty bucks a head to attend this little shindig. I was fine with it, frankly. I could only handle so many signings and whatnot before I needed a break.
At the last romance novel signing I’d attended, the author at the table next to me brought her cover model. Now I am not averse to handsome men showing up at signings, but I draw the line at them removing their shirts while a couple dozen women old enough to be my mother scream at the top of their lungs for him to take it all off. Planning a Christmas party was just the change of pace I needed.
With the tree stand finally up, I turned my attention to the desserts table, selecting a red tablecloth and green and gold serving plates. “I can’t believe the mayor talked me into baking persimmon pudding.” Persimmon pudding was a Christmas tradition in my family. When I’d mentioned it during a planning meeting for the Christmas party, the mayor had jumped all over the idea. Apparently, he thought it was “whimsical and British sounding.” Which, for the mayor, translated into “posh and expensive.” So, I’d made three, including a gluten free one.
“Pudding seems a weird choice,” Cheryl said. “I mean, walking around with spoons.”
“It isn’t actually pudding,” I explained. “It’s sort of like a steamed cake. Very moist, rich, and delicious. You don’t need spoons. And,” I grinned, “there’s a secret ingredient.”
“Oh! What’s that?”
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
She rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you let the mayor talk you into baking all those cookies, too. Six different kinds?” She shook her head. “What does he think you are? A bakery?”
“And that’s why I got Sandy down at Bakeology to donate all those cookies. Good promo for her, and I don’t have to stay up all night baking.” I was inordinately fond of Sandy’s baked goods and visits to her bakery were a semi-regular thing. Why the mayor hadn’t just asked Sandy to put on this shindig was beyond me. Other than the fact he seemed bound and determined to get me involved in town events, for some reason.
Cheryl laughed. “Aren’t you the clever one? She does make some awfully tasty cookies, our Sandy. Who did he invite, by the way? As the guests of honor, I mean.”
I knew she was back on the subject of the other authors again. “He invited Lucas, but he’s off to the East Coast for a conference.” Lucas Salvatore was a big-time thriller writer and my semi-sort-of-boyfriend. The mayor had thought my connection would mean Lucas was a shoo-in. He’d been wrong, which had peeved Charlie-boy no end.
“It would have been nice to have him here. I wouldn’t be so irked if it was someone we knew.” She eyed me from her perch on the ladder. “Do we know them?”
“Er...” I hesitated.
She glared at me. “Come on.”
“We know of them,” I admitted. “Here. Try this.” I handed her a clipping of fake mistletoe complete with little plastic berries.
She glared at it. “Like there’s anyone here to kiss.” She sighed as she tacked up the sprig. “Tell me. Get it over with.”
I laughed at her tone of martyrdom. “Petula LeMar and Venus Alton.”
She blinked, nearly dropping the box of clips on my head. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m not.”
“But those two hate each other.”
“I know. Apparently, the mayor missed the memo.” It was hard not to be amused by the whole thing.
“Hoo-boy. Does Charlie know what he’s getting into?”
I laughed. “I have a f
eeling he doesn’t.”
The mayor had proudly informed me he had invited two of the most successful romance authors in America and that they’d accepted. I’d been surprised, thinking he’d invited someone like Nora Roberts. When he’d told me the names I’d nearly died. Surely, he’d had no idea he was inviting erotica romance authors. Not that there was anything wrong with that, in my opinion, but I was pretty sure the mayor would pass out from the shock if he knew.
“How do you suppose he came up with those names?” Cheryl asked as she descended the ladder and started rooting through the tree ornaments.
“I’m pretty sure he cruised the best seller lists and then called around until he convinced somebody to play along.” I shook my head. “I can hardly wait until he finds out.”
Cheryl giggled as she started piling silver balls onto a nearby chair. “Can you imagine?”
“Yes. Yes I can. And it’s glorious.”
Once the Christmas tree was finally delivered, I left Cheryl in charge of decorating it while I disappeared into the kitchen, my sneakers squeaking on the freshly mopped tile floor. Three large pots sat empty on the counter, ready to be filled with water. I hadn’t been able to find a pudding mold big enough to serve everyone from a single pudding, so I’d gone with three large ones and hoped it would be enough.
I carefully placed each batter filled mold into a pot, filled it partway with water, and set the pots on the stove. I had just enough time to get home and change for the party. By the time I got pack, the puddings would be ready to remove from the pots and cool. During the party I’d put the puddings on fancy serving dishes, surrounded by holly just as the mayor ordered. I could only hope nothing went wrong.
I WAS JUST STRUGGLING into my Spanx and had them halfway up my thighs when the doorbell rang. I may or may not have cussed a blue streak as I ripped off the offending garment, tossed it to the ground, and stomped toward the door still dressed in my ugly, terrycloth bathrobe. It had once been a lovely purple color, but time had turned it an odd lavender-gray. Cheryl was of the opinion that I should replace it with something sexy, but I like it. It was comfortable. Who cared about sexiness in lounge wear?
As I swung open the front door, I was confronted by a massive bouquet of flowers. Everything from yellow daisies and pink roses to white lilies. I frowned at the lilies as my nose began to itch. Everyone who knew me knew lilies aggravated my hay fever.
“Delivery for Ms. Viola Roberts.” Only he said it “Vee-OH-la” instead of “VYE-ola.”
“That would be me,” I said, not bothering to correct his pronunciation. A doughy face half peeked from behind the mass of blooms as the delivery man thrust the bouquet at me.
“Sign, please.” He shoved a clipboard at me with one pudgy hand and I managed to scribble my name while balancing the bouquet on one hip. He took off before I could even offer him a tip. Oh, well.
With a mental shrug I shut the door and glared at the offending bouquet. Actually, it was only the lilies that were offending. A sneeze exploded out of my nose as I simultaneously crossed my legs. Let me tell you, sneezing after age forty is no joke. One of those things they never tell you when you’re, say, twenty and think you own the world.
I tromped into the kitchen, dumped the flowers on the counter, and glared at them. Who would have sent the offending flowers?
There was a small notecard stuck in amongst the roses. I plucked it from its perch and flipped it over. A note was scrawled in unfamiliar writing: Good luck at the party. Wish I could be there.
It was signed “Lucas Salvatore.” We’d met at a writer’s conference several months earlier and, though I’d been loath to admit it at the time, there had been sparks. Apparently so much so that he’d moved to Portland to be closer. Although Astoria had been a bit too much of a stretch. Not that I blamed him. Small town life could be difficult for city folk. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. When I first moved to town I’d felt completely at loose ends. Things closed too early and there just weren’t enough people. I’d been tempted to hightail it back to Portland. Until I met Cheryl, that is. She introduced me to our bunco group, among other things. I still wasn’t sure I should thank her for that.
In any case, Lucas of all people knew I was allergic to lilies. I found it odd that he would send them to me, especially knowing my favorite flowers were irises. I’d have to call the florist and double check there hadn’t been a mistake. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time at the moment. Those Spanx weren’t going to dress themselves.
Chapter 2
Christmas Pudding
There had been no answer at the florist’s and curiosity was getting the better of me. I checked the time on my phone. If I hurried, I could swing by and find out if they’d screwed up Lucas’s order before I gave him a piece of my mind. I’d still have time to make it to the Masonic Lodge to save the puddings.
There were two places a person could get flowers in Astoria. You could drive to the grocery store and pick up one of their sad little bouquets. Definitely easy on the pocket book. Or you could order them from Astoria Florist. Yeah, I know, not exactly a creative name, but it did the job.
The benefit of Astoria Florist was that the bouquets were unique and high quality. Plus, they delivered. The downside was that they could be a little spendy.
A little silver bell tinkled above the door as I pushed my way inside. The air was humid and far too warm, and I was immediately assailed with the scents of a million different flowers. I let out a tremendous sneeze.
“Bless you.” A head popped up from behind an enormous bucket of pink carnations making me jump.
The head disappeared back behind the carnations and a moment later a person rounded the table and greeted me with a toothy smile. She was younger than I expected, perhaps thirty, and sported a short pixie cut dyed lime green. She’d stuck one of the pink carnations behind her ear. It matched her '60s era style dress.
“Nice dress,” she chirped.
I glanced down at the green velvet gown. It had been a splurge, but it was divine and showed my figure to excellent advantage. “Thanks.”
“Can I help you?”
I placed the bouquet on the counter. “I hope so. I received this delivery of flowers last night from my boyfriend.” It was probably the first time I didn’t add the “sort-of” in front of the word “boyfriend.” Maybe I was finally getting the hang of this couple thing.
“Oh! Boyfriend points!” she giggled. “He’s a keeper.”
I winced at the term “boyfriend.” Nope. I guess I wasn’t quite there yet. “Uh, right. Sure. Anyway, I was wondering what exactly he ordered.”
She stared at me, a mask of confusion descending. She glanced at the bouquet. “Isn’t it obvious?”
I pointed to one of the trumpet shaped flowers. “These are lilies.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Lucas would never have ordered them. You see, he knows I’m allergic to lilies.”
Her eyes widened. “So you want to know if he sent them to you by mistake instead of to his mistress.”
I frowned. She had a wilder imagination then I did. “Not exactly. I thought maybe his order got mixed up with someone else’s.”
“Oh, I doubt it.” She sounded very sure.
“Could you check? Just to be on the safe side.”
“I would, but Chester won’t let me on the computer. Last time I accidentally deleted the entire customer database. It was kind of a mess.”
“Who is Chester?”
“My brother.”
I stifled a sigh of irritation. “I mean, is he the owner or something?”
Her expression cleared. “Oh, yes. He used to have a very nice shop in Portland, you know. Except he owned it with his jerk of a boyfriend. Thank goodness they split up because now he can have his own florist shop and no jerky boyfriend.” She beamed.
“Charity, I really wish you wouldn’t share my private life with customers.” A man emerged from what I assumed was the back room. He was tall
and thin with a shock of pale blond hair that fell over wide hazel eyes. He wore a pink sweater the same color as Charity’s dress. I wondered if it was some kind of uniform.
Chester turned a vague smile on me. “How can I help?” I repeated my request and his smile turned to a frown. “Oh, dear. That’s no good. Let me have a look.” A few taps of the computer later and he turned to me with a wince. “It appears there was, indeed, a mistake. Your boyfriend ordered a bouquet of irises about the same time another client ordered this bouquet with the lilies. Somehow the cards got swapped.” He shot a glare at Charity who was oblivious. “I can’t apologize enough.”
“That’s unfortunate. Who was supposed to get my bouquet?”
He frowned at the screen. “Someone named Petula LeMar.”
“Petula LeMar? You’re kidding.”
“You know her?” He glanced up from the screen.
“Only by reputation. Do you know where the flowers were delivered? Maybe I can swap them out with her?”
“No need. Hers haven’t been delivered yet. Or, yours, rather. They’re still in the back. One moment and I’ll get them for you.” Chester disappeared into the backroom and returned a moment later with a massive bouquet of irises. Well done, Lucas.
As Chester set the vase on the counter, I snatched the card from the bouquet. Yes. I am nosey as all get out. The card read “Let’s bury the hatchet. Let bygones be bygones. Wishing you the best. VA.” My guess was that “VA” was Venus Alton. Clearly she and Petula had been arguing over something. I wondered what it was. At least they were making up before the party. Two warring erotic romance writers would definitely give Charlie-boy a heart attack.