SMOKEY EYES
COLD CREAM MURDERS - Book 2
barbara silkstone
Smokey Eyes©
Cold Cream Murders - Book 2
Barbara Silkstone 2019
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and respectfully. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Contents
With Love & Laughter!
Cold Cream Murders Series
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Smokey Eye Shadow
Instructions
Reviews Are Lovely Things
Soap On A Rope
About the Author
To contact Barbara Silkstone
With Love & Laughter!
I hope you enjoy SMOKEY EYES Book 2 in the COLD CREAM MURDERS series. Please sign up for my newsletter to receive an email whenever I publish a new book or for special sales and giveaways. Your information will not be shared with anyone and you may unsubscribe at any time. I promise not to pester you!
With love & laughter!
Barbara Silkstone
http://secondactcafe.com/barbara-silkstone/
Cold Cream Murders Series
Olive Peroni put out her family therapy shingle six years ago never thinking her top client would be Myron Meyers, head of a New York crime family. When Olive’s grandmother dies and leaves her a condo in Florida and a secret recipe for miracle cold cream, she grabs the chance at a new life in Starfish Cove, Florida, making designer creams for ladies who spend far too much time at the beach. Business is brisk and life is good! Olive even makes a wild new best friend and business partner in Lizzy, the real estate agent who handles the transfer of Nonna’s condo.
But when the quiet little community on the Gulf of Mexico soon begins to compete with a certain notorious coastal village in Maine, Olive finds herself solving odd-ball murders as often as she soothes wrinkles. Clean and wholesome!
Each book contains a recipe for homemade cosmetics and beautifiers!
Chapter 1
Starfish Cove, Florida – Sunday 2:00 p.m.
A thick cloud of white mist engulfed the Very Crabby as she sailed through Clearwater Pass. It couldn’t be fog because my friend said afternoon fog didn’t happen in Florida. The visibility dropped to zilch. I scrunched down praying we didn’t collide with another boat or buoy or the land or a sea serpent. My companions were having fun. I was not.
“This haze will blow off in a few minutes,” Lizzy said, spitting out a loose tendril of her golden brown hair.
My business partner’s words didn’t reassure me. My first time on the waters off Starfish Cove and King Neptune was out to get me. I shouldn’t have eaten so much at brunch. Those cocktail shrimp were about to return to the sea.
If I survived the maiden voyage of Crabby Nancy’s boat, it would be my last. It would also be my last if I didn’t survive. I belonged on shore admiring the waves, not seeing how close I could come to toppling into the sea and becoming shark bait.
Regretting I never learned to swim I adjusted my lifejacket. The only thing that separated me from the water was a plastic-coated horizontal lifeline that ringed the boat and looped through widely spaced, skinny metal stanchions. My fingernails grooved the shiny teak of the stern rail, which wasn’t going to endear me to Nancy Nemo, owner of Crabby Nancy’s Fried Fish.
She had gifted herself with a spiffy new sailboat for her fiftieth birthday. “Are you alright?” she called to me. By the sarcastic tone of her voice she was calling me a weenie, a water-weenie.
Lizzy’s boyfriend Dave uttered words to console me. “This boat has seven-thousand pounds of lead in the keel. It can’t capsize.”
No matter how many times I repeated this, I didn’t believe it. When it flipped over, I’d be bobbing in the water waiting to have my legs chewed off by a hammerhead. Even worse, the water would splash all over my face and I have a phobia about water splashing my face.
Nancy invited me to her birthday festivities because I was Dave and Lizzy’s friend. As a gift I brought her a jar of my cold cream. Not just any cold cream but Nonna’s magical cream. She said, “I don’t use cosmetics,” and passed the jar to her friend Kathy Angel, a petite blue-eyed blonde who looked like a Botticelli angel.
I held my New York tongue instead of telling Nancy she should buy cosmetics by the gallon. A tall woman with leathery skin and some salt in her wiry pepper hair, she was the type of gal who took pride in neglecting herself.
She barked at me. “Remove those silly high-heels before you board and mutilate my deck.”
She had a point. My attire was less than appropriate. Lizzy told me Nancy’s party was at the Yacht Club. I dressed for a party in the Yacht Club. In? At? Life is all about prepositions. My retro sundress with a crinoline spent more time blowing up like a sail than down where it belonged.
It was hard to imagine people thought it was fun to take their bodies out to sea and expose them to all this wet stuff and take a chance on getting water splashed on their faces.
A gust of wind whipped in from out of nowhere. It sent my dress over my lifejacket for the one-thousandth time—by actual count—in less than an hour.
“Jibe ho!!” Dave yelled.
Kathy Angel motioned me to lower my head. I ducked along with Lizzy and Kathy’s brother Sonny, a city slicker from Detroit. Nancy and Dave were doing something frantic with the sails. The mast thingy and the mainsail swung across the boat. The thingy pole supporting a sheet shifted over my noggin.
“Please lord, never again,” I mumbled to my knees.
The marina and the blue and white roof of the Yacht Club loomed through the mist. Almost home. The cloud thickened but I kept my eyes locked on where I saw the building.
The non-fog lifted a bit as the Very Crabby turned at the channel marker. Lizzy stood next to Dave at the front of the boat. Her five-foot-five frame dwarfed by his six-feet plus. She looked back at me and waved.
The blast of an air horn almost sent me over the side.
A cigarette boat cut its engines and splashed in front of Nancy’s boat. The sailboat listed to the right. I was certain we were going to capsize. It was the end. I shuddered at my face being splashed and forced my salty lashes apart. The speedb
oat jerk who tormented us looked familiar.
Jaimie waved from the cigarette boat. Chip Toast, her not-yet-ex-husband, gave us a limp wave as he stood near the man at the controls, his father Brent Toast.
The jerk intentionally buzzed us. A vicious grin was plastered on his face. He shut off his engines. There was a moment of deadly calm then the jerk called out “Need a tow?”
“Never from you, Toast, and if you ever try to swamp my boat again, there will be hell to pay.” Nancy sounded every bit as raw as his air horn.
The jerk gave a contemptuous bow and then bumped his boat into gear.
The cigarette motored past us, flashing its name on its tushie in gold letters. Toast of the Town.
Dave stood above me tugging on lines as the sailboat calmed down. “Someday somebody is gonna kill that guy.” He glared at the monster boat as it slipped into the channel to the marina.
The non-fog lifted further. Nancy, Dave, and Lizzy performed some sort of intricate voodoo dance with the ropes. I hoped they weren’t going to behead a live chicken. They dropped things they called fenders off the side of the boat. I stood to get off and fell back on my butt.
“Stay seated!” Lizzy ordered. “Don’t put your hands over the side. I’ll tell you when it’s safe to get off.”
I stayed seated, reached behind me, and lifted the lid of the storage compartment. I took out my pumps and clutched them to my chest. The non-fog settled a bit lower and the boat hit with a thud. The threesome did another rope dance. Nancy threw a line to a dockhand. He did his own voodoo rope dance and tied it around a piling.
“You can get off now,” Lizzy said. “We’re secure.”
Nancy stood as they docked Toast of the Town. She glared at Brent’s boat and its passengers Jaimie, Chip, and a sandy-haired guy I didn’t know. They’d best not try to make a joke of what Brent did. Dave’s temper was not to be toyed with.
An obedient guest I placed my lifejacket with the others as we prepared to de-boat or whatever it’s called.
“Thanks for a fun afternoon, Nancy.” With luck she wouldn’t notice my scratch marks on her railings. Not until after I’d downed a dozen mimosas waiting for us under the party tent. Drinks to celebrate her birthday—and my survival.
Jaimie pranced about the deck of the Toast of the Town, clearly at home in her father-in-law’s world. Sunburned, her hair bleached almost platinum, and wearing a teeny bikini, she yoo-hooed me.
I waved my shoes at her and kept on walking up the dock. The fog cleared for a moment and then rolled back just as I made it to the covered dining area. Two busboys from Crabby Nancy’s restaurant stood ready with tankards of orange juice.
Champagne bottles chilled in a trio of ice buckets.
“Well la-de-da!”
My neck snapped at the sound of that voice. It couldn’t be. It was.
Chapter 2
Aunt Tillie scurried down the walkway dressed like she belonged in a marina. Her white shorts displayed her wrinkled knees, a striped shirt clung to her bony frame, and she flaunted enough gold to tempt a pirate. A tall middle-aged cabana boy followed her.
The sexagenarian came from Nonna’s sister’s side of the family. Tillie’s voice shredded me like the sound of chalk on a cheese grater. After Nonna’s memorial service, she decided to leave New York and move into a long-term beach rental in Starfish Cove. It didn’t take a trained psychologist to sense she was sniffing after my inheritance.
Certain that Nonna must have left her something, Tillie dogged my cold cream shop, intruded on my life, and refused to take hints—no matter how pointed. I enjoyed a week of peace when she flew back to New York to gather more of her things. I hoped against hope that she wasn’t coming back. Hope flops.
Tillie rushed at me. I dodged her French perfumed hug. She forced a squeeze on Lizzy, who had unknowingly come upon my aunt’s hug-fest. My dear auntie subtly checked out the party tables. The food had been cleared. Disappointment registered on her wrinkle-free face.
“What a surprise to see you here! This is my friend, Antoine LePew. He belongs to a sister yacht club on Long Island. We came to look around—never expecting that you would be here! How delightful!”
Delightful as a fungus.
Antoine LePew—a perfect name. The sunlight hit the white roots of his shoe polish black hair. “Tillie told me all about your amazing cold cream business. I’m in cosmetics myself. I’d really like to see your line of products.”
“I’m sure you would.” He probably had a good deal on a used car and a couple of gold watches. I’m not big on snap judgments, but for Antoine LePew I made an exception.
“Were you boating in that outfit?” Tillie wrinkled her nose. “Your mascara is smeared. You look like a raccoon.” A wisp of fog rolled in dimming the glares between us.
Antoine pointed to the ice buckets. “Champagne sweetie?”
“Yes, please!” Tillie batted her eyes. Without acknowledging me, they made a beeline for the champagne and orange juice.
Antoine popped the cork on one of Nancy’s birthday bottles. He filled two flutes. They clinked their champagne glasses and turned in the direction of the Very Crabby.
Not once did they ask if the bubbly belonged to someone else.
A quick dash to my car, and I could be home pretending I wasn’t home—in case Tillie pursued me. I reached down for my car keys and realized I’d left my purse on the boat. Nuts!
Nancy’s friends ambled up the dock smiling and chatting. They assembled under the canopy. I slipped past them and made my way back to the Very Crabby. I could be on and off the boat and home before anyone missed me. It was rude to disappear, but the day was over for me. However, I would let Lizzy know. I didn’t want her dragging the marina for my body.
The Very Crabby bobbed one slip over from the Toast of the Town. Another waft of heavy fog rolled in—with luck it would hide me from Jaimie and Brent’s gang.
My three-inch heels stuck in cracks in the wooden dock. Once, twice, and a final time, I wrangled my heel loose before reaching Nancy’s boat. A loaded handbag was priority over tattered pumps. My pink zippered tote held my driver’s license, credit cards, and assorted unmentionables.
Giving no thought to the distance between the dock and the Very Crabby, I leaped aiming for the right side of the sailboat.
Blame it on the non-fog or poor judgment. My designer pumps teetered on the edge of the deck, the weight of my butt pulling me off balance. In a last desperate move to save myself from falling into the drink, I grabbed the horizontal aptly named lifeline.
Peroni women do not swim. My Nonna’s words rang in my ears as the blood rushed to my head. “If the good Lord wanted us to swim, He would have given us gills.”
Gravity took over and I swung low, smacking my face into the side of the boat. My nose pressed against the salty hull while my knuckles cracked as I grabbed the plastic line. I held on as if my life depended on it, because it did.
Smug Tillie and her used car salesman would love seeing me dangling like an escapee from a cartoon. So much for my New York cool admired by Lizzy. And Jaimie would brand me with a nickname that would stick. I would never live this down—if I lived.
Wishful thinking caused me to hear voices coming from inside the boat. I kicked the hull to draw attention. But no stampede of feet came to my rescue. No one called my name. This was both good and bad, possibly deadly bad. Letting go was not an option. If I let go I would sink to the bottom of the slimy marina like a cement-shoed mobster.
Pressing my forehead against the hull I attempted to push away from the boat. Unable to turn around, I poked with my right foot guesstimating where the dock was. My left shoe fell into the water with a ladylike splash. I would have shrugged but my shoulders were locked and loaded.
The result of my gymnastics was akin to Lucille Ball starring in Cirque du Soleil.
My ego stuck in my throat, preventing me from calling for help. Pride goeth before a wet face. A humble, phobia-free person would have let g
o of the lifeline and fallen into the water. Unable to abandon my conviction that swimming was an optical illusion, I would cling to this certainty until the day I died—which seemed imminent.
Headlines in the Starfish Cove Times danced before my eyes. Olive Peroni, 32, Local Cold Cream Mogul, Drowns.
“Poshookly!” The words that followed were unintelligible, but the voice belonged to Jaimie Toast. It sounded as if she was calling someone a dip-licker! A man’s voice growled back at her. The word gold-digger cut through the fog. There was more arguing and then the sound of feet running on the dock in front of the boat. A tear of relief moistened my right eye. Someone must have spotted me. A rescuer was on the way! Please don’t let it be Tillie or Antoine.
The Very Crabby wobbled. Someone was on board! The stillness was broken by the sound of a groan, then a simultaneous plunk and splash.
A minute went by. Then two minutes or was it two hours? Where did my rescuer go? “Help!” I mustered the lungpower to get the word out. Silence joined the fog. I was wrapped in a blanket of nothingness.
The muffled sound of a passing motorboat taunted me as I called again. “Help!”
Footsteps sounded on the deck above my head. I rolled my eyes upward. Digging deep within me I pulled out one more feeble Help! The lifeline cut into my fingers. My cheeks were raw from scraping against the salty hull.
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