Five Spot Page 25

  Wilson explained that, for better or worse, Jo Keegan’s job remained secure. “She’s promised no more premature arrests, and the mayor’s promised her more staff.”

  “Fable may be a small town,” I said. “But the Goodnight Inn hosts a lot of conventions like the Happily Ever After.”

  “Not exactly like the Happily Ever After,” Wilson said. “But they do attract tourists. Jo needs more help.”

  “She’s lucky she wasn’t sued for false arrest,” Karen said.

  Piers nodded. “By the roaring woman.”

  “It’s shocking, but even the Roaring Tori portion of the saga has a happy ending,” I said and summarized what Geez Louise and I had discussed ad nauseam all week long.

  Wilson grinned. “Tell them about Tori’s book, Jessie.”

  “Louise and I were just talking about that,” I said. “Tori has a perfectly fantastical idea for her first novel. You’ll never guess what her plot will be based on.”

  “What?” everyone asked.

  “Her own love life!” I laughed out loud. “Tori Fister, soon to be known as Tori Lyon, plans to fictionalize her Womac-man fetish.”

  Piers mumbled something about confusion, and Wilson held up a hand to demonstrate.

  “Five brothers,” he said. “Tori’s dated three of them.”

  “So far,” I added. “In her book she’s calling them the Wilcox brothers. She even has a title. Tori’s first book will be Five Spot.”

  ***

  “But enough about the romance business,” I said as we moved into the living room with our coffee.” I spoke to Candy but tilted my head toward Karen and Piers. “I assume your job at Tate’s is still secure?”

  Candy assured me that it was. “Mrs. Marachini apologized for making such a fuss.” She hesitated. “About, you know.”

  “About me,” Karen said.

  “And me.” Piers shook his head. “That’s my Aunt Belinda for you. She knows how to make a fuss, but she’s very pleased with how my house is finally shaping up.” He reached for Karen’s hand. “Me, too.”

  I tried not to smile too broadly as Piers continued, “Karen does everything. She bakes cakes, she builds furniture, she does electrical work, and she’s a terrific plumber!”

  “You would not believe this guy’s plumbing.” Karen put down her coffee cup. “It’ll take me forever to get it all sorted out.”

  “Oh,” I sang. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

  Candy pointed to our ceiling. “You should see our rooftop garden. Karen built a fountain out of an old bathtub.”

  “I just had a great idea!” Piers turned to Karen. “Maybe you can fix my fountain!”

  “Great idea!” Wilson agreed.

  I bit my lip and focused on anything but my husband as Pierpont Rigby described the fountain in question. We’d all seen it on the house tours but had forgotten the details. Lo and behold, Pierpont Rigby also has a marble Cupid. But while mine is less than a foot tall, his is over ten feet and spouts water from his—you get the picture.

  “Unfortunately, the big guy’s stopped spouting.” Piers appealed to Karen. “Maybe you could take a look?”

  Oh, yes. I was having a grand time indeed. But mention of the Cupids somehow brought our discussion back to my job. And as the evening was winding down, Piers informed me that he’d like to try my books.

  “I’ve never read a romance novel before.”

  “You’ll love Jessie’s—I mean, Adelé’s!” Candy Poppe truly is a sweetie.

  “The good parts are really good,” Wilson said.

  “They’re all good parts,” Candy reminded him, and Piers asked Karen which book was her favorite.

  She shrugged. “Jess is a good friend, but I don’t read romance.”

  “Why not?” Piers seemed a bit disappointed but recovered quickly. “I just had a great idea! Let’s read one together!”

  I myself had a coughing fit, but bless her heart, Candy was on it. “Start with A Deluge of Desire,” she said and hopped up to grab my copy off the bookcase. She handed it to Piers. “The scenes in the Misty Springs Swamp are to die for!”

  “Deluge was my first Adelé Nightingale,” Wilson said. “Remember, Jessie?”

  How could I forget? I glared at my husband and spoke to Piers. “He stole it from me right after he accused me of murder.”

  “Right before I accused you of murder,” Wilson argued. “And I didn’t steal it—I borrowed it.” He pointed to the book in question, and Piers read the back cover blurb aloud.

  “So here’s my idea,” he told Karen. “I’ll read a chapter to you, and then you read a chapter to me!”

  Wilson, Candy, and I exchanged a series of meaningful looks, but Pierpont only had eyes for Karen. He wiggled Deluge in front of her. “What do you say?”

  “Oh boy,” she mumbled, and I raised a triumphant fist.

  “That’s the spirit!”

  ***

  We closed our door and leaned against it.

  “I liked him,” I said.

  “Me, too,” Wilson said.

  “And Karen likes him.”

  “Yep.”

  “And Pierpont likes her.” I smiled across the room at Mr. Cupid. “As Adelé Nightingale would say, the man is smitten.”

  “But they’re very different people.” Wilson put his arm around me. “And remember, Jessie. Life is no fairy tale.”

  I shifted my focus and gazed into the baby blues. “But remember, Wilson. Happily ever after does happen.”

  The End

  A while ago in a fit of insanity (I have lots of those), I convinced myself I could tackle/juggle/write not one, but two, cozy mystery series. And if you, kind reader, are as cuckoo as I, you’ll be interested in both. Never fear, all CB Mysteries—the Cue Balls and the Cassie Baxters—are cozy, clever, and comical. And just a click away at Amazon!

  The Cue Ball Mysteries

  Murder meets menopause. Take a guess which wins.

  Book One: Playing With Poison

  Pool shark Jessie Hewitt usually knows where the balls will fall and how the game will end. But when a body lands on her couch, and the cute cop in her kitchen accuses her of murder, even Jessie isn’t sure what will happen next. Playing With Poison is a cozy mystery with a lot of humor, a little romance, and far too much champagne.

  Book Two: Double Shot

  Jessie Hewitt thought her pool-hustling days were long gone. But when über-hunky cop Wilson Rye asks her to go undercover to catch a killer, she jumps at the chance to return to a sleazy poolroom. Jessie is confident she can handle a double homicide, but the doubly annoying Wilson Rye is another matter altogether. What’s he doing flirting with a woman half his age? Will Jessie have what it takes to deal with Tiffany La-Dee-Doo-Da Sass and solve the murders? Take a guess.

  Book Three: Three Odd Balls

  A romantic vacation for . . . five? This wasn’t exactly what Jessie and Wilson had in mind when they planned their trip to the tropics. But when Jessie’s delightfully spry mother, Wilson’s surfer dude son, and Jessie’s rabidly hyperactive New York agent decide to tag along, the fun begins. What kind of trouble can these three oddest of odd balls possibly get into? Take a guess.

  Book Four: Four Play

  Bad news comes in . . . fours? For romance author and former pool shark Jessie Hewitt it does. She hasn’t written a decent sex scene in months, she hasn’t shot a decent game of eight ball all year, and don’t even ask about her supposed love life. Just when Jessie thinks things can’t get any worse, a body lands on her car. Altogether infuriating cop Wilson Rye suggests she concentrate on solving her other problems and leave the murder investigation to the experts. Does Jessie agree? Take a guess.

  The Cassie Baxter Mysteries

  Small Sleuth, Tiny Town, Unfailing Fun

  Book One: Unbelievable

  Welcome to Lake Elizabeth, Vermont, where the water is blue, the mountains are green, and Cassie Baxter is going nuts. Who wouldn’t go nuts in a town this size? What p
ossessed Cassie to move in with her father? And why do they have to live next door to a mad scientist? A sexy mad scientist. Does such a thing even exist? And speaking of existing, what happened to the dead redhead? You know, the one Cassie found, and then lost? What’s up with that? Cassie Baxter intends to find out. Read Unbelievable and you will, too.

  Book Two: Unexpected (Autumn 2016)

  Welcome to autumn in Lake Elizabeth, Vermont. The water’s getting colder and the mountains have turned color, but Cassie Baxter is still going nuts. What’s wrong this time? A child is what. Truman Tripp, age five, has moved in with Cassie and her father. Just what Cassie needs—another roommate. Just what the quirkiest town in Vermont needs—another quirky character. Just what you need—another murder mystery!

  Curious about how Jessie and Wilson and the Cue Balls got started? Here ya’ go.

  Playing With Poison

  Chapter 1

  “Going bra shopping at age fifty-two gives new meaning to the phrase fallen woman,” I announced as I gazed at my reflection.

  “Oh, Jessie, you always say that.” Candy poked her head around the dressing room door and took a peek at the royal blue contraption she was trying to sell me. “Gosh, that looks great. It’s very flattering.”

  I lifted an unconvinced eyebrow. “Oh, Candy, you always say that.”

  “No, really. I hope my figure looks that nice when I’m old.”

  Okay, so I took that as a compliment and agreed to buy the silly bra. And before she even mentioned them, I also asked for the matching panties. To know my neighbor Candy Poppe is to have a drawer full of completely inappropriate, and often alarming, lace, silk, and satin undergarments.

  I got dressed and went out to the floor.

  “Temptation at Twilight giving you trouble?” she asked as she rang me up. Candy hasn’t known me long, but she does know me well. And she’s figured out I show up at Tate’s whenever writer’s block strikes.

  I sighed dramatically. “Plot plight.”

  “But you know you never have issues for very long, Jessie.” She wrapped my purchases in pink tissue paper and placed them in a pink Tate’s shopping bag. “Even after your divorce, remember? You came in, bought a few nice things, and went on home to finish Windswept Whispers.” She offered an encouraging nod. “So go home, put on this bra, and start writing.”

  I did as I was told, but wearing the ridiculous blue bra didn’t help after all. The page on my computer screen remained stubbornly blank no matter how hard I stared at it. I was deciding there must be better ways to spend a Saturday night when a knock on the door pulled me out of my funk.

  “Maybe it’s Prince Charming,” I said to my cat. Snowflake seemed skeptical, but I got up to answer anyway.

  Funny thing? It really was Prince Charming. I opened my door to find Candy Poppe’s handsome to a fault fiancé standing in the hallway. But Stanley wasn’t looking all that handsome. Without bothering to say hello, he pushed me aside, stumbled toward the couch, and collapsed. Prince Charming was sick.

  I rushed over to where he had invited himself to lie down and knelt beside him. “Stanley?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Candy,” he whispered, and then he died.

  He died?

  I blinked twice and told myself I was not seeing what I was seeing. “He’s just drunk,” I reassured Snowflake. “He passed out.”

  But then, why were his eyes open like that?

  I reached for his wrist. No pulse. I checked for breathing. Nope. I shook him and called his name a few times. Nothing.

  Nothing.

  The gravity of the situation finally dawned on me, and I jumped up. “CPR!” I shouted at the cat.

  But Snowflake doesn’t know CPR. And I remembered that I don’t either.

  I screamed a four-letter word and lunged for the phone.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later a Clarence police officer was standing in my living room, hovering over me, my couch, and Candy’s dead fiancé. I stared down at Stanley, willing him to start breathing again, while Captain Wilson Rye kept repeating the same questions about how I knew Candy, how I knew her boyfriend, and—here was the tricky part—what he was doing lying dead on my couch. I imagined Candy would wonder about that, too.

  “Ms. Hewitt? Look at me.” I glanced up at a pair of blue eyes that might have been pleasant under other circumstances. “You have anywhere else we can talk?”

  Hope drained from his face as he scanned my condominium, an expansive loft with an open floor plan and very few doors. At the moment the place was swarming with people wearing plastic sheeting, talking into doohickeys, and either dusting or taking samples of who knows what from every corner and crevice. Unless Officer Rye and I decided to talk in the bathroom, we were doomed to be in the midst of the action.

  “I’ll make some tea,” I said. At least then we could sit at the kitchen counter and stare at the stove. I glanced down. A far better option than staring at poor Stanley.

  “Ms. Hewitt?”

  “Tea,” I repeated and pointed Officer Rye toward a barstool. I turned on the kettle and sat down beside him while the plastic people bustled about behind us, continuing their search for dust bunnies.

  “Let’s try this again,” he said. “What was your relationship with Mr. Sweetzer?”

  “We had no relationship.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “No, really. He was Candy’s boyfriend. She lives downstairs in 2B.”

  The kettle whistled and I got up to pour the tea. Conscious that this cop was watching my every move, I spilled more water on the counter than into the cups. But eventually I succeeded in my task and even managed to hand him a cup.

  “How do you take it?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your tea. Lemon, cream, sugar?”

  “Nothing, thank you.” He frowned at the tea. “So you knew Sweetzer through Ms. Poppe?”

  “Correct.” I carried my own cup around the counter and sat down again. “She and I met a few months ago.”

  “Where? Here?”

  I sipped my tea and thought back. I had met Candy in the bra department at Tate’s of course. It was the day after my divorce was finalized, and she had sold me a dozen bras spanning every color in the rainbow. Candy had even mentioned it that afternoon.

  “Ms. Hewitt?”

  “We met in the foundations department at Tate’s.”

  “The what department?”

  So much for discretion. “The bra department,” I said bluntly. “Candy sold me some bras.”

  Rye’s gaze moved southward for the briefest of seconds, and I remembered the brand-new, bright blue specimen lurking beneath my white shirt.

  My white shirt.

  If there had been a wall handy, I would have banged my head against it. Instead, I mumbled something about not expecting company.

  Rye cleared his throat and suggested we move on.

  “Candy and I got to talking, and I told her I was in the market for a condo, and she told me about this place.” I pointed up. “I took one look at these fifteen-foot ceilings and huge windows and signed a mortgage a week later. We’ve been good friends ever since.”

  “And Stanley Sweetzer?”

  “Was Candy’s boyfriend. He had some hotshot job in finance, and he was madly in love with Candy.”

  “So what was he doing up here?”

  Okay, good question. I was trying to think of a good answer when one of the plastic people interrupted. “Will someone please get this cat out of here?” she called from behind us.

  I turned to see Snowflake scurrying across the floor, gleefully unraveling a roll of yellow police tape. I quick hopped down to retrieve her while the plastic people sputtered this and that about contaminating the crime scene.

  “She does live here,” I said. They stopped scolding and watched as I picked her up and returned to my seat.

  Snowflake had other ideas, however. She switched from my lap to Rye’s and immediately commenced p
urring.

  Rye resumed the interrogation. “Did you invite Mr. Sweetzer up here?”

  “Nooo, I did not. I was working. I was sitting at my desk, minding my own business, when Stanley showed up out of the blue.”

  “You always work Saturday nights?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

  Rye took a deep breath. “You were alone then? Before Sweetzer showed up?”

  “Snowflake was here.”

  More deep breathing. “Did he say anything, Ms. Hewitt?”

  “He looked up when he hit the couch and whispered, ‘Candy.’” I shook my head. “It was awful.”

  “Could he have mistaken you for Candy?”

  I shook my head again. “She’s at least twenty years younger than me, a lot shorter, and has long dark hair.” I pointed to my short blond cut. “No.”

  “Well then, maybe he had come from Candy’s.” Rye twirled around and called over to a young black guy—the only person other than himself in a business suit—and introduced me to Lieutenant Russell Densmore.

  The Lieutenant shook my hand, but seemed far more interested in the teacups and the cat, who continued to occupy his boss’s lap. His gaze landed back on me while he listened to instructions.

  “Go downstairs to 2B and get them up here,” Captain Rye told him. “Someone named Candy Poppe in particular.”

  “She’s still at work,” I said, but Lieutenant Densmore left anyway.

  I looked at Rye. “I really don’t think Stanley came here from Candy’s,” I insisted. “She’s at work. I saw her there myself.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I was in Tate’s this afternoon.”

  Rye took another gander at my chest. “That outfit for Sweetzer’s benefit?”