A Tourist's Guide to Murder

Book 6: Mystery Bookshop

by V.M. Burns

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery

Synopsis

While visiting the land of Miss Marple and Sherlock Holmes, bookstore owner and amateur sleuth Samantha Washington finds herself on a tragical mystery tour . . .
 
Sam joins Nana Jo and her Shady Acres Retirement Village friends Irma, Dorothy, and Ruby Mae on a weeklong trip to London, England, to experience the Peabody Mystery Lovers Tour. The chance to see the sights and walk the streets that inspired Agatha Christie and Arthur Conan Doyle is a dream come true for Sam—and a perfect way to celebrate her new publishing contract as a mystery author.
 
But between visits to Jack the Ripper's Whitechapel district and 221B Baker Street, Major Horace Peabody is found dead, supposedly of natural causes. Despite his employer's unfortunate demise, the tour guide insists on keeping calm and carrying on—until another tourist on their trip also dies under mysterious circumstances. Now it's up to Sam and the Shady Acres ladies to mix and mingle among their fellow mystery lovers, find a motive, and turn up a murderer . . . 

 

Release date: January 26, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 220

Sample

“Attention.” I clinked my knife against my glass. “Attention.” Unfortunately, no one listened, and the chatter got louder rather than softer.

My sister, Jenna Rutherford, leaned close and whispered into my ear, “Does the phrase ‘herding cats’ mean anything to you?”

I glanced down the table. My boyfriend, Frank Patterson, had reserved space for us in the upper level of his restaurant. Initially, I attributed the upper area seating to the fact that it was Friday night and the lower level of the restaurant and bar was full, so he was providing us space in the not-quite-open-to-the-public section to give us a quiet place to dine. However, after watching and listening, I suspected the seating arrangements had more to do with preserving the sanity of his paying customers.

The noise level had yet to reach DEFCON 1, but we were pretty close. I glanced down the table at my mom, Grace, and her new husband, Harold Robertson. They were newlyweds, only married for about six weeks, and were still at that sickeningly romantic stage that made people look at them and say “aww” or that made you want to barf from the sugar overload.

It was hard to believe that my mom, at five feet and barely one hundred pounds, was the child of my five-foot-ten and well over two-hundred-and-fifty-pound grandmother. Two more diametrically opposed humans would be difficult to find. My mom, petite and fragile, and my grandmother, large and highly capable, were an anomaly. Although, I was learning that my mom had a bit of spunk buried deep down inside that she could pull out from time to time.

Harold reached over and started slicing my mother’s roast beef because she was obviously incapable of slicing her own meat. I swallowed hard to keep from losing my dinner.

My twin nephews, Christopher and Zaq, had both just turned twenty-one. Each had brought a date. Christopher’s date was a very serious young woman with a short pixie cut hairstyle and wire-rimmed glasses. I think she said her name was Tiffany or Brittney or some other Nee. She seemed shy, except when it came to politics and then she became loud and opinionated. Unfortunately, she’d chosen to start a political discussion with my grandmother. Melanie or Stephanie, or whatever her name, was ultra conservative and unyielding in her opinions on everything from capital punishment to abortion to gun control. Everyone’s entitled to their opinions; however, she would have fared better by not sharing her opinions quite so adamantly or by not calling her date’s great-grandmother a liberal, left-wing commie, especially not to her face. Nana Jo didn’t take kindly to that, and it had taken both my brother-in-law, Tony, and Nana Jo’s boyfriend, Freddie Williams, a retired policeman, to restrain Nana Jo from karate chopping the unfortunate waif. Thankfully, Jenna had seen the rumbling and grabbed Nana Jo’s purse, which she rightly guessed held Nana Jo’s gun. Needless to say, we made sure Nana Jo was seated far away from Daphne or Sydney or whatever her name was during the meal.

Zaq’s date was Emma Lee, a petite Asian American with dark hair, almond-shaped eyes, and the loveliest southern accent. Next to Emma was my assistant, Dawson Alexander, and his girlfriend, Jillian Clark. Jillian was a tall, young woman with dark, frizzy hair and the slender body of a ballet dancer. She was also the granddaughter of one of Nana Jo’s closest friends, Dorothy Clark. Dorothy, like Nana Jo, was a vibrant older woman who was just shy of six feet tall and teetering toward three hundred pounds. Dorothy was an attractive woman and an incurable flirt with a black belt in aikido and a deep sexy voice that men found irresistible.

Ruby Mae Stevenson and Irma Starczewski rounded out the party. Ruby Mae was the youngest of Nana Jo’s friends from Shady Acres Retirement Village. In her mid-sixties, Ruby Mae was an African American woman with skin the color of coffee with a touch of cream and salt-and-pepper hair that she wore pulled back in a bun. Nana Jo said when Ruby Mae let her hair down, it was so long she could sit on it, but I had never been fortunate enough to see it. Ruby Mae was from Alabama and had a lovely southern drawl, which she hadn’t lost despite spending more than forty years in the Midwest.

Irma was the oldest of Nana Jo’s friends. In her mid-eighties, she dyed her hair jet black and pulled it up into a beehive. Years of heavy smoking had left Irma with a raspy voice. At only five feet tall and less than one hundred pounds, Irma looked more like my mom than my grandmother. However, Irma was what my grandmother called a “man-crazed strumpet.”

“I can’t believe you’re going to England with that crazy bunch,” Jenna said, sipping her Moscato. “You’ll be lucky if you’re not arrested or kicked out of the country.”

“It’ll be fine. Besides, it’s just one week. What could possibly go wrong?”

Jenna glanced over her wineglass and gave me her “you poor pitiful thing” look.

Like my mom and my grandmother, I didn’t think my sister and I were anything alike, despite the fact we were both five foot four and roughly the same weight with dark hair and dark eyes. My sister was a highly successful attorney with a reputation as a pit bull, which she relished. If I were compared to a dog, it would probably be more of a Chihuahua or a poodle.

My boyfriend, Frank Patterson, sidled up next to me and whispered in my ear, “Irma just grabbed my butt.”

Not normally a wine drinker, it was never a problem for me to be the designated driver whenever I went out with Nana Jo and the girls. However, tonight, I wished there was more than Diet Coke in my glass. I sipped it anyway and tried to steady my nerves and repeated my mantra. “It’s just one week.” This was going to be one heck of a trip.

Frank leaned close and whispered, “I’m going to miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.” I could feel his warm breath on my neck, and my pulse raised. “It’s just one week.”

He gave me a kiss behind my ear. “I’ll be waiting.”

I could feel the heat rise up my neck, but before I could say or do anything, Nana Jo took her knife and clanged her glass. “Now, listen up. Sam has something to say.”

Just like the stock brokerage commercials for EF Hutton from my childhood, when Nana Jo talked, people listened. The room quieted down and all eyes turned toward me.

I cleared my throat and stood up. “Thank you all for coming to wish us well as Nana Jo and the girls and I prepare to leave for London tomorrow. I want to thank my assistant, Dawson, and my nephews, Christopher and Zaq, for agreeing to use their mid-winter break to work at the bookstore.”

Everyone applauded my nephews, who nodded their acknowledgement.

“Jillian and I will help too,” Emma said. “We have a light schedule, and I think it’ll be fun.”

“Remember, Frank is just a few doors down the street if you need anything.” I smiled at Frank.

He grinned. “I’ll make sure they don’t starve while you’re gone.”

“You better watch what you’re saying,” Tony joked. “Those boys will bankrupt you.”

Everyone laughed.

When the laughter died down, I continued, “I also want to thank my brother-in-law, Tony, and my sister, Jenna, for looking after my babies, Snickers and Oreo, while I’m gone.”

Jenna shook her head. “That’s all Tony’s doing.”

Snickers and Oreo were my toy poodles, and I knew I’d miss them more than anyone. I reached down and pulled the folder from my bag. I passed out envelopes to Dorothy, Irma, Ruby Mae, and Nana Jo. “Inside these envelopes is your itinerary, the information for the tour, and all of our flight and hotel information. Please make sure you have your passports and all required documents.”

“We got this,” Nana Jo said. “I know you’re only going so you can do research for your next book, but we intend to have fun.”

“Research is fun,” I muttered.

“I’d like to research one of those British royals,” Irma said.

“They’re all either married or too young for you,” Nana Jo said.

Irma laughed. “No such thing as too young.” She took a drink. “I’ll bet I could teach that Prince Charles a thing or two.”

Nana Jo rolled her eyes, and I made the mistake of glancing at my sister. She didn’t say a word, but her silent smirk spoke volumes.

I sat down and took a sip of Diet Coke. “It’s only one week. What could possibly go wrong?”

I spent a few more minutes trying to point out the important related items I had printed and placed in all their packets. Unfortunately, that’s when the waitress arrived with another round of drinks, and if anyone heard my carefully rehearsed speech on the do’s and don’ts of traveling abroad, it was purely by accident. Eventually, I gave up and sat down when I realized that not even my grandmother was listening. Frank gave my hand a squeeze but was beckoned by his new assistant manager to help with a problem downstairs and had to leave.

I passed Jenna the packet I had made for her with my itinerary, vet, emergency vet, and American Consulate information. She glanced through the envelope and then handed it to her husband and took another sip of wine. She didn’t say it, but her eyebrows said, You poor pitiful fool.

After an hour, the party broke up and I looked around for my charges. It was my job to see the ladies made it home safely whenever we went anywhere where drinks were served. Ruby Mae and Nana Jo helped me drag Irma and Dorothy to the car. They had made their way downstairs. I found Irma draped around a man who appeared to be half her age, while Dorothy was doing shots at the bar with a group of young men having a bachelor party.

On the car ride back to Shady Acres Retirement Village, Dorothy lamented being taken away too soon.

“Five more minutes and I’d have wiped the floor with those lightweights.”

Nana Jo glared at Dorothy in the rearview mirror. “It’s not fair. You’ve got at least fifty years of drinking experience and more than fifty pounds on those boys.”

I glanced in the mirror in time to see Dorothy stick out her tongue.

I tried one last time to remind the girls to make sure they reviewed the information on what could and could not be brought into the country as I pulled up outside the retirement village entrance.

Nana Jo was spending the night with me, so when the girls were securely inside, I drove the short distance to downtown North Harbor.

My bookstore, Market Street Mysteries, was located on a corner lot in North Harbor. The previous owners had built a garage at the back edge of the property line and then fenced in the area, creating a courtyard. I pulled into the garage and noticed the lights on in the apartment above. Dawson Alexander was home, and that light gave me a feeling of comfort.

Inside, I felt a pang of sadness when I was greeted by silence instead of the barks of my two toy poodles, Snickers and Oreo. Earlier, Tony had stopped by and picked up the poodles, their food, and all their gear. Not having to worry about the dogs was supposed to make things easier for me tomorrow, but tonight it definitely made my life lonelier.

“You go on upstairs,” I said. “I’m going to take a look around and make sure everything is ready for tomorrow.”

Nana Jo climbed the stairs, leaving me alone in the bookstore.

Opening a mystery bookstore had been a dream I’d shared with my late husband, Leon, for years. Before he died, he made me promise to move forward. I had no regrets about quitting my job as a high school English teacher to follow my dream. It had turned out to be a great decision. Nana Jo and I had always been close, but we had grown even closer these last few months. She shared my love of mysteries and had a knack for helping people find just the right type for them. I walked around the dark empty space and breathed in the smell of books, Murphy’s Oil Soap, and coffee, which lingered in the building. It was a smell I loved, and one that now represented home. I enjoyed owning a bookstore even though I had less time to read now.

After making sure the store was secure and that everything was ready for my nephews, I engaged the alarm and climbed the stairs that led to my home.

When I bought the building, the upstairs had been one large loft space with hardwood floors, high ceilings with brick walls, and exposed ductwork. I had the space separated into two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a large open great room and kitchen. The door to Nana Jo’s room was closed, but a beam of light shone from underneath and told me she hadn’t yet gone to sleep.

I took care of my nightly routine and went to bed. Unfortunately, sleep was elusive, and rather than fighting it, I got up and went to my computer.

Owning a mystery bookshop was only one of my dreams. My other dream involved writing British historic cozy mysteries. After Leon’s death, I decided to tackle that dream too and had written a few stories. Writing mostly helped to occupy my mind and kept me busy so I didn’t have quite so much time to sit around thinking about how much I missed my husband and wallowing in self-pity. However, over time, the stories had become more than a time filler, and I really enjoyed the fantasy world and the characters I’d created.

My e-mail flashed, and I realized that with all of the preparations for the trip, I hadn’t checked it all day. I pulled it up and deleted the spam. There was one message from my agent, Pam Porter, from Big Apple Literary Agency. I could feel my heart rate increase as I double-clicked the message, even though I told myself it was probably just an update telling me the publisher who had previously expressed interest in reading the full manuscript wasn’t interested after all.

As I read, my heart pounded even more, and I had to re. . .