Cold Reading Murder

Book 3: Bridge to Death Mystery

by R.J. Lee

Genres: Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries; Culinary Cozy Mysteries; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

Who could have predicted it? The daughter of Police Chief Bax Winchester married to a cop—Detective Ross Rierson. It’s a beautiful wedding, and the newlyweds are in bliss—even if they do have to postpone their Hawaiian honeymoon for now. In the meantime, Wendy is teaching a group of newbies the game of bridge so that they can join the Rosalie Country Club Bridge Bunch. One of the newcomers, flamboyant psychic Aurelia Spangler, invites the group to meet at her new home. The historic Overview mansion sits atop the High Bluff overlooking the Mississippi River, and the local lore is that it’s possibly haunted and definitely cursed by the original builder, who fell down the stairs to his death. Unfortunately, the house is about to claim another life. Following a night of bridge practice and cold readings by their clairvoyant host, Aurelia is found dead in her home by Wendy, a suicide note and cocaine residue by her corpse. But Wendy, an investigative reporter for The Rosalie Citizen, doesn’t buy it. The scene seems phonier than Aurelia’s act, and now Wendy needs to call the bluff of a cold-blooded killer playing a psychic bid...

Release date: February 23, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Cozies

Print pages: 269

Sample

She was married at last. It had finally happened just a little over an hour ago on a warm June afternoon in her childhood home perched atop the hill with the big pecan trees looming on either side. Wendy Lyons Winchester was now Wendy Winchester Rierson after a courtship of two years, plus a seven-month-long engagement that seemed like it would never end. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed every minute of it, nor the attention and cavalcade of gifts that the higher-profile families of Rosalie, Mississippi, had lavished upon her.

Wendy’s father, the sturdy Police Chief Bax Winchester, had spared no expense in giving his one and only daughter away, and she could not help but cherish the sparkle in his eyes as he had walked her down the makeshift aisle in the family parlor. Moments later, Wendy and Detective Ross Rierson had exchanged their original vows in front of a Presbyterian minister, and then the celebration had begun in earnest.

At the moment, Wendy was gazing fondly across the vast expanse of the air-conditioned reception tent that had been pitched out on the lawn to accommodate the extensive guest list. Her father and her new husband in their navy-blue, double-breasted dress uniforms were the objects of her affection; both men having a grand old time with their arms around each other’s broad shoulders, while enjoying their liquor and exchanging what were likely ribald jokes of some kind. It was more of that special, police-work bonding that they always had going for them down at the station, and most of the other officers attending had joined up with them now and then and peeled off after they’d had their fill of that precinct camaraderie.

Meanwhile, the towering, three-tiered, Madagascar vanilla bean wedding cake had already been cut into manageable portions and much of it distributed to the crowd after the seated dinner of salmon for some and prime rib for others had come off without a hitch. It was now that time of the reception when the art of mixing drinks with sentimentality had entered the equation, and few were feeling any pain.

To add to the frivolity, another huge contingent of the guests had wandered with gusto into the separate dancing tent next door to step to the trendy rock beat of Mississippi’s hottest new four-man group, Bishop Gunn, who would be headlining in October at Rosalie’s popular Hot Air Balloon Festival. They were the current favorites of Ross and most of the younger officers who worked alongside him.

There was one of the round tables, however, consisting of five, eclectic-looking people who were doing neither much drinking nor any dancing at the moment. With her luxurious red hair piled high atop her head to crown her elegant bridal coiffure, Wendy finally turned away from the throng of officers and focused instead on her “bridge newbies,” as she now referred to them.

Over the past seven months, Wendy’s Rosalie Country Club Bridge Bunch had recovered from all the unfavorable publicity generated by the murder of the unscrupulous, insufferable Brent Ogle in the club’s hot tub. Wisely, the decision had been made to remove it entirely to avoid lingering, morbid curiosity. The question, “Is that where it happened?” needed to be retired once and for all. As a result, the membership had grown steadily to the point where the original single bridge table had now expanded to six, with two dozen players in the fold. Furthermore, there was this one other table that could only be described as a work in progress.

Separately over that period of time, these five from widely disparate backgrounds had come to Wendy and asked if she might consider the possibility of teaching them the game of bridge. For different reasons, they all said they wanted to learn how to play and play well, but knew next to nothing about it, except that it was an extremely social game and that it might be easier to make friends that way in a Deep South, layered town like Rosalie.

In addition, four of them were newcomers to the city—ranging anywhere from a month or so to five months arrived upon the scene. The exception was Sarah Ann O’Rourke, who was a Rosalie native. Wendy still couldn’t quite believe there was this much interest in learning bridge from scratch on the part of that many people within such a short time frame.

The paying job she held down—her nearly two-year stint as the Rosalie Citizen’s first full-time investigative reporter—was working out well for her. Her experienced female editor, Lyndell Slover, was pleased with the steady progress she was making in the quality of her work; as an interesting sidebar, her widowed father and Lyndell were also fully enjoying one another’s company in every sense of the word on a regular basis.

Would Wendy’s mentor also eventually become her mother, in a manner of speaking?

Stranger things had been known to happen, particularly with the social complexities that composed the Deep South.

Wendy had hardly rushed into the decision to teach, however. After all, she’d only been playing the game herself for about two of her twenty-seven years. Was she truly qualified to set others on the path to making successful contracts and winning 500 or 700 rubbers? It had not been all that long ago that she had been in training as a substitute for the much-revered but now very expired Rosalie Bridge Club with its legendary Gin Girls. Finally, Wendy had gathered up her courage and told those five that she would take them under her wing, and they had all seemed ecstatic at the prospect.

Wendy chose her words carefully as she approached their table, fearing she had been neglecting them just a little throughout the busiest afternoon of her life so far. “I sincerely hope you’ve all been having a wonderful time. I’ve had to make my manners to so many people here in Rosalie all day, or I would have chatted with you all long before now.”

The widowed Charlotte Ruth—whose corny running joke about herself was that her name sounded like a dessert with a lisp—was the first of the five to speak up. “Don’t worry about a thing, sweetie. It’s just been a spectacular wedding and reception. I’ve had more than my share of salmon and cake and champagne, I can assure you. I’ll have to go on my diet again tomorrow. When you reach my age, you have to watch every calorie, you know.”

Wendy was as diplomatic as ever, a trait she had inherited from her late mother, Valerie—the talented acrylic artist and quintessential socialite. “I’m sure that’s not true, Charlotte. That’s a stunning lavender gown you have on, and you are wearing it to perfection.”

“You’re too kind,” Charlotte said, adjusting her décol-letage ever so slightly while tilting her chin upward to tighten the folds of her aging neck. She was clearly under no illusion about her late middle-aged appearance, but one never knew when or where interesting men might show up. Weddings, in fact, were notoriously good venues to meet them, and Charlotte had been more than grateful to receive her invitation from Wendy.

Vance Quimby spoke up next. “I’ve been getting some wonderful images and bits of dialogue all afternoon. Note-taking seems rude, so you have to shut your eyes and memorize all these joyous scenes and snippets so you won’t forget them.” If such a thing existed, there was indeed about Vance a suggestion of something “writer-ish,” what with his carefully trimmed mustache, receding hairline, and glasses hanging off the end of his nose. “A genuine Rosalie wedding can’t be beat for local color, and that’s just what I need to bring this Great Southern Novel of mine to life. Thank you so much for including me in your plans today.”

“Think nothing of it. We do go all out in this town,” Wendy said, making a sweeping gesture that included the entire tent full of chattering people. “And I can assure you that my wedding wasn’t even one of the especially big ones. Not by a Mississippi River mile.”

Vance’s expression indicated he clearly wasn’t buying the observation. “I’d like to see a big one if this was an example of small. I’ve never seen so much attention to detail—all the lovely flowers, especially the gardenias, even the slightly bruised ones—and the elaborate decorations, like these little bits of gold and silver glitter on the tables. It seems nothing was overlooked. Writers like myself aren’t worth a hoot unless we get all those fascinating details ironed out just right to bring our plots to life.”

“You can thank Party Palooza for that,” Wendy continued. “They planned everything, and if they couldn’t come up with it themselves, they found somebody who’d work with them, such as Bluff City Caterers. If you ever need to throw a party of any kind while you’re here in Rosalie doing your research, they’re a one-stop shop, believe me. As a matter of fact, I can introduce you to Merrie and Rex Boudreaux before you leave today. I’m sure they’d be delighted to meet a new customer. They’re party prodigies, believe me.”

“That would be terrific, Wendy. A party might be just the ticket for me as a break from all this research I’ve been doing at the courthouse. That, and the thousands of questions I’ve been asking around town. I guess I’ve become the town’s busiest busybody.”

Wendy gave him a gracious smile and said, “This town has inspired many writers. Enjoy your research.” But she still had three more of her newbies to fuss over.

Wearing a pink chiffon dress, which seemed more appropriate for a retro, junior-senior prom, Sarah Ann O’Rourke looked every inch the gangly, freckled-faced student who was entering her senior year at the local College of Rosalie. She was studying English because she said writing had always fascinated her, but had no idea what she was going to do with her degree after graduation. She had never actually sat down and written anything—short or long form.

“I just wanted to tell you that your wedding dress is so lovely. It just looks so feminine. And how do you pronounce that style—emm-pire?”

Wendy’s response was light and carefree. “In France I believe they say awmm-peer.”

“I would love to have one like yours when I get married. It looks so romantic and Old World.”

Wendy moved to her side and gently patted her on the shoulder. “You should plan for it, then. You and your mother should get together whenever the time comes and make it happen. Have exactly what you want on your big day.”

Sarah Ann’s expression suddenly went sour, followed by silence, and Wendy sensed that the subject of the girl’s mother, Dora O’Rourke—whom Wendy had met just once and found to be rather high maintenance—might be one to avoid further, so she signed off with another of her polite smiles.

Aurelia Spangler was seated in the next chair, perhaps the most intriguing of the five pupils whom Wendy would soon be teaching. Her dark eyes, olive skin, and tall frame imparted a sense of mystery to her, making it difficult to discern what her ethnicity might be. Eastern European, perhaps? Italian? Greek? Perhaps a mixture of those?

“I can’t help but ask you if you have any predictions for my marriage,” Wendy said with a great deal of playfulness. “Any cold readings you just happen to have on hand at the moment?”

Swathed in perhaps the most unconventional of all the outfits present at the wedding—her busy gown featured a myriad of neon-bright swirls running from bodice to hem—Aurelia shook her scarlet scarf-wrapped head slowly. “Not this second, but those will come in time. It’s my intention to give every one of you at this table a free cold reading after we’ve had our first bridge lesson next week. That is, if you want one. Some people prefer not to know things.”

“What an interesting idea,” Wendy continued, surprised by the comment. “It’s not everyone that can say they have a practicing psychic in their bridge club.”

Aurelia fingered her shiny, metallic necklace, which caught the lights inside the tent now and then from every possible angle. It seemed as though its mission was to blind people—at least temporarily. “But I don’t need a reading to predict how you and your husband will get along. From what I’ve seen so far, I’m sure you’ll make it to wedded bliss without any outside help.”

“Now that certainly doesn’t need any interpretation,” Wendy said, while some of the others around the table tittered. “And I thank you for the happy prediction.”

“My pleasure, of course. But you haven’t told us yet where you’re going on your honeymoon,” Aurelia continued, waving her hand about as if it were a wand.

The enthusiasm level in Wendy’s voice fell off just a bit. “As a matter of fact, we’re postponing it until sometime this fall. That’s the only time we could book this particular cruise to all of the Hawaiian Islands. We wanted to be sure and do it up right. We didn’t just want to settle for Diamond Head, Pearl Harbor, and Waikiki Beach—the usual touristy spots, you know. Our cruise takes us to Maui and Kauai, as well as Hilo town on the Big Island. Ross says we’re even going to climb right up to the edge of Mauna Kea to top it all off.”

“Living on the edge. I’ve always abided by that, and I love it. It sounds like perfection,” Aurelia said. “I wish I were going there. I’ve only been once, but the islands are so much more laid back than the Mainland. People are so much more in touch with their environment there.”

“I haven’t been there yet,” said Milton Bagdad, the last of the five newbies making up the table. “I love traveling around, even if it’s just from door to door.”

“And in black tie, no less,” Wendy added with a wink as she eyed the handsome young man with the irresistible dimples and mop of curly blond hair.

To be sure, he did cut quite a figure in his tux; but then, as Party Palooza’s jack-of-all-trades, it was among his duties to deliver signing telegrams all over Rosalie and the vicinity.

Only when he was off the clock did he get to relax in shorts and sneakers in front of the TV like a regular guy, stretching his legs in his recliner while drinking beer and scrolling on his phone.

Wendy amused herself with the image of Milton ringing doorbells to deliver those delirious telegrams and briefly reflected once again on her table of newbies. She could not possibly have assembled a quirkier group of people if she had summoned them from consulting a Ouija board. They would likely be a challenge to teach, but they also might turn out to be a lot of fun, and she was banking on the latter to help her through it all.

Then she pointed once again to Vance Quimby. “You know what? Before I forget or get tied up with other people, why don’t I take you over to meet Merrie and Rex Boudreaux right this second, and the three of you can get started talking about party planning? Milton, you could go with us, too, since you know some of the ropes.”

“That I do.”

Wendy glanced quickly around the table. “Do any of the rest of you want to come? They really are the best at what they do.”

There were no takers among the others, however. “Now, don’t any of you leave before we get back,” Wendy told the rest. “I insist you three ladies take home a piece of wedding cake to put under your pillows for good luck and sweet, romantic dreams. That’s how it’s done here in Rosalie, you know.”

Wendy thought Merrie and Rex Boudreaux just might be the cleverest couple of entrepreneurs in the world. Or at least in Rosalie. When it came to parties and receptions, they did it all. They could dress up as clowns, cartoon characters, historical figures, or famous actors. They worked wonders with makeup, balloons, party favors, and costumes to entertain children, and they weren’t half bad playing corny speaking or singing parts, even though they sometimes fell back on lip-synching to recordings when discretion was the better part of valor.

When quiet, aristocratic elegance for adults was the goal, they pulled off that kind of celebration equally well, and their reputation had grown exponentially since they had come to Rosalie from the New Orleans French Quarter several years ago. The original Party Palooza was down there, too, and it was still being run by Rex’s maiden aunt, Mathilde Boudreaux.

At one point, the short, graying, but thoroughly organized little dynamo had encouraged her nephew and his wife to branch out on their own. “I know it’s not comfort food like fried chicken or catfish with hush puppies or anything close to that you’ll be selling,” she had told them together in a pep talk for the ages. “Instead, you’ll be selling a different type of comfort that comes with celebrating the milestones of people’s lives, and I’ve proven there’s a huge market for it with both my parties and singing telegrams.”

She had also done a substantial amount of research for them, suggesting that they move quickly into the vacuum left when Rosalie’s loopy grand dame of party planners, Fayette Marie LaFonda, had retired and moved to Arizona with its dry warmth to try to give her eternal asthma the old heave-ho.

“She’d become the Queen of the Cough, as someone in Rosalie said,” Mathilde had explained as a footnote.

Fayette Marie had also been socially reserved and all about letting people come to her with her many strings of pearls hanging down over her prominent bosom when they sought advice about their events; but Party Palooza had taken no prisoners with their aggressive advertising in the Citizen and on the local broadcast outlets. Thanks to Aunt Mathilde, they knew in advance that there were boatloads of money to be made in a storied old river port like Rosalie, and they had definitely been making the most of it.

At the other end of the tent, where the crowd was far more sparse, Wendy began introducing Vance Quimby to Rex Boudreaux first. “Rex is the brawn behind Party Palooza,” she added as the two men shook hands vigorously.

Rex was undoubtedly a hulking specimen of a man, standing six foot five with a forehead that overhung his deep-set, dark eyes like a cliff. He towered over everyone, including nearly all of the many police officers milling around, and his booming voice was always an immediate attention-grabber, if not even somewhat startling at times. His impressive set of even white teeth and full head of dark hair rounded out his mesmerizing appearance. There was even about him a believable echo of the Classic Hollywood leading man. Had he missed his calling?

“We’re always happy to meet new clients,” Rex said, taking one of his cards out of his tuxedo pocket and handing it over to Vance. “As Wendy may have told you, if we can’t stage your party idea, it simply can’t be done.”

Wendy continued her introductions, pointing to Merrie next, whose smile was as captivating as her husband’s was. “And our Merrie here is the raving beauty to Rex’s brawn.”

Merrie waved her off but managed something close to a giggle. “You flatter me, Wendy.” Then she extended a bejeweled hand to Vance, and the two exchanged pleasantries.

If anything, Wendy was reserved in her description. Merrie Boudreaux stood poised before the group in a breathtaking aqua gown—still a stunning woman in her early forties with a beauty mark beneath her right cheekbone and long, dark eyelashes that needed not a hint of mascara to dazzle. They set off the palest of blue eyes, complementing her ivory skin with its pleasing hint of a rosy blush. And then there was her voice—melodious, cultured, measured—it had a reassuring authority about it that drew customers in effortlessly. It seemed to be saying to them, “You can rely on my advice for a successful event. Trust me.”

Merrie lost no time in pursuing Vance Quimby as the potential customer he was. “And just what type of party were you thinking of throwing?”

Vance shrugged his shoulders but was hardly at a loss for words. “I have to be honest with you and say that I’m not quite there yet. You see, I’ve been in Rosalie the last couple of months to do research for this Southern novel I want to write. Haven’t even thought up a good title yet. And it won’t be the Margaret Mitchell kind of thing, you understand. Something more contemporary, less predictable. No cotton fields back home or anything like that. I’m thinking of trying my hand at something mysterious and Gothic. Meanwhile, I’ve been getting the lay of the land regarding dialect, the food people eat around here, the pace they prefer—all the little details that make the difference to a writer and the believable universe he has to create. I know next to nothing about the South, you see, since I’m from Omaha, Nebraska. But I do know that you can’t write what you don’t know anything about—unless you do the research. So, here I am paying my dues. Wendy’s even going to teach me some bridge so I can try to interact socially with some of you Rosalieans. Or at least that’s the plan.”

“What an interesting approach,” Merrie said, and then turned to Wendy. “Well, I knew through the grapevine about your success with the Bridge Bunch out at the RCC, but I had no idea you were actually going to start teaching people, too. Maybe I’ll even think about taking up the game myself—that is, if I can ever find the time with the breakneck schedule Rex and I keep.”

“You’ll never have the time for card games, honey,” Rex said, shaking his head but maintaining a smile. “We have all we can handle. We’re victims of our own success when it comes to leisure activities. I guess you could call us the party planners who never get to party themselves.”

Then the kibitzing Milton Bagdad broke in. “They keep me plenty busy, too, Mr. Quimby. People can’t seem to get enough of my singing telegrams. A few’ll even use any old occasion or excuse for a return engagement for a relative or friend. I think everyone likes to collect the little miniature rag dolls in tuxes and top hats made out of cloth that I leave as a souvenir on every delivery. They’re really so cute.”

Merrie laughed brightly and pointed toward her husband. “They’re the cutest little things ever. They were Rex’s aunt Mathilde’s idea a while back, and they’ve been a big winner for us. That, and Milton’s professional singing voice. When our previous singer unexpectedly quit on us a few months ago, we didn’t think we’d ever find someone who could do the job as well as he could. But our Milton here majored in theater arts down at LSU, and he took us up on this entry-level job. There could be more responsibility and money for him in the future, of course.”

Milton closed one eye and managed a wry grin. “Hey, you gotta start somewhere. It’s not exactly Broadway or even regional theater, but at least I get to sing and do a little Fred Astaire routine with my cane. I think the element of surprise is what really blows people’s minds. I mean, no one ever expects a singing telegram to show up at their house or workplace.”

“He’s perfectly charming with his moves,” Merrie said. “No one else could touch him during the auditions. It’s no wonder we sometimes have a repeat customer or two. That’s when you really know you’re doing things right.”

“Maybe one of these days I’ll order one up for Ross down at the police station,” Wendy added with a wink. “When he least expects it.”

Bishop Gunn had played their last set, and the crowd had thinned out considerably in both tents. The event was essentially over, especially since there was no honeymoon getaway to stage with the traditional throwing of rice by a noisy, well-wishing crowd; nor any cans tied to the end of a bumper with tacky soap signs scribbled on the rear window for the bride and groom to endure as they sped away to their future.

Wendy and Ross had been joined at one of the round tables by her father and Lyndell Slover, who had disdained her usual crisp business suit for a romantic, flowing gown in a shade that could best be described as “close to champagne.” She had never looked less like the no-nonsense editor she was and more like a woman in the midst of a promising relationship, particularly with the gardenia she had tucked behind her right ear. Billie Holiday could not have worn it better. Wendy had decided that she was fine with it all as long as it made her father happy. He had been a widower now for nearly a dozen long years of healing. Perhaps he really was ready to move on.

“I think it all went well, daughter a’ mine,” Bax told Wendy as he nursed one last glass of champagne. “Were you pleased with everything?”

“You know perfectly well I was, Daddy,” she said while sitting next to Ross, holding his hand.

“You outdid yourself, Bax,” Ross added. “And who knew you had such wild moves on the dance floor once your jacket came off ?”

Lyndell threw her head back and laughed. “He gave me quite a workout, I’ll tell you that.”

“All your bridge pals seemed to have a good time, too,” Bax said. “I’m not talking about your newbies. They seemed a tad bit nervous, if you ask me. I meant Miz Deedah and her son, Hollis.”

Wendy nodded enthusiastically. Deedah and Hollis Hornesby were the other two RCC Bridge members besides herself left from that original table, and both had been anything but restrained while enjoying the afternoon. The director of the RCC had forsaken her usual caftan getup for a simple . . .