French Twist: An Amelia Feelgood Mystery

Book 1: Findlater Island

by Beth McElla

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Animal Cozy Mysteries; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries; female sleuth; Cozy Mystery; amateur sleuth; murder mystery; island mystery; village cozy; cozy series

Synopsis

Amelia can't wait to get away from her nasty boss and start a new life in France. When she arrives on remote Findlater Island for his wedding, a dead body kicks off a string of complications. Can she solve the murder before the police decide she's the one with the strongest motive?

Welcome to Findlater Island, a small island off the coast of Washington with a quaint (relocated) English village and heaps of interesting characters.

French Twist is the first book of the humorous Findlater Island cozy mystery series. Fans of Agatha Raisin and Midsomer Murders will feel right at home with the adventures of amateur sleuth Amelia Feelgood.
Click to start reading French Twist now!

Release date: January 22, 2020

Publisher: Vivaeris

Print pages: 149

Sample

At the front of the small ferry, Amelia Feelgood stood three back and tried to steady herself enough not to fall into the darkly tattooed arms of the very large man next to her. A light salty breeze teased at her lungs, tempting her to breathe deep, but she didn’t feel stable enough on her feet to take advantage. She’d known heels might cause a few difficulties, but she’d had no idea there wouldn’t be a civilized walkway from the ferry’s upper deck like there was in Seattle. Nobody had warned her that she’d be balancing on the metal car deck between someone’s enforcer and a very shiny motorcycle whose owner was glaring at her as if she was deliberately rubbing her silver coat buckles against his paint job. It wasn’t her fault there weren’t any railings where they expected people to stand before disembarking. The large tattooed man seemed oblivious to her predicament, his eyes fixed on the shore and his large arms folded across his black leather vest. 

The pink suede high-heeled boots had seemed like a good idea when she’d gotten dressed that morning, as they were the only shoes that went with this particular coat, plus they were boots. Everyone knows you need boots in the country. And besides, she liked the way they made her feel tall and in charge. She eyed the several layers of potholes on the gangway and the rapidly closing gap of pale green foaming water between the boat and the dock. Healthy-looking seagulls were waiting on top of the pylons as if hoping to steal away a hapless tourist, or at least some chips. One on the left started calling, which set off a raucous chorus, inciting a few of them to take to the skies. They rode the wind turbulence generated by the ferry like kids on a ride at an amusement park. 

Amelia couldn’t help but wonder if she should just stay on the ferry and go back. She hadn’t packed for the wilderness after all. She was here for a society wedding; the invitation had made it clear that formal wear was expected. It had said nothing about what to wear on the ferry. It was raining lightly, not particularly unusual for a weekend in May, but it could have held off for a few days, in her opinion.

With a final jostle that had her balancing precariously on one foot, the boat docked and ropes were secured. When the deckhands undid the safety net, which didn’t look like it would keep even a mild-mannered bicycle from falling off, she found herself carried with the crowd eager to get to their island destination. People started chattering with excitement as though the doors had just opened on a Black Friday sale. Her tattooed neighbor brushed past her and into the waiting arms of a young woman with a fresh face and a battered violin case. As the car engines roared to life behind her, Amelia scurried to stay upright, nearly skipping on her toes to avoid twisting an ankle. Her weekend roller case must have helped give her ballast because somehow she washed up on a normal-looking sidewalk next to the small terminal as the crowd almost instantly dissipated.

She looked around to get her bearings and reached into her over-sized pink tote that was slung over one shoulder. She’d written the name of the hotel on the back of…something. There it was, on the margins of her electric bill that she still hadn’t paid. Ravenswood Inn. That had a lovely Jane Eyre-ish ring to it. Maybe it would turn out to be haunted. On second thought, she’d rather it wasn’t. This trip might not have been her idea, but there was no reason to waste a long weekend in the country with insomnia. Perhaps there would be a rugged Heathcliff that she could sigh over without actually getting involved. She was willing to be distracted for a weekend, but no more than that.

Amelia was a rather plain woman of average height and build in her mid-thirties (she claimed thirty-two) but with a great deal of flair. This is what she’d been told by her ballet teacher at the age of eight when she’d been laughed out of the recital rehearsal by the other, more graceful girls. Madame Elise, who had once graced the stages of Paris during the war and was tall and elegantly slim, had taken her aside and whispered ‘Don’t worry about them, ma petite, you have something they will never have. You have flair.’ Madame Elise was the epitome of style in young Amelia’s opinion. Her silver hair was always scraped back, leaving her dark eyes to dominate an architectural face. Despite age, every move and gesture she made was graceful, even if it was shaking hands with proud mothers in a small Oregon town. Ever since, Amelia had practiced ‘having flair’ and dreamed of immigrating to the French countryside. She had not met any other citizens of La Belle France since her brief time with Madame Elise, but her heart held confidence that France was where she was meant to be. A nation that revered strong-minded women and strong jawlines. A place where her strengths, and not her looks, would be recognized and celebrated. A place where style still had meaning. 

There was always something that got in the way of her going, though. At the moment, it was her silly job for Lyle Communications. She was only six months away from being fully vested in her pension and then, finally, she would look seriously into making her dream come true.

A man shouting, “Anyone for Ravenswood Inn? Anyone here for Ravenswood?” interrupted her thoughts. She rolled her suitcase in his direction, the loud noise of the small wheels on asphalt drowning everything else out. “I am! Are you the shuttle service?”

“Umm, hi. Not exactly. The cart here is for your bags. That’s the shuttle part so you don’t have to haul them up the steps.” He pointed to the hill behind the ferry dock where a set of steep stairs had been cut into the cliff. “By the way, I’m Ralph.”

 
“Hi.” Amelia was reluctant to give her name to strangers. They so often started using it in a too-familiar manner. She didn’t want or need to know the name of restaurant serving staff either. It created a sense of obligation that she didn’t have time for. 

Ralph took it in good humor. “I’ll give it a few more minutes and then head up with your bags if you like.” 

“Are you waiting for more than me?” 

He shrugged. “Don’t know. I meet the passenger ferry every day and the car ferry when it comes once a week.

Whoever comes over is who I’m here for.” He paused for a second. “You might want to cover your ears. I need to shout again.” 
Amelia quickly clapped her square hands over her ears, but they weren’t quite enough to drown out, “Ravenswood! Last call!” Ralph’s voice swooped up and down like an overly enthusiastic train conductor. He clearly enjoyed his job. “OK, looks like you’re it. Do you want to take the steps and meet me at the top or come with me up the road?” 

“I’ll come with you.” Amelia sighed with relief. Her shoes weren’t up to hiking. The online brochure had made this little island sound so civilized. 

“Suit yourself,” Ralph responded cheerfully, wheeling his luggage cart around and setting off at a brisk pace up the road. Amelia skittered to keep up. Ralph looked to be about sixty and was surprisingly nimble for his age. Maybe it was all the salt air. They passed long lines of parked cars queued to get on the ferry as it continued its inter-island loop. Amelia eyed them with interest. What brought non-wedding guests to the island or prompted the locals to leave it?

“So, what brings you to Findlater Island?” Ralph inquired politely. 

“Oh, my um, boss is getting married this weekend. The Lyle-Hammond wedding?” It was still hard for her to think of smarmy Tony Lyle as her boss. His father had been the owner of Lyle Communications until his untimely death four months ago. She still wasn’t clear on exactly how he had died. He had seemed fit and healthy the last time she’d seen him at work. Every time she asked Tony about it, he brushed it off as ‘family business’ and told her to wear something sexier to the office in the future. 

“Ah, yes.” Ralph interrupted her thoughts. “Lots of rhinestones.” 

“Is it?” That sounded awfully ghastly or maybe it was ghastly awful. 

“He must be a pretty good boss for you to come to his wedding.” Ralph didn’t even try to hide his prying.

“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” Amelia was no stranger to deflection. Tony was a horrible boss and the only reason she was here was because he’d said he’d fire her if she wasn’t; he’d even gone so far as to dig out her job description where it said ‘other duties as assigned’. She wasn’t so sure Labor & Industries would interpret it the same way, but it would also take them more than six months to even look at a complaint. At which point she intended to be living in France, finally learning how to relax.

“Here we are,” Ralph announced cheerfully, bringing his cart to a stop in front of a gray-shingled mansion with two turrets at the front corners. Five or six seagulls were perched in a line on the roof ridge, staring out to sea. A glass-paned door had been painted green to match the climbing vine that hung over it, partially obscuring the red neon ‘Welcome’ sign. Ralph unloaded her case from the cart, opened the door and carried it in. “Morning Becky! Here’s a new guest for the wedding!” 

“Coming!” came a voice from the back room. 

Amelia glanced around the small lobby. It must have been the original foyer of the house. An all-weather carpet in shades of blue and green had been installed and a small oak hotel desk placed on the long wall. A single oil painting of a storm at sea adorned the wall behind the desk and there were two open arched doors on either end. No other furnishings or creature comforts were to be found. Becky came in carrying a tall vase of pink flowers. Amelia recognized the roses in the mix but that was the extent of her knowledge. She’d never been a gardener. The young woman of about twenty-five had a fresh round face adorned with a spray of freckles. Her light brown hair was scraped back tight in a ponytail and her blue uniform was about five sizes too big. She set the vase down on the end of the desk and smiled at Amelia. “Good morning! How was your trip over? I’ll be happy to get you checked in.” She did as promised and after Amelia had handed over her credit card, sighing at having to use her personal card for a so-called business expense, Becky handed her a computerized room key. “Room 217. It’s right through there,” she pointed at the left arch “down the hall and up the stairs. Then it’s about midway on the left.”

 Amelia looked around for Ralph to carry her bags up, but he had disappeared. So with a grimace, she put the room key in her pocket and hoisted her tote bag over her shoulder while extending the handle on her small suitcase. She straightened her spine and flipped her hair back. She intentionally offset her square jaw with a swinging bob of jet-black hair reminiscent of the 1920s. It was straighter and blacker than it would be without the amazing and expensive skills of her hairdresser, Catrine, but she figured part of having flair was knowing who to turn to and what to prioritize. 

* * *

When Amelia reached the midpoint in the upstairs hallway and located her room, she paused. The upstairs was quietly elegant with a rose-colored wallpaper and brass sconces scattered down the hall. The dark oak floors were covered with a floral carpet runner in dark green. She inserted the plastic card in the door slot. Amazingly, it not only worked on the first try, but the door automatically opened. She was so used to hotel locks turning off, if they worked at all, before she could get to the handle that she’d already started shifting her bag to make a grab for it. The open door threw her balance off and she found herself tripping headfirst into the room with an oomph as her forward momentum was eventually stopped by the bed.

It was nicely made up. Crisp white linens rested under a blue and white striped coverlet. Heavy navy curtains helped the nautical theme along. The walls were whitewashed oak paneling and the furniture was all refurnished antiques or at least vintage rather than the usual high-gloss dark wood hotel chains seemed to favor. There was a slightly woodsy citrus scent in the air as though someone had given it a splash of expensive room spray after cleaning. Maybe this was going to be a good weekend after all. She didn’t have to stay at the wedding reception once dinner was over, right? Nobody was going to notice if she wasn’t dancing, and she didn’t dance anyway. Not that much had changed since her days of ballet class.

Amelia walked over to the heavy drapes and pulled them back with the use of the long clear plastic wands attached to the top. They revealed a stunning view of the sea with just a narrow edge of the cliff directly below the window. She took a step back. The floor-to-ceiling window didn’t open and it looked sturdy enough, but Amelia wasn’t prepared to take any chances. The automated warning from the city subway played in her head, ‘please do not lean on the doors’. It only made sense to apply that to windows overhanging cliffs as well. She stood there and soaked in the view for a few minutes. The waves were starting to get small white caps on them, the wind seemed to be picking up a little as the tops of the evergreen trees were also starting to sway. Not enough to be alarming, but perhaps changing her footwear was in order before she started looking for someplace to get lunch. 

Tugging her carry-on case up onto the bed, Amelia grimaced at the thought of spending the weekend in her running shoes, which were the only other footwear she’d brought besides her evening shoes for the wedding. She’d only tucked them in because she’d thought there might be a gym. One of the many suggestions her doctor was always giving her for how to relax and lower her blood pressure was to try a little more exercise. Their plain, white newness mocked her from the edge of the case where she’d squished them in. She hadn’t even done up the laces yet. She sat down on the bed and bent over to take her boots off. Frowning with concentration, she laced up the sneakers and put them on. They felt okay, she guessed. She stood and bounced in place slightly. Wandering into the bathroom, she stopped and gaped in shock. Somehow, she’d been expecting something beige. But instead, she was met with a glittering wall of tiny gold glass tiles. They twinkled from the walls of the shower and the ceiling overhead. Only the simple mirror over the vanity was unadorned. It was magnificent. She turned around and went back to her tote bag to find her cell phone. She was going to replicate this in her house in France just as soon as she got one. She took a quick picture from the doorway, not even caring that the mirror caught her reflection as she did so.

Amelia figured she might as well unpack before she went exploring since half her bag was on the bed from retrieving the shoes. She carefully hung her vintage beaded dress in the armoire. It was a sea green flapper dress with fabric ‘leaves’ suspended from the dropped waist. Each one was outlined in little tiny silver sequins. She wouldn’t normally have wasted it on a slimeball like Tony, but it was the only truly formal dress she owned and spending money on something new seemed like even more of a sin. She was saving every penny she could for her escape to France, not including Catrine of course. She would need good hair for her French debut more than ever. She’d brought only two other outfits, so putting everything away didn’t take very long. She stowed her case at the bottom of the armoire and then slid the room key into her wallet. Time to explore and find some lunch. But just as she reached for her pink coat hanging from a hook in the small foyer, there was a knock on the door.