Murder on Tour

Book 9: Mystery Bookshop

by V.M. Burns

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery

Synopsis

Bookstore owner and Michigander Samantha Washington is thrilled to see her debut historical mystery finally on the shelves, but a killer seems determined to steal away the spotlight . . .
 
While Sam wraps up her first whirlwind book tour, Nana Jo has kept Market Street Mysteries running smoothly. The last stop is a prestigious book festival in Sam’s hometown of North Harbor, Michigan. But not everyone thinks the guest of honor, bestselling author Judith Hunter, deserves stellar reviews. Sam witnesses nasty arguments between Judith and two different authors—who accuse her of plagiarism and sabotage . . .
 
When a publicist is poisoned during a cocktail reception, Sam wonders if the killer missed the intended target. It’s a twist that echoes the plot of Sam’s mystery, Murder at Wickfield Lodge. But fact can be stranger—and deadlier—than fiction. How much collateral damage is the killer willing to risk? With feisty Nana Jo and the girls from Shady Acres Retirement Village lending a hand, Sam tries to solve the case before the festival delivers another fatality . . .

Release date: November 28, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

“You look like you could use a stiff drink.”

My grandmother grabbed me by the arm and hoisted me up from the table where I sat with a smile frozen on my face, trying to make eye contact with people who were doggedly determined not to make eye contact with me.

“Nana Jo, what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be running the bookstore?” I asked although, even to my own ears, I recognized the relief in my voice.

Nana Jo waved away my objections. “Dawson has everything well in hand.”

“I know Dawson’s capable of running the bookstore, but I thought he had football practice?”

My assistant and head baker for my mystery bookstore was also the quarterback for the MISU Tigers football team, so his free time was limited.

“The twins are in town for the weekend,” Nana Jo said, “and they agreed to help out so I could come to see you on your panel this afternoon.”

She said panel as though I was about to present before Congress. I hated to destroy her illusions. “Nana Jo, it’s just going to be four authors sitting on a stage answering questions. Based on the panels I sat through this morning, there may only be two or three people in the audience.”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t care if you’re reading your book in a telephone booth, I am here to support you. Do you really think I’d miss seeing my favorite granddaughter at the North Harbor Book Festival?”

I smiled at my grandmother’s use of the term favorite. When she was talking to me, I was her favorite, and when she was talking to my sister, Jenna, she was her favorite. Still, it made me smile. “Not much to see. At least, not here.”

Michigan Southwestern University, or Miss You, as the locals referred to it, was well known for hosting a prestigious book festival on campus every year. Award-winning, critically acclaimed authors from around the world converged on the small town of North Harbor, Michigan, each year. This year was no different. The halls of the Hechtman-Ayers Performing Arts Center were teeming with tweed-suited writers with unlit pipes clenched between their teeth, academic-looking women dressed in business suits with sensible shoes who were referred to by renowned critics as literary geniuses, and me, an unknown, first-time cozy mystery author, who was way out of her league amongst so many renowned authors.

The main hallway in the industrial-styled arts building was lined with folding tables covered in black tablecloths. At various times of the day, fans could purchase their favorite author’s books from a classroom turned into a makeshift bookstore. They bought the book and took it to the author’s table for signing. All of the tables were identical, except for the folded name tent that identified which author sat where. Some authors included an additional sheet of paper with a schedule that indicated when they would be manning their tables.

The main hallway was a hive of activity with tables lining both sides. At the end of the hallway and around the corner was one final table. Strategically placed between the men’s restroom and the fire escape, and hidden behind a large fake palm tree, was my table.

Nana Jo looked around. “Why are you here in the cheap seats?”

“I was only added at the last minute when one of the other authors canceled. So . . .” I shrugged. “Besides, I don’t really write the type of books that these other authors write.”

“Well, you’re right there,” Nana Jo said. “Your books sell. People actually read your books.”

“I mean most of these authors write weightier, more important things. They write literary fiction, biographies, and books that are . . . deep.” I sighed. “I write British historical cozy mysteries . . . escapist fiction.”

“Pshaw! You don’t believe that drivel.” Nana Jo was five feet ten and close to two hundred pounds. When she looked down her nose at me, I felt even smaller than my five feet four inches.

“Well . . .”

“That’s a lot of horse pucky, and you know it. Samantha Marie Washington, you’re an intelligent woman, and you not only own one of the most successful independent bookstores in the area, you’ve written a great mystery with an engaging plot and interesting characters.”

I chuckled. “I own the only bookstore in the area. Independent or otherwise.”

“Piffle. Details. Details. Details.”

“You know what I mean. My book is . . . entertaining, but being here made me realize that my book isn’t going to change the world. No one is going to read my book and start a movement that will stop human trafficking, reduce the effects of global warming, or save the Amur leopard from extinction. Did you know there are estimated to be less than one hundred of those wild leopards left in Russia and China?”

“That’s terrible, but what does that have to do with the price of tea in North Harbor, Michigan?”

“Those were the people I met this morning at the author breakfast. There we were. The four of us all talking about our books. The author of a book that exposes human trafficking, a book on global warming, a woman who spent five years in the Russian wilderness photographing the Amur leopard, and me with my escapist cozy mystery.”

Nana Jo lifted my chin and gazed in my eyes. “Those are all noble causes, and I hope those books will be successful and achieve everything they were intended to achieve. But don’t discount the importance of escapist fiction. Books are subjective, and people read books for different reasons. Given everything that’s happened in the world, many of us need to escape to maintain our sanity. Before your granddad died, I spent two weeks in the hospital . . . waiting. I sat in that hospital room and read Nora Roberts as if it held the keys to life and death. I was obsessed.”

“I remember.”

She shook her head. “I’m sure those books were the only things that kept me from falling to pieces. So, don’t you go knocking escapist fiction.”

I hugged my grandmother. “Thanks. I needed that reminder.”

After a few moments, Nana Jo pulled away, sniffed, and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Now, it’s lunchtime. Let’s blow this mortuary and grab some grub.”

My panel discussion was less than one hour away, so I didn’t want to venture too far from the auditorium. In fact, I wanted to be early to give myself time to collect my thoughts. Frank Patterson, my fiancé, taught me how to do a technique he called tactical breathing. He suggested that I sit in a quiet room for fifteen minutes before the panel and take slow, deep breaths to help steady my nerves before the panel. Frank used to do top-secret stuff in the military before he retired and moved to North Harbor to pursue his dream of opening a restaurant. He swears that tactical breathing will help me stay calm. I was doubtful but willing to try anything.

We decided to keep it simple and went to the Gridiron, the restaurant inside the student union. Normally, I loved nothing better than a greasy Gridiron burger with cheddar cheese and an order of extra crispy onion rings, but my nerves went into hyperdrive. My throat contracted, and my stomach turned into a cement mixer. Any crumbs that made it to my stomach were immediately tossed, turned, and tumbled around until eventually hardening into what felt like rocks. After just a few bites, I gave up trying.

“I don’t know why you’re so nervous,” Nana Jo said. “You used to teach English to high school teenagers.”

“Not the same thing. I knew what I was talking about.”

“No one knows mysteries like you do. You own a mystery bookstore, for God’s sake.” Nana Jo reached for my onion rings. “Are you going to eat those?”

I shook my head and slid the greasy rings across to her tray. “I know mysteries, but this is my first published book. I mean, what if they ask me some question that I can’t answer? What if I start babbling and make a fool of myself?”

“I’ve never heard you babble, and you will not make a fool of yourself. Besides, it’s only one hour. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Famous last words.”

I hurried back to the Hechtman-Ayer auditorium, with thirty minutes to practice my breathing. Jillian Clark was the daughter of one of Nana Jo’s friends and my assistant Dawson’s girlfriend. She’d performed many times on this stage, and she told me about a small room backstage that would be the perfect place to relax and practice breathing. It was just off to the side of what she called the “green room,” where performers relaxed when not on stage. I found the right door, flipped the light switch, and went inside.

Jillian was right. This room was perfect. It was a small closet, but it was quiet.

I turned off the light. I shook my arms and legs and stretched. Then, when I closed my eyes, I inhaled for four counts. Held for four counts. Exhaled for six counts. Held for two. When I was done, I did it again. And again. Rinse and repeat. I don’t know how many times I went through the exercise, but after a few minutes, I could feel myself calm down. Maybe there was something to this breathing stuff after all. I was just about to go through the exercise again when a door slammed, and my calm was broken.

“Judith.”

“Hello, Nora.”

Holy cow. Nora must be Nora Cooper, and Judith must be featured presenter Judith Hunter. The other panelists are here, and I’m trapped in a closet.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here. I can’t believe you had the guts to show your face in public after what you did.”

“Actually, it didn’t take any nerve at all. I’m the featured guest. But then you always were overly dramatic, Nora.”

“Overly dramatic?”

“Yes. Overly dramatic. Just like your books, full of outrageous dialogue, over-the-top characters, and ridiculous plots that couldn’t possibly happen. That’s so like you.”

Ouch.

“I heard you were going to be here, but I was surprised when I learned they were including you in the panel discussion. I didn’t think they’d lower themselves to including self-published authors at the North Harbor Book Festival.”

That’s not very nice.

“Actually, the correct term is indie published,” Nora said, “and the Festival Committee must have been looking for authors who actually write books that sell.”

“I know. My latest book is on all of the major bestseller lists.”

“Your book? If you weren’t so pathetic, you’d be funny. You mean my book. The book you stole from me.”

What?

“Watch it,” Judith said. “If you say that to anyone else, my attorney assures me that we’ll sue you for every dime you have left.”

Nora laughed. It was a bit hysterical, but there was something else in that laugh—the slightest bit triumphant.

“What’s so funny?” Judith asked.

“Worried? You should be. You thought there would be no way I could prove that you stole my manuscript. But, it turns out, you’re wrong. I wrote The Corpse Danced at Midnight, and I can prove it. Not only am I going to prove that you’re a thief and a liar, but I’m going to make sure that you’re humiliated and made a laughingstock. You won’t be able to show your face in public. When I get done with you—”

“Well, well, well.”

“Scarlet, what are you doing here?” Judith huffed. “What is this, old home week?”

“Sounds like another member of the I-Hate-Judith-Hunter Fan Club. Hi, I’m Scarlet MacDunkin.”

“Nora Cooper. Pleased to meet you, but I’m not just a member of the club. I’m the founder and president.”

“Then let me shake your hand.” Scarlet laughed. Unlike Nora’s triumphant, slightly deranged laugh, Scarlet’s was husky and dripping with cynicism.

“Gawd, Clark. What have you gotten me into?”

“Judith, I’m so sorry, but I thought it might be best if we could just all get together and talk things through, then maybe we could avoid an expensive and embarrassing court case. Coming to this event and being on the panel with you were Nora’s conditions. I didn’t know Scarlet would be here.”

Who is this man?

“Oh, when I heard Nora was coming, fire-breathing dragons couldn’t have kept me away,” Scarlet said.

“And the fourth person on the panel, Samantha Washington, is she part of the conspiracy to destroy me too?” Judith said with an edge in her voice.

Me? Heck, I don’t even know any of these people.

“No, actually, she’s nobody, a last-minute replacement,” Clark said. “Michelle Ackerman backed out. Samantha Washington is just some local who’s written her first book. A British historical cozy. The organizers thought a local might attract the hometown crowd. Plus, she’s cheap. They didn’t have to pay for travel or lodging.”

Cheap? Well, I guess that explains it. I wasn’t invited here because my book is selling well or because any of the organizers liked my book. I was invited because I’m cheap.

“Well, I’m not going on stage with both of these barracudas and a rookie,” Judith said, “so you can just figure out another plan.”

“Judith, you signed a contract,” Clark said.

Scarlet laughed.

“Scared?” Nora said. “You should be. When I get finished with you, you’re going to wish you’d never even thought about messing with me.”

The threat sounds serious. I gasped and took a step backward. Unfortunately, the closet wasn’t big enough for sudden movements, and I hit my head on the back wall of the closet.

“What’s that?”

Crap.

The door was wrench. . .