Planet of the Grapes: A Doyle Cozy Mystery

Book 2: A Wits' End Cozy Mystery

by Kirsten Weiss

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Culinary Cozy Mysteries; UFO; humor; Cozy Mystery; B B

Synopsis

Aliens, fairies and murder, oh, my!

In small-town Doyle, California, UFO abductions are a budding tourist attraction. So when Susan Witsend brings a UFO festival to town, she's ready for some well-deserved time in the sun.

What she gets instead is the corpse of a UFO conspiracy theorist, brained with a bottle of local wine.

Susan may be the owner of a UFO-themed B&B, but she doesn't wish on stars to get what she wants. She's a woman with a planner. Plan A) Milk the UFO festival for all it's worth. Plan B) Stop lusting after her best friend turned security consultant, Arsen Holiday.

But murder isn't the only thing threatening Susan's best-laid plans.  Beset by alien protestors, aging nudists, and hidden secrets at every turn, Susan's nearing her wits' end.  And now Plan C is to stay on the good side of a grumpy local sheriff.

Susan may not have a clue, but she knows she wants a certain security consultant at her side when the killer goes supernova.

Planet of the Grapes is book 2 in the Wits' End series of cozy mystery novels. If you like laugh-out-loud cozy mysteries, you'll like Planet of the Grapes. Start reading this hilarious caper today!

Breakfast recipes at the back of the book.

Release date: September 28, 2018

Publisher: misterio press

Print pages: 246

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

 

“If there’s probing, I’m out.” The blue-faced woman crossed her arms and scowled at her tentacled companion.

His violet appendages quivered. “How many times do I have to tell you? It’s just panels and funnel cakes and… fun.”

I approached the oval-shaped table and clutched the pitcher of OJ closer to my chest. “Um, is there anything else I can get you?” I smiled and hoped for a negative answer.

Late summer sun streamed across the hardwood floor. It glinted off the metal lids of the chafing dishes on the sideboard, covered in a white cloth. The rooms at my B&B, Wits' End, were cozy comfortable, but it was the breakfasts that got the rave reviews.

The mixed bunch of UFO enthusiasts shook their heads and mumbled no’s. Two Mulder and Scully wannabes steadily shoveled eggs and waffles into their mouths.

Around the breakfast table, other guests chattered excitedly. Blue curtains fluttered in the open windows. A breeze carrying the scent of pine and roses mingled with the heady scents of bacon and pecan waffles.

I set the juice on the table, backed out of my breakfast room, and stepped on a booted foot.

“Ooof! Hey big shot. Watch it. Sue.” Dixie crossed her arms over her Army-green tank top. My young cousin had gone for the Cleopatra look today, thick kohl making her green eyes gleam.

I grinned. “Nice hair.”

Dixie tugged on a lock of tousled black hair tipped electric blue. “Violet was so ten minutes ago.”

And I suddenly felt unhip, out of touch, when I was barely thirty. Dixie had that effect on me.

A collar jingled. The beagle I’d inherited, Bailey, made his way down the stairs to sit at Dixie's feet. He cast a hopeful gaze my way, and I bent to scratch behind his ears.

His tail thumped the faux-Persian rug. Colorful trapezoids of light from the stained-glass above the door cast dizzying patterns on the carpet.

 “I thought you'd be off to your dumb festival by now,” Dixie said and followed me through the swinging door into the kitchen.  She slouched against the butcherblock counter and jammed her hands into the pockets of her cargo shorts.

“Soon.” I smiled modestly. It wasn’t really my UFO festival, but I had spearheaded bringing it to Doyle. My stomach twisted with nervous excitement. The X-tranormal festival started today and would fill my B&B to capacity. It would bring more tourist dollars to our small mountain town.

She shrugged. “Whatever. I’m holding you responsible.”

Ha. Dixie was clearly a teensy bit jealous about my new VIP status in the UFO community. My cousin obsessed over all things UFO, but she’d been decidedly cool on the X-tranormal festival.  

“Holding me responsible?” I asked. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Reaching past an aloe plant, I grabbed a box of treats from a thick, plain wood shelf and tossed one to Bailey. My late grandmother had left most of the old Victorian “as is.” But before she'd died, she'd modernized the kitchen. White subway tiles lined the walls. A ceiling fan helped push the warm air coming through the open windows and screen door to the porch.

“You’re concentrating all the UFO hacks and nutjobs in one place. Here, in Doyle. It’s a bad move.”

I tugged at my blue-flowered blouse. “They’re not hacks or nut—”

The swinging door edged open. An alien in green face paint and silver lamé stuck his head through the open doorway. “Um, where’s the Boötes breakfast?”

I pointed over his antennae. “Octagonal room on the other side of the hall.”

“Thanks.” He disappeared behind the door.

“Boötes?” Dixie asked archly.

“It’s the only constellation that starts with b.” I tightened my ponytail. It’s not easy coming up with astronomical alliterations.

“Nothing good can come from this festival.”

The beagle curled into his bed by the kitchen table.

“Only economic development.” Drawing a deep, satisfied breath, I mustered the arguments I’d presented to the town council. “X-tranormal will bring a full week of extra tourist dollars on Main Street. Plus, publicity for the cutest mountain town between Lake Tahoe and Yosemite.” But I glanced uneasily at the swinging kitchen door. I’d worked with the festival company to make sure things would go smoothly. And they would. Our plans couldn’t fail.

She snorted. “Save it for the mayor.”

“Anyway,” I said, “the VIP brunch goes until eleven. I have plenty of time to get to X-tranormal.” But I was dying to go now. There aren’t a whole lot of power-networking opportunities when you run a UFO-themed B&B. Plus, I was a sponsor! A VIP!

The screen door banged open. Bailey started, tucking his tail.

A teenage girl in jeans and a faded unicorn tee stopped short in the doorway. “Oh. Hi. Am I early?” She ran her hand over her blond ponytail.

“Not at all, Kayla.” As an X-tranormal VIP sponsor (ahem), I’d be busy at the festival grounds for the next nine days. Normally, Dixie and I cleaned the rooms, but with me festival-ing, my cousin could use the extra help.

 “You're right on time,” I continued, my gaze flicking to the agenda on the table. “I thought it would be useful if Dixie gave you a tour before you started. She’ll explain how everything works, and then you can start cleaning.”

“So, I'm in charge?” Dixie’s green eyes narrowed.

“You're always in charge when I'm not here,” I said.

She smiled broadly, and a chill crept up my spine. Dixie only smiled at other people’s pratfalls.

My cousin crooked a finger at Kayla. “People are still finishing breakfast, so let's start at the reception desk.” My cousin strode through the swinging kitchen door.

Kayla shot me an uncertain look and followed.

Bailey trotted after them, his tail wagging.

My stomach rumbled. Time for my own VIP breakfast.

I hurried into my private sitting room and grabbed my purse and cell phone off the table. Stopping in front of the mirror, I yanked my blond hair from its band and finger combed it free. A bit of mascara had smudged beneath my blue eyes, and I rubbed it away, then smoothed the front of my lightweight blouse. I sighed. Nothing could change my wholesome, girl-next-door look, and it was completely out of style.  But at least no scrambled eggs dotted the front of my blue capris. It was my first time as a festival sponsor, and I wanted to look professional.

I strode through the kitchen, grabbed my planner, and walked into the high-ceilinged foyer. Behind the low, front desk, Dixie explained how to use the credit card reader to Kayla.

I paused in front of the scarred desk. “No one's checking out until the end of the festival, so you won’t have to worry about taking payments.”

Dixie rolled her eyes. She pointed at the shelves built into the stairs and weighted with UFO books, playing cards, alien bobble heads, and other chotchkes. “They’ll be paying for the souvenirs. I’ll shock anyone who even thinks about shoplifting.” She pulled a stun gun from a desk drawer.

“Whoa.” I blinked, taken aback. “Where’d you get that?”

“Duh.” Dixie glowered. “The drawer.”

My mouth pressed into a slash. I had a pretty good idea where the weapon had come from. “Right. Well, normally I’d say no to stunning guests, so today, I’m going to say no. Don’t do that. And I'll be back tonight.”

Dixie shrugged one bare shoulder. “Whatever. I don't see what the big deal is about this festival anyway. It's not like they're going to solve any universal mysteries.”

I tamped down my rising annoyance. It might not be a big deal for her, but the festival was my first attempt at community involvement. “PB Gates is going to be there,” I said casually.

Dixie's eyes widened. “You mean your Gran’s PB Gates?”

I plucked one of my grandmother's slim UFO books off the shelf. My grandmother had been a huge fan of PB Gates, a UFO expert who traveled the world reporting on UFO sightings and UFO travel in general. Her dream had been to get her UFO-themed B&B, Wits' End, into one of his articles. She hadn't fulfilled that dream in her lifetime, but I was going to do my damnedest to succeed on her behalf.

The Mulder and Scully couple emerged from the breakfast room.

“I don't trust a word from that guy's mouth,” Scully was saying. “Chuck Thorpe is a conman. He gives UFOlogists a bad name.”

I sucked in my cheeks. Thorpe? He was one of the X-tranormal speakers. I’d heard he was controversial, but surely X-tranormal wouldn’t have invited a conman.

“His dad worked for Project Bluebook,” her husband said. “Chuck knows things.”

“Then his father wasn't a very good Air Force officer,” Scully replied tartly, passing the scarred front desk. “They're not supposed to blab to their families about top secret alien encounters.”

They mounted the stairs.

Dixie's lip curled. “Scully's right. Thorpe's a phony and a parasite. If that's the caliber of speakers at your festival, it's going to be a bust.”

This festival was going to be absolutely wonderful, even if I had to kill someone.  “Thank you for your opinion.” Nose in the air, I sailed out the front door and collided with six-foot-two-inches of bronzed muscle.

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

“For what opinion?” Arsen Holiday’s hazel eyes glinted.

I stumbled back a little on the porch and cleared my throat. “Oh. Just. Nothing.”  The front door swung shut behind me.

A lock of Arsen’s whiskey-colored hair stuck out on the side. I jammed my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching out and fixing it. Arsen and I had been best friends since childhood. It wasn’t fair he’d grown up to look so damn good – tanned, sinewy, and with big hazel eyes you could fall into.

Heat rose to my cheeks. I wanted to think it was due to the excitement of the morning, but I knew better. “What are you doing here?”

He smiled winningly, his head dangerously close to brushing a hanging fern. “Breakfast.”

And… he was bumming free waffles.

Again.

“Sorry,” I said. “We’re all out.”

“Really? I smell bacon.” His muscles bulged beneath his polo shirt, the logo for his new security company embroidered in one corner. “And waffles.”

Yes, Arsen could tell the difference between pancakes and waffles by scent alone. “All gone,” I lied.

“I can hear silverware clinking through the open window.” A blue-patterned curtain fluttered through said window. The fabric batted a broom someone had left angled beside the front door.

I grabbed the broom and hung it on its wall hook. My Gran had always kept a broom by the front door, and I’d kept up the tradition. “An aural hallucination. You should get that checked. Did you give Dixie a stun gun?”

“She said she wanted it for self-defense.”

“Arsen, it’s Dixie,” I hissed.

“So?”

“So, she’s threatening to stun my guests.”

“Come on,” he said. “She wouldn’t.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You won’t be named in the lawsuit if she does.”

“She said she’d keep it at her trailer, and Dixie should be able to protect herself. She’s vulnerable out there all alone.”

“The stun gun’s in the front desk,” I said.

He looked thoughtful. “I’ll talk to her about legitimate weapons use.”

Dixie opened the door and leaned out. “You getting breakfast or just talking about it?” My cousin scratched her bare leg with the toe of one army boot.

Arsen looked a question at me, and I waved him inside. “Leave your dishes in the sink,” I said. Arsen had installed new electronic locks at Wits’ End for cost, so I sort of owed him free food. Of course, he’d been cadging breakfasts from me long before he’d done me that favor and would be long after I repaid him for his labor.

I edged sideways on the screened, wraparound porch so he could get past.

He touched my arm. “Maybe I'll catch you at the festival?”

“Since when do you attend UFO festivals?” I asked, intrigued and vaguely alarmed. Where Arsen went, a sort of lackadaisical chaos followed. “I thought you were with Team Dixie on the subject.”

“I was until I heard there’ll be food trucks.”

Dixie made a face. “They’ll probably be called photon trucks.”

“Then I’m definitely in.” He winked at me. “I'll see you.”

“Groovy!” I bumped into the screened porch door, fumbled around, and escaped down the front steps. Groovy? Who says groovy anymore?

I crunched down the gravel driveway and past the rose garden to my blue Subaru Crosstrek. Unlocking its door, I slipped inside and set my planner in the passenger seat.

I rolled down the window and relaxed in my seat. Wits' End in all its glory rose beneath the alpine hills. Vanilla-colored wood slats. Burnt red and deep brown gingerbread trim. A crashed UFO in the shingled roof. My grandmother might have been a little nutty, but she’d had style.

I smiled at a nearby rosebush, one of many she’d filled her garden with. “Wish me luck, Gran,” I whispered.

Starting the car, I backed onto the court. The next two weeks were going to be amazing. Between X-tranormal and the following week’s Harvest Festival, Wits' End was booked solid.

I cruised slowly through Doyle, my favorite small town in all the world. It had started as a mining town in the Gold Rush, and the shops on Main Street still sported old-time false fronts.

Today, a banner hung across the street and proclaimed: Welcome X-tranormal! I beamed at a trio of paper aliens decorating the window of the ice cream shop. Doyle was getting into the X-tranormal spirit, and I was partly responsible.

I drew a deep, gratified breath and straightened in my seat. Gran had always said that good deeds first benefited the giver and then the receiver. Now I understood why. Helping the town felt great.

An elderly woman in a billowing black dress stopped to stare as I passed, and I waved. “Hi, Mrs. Steinberg!”

“No names!” she shouted.

Chuckling, I drove on. Mrs. Steinberg was the most paranoid person in Doyle. I'd once believed the old lady to be a dark figure, with secret, inside knowledge of the town. It was half true. She worked in town records.

I drove down the narrow mountain highway to the festival. At the X-tranormal sign, I turned down a long, curving dirt road. The land, a flattened area of dried grasses and oaks and odd stone formations, belonged to a winery, and lines of grapevines rippled along the surrounding hills. The road opened to a wide parking lot, and my SUV bumped past a PARK AT YOUR OWN RISK sign. I shook my head at the precaution. Ridiculous. What criminal was going to find his way to this out-of-the-way place?

I rolled across the uneven ground. Since the festival didn't officially start until noon, I easily found a spot not too far from the front gate. My dash clock read eight-thirty, and I smiled with satisfaction. I was right on schedule.

Digging my badge from my purse, I looped the lanyard around the collar of my blouse, grabbed my things and strode to the gate. Oaks and brush backed up against the fencing, hiding all but the tops of the white tents inside. Multicolored flags drooped from the tent peaks.

A bored-looking woman in a green X-tranormal tee looked up from her clipboard. “The festival doesn’t open until noon.”

I lifted my badge and glanced up at the silvery UFO over the gate. “I’m here for the VIP brunch.” I’d never been a VIP before, and I was determined to enjoy my privileges to the max.

She grunted, unimpressed, and made a tick mark on her clipboard and handed me a map. “Second tent on the right. And Planet of the Grapes will open at ten-thirty for VIPs,” she said in a bored tone.

I smoothed my lanyard. “The wine tent? I couldn’t possibly.” But I was definitely going there, even if ten-thirty was a little early for the grape. What was the good of being a VIP if I couldn’t wine taste secluded from the hoi polloi? “Thanks.” Checking the map, I hurried past the guard.

The X-tranormal festival had been laid out in a contorted spiral. Its twists and turns accommodated the oak and elm trees that had been here first. Shuttered stalls squatted between the tents, and it felt a bit like a medieval ghost town.

A breeze whispered down the empty road, and the sides of the tents undulated. In the distance, thunderheads piled above the Sierra peaks. I eyed them warily. Rain wouldn’t exactly ruin the festival, but it wouldn’t be much fun.

I adjusted the industrial-sized purse over my shoulder. Stopping to admire the VIP tent, I jammed my hands in the pockets of my capris.

Someone had painted portholes on the VIP tent’s canvas sides. Colored lights flashed at its seams in a passable version of a flying saucer. This was going to be so much fun! Low chatter flowed through an open tent flap, and I eagerly brushed through.

Inside, a buffet had been set up along one wall, and throw rugs littered the floor. A second flap, on the opposite side, had also been strapped open. A warm breeze smelling of dried earth flowed through the tent.

An elfin woman with shoulder-length, blazing red hair walked up to me and smiled, her hand extended. “Hi, I'm Maisie, the conference organizer.” Her serious brown eyes crinkled.

“Oh?” I'd thought a woman named Rachel was the conference organizer. “Hi. I'm Susan Witsend.”

Maisie pumped my hand. Her wedding ring pinched my finger, and I flinched.

She turned the diamond, so it faced outward. “Sorry about that.” Maisie looked to be in her twenties. She wore an official green, X-tranormal t-shirt and conference lanyard.  “I’ve lost some weight, and it keeps twisting. It's so nice to meet one of our sponsors.”

A burly man with white-blond hair stood near the buffet table. In a corner, a silver-haired woman sat on a folding chair and picked at the food on her paper plate.

She sighed. “And the only sponsor actually interested in attending the brunch, it seems. You must be a glutton for punishment.”

“I’m always interested in brunch.” I motioned toward the long table lined with champagne flutes. “Especially with mimosas on the menu.”

She laughed. “Then it's great to have you. Let me introduce you to one of our speakers.” She led me toward the buffet. Pastries lined up beside cardboard coffee containers from a local shop, Ground. I smiled. I knew the festival would bring the town business, and Doyle was already benefiting.

“Um, is Rachel here?” I asked. Rachel had promised to introduce me to the infamously reclusive PB Gates.

Maisie shook her head. “There was a family emergency, and she asked me to step in. I normally manage steampunk conventions. But since she had already done most of the work for X-tranormal, I agreed to pinch hit. Why? Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem. I'd hoped to meet PB Gates, and she said she could set it up.”

Faint lines appeared between her brows. “PB Gates? Who's that?”

“PB Gates?” the bearlike man boomed. He gripped a plate piled with eggs and sausages. “Only one of the most popular writers on UFO sightings.” He extended his free hand to me. “Spence Bradford.”

I tried not to squeal. I was among UFO royalty! “Of Out There? It's great to meet you. I'm Susan Witsend. I own the local UFO B&B, Wits' End.” Out There was one of the largest amateur UFO hunting organizations in the US.

He rubbed a hand across his bristly jowls. “Hoped to stay at your B&B for the conference. Booked up before we had a chance.”

I winced. A word from Spence on the UFO message boards would have sent Wits’ End through the stratosphere. “I'm sorry to hear it. I would have loved to host you, but we don't have that many rooms.”

“That's all right,” he said. “Got into the Historic Doyle Hotel.”

Urgh! My arch rival! Black Bart had stayed there once – how was I supposed to compete with that? But it was a nice hotel, and it had a lot more rooms than Wits’ End. A better location too, curse it all.

A slender, olive-complexioned man with high cheekbones strode into the tent and brandished a briefcase. “Is it true? Is Chuck Thorpe going to be here?” His voice had a faint Russian accent.

“That's Chuck’s wife.” Maisie nodded toward the plump, silver-haired woman knitting in the corner. “So, he'd better be. Oh, Yuri, this is Susan Witsend. She runs the UFO B&B, Wits’ End.”

Yuri scowled, ignoring me, and I edged slightly away from the little group. “Thorpe is here?” he asked. Lank, near-black hair brushed his shoulders. “Keep that bastard away from me, if you don't want any trouble.”

“Now, now,” Spence said. “No one wants any trouble.”

“Speak for yourself,” Yuri growled.

“I don’t suppose you saw my wife when you were walking here?” Spence asked the Russian.

“Yes, somewhere.” He waved his hand vaguely.

“If you’re looking for PB Gates,” Maisie told me, “the registration tent might be able to help you out. They can at least tell you if he’s registered under his real name or a stage name – that may make it easier to find him. If you go there now, you can talk to them before they get slammed with prep work. It's right next to this tent, on the left.”

“Thanks. I will.” I said, relieved to escape. People made fun of UFO enthusiasts. Nine times out of ten though, they were wonderful people. But I didn’t much like Yuri’s scowl.

I strode to the tent next door. Its flaps were lowered, and it took me a minute or two to find the entrance.

Finally, I brushed through the canvas opening and stopped short. Boxes of wine stacked taller than Arsen made a small corridor. Vacant chairs stood behind the long metal tables opposite.

“Hello?” I stepped deeper inside the stifling tent and made a mental note to have a word with Maisie about moving the boxes. Wine doesn't store well in the heat. If this morning was any indication, the tent would be broiling by afternoon.

My foot nudged a near-black wine bottle. It rolled across the earth floor and came to a stop beside a curled hand.

I sucked in a breath.

A hand.

An arm.

A prone body.

Blood puddled beside a man’s head, his eyes blank and staring.

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

Sheriff McCourt glared. The five-foot-six sheriff only had an inch on me, but she knew how to use it. “You. Again.” She removed her round, broad-brimmed hat and finger combed her hair. The blond curls fell neatly back into place. In the mountains behind her, thunderheads were rising.

A chipmunk scampered up the oak we sheltered beneath. It raced across a branch and cocked its head, as if contemplating a jump to the nearby registration tent.

The Sheriff and I had worked together before, when her ex-husband had been murdered in my B&B. For most B&B's, a murder would be a black mark. But my UFO-inclined guests seemed to think it gave Wits' End the added frisson of a possible haunting.

It wasn’t something I discussed with the sheriff.

At any rate, this time, I was prepared. I was also a little more humble than I’d been on my first run as a girl detective. But I had to help. I wouldn't blame the sheriff if she shut down the festival. But good God, if she did… My guests would leave. I’d have to refund their money. Worse, all the town’s hard work would be down the drain. And despite what the publicists say, there is such a thing as bad publicity in the tourist industry. Most people had chalked up the Doyle Disappearances/Reappearances as a fraud or myth. If anything, the incident had increased tourism. But murder was concrete, brutal, and terrifying, and my stomach churned.

I flipped open my planner. After the last, unfortunate incident when I’d found a body in guest room seven, I’d redesigned it for future law enforcement encounters. “I arrived at the festival grounds at exactly eight-thirty. The woman at the gate can confirm that I came through a minute or two later. It took me approximately five minutes to walk to the VIP tent. I was inside for no more than five minutes, before I went to the registration tent and discovered the body. Whoever the dead man is—”

“Charles Thorpe.” She returned the uniform hat to her head.

“Thorpe? You mean Chuck Thorpe?” An X-tranormal speaker, and one another speaker, Yuri, had threatened? A chill, gray shadow seemed to touch the back of my neck, and I rubbed my skin there. Everything is under control. “Oh. Well, Mr. Thorpe wasn't in the VIP tent when I arrived.” I glanced up from my planner. “The people who were in the tent seemed relieved by that fact, except for maybe his wife.”

“If I want your opinion about witnesses you’ve admitted you don’t know, I'll ask for it. Who was in the VIP tent?”

The branch above us rustled. Dried oak leaves showered us.

I brushed flakes of brown off my shoulders. “Um… Chuck's wife. The conference organizer, Maisie Henchcliffe. She's the one who suggested I come to the registration tent to see if someone I knew had arrived yet. And there was Spence Bradford. He’s the head of Out There, an internationally recognized UFO organization.” We’d attracted some heavy hitters.

“What does it mean to be internationally recognized?”

I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic. I also didn’t exactly know the answer. “It means it’s big. Anyway, Spence asked Yuri, who’d entered the tent after me, if he’d seen his wife on the grounds. So, presumably she’s somewhere nearby. Yuri’s from Eastern Europe, I think, if you couldn’t guess from the name. I don't know what his story is—”

“I didn't ask.”

“But—”

She raised her brows, and I bit back a retort.

Fine. She’d no doubt hear about Yuri from someone else. “And that was all.”

“What are you doing here? The festival doesn’t open for another hour.”

“I'm one of the sponsors. This is a huge opportunity to promote Doyle as a UFO destination…”

Her eyes narrowed.

“And I'm hoping to meet someone at the festival,” I finished quickly. It was time Doyle and Wits’ End got some love. I was sick of Wits' End getting skunked by a certain UFO hotel in Rachel, Nevada. That hotel got all the attention because it was in the nearest town to the military's top-secret base, Area 51, by Groom Lake. Not that any of that mattered now. “I wasn't sure if he'd registered yet.”

“He?” One corner of her mouth wrinkled. “Does Arsen know?”

My face warmed. What was that supposed to mean? It’s not like Arsen would be jealous of PB Gates. Arsen and I had never been an item. My buddy had spent most of his adult life bumming around vacation resorts as a dive instructor and ladies' man. He had an impressive collection of airplane barf bags (unused) from those halcyon days.

I glanced at a deputy, unwinding police tape around the registration tent. Though since Arsen had started his one-man security company, he seemed a lot less flaky. I'd started to see Arsen less as an old friend to be exasperated with and more as… I wasn’t sure what I saw him as.

“It's business,” I said firmly. Besides, PB Gates had been writing for decades. The UFO reporter was probably the age my Gran would have been, or near to it.

The sheriff’s look was pitying. “Did you see anyone else inside the registration tent, where you found the body?”

“No, but—”

“Did you see anyone going into or out of the registration tent at any time?” She ran a finger along the inside of her khaki collar. The morning was warming.

“No, but—”

“How well did you know Mr. Thorpe?”

The chipmunk sprinted past her boots and vanished beneath a lichen-covered boulder.

“Chuck?” I shifted my weight. “I mean, Charles Thorpe? Not at all. I mean, I'd heard about him. A little. Mostly today. He's controversial in the UFO community—”

“So, you’re in the UFO community now?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “I run a UFO-themed B&B. My guests expect me to have some knowledge of the subject. Anyway, Chuck— Charles Thorpe’s father was an officer in Project Bluebook—”

The sheriff groaned.

“You know, the investigations the Air Force conducted into UFOs?”

A muscle worked in her jaw.

“Chuck claimed his father had talked to him about what he'd experienced,” I continued. “But Chuck was secretive about his, er, insider’s knowledge. His father was dead, so he couldn't get into any trouble for spilling secrets, but Chuck could.”

“Doesn't it bother you at all that you have this ridiculous information in your head? What useful data has gotten crowded from your brain because of this UFO nonsense?”

I blew out a noisy breath. “For me, this is useful information. And it's helping you now.”

“Is it?” She sighed. “Is it really?” A siren wailed in the distance. We both stilled, listening. “That’ll be the coroner,” she said. “Okay, what else?”

“Charles ran a high-priced UFO-hunting crew. Some people think he's a conman.” Or at least, one of my guests and Dixie did.

“What do you think?”

Ha! Despite the sheriff's bluster, she respected my opinion. After all, I had once been instrumental in bringing a murderer to justice. Unfortunately, I’d also put Arsen in danger in the process. “I don't know,” I admitted. “Chuck Thorpe’s UFO-hunting team is a minor footnote in UFOlogy. At least, it is compared to the disappearances that happened right here in Doyle.”

“Those so-called disappearances were because of a gas leak,” she snarled. The Sheriff wasn’t happy with Doyle's reputation for supernaturally missing persons.

So-called? I don’t think so. “Right.”

Last year, Doyle had been the sight of a mass disappearance of an entire pub full of people - plus the pub. Months later, the people had reappeared, confused and with no memory of what had happened. The pub never returned, and that missing pub remained one of the weirdest parts of the story. What would aliens do with a pub? I imagined the Fox and Thistle now on an orange and purple planet, aliens perched on bar stools and drinking cider beneath triple moons.

Gas leak, my Aunt Fannie.  “And that's all I know,” I said brightly.

“That, I can believe. And you saw no one else enter or leave the VIP tent while you were there?”

“Um, no. So, I guess Chuck was killed with that wine bottle?” Contra Hollywood movies, full wine bottles didn’t generally break over people's heads. Thanks to Arsen, I'd learned this lesson the hard way. (No actual heads had been harmed, but my pumpkin was DOA.)

“None of your business, because you’re not investigating.”

“But we worked so well together before.”

“Are you kidding me? Go!”

“Trouble?” An elegant, middle-aged woman with straight, gray and white hair strode down the dirt road. “I’m Bridget Konrach, a reporter. Sheriff, what’s going on?”

The sheriff aimed her pen at Bridget’s VIP lanyard. “That doesn’t say PRESS.”

The woman’s cheeks darkened. “I’m freelance, and I’m participating in the festival as a speaker.” Her flowing gray slacks and matching tunic rippled in the balmy, morning breeze.

“A speaker on UFOs,” Sheriff McCourt said flatly and turned to me. “Thank you, Ms. Witsend. We'll be in touch.”

“Oh, okay.” I edged backward. Ms. Witsend? We'd solved a crime together! But I guess the sheriff had to try and look impartial.

It was unlikely the sheriff would tell a reporter anything she hadn’t told me, but just in case, I lingered within earshot.

A local reporter, Tom Tarrant, bustled up to the two. “Sheriff, what’s the word?” Broad shouldered, brown haired, and blue eyed, Tom had that all-American look you see in TV shows and clothing catalogs. It’s hard not to notice these things in a small town with a limited population of single males. Not that I was interested or anything.

“I heard a man was killed,” Bridget said. “Is that true?”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Giving interviews to non-local reporters, Sheriff?”

“No interviews!” McCourt glowered at me from beneath her hat. “Thank you, Ms. Witsend.”

Busted, I wandered toward the festival exit. I wrung my hands, realized I was doing it, and stopped.

A murder on the first day of the festival? This was a disaster. Ashamed, I scrubbed my hands across my face. But lost tourist dollars were nothing compared to the loss of a life. In the town council meetings, I’d sworn the UFO-curious were normal, fun-loving people. They were no threat to Doyle.

Obviously, I’d been wrong.

A woman carrying a medical bag and flanked by two deputies strode past. The coroner?

I turned away, feeling sick. A man had been killed at a festival I’d pushed hard for, one I’d sworn would benefit everyone. But it hadn’t done much for Chuck Thorpe. Chuck was dead.

And how could I fix this when the sheriff had ordered me not to? I stopped short. But she hadn’t exactly told me not to investigate; she’d said I wasn’t investigating, past tense.

I snapped my fingers. Of course. The sheriff didn’t really want me to buzz off. She just had to say that to keep up appearances. After all, I was embedded in the festival, her inside woman, just like the last time we’d solved a crime together. Sheriff McCourt needed me.

So, if I was in charge of the festival recently derailed by murder, what would I be doing right now?

Having a panic attack, most likely. Maisie must be going bananas. Swiveling on my heels, I strode toward the registration tent.

Deputies guarded its entrance. The festival organizer, Maisie, spoke with the security lady who'd let me in that morning.

Maisie consulted a map. “We'll be moving the registration to tent B.” She pointed at a tent near the gate. “Please direct people there.”

My shoulders relaxed. Maisie seemed to be taking everything in stride. That was good for the festival and Doyle. I wanted to hug her, but I’m a big believer in personal space.

The guard nodded. “It would be better if we could register them outside, before they came through the gates.”

“Well, we can't,” Maisie snapped. She grimaced. “Sorry. This isn't shaping up to be a good day for anyone. There's some rule against putting tents in the parking lot. Inside the gate is the best we can do. Just be sure to check people's registration receipt – they should all have one – before you let them in.”

“Will do,” the guard said and walked away.

Maisie turned to me. “Susan, I'm so sorry about all of this.”

“Is everything, er, under control?”

“We’re improvising. How are you doing after…” She trailed off, her fair skin flushing the crimson only a true redhead can achieve.

“I’m fine. How can I help?”

“Thanks, but you don’t need to worry about anything. That’s what I’m here for.”

I smiled thinly. Not worry? Maisie didn’t know me very well.

She touched my arm and lightly guided me into the shade of a tent. Staff in green X-tranormal t-shirts lugged boxes into the tent and exited emptyhanded. “Fortunately,” she said, “no one put the computers or registration packets inside the registration tent yet. Otherwise, the police would have confiscated them as evidence. We should be able to open the con— I mean the festival, on time.”

“Really?” I asked. That seemed unusually big of the sheriff.

Her smile was wintery. “The sheriff understands how important tourism is to small towns like Doyle.”

My insides tightened with guilt. In other words, pressure had been applied, but by whom? Had the mayor found out about the murder already?

“But now we’ve lost Chuck,” she continued, “one of our key speakers. Um... I don’t suppose you could take his place?”

“Me?” My voice cracked. I gripped my planner more tightly.  But I had offered to help.

“You must know more about the Doyle disappearances than any of our other speakers. I've read the Wits’ End brochure. It said you give presentations about the disappearances at the B&B.”

My purse slid from my shoulder to the inside of my elbow, and I hitched it up. “You want me to give my presentation? Here?” My heartrate sped. I wasn’t prepared. This wasn’t in my planner. I couldn’t just rearrange my schedule. But the more involved I was, the easier it would be to gather intel on the suspects.

“Yes, and it would be wonderful if you could take over for Chuck Thorpe on his panels too.”

“I don't know.” I gulped. “I've never done a panel before.” It was one thing to give my UFO spiel to a friendly audience of eight. There would be thousands at the conference. What if they all came to hear me? What if no one came? I wasn't sure which was worse.

She knotted her tomato-red hair into a quick bun. “They're easy. You'll get the questions in advance. All you have to do is answer them succinctly.”

A bead of sweat trickled down my neck. “I’m not sure I’m the best person—”

“It'll be extra exposure for your B&B.”

“And I'd love that. But my work week is already tightly scheduled. I hadn't planned on taking extra time to present or prepare for presentations. I just don't know how I can fit in anything extra and do a good job.”

She grimaced and tugged on her lanyard. “I get it. It's too bad though. I think PB Gates is scheduled to be on one of Chuck's panels.”

I couldn’t deny the appeal of meeting him as a co-panelist. My chin dipped guiltily to my chest. This wasn’t about me. It was about Doyle and Wits’ End. And the sheriff needed me. “Okay. I'll do it.”

“Great! Let me get a copy of the speaker schedule. I'll be right back.” She disappeared into the new registration tent.

I opened my planner and scanned its pages. The faster this murder was solved, the better. And if I worked my schedule right, I might be able to combine speaking with snooping.

But this wasn’t a game. What had nearly happened to Arsen the last time I’d played detective was proof of that. My throat thickened. But I’d found the body. I’d brought the festival to Doyle. And that meant what had happened was partly my fault.

And my responsibility.