Michigan bookshop owner and mystery writer Samantha Washington is engaged to be married—but she may have to step over a few bodies before she walks down the aisle . . .
All Sam wanted was to make a good impression on her fiancé Frank’s mother, the very proper Dr. Camilia Patterson. But when Nano Jo and the lively ladies of Shady Acres Retirement Village throw a surprise bridal shower for Sam at the Four Feathers Casino—watch out! Things spin out of control faster than a roulette wheel. Fortunately, Sam knows when to fold ’em and slips back to her room to work on her latest historical mystery set between the wars, in which a houseguest meets a grim end at an English country manor.
The morning after brings another rude surprise. Sam gets a frantic call from Camilia, who’s discovered a dead body in her room. Now winning over her soon-to-be mother-in-law means keeping the good doctor out of a potential scandal and attempting to discreetly solve a murder without ruffling any feathers. For that she’ll need the help of Nano Jo—not exactly the soul of discretion—Detective “Stinky” Pitt, and the ladies—because the casino killer keeps upping the ante. . .
Praise for Murder on Tour
“This novel, like Burns’s others, wipes the mind clean of anything but pure enjoyment.” —New York Times Book Review
Release date:
February 25, 2025
Publisher:
Kensington Books
Print pages:
272
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“Good afternoon. My name’s Samantha Washington and I write murder mysteries,” I said with a big grin on my face.
“Women shouldn’t be writing books about murder. You should be home raising a family and taking care of your husbands,” a gravel-filled voice yelled from the back of the room.
My grandmother, Nana Jo, was seated in the front row. Even though I was standing over six feet away, I heard a growl rise from her gut to her throat.
The crowd of mostly women at the Pontolomas Senior Citizens Center who came to hear me talk about my book, Murder at Wickfield Lodge, shushed and murmured. There was a good amount of shuffling and moving of chairs. This event wasn’t getting off to a good start.
I craned my neck to see where the disruption originated. It didn’t take a genius to see that my heckler was a short white-haired elderly man. He chomped on an unlit cigar in the corner with a smirk on his face that left no doubt that he was the one whose views were still mired in the early twentieth-century quicksand. He had a short neck that reminded me of a toad. He sat with his arms folded across his chest and leaned back in his chair. I wasn’t sure if he reminded me of an antique because of his outdated mindset or because of the years etched on his face like growth rings on a tree.
I took a deep breath and swallowed hard. Pull it together, Sam. I reminded myself that before I’d quit my job to open my mystery bookshop and write full-time, I had been a high school English teacher. I’d endured far more creative hecklers and insurgents than this guy. So why is this guy getting under my skin? As a teacher, I’d mastered the art of bringing teenage dissidents to a screeching halt with a raised eyebrow and a look. All teachers, the good ones who stood the test of time, have a look. Maybe I was rusty. It had been quite some time since I’d taught and last had to employ the look. I gazed out at the sea of faces, the people who had come out to see me. The event was on land belonging to the Pontolomas. The vast majority of those present were female with features indicating they were indigenous.
The Pontolomas were a Native American tribe that had populated Southwestern Michigan long before any settlers arrived from Europe. The expressions they wore were kind. These were people who had left the comfort of their homes to make their way to the community center to listen to me talk about and read from my book. This wasn’t me spouting off about dangling participles or sentence structure. This was my book. It was personal.
I cleared my throat and started again. “Murder at Wickfield Lodge is the first book in a historical cozy mystery series that features—”
“What a lot of claptrap.”
I didn’t need to look up to know that the comment came from the same person. The gravel-throated toad.
The crowd rustled. Most shushed. Some pleaded for silence.
If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. “Murder at Wickfield Lodge is set in England in 1939. It’s right before the start of World War II and—”
“Ha. Women always get their facts wrong. World War II didn’t start until December 1941, after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Every fool knows that. That’s why women should stick to things they know, like cooking, cleaning, and babies. Leave the important facts like war to a man,” Toad Throat said.
The booing and the shushing volume increased. Unlike the last time, the response was more vocal and charged with anger and included more words.
“Chauvinist.”
“Quiet.”
“Silence.”
“Actually, World War II officially started in September 1939. After the Germans invaded Poland, Great Britain and France declared war on Germany. The Soviet Union joined the war in June 1941. The United States declared war on Japan after the bombing of Pearl Harbor in December, later that same year. In support of Japan, Hitler declared war on the U.S., and so you are partially correct if you are only talking about when the United States joined the war.” I flashed a big smile to soften the correction, but based on the grunt I received in response, it didn’t matter.
A few women applauded.
“So, this is a cozy mystery that—”
“What the heck is that anyway? A cozy mystery?” Toad Throat yelled. “Never heard of it. Sounds like some made-up word, a cozy mystery.”
“There are enough things a Neanderthal like you have never heard before to fill an entire planet. But maybe if you’d shut up and listen you’ll learn something,” Nana Jo yelled.
“Yeah.”
“Let her talk.”
“I came to hear the author, not you.”
The crowd was getting rowdy.
“A cozy mystery is a subgenre of crime fiction. Has anyone ever watched Murder, She Wrote?” I asked.
There were lots of head nods.
“That’s a perfect example of a cozy mystery. Jessica Fletcher is an amateur sleuth. She’s a retired teacher who turns to writing mysteries after her husband dies. She doesn’t get paid to solve crimes like the police.” The similarities between Jessica Fletcher and myself weren’t lost on me. I too had turned to writing murder mysteries after Leon, my late husband, died. But that wasn’t part of the presentation.
A young woman in the front row raised her hand. “Is that the only thing that makes it cozy?”
“No. Experts within publishing will disagree on the exact criteria for a cozy mystery. Some people think you have to have a theme or a pet. But the thing that pretty much everyone agrees on is that a cozy mystery doesn’t have any violence on the page. No explicit sex, and no severe bad words.”
“No violence? I thought you said it was a murder mystery. How can you have a murder mystery without violence?” Toad Throat asked.
This time, the crowd wasn’t as vocal in their opposition to the heckler. Many of them probably had the same question.
“I said there’s no violence on the page. So, you don’t see the gruesome grisly deed. When you read a cozy, the author won’t describe the murder in graphic detail. There won’t be detailed descriptions of the body decomposition or any of the other nastiness that comes along with murder and dead bodies. If you think about Jessica Fletcher in Murder, She Wrote, she always just stumbled across a dead body. The important thing wasn’t the body. The important thing was the puzzle. It’s about figuring out the clues to determine whodunit.”
“Pshaw! Nonsense. Leave it up to a woman to create something so completely ridiculous. Murders aren’t cozy. Murders are brutal and bloody. They are horrific. Men know this. A woman has to soften it and turn the most vicious of actions into something warm and cozy. Geez! You’ve taken away the core of the thing and turned it into something cheerful and fuzzy with cats and recipes. That’s not serious literature. That’s just fluff.”
The crowd’s reaction was no longer polite and friendly. Several of the women turned around and yelled at the toad. Things were getting out of control.
Nana Jo was on her feet. At five foot ten and over two hundred pounds, my grandmother was no lightweight. She towered over the crowd and narrowed her gaze at the toad-throated heckler. “Now, you listen here. If you say one more word, I’m going to put my foot up your rear and drop-kick you like a bad habit.”
“Bring it on, old woman.” Blood rushed up the heckler’s neck and flooded his face. He stood up, knocking his chair over in the process.
Nana Jo walked slowly around the crowd so she was nearly toe to toe with the heckler. She spread her legs so her feet were shoulder-width apart. Left foot forward and pointed toward her opponent. Her right foot was slightly back and pointed at a forty-five-degree angle. Her knees were slightly bent and her hands were up, with her fingers pointed upward. If the heckler didn’t know my grandmother held a black belt in aikido and jujitsu, her stance must have given him a clue. She extended one hand like Morpheus in The Matrix and beckoned for the heckler to make the first move.
A tall thin man with long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail hurried from a back room and into the central area set up for my talk and reading. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt. He walked over to my heckler and whispered something in his ear.
“I’m entitled to my opinions. It’s in the First Amendment,” Mr. Toad Throat erupted. “It’s supposed to be a free country, even on a reservation.”
I was too far away to hear the exchange, but whatever my ponytailed helper said, it doused the flames. The heckler appeared to have had a change of heart. He forced his lips to curl upward. It didn’t reach his eyes, and what was likely intended to be a smile looked more like a grimace in the end. Still, even a grimace was better than the fire-breathing dragon he’d unleashed moments earlier.
The heckler grunted, turned, and marched out of the room.
The cheers and applause were so loud that even if Toad Throat wanted to say something more, he would have had to shout.
After he left, the atmosphere in the room changed completely. Instead of the tense, highly charged space that existed moments earlier, the air was calm and peaceful. The sun shone. Birds chirped. People relaxed and smiled.
Nana Jo watched as her opponent walked away for a few moments before she turned, shrugged, and returned to her seat.
The group gave her a standing ovation.
Nana Jo turned to face the group. “Too bad. I’ve been practicing my crane kick and was looking forward to giving it a try.” She stood on one leg with both hands raised in the air like the kid in The Karate Kid movie.
The crowd burst into laughter.
Nana Jo made a dramatic bow and took her seat.
The remainder of the presentation went without a hitch and surprisingly fast. I read a passage from my book, answered questions, and then signed copies. It turned out to be a great event.
Afterward, the staff thanked me for coming and apologized profusely for the unpleasantness. The activities coordinator, Enola Nightingale, a small middle-aged woman with dark eyes and a big smile, pulled me aside.
“I’m so sorry that you experienced such a rude personality. The manager was appalled when I told him what happened.”
“It’s okay. I know it wasn’t your fault.” I smiled. “I’m just glad my grandmother didn’t get into a physical fight with him.” I glanced around and saw Nana Jo talking to the man who’d evicted the heckler earlier. They seemed to be having a friendly conversation and both were smiling.
“Just between you and me,” Mrs. Nightingale leaned forward and whispered, “I would have enjoyed seeing that man taken down by a woman.”
We both chuckled.
Since I’d published my first book and started promoting it, I’d purchased a plastic tote on wheels, which is where I stored all the things I hauled to book events. It contained a few books, bookmarks, pens, candy, and other swag that I carted around to book readings and signings. It made life easy to have the tote packed and ready to go. When I had everything loaded into the tote, I looked around for Nana Jo.
She finished her conversation with the manager in time to help me load the tote in the back of my SUV. Then, she surprised me by handing me an envelope.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“That man I was talking to, the one who tossed that heckler out, his name is Kai Strongbow. Nice man. He’s one of the tribal leaders with the Pontolomas and I think he manages the community center. Mr. Strongbow was horrified by the way you were treated by that sawed-off troll who had the nerve to heckle you.”
“Is that what he called him?” I laughed.
“No, that’s what I called him. Anyway, Mr. Strongbow is also a member of the tribal council.”
“It sounds impressive, but what does that mean?” I asked.
“It means he’s one of the big muckety-mucks connected with the Four Feathers. When I found that out, I dropped a few hints about how you were getting married soon and your soon-to-be mother-in-law is coming tomorrow and that you were stressed out about that and didn’t need this toad-faced sexist adding to your stress level.”
“Nana Jo!”
“It’s the truth.”
“I know, but none of that was Mr. Strongbow’s fault. Besides, it all worked out in the end.”
“Once Strongbow threatened him. He just should have let me drop-kick him into the middle of next week. I would have enjoyed putting that backward-thinking Neanderthal in his place. That—”
“Wait. What? He threatened him? I was too far away to hear what he said to him.”
“Well, I was up close and personal. Mr. Strongbow said, ‘If you don’t leave these premises immediately, you will regret it. I will personally make it my mission to destroy you. Now, get off our land.’”
“Wow. That sounds serious. I almost feel sorry for him.” I backed out of the parking lot and headed toward the interstate.
“I don’t feel sorry for the little troll,” Nana Jo said. “He was rude and deserved to be taught a lesson, and I was just itching to be the one to do the teaching.”
“I said almost.” I focused on merging onto Interstate 94 and back to North Harbor.
North Harbor was a small town located on the shores of Lake Michigan in Southwestern Michigan. It was only about thirty minutes away from the Pontoloma reservation. The Pontoloma Nation was one of the newer tribes to be recognized by the United States Government. Since receiving their official tribal designation, they had bought a substantial amount of land, built a school, a medical facility, and the community center. They’d also built residential homes and established the highly successful Four Feathers Casino and Resort.
“Anyway, Mr. Strongbow and I got to talking and he wanted to do something to make up for the way Oscar Pembrook treated you.”
“Oscar Pembrook? Is that Toad Throat’s name? I mean—”
“I know what you meant, and yes, that’s his name according to Mr. Strongbow.”
“That was nice, but it wasn’t necessary.”
“Sam, he wanted to do it.”
“Do what?”
“He’s offering a complimentary stay at the casino resort for an entire four-day weekend. All expense. . .
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