The Novel Art of Murder

Book 3: Mystery Bookshop

by V.M. Burns

Genres: Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

A bookstore owner tries to keep her grandmother from spending her golden years in an orange jumpsuit in a novel by the Agatha Award finalist.
 
The small town of North Harbor, Michigan, is just not big enough for the two of them: flamboyant phony Maria Romanov and feisty Nana Jo. The insufferable Maria claims she's descended from Russian royalty and even had a fling with King Edward VIII back in the day. She’s not just a lousy liar, she's a bad actress, so when she nabs the lead in the Shady Acres Senior Follies—a part Nana Jo plays every year in their retirement village production—Nana Jo blows a gasket and reads her the riot act in front of everyone.
 
Of course, when Maria is silenced with a bullet to the head, Nana Jo lands the leading role on the suspects list. Sam’s been writing her newest mystery, set in England between the wars, with her intrepid heroine Lady Daphne drawn into murder and scandal in the household of Winston Churchill. But now she has to prove that Nana Jo’s been framed. With help from her grandmother's posse of rambunctious retirees, Sam shines a spotlight on Maria’s secrets, hoping to draw the real killer out of the shadows…
 
Praise for The Plot Is Murder
 
“Readers of Carolyn Hart and Vicki Delany will appreciate the lively seniors, the humor, and the bookstore environment.”—Library Journal

Release date: November 27, 2018

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

“What the blazes do you mean I didn’t get the part?” Nana Jo’s face turned beet red and she leapt up from her chair.

I had never been so happy for a slow morning crowd at the bookstore as I was at that minute. My grandmother was about to blow a gasket and, while it might prove entertaining, I preferred keeping the drama contained to family and friends.

“Josephine, calm down.” Dorothy Clark was one of my grandmother’s oldest friends, which was probably why she was nominated to break the bad news to her.

“Don’t tell me to calm down. I am calm. I’m always calm.” Nana Jo pounded the table with her hand. The mugs shook and splashed coffee on the table. “If I want to kick up a ruckus, I’ll kick up a ruckus.” She pounded the table again and then marched over to the counter and grabbed a dishcloth to wipe up the mess.

Ruby Mae Stevenson, another of Nana Jo’s friends, shook her head and moved her knitting out of the way of the spills. “I told you she wouldn’t take it well.”

“I’ve had the lead role in the Shady Acres Senior Follies for the past ten years. That role was created specifically for me. I don’t just play the part of Eudora Hooper, retired school marm dreaming about becoming a famous showgirl. I am Eudora Hooper.” Nana Jo wiped up the spilled coffee.

“I know, and you’ve played the role splendidly.” Dorothy’s face reflected her sincerity.

Dorothy wasn’t merely humoring my grandmother. Nana Jo’s performance was inspired, and each year she got better and better.

Nana Jo looked at her three closest friends. “Who got the part?”

Ruby Mae put her head down and refused to make eye contact.

Irma Starczewski reached for her mug, but it was empty, so she pulled a flask out of her purse and took a swig.

Nana Jo put her hands on her hips, narrowed her eyes, and stared at Dorothy.

For a large woman, almost six feet tall, Dorothy shrank as she stared at Nana Jo. “Maria Romanov.”

I thought Nana Jo was red before, but the beet red coloring from earlier was nothing compared to the purple red that crept up her neck.

“Maria Romanov? That two-bit hack’s only acting talent is in her ability to convince people she’s a decent human being.” Nana Jo pounded the table again, rattling the mugs.

Just as quickly as the anger flared up, it vanished. Nana Jo flopped down in a chair. Nearly as tall as Dorothy, Nana Jo went through a transformation. Instead of the vibrant, active, five-foot-ten, sharpshooting, Aikido-tossing woman I knew and loved, there was a seventy-something, old woman in her place.

She took a few deep breaths. “If that’s what Horace wants, then I guess I wasn’t as good as I thought I was.”

“Bull—”

“Irma!” we shouted.

Irma coughed and clamped her hand over her mouth. Years of heavy smoking, drinking, and hanging out with truckers, if Nana Jo was to be believed, had left her with a deep cough, a salacious sexual appetite, and a colorful vocabulary.

I leaned over and gave Nana Jo a hug. “Your performance was amazing and I’m not just saying that because you’re my grandmother.”

She absentmindedly patted my arm. “Thank you, Sam, but Horace Evans is a top-notch director. He once directed Ethel Merman.”

“He even won a Tony award. I’ve seen it. He keeps it in his bedroom.” Irma smiled and then broke out in a fit of coughing.

The fact that Nana Jo didn’t acknowledge Irma’s quip about the location of the award was an indication of her state of mind. “We’ve been fortunate to have someone with his experience and credentials at Shady Acres.”

“Really? I didn’t know he had a Tony award. They always run something about the Senior Follies in the newspaper, but they’ve never mentioned it.”

“He likes to keep it low-key.” Dorothy nodded. “He worked on Broadway for more than twenty years.”

“How in the world did he end up in Michigan?” I asked.

“He wanted to be close to his family.” Ruby Mae looked up from her knitting. “I think his son was an engineer for one of the car companies.”

North Harbor used to have a lot of manufacturing plants that supplied parts for the Detroit automobile industry, but when the economy went south in the seventies, so too did most of the manufacturing jobs.

“I appreciate the kind words, but Horace is an expert. If he thinks Maria Romanov will make a better Eudora Hooper than me, I’ll just have to accept his decision.”

We tried to cheer Nana Jo up, but nothing we said had any effect. She smiled and continued to shrink. Only once did she perk up and demonstrate the flash of fire which characterized her personality.

The door chimed and a customer entered the bookstore.

Nana Jo rose from her seat. “It’s time to face the music. On opening night, I hope you all break a leg.” She pushed her chair in and headed to the front of the store. “And I hope Maria Romanov breaks her neck.”

Market Street Mysteries was a small bookstore which, as the name implied, specialized in mysteries. It didn’t get a ton of business, not like the big-box bookstores. However, neither North Harbor nor its sister city, South Harbor, had a big-box bookstore. Southwestern Michigan book lovers either traveled forty-five minutes to get their book fix or ordered online. In the months since I retired from teaching English at the local high school, I built up a nice clientele which was enough to keep my dream afloat.

Weekdays weren’t especially busy, so Nana Jo was well able to handle things while I took a break. When I left, the girls were still trying to convince her to continue with the Senior Follies, even if she took a lesser role, but I knew my grandmother well enough to know they were fighting a losing battle. Losing the lead role had wounded her pride. I needed time to think how I could help her. My stomach growled, so I decided to grab lunch.

November in North Harbor, Michigan, can be schizophrenic to the uninitiated. One minute it’s warm and sunny. The next minute a biting wind rolled off Lake Michigan, which rattled your teeth and made your skin quiver. Today was, thankfully, sunny and bright. The wind was crisp, so I walked quicker and lingered less as I made my way to North Harbor Café.

Even after the noon rush, the restaurant was crowded. I looked for a seat and my eye caught the gaze of the proprietor, Frank Patterson, behind the bar. He smiled and my stomach fluttered.

I hopped on an empty seat at the bar.

Frank finished mixing drinks and handed them to a waitress. Then he grabbed a pitcher of water from a small fridge, along with a few sliced lemons, which he placed in the pitcher. He grabbed a glass and placed them in front of me.

He leaned close. “I’m glad you came. I missed you.”

The warmth of his breath brushed my face and I inhaled his scent. He smelled of a strong herbal Irish soap, red wine, coffee, and bacon. He was surprised that a non-wine drinker like me could tell the difference between red and white wines. My late husband used to say I had a nose like a bloodhound, but I called it a gift. Coffee and bacon were two of my favorite things and my pulse raced.

“You smell good.”

Frank grinned. “Let me guess, coffee and bacon?”

I nodded.

He joked that he drank so much coffee the aroma seeped through his skin. The bacon was either a figment of my imagination or grease from the kitchen attached to his shoes. Whatever the reason, it was extremely sexy.

Frank Patterson was in his forties. He cut his salt-and-pepper hair in a way that betrayed his military background. He had soft brown eyes and a lovely smile. “As much as I’d like to believe my manly charm brought you in today, I suspect it’s my BLT.”

I laughed. “What can I say? A man that can make a good BLT is irresistible.”

“Whatever it takes to keep you coming back.”

Heat rose up my neck. I took a sip of my lemon water to try to hide it.

“One BLT minus the T and a cup of clam chowder?”

I nodded. I loved how he remembered things like that.

“I’ll be right back.”

I tried to suppress a grin, but it wouldn’t be suppressed and I dribbled water down the front of my shirt. Our conversation was lame, but it’d been a long time since I’d flirted. Leon and I had been married for over twenty years when he died. It’d been over a year, but I’d just now opened myself to romance.

Frank returned carrying a tray with a steaming hot bowl of clam chowder, a BLT which was piled high with bacon, and a rose. He placed the food in front of me, got a tall beer glass from behind the bar and filled it with water and placed the rose in it.

“Thank you.”

“That looks delicious.” A large man next to me glanced at my plate and then picked up his menu. “Is that clam chowder? I didn’t see it on the menu.”

Head down, I crumbled crackers into my chowder.

“It isn’t on the menu. It’s something I keep in the back for my . . . special friends.” He winked at me.

My neighbor took a whiff. “It looks and smells wonderful.” He looked at me. “You’re a lucky lady.”

I smiled and shoved a spoonful of soup into my mouth.

Frank pretended not to notice the heat that came up my neck, but I could tell by the look in his eyes that he had seen the redness. “There may be enough for one more bowl. Would you like to try it?”

He nodded eagerly. “If you have enough, that would be great. I love clam chowder.”

Frank headed off to get another bowl of soup.

I didn’t have time to practice flirting. The restaurant was busy, and I felt guilty taking up a seat. So, I finished eating, waved goodbye, and left.

The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. Nana Jo got rid of the girls and we worked in relative silence until closing. I’d hoped we could talk but she stayed busy and unapproachable until I locked the front door. When we were done cleaning, she announced she had a date and hurried upstairs to change.

My assistant and tenant, Dawson Alexander, was out of town for an away football game. When Nana Jo left, I was alone in my upstairs loft, except for my two poodles, Snickers and Oreo. It was peaceful. Although I was alone, I didn’t feel lonely. At some point, Frank had left a large container of chili in my refrigerator, which I heated up for dinner. There was also a platter with lemon cream cheese bars on my kitchen counter. Besides being a great quarterback for the MISU Tigers, Dawson was an amazing baker. His small studio apartment over my garage didn’t have a large stove, so he often baked in my kitchen. I placed two of the lemon bars on a plate and poured a cup of Earl Grey tea. The two men in my life, Frank and Dawson, kept me well fed.

Frank cooked when he wanted to relax, and Dawson baked. I wrote. Opening a mystery bookstore was a dream my husband, Leon, and I had shared. We both loved mysteries, and a bookstore specializing in mysteries seemed ideal. However, my dreams extended beyond selling mysteries to writing them. I kept that dream hidden, out of fear and insecurity, from all but Leon, my sister, Jenna, and my grandmother. After Leon died, I filled the lonely nights by writing a British historic cozy mystery. When Nana Jo sent my manuscript to a literary agent in New York, the dream moved from a hazy wisp of smoke and fairy dust into a solid reality in the form of a contract for representation. I was both thrilled and terrified at the same time. Even though, the thought of people I didn’t know reading my book sent a cold chill down my spine. I sat down at my laptop with my lemon bars and tea and realized the thrill was greater than the terror. I started writing.

Weekends were when I missed my nephews, Christopher and Zaq, and my assistant, Dawson, the most. The twins were juniors at Jesus and Mary University, or JAMU as the folks around River Bend called it. Even though neither of my nephews shared my love of mysteries, the bookstore provided the freedom to try out their natural talents and education in different ways. Christopher was a business major and enjoyed incorporating marketing and sales techniques from his classes in the bookstore. Zaq was my technology wizard and kept my POS and computers humming. They were going to keep the store running while I went to New York with Nana Jo during Thanksgiving break. I was both nervous and excited at the prospect. However, as Nana Jo said, “How much damage could they wreak in a week?”

Dawson Alexander was my former student from North Harbor High School, who had gotten a football scholarship to Michigan Southwestern University. MISU was a small local school, and Dawson was a sophomore and the star quarterback. He’d come to live with me six months ago and discovered a talent for baking. Between the three of them, the store would be fine. Frank promised to check in too.

MISU had an away game, so I had the radio tuned into the game. Hot apple cider and football-shaped sugar cookies decorated with MISU’s colors were the treats Dawson left for bookstore patrons, and they were vanishing quickly. We didn’t have our restaurant license yet, so we put the baked items out along with a jar for donations. His baking was gaining quite the reputation, especially after the local news interviewed him a few weeks ago. The interview was intended to show him as a local kid trying to rise above his poor beginnings and abusive father.... The extra publicity had been good for the bookstore too.

A steady stream of customers kept me busy, and closing time arrived before I knew it. After work, Nana Jo and I were going to the retirement village to pick up the girls for a night on the town. I’d convinced Nana Jo to go into the auditorium later and talk to the Tony award winning producer, Horace Evans. If for no other reason, she still had the costume from last year and could return it. She’d gotten it dry-cleaned and never bothered to return it, since everyone assumed she’d be playing the role again this year.

The drive from my building in downtown North Harbor to Nana Jo’s South Harbor retirement village went fairly quick. Nana Jo owned a villa in Shady Acres Retirement Village. It was a private, gated community for active seniors with a variety of housing options. There were detached single family homes the residents called villas, town houses, condos, and apartments.

Each resident had a card that opened the gates and unlocked the main doors. I pulled up to the main entrance and parked. Dry-cleaning bag in hand, we entered the lobby. The security guard at the front desk looked up when we entered. He recognized Nana Jo, waved, and continued watching a football game.

We passed a number of people we knew, but Nana Jo kept walking. The first floor of the building looked like any other apartment complex. There was a comfortable lounge area with sofas, flat screen televisions, and a massive fireplace. On one side was a workout facility. There was a pool and a large auditorium, which was where we headed.

Nana Jo stood outside the auditorium door, took a deep breath, and then opened it and marched in. The room was a large open area that could be reconfigured for whatever activity the residents wanted. Today, there were folding chairs near the rear. In the front of the room, a group practiced leg kicks and choreography on a platform. A man played the main number on a piano. One woman stood at the microphone wearing a tight leotard, which showcased every bulge and ripple, of which there were many. She had the largest chest I’d ever seen and her hair looked orange. I hoped it was a result of the spotligh. . .