The Plot Is Murder

Book 1: Mystery Bookshop

by V.M. Burns

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Animal Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Samantha Washington has dreamed of owning her own mystery bookstore for as long as she can remember. Now that she's preparing for her store's grand opening, she's also realizing another dream-penning a cozy mystery that's set in England between the wars. While Samantha hires employees and fills the shelves, her pen has quick-witted Lady Penelope Marsh, long-overshadowed by her beautiful sister Daphne, refusing to lose the besotted Victor Carlston to her sibling's charms and stepping in to solve the murder of one of Daphne's other suitors...

But as Samantha indulges her imagination, the unimaginable happens in real life. A shady realtor turns up dead in her backyard, and the police suspect her-after all, the owner of a mystery bookstore might know a thing or two about murder, right? Aided by her feisty grandmother and an ensemble of colorful retirees, Samantha is determined to close the case before her store opens. But will she live to conclude her story now that the killer has a revised ending in mind for her?

Release date: November 28, 2017

Publisher: Dreamscape Media, LLC

Print pages: 256

Sample

North Harbor, Michigan

“Victor Carlston, don’t you think it’s wicked to sit here enjoying yourself while your dearest relative lies at death’s door?”

“That’s a good start,” I said out loud, even though there was no one to hear. “Although, I don’t know about Carlston. It doesn’t sound British enough. Maybe Worthington? Weatherby? Or Parkington? I think I like Worthington.” I rolled the name around in my head and scrolled back up to make the change, reading aloud as I made the edits.

“Victor Worthington, don’t you think it’s wicked to sit here enjoying yourself while your dearest relative lies at death’s door?”

“Hmmm . . . I wonder if Worthington is too British. Maybe I should go with something simple, like Brown.” I was about to try out yet another surname on my hero when the doorbell rang. My toy poodles, both moments earlier curled up sound asleep on an ottoman, barked and raced downstairs to greet our visitor.

I peeked over the stairs and saw my sister Jenna’s reflection in the glass. I considered ignoring it and sneaking back into my office until my cell phone started vibrating in my pocket. My family and the Borg from Star Trek had a lot in common. Both demanded complete assimilation and resistance was definitely futile.

“Darn it.”

My sister wouldn’t leave me a moment of peace. It was just a matter of time before she tracked me down like a bloodhound.

I girded my loins, tramped down the stairs, and opened the door.

Like a blustery autumn wind, Jenna Rutherford blew through the doorway and marched up the stairs, talking a mile a minute.

“Have you talked to your mother?” She stopped at the top of the stairs, turning, and looked at me. “What’s taking you so long? Do you have any tea?”

Resistance truly was futile. I closed and locked the door and went upstairs. She already sat at the breakfast bar, waiting for her tea. I stepped behind the bar, grabbed the kettle, and filled it with water from the sink.

“Hello, Jenna.”

“Your mother. When is the last time you called her?”

It was always “your mother” when Mom was annoying.

“I talked to her this morning,” I said slowly and deliberately. I knew where this conversation was going.

“Oh. Well, your mother called me all upset.”

“Hmm.” Little input was needed on my side of the conversation. She was on a roll. I placed the kettle on the stove and took tea bags from the cabinet.

“Sam, it’s been six months. You’ve got to snap out of this,” she droned on.

This was an old song I’d heard before, but that day something snapped.

“Six months. Is that the deadline?” Anger rose. “Leon and I were married for thirteen years. He was my best friend.”

Perhaps Jenna sensed we were on dangerous ground when my voice got softer and each word became more pronounced. Unlike most people who got louder as they got angrier, I tended to get softer and I enunciated each and every syllable.

“Is six months really the cutoff for mourning?” I took several deep breaths to regain my composure. “Jenna, I know you mean well. Everyone means well.”

What neither my well-meaning sister, nor the rest of my family, understood was that mourning was actually comforting.

“The first month after Leon died, I don’t think I felt anything. The shock was so painful, I was in a daze. Afterward there were so many things to do. Decisions had to be made. I didn’t have time to think. I barely had time to breathe. I definitely didn’t have time to grieve.” I paced behind the counter while I talked.

Thankfully, Jenna sat and listened, something she rarely did where I was concerned.

“After the shock wore off, the pain started. It felt like a part of my body had been cut off. It’s only now, six months later, that I feel like I can mourn. I have finally allowed myself to feel again and the heaviness, the grief is actually comforting.”

The look on her face said she didn’t understand.

“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s like when your foot falls asleep. At first you can’t feel anything, so, you keep shaking it to wake it up. Eventually, you get the prickly tingles right before your foot wakes up completely.”

She stared, but at least she wasn’t talking. I shouldn’t be angry with her. None of it was her fault.

“Jenna, I’m fine,” I said calmly.

Her skeptical expression was enough for me to backtrack.

“Okay. I’m not fine.” I sighed. “But I will be.”

She looked into my eyes as if the truth was there behind my irises. Who knew, maybe it was.

“Okay. But we care about you and we’re all worried, especially your mother.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I don’t want you or Mom to worry.”

The kettle whistled and I poured the boiling water into the mugs and handed my sister the box of raw sugar she liked, which I kept in the cabinet especially for her.

“Anyway, what were you doing?” Jenna asked.

I perched on the stool next to her and sipped my tea.

“Writing,” I said shyly. The fact that I was actually attempting to write a book was a deeply held secret I shared with very few people. Until recently, my sister and my husband were the only people I’d entrusted with my precious dream. Talking about it was still scary.

Leon and I were both huge mystery fans. We met in the mystery section at a chain bookstore. Leon liked hard-boiled, private detective stories and I was more of a British cozy person. Regardless of the types of mysteries, we both loved the genre. Even our dreams revolved around mysteries. I fantasized about becoming a successful mystery writer, while Leon dreamed about owning a bookstore that specialized in mysteries. We spent countless hours talking about our dreams—dreams that seemed light years away. Leon worked as a cook at a diner and I was an English teacher at the local high school. We worked hard but lived hand to mouth and paycheck to paycheck. We knew our dreams were just that—dreams.

By the time the doctors found the cancer that caused the pain Leon complained about for more months than I could count, it was too late. With only a few weeks before he died, he made me promise I would buy the brick brownstone we walked past weekly and talked about “one day” or “when we hit the lottery” how we would fix it up and have our bookstore. He made me promise I’d take the insurance money and buy the building and write my book.

I sold the three bedroom home we’d purchased and renovated over a decade ago. It held too many memories. Every room was a story about our life together. My family and friends tried to talk me out of making major changes. Maybe I’d regret selling the house one day, but Leon suggested it. He knew me so well. He knew I’d never be able to move forward as long as I continued living in the past.

“Earth to Sam.”

I pulled myself off memory lane. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I asked how the writing was going.” Jenna took a scone from the tiered plate on the counter and inspected it.

I knew what she was looking for. “Don’t worry. There aren’t any raisins in that batch.”

She spread clotted cream and strawberry preserves on her scone, took a bite, and moaned in delight.

“The book is coming along pretty well, but I’m just getting started. I have a long way to go. I have my main characters, Penelope and Daphne Marsh and Victor Carlston—or Worthington. I’m not sure which name I like best.”

“I like Carlston,” Jenna said with a mouth full of scone.

“I like it too. Maybe I’ll keep it.” I reached for my fourth scone of the day.

“And when is the grand opening?”

“Supposedly in two weeks.”

“Why ‘supposedly’?”

“I’m still waiting for the last set of bookshelves. I’ve got boxes and boxes of books that have to be inventoried and shelved and my new point-of-sale system isn’t working yet. I also haven’t gotten the final okay from the health department to open the tea shop.”

“Well, the tea shop can wait. You don’t have to do everything at once. You could get the bookstore opened first. Then once it’s open and running, you can open the tea shop later.” My sister always adopted a condescending tone when she talked to me. It annoyed me. The fact that she was right made it even more annoying.

A couple of scones and two more cups of tea later, she left. I loved my sister, but spending time with her left me emotionally drained.

I wasn’t exactly in the mood for more writing. I sat at my computer and reread what I’d written so far, hoping it would help me get back to a relaxed frame of mind.

“That’s enough for one night.” I closed my laptop. It was getting late, and I had a busy day coming up, the last day of school, for the children and for me. I would leave the stable security of a regular paycheck, insurance, a pension, and the union that had dictated my life for the past twelve years to embark on a new adventure.

Following your dreams sounded like an exciting journey, but for a widow in her mid-thirties, it was a bit scary. As a society, we were encouraged to work hard, invest for retirement, and make sound financial, practical decisions. Maybe it was my working class upbringing, or maybe it was the Midwestern work ethic. Whatever the reason, I found myself waxing nostalgic about the daily grind of teaching our nation’s youth. On the wall hung the motto from Henry Ford that Leon liked to quote,


I knew what I had to do. Change was scary, but if Leon’s death taught me anything, it was that life was short, sometimes too short. Tomorrow wasn’t promised. I needed to do this for Leon and for myself. I consoled myself with the knowledge I could teach nights at the community college if I truly needed money.

I’d been very frugal with both the insurance money and the money from selling the house. In our original plan, Leon and I envisioned converting the upstairs of the bookstore into living space, which we could rent out to help pay the mortgage. Near the end, when Leon thought I needed a clean start, the idea of my living in the space took shape. The upper level of the soon-to-be bookstore was a large, open loft with beautiful oak hardwood floors, brick walls with seventeen foot ceilings, and windows stretching from floor to ceiling. The renovated 2,000-square-foot space contained a nice kitchen area, living room, two bedrooms, and two bathrooms. Track lighting and skylights made the space bright and inviting. I enjoyed the space more than I imagined I would. My new home was just right for me. There was even a detached garage at the back of the lot, which I accessed through an alley. I’d had a fence installed and created a small courtyard perfect for my dogs, Snickers and Oreo.

I decided to turn in. I needed all of my mental and emotional strength to get through yet another change.

I parked my Honda SUV in the staff parking lot of North Harbor High School. The message board outside the school not only proclaimed the prowess of the North Harbor Wildcats and congratulated the graduating class, but also wished me a fond farewell. It wasn’t often you got to see your name in lights. So, I reached into my purse and grabbed my cell phone to take a picture of my name scrolling across the sign and a tissue to wipe away the tears I couldn’t blink back. A quick look in the mirror showed the tear tracks were ruining my makeup, and my mascara was already gone. It was going to be a long and difficult day.

Inside, signs from grateful students covered the walls. GOOD-BYE, MRS. WASHINGTON—WE’LL MISS YOU. My favorite was PARTING MAY BE SWEET SORROW, BUT IT STILL BITES. There was a picture of our mascot, Willie the Wildcat, taking a bite off the bottom of the sign.

The principal was waiting for me when I walked throu. . .