Vice and Virtue

Book 1: Layla Virtue Mystery

by Libby Klein

Genres: Private Investigators; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Layla Virtue, a blue-haired, 30-something recovering alcoholic and former cop is trying to reinvent herself as a musician—between AA meetings, dodging eccentric neighbors at her trailer park, and reconnecting with her mysterious dad—in this unforgettable new mystery brimming with hilarity and heart for readers of Margot Douaihy, Jane Pek, and Darynda Jones.

Layla is taking her new life one day at a time from the Lake Pinecrest Trailer Park she now calls home. Being alone is how she likes it. Simple. Uncomplicated. Though try telling that to the group of local ladies who are in relentless pursuit of Layla as their new BFF, determined to make her join them for coffee and donuts.
 
Meanwhile, since her first career ended in a literal explosion, Layla’s trying to eke out a living as a rock musician. It’s not easy competing against garage bands who work for tacos and create their music on a computer, while all she has is an electric guitar and leather-ish pants. But Layla isn’t in a position to turn down any gig. Which is why she’s at an 8-year-old’s birthday party, watching as Chuckles the Clown takes a bow under the balloon animals. No one expects it will be his last . . .
 
Who would want to kill a clown—and why? Layla and her unshakable posse are suddenly embroiled in the seedy underbelly of the upper-class world of second wives and trust fund kids, determined to uncover what magnetic hold a pudgy, balding clown had over women who seem to have everything they could ever want. Then again, Layla knows full well that people are rarely quite what they seem—herself included . . .


 

Release date: April 29, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

NOTHING SAYS YOU’VE MADE A WRONG TURN IN LIFE LIKE PLAYING “The Hokey Pokey” on electric guitar for an old couple’s fiftieth wedding anniversary. My whole life has been about sex, drugs, and rock and roll—but the wrong kind of each.

The cinder block and plywood event stage at the Seahorse Lounge creaked under my hundred and thirty pounds, making me nervous that I’d crash through it as I rocked my hips in time to “The Chicken Dance” that I wailed on my guitar like Jimi Hendrix playing the national anthem.

Okay fine, a hundred and thirty-eight pounds.

The problem with being on this side of the action was my front row seat to tomorrow’s regrets. The couple who would fight later because the wife’s best friend was drunk and getting handsy with the husband. The teenagers sneaking champagne that had been abandoned on the banquet tables by their overtrusting elders, who in lieu of guarding the liquor, were flapping their arms like drugged birds on the dance floor. All drunk and disorderlies in the making. Today’s happy family celebration would be tonight’s domestic disturbance. Alcohol was always an accelerant.

It was no use saying anything. I’d learned long ago that you can’t save people from their destructive behaviors. I couldn’t even save myself.

I watched two boys empty leftover cocktails into a water bottle. I closed my eyes. It’s not my problem—I’m just the entertainment. I can’t get involved. When I get involved people get hurt.

I turned up the volume to drown out my nagging conscience. My father had bought me the teal-and-gold Les Paul when I’d turned sixteen many years ago. Other kids got cars. I got a custom guitar that up until six months ago had mostly collected dust in the corner. This was not how he’d intended me to use it.

I slowed the music down and started an instrumental version of “Unchained Melody.” I didn’t need one of the guests of honor to stroke out. Very few referrals came from dead clients.

Watching the happy couple so in love sent a stab of pain and loss through my heart. I tried to find another point of focus to distract me when a hand tapped my knee and I cast my eyes downward to a chubby face smeared with raspberry frosting.

I’d been joined on stage by a little boy with bright blue eyes and hair like a sticker bush. “Are your pants made of trash bags?”

I turned off my voice mike. “What? No. This is Italian leather.” At least it’s Chinese vinyl made to look like Italian leather.

“Why is your hair blue?”

“My hair is black. It just has blue streaks through it. Now go away.”

“My mom says your name isn’t really Layla. What’s a gimmick?”

“It’s something horrible that happens to little boys who won’t let me finish my set.” I looked around the ballroom for the kid’s mother.

“Why do you have airplanes drawn on your arm?”

“They’re hummingbirds, and they’re called tattoos.” Seriously. Is no one looking for this sticky child? I quietly made up a little ditty that matched the Righteous Brothers tune. “The Boogeyman is hiding uh-uhunder your bed. Are you afrai-aaaaaaa-ayaid?”

Unfortunately, it seemed to have the opposite effect I was going for. His eyeballs swelled to the size of the deviled eggs on the buffet table, some of which were currently stashed in a tin foil pouch in my guitar case in the restaurant kitchen. “And then what?”

“What do you mean ‘and then what’? Good Lord, what are you watching on TV?”

“Cosmic Fury Rangers.”

“Okay, well quit it. That stuff will rot your brain.”

“Ooooh.” He reached up to touch one of the hummingbirds on my forearm.

“Come on, kid, I’m working.” I tried to nudge him away with my foot and he sidled closer to me. I would take any kid’s mother at this point.

“Are you a spinster?”

“No! Why? Did someone say I was old? I’m only thirty-seven. Go wash your face.”

“My dad said I don’t have to as long as I leave my sister alone.”

I adulterated another verse to shoo him away. “Spi-iya-ders lay eggs in your braa-aya-ain when you go to-oo slee-eee-eep.” Ugh. He’s hugging my leg now. Somebody kill me.

I faded out the final chords as a woman in a gold sequined cocktail dress approached the stage with her hand out. “Come, Jeremy. It’s time for Grannie and Pop Pop to cut their cake.”

“Bye, Jeremy.” Wait till they get a load of Jeremy’s handiwork with the raspberry frosting on the bottom layer there.

Jeremy’s mom gave me a nod. “We’re going to do the toasts now. When we come back, maybe you can play something everyone can dance to. Do you know anything by Taylor Swift?” I shook my head and she sighed. “We could have had my boss’s grandson’s group, but they were booked until Christmas. I bet they would have been Swifties.”

“Your mom and dad seem to be having a good time with the classics.” I gave her the start of an encouraging smile.

She frowned. “You have a few minutes if you need the bathroom or anything.”

I flipped the amp to standby and slipped my guitar strap off my shoulder. What I needed was a steady paycheck and some vegetables, but I would take something from the bar. I crossed the shabby orange sherbet dining room, grabbed the Deer Park cocktail from the tween thieves giggling in the corner, and marched up to the bartender. “Hey, George. Club soda and lime.”

He poured my drink, nodding toward the anniversary party room. “How’s it goin’ in there?”

“It’s not halftime at the Super Bowl but it’s a living.”

The Seahorse was an old dive-y kind of place that really wanted to be a fancy wedding reception destination but couldn’t quite make it out of the low-budget prom zone. Because the people who booked events here were used to lowering their standards, I hoped those sentiments would be passed to me as well. I leaned my guitar against an empty barstool and chucked the offending water bottle into the trash before I could decide to chug it just to dull the pain of this night.

A snicker to my right caught my ear and I turned to see the most stunning man I’d ever laid eyes on. Skin a warm russet brown, eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea, eyelashes that Smashbox would bankrupt themselves to replicate in a tube. He was relaxed in that way that said he was comfortable in his own skin. Something I hadn’t been—well, ever. “Something amuse you?”

He smiled and little crinkles formed in the corner of his eyes. “I just never heard a heavy metal rendition of ‘The Bunny Hop’ before.”

Is he flirting with me? His shirt color matches his eyes to make them pop. He knew he was gorgeous and that made him trouble. No wedding ring or wedding ring tan line made him convenient. Sitting alone at the cash bar just outside a big happy family event where the alcohol was free on the other side of the door, made him a loner—and that made him perfect. I took the seat next to him. “You should hear my ‘Alley Cat’ on the electric violin.”

He chuckled and his eyes sparkled as if on command. “I won’t be able to get that thought out of my head all night.” He ran a finger around the rim of his long-neck bottle, and I noticed he didn’t have a cell phone attached to his hand like a normal person sitting alone would. “How long have you been playing?”

“My whole life.”

“And what is that? Thirty years?”

“Give or take.” I nodded toward the banquet room. “You could ask little Jeremy. He’s got loose lips.”

He laughed. “I take it Jeremy doesn’t have a career with Homeland Security ahead of him?”

“God, let’s hope not. Are you a guest of the anniversary couple or just trolling for single seniors?”

His smile flashed a playful spark. He was having fun teasing me. “Don’t knock the three P.M. early bird special until you’ve tried it.”

“I’ll have to take your word for that. Unless you want to call it breakfast. Then I’m all in.”

He swiveled toward me with a lazy smile and his eyes burned into mine with an intensity I hadn’t seen from a man in a long time. “I’m always up for spending the day in bed.”

An electric current shot through my body. “Now you’re just bragging.”

“It’s not bragging if you can do it.”

I wasn’t thinking about my bad choices while my back was pressed up against the brick wall in the alley. Or of his T-shirt that was currently dangling from my free hand. I was only aware of his mouth pressed against mine and the tingle working its way down my neck. It had been a long time. I don’t remember it being this hot. Maybe it’s because of those eyes.

An ominous crackle of police radio in the distance jerked the slack out of my senses. No no no no. Come on.

A car door slammed, followed by a second. Anyplace else.

Mr. Gorgeous pulled away from me, concern playing across his face. “What’s wrong?”

“What? Nothing. Why would you think something’s wrong?”

His breath was hot on my ear and made a shiver dance across my collarbone. “For one thing, your lips stopped moving.”

Another police radio crackle could not be ignored. I pushed against his chest. “Hold that thought.”

“Now?”

“I just have to check something.” I went back through the emergency exit into the kitchen and peeked around at the bar. Two uniformed officers were taking their hats off and settling in.

Why does someone up there hate me? I said I was sorry.

The cook, a chubby Mexican named Carlos who made sure to send me home with banquet leftovers whenever I played here—which was often, seeing as how I lived across the street—joined me and peered around the corner. “How’s the gig going tonight, Layla?”

“Fair to middling. Better than the Everett wedding a month ago but not as good as that bar mitzvah where they thought I was related to Katy Perry.”

Carlos snickered. “As if. Whatchu gonna do now? You want me to go distract the cops so you can sneak back in there?”

“Too risky. I’m gonna bounce.”

“You gotta get over this fear, Layla. Cops have started coming in here from the station around the corner.”

“Raise prices and you’ll put a stop to that.” I grabbed a napkin and a pen and scrawled a note to the woman who would be signing my check.



I paid Carlos my last ten dollars to deliver it. “She’s the one in the gold sequins with the little boy covered in pink frosting.”

I snatched a chicken wing and my guitar case and dove out the back door into the night.

Mr. Gorgeous was patiently waiting, leaning against the brick wall of the alley with amusement playing across his face. He smiled seductively. “Everything okay?”

Ugh. He’s so beautiful. This is the kind of guy they carve statues of. Maybe the cops won’t come out here. No. Too risky. Why did this dive have to be a cop hangout? I grabbed my guitar that I’d leaned against the brick wall and stashed it in the case. “I’m really sorry to do this. You have no idea.”

He stepped toward me, searching my face. He ran his hand down my arm. “Are you alright? Did I do something wrong?”

I started backing away. “You were great. Really. As far as distractions go, this one would have been epic.”

I turned and took off running down the alley for the back lot.

He called after me. “Wait! I didn’t even get your name!”

“Trust me, it’s better this way.”

THREE MINUTES LATER, I TURNED MY ANCIENT MUSTANG AT THE pink Airstream with the window boxes of fall mums, into Lake Pinecrest Mobile Homes where I’d lived for the past six months. We had an array of class here, from the Tudor cottage on the lake to the fancy double-wides, to the rust bucket on cinder blocks that looked like a meth lab someone had rolled up and deserted before entering witness protection. My little brown trailer was somewhere in between. Closer to the meth side. Meth adjacent. I didn’t ask a lot of questions before I bought it.

It had a cute stone patio and a screened porch with one brave little rosebush by the front door. It would have been charming if it weren’t the place where dreams go to die. Even my garden gnome looked sad to be here, and he was wearing a jaunty hat and holding a duck.

I pulled under the carport and the Mustang ground out a cough then passed out. A pink slip of paper was taped to my front door. It had curled up on the ends from flapping in the breeze coming off the Northern Virginia highway that cut through Potomac County, but I could clearly make out the words Late Notice scrawled in red ink. My monthly threat to pay lot fees or get kicked out. I looked down the street and saw pink slips were attached to just about every door in my row. Agnes Harcourt, the late notice queen and trash bin Nazi, had been having an especially festive day.

I ripped the paper off my door and balled it up. Agnes needed to get a life. No one lived here because they won the lottery. And seriously, consider a different paper. It’s hard to be intimidated by any color used to paint a baby’s room, and this one has a kitten in the corner.

I threw my keys on the TV stand inside the door and leaned my guitar case against the gray flagstone coffee table. I’d bought this single-wide when I cashed out my pension after being formally escorted from my old job. I didn’t have the energy to be choosy with the décor, but at least it was clean.

I had a small gray kitchen off to the right, with a little stove that I’d never used and a fancy microwave that I was a master at operating. The 1950s-era silver Formica table and chairs came with the trailer. I bought the gray couch and chair set in the living room when I moved in. I didn’t realize they would blend in quite so well with the gray walls and aluminum blinds. If I ever lost my depth perception, the room would look totally empty except for a floating TV.

One day I was going to get around to decorating, but that’s a hard sell when you’re deciding between throw pillows and heat. I was pushing forty with no job, no retirement plan, and pink frosting on my leather-ish pants.

I went to the fridge and grabbed the last grape soda and my leftover corn dog from Chauncy’s Grill across the highway. Then I extracted the foil-wrapped deviled eggs from my guitar case. While I nuked the corn dog, I checked the voice mails on my cell phone. Capital One reminding me that my minimum payment was due three days ago. The electric company kindly threatening me to pay my bill or face electrocution. Adam Beasley wanting to grab a coffee and catch up. Who the heck is Adam Beasley? I thought the days of mystery men trying to make contact were behind me. Then there was one terse reminder from Agnes about the upcoming community meeting and potluck Sunday night.

“Layla, I’m bringing my famous rhubarb pie and I want you to bring napkins. Judging from the amount of Styrofoam take-out containers you keep errantly shoving into your recycling bin, I’m sure you don’t know the first thing about cooking. Let’s not chance everyone getting salmonella just so you can save face.”

How exactly am I supposed to bring napkins if I’ve been kicked out for not paying my lot fees, Agnes, you dumb twit? Getting dragged through the woods by Bigfoot would be less painful than attending this meeting. I moved here to disappear, not make friends with the cast from America’s Most Wanted. I should have found a cabin in the woods next to some doomsday preppers. At least they’d leave me alone.

I peeled off my leather pants and tossed them over the chair in my bedroom which was—you guessed it—also gray. I hated those pants. When I got too hot under the stage lights, they creaked like a rope swing. I changed into nylon track pants just in case miracles still happened and I worked up enough motivation to go for a run around the lake after dinner.

The microwave beeped in the kitchen, and I shoved the last deviled egg in my mouth. Then I took my corn dog and soda out to the little screened porch, pulled out one of the warped chairs around my plastic table, and logged into the banking app on my phone. I jumped through a lot of security hoops to confirm that I couldn’t afford a Happy Meal. If I got hacked, I hoped they’d feel sorry for me and maybe make a deposit. A better gig needed to come along soon, or I’d be busking down at the Crystal City Metro Station. I was afraid I’d be stuck competing for tips next to Afu, a Polynesian banjo player with one leg who complained incessantly about the renaming of the Washington Redskins football team, and I just did not need that kind of negativity in my life.

I needed a break. If I could get a couple of decent gigs, maybe I’d be discovered. I was definitely coming late to the party having spent the first half of my adult life working in a very different field. But I’d told myself I was gathering inspiration for songs or therapy sessions—whichever came first. And Debbie Harry didn’t make it big until she was in her thirties. Of course, she had a whole band, and I just had a guitar, fake leather pants, and the low self-esteem to play any venue for two hundred dollars.

When I was in high school and the guidance counselor asked me where I wanted my life to be in twenty years, I’m pretty sure this was not my answer.

Career wise I was starting at the bottom, picking up the pieces. I had been happy with my choices. Mostly. More happy than miserable. I’d been cooking along pretty good, living life on my own terms. I finally felt like I was making a difference.

Relationshipwise . . . That was another story. I’d been in love. Once. Then one day, my whole world came crashing down around me, and when the dust settled, I was alone, I had gaps in my memory, and there was no one to blame but myself.

My only silver lining was that I wasn’t the nightmare cover story on a gossip magazine.

Three times was enough.

I WOKE UP HOSTILE AND MURDEROUS. IT WAS 7:48 A.M., AND MY “neighbor” was at it again. Marguerite Molina lived in the blindingly pink single-wide behind me and she had a demonic rooster, which she insisted did not exist. He was on the far side of demented, and just begging to be made into buffalo wings.

Every morning, he strutted right up under my bedroom window and gave two-thirds of a crow. I was pretty sure it was the rooster equivalent of the middle finger. I needed an electric fence. Or a chicken prod. I threw open the bedroom window and yelled, “Marguerite! Get this obnoxious bird out from under my trailer! You ever heard of the noise ordinance!”

She answered from inside her mobile home. “No hablo ingles.”

That game won’t work with me, lady. “No me hagas matar a este gallo! I swear I will kill this rooster as soon as I get my hands on it!”

Marguerite called back, “I don’t have no rooster, you loca!”

I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top and slid into my flip-flops. I grabbed the broom, prepared to whack a rooster to kingdom come. Every morning, “Erka Erka”—then nothing. Stupid bird never finishes on purpose.

I threw the door open and hit the brakes. A beautiful black Lab was sitting at the bottom of my steps. His tail saluted as he turned soulful brown eyes on me.

“Hey. Where did you come from?”

His tail started to wag and thumped against my recycling bin like a bass drum. He crept up the steps to nuzzle my hand and gave me a lick.

I stroked his muzzle and checked for a collar and tags. He had none. “You are a beautiful boy. Are you lost? Do you need some water?”

He lay down at my feet and rolled onto his back. I rubbed his belly while looking around for someone who might be looking for him. “How did you get here, buddy?”

An ill wind began to blow, and I overheard voices coming down the street. “Layla Virtue needs to cut her grass. It’s almost a full inch over the acceptable length.” Agnes Harcourt was coming down the street with her complaint posse and their grievance clipboards.

Great. “You need to stay away from the sour old cranksters, buddy. They think they’re better than the rest of us because they own the row of fancy double-wides at the back of the lake.”

“I heard that, Layla. And we do not.”

“Agnes. What can I do for the grass length mafia boss today? Do you really have so few problems of your own that you have to fixate on mine?”

Agnes was a prickly woman of retirement age whose hobbies appeared to be telling other people what was wrong with them and sucking on lemons. She was thin as a reed with a hawklike nose, and her mouse-brown hair was pulled into a tight bun giving her eyes the look of a botched facelift.

Her partners in nuisance today were Myrtle Jean Maud—short and plump with twisted silver hair resembling a head full of gray cinnamon buns—and Clifford Bagstrodt, who appeared to have accidentally sat on a metal rod in his youth and had never gotten around to having it removed. I suspected Myrtle was just happy to be included in something for a change because she wore a celebratory sweater covered in appliquéd squirrels.

Agnes pointed to the Lab at my feet. “Is that your dog? You know you have to submit a request for occupancy approval before you can keep a pet, Layla.”

I pointed in the direction of the trailer behind me. “Tell that to Marguerite and her psychotic rooster.”

“I don’t got a rooster!” Marguerite called from inside her trailer.

“Shut up, Marguerite. Watch your Telemundo!”

Kelvin, the nine-year-old who lived across the street, came out of his grandmother Donna’s trailer bouncing a basketball that was one bounce away from being totally flat.

“Kelvin. Is this my dog?”

The dog looked across the street expectantly and wagged his tail.

Kelvin shot the ball at a makeshift hoop made out of a bottomless bucket duct taped to a light pole. “Nope.”

I gave Agnes a pointed look. “There you have it.”

Clifford wheezed out a crackly “Disgraceful,” and made a note on his clipboard.

A shadow cast over me from behind. “I am so sorry, ladies. That’s my dog. He’s still being trained, and he got out of his collar while I was putting out the recyclables. I didn’t know about the occupancy form.”

I knew that voice. I turned to match it to the face and . . . Oh crap.

My eyes found themselves looking at Mr. Gorgeous from the bar last night.

I knew the exact moment he recognized me because our eyes locked, and he froze with a red collar midair reaching for the dog. “You.”

I felt heat rush to my face and wished I’d at least put on my nicer sweatpants that didn’t have Bodacious written across the butt.

The dog acted like they’d been separated for ages. He hopped around in a circle while whimpering and licking the man’s face.

The man broke his attention from me and hugged the dog, rubbing his ears. “Who’s a good boy? Should we go play Frisbee?”

The dog barked a resounding yes to the Frisbee word.

Agnes beamed an angelic smile. “Hello again, Mr. Hayes. I hope you’re settling in.”

He straightened to his full height and snapped for the dog to sit. “Yes, ma’am. And thank you for the casserole.”

Agnes purred. “You are most welcome. We like to be neighborly here.” She cut her eyes to mine and scowled. “Most of us.”

“I didn’t get a casserole when I moved in.”

Myrtle Jean giggled.

I ignored the clipboard trio. “I take it you’re the new neighbor on my left?”

He crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes in a way that said he was not going to just be cool and let this go. “Moved in two nights ago. Funny we haven’t run into each other before with me being so close and everything.”

Uh-huh. Okay, Mister Overdramatic. “Yeah, funny. Well, I usually work nights.”

“Sure, sure, that explains it.” He touched his chest. “I’m Nick, by the way. Do you want to tell me your name, or wait until you get to know me better? Some people are skittish about introductions.” He quirked an eyebrow to punctuate his snark.

The dog stood between us following the conversation back and forth like we were playing keep-away with a tennis ball.

I sighed. “Since we’re neighbors . . . and we’re bound to run into each other . . . across the street and all.”

He gave me a dramatic nod. “Naturally.”

“My name is Layla.”

He threw his hands up. “Whoa. Too fast. At least buy me dinner before you trust me with such intimate information.”

Okay, someone’s gonna be a grudge holder. I tried, and failed, not to roll my eyes.

His lips quirked into an evil little grin. “I can go get in line at Denny’s right after I get the dog registered if you like.”

We stared into one another’s eyes for a beat, willing the other to cave first. The moment was broken when Agnes put her hand on Nick’s pec. “That’s okay, sugar. You didn’t know any better. You can come over to the office and get the occupancy form this afternoon.”

Nick glanced at Agnes’s hand then gave her a polite nod. “Thank you, ma’am. I will do that.”

“And be more careful. Especially with whom you choose to hang out with. It doesn’t take much to ruin a reputation with the management.”

Myrtle Jean snickered. “Just ask your new neighbor.”

Clifford reached for the dog’s head and the L. . .