A Viola Roberts Cozy Mystery Collection 2 Read online

  A Viola Roberts

  Cozy Mystery Collection

  Books 4-6

  Shéa MacLeod

  A Viola Roberts Mystery Collection

  Books 4-6

  Text copyright © 2019 Shéa MacLeod

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Cover design by Mariah Sinclair / www.mariahsinclair.com

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  A Viola Roberts Cozy Mystery Collection Books 4-6 (Viola Roberts Cozy Mysteries)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 | Big V

  Chapter 2 | Poison Pen

  Chapter 3 | Hot Tub Detectives

  Chapter 4 | A Tolerable Pinot

  Chapter 5 | Posh Or Not Too Posh

  Chapter 6 | Was It Murder?

  Chapter 7 | Friends and Enemies

  Chapter 8 | Accusations

  Chapter 9 | An Unhelpful Detective

  Chapter 10 | The Way to a Girl’s Heart

  Chapter 11 | Red Envelope

  Chapter 1 | Lost in Translation

  Chapter 2 | The Ghosts of Chipping Poggs

  Chapter 3 | Is the Truth Insulting?

  Chapter 4 | Bump in the Night

  Chapter 5 | Ghost Hunting

  Chapter 6 | The Colonel Takes Charge

  Chapter 7 | The Case of the Missing Curate

  Chapter 8 | No Such Thing as Coincidence

  Chapter 9 | The Beast and Bauble

  Chapter 10 | Pigs in Blankets

  Chapter 11 | The Body at Breakfast

  Chapter 12 | Haunted by the Ghost

  Chapter 13 | Suddenly A Scream

  Chapter 14 | Chocolate and Bacon

  Chapter 15 | Poking a Bee Hive

  Chapter 16 | The Secret Passage

  Chapter 17 | Exploratory Mission

  Chapter 18 | Spirits of the Dead

  Chapter 19 | Once Upon a Midnight Dreary

  Chapter 20 | As Poirot Would Say

  Chapter 21 | Return to Chipping Poggs

  Chapter 1

  The Body in the Bathtub

  Viola Roberts Cozy Mystery Book 4

  Shéa MacLeod

  The Body in the Bathtub

  Viola Roberts Cozy Mystery Book 4

  Text copyright © 2016 Shéa MacLeod

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Cover design by Mariah Sinclair / www.mariahsinclair.com

  Editing by Alin Barnum

  Proofing by Yvette Keller

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  DEDICATION

  For my bunco girls:

  Dreamis

  Kathy

  Marian

  Patti

  Carrie

  Charline

  Maryanne

  Diana

  Joan

  Sorry I had to kill some of you... ;-)

  Chapter 1

  Matchmaking Machinations

  “DARLING, I SAT NEXT to the nicest man at the coffee shop the other day.” My mother sat down across from me in a flurry of Chanel perfume and magenta chiffon skirts. The bright colors and light fabrics weren’t exactly suitable to the chill, wet weather of a coastal Oregon winter. Her only compromise was a pair of knee-high leather boots. She stood out in the rustic setting of Caffeinate (my favorite Astoria coffee shop) like a peony among dandelions. Her hair—originally dark brown like mine—was dyed a rich burgundy and tumbled from beneath a floppy felt hat and shimmered beneath the Edison style light bulbs hanging from the tin tile ceiling.

  Mom had come over from Portland to visit me for the day. She didn’t like staying overnight in Astoria, preferring the three-hour round trip instead. Four-star hotels weren’t good enough for her, I guess. I could have put her up in my Victorian cottage, but she steadfastly refused. She was a firm believer that overnight stays ended in blood and tears. With my mother, that was entirely possible.

  Widowed at the young age of sixty, my mother—Vanessa Roberts—had taken up several hobbies which came and went like fruit flies. The entire family was relieved when she finally sold her pottery wheel at a garage sale. A person could only use so many lopsided cereal bowls. Her long-standing and most favorite hobby was playing matchmaker for her single daughter. Which would be me, Viola Roberts, romance novelist and amateur sleuth. I was still hoping she’d lose interest as she had with pottery.

  I stared at her over the rim of my coffee mug, wondering how hard I should brace myself. Mornings were not my forte under any conditions. My mother was a more challenging condition than most. I decided non-committal was the best option. “Mmm-hmm.”

  She sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. The tiles, stamped with a fleur de lis pattern, added a touch of elegant Victorian to the rough brick walls and the wide plank floors. “Really, Viola.” She flicked an invisible crumb off the table with a moue of distaste.

  “What? What did I do?”

  “So, anyway,” she continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “This man I met. He’s French. Accent and everything. And...” she leaned forward, her pearls sliding dangerously close to her coffee. “He owns a winery.”

  “Um, okay.” I wasn’t sure why that was important, but from her tone she found it to be the most exciting thing ever. I inhaled the aroma of roasted magical beans before taking a fortifying sip. I was sure I was going to need it. Maybe a shot of espresso, too.

  My mother ripped open a packet of fake sugar and daintily sprinkled half of it into her coffee cup, then folded the top and carefully set it aside. “I showed him your picture and gave him your number.”

  “Mother!” I sat back, appalled. “Why would you do that? You can’t go giving out my number to random strangers. What if he’s a serial killer?”

  “He owns a winery.” As if that somehow excused any possible sin he might commit.

  I rubbed my forehead. I had a headache forming. “Mom, I’m seeing someone.”

  “Really?” Her eyes widened and a ridiculous grin spread across her magenta painted lips. She adjusted her hat and sat back smugly. I noticed its enormous bow matched her skirt. “Do tell.”

  Yep. Definitely a headache. “Remember that writer’s conference I went to in Florida back in October?” r />
  “The one where you nearly got yourself killed?”

  I’d like to say she was exaggerating, but unfortunately in this case she wasn’t. A double murderer pushed me down a set of marble stairs, nearly making me victim number three. “I met Lucas there,” I said, deciding to ignore her comment. “We’ve been sort of casually seeing each other since.”

  “Why am I only just hearing about this now?” she demanded.

  “Uh...” Because I wanted to avoid this situation. “I wasn’t sure where it was going.”

  “Is he gay?”

  “What?” I stared at her dumbly. It was way too early in the morning for this.

  “Well, it’s been what? Seven months now? Eight? And it’s still casual? What’s his problem?”

  Actually, it had been over a year. “He doesn’t have a problem, mother.”

  “Ah.” She nodded in understanding. “It’s you. Really, Viola. You need to get over whatever it is this is.” She waved her hand in the air as if shooing a fly.

  “I have no idea what you mean.”

  She gave me a narrow-eyed stare. “This problem you seem to have with men.”

  Was bashing my head against the table an option? “I don’t have a problem with men.”

  She arched one perfectly groomed eyebrow— which reminded me I hadn’t had mine waxed in a while. “Really, Viola. Need I remind you the last time you had a date was in the last decade?”

  “I want to take things slow,” I explained. “Not rush into anything.”

  “If you go any slower, you’re going to turn into a glacier.”

  I took a sip of coffee before I said something I might regret later. "Might" being the operative word. I love my mother, but lordy, she can get on my last nerve. And she calls me the dramatic one.

  “Now there’s a relationship headed for disaster.”

  “Seriously, mother? You haven’t even met Lucas.”

  She laughed lightly. “No. Over there.” She tilted her head toward the giant plate glass windows. I could see the Columbia River as it rushed into Young’s Bay before surging out to sea. Outside rain dripped from a leaden sky. Typical January day in Astoria. I tugged my navy cardigan a little closer despite it being perfectly warm inside Caffeinate.

  At a table nearby, a young couple I didn’t recognize was having a quiet-but-vehement argument. It was impossible to make out their words over the old school jazz coming from the speakers, but their tones were of the angry variety, their faces plastered with scowls to match. The girl looked like she’d stepped out of an '80s Goth group complete with fishnet stockings and black lipstick. The boy looked like an ordinary teenager in jeans and a plain red t-shirt. His shaggy golden hair looked like he’d just rolled out of bed.

  “Who says they’re in a relationship?” I asked.

  “Please, darling. I know a relationship when I see one. Now tell me more about this Lucas. What’s his last name?”

  I mumbled something under my breath.

  “Speak up. That caterwauling is ear shattering.”

  The music was set at a totally reasonable volume and B.B. King was not known for caterwauling. “His last name is Salvatore.”

  She sat forward abruptly her hazel eyes wide. “Lucas Salvatore?”

  “Shhh.” I glanced around but no one had noticed. Everyone in the entire city of Astoria knew Lucas and I were dating, but I didn’t want to churn up the gossip mill.

  “My daughter is dating Lucas Salvatore? Oh, that’s almost better than a winery.”

  “If you say so.” Lucas was a world-famous, best-selling thriller writer. Like the real-life Richard Castle. Only hotter, if you can image anyone being hotter than Nathan Fillion.

  “Tell me everything.” She sat back with glee. Clearly she was in for the long haul.

  Bracing myself for a lengthy interrogation, I spilled my guts. Well, I left a few parts out, but I told her the most important bits about how we met and some of our dates and whatnot. Halfway through the story, the young man of the arguing couple got up and stormed out. The girl hopped up and followed him. Just another Astoria incident of no importance.

  “So, when are you going to see him next? I’d love to meet him.”

  I bet you would. “Not sure.” The idea of Lucas meeting my mother sent a chill up my spine. Granted, he would probably handle it just fine. He was used to crazed fans and pushy agents. It was me I was worried about. More than once in my life, my mother’s nosiness had sent a boyfriend running for the hills. Maybe I wasn’t ready to play house with Lucas, but I didn’t want to lose him either.

  “So, I’m working on my next book,” I blurted, hoping to distract her.

  She rolled her eyes. “Not more of that bodice-ripper stuff.”

  I write historical romances. The kind with cowboys and mail-order brides and, yes, the occasional ripped bodice. Can’t write a sex scene without a rent garment or two. My mother was into crime fiction and thrillers, though I suspected she had a secret stack of romances somewhere. She was too obsessed with my relationships not to have read up on modern dating and romance.

  “The usual.”

  “It keeps you out of trouble at least.”

  “And pays the bills,” I said dryly. My mother had never quite gotten over the fact that I had quit my boring but highly paid accountant position to write romances. Even proof that I made more as a writer than an accountant hadn’t swayed her. “Besides, I can’t imagine what trouble you’re talking about.”

  “Really, Viola. Murder?” She tsked. “It’s so distasteful. And dangerous. It’s a wonder you haven’t been killed.”

  She had no idea. Recently I’d been run off the road by a killer for getting too close to the truth. Ironically thanks to that incident, I’d actually discovered the truth, and that particular killer was languishing in jail. Even more recently, someone had tried to frame me for poisoning half the town. Fortunately no one had died and the poisoner was locked up where she couldn’t hurt anyone else.

  “No murders. All quiet on the home front.”

  “You’d think in a Podunk town like this, things would be calmer.”

  She had a point. Not that Astoria was Podunk. It was a nice little town of about twenty thousand people located on a particularly stunning stretch of the Oregon coast. The population expanded in the summer as visitors from Portland flooded the streets in an attempt to get away from the heat of the big city. Tourists from around the globe dropped in to see the locations where Goonies and Kindergarten Cop were filmed.

  “One murder doesn’t constitute a hotbed of crime, you know.”

  “If you say so.” She took a last sip of coffee. “Now, shall we hit the town? I fancy a bit of shopping. Let’s visit that cute little bookstore. What’s it called? Linda’s?”

  “Lucy’s.”

  “That’s the one.” She collected her purse and umbrella and stood, waiting impatiently for me to finish my coffee.

  “THIS SEEMS LIKE AN interesting place,” Mom said, pausing outside one of the shops along Bond Street. Bond ran between Commercial Street and Marine Drive, which ran parallel to the Columbia River. It was the heart of Astoria’s downtown shopping district which ran for all of seven blocks. But it was seven blocks filled with character, coffee shops, bars, and bookstores. All the important things. And, of course, my mother had stopped in front of one of the most interesting places of all: Bartholomew’s Tiki Bar.

  I suppressed a groan as I followed her inside. The bar was lined with those bobbing hula dolls and edged in fake grass skirting. Multicolored lights draped from the rafters and leering Tikis loomed out from corners. There were four stools at the bar and two faux teak tables with two rattan chairs each. All of it crammed against one wall with barely enough room to walk between them. It was straight '50s kitsch, and I had to admit it was fun in a tacky sort of way.

  My mother stopped in her tracks staring around her in either wonder or horror. It was hard to tell which. “How...cheerful.”

  The beaded curtain
covering the doorway to the back room began swinging wildly and a squat woman with short, gray hair emerged. She wore a loud Hawaiian print shirt and a fake-flower lei around her neck. Her eyes lit up when she saw me.

  “Viola! How are you? Haven’t seen you since last month’s bunco.”

  “Hey, Betty. How’s business?”

  She grinned. “Can’t complain. Or I could, but who’d want to listen.” She turned to my mother with a warm smile. “Welcome to the Tiki Bar.”

  My mother frowned. “Where’s Bartholomew?”

  Betty gave her a confused look. “Who?”

  “The sign outside said this was Bartholomew’s Tiki Bar.”

  Betty’s expression cleared. “Ah, that. Well, Bartholomew was my father. He opened this place in 1953. He was stationed in Hawaii during The War, and when Tiki culture started booming, he decided Astoria needed to join in. We’ve been here ever since.” She beamed proudly.

  “I see.” My mother’s tone was a bit sharp, so I decided it was time to jump in.

  “Mom, Betty is one of my bunco ladies.” I played bunco—a popular dice game—once a month with eleven other women including my best friend, Cheryl. We took turns hosting, and Betty’s was one of the more popular bunco destinations. Not only was her house immaculate and well decorated, but she always had the best spreads and booze. “In fact, we have a game tonight.”

  “Oh, how nice.” Mom didn’t sound like she thought it was nice.

  “Why don’t you jump up on one of those stools, and I’ll whip you up something special,” Betty suggested.

  My mother perked up. “Oh, it’s too early to drink.”

  “Pish,” Betty said with a wave of her hand. “It’s five o’clock somewhere. Besides, orange juice is good for you right?” She held up a carton of OJ, a broad smile on her face.

  My mother brightened. “Of course. Vitamin C.”

  “Exactly,” Betty said approvingly. She grabbed a glass and splashed in a healthy amount of juice followed by an even healthier amount of rum. Next thing I knew, Betty had brought out a big basket of crab Rangoon, and she and my mother were up to their elbows in fried wontons while my mother regaled Betty with tales of her matchmaking attempts.