The Death in the Drink Read online

  The Death in the Drink

  Viola Roberts Cozy Mystery Book 7

  Shéa MacLeod

  The Death in the Drink

  Text copyright © 2018 Shéa MacLeod

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Cover design by Mariah Sinclair/

  www.mariahsinclair.com

  Editing by Alin Silverwood of Popskull Press

  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

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 | Bosoms on a Platter

  Chapter 2 | Lady Washington

  Chapter 3 | Man Overboard

  Chapter 4 | Soy Mochaccino Whatsis

  Chapter 5 | The Price of Being Nosey

  Chapter 6 | Booze and Threats

  Chapter 7 | No Accounting For Love

  Chapter 8 | Cutting Glass

  Chapter 9 | Party Pooper

  Chapter 10 | Stone Cold

  Chapter 11 | No Fancy Clothes

  Chapter 12 | Hope To Die

  Chapter 13 | Foxglove Is As Foxglove Does

  Chapter 14 | The Ball

  Chapter 15 | All Fired Up

  Chapter 16 | Parties and Matchmaking

  Chapter 17 | A Gathering of Suspects

  Chapter 18 | Facing the Music

  Chapter 1

  A Note From Shéa MacLeod

  About Shéa MacLeod

  Other Cozy Mysteries by Shéa MacLeod

  Non-Cozy Mysteries by Shéa MacLeod

  Other Books by Shéa MacLeod

  Dedication

  This one’s for my fellow Regency costumers of the ORS

  and WRS who know how much fun it is to

  dress up.

  Chapter 1

  Bosoms on a Platter

  “Are you alright, Viola?” Brown eyes peered down at me, a furrow between them.

  I didn’t answer right away. Instead I lay flat on my back, blinking up at the ceiling. There was an interesting-shaped stain on the white acoustical tiles. A dragon, maybe. Whose idea had it been to ask Bat for self-defense lessons?

  Oh, yeah. Mine. It had seemed genius at the time. Now my body reminded me that I wasn’t as young as I sometimes thought I was. Forty-two was not the new thirty, at least not as far as my joints were concerned.

  “I’m fine,” I wheezed.

  “You sure?” He didn’t look convinced.

  “Not entirely,” I admitted. I managed to roll onto my side and, using the seat of the rowing machine, hoist myself to my feet.

  James “Bat” Battersea was everything a homicide detective should be. He was handsome but not overly pretty. His shoulders were broad. His blue eyes were hard and sharp. They saw everything and gave away nothing. He also happened to be dating my best friend, Cheryl Delaney.

  When I’d asked him to teach me some self-defense moves, he’d suggested the gym inside the Astoria Police Department. It was in a boring little wood-sided building on the edge of town a block from the Columbia River. The gym stank of stale sweat and staler coffee, but it was the best we could do with Bat’s limited time.

  Bat was wearing a blue police t-shirt and matching sweat pants and hadn’t even broken a sweat. I, on the other hand, was panting.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t ask Lucas to teach you,” he said.

  Lucas Salvatore was my boyfriend, a famous thriller writer, and formerly with Mossad, Israeli Army Special Forces. He’d been promising to teach me krav maga. “He wanted to, but there just hasn’t been time. And he worries about me, so I thought I’d surprise him.”

  Bat muttered something under his breath about nosiness and no wonder Lucas worried.

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  He gave me a strained smile. “Let’s try this again. I want you to kick me in the side of the knee.”

  I sighed. “The last time, I ended up on my butt on the floor.” Balance was not my friend. Which was kind of weird, since I loved salsa dancing and was pretty good at it. Apparently, those skills didn’t translate to other activities.

  “Practice, Viola. You need to practice. Now do it.”

  I lashed out with my foot again. This time, my sneaker-shod toes managed to just tap his knee. Off balance, I staggered and nearly went down again.

  Bat rolled his eyes. “Good grief.”

  “Sorry. I’m not very coordinated.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” he muttered.

  I ignored him. “Isn’t there a move that doesn’t involve me hopping around like a ballerina?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. He did that a lot around me. I really didn’t understand his exasperation. I’m a delight. Ask anyone.

  “You can use the heel of your palm to strike up under an attacker’s nose. That’s a good one.”

  “Cool. Teach me that.”

  “Right. Hold your hand like this.” He showed me, holding the heel of his hand—palm up—beneath my nose with his fingers pointed back toward himself. “Throw your weight into it to cause the most pain and force your attacker to loosen his grip on you. If he’s behind you, you can hit his nose with your elbow.”

  “Sounds easy enough. Let’s try it.”

  “Okay.” He looked dubious. “I’m going to grab your arm, then you do your move. Remember, heel of your palm. And please try not to actually do any damage.”

  “I got this,” I said with absolute confidence. “Easy peasy.”

  “On three.” He grabbed my arm. “One…two…holy shi—” He grabbed his nose and doubled over in pain.

  “Omigosh! Are you okay?” Stupid question. Blood was spurting everywhere.

  “I think you broke my nose,” he said between bloody fingers. Only it came out more like, “I thing you brog ma node.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Holy cripes! My hands were lethal weapons! I stared at my appendages in wonder.

  He shot me a look that had me backing away. Quickly.

  “Er, should I get something? A towel maybe? Ice pack?”

  His glare promised violence. I remembered the man carried a gun.

  “I think I’ll just leave you to it. Um, thanks for the lesson.” I ran for my life.

  “YOU HAVE got to be kidding.”

  “I’m not.” My best friend, Cheryl Delaney, held up a ridiculous contraption of cotton, laces, and ribbons. “Come on, Viola, try it on.”

  “This is payback for breaking your boyfriend’s nose, isn’t it?” It was later that same afternoon and we were standing in the living room of my little Victorian cottage. After I published my first book and quit my boring accounting job, I’d moved from the big city of Portland, Oregon to the small coastal city of Astoria, Oregon. Famous for its Victorian architecture, I just had to have one for myself. It was small compared to some of the massive manors that peppered the hillside above downtown, but—from the intricate gingerbread around the front porch to the somewhat spooky attic—it was perfect, and it was all mine. The only thing that would make it even better would be a gazebo in the backyard. Something to think about.

  Cheryl laughed. “Bat texted me. He’s going to be fine. You just dislocated the cartiledge.”

  Because that was so much better. “He hates me.”

  “No, he doesn’t. Besides, it’s his fault for not wearing the right safety mask. Now stop trying to change t
he subject.” She waggled the bit of cotton in the air.

  “There is no way that these,” I pointed to my boobs, “are going to fit in that.”

  The contraption was some sort of hybrid of a bra and a corset with cups—if you could call them that—that wouldn’t fit a woman half my size. I am generously proportioned everywhere. Especially in the boob department. Although my backside isn’t exactly hard to miss, either.

  “They’re not supposed to go in exactly.”

  I eyed her askance. “Then what exactly are they supposed to do?”

  “They’re supposed to sit there, as if they’re on a platter. It’s called the Regency shelf.”

  “I am not offering my boobs to the world on a platter.” It wasn’t that I was a prude or even particularly modest, but I had my limits.

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a historical romance writer, for crying out loud. Don’t you want to experience a bit of history?”

  “I write about the Wild West. Cowboys. Innocent school marms. I do not write about Regency England.” Although I had considered it after Lucas and I had spent some time wandering around the Cotswolds. Getting stuck at a stately manner home during a storm has a way of making the old brain cells get creative. Although with the way bodies tended to pile up around me, I was starting to think I’d missed my calling. I should have been a mystery writer.

  “Come on,” she chirped. “This will be fun. Tall ships, afternoon tea, whist, port.”

  “I do like port,” I mused. I didn’t mind whist, either. Being a historical romance writer, I was familiar with the card game which was a precursor to modern day bridge.

  She grinned. With her super short hair and delicate features, she looked like a freaking pixie. “Then you are gonna love this! It’ll be a great long weekend. Cool people. Good food. Trust me.”

  “When people say ‘trust me,’ it makes me nervous.” I heaved a sigh. “All right, then. Put it on me.”

  And so that is how I, Viola Roberts, ended up standing in the middle of my living room while my best friend groped my boobs. Getting into Regency stays was a convoluted process, to say the least. There was a lot of hoisting and shoving and lacing and heaving, but at the end, my girls were properly shelved in the style of 1805.

  I propped my hands on my hips and stared approvingly at my reflection in the antique oval mirror we’d dragged down from my guest bedroom. “Very not bad.” In fact, my cleavage looked rather magnificent.

  “Just wait until you see how you look with your day dress on. It’s a glorious India block print cotton. Mom just has to hem it. We can pick it up tomorrow on the way to the ship.”

  I placed my hand over my sternum realizing that, while more constrictive than modern bras, the stays weren’t as uncomfortable as a full corset. I did have to breathe more shallowly, which turned the “shelf” into a raging set of heaving bosoms. Huh. Now that gave me some ideas.

  Lady Isabelle rushes from the manor house, determined to flee her new husband, the Dastardly Duke…

  “Viola? Hello!” Cheryl waved her hand in front of my eyes.

  “Sorry, I was just having ideas.”

  She lifted her brow. “Anything good?”

  “Possibly. How does a sexy Regency romp sound?”

  She grinned. “Fun. Does that mean another trip to England for research? I volunteer as tribute.”

  I laughed. “As if you need me for an excuse.” Cheryl was also a writer. Thrillers, like Lucas, but not as famous. Often involving high-speed car chases, explosions, and super-hot secret agents. She’d done plenty of research travel on her own.

  “We need to put a petticoat over the stays. It will give you a smooth line under your gown,” Cheryl said. “I think this one will work.” She whipped a simple, white, sleeveless gown from a pile on the sofa.

  Before I could respond, I heard a creak somewhere in the depths of the house. It’s an old house, so creaking is par for the course. But this was a creak that didn’t belong.

  I held up my hand and motioned Cheryl to silence. Still dressed in the stays and a slip-like undergarment Cheryl had referred to as a chemise which hit about mid-thigh, I padded barefoot through the entry toward the kitchen. The sound had come from there. I was sure of it.

  I paused outside the door, listening. Sure enough, someone was moving around in there. My heart rate sped up, and I clenched the sides of my chemise, wishing I was still wearing shoes. It would have been so much easier to attack the intruder. Instead, I snagged an ornamental frog off the side table hiding the old phone jack. My mother had given me the ugly thing. I was pretty sure she’d picked it up at a garage sale. Either that, or my grandmother had given it to her and she’d foisted it off on me. She was always doing things like that.

  Soft footsteps across the kitchen floor. The door swung open.

  “Aaaagh!” I kicked out with my bare foot, connecting with the muscled flesh of an upper thigh, just missing the knee, dammit. I swung the frog. The intruder dodged, and the frog glanced off his shoulder harmlessly.

  “What the bloody hell, Viola?”

  “Lucas! What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming up until next weekend. Why are you sneaking around my kitchen?”

  He eyed me warily. “I thought I’d surprise you.”

  “Well, it worked.” I threw my arms around his neck. “Are you alright? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “I think I’ll live,” he said somberly, but there was an annoying little twinkle in his blue eyes as he pulled me closer. I caught a hint of his cologne, citrus mixed with something woodsy, as I fixed the now rumpled collar of his gray button-down shirt.

  Shortly after we met at a writers’ conference in Florida, Lucas had moved to Portland to be closer to me so, in his words, we could “get to know each other better.” Portland was less than two hours away—an hour and a half if I was driving—but it meant I only got to see him a couple weekends a month. That used to be okay. I’m the independent sort, and I’d been hesitant to jump into a relationship. But after our trip to England, I found I missed him more than I thought I would.

  He kissed me thoroughly. With tongue. I was feeling a little breathless by the time he pulled away.

  “Where did you learn moves like that?” he asked.

  “I asked Bat to teach me a few moves. I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Well, it worked. Consider me surprised.” He eyed me up and down. “Interesting outfit.”

  “Oh, this. Cheryl’s trying to get me to go to this costuming weekend thing. You have to dress like it’s Jane Austen. But you didn’t answer my question.”

  He cleared his throat. “I missed you. Isn’t that enough?”

  I leaned back and stared into his brilliant blue eyes. Lucas has that silver fox thing going pretty hard. Before he and I started dating, Cheryl and I used to call him “Hunky Dude.” It fits.

  “You’re not telling me something.”

  “I do have news, but it’s… difficult with you dressed like that.” He leered at me.

  I laughed. “Let me change. Then you can take me to lunch, and we’ll talk.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  He followed me into the living room, and I ignored the flutter of unease. I told myself not to be an idiot. Granted, my experience with men had been less than stellar. At least up until Lucas. I had reason to be nervous about phrases like, “We need to talk.” But he was different. He was a kind and caring man. Not the sort to behave like an ass. Still, old habits die hard, and I found myself drawing into my shell a bit.

  “Hey, Hunky Dude!” Cheryl called as we entered the living room. “How do you like Viola’s new look?”

  He grinned. “Very much.”

  “I bet,” she giggled.

  “Can you please get me out of this thing?” I said, ignoring the two of them.

  “Sure. But I’ll be back tomorrow for the big event,” she said, stepping behind me to undo the laces. “We’re going sailing on a real tall ship
,” she informed Lucas over her shoulder. “A recreation of an 1800s sailing ship. Not exactly Regency era, but close enough nobody cares. It’s all about the experience.”

  “Sounds like fun.” His voice was a low, rich rumble that always did funny things to my insides.

  “Want to come?” she asked. “Bet we could still get tickets.”

  “Thank you, no. I need to get some writing done this weekend, so I think I’ll do that while you ladies enjoy yourselves.” Unlike Cheryl and I, who were solid mid-list authors making a living—but not winning any awards—Lucas’s books had movies based on them. That sort of thing. Think Dan Brown or James Patterson.

  With the stays finally off, I gave Lucas a quick kiss and then dashed upstairs to change for lunch. As I reached the top, I heard Cheryl say, “So why are you really here?”

  Even though I nearly fell over the bannister trying to eavesdrop, I couldn’t hear his answer.

  THE ASTORIA CAFE WAS a cute little European style bistro set in what used to be an old mechanic’s garage. The bay had been turned into a coffee shop complete with comfy couches, low tables, and the earthy cinnamon vanilla scent of brewing coffee and baked goods. To the left through a wide arch was the bistro side in what had probably been the front shop.

  The center of the bistro was taken up by a u-shaped bar with a coppered wall behind high shelves lined with liquor bottles and pendant lights hung low. Booths padded in reddish brown faux leather lined the walls on either side. The floor was the original concrete, once painted a greenish hue, now chipped to reveal its natural color in spots. The front wall was all plate glass window with a view of the street and down to the Columbia River if you craned your neck a bit. The back wall was mirrored, making the small space look much larger. Music from the 1930s and ’40s drifted over the loudspeakers. It was intimate and friendly with a vintage twist that I adored.

  Lucas had gone with the lime and coconut prawns. Being allergic to everything seafood—yeah, I know, and living on the coast, too—I went with the Cubano sandwich.

  “You gonna tell me why you came down early?” I asked after the waitress brought our food. My stomach rumbled as I dug into savory pulled pork and tangy mojo sauce. “I mean, I’m not complaining. I’m glad you’re here, but…”