An Eat, Pray, Die Cozy Mystery Box Set
Books 1-3
Chelsea Field
This EAT, PRAY, DIE COZY MYSTERY BOX SET is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, poisons, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Chelsea Field
All rights reserved.
Published by JFP Trust
2018 First Digital Edition
ISBN: 978 0 6482532 1 1
www.chelseafieldauthor.com
For my husband.
I got stupidly lucky the day you first checked out my ass.
Thank you, for everything.
Contents
Eat, Pray, Die
The Hunger Pains
Taste of Christmas
Poison is the New Black
From the Author
Excerpt from Poison and Prejudice
Eat, Pray, Die
An Eat, Pray, Die Mystery: Book 1
1
I stepped inside one of Los Angeles’s high-rise buildings for the chance to turn my life around.
It was a sweltering day in September, the kind that had my clothes clinging in places they weren’t designed to cling, and I should’ve been thinking about the job. About what I would be doing. The honor of protecting someone from harm.
But facing my fears didn’t come naturally to me, so I was thinking about my hair instead.
I crossed the lobby and entered a waiting elevator. I wasn’t equipped like someone in the protection business. No gun. No Taser. No combat or defense training. I didn’t even have any muscles worth acknowledging.
I did have a hard knot of nerves in my stomach though. Would a bad guy be intimidated if I threatened to release the butterflies?
The elevator shared none of my misgivings and shot skyward.
I patted my unruly, shoulder-length hair—a nervous habit I’d developed over twenty-nine years of experiencing it having a mind of its own. Some strands were stuck to my neck, subdued by sweat, but the rest was likely poking in all directions. I watched the golden numbers light up one by one. In typical Los Angeles fashion, even the damn elevator was more glamorous than me.
The nagging concern I might be underdressed rose with every floor I passed.
I patted my hair some more.
Twenty-three lit up, and the doors slid open with a quiet whoosh, reminding me of one of Aunt Alice’s disapproving sighs. Aunt Alice and her perfect children never had problems getting their hair to behave. They were probably above sweating too.
The corridor ahead of me didn’t look to be any more sympathetic. It was insulated and silent, far removed from the heat and bustle of the street below and untouched by my mounting tension.
Ignoring the way anxiety had me projecting my feelings onto an inanimate building, I squinted at my palm. The number I’d written there when my handler set up the meeting had faded from an embarrassing number of bathroom breaks in the hours since. But I could just make out the smudgy figures: 2317. I walked until I found the matching plaque and made sure my shaking hand gave a firm, audible knock.
“Come in.”
I took a moment to steel myself, then shouldered my way through the heavy door.
The room where my fate would be decided could’ve been plucked from a European design magazine. Floor-to-ceiling windows filled the space with natural light, all the better for calling attention to the distinct lack of furniture. Despite the generous square footage, it was furnished with only two expensive-looking chairs and a sleek rosewood desk with nothing on it but the token MacBook Pro.
I fought back a smirk. Where did this guy keep his stuff?
The man in question was seated behind the desk and looked so unenthused to meet me that I wondered if I’d misread the smudged ink after all. He was dauntingly handsome, with none of my insecurity, and dark hair that was cropped far too short to even think of misbehaving.
The no-nonsense style seemed at odds with the swankiness of his office, hinting he might be more practical than the decor suggested.
My gaze dropped to his eyes. They were the stern gray of an overcast wintry morning—the likes of which I hadn’t seen since moving to California—and just as unsympathetic. The clean-shaven square jaw and broad shoulders did not soften his image.
I finished admiring his jawline and noticed his gaze was roaming over me as well.
For a fleeting second, I wished it was his hands doing the roaming. Then I remembered why I was here.
This was the guy I would be endangering myself to protect. If he hired me anyway. If he didn’t, maybe I could talk him into pushing me down the elevator shaft on the way out.
Judging by the cool expression on his beautiful face, he might be amenable to the idea.
My concern had been warranted. I was underdressed. The conservative navy-blue dress and heels I’d chosen to make the most of the slim build and blue eyes I’d inherited from my mother seemed drab compared to his sharp, tailored suit. Sure, I’d inherited the dress and shoes from my mother too, but I had been hoping they were old enough to pass for vintage.
By the time we’d finished our mutual assessment, his mouth had formed a hard line.
I forced myself to meet his eyes.
“Isobel Avery, I take it?” he asked.
“That’s right.”
He didn’t react to my Australian accent. Some Americans found it charming. My potential client wasn’t one of them.
Actually, he didn’t look as if charming was even in his dictionary.
Nor did he look like he needed me to defend him. A notion intensified by the fact that my knees were wobbling, and I was betting his weren’t.
He didn’t invite me to sit, and I wondered if that was so he could gauge my competence level by my traitorous knees. I sat down anyway, lifted my chin, and put on my best impression of professional indifference.
“What experience do you have?” he asked.
I resisted the urge to lick my lips before answering, leaving me acutely aware of how dry they were.
That seemed unfair when the rest of me was still damp with sweat.
“I’ve been selected for you by the Taste Society,” I said. “That’s as much as you need to know.”
In other words, none, zilch, nada. I’d just finished eight months of intensive training, and aside from that, I was as green as a queasy leprechaun.
This job would either be my saving grace or the final rut in a long road of potholes.
One step at a time, I told myself. First get the job, then concentrate on whether you can pull it off.
I stared at him, willing him to say yes.
“I’m not in the habit of trusting others’ judgment,” he said instead. “Why should I start now?”
Good question. Especially since the Taste Society had sent him a rookie. But I couldn’t tell him that, so I took a stab in the dark.
“Because it’s efficient, and you’re short on time.”
This guy would prefer to pull out his fingernails than ask a girl for protection. Which meant he’d postpone asking until there was no other choice. Until he couldn’t afford to delay any longer. Or so I hoped.
Waiting to learn whether my guess would pay off was almost as painful as the job training.
He relented at last. “You’ll have to do, I suppose.”
I let out the breath I was holding. It wasn’t the most affirming offer I’d ever received, but desperation is a wonderful substitute for rose-tinted glasses.
It turned out desperation was a wonderful substitute for self-respect and self-preservation too.
&
nbsp; He stood up and withdrew two envelopes from his inner breast pocket. I took them from him and caught a whiff of cold, biting citrus and sun-warmed leather. It figured he smelled good. The envelopes were toasty from being against his chest, and for a brief second, I imagined slipping my hand under his jacket to the place they’d vacated.
I needed to get out more. But entertainment hadn’t been high on my priority list of late.
“The first envelope is from the Taste Society,” he said. “They asked me to give it to you if I approved you for the job. You’ll start at breakfast tomorrow. Before that, have my stylist give you a makeover.” He scanned me again. “A big one.”
Jerk.
He didn’t pause to let the insult sink in. “The stylist’s number and my schedule are in the other envelope.”
“Anything else?” I asked, not keen on hearing his answer.
“Get a tan.”
“Sorry, I don’t tan.” Also compliments of my redheaded mother.
“You do if I say so, sweetheart. You’re in LA now, and I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
Ugh. Sweetheart. “No, I mean my skin goes bright red, then white again. So your options are beetroot or potato.”
“Then get a spray tan.”
“I’m allergic,” I lied. He’d already given me the envelopes, and I figured it’d do him good to broaden his horizons. I smiled sweetly. “So if it’s all right with you, I’m gonna go ahead and live to a ripe old age as a potato.”
I couldn’t tell if the barely perceptible shift of his eyebrows was from anger or amusement.
“You chose an interesting profession for that.”
I brushed aside his comment and headed for the exit. He was probably just being funny, right? Sure, that was the interpretation I’d go with. Never mind that nothing in the past few minutes had pointed to him having a sense of humor. All the same, recruitment had told me the job wouldn’t affect my chances of longevity too much, and despite rumors to the contrary, I was taking their word for it.
I was broke, not suicidal.
In a last-ditch effort to resuscitate my dreams of leaving a positive impression, I paused at the door and gave my new client a wave. “See you tomorrow.”
He didn’t reply, but when I glanced back, I saw his contempt for my appearance hadn’t stopped his eyes from following my ass on the way out.
I gave the snobby elevator a smug smile as I stepped inside. Like we were equals now. But by the time I returned to earth—a.k.a. the ground floor—the reality of my situation had drained away my sense of triumph. Yes, I’d landed my first assignment, but it was a job I would have run from under ordinary circumstances, and I had no one to share the dubious victory with. No one I was allowed to share it with anyway.
The elevator released me with another of Aunt Alice’s sighs, and I set off across the lobby. My new career was classified, and that was all I could tell my loved ones about it, including my poor mother.
Sometimes the classified thing came in handy—“Have you met any nice men?”—but mostly it was hard. My family and best friend in Australia knew only that I’d flown to California for a secretive job opportunity. Everyone else thought I was here to get as far away from my ex-husband as was geographically possible.
There was some truth to that version too.
I fought off the familiar pang of homesickness and fingered the two envelopes I’d received. This was it. My last chance to back out. The client had given his grudging approval, and now I would learn the details of the assignment. After that, a single phone call to my Taste Society handler would seal my fate.
You could argue I’d already committed when I hopped on a flight to the other side of the world. Or when I’d stuck out the eight months of awful training even once I learned the truth around what the job entailed. But this felt different. The reality of what I’d been trained to do sat heavy on my chest.
Not wanting to hang around in case Mr. Jerkface came down for an early lunch, I rejoined the people sweating on the street and tried to recall where I’d left my car.
Parking in Downtown LA was a competitive sport that only the mean, skilled, or lucky won. None of those applied to me, so I was in for a long trek.
On the upside, I had some reading material for the journey.
I broke the seal on the Taste Society envelope and pulled out the two sheets of paper within. The first page was a photo of my new client, Connor Stiles, and his stats. He had some years on me at thirty-six, and he worked in “Private Security and Investigation.” In addition to his PI license, he held permits for firearms, tear gas, and concealed carry.
No wonder he didn’t look like he needed protecting.
He was also a millionaire, as expected. Only the rich, famous, and influential required the Taste Society’s special brand of services. Which was fortunate because they were the only ones who could afford them.
The reason those special services existed was the most shocking revelation I’d learned since landing in LA.
The world’s powerful elite are hiding one great big dirty secret.
Reports of a celebrity or political figure doing something stupid under the influence are so commonplace that sometimes they don’t feel like news anymore. Often the individual in the spotlight sabotages their own career. Other times it’s the last thing they ever do—a fatal drug overdose. The general public takes the stories at face value, as I had until a few months ago.
Now I knew better. The climb to power and fortune is a war zone, and poison is the weapon of choice.
Of course, not every drug-related story is a sabotage or murder attempt. The culture of recreational drug use just provides the perfect backdrop to get away with those that are.
My new job was to stop them. A bit like a canary in a coal mine. Except I wasn’t supposed to die.
My ex-husband might’ve considered me expendable, but I was trusting my new employer was different. Certainly, they’d invested more in me than he ever had. Eight months of all-expenses-paid job training teaching me to memorize the taste and smell of relevant poisonous and psychoactive substances so I could detect them in food. Without dying.
Theoretically.
I swallowed hard, reminded myself that I’d be paid better than those canaries, and focused on the paper in front of me. Connor stared back as unimpressed as he’d been in the flesh. I didn’t want to speculate about what he’d secured and investigated to become a millionaire. Or what he’d done to attract someone’s lethal attention.
Instead, I flicked over to the second page. According to his Taste Society application, he wanted one of their elite food tasters—known as Shades to those who knew of our existence—to protect him from “criminal and rival entities.” I hoped these entities favored using poison because I had nothing going for me in the surviving-physical-violence department. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been desperate enough to become a Shade in the first place.
I made myself keep reading.
Shades need a plausible reason to spend every day with a high-profile figure and taste their food in public. So they’re given a cover story for each assignment. This could be personal assistant, life guru, personal fitness coach, or any other fabrication that fits the individual needs of the client.
My cover was to be Connor’s girlfriend.
Not good.
I flicked back to the picture of Connor’s unsmiling face. His disagreeable attitude hadn’t concerned me until now. I could handle condescending jerks. After all, I’d perfected the suck-it-up-and-smile routine over years of customer-service roles. However, none of my previous professions had required allowing my customers to grope me.
Not that some of the customers hadn’t tried, but I’d never needed to pretend to enjoy it.
Maybe I should’ve taken acting lessons as part of my job training. Or stuck with selling sticky buns for a living.
I rounded the last corner and spotted my new company car waiting for me by the curb. It was a beautiful, twelve-years-young silv
er Corvette, and a far cry from my former rusting hulk. I went to the wrong door before remembering what country I was in. While I’d been in LA for eight months, this was my first week out of the sheltered confines of the training facility, and it was taking time to adjust. Hoping no one had seen my blunder, I strolled casually around the car and slid onto the leather seat.
My phone rang as I was clicking my seat belt into place. I rolled the car windows down to keep from cooking and answered it.
“Darling.” My mother’s soft voice floated down the line. “Is now an okay time to chat?”
“Always.” I meant it. There were few people I’d prefer to talk to.
“Oh my, that’s nice of you to say. Angling for a favor?” The humor was audible in her tone, and another wave of homesickness swept over me.
“Ha ha, very funny.”
She was uncomfortably close to the truth. I did have one alternative to risking my life and sanity by taking on this new job—I could fess up to my parents. They would sell their house in a heartbeat to pay off the debt and save me from the mess of my own making.
Which was exactly why I hadn’t told them.
“I was ringing because a nice man from the bank dropped by to ask about you last night,” Mum said.
Her innocent words landed like arsenic in my stomach. I didn’t have a bank. I didn’t have enough money to warrant one. But the loan shark operation I owed money to had a respectable lending branch as a front for their illicit activities.
She called him a nice man, I reminded myself. He couldn’t have told her the truth.
“He said you’d forgotten to give him your new contact details. So I gave him your number, but I didn’t have a current address for you. Have you found a place to live yet?”
Eat, Pray, Die Mystery Box Set Page 1
