Roxy Reinhardt Mysteries Box Set

by Alison Golden

  “That would be fabulous,” said Lily immediately.

  “Fine with me,” said Nat.

  Roxy thought they might be a little conspicuous, but she grinned at him nonetheless. “You can take us by horse and buggy if you like. Just so long as we get there.”

  Sam grinned back, and the atmosphere between them lit up, so much so that Nat had to wave her arms between the two of them to break it up.

  They went out the back entrance to the parking lot. Lily’s slanted almond eyes widened when she saw Sam’s maroon Rolls Royce. “Wow,” she said, a rare enthusiasm animating her voice. “Now that's a real car. The laundry business must pay better than I thought.”

  Sam avoided eye contact with her and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Um… well…”

  But Lily wasn't paying enough attention to realize how shifty he was being. She had her iPhone out and was snapping selfies of herself against the car at every angle. “This will look good with my fans,” she said. “A Rolls Royce. That’s style.”

  When they got inside, Lily admired the cream leather seats and ran her hands over the surface of them. “Goodness,” she said. “If I capture the Hilton deal, maybe I will be able to cruise in one of these myself.”

  Something clicked in Roxy’s brain. First Michael, now Lily. “The Hilton deal? What is that?”

  “Oh, it’s a huge contract,” Lily said. “They're looking for an influencer to partner with for an enormous advertising campaign. It should last the whole of next year. I'm putting together a portfolio to impress them, and this visit with you is part of that. They're going for the young, upcoming luxury market. That’s my target, and what you do fits in pretty well, which was why I was so keen to visit you,” she said with a smile.

  Roxy’s palms began to sweat. The Hilton deal. The same deal that Dash and Michael had been going for! Lily, Michael, and Dash had been competitors. As they drove, Roxy looked at Lily out of the corner of her eye, studying her intently. Was she capable of murder? She seemed nice enough. She wasn’t effusive or gregarious, rather cool, even unapproachable at times, but Roxy knew that appearances were not necessarily all that they seemed. Perhaps Lily had had something to do with Dash’s death. Perhaps Dash and Michael were nearer to closing the deal than she was and she knew this. Perhaps Lily had picked Dash off. Perhaps, Roxy thought, she should find out.

  Then she remembered Johnson’s warning. He had seemed deadly serious. She was not to investigate. He had ordered her. Roxy reflected on what Lily had told her as she leaned back in her seat. Her theory made sense, but it seemed barely credible to conclude that this elegant, successful woman would murder someone for money. Roxy couldn’t believe it and eventually, exhausted by events of the day and lulled by the sublime, if incongruous, ride to the flea market in Sam’s Rolls Royce, she put the thought out of her mind and fell asleep.

  After the flea market, Sam dropped Roxy, Nat, and Lily off back at the Funky Cat. The trio clambered out of the Rolls with their flea market finds. Nat had found a small, broken old table and a sculpture of a woman with a bow and arrow that was so chipped, Roxy couldn’t conceive how on earth Nat was going to turn it into something that was even half-decent. All the reporters had gone now and Sage met the three women at the front door.

  “Greetings to all,” she said, her voice trembling. “Dash’s family members are here. They are in the dining room.”

  It took a lot to rattle Sage. She’d done years and years of spirit and mindset training to make sure that she stayed tranquil and “aligned with the spirits,” even in the most difficult of circumstances. Now though there was a look of fear in her eyes, and she was breathing a little more deeply than usual, as if she were trying to calm herself.

  Roxy wondered what on earth could have upset Sage so, but her attention was dragged away by the need to face Dash’s family. Roxy took a deep breath and plastered what she hoped was an appropriate expression on her face, sympathetic and kind, but “in charge.” She walked into the dining room with her head high and her stride firm.

  There, sitting on one of the most luxurious couches in the lounge was a plump, attractive-looking, middle-aged woman, and a sickly, pale young man of about twenty-five.

  The woman stood up with a smile that seemed rather broad under the circumstances, her hand outstretched for a handshake. “Hello, you must be Roxy Reinhardt,” she said with all the formality of a businessperson closing a multi-million real estate deal. Roxy was taken aback. The woman didn’t come across as a mother whose son had just been poisoned. Her hair was blown out, her long nails were bright red, and her lipstick matched her fingers. She wore high heels. There was a designer logo on her purse.

  As Roxy scrutinized the woman carefully and slowly, a barely discernable sadness in her eyes became apparent. Her polished exterior, to Roxy at least, was a façade, one that was brittle and which Roxy suspected could break down at any moment.

  “My name is Kathy, and I'm Dash's mother.” Her smile fell for a moment before she pulled it back into place. “This is my younger son, Derek.”

  The young man next to her did not stand up and had none of his mother’s charm. He was wearing a hoodie pulled too far forward; it partially obscured his face. When his mother spoke, he stayed seated in his chair and peered out from under too-long bangs, fiddling with a model airplane in his lap.

  “My little Derek is pretty shy,” the woman said, proudly. She looked at her son affectionately as if he were ten years old. “We are going to stay here until Dash’s…killer…has been caught. You won't get rid of us for quite a while probably.” She started laughing, but in a moment, her laughter turned to sobs. Composing herself quickly, she gave a huge snort and wiped her eyes. “Sorry, you'll have to excuse me,” she said. “It's a difficult time.”

  “Of course it is,” said Roxy kindly. “Please, please do stay for as long as you’d like, and ask me if you need anything. Has Sage shown you up to your rooms yet?”

  “Yes, she has. Thank you,” said Kathy.

  “I’m staying in Dash’s room,” said Derek, suddenly coming to life. “To be close to him.”

  “He knew where it was and everything,” said Sage. She had a strange look on her face. “Something must have called out to you, Derek,” she said.

  “Now I just have one thing to tell you,” said Kathy. She maneuvered herself close to Roxy and lowered her voice. “You've got to understand that that horrible Michael was a terrible influence on Dash. He got my son involved in all sorts of shady things. I’ll tell you the story of how they met...Well, maybe not now, maybe another time, someplace private, but let's just say that Michael, well, he’s not good news. I’m glad he’s not here. I couldn’t stay here if he were. I wouldn't be surprised if he were involved somehow in my son's death. After all, they split the business fifty-fifty. Michael stood to gain a lot if Dash weren’t around.

  “I…I...I... Well, perhaps you should be telling this to the police, not me,” Roxy said, waving her hands in front of her. “I’m not an investigator. I hear what you’re saying, and I'm so sorry for your loss, but if you want to speak about the case, I think you’d better talk to Detective Johnson.”

  “I will,” said Kathy. “Soon. I'm just warning you, don't get involved with Michael, and don't listen to any of his stories. He's not a good man. Trust me.” Her blue eyes pierced through Roxy. “Just trust me on that.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “DASHIELL WAS MY darling boy,” Kathy Davies said the next morning. It was Sunday, and she was standing in front of the congregation in a packed church, St. Joseph’s. Kathy, showing phenomenal organizational skills, had organized a memorial service for her son in just a few hours and the viral communication properties of Instagram had done the rest. Every seat was taken, and all the aisles were chock full of people in bright t-shirts, just like the ones Dash used to wear. The shirts had been Michael’s idea. The press had been banned, but reporters congregated around the door outside, like bees around a honeypot.

 
“He was a good soul and a good boy,” Kathy continued. “He had a bright future ahead of him. He was going to quit playing around on YouTube and Instagram, jaunting all over the world. He was planning to settle in his hometown, and live close to his momma.” The crowd murmured at this news but quickly settled down.

  “It’s lies,” Michael whispered furiously to Roxy as they sat next to each other in one of the hard pews. “All lies. He couldn’t stand her. All she wanted was to control him, just like she controls Derek.”

  Roxy listened to Michael’s words, but she was still a little wary of him after what Kathy had said. She truly didn’t know who to believe.

  “But he wasn’t quick enough to make that decision and look what happened,” said Kathy. “I don’t want any of you to make the same mistake. If you have a family who loves and adores you, go home to them. Don’t go running around the world chasing butterflies, and putting yourself in danger. You might just end up…,” her eyes welled with tears, “in a casket.”

  Another murmur rippled through the crowd. Michael got up and stormed toward the entrance. Roxy followed him. She had to push and shove through the sea of bright colors to make it through. When she got outside, it was like she’d been underwater and had finally surfaced, gasping for breath. Around her, fans who had been unable to fit in the church milled around. Roxy and Michael hid among them, catching their breath until a group of reporters spied them and came rushing forward. It was an ambush and not a little scary.

  “Get away from me!” Michael hollered.

  Roxy looked around, trying to find a spot where they’d be left alone, but there wasn’t one. There was only a large cemetery to the right, where reporters hung around on the paths between the gravestones, and a wide row of stores to the left. The street in front of the church was blocked with vehicles.

  “Come on,” Roxy said. She grabbed Michael’s hand, and they took off running through the vehicles and into the streets beyond.

  Soon they let go of each other’s hands and flew through the backstreets of New Orleans independently. They heard the pounding of footsteps as journalists ran behind them, trying to catch up, but the pair kept running and running until Roxy felt a pain in her side.

  Finally, they reached the Funky Cat. The courtyard was deserted. The front door to the hotel was locked, even though Roxy knew Nat was in there with Evangeline and Sage and Elijah. They were preparing for the influx of fans they were expecting after the service.

  Roxy hammered on the door, hoping there were no reporters close behind. No one answered. She scrambled to get her phone out of her pocket and called Nat. “Let us in!” It would take too long to go around the back.

  Within moments the door was open. Michael and Roxy darted inside.

  “That woman!” Michael said as soon as he had gotten his breath back. “She’s crazy! Seriously, Dash and her didn’t get on. He respected her because she was his mother, he went to visit and was kind to her, but man, if she’d had her way, he’d be living his life in a prison of her making. Did you see Derek? He’s like a shell, like a ghost of a person. She dictates his whole life. She won’t even let him have a girlfriend. Dash said Derek had one once, and she sabotaged it so bad the girl left town and never came back.”

  Roxy shook her head not knowing what to say. Family troubles weren’t her forte. They made her uncomfortable.

  “And did you hear what she said about dreams, oh excuse me, chasing butterflies? Don’t do that, or you’ll end up dead? That was the total opposite of how we lived life. Dash and me, we lived only for chasing our dreams.”

  Michael fell down onto one of the chairs in the lobby, his legs splayed, his hands dangling over the arms of the chair. “Maybe she’s right, though. If we hadn’t been following our bliss, none of this would have happened. If we’d stayed home like good little boys, gotten regular jobs, and stopped reaching for the stars, Dash might still be alive. Maybe following your dreams is dangerous.”

  “I don’t think so…” said Roxy. His declaration had her thinking. If she hadn’t gone for her dreams, leaving her life behind to come to New Orleans and taking up management of the hotel, she certainly wouldn’t now be mixed up in a murder investigation. But then again, she wouldn’t be having the adventure of her life either, wouldn’t be making great new friends, wouldn’t be learning, living, and loving it. She’d be stuck in a dead-end job with a succession of dead-beat boyfriends, most likely.

  Michael shook his head. “No. Dash never believed in living smaller than you dreamed. He’d have preached, ‘Go out there and get it, whatever it is!’” He thumped the arm of his chair. “I should keep his legacy alive.” But then he shook his head. “No. No, I shouldn’t. He’s dead now. Who’d take life advice from a dead guy?”

  “Let me ask you a question,” said Sage.

  Roxy jumped and turned around—she hadn’t realized Sage was there. She was standing in the doorway in flowing blue robes and a serene expression.

  “Sure,” Michael said, his face a picture of torment.

  “If you could speak to him now—to Dash,” a mystical look crossed Sage’s face, “do you think he would regret the way he lived? Do you think he would wish that he had bent to his mother’s wishes?”

  Michael thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so, not at all.”

  “Do you think he’d still believe in chasing one’s dreams, spiritual expansion, achievement, and fulfillment?”

  “Yes,” Michael said, his eyes brightening a little, and his face settling, more relaxed. “Yes, I do.”

  Sage said nothing more. She turned and went back into the dining room without a word.

  After a few moments of silence, Nat came over to Roxy and said quietly, “I think you’re going to have to help us. We’re really behind.”

  “Okay,” said Roxy. “Michael, I need to help with preparing the food for our guests. They’ll be here for the wake soon. Are you okay with me doing that? Do you want me to stay with you? Is there anything you need?”

  “I’ll come and help,” he said.

  “Oh, you don’t have to,” said Roxy.

  “I want to,” Michael insisted, and Roxy could see that it would help, so she let him.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THEY SET ABOUT finishing up preparations for the wake. A buffet comprising some of the best food New Orleans had to offer—gumbos and jambalayas, rice and vegetables seasoned and spiced to Creole perfection—was laid out. Tiered cake stands were stacked high with Elijah’s pastries, and coffee stations stood at the ends of the tables along with condiments, cream, liqueurs, and spirits. To create the right atmosphere, Nat would sing some light, soulful jazz and a few of Dash’s favorite tunes accompanied by Sam on his saxophone.

  “It looks fabulous,” Elijah said.

  Roxy looked around. “It does, doesn’t it? We’re doing Dash proud.” She looked at Elijah and leaned in. “Look, Elijah, are you worried about Johnson investigating you? He means to look carefully at your cupcakes.”

  Elijah laughed. “I’d like to see him try!”

  “But seriously, Eli, Dash ate your cupcake. It was the last thing he ate.”

  Elijah shrugged. “I’ve been making pastries since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. I’ve not poisoned anyone yet. And besides, everyone got one. They’d all be dead if I messed up.”

  “That’s what Nat said.”

  Elijah clasped Roxy firmly by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “It’ll be fine. You don’t seriously think Nat or me interfered with his nightcap do you?”

  “No, but…”

  “Well, then. The police will catch the real killer and everything will go back to the way it was. You’ll see.”

  Roxy wished she had as much confidence as Elijah clearly had.

  “Look, I’ve got to go back across to the bakery. You can send the overflow there if you become overrun.” He drew his wiry body up to his full height and clapped his hands like a male flamenco dancer. “It’s time to partay!”


  “Elijah, please. It’s a wake,” Roxy said.

  “Trust me, Rox, it’ll be a party.” Elijah turned with a flourish and returned to his bakery to await the crowd.

  Elijah was right. Before Roxy knew it, everyone from the church had descended on the Funky Cat, and she and the others were rushed off their feet serving guests and replenishing the buffet. They were deluged with so many people that many of them overflowed onto the cobbled street outside while others crammed into Elijah’s bakery. Weaving and bobbing through them all, Elijah carried trays of pastries high above his head, serving them to anyone who wanted one.

  The light, soulful jazz Nat had planned to sing gave way to a blistering rendition of Chattanooga Choo Choo when a guest showed up with a trumpet. The crowd contributed improvised train sound effects and even a beatboxer joined in! Dancing and toasts and stories and jokes, all in memory of Dash Davies, continued into the late afternoon. “I told you,” Elijah said to Roxy afterward.

  Three hours later, as the event started to wind down, Roxy noticed an empty spot on one of the couches. She took the opportunity to flop down into it, exhausted. She’d been running around with food and drinks, meeting her guests’ wide range of needs for the entire time. She had had to eject some people out of a bedroom at one point. They were admiring it, but still.

  As she plopped down, she happened to sit between Sylvia Walters and Ada Okafor, who didn’t seem to be making much of an effort to talk with each other.

  “Hi, Roxy,” said Sylvia. “You look exhausted.” She was wearing a navy t-shirt and khaki cargo pants. A bright orange neckerchief was tied around her head. She pointed to it, “Out of respect for Dash.”

  “That’s nice. Yes, exhausted,” said Roxy. “But it’s all worth it to honor Dash.”