Death In A Deck Chair
A Cruising For Murder Cozy Mystery
Georgia Kains
Copyright © 2019 by Georgia Kains
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
For Betty, who asked for a beach book
Contents
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
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Georgia Kains
Chapter One
In hindsight, the missing kleptomaniac bridesmaid should have been my tip-off that something was amiss. But I’ve always had notoriously rotten vision, backward or forward.
“Tell me again why getting on that boat isn’t the most pathetic thing you’ve ever witnessed?” I stared out the passenger window of my best friend Addie’s cherry red Fiat. The hulking behemoth of a cruise ship loomed before us, its hull bright and gleaming. Workers dangled over the edge on ropes, like spiders in orange jumpsuits skittering from spot to spot doing last-minute maintenance on the hull.
“Well?” I looked over at Addie, whose hair at least had the decency to frizz as badly as mine in the briny ocean breeze.
“You’re not getting on that boat, Piper,” said Addie.
Finally! She was seeing reason. Not that I blamed her for loading my sorry butt into her car and driving me to the Charleston cruise port after thirty-six straight hours of watching me lay on her couch moaning.
I was a lump of self-pity, but I’d bounce back. I’d get my act together.
Right after I finished one more piece of leftover wedding cake.
I pried the lid off the Tupperware container in my lap and shoved a spork into a corner of cake with an extra-large mound of buttercream.
Ditched at the altar. It felt like the sort of thing that was destined to end up on my gravestone. Only slightly more humiliating was the fact that mine would have a few asterisks attached.
*And did we mention she was a professional wedding planner by trade? Yep. The woman known across the greater Atlanta metro area as the Bridezilla Whisperer was dumped by her fiancé the day of her own wedding.
**By text.
***For her cousin, the aforementioned missing bridesmaid.
Still, pitiable as my situation was, I hadn’t taken Addie’s whole “You are going on this cruise” threat seriously. Who goes on their would-be honeymoon by themselves?
Even with the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, a sliver of awe and excitement swelled in my core as I craned my neck to take in the enormity of the massive ocean liner.
“Give me that.” Addie snatched the Tupperware away. “No, no, you’re not getting on that cruise ship.”
Just as I thought—it had only been a ploy to pry me off her couch. I could go back to cake-bingeing and game show-watching posthaste.
Addie grabbed my chin and swiveled my head around toward her window. “You’re getting on that one.”
I followed her outstretched finger to a boat the size of a postage stamp.
“What, that oversized dinghy?” I let out a derisive snort as I picked up my phone to check my emails. “I am not getting on that thing.”
“Oh, yes you are.”
“Give me three reasons.”
“One. My parents arrive tomorrow and need the guest bed. It’s going to be hard enough to remember to keep my mouth shut when I smile around them without having to worry about whether or not you’re comfy on the couch.”
Addie had spent seven years and five-thousand dollars of her parents’ hard-earned money in various orthodontia growing up. She had then promptly lost her retainer the first week of college and didn’t bother to replace it, right around the same time she became my best friend. Needless to say, two of her top teeth immediately went wonky. Fourteen years later, and she still didn’t have the nerve to tell her parents about it, opting instead for a creepy closed-mouth grin during their visits.
“Two.” She raised another finger. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news.”
“False! You secretly love it.” Addie might have been my best friend, but Little Miss Sunshine, she was not.
“Okay, true. As your realtor, though, I do hate to be the bearer of bad housing market news. The fact is that you, my dear, gave up your adorable bungalow in Little Five Points in order to move to Lance’s cookie cutter McMansion in the suburbs.”
I whimpered. I had loved my house. And I’d poured hundreds of hours into fixing it up on a shoestring budget. Not to brag, but I was kind of the queen of upcycling.
“Sorry,” Addie hastily added. “But I’m not going to sugarcoat it. It’s going to take me some serious hunting and more than a small miracle to find anything in your price range within the perimeter.”
“When have you sugarcoated anything ever, Addie?” I gave her a withering look. But if I was being honest with myself, she wasn’t the one I was mad at. If I’d listened to her, I wouldn’t even be here right now. I’d be curled up at home on my sofa, reading a cozy mystery, and planning my next craft project around the house.
Addie had been my only friend who’d expressed qualms (and plenty of them) about my hasty engagement to Lance Carruthers.
Not that the relationship itself had been hasty. Lance and I had dated on and off for over six years. Never terribly serious. We’d part ways amicably, but like flipped magnets, something would draw us back together. I’d need a plus-one at a reception. He’d need a date for a work function. And boom. We’d be a couple again. Then we had a longer than usual stretch of dating.
It had been … comfortable.
And, yeah, the magical proposal story I’d always envisioned ended up being more of a poop-or-get-off-the-pot conversation.
But try being an unmarried wedding planner in the über-competitive Atlanta market. Ninety-seven percent of my initial consults had begun with the same question and confused facial expression from would-be clients: “Oh. You’re not married?”
As if I needed a rock on my finger to prove I could plan them the most kickass wedding ever.
I’d launch into my impeccable qualifications and award-winning portfolio. Most times, I’d lock down the contract. Usually once they found out which of their sorority sisters (whose nuptials they were determined to outdo) had hired me. In the back of my head, though, I’d always wondered how much easier it would be with a ring on my left hand.
Turned out the answer was much easier.
And since I was being completely honest, yes. Maybe I did freak out over that Newsweek article about how your ovaries apparently start attacking their own egg
s Lord of the Flies-style the moment you turn thirty.
My engagement to Lance had been fine. No huge red flags. It had been … comfortable. The thing that had initially attracted me to Lance had been how laidback he was, how easygoing.
But between organizing my own wedding along with half of Atlanta’s It-brides, our relationship went from comfy to autopilot. Lance didn’t have an opinion on anything wedding-related anyway, and I was just happy that he was keeping himself busy.
Until I found out that he was keeping himself busy by boffing my cousin Tammi.
“Reason three.” Addie held up the requisite number of fingers. “Or was it four?”
“Three,” I said while scrolling my email to check if Mary Frances Ellington’s trained doves had been cleared through animal control inspection.
“Three. Recycled honeymoon or not, you need to get away and take a vacation.”
“I do not,” I started to argue. Dang it. One of the doves had nipped an inspector and was quarantined until further notice.
“Give me that.” Addie grabbed my phone and switched it off. “You need to relax. Have fun. Let your hair down. Or actually, you should probably keep it pinned up.”
“What’s wrong with my hair?” I patted it down.
“This humidity is—y’know what? Not the point. The point is you need to show the world you’re not nursing a broken heart.”
I sighed. That was the worst part of it. I wasn’t heartbroken.
It wasn’t like I had a shortage of emotions. Emotions, I had a’plenty. Anger. Embarrassment. A hefty dose of regret.
But no heartbreak.
Not the smallest twinge.
“Ugh,” I said. “Addie, I almost married a guy who I don’t feel the least bit heartsick over losing. How wrong is that?”
She squeezed my hand.
Maybe I did need to take a vacation. Not only to get away from my unwedding disaster but to figure out how I’d gotten so far away from me, from who I used to be.
I’d never been one to bend over backwards searching for Mr. Wonderful. Yet I’d settled for Mr. Whatever.
I once handcrafted two-hundred makeshift centerpieces out of coffee filters and Kool-Aid by myself. In a single afternoon. I had once repaired a dress five minutes before the bride walked down the aisle using nothing but hot glue and dental floss. I was the freaking MacGyver of weddings.
Rather, I used to be.
Now, I was the girl who stressed out over cranky doves.
The old me—the real me—would have gone straight over to Lance’s place to read him the riot act. That girl certainly wouldn’t cower in her best friend’s apartment, praying that she’d never have to see the man again.
“You’re right,” I said, resolve building in my core.
“Wait. Did you just say what I think you just said?” Addie fumbled in her purse. “Say that again. I need to get this recorded for posterity’s sake.”
“You. Are. Right.” I pushed the car door open and grabbed my day bag. Salty sea breeze filled my lungs. “I need some time to decompress and think. And the fact that Lance pre-paid for this cruise is the icing on the cake.”
“I’m not letting you have any more cake.” Addie put her hand over the Tupperware.
“I deserve a week of fun in the sun.” I said, ignoring her as I popped the trunk and pulled out my suitcases.
Of course, that was before I knew the entertainment portion of the cruise would involve solving a gruesome murder.
Unfortunately, my foresight was blind as a bat with beer goggles.
Chapter Two
I didn’t know how it was possible, but the cruise ship appeared smaller up close. Even the sign pointing the way to its terminal was tiny.
Escape Cruise Lines
Aptly named, at least.
“It really is dinky,” I whispered to Addie.
“Give it a chance.” She patted my elbow. “With cruise ships, they say that small is the new big.”
“Who? Who says that? Who is they?”
Addie stared at me for a beat.
“Okay, no one says that.” She shrugged. “I actually heard the S.S. Gargantuan over there has a rainforest surrounding an ice skating rink with a chocolate fountain in the center that’s the size of a Volkswagen. But I’m sure yours will be fine, too.”
She flashed me a gap-toothed smile, which I didn’t return.
“You’re evil, you know that?” I said, then added, “You’re sure you won’t go with me?”
“I would, but my parents are probably already nosing through my bathroom drawers. Plus, there’s that minor matter of your homelessness to attend to.”
“The real estate market can’t be that bad.”
Addie flipped her phone around so I could see the current rent prices anywhere near my old neighborhood. Holy shingles. It was worse than I imagined. I needed to enjoy this vacation. It would be my last one for the foreseeable future.
Before I could descend into a full-blown case of housing panic, I was interrupted by a flamingo pink stretch Humvee limo that pulled up next to us. A tall woman emerged from it. Her platinum blonde bouffant was dwarfed by the two perfectly round cantaloupes that clung to her chest, held up by a sparkly camisole and a whole lot of faith. I blinked as the woman tottered past on five-inch heels. She looked familiar for some reason.
“Chop, chop!” she yelled in a nasally voice, and the driver of the limo began unloading her many trunks as the woman petted a fluffy white Pomeranian tucked in the nook of her arm. The dog seemed familiar, too. Out of the other side of the Hummer, a stocky man with dark, slicked-back hair and designer sunglasses emerged. He was several inches shorter than the woman, but that might have been her stilettos.
Then it hit me.
“Ohmigosh, ohmigosh, ohmigosh.” I grabbed Addie’s arm and waited until the blonde was out of earshot. “Do you know who that is?”
Addie squinted at their backs. “Umm?”
“It’s Bebe Bosley.” The Bebe Bosley, the widow of Winston Bosley. He had made his millions in the porta-potty industry. (“Bosley’s Potties—we’ll take crap from anyone!”) But that wasn’t what had brought him fame. It was his unbelievable age difference from Bebe. She hadn’t been so much a trophy wife as a lifetime achievement award. She had been in her mid-twenties and he in his early-nineties when they wed.
She had probably thought he’d last a few months, maybe a couple years at most. The man lived to be one hundred and seven.
Wow. An actual celebrity on board. Albeit, one who had achieved her celeb status by seducing a nonagenarian. But still kind of exciting.
“Do you think they’re filming an episode?” I asked, scanning the area for a film crew, but I didn’t see one. Immediately after Winston’s funeral a few years ago, the reality show Being Bebe had premiered. It was pure voyeuristic ratings-bait.
“I’ve never actually seen a full episode.” Addie picked at her nail.
“Liar.”
“Okay, fine.” Addie threw her hands in the hair. “I’ve watched every season. I’m so jealous I could spit cats, and … arghhhh, Tony’s with her.”
“I know,” I squealed. I’d gotten sucked into an episode last year, and it had become one of my guilty pleasures. Emphasis on guilty. The show contained as much substance as a shelf full of Twinkies. But man, was Bebe entertaining.
“Her fights with Tony are hilarious,” said Addie. “What’s it going to be on the trip? He puts too many ice cubes in her water so she throws it in his face? Ha!”
“Oh! Or remember the time that Bebe dropped her earring at the mall, and she made him crawl back to the food court on his hands and knees to search for it?”
“And then it was stuck in her cleavage the whole time. Man, he looked like he could have killed her. I really wish I could come with you. But I think I can hear my mom judging the lack of vegetables in my fridge as we speak.”
“All right,” I said, unable to hide the growing eagerness in my voice. “I’ll Bebe-wa
tch for both of us. And I’m not going to give Lance or Tammi or my nightmare of an almost-wedding a second thought.”
We both knew I was lying on that last part, but Addie had the good grace to hold her tongue.
“Right,” she said, then shouted, “Now, go! Unwind. Unplug. Relax.”
“I’m not that uptight.”
“Piper, you’re so tense you could crack walnuts with your butt cheeks. Now get on that boat.” Addie kissed me on the cheek.
I took a deep breath and dragged my suitcases—bump, bump, bump—over the slatted walkway. My shoulder muscles unclenched a little more with every step. Yep, totally over getting ditched.
I paused and stared at the neighboring ship, mesmerized by its enormous anchor as they slowly reeled the thing up. For a brief moment, I had a vision of Lance and Tammi smooching under the anchor as its chain went slack and squished the imaginary duo to smithereens.
Sigh. I might have a few kinks to work out on the “totally over it” thing. I shook away the devious thought of their demise and pushed myself onward.
The mega cruise liner might have had twenty-seven restaurant choices, rock-climbing walls, and round-the-clock buffets, but who cared about that stuff? We’d be floating on the same ocean. Perhaps small was the new big in cruise ships.
It was like the difference between a quaint bed and breakfast and a soulless hotel chain. Peace and quiet versus the kettledrum party music that blared over the huge ship’s loudspeakers.
And, hey. Bebe Bosley was on board. With her notoriously exacting standards, it couldn’t be that bad.
Death In A Deck Chair Page 1
