Maggie and the Mourning Beads
A Carita Cove Romantic Mystery
Barbara Cool Lee
Pajaro Bay Publishing
Contents
Introduction
Newsletter
Copyright & Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Your Exclusive Peek
Jasper
Booklist
Newsletter
Charities
Stay in Touch
Introduction
Can Maggie find the real killer when her teenage student threatens to strangle her mother with a jet-black necklace... hours before the woman is found dead? And what deep, dark secret is movie star Reese Stevens hiding from the world? Can Maggie help him face the truth?
Maggie McJasper is starting over in a little California beach town. She has a craft shop, a nice circle of friends, and a handsome movie star who keeps flirting with her. Life would be pretty great if she could just stop stumbling over dead bodies….
The Carita Cove romantic mysteries are fun and heartwarming reads, with no swearing or love scenes, and no gruesome violence to keep you up at night. Collect them all:
* * *
1. Maggie and the Black-Tie Affair
2. Maggie and the Inconvenient Corpse
3. Maggie and the Mourning Beads
4. Maggie and the Empty Noose
5. Maggie and the Hidden Homicide
6. Maggie and the Whiskered Witness
7. Maggie and the Serpentine Script
8. Maggie and the Rattled Rake
And more to come. Click here for the latest booklist.
Copyright © 2019 by Barbara Cool Lee
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. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Neither the author nor the publisher claim responsibility for adverse effects resulting from the use of any recipes, projects, and/or information found within this book.
This edition published: December 3, 2019
2021-01-15-D
Chapter One
August 6, morning
Carita, California
* * *
"Magdalena Lopez McJasper!"
The deep masculine voice boomed through the massive living room of Casablanca, Maggie's elegant beach house.
She was on her knees, scrubbing a stubborn spot on the fireplace's stone hearth.
She sat back on her heels. "What?!" she replied, in an equally annoyed tone.
The man who had yelled her name came closer until his crisp white Vans stopped about two feet away from where she knelt.
"This is ridiculous, Maggie," he said.
She gazed up at him. Up and up, past the perfectly faded Levis that fit him like an old glove, to the plain white T-shirt that outlined a physique like a movie star's, all the way up to the face that made it clear that was exactly what he was.
He held out a hand and helped her to her feet.
She automatically reached for her back, rubbing the sore muscles there, and glared at him.
Reese Stevens stood there in all his glory, impossibly beautiful, with golden blond hair cut deliberately shaggy by the best stylist in LA. He had just enough stubble to add depth to the perfect bone structure of his face, and those famous eyes that usually showed a wit and charm to make her automatically smile.
But not now. Now those eyes showed nothing but annoyance.
"What on earth do you think you're doing?" he growled.
"I think I'm scrubbing the spot where you spilled pizza sauce on the custom stone hearth," she growled right back at him. "You got a problem with that?"
"Yeah. I have a problem with that."
A lock of her hair had escaped the messy bun she was wearing and hung down in her face. If she weren't too tired to lift her arms, she'd push the hair out of her eyes.
She had tried to convince herself she was wearing the messy bun look because it was trendy, and not because she was exhausted from overwork and didn't have the money for a proper blow-out.
Reese reached out and tucked the stray hair behind her ear. "Maggie," he said softly. "Look into my eyes."
She was not a short woman, but still she had to crick her sore neck to gaze up into his stunning cobalt blue eyes, the same eyes that had stared out from the cover of last month's California Lifestyle magazine under the headline, Reese Stevens: Aging Like Fine Wine.
And he was. Aging like wine, though it was a horrid turn of phrase to use for the recovering alcoholic and addict who'd almost died after an overdose eleven years ago. But still, the phrase was accurate. As he neared forty, Reese was probably in the best shape of his life, and the most successful he'd ever been in his long career. And he was, if such a thing were possible, even more gorgeous than he'd been when he burst onto the world all those years ago as a fresh-faced teen fronting a rock band.
"I will not have my friend kneeling on the floor scrubbing my house. I won't have it." His voice had gone from angry to gentle, and the kindness in it made the whole situation worse. It made her want to agree with him, and that made her mad.
"First of all, it's my house," she snarled. "You're just renting it. And second, you're the one who sent my housekeeper on an all-expenses paid trip to Santorini, leaving me in the lurch."
"The trip was in the Oscars swag bag and I didn't want it. And old Mrs. Queen was depressed after her boss died. She needed a vacation."
Maggie grimaced. "Don't we all?"
"I would have given the trip to you if I'd known you were going to go all self-pitying on me."
"I'm not self-pitying."
Maybe she was. She rubbed at her lower back again. Maybe it was true. She was feeling down.
Reese said softly, "This shouldn't be hitting you so hard, Mags. Big Mac wasn't even your husband when he was killed. You were divorced."
"For all of two weeks before he died. I know. But it's hard to get over it. It feels like there's still unfinished business between us."
"Too bad," he said bluntly. "You can't settle it now. He's dead."
She started to get back down on her knees to finish cleaning the fireplace, but he held onto her by one elbow. His grip was rock-hard, though it didn't hurt, and she just sighed in annoyance.
He pulled his phone out of his jeans with his free hand. He put it on speaker, so when it was picked up, Maggie heard the cheery, "Yes, Mr. Stevens?"
"Patricia, I need a housekeeper for Casablanca. ASAP."
"Got it," she replied. Maggie could picture his personal assistant Patricia, a very dignified executive secretary type who wore
immaculate powder blue suits that complemented her steel gray hair and horn-rimmed glasses. "Anything else?" she added.
"Not at the moment. Thank you."
He hung up and put the phone in his back pocket.
"It's hard to find housekeepers way off here in Carita," Maggie said. "And even harder when it's for you—the person needs to pass a background check, and sign an NDA. You can't just snap your fingers and make it happen."
"Of course I can. That's why Patricia gets the big bucks—she makes things happen when I snap my fingers."
"But your lease says I provide the housecleaning, and yard care, and pool cleaning." She groaned. "I forgot. I need to hire a pool cleaner, too, before the algae takes over."
"Patricia will handle that."
He was still holding onto her arm. She pulled away, but he held on, still just as gentle but unyielding. "Stop fighting me, Maggie," he said softly. "You're about to fall over from exhaustion. Come with me."
He led her to the big sliders that opened onto the patio and they went out there.
The ocean sparkled in front of them, and she blinked at the brightness.
He sat her in one of the lounge chairs next to the waterfall pool, and lifted her ankles to put her feet up on the cushion. Then he pulled back the lever and she found herself reclining, looking up at the gloriously blue summer sky with the sun so bright she had to close her eyes to keep the tears from stinging.
He stood over her, and she could feel the coolness of his shadow across her chest.
She kept her eyes closed. She listened to the peaceful splash of the pool, echoed by the sound of the water lapping the shore on the beach just below the house. She used to lie in this chair and read a book and enjoy the sunshine. Back when she'd been married to a man who paid all the bills and handled all the problems for her.
Off to the side of the pool, the giant wave sculpture loomed, its overwhelming ugliness thankfully out of sight while her eyes were closed. But the infernal rattling of its rusty iron rebar made a comfortable and familiar accompaniment to the bubble of the pool filter.
The rattle reminded her of the two broken pieces sitting on the patio, another item on her endless to do list. She mumbled, "I have to get the sculpture repaired before the art world finds out it's damaged."
"I broke it," Reese said. "I'll get it fixed. Though I don't see why you can't just sell the thing to a junk yard. Surely that much scrap iron is worth something."
"Shhh," she muttered. "It's a famous work of art."
"So am I," Reese said dryly. "But if I ever end up a wreck like that, I hope you'll put me out of my misery."
"You've been a wreck before," she muttered. "You got over it."
He laughed. "True." Then he added in a more serious tone, "you're totally wiped, Maggie. You need to slow down."
"You are so bossy," she mumbled, feeling her body relax against the plush cushions.
"I get away with it."
"I shouldn't let you."
"Relax…," the deep voice said from somewhere nearby.
She felt him take the grimy sponge she had somehow held onto through all this. It made a satisfying splat when it hit the patio.
He sat down in the chair next to her and leaned it back so they were lying side-by-side.
"Take a deep breath, Mags," he said.
She opened her eyes and sat up straight. "What am I doing?"
Reese lay back in his chair. "I thought you were relaxing."
She swung her legs over the side and planted them firmly on the ground. "No. I don't need you to fix everything for me, Reese. I'm not some fragile flower. I can handle my own business."
He frowned slightly, his face wrinkling up in a way that betrayed his lack of recent Botox use. He still looked pretty close to perfect, though, and it reminded her of the world she'd left behind, the world where she'd been a uselessly pretty trophy wife for a rich movie producer.
"I'm not having it, Stanley," she said firmly, using his real name to emphasize the point.
He sighed, sounding exasperated. "Not having what, Magdalena?"
"I will not have you bail me out every time I make the wrong choice." Like signing a divorce decree that left her underwater on the mortgage for this big house, forcing her to rent it to Reese instead of living in it herself. "Stop playing big brother to me."
"Honey," he drawled, "being your big brother is the last thing I have in mind."
"Don't flirt with me every time I get mad at you."
"It works," he said mildly, accompanying it with a smile worthy of a movie poster.
"No," she said firmly. "It doesn't. Get one of your bimbo dates to fall for that routine, because I'm not." She looked around. "And I'd think you'd be anxious to have the house clean before your next girlfriend of the moment shows up."
He stopped smiling. "That reminds me. I've got a guest coming over this week. What's something simple I can cook?"
"You can cook? Why don't you get in a chef?"
He hesitated. "I want to do it myself. This time. So what do you think would be easy enough for me to make from scratch?"
"You're asking the wrong person," Maggie admitted. "My last attempt at roast chicken set off the smoke alarm. Why don't you ask Patricia?"
"I will," he said. "And I'll have her hire a pool cleaner as well, while I'm at it, so you can forget that."
She stood up and looked down at him reclining on her teak lounger with the blue bamboo cushions that set off his eyes. He was everything she had chosen to walk away from: rich and famous and beautiful and spoiled. And at this particular moment, she missed every shallow bit of it.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he waved a hand in the air. "Don't tell me what the lease says. I'm amending the lease. I handle the maintenance from now on."
"I can't afford to lower your rent, Reese."
"I didn't ask you to. Stop obsessing over the money. It means nothing to me. I have enough for ten lifetimes."
"I will not mooch off of you."
"No. You won't. But you also won't be my servant. You're my friend. You think I want you scrubbing my floors? There are people who get paid good money to do that work. You're taking a job away from someone who could use it. Think of it as lowering the unemployment rate. And look what you've done to your hands." He took her rough hand between his palms. "You can't do your beadwork if you wreck your hands like this."
She pulled her hand away from him. "I'll get gloves."
"You'll get nothing. I'm not having it. I'm serious. There are limits to this vow of poverty of yours."
"It's not a vow of poverty."
"At some point you have to grow a backbone. You deserve better than this."
"There's nothing wrong with honest hard work."
"No," he agreed. "There isn't. There's also nothing wrong with asking friends for help when you need it."
She stood there, frowning.
"Get over yourself, Mags. I'm a grown man. Let me be responsible for my own house and my own life here. You need to stop wallowing in your grief and move on."
"I am moving on."
His raised eyebrow told her he didn't believe that.
"I am," she insisted. "I know I've been down in the dumps, but I've got a plan to deal with it."
"What is it?"
She walked away, but flung back over her shoulder, "I've got a plan to get over myself and have a bit of fun at the same time. I'm going to do a bit of productive wallowing."
"What does that mean?" he called after her.
"You'll see."
Chapter Two
She went out the front door of Casablanca, leaving the scrub sponges and bucket of soapy water behind in the living room. Reese's new housekeeper would take care of it. Despite her protests, she knew a properly vetted professional would show up today to handle the mess.
It was hard to let go of responsibility for the house. Maybe Reese was right. Maybe she had some sort of guilt complex. She had just known so many users and schemers in her
old life that it was disturbing to think she might act like one of them. There were very few people in Reese's world who didn't care about his money and fame, and she didn't want to be one of the moochers. He needed at least one friend who liked Stanley Tibbets, the real person behind the pretty face, not Reese Stevens the Star.
But for now, she'd let him handle the house.
She closed the door to Casablanca behind her. It was still her house. For a little while longer, anyway. As long as she had a renter, she could keep it.
She could still own it on paper. She just couldn't afford to live in it. So she walked over to her new home, parked at the far end of the driveway.
A trailer, people had called it dismissively. A postage-stamp sized Tiny House on wheels everyone thought was an absurd place for a grown woman to live.
But she stood there for a moment and looked at it, experiencing the same surge of joy she'd felt the very first time she'd seen it. Her tiny house was a peak-roofed, purple-painted, happy little place, from its big open windows catching the sea breeze to its miniscule porch with a white railing. When it had been delivered three months ago, she had thought it was the cutest little dollhouse of a cottage she'd ever seen.
She still did think that, despite all the doubters who wanted her to declare bankruptcy, move to a dingy beige apartment, and give up her beach bum lifestyle.
That wasn't going to happen. Especially not now that she had a new roommate to keep happy. Her handsome hulk of a roommate would never be comfortable in an apartment.
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