by Zara Keane
Some Like It Shot
Movie Club Mysteries, Book 6
Zara Keane
Beaverstone Press
Contents
About This Book
Note On Gaelic Terms
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
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Recipe for Chocolate-Orange Shots
Also by Zara Keane
About Zara Keane
SOME LIKE IT SHOT
(Movie Club Mysteries, Book 6)
“Danger was part of my job description, but none of my contingency plans anticipated an attack by a Maine Coon.”
It’s summer on Whisper Island. Ex-cop-turned-private-investigator Maggie Doyle is looking forward to sun, fun, and romance. Instead, she gets bills, an assault allegation, and a busted wrist. When a hotshot director asks Maggie to investigate a series of suspicious accidents on his movie set, she can’t afford to refuse. Maggie’s hopes for a quick-fix solution are shot to pieces when the woman who accused her of assault turns up dead.
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Note On Gaelic Terms
Certain Gaelic terms appear in this book. I have tried to use them sparingly and in contexts that should make their meaning clear to international readers. However, a couple of words require clarification.
The official name for the Irish police force is An Garda Síochána (“the Guardian of the Peace”). Police are Gardaí (plural) and Garda (singular). Irish police are commonly referred to as “the guards”.
The official rank of a police officer such as Sergeant Reynolds is Garda Sergeant Reynolds. As the Irish frequently shorten this to Sergeant, I’ve chosen to use this version for all but the initial introduction to the character.
The official name for the Whisper Island police station would be Whisper Island Garda Station, but Maggie, being American, rarely thinks of it as such.
The Irish police do not, as a rule, carry firearms. Permission to carry a gun is reserved to detectives and specialist units, such as the Emergency Response Unit. The police on Whisper Island would not have been issued with firearms.
Although this book follows American spelling conventions, I’ve chosen to use the common Irish spelling for proper names such as Carraig Harbour and the Whisper Island Medical Centre. An exception is the Movie Theater Café, which was named by Maggie’s American mother.
1
Whisper Island, Ireland
“Quibbles,” I called for the seventy-millionth time. “Here, kitty, kitty.” I lay on my stomach and shone my flashlight under the mobile home. Discarded garbage? Check. Stray sock? Check. Rodent presence? Check times three.
Recoiling, I scrabbled away from the caravan, putting distance between me and the three gleaming-eyed furballs. Unless Quibbles had metamorphosed into a rat, he wasn’t here.
I got to my feet and made an ineffectual attempt to brush wet sand off my bare legs. In hindsight, wearing a skirt hadn’t been my smartest move. Then again, I hadn’t anticipated spending my morning searching the muddy grounds of the Happy Campers caravan park after an alleged sighting of the rogue feline. I’d love to say I had better ways to spend my working hours, but Trudy Nelson, Quibbles’ owner, was my only client.
I pulled up the hood of my rain jacket and trudged across the muddy quagmire of the caravan park. So far, this summer had been a washout in every sense of the word. Business was terrible, tourism was down, and the weather was lousy. Weeks of wind, rain, and gloomy skies had taken their toll on my finances and my mood. To be fair, it was only the start of July. Perhaps next week would bring sunshine and balmy temperatures. Right now, we were trapped in a Groundhog Day of April-style weather. As an escape from the dreary summer, Liam, my boyfriend, had promised to whisk me away for a romantic weekend in County Clare. Tomorrow morning couldn’t come soon enough.
A semi-naked toddler raced past me and leaped into a puddle, liberally splashing me with mud. While the toddler squealed with delight, Sammy Brennan, the carrot-topped ten-year-old who’d claimed to have seen Quibbles, snorted with laughter.
“You’re looking rough, Maggie,” Sammy called from his caravan’s steps.
I shoved my hands in my pockets, resisting the urge to flip him the bird.
Like many of the park’s inhabitants, Sammy and his dad were seasonal residents who ran a fast-food truck by the waterfront. With clientele looking for medium-term rentals at rock-bottom prices, the park’s money-grubbing owners didn’t bother to maintain the property. Sammy’s caravan was a prime example of this neglect. Courtesy of a busted tire, the vehicle listed to the left, and peeling green paint revealed the rust underneath. Happy Campers, indeed.
When I reached Sammy’s temporary home, I waved a soggy poster in front of the kid. “Are you sure you saw a Maine Coon?”
He squinted at the photo and dragged a grubby hand across his nose before answering. “I dunno. This place is crawling with cats. Maybe it wasn’t a cat at all. Could’ve been a ferret. Or a rat. Can I have my reward now?”
I pocketed the poster. “No cat, no cash.”
The boy’s close-set eyes drew together in a scowl that made him appear cross-eyed. “You said the reward was fifty quid.”
“If the tip helped me find Quibbles. Unless you can produce Mrs. Nelson’s prize-winning cat, I’m out of here.”
Sammy was the walking, talking definition of what the Irish termed “a born chancer.” Without missing a beat, he pointed at a black cat slinking along the side of a neighboring caravan. “Will that one do?”
“That’s not a Maine Coon,” I said dryly. “And she’s pregnant. Quibbles is a tomcat.”
The boy shrugged. “His owner’s fit to croak. She won’t notice the difference.”
“Watch your tongue, lad,” a voice boomed from within caravan. “Mrs. Nelson’s one of my regular customers.” The door to the caravan swung open, and Mike “Magnum” Brennan emerged. Like his namesake in the iconic Eighties TV series, Magnum sported shades, a bushy mustache, and an open-necked Hawaiian shirt. In contrast to the tall, dark, and handsome Tom Selleck, Irish Magnum was five-feet-five with wiry red hair and a bulging belly that strained at the buttons of his ketchup-stained shirt. He also had an unrequited crush on me.
“Hey, there, Maggie.” He beamed at me and quickly brushed toast crumbs off his mustache. “Is my boy giving you trouble?”
“Not at all,” I replied smoothly. “Sammy tried to help me find a client’s missing cat.”
The kid shot me a death glance. “Yes, I did, and now she won’t pay up.”
“Unfortunately, Sammy’s tip proved to be a dud.”
Magnum nodded as though this were par for the course and scratched a patch of exposed belly. “Wanna go for a pint after
I close shop tonight? With the weather this bad, I’m only opening the chip van for a few hours. I can hook up with you around eight.”
Hooking up with Magnum was definitely not at the top of my wish list. “That’s very kind of you, but as I’ve mentioned before, I have a boyfriend.” And even if I didn’t, Magnum wasn’t the kind of dude to make my heart pound.
He shrugged. “Fair enough. A man can try.”
“A man can also stop trying once a woman’s said no.” My delivery was light but firm. I turned my focus back on the kid. “Thanks for the tip, Sammy. Sorry that it didn’t pan out. I’ll see you guys around.”
“Need a lift, Maggie?” Magnum called after me. “The rain’s coming down something terrible. I can run you into town in the Magnum Mobile.”
I choked back a laugh. Instead of the swanky red Ferrari driven in the TV series, the Magnum Mobile was a first-generation Mazda MX-5 that looked as though it had survived a nuclear war. In addition to its unprepossessing appearance, the Magnum Mobile’s roof leaked—a fact I’d discovered during my first and last ride in the vehicle.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said, straight-faced. “I’m already wet.”
Leaving Magnum mooning after me—and Sammy muttering about my unwillingness to cough up fifty euros for zero results—I strode out of the caravan park.
In beautiful weather, Happy Campers was a fifteen-minute walk from Smuggler’s Cove. Today, it was slower going. A dirt track led to the main road, and the rain had turned the track into an obstacle course. I navigated the puddles with care and kept my eyes peeled for Quibbles. I had no real expectation that the flighty feline would put in an appearance, but I had to try. By the time I reached the road, the light drizzle had turned into a heavy shower, and the wind had blown back my hood. After I readjusted my hood, I shoved my hands in my pockets and quickened my pace.
The wet walk into town gave me time to brood. While I was on the hunt for Quibbles, Lenny, my assistant, was on the trail of a hacker who’d infiltrated a bus company’s computer system. Apart from these two cases, business at Movie Reel Investigations was nonexistent. Following our success in solving the Santa Killer case, we’d enjoyed a period of prosperity. Inquiries had flooded in, but with just two private investigators on staff, we’d had to turn down many of these job offers. Once the next news story caught the public’s interest, the free publicity we’d received in the aftermath of the arrests had dried up. If we wanted to keep the lights on, we needed to score better-paying jobs than searching for an errant Maine Coon.
Long before I reached the outskirts of town, my hood had conceded defeat to the wind, and my hair was soaked. I plowed onward, past the ferry terminal, and zigzagged my way through a gaggle of tourists huddled in front of the fast-food trucks that lined the entrance to the pier. I inhaled the smell of fried carbs. My stomach rumbled—skipping breakfast was never a smart move.
“Oy. Private investigator lady. I want a word with you.”
I halted at the abrupt summons and whipped around to see who’d called me. Peering through the rain, I spied a large woman waving at me from behind the counter of a food truck. Theresa Crawley, the proprietor of Battered and Clammed, a fish-and-chip joint of dubious reputation, thrust her greasy apron at her assistant and clambered out of her truck. Theresa sported a permanent resting bitch face and a salon tan as deep-fried as her food. Neither of us knew that in less than twenty-four hours, Theresa would be dead, and I’d be accused of her murder.
2
Theresa lumbered over to me, each step pulsing with pent-up aggression. A frizzy mane of poorly dyed platinum hair completed her leathery look. The harsh skin and hair tones made it hard to judge her age, but I put Theresa in her late forties. I knew her vaguely from the monthly Movie Club meetings my aunt Noreen hosted, but we’d never spoken.
When she reached me, I had to crane my neck to look her in the eyes. I was tall, but Theresa was built like an industrial refrigerator.
She eyed my wet and sandy appearance with blatant disdain. “Did you roll across the beach?”
Whoa…This lady was rude.
“All part of the job.” I kept my words light and jaunty, enjoying the flicker of uncertainty that crossed Theresa’s mahogany visage. “You wanted to speak to me?”
Theresa jutted her powerful jaw, bulldog-fashion, and yanked a cigarette from behind her ear. “You sure you’re Eliza Donati’s sister?” she demanded between puffs. “She’s good-looking.”
Her words jerked me like whiplash. Most days, I ignored unfavorable comparisons to my beauty-influencer-turned-actress sister. Today, I was stressed, dirty, and wet. The last thing I needed was yet another reminder that plain old me had the temerity to share Eliza Donati’s DNA. I took an instinctive step away from the smoke and the smoker. “Did you stop me just to hurl insults?” I demanded, not bothering to disguise my impatience. “Or did you have another reason for wanting to chew the fat?”
Theresa glanced over her shoulder at the line of food trucks. “Not here,” she barked. “Walk with me.”
The woman’s biting delivery doused me like an acid bath. I itched to tell her to take a flying leap off the end of the pier, but I sensed an impending job offer, and I wasn’t in a position to turn down work. After all, I didn’t need to like my clients, right?
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll walk and talk, but only if you promise to get to the point pronto.”
The woman’s beady eyes pulsed with malice, but she grunted in assent.
“So,” I said once we were out of earshot of the food trucks, “what’s this all about?”
Theresa thrust a meaty hand into her pocket and withdrew a crumpled envelope. “I want you to find out who’s sending me threatening letters.”
A stirring of excitement coaxed me out of my bad mood. “May I see?”
She handed me the envelope, and I examined it with care. It was a standard size with Theresa’s name and address typed in capital letters. It bore a Galway postmark and yesterday’s date. There was no return address.
“When did you receive this letter?”
“This morning. I have my letters delivered to the post office on Main Street, and I stop by every day on my way to work.” Theresa glowered at the envelope still in my hand. “That was with this morning’s delivery.”
Raindrops splashed onto the paper, making the ink run. I shoved the envelope into my skirt pocket before the rain made it illegible. “I’ll read the letter when I’m indoors. How many of these have you received?”
The woman shrugged. “I’ve stopped counting. Must be at least twenty at this stage.”
I arched my eyebrows. “So many? How long has this been going on?”
“Six months, give or take.” She uttered the words with a weariness that was at odds with her aggressive stance.
“Have you shown any of the letters to the police?” I asked. “You sound genuinely worried.”
Theresa’s nostrils flared. “No way. I don’t like the Guards. Can you sort this out for me or not?”
“Not without more details. Why don’t you fill me in at my office after I clean up?” I indicated my muddy legs. “We’ll talk over coffee.”
The woman took another drag on her cigarette before answering. “Awful stuff, coffee,” she said on the exhale. “Do you have tea?”
I made a mental inventory of the contents of my office. “I have Darjeeling tea bags.” A gift from a former client, currently gathering dust on a filing cabinet.
Theresa sniffed. “I prefer Irish breakfast.”
I swallowed the caustic retort that sprang to mind. “I’ll see if the café can spare some.”
“That’s right.” My companion’s lip curled. “Your agency is upstairs from the Movie Theater Café, isn’t it? I’m sure your aunt will be delighted to see me.”
“She welcomes you to the Movie Club meetings,” I reminded her. “Like other restaurant owners, Noreen’s not thrilled about the competition from the summer food trucks, but she’s not pa
rt of the committee that wants to ban you from the island.”
I’d witnessed tension between the food trucks and the local eateries last summer, my first living on the island. This year, with the bad weather keeping tourists away, the strain had morphed into outright hostility.
“Noreen Doyle’s not the worst of the bunch,” Theresa conceded grudgingly.
“Do you suspect a disgruntled restaurant owner is behind the anonymous letters?” I asked.
The woman snorted. “That’s one theory.”
“Do you have another?” Given Theresa’s prickly personality, I imagined she rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.
“No,” she muttered after a pause, not convincing me for a second.
I regarded her carefully, but I gleaned nothing more from her closed expression. She suspected someone, but I’d need to earn her trust before she’d confide in me. Given her bluntness, she had to have a reason for clamming up now, but what? “Have any of the other food trucks received threats?”
“Not that I’ve heard.” Theresa shrugged. “I keep to myself.” In other words, she wasn’t friendly with the other seasonal restaurateurs. I’d need to talk to them and find out if anyone had a particular problem with her.
We lapsed into an awkward silence as we covered the remaining distance to the café and my office. While we walked, Theresa finished her cigarette, and I tried to figure out why this truculent woman had asked for my help instead of turning to the police. Did she have a record? Or had she lodged a previous complaint and not been satisfied with the result? I’d check with Liam. Having a boyfriend who was a police sergeant was mighty handy for a private investigator.
