Milkshakes, Mermaids, and Murder
Page 1
Buckets of Praise for Sara Rosett and the Ellie Avery Series!
MISTLETOE, MERRIMENT, AND MURDER
“Sara Rosett’s Ellie Avery series is a winner. Rosett always delivers a terrific mystery with believable characters and lots of heart. The insider look at the life of a military spouse makes this series a fascinating read. I look forward to each new book.”
—Denise Swanson, New York Times best-selling
author of the Scumble River and Devereaux’s
Dime Store mystery series
“Intriguing characters, a strong setting, more than a dash of humor and a suspenseful plot that ably keeps us guessing until the end.... Yet, what places air force wife Ellie Avery at the top of my list are the poignant descriptions of what military families face every day.”
—Katherine Hall Page, Agatha Award–winning
author of The Body in the Boudoir
MIMOSAS, MISCHIEF, AND MURDER
“What fun is a funeral without a corpse? Ellie Avery steps into snooping mode, and not a moment too soon.... Rosett’s grasp of the minutiae of mommyhood is excellent.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A winning mystery . . . A rumor of hidden money, secret letters from a famous recluse, a fire, a threatening message, and a crazed gunman add to the cozy mischief.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Charm, Southern sass, and suspense abound in the sixth delightful cozy mystery in Sara Rosett’s series featuring Ellie Avery—mom, military wife, part-time professional organizer, and amateur sleuth.”
—Fresh Fiction
MINT JULEPS, MAYHEM, AND MURDER
“A nifty mystery . . . Fans of TV’s Air Force Wives will especially appreciate Ellie, a smart crime solver who successfully navigates the challenges of military life.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Some cozies just hit on all cylinders, and Rosett’s Ellie Avery titles are among the best. Her books recall the early Carolyn Hart.”
—Library Journal
“Tightly constructed with many well-fitted, suspenseful turns, and flows like a country creek after an all-day rain.”
—Shine
MAGNOLIAS, MOONLIGHT, AND MURDER
“Rosett’s engaging fourth Mom Zone mystery finds super-efficient crime-solver Ellie Avery living in a new subdivision in North Dawkins, GA . . . Some nifty party tips help keep the sleuthing on the cozy side.”
—Publishers Weekly
GETTING AWAY IS DEADLY
“No mystery is a match for the likable, efficient Ellie, who unravels this multilayered plot with skill and class.”
—Romantic Times Book Reviews (four stars)
“Getting Away Is Deadly keeps readers moving down some surprising paths—and on the edge of their chairs—until the very end.” —Cozy Library
STAYING HOME IS A KILLER
“If you like cozy mysteries that have plenty of action and lots of suspects and clues, Staying Home Is a Killer will be a fun romp through murder and mayhem. This is a mystery with a ‘mommy lit’ flavor. . . . A fun read.”
—Armchair Interviews
“Thoroughly entertaining. The author’s smooth, succinct writing style enables the plot to flow effortlessly until its captivating conclusion.”
—Romantic Times Book Reviews (four stars)
MOVING IS MURDER
“A fun debut for an appealing young heroine.”
—Carolyn Hart, author of the Death on Demand mystery series “A squadron of suspects, a unique setting, and a twisted plot will keep you turning pages!”
—Nancy J. Cohen, author of the Bad Hair Day
mystery series
“Everyone should snap to attention and salute this fresh new voice.”
—Denise Swanson, nationally best-selling
author of the Scumble River mystery series
“An absorbing read that combines sharp writing and tight plotting with a fascinating peek into the world of military wives. Jump in!”
—Cynthia Baxter, author of the Reigning
Cats & Dogs mystery series
“Reading Sara Rosett’s Moving Is Murder is like making a new friend—I can’t wait to brew a pot of tea and read all about sleuth Ellie Avery’s next adventure!”
—Leslie Meier, author of the Lucy Stone mystery series
“Mayhem, murder, and the military! Rosett is an author to watch.”
—Alesia Holliday, author of the December Vaughn
mystery series
THE ELLIE AVERY MYSTERIES
By Sara Rosett MOVING IS MURDER
STAYING HOME IS A KILLER
GETTING AWAY IS DEADLY
MAGNOLIAS, MOONLIGHT, AND MURDER
MINT JULEPS, MAYHEM, AND MURDER
MIMOSAS, MISCHIEF, AND MURDER
MISTLETOE, MERRIMENT, AND MURDER
MILKSHAKES, MERMAIDS, AND MURDER
Milkshakes, Mermaids, And Murder
Sara Rosett
KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Buckets of Praise for Sara Rosett and the Ellie Avery Series!
Also by
Title Page
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
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Teaser chapter
About the Author
Copyright Page
To LR and JR
Chapter One
I checked the display on my ringing phone and muttered, “This can’t be good.” Mitch, my air force pilot husband, should not be calling me right now. He should be in the air, flying back from a two-week military exercise in Europe so we could depart later today for our family Fourth of July vacation to Sandy Beach, Florida.
It was all timed perfectly, with military precision, in fact. Mitch was scheduled to land in three hours. By then, I’d have finished packing the minivan, and we could hit the road, escaping the muggy humidity of central Georgia for the sea breezes of the Gulf Coast.
Be optimistic. Maybe he’s early, I thought as I answered. “Hey. I didn’t think I’d hear from you until later. Are you down early?”
“Ah—no,” Mitch said, and I knew from his tone our plans were about to change. “We broke. We’re in Goose Bay.”
“You’re in Canada?” I said incredulously.
“Afraid so.”
“Oh.” I surveyed the beach chairs and suitcases wedged into the back of the minivan. “So, how long before you take off again?”
“Well, that’s the deal. We’re not sure. I delayed calling you because maintenance thought they had the part we need, but they don’t. They’re going to have to fly it in.”
“Okay. Well, if it’s just a day’s delay, we can wait until tomorrow to leave,” I said, watching our youngest, Nathan, who was walking around the driveway with his new sand pail on his head, pretending to be a robot. Our daughter, Livvy, in an unexpected burst of big-sister devotion, was playing along with him, poking him
in the chest, pretending to “program” him. Livvy wore her swimsuit under her shirt and shorts. The ties of her hot pink tank peeked over the collar at the back of her neck. She had on her kid-size purple sunglasses and wore flip-flops with huge sunflowers near her toes. She was ready for the beach.
“I’m not sure I’ll be back by tomorrow,” Mitch said reluctantly.
“Really?” I asked in dismay, thinking of our prepaid hotel and all our plans: our days playing in the surf, the dolphin tour, the southern plantation surrounded with live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, not to mention visits with two relatives who lived in the area. Mentally juggling our agenda, I tried to calculate what could be rescheduled. I’d already dropped our dog, Rex, at the kennel where he was romping with the other dogs in the “playroom,” and I’d made sure to clear my schedule of appointments with my professional organizing clients for this week. “Where is the part coming from?” I asked finally.
“Maybe England.”
“Maybe?”
“Yeah, they’re tracking it down now. So it could be a day or two. You and the kids should go on. I’ll catch up as soon as I can. We’re supposed to meet Summer tonight and Ben tomorrow—you don’t want to miss that.”
“You’re right. I’d have two sad kids on my hands if they miss their sleepover.” Mitch’s sister, Summer, had a share in a condo in a town a few miles south of our hotel. Summer lived in Tallahassee where she worked as a congressional aide, but she spent several weekends a year at the two-bedroom beach condo, and she’d especially coordinated time off work to be there this week. She took her role as Aunt Summer very seriously. Because distance prevented the kids from seeing her frequently, she’d offered—practically insisted—they spend the first night of our vacation at her condo for a sleepover. She’d spent quite a bit of time on the phone with Nathan and Livvy, making extensive plans. I knew cookies, Disney movies, and kite flying were just a few of the things on the agenda.
The Gulf Coast had practically turned into “relative central” for us. My brother Ben, who had followed in Mitch’s footsteps and become an air force pilot, was stationed at a military base about an hour away from our hotel. His assignment in the spring had been one of the reasons we’d planned the beach vacation. He wouldn’t have much time off, but he had promised that he’d be able to get away for at least a day, maybe two, so we could spend some time together.
Nathan turned in a stiff-leg circle and set off on a path toward the mailbox. Livvy fluttered along in his wake, jauntily swinging her own pail. I sat down on the bumper of the minivan with a sigh. I knew the kids would have a great time with Summer. Their time with her was supposed to be a little interlude just for them, at the beginning of the vacation. We wanted the bulk of our time to be spent together as a family. Mitch and I spend so much of our time separated—sometimes for a week or two, but other times for months on end. The stop-and-go schedule made family time precious, and that’s what we wanted this week off to be—time together. “I really wanted this to be a family vacation.”
“I know. I did, too. I’ll get there as soon as I can,” he repeated.
“I know you will. It just won’t be as much fun until you get here.”
A FedEx truck rolled to a stop at the end of our driveway. Livvy and Nathan stopped playing and watched the deliveryman sprint toward me. Mitch said he’d call when he had more news, and we hung up. By the time I’d signed for the box, the kids were hovering.
“Who is it from?” Livvy asked.
“Who is it for? Me?” Nathan demanded. Because we lived far from our relatives, a package delivery usually meant it was close to someone’s birthday or a major holiday.
“No. This time, it’s for me,” I said. I recognized the name on the return address—Angela’s Boutique, my favorite online source for designer handbags, my weakness. I’m not a fashionista, as my current attire showed: denim skort, sleeveless white shirt, casual sandals. With my hair pulled back in a ponytail, I was ready to pack the van and negotiate a six-hour road trip with two elementary-school-age kids in 90 percent humidity. Cool and functional, those were my watchwords when it came to my everyday clothes. I did dress up a bit for my organizing consultations, but when it came down to the nitty-gritty of actually sorting and organizing a client’s belongings, I found that basic work clothes like jeans and tennis shoes were the best options.
My friend Abby, who did have a flare for looking spectacular, lamented my uninteresting clothing choices. “Basic, but boring,” she called them. But she couldn’t complain about my purses. They were my one indulgence. I loved designer handbags, especially ones that I found at thrift shops and online auctions, like the one inside this box. It was a Leah Marshall, a chic oversized tote. If the exterior cream leather with heavy gold hardware seemed a bit bland, the interior lining of stripes in hot pink, black, and kelly green gave the bag a fun accent.
“Oh, it’s just one of Mom’s purses,” Nathan said with a sigh, and reversed course back to the foot of the driveway.
I pulled the tab on the box as I walked inside, already planning to switch to the new purse before we left. In the kitchen, I pushed the crumpled packing paper aside and pulled out the purse, expecting to inhale the aroma of leather. But all I could smell was . . . cardboard? The strap felt stiff as I twisted the purse around to examine it. The leather wasn’t leather at all. It was a rough “pleather.” The hardware was flimsy, the stitching on the seams wavered about, and the lining was a bumpy black silk that didn’t lie flat against the structure of the purse. This wasn’t a genuine Leah Marshall—even the name imprint on the small leather tag that dangled from the strap had the designer’s name misspelled as “Lee” instead of “Leah.” It certainly wasn’t the purse I’d paid for. This was a knockoff.
I dropped the purse back into the nest of packing paper and flipped the lid over to check the address. This wasn’t like Angela. I’d bought several things from her and had never had a problem. In fact, she’d become a “cyber friend,” one of those people I chatted with online and think of as an acquaintance, even though I hadn’t met her in person.
I went to my computer and fired off a quick e-mail to Angela495, the e-mail associated with her online boutique. I also had Angela’s private e-mail because in the last month or so, she and Ben had dated a few times. I scrolled through my old e-mail, looking for the first e-mail I’d received from her. I found it and clicked it open.
From: FLPartyGirl@gmail.com
To: Ellie@EverythingInItsPlace.com
Subject: Question . . .
Hi Ellie, I’m Angela Day. You know me as Angela495 from Angela’s Boutique. This is going to sound kind of weird, but do you have a brother named Ben? I’m only asking because I met a really nice guy awhile back and I noticed you’re listed as a friend on his Facebook account. He mentioned one time that his sister is a professional organizer, so I thought it must be you!?! Anyway, if it’s not you, sorry to bother you, and I hope you’re loving the Michael Kors purse—isn’t it divine?
I added Angela’s second e-mail address to the note about the purse, hit SEND and then returned to stowing the essentials in the car, the toys and books that would get us through the drive. As I placed a stack of Nate the Great books in the van, Nathan skidded to a stop beside me. “When are we leaving? How long until Dad gets here?”
I extracted myself from the minivan and leaned down, bracing my hands on my knees. “I’ve got some bad news. Dad’s been delayed. He’s not going to make it in today. He wants us to go on.”
“Go without him?” Livvy, who was hopping from one crack on the driveway to another, stopped abruptly and spoke through the open door on the other side of the van. “He promised we’d make a sand castle together.” Her shoulders dropped and her pail sagged to around her ankles.
“And he will. He’s just delayed. He’ll get there as fast as he can.”
“What about Uncle Ben?” Nathan asked, obviously searching for some male companionship.
“Uncle Ben will st
ill meet us tomorrow.” At least, that was the plan. I ruffled his hair and told him and Livvy to get the small string backpacks of toys they had packed the night before. I went inside and packed juice boxes, grapes, and peanut butter crackers for road trip snacks. The computer chimed, indicating I had a new e-mail.
From: Angela495@BagTopiaOnLineAuctions. com
To: Ellie@EverythingInItsPlace.com
Oh no! I am so sorry! There was a mix-up with the purses. I asked my idiot brother—he’s soooo not like your brother at all!—to mail the Leah Marshall bag for me and he sent the wrong one. A friend gave me an imitation Leah Marshall bag for my birthday, and I’ve been meaning to drop it off at a charity shop for ages, but I never remember . . . guess I could use some organizing tips when you come to town! Anyway, Ben says you’ll be in Sandy Beach today (so excited!!!) That will be perfect. I’m only a few minutes away in Costa Bella. Call me when you get to town (279-319-4263) and I’ll bring you the REAL Leah Marshall to your hotel. Again, so sorry!! Can’t wait 2 c u and Ben!