Nosy Neighbor: All 7 complete Nosy Neighbor cozy mysteries PLUS: 2 short Christmas stories (A Nosy Neighbor mystery)

by Cynthia Hickey

  “You belong in NASCAR, Mrs. Nelson,” he said, shaking his head. “I ought to give you a ticket for speeing. Just stay out of my way, please.”

  “We will.” I moved to where a man in a business suit bent over a vat of chocolate. If not for the fact he was so far in that his feet didn’t reach the floor, I would have thought he merely searched for something. “Why so much chocolate?”

  “We have a huge order for volcano cakes.” Mom bent over and peered into the vat. “I don’t recognize this man. Maybe, if I could see his face.”

  “Step back, please.” Officer Jones pushed between her and the victim. He shoved his hand into the man’s pocket and withdrew a wallet. “It’s Jim Worthington.”

  “The bookstore owner?” I slumped against the worktable. I’d always liked the friendly older gentleman. He always greeted me with a smile and a nudge toward the shelf of new releases. “Why would anyone want to kill him?”

  “We don’t know that his death wasn’t an accident,” Officer Jones stated.

  “You think he just happened to fall into a vat of baking chocolate?” I crossed my arms. “Not likely. What was he doing here after hours?” What was Mom doing here so late?

  “We left to head to the grocery store for more flour,” Mom said. “We were gone more than an hour, and returned to find him like …this. Oh, the poor man.”

  “If I was going to drown,” Greta said, “there’s no better way than with chocolate.”

  “Ladies, please.” Officer Jones ushered us to the front of the store. “Stay here and don’t let anyone in but the authorities. Definitely no press.”

  “They’re already here.” I stared out the window as Nancy Rhino, I meant Rhinehart, stepped from her silver Volvo and made her way to the door.

  She tapped on the glass with a long, manicured, scarlet nail. “Let me in.”

  I shook my head. “Police orders.”

  “Come on, Stormi. We went to high school together.”

  It wasn’t my fault she followed me from Little Rock to Oak Meadows. We hadn’t been best friends then, and we definitely weren’t now. Not after she left a scathing review of one of my earlier books. She could’ve derailed my entire writing career. Where would I be now if she had?

  “You’re impossible, Red!”

  “No more than you, Rhino!” We’d reverted to the childishness of school in a matter of minutes.

  She cupped her hands around her eyes and plastered her face to the window, leaving a smudge of makeup on the clean glass. “Is that Mr. Worthington?”

  “No comment.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No comment!” I crossed my arms and glared.

  “Ugh!” She stomped away and leaned against her car.

  She must have spotted Officer Jones’s squad car. There was no other way she could have found out so quickly that there was a body in the bakery.

  Within ten minutes, quite a crowd had gathered in front of the store. Mom filled a tray with finger cookies and stepped outside, passing them around. “Nothing like free advertising,” she said upon reentering the store.

  I frowned. “That’s gross. We have a dead man in the back and you’re marketing?”

  “I believe in taking advantage of opportunities.” She slid the tray under the counter. “While I feel bad for the man, I didn’t kill him. Why should business have to suffer?”

  “It’s going to suffer for a while,” Greta said. “They’ll close us down until they process the area and the Medical Examiner releases the body.”

  “But the anniversary order!”

  I sighed. She’d take over my kitchen again, just when I had a weekend of cooking planned. Filling my freezer with frozen casseroles was my way of relaxing. Now, I’d have to find time in-between Mom’s baking.

  “I’m asking the three of you to leave.” Officer Jones joined them. “Once the CSI team arrives from Little Rock, this place will be inaccessible for at least three days. Take what you need now and go home. Don’t leave town.”

  Mom groaned and grabbed a thick notebook from under the counter. “We’ll have to get more chocolate from the warehouse store. There’s no time to order from our regular supplier. Oh, what am I going to do?”

  Greta patted her shoulder. “We’ll make do. No one will know the chocolate is a substitute. I’ll be over first thing in the morning so we can replenish our supplies.”

  When had my normally caring mother grown so selfish? Had my purchasing the store for her turned her into a self-absorbed monster?

  I cast one more glance at the crowd through the window. Was the killer watching? They always returned to the scene of the crime on television shows. Could it be one of the two men in suits leaning against the coffee shop wall? Or was it one of the ordinary looking citizens who looked as if they hadn’t seen anything more interesting in their lives?

  Either way, I’d give my laptop if the killer wasn’t one of them, watching and gloating as Officer Jones stood guard over Mr. Worthington’s body. I put a hand over my heart, feeling a physical ache at the nice man’s untimely death, and pulled the string overhead to close the blinds. Show’s over, folks.

  I followed Mom and Greta to the van at a more sedate pace than we’d entered the store. They were already chattering like birds about the new crime to solve. While I’d thought it a good thing at first, now sadness filled me. Did someone have to die for me to have a new story idea? Mary Ann was right. I needed to start planning my plots from nothing, like other fiction writers. Making my money off the misfortune of others was starting to give me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  As soon as we got home, I dialed my agent from the phone in my office and left a message for her to call me in the morning. It wouldn’t hurt for me to get her professional opinion on what she thought my readers would like.

  Once I’d done that, I joined Mom and Greta in the kitchen. Mom had a sketchpad in front of her.

  “I’m not sure I want to get involved in this,” I said, sitting down. “It doesn’t seem right to continue writing about the death of others.”

  “We have to get involved.” Mom glanced up from the paper. “We’re suspects. Didn’t you hear Officer Jones tell us not to leave town? That means we’re the primary suspects.”

  “You watch too much television.”

  “She does own the store, Stormi,” Greta said. “That makes her a suspect, and you, too. If the authorities drag their feet, we could be working out of your kitchen for quite a while. We need to get to the bottom of this and get back to work.”

  “Can’t we at least give it a day or two? Or at least until Mr. Worthington is buried?”

  “You’re really shook up about this, aren’t you?” Mom laid a hand over mine. “What’s wrong? Did you know him well?”

  “No, but I’m a bestselling author because people are dying!” I lay my head on my folded arms and cried. “I feel like a horrible person.”

  “The first time was an accident. The second time you were forced into a story by a weirdo. The third time … well, you were helping your sister.”

  I glanced up. “This time? There is no reason.”

  “I see your predicament.” Greta crossed her arms. “We’ll solve this crime because we’re addicted, and you stick to fiction. Unless you feel like taking a break and want to help us. You know you love solving puzzles as much as we do.”

  True. There was a certain lure to racing against the police to catch a murderer. Of course, there was a certain element of danger, too, that was as addictive as any drug. The best thing I could compare it to was typing The End on a story I knew my readers would devour. I was hooked on solving mysteries, whether on paper or in real life.

  “Okay.” I nodded and wiped my face on my sleeve. “I’ll help you find Mr. Worthington’s killer, but I won’t write about it.”

  “I knew you’d come around.” Mom gave my hand another pat, then turned to the paper in front of her. “What possible motive would anyone have to kill a bookstore own
er?”

  “I think it’s too early to write down anything,” I said. “You need more information. We don’t even know for sure how he was killed. We’ll have Angela try to find that out at work.” Since my sister was the receptionist for the local police department, her sharp ears often heard things the rest of us weren’t privy to.

  “I’ll do it.” Angela sashayed into the kitchen, wearing baby doll pajamas better worn on a teenage girl in the 1950s. “Y’all didn’t know I was standing there listening. That’s how good I am at spying. But …” She held up a finger. “If you get me killed, I’ll come back to haunt you. I swear.”

  “What in heaven’s name are you wearing?” Mom paled. “Do you know how old you are?”

  Angela ran her hands over her pajamas. “What’s wrong with them? They look innocent and sweet, right? I’m hoping Officer Wayne Jones will come back by to question you some more. I’ll act all embarrassed and dash upstairs.”

  “Flashing just a bit of your behind.” I shoved back my chair. “I’m going to bed. I doubt we’ll have any visitors tonight.” Mom had done something wrong raising my little sister. Two children with different fathers, and dressing like she was fifteen.

  I eyed my sensible blue capris and navy tank top. While I’d updated my wardrobe upon dating Matt, compared to Angela, I was an old woman at the age of twenty-eight. Oh, well. At least I didn’t have people other than Mrs. Olson or Mrs. Rogers questioning my morals.

  I threw myself across the bed and stared at the ceiling. The street light outside cast the room in shadows. I glanced at the clock and saw it was almost eleven p.m. My night had filled up after all. I didn’t think I’d whine about being bored again. Nothing good came of it.

  3

  “Good morning!” Mary Ann plopped into the office chair at the second desk I’d purchased once we decided she would be my literary assistant. “I heard you had quite the night.”

  “How did you hear that?” I spun in my chair and noticed her empty hands. “Where’s my coffee?”

  “Well,” she tilted her head. “I have my sources, and since the coffee shop is across the street from the bookstore, I thought you might like to go with me and do a bit of snooping.” She dangled a key. “I used to work for Mr. Worthington in high school. I doubt he changed the locks on the store in all these years. People in this town aren’t much for change.”

  “I’ve decided I’m not going to profit anymore from people’s misfortune.”

  “Don’t you want to know how he died? You don’t have to write about it. We’ll work more on the story about killing off Mrs. Rogers. This is something we can do to keep the creative juices flowing. Please?”

  The lure of the mystery stuck in the corner of my mouth and tugged me toward the door. I grabbed my purse. “Let’s go. I can’t work without my coffee.”

  I got in the passenger side of Mary Ann’s Volkswagen Beetle, tossed a wave to nosy Mrs. Rogers, who peered through her curtains, and settled back for the short drive to Main Street. Coffee and snooping, the perfect way to start the day.

  Who was I kidding? Heartache and compassion or not, I’d be writing about the latest fiasco in Oak Meadows. I could mourn the loss of Mr. Worthington and write, couldn’t I? I had to give my readers what they wanted.

  “Does Mr. Worthington have any family?”

  “He’s married.” Mary Ann parked in front of Delicious Aroma. “His wife is a sweetheart. A bit on the shy side and stays home a lot, but I’m sure she’ll see us.”

  “I’d like to get her permission before digging any further into her husband’s death.”

  She nodded and cut the ignition. “Then, we’ll go there next. That’s a wonderful idea.”

  My cell phone rang. Caller ID said it was my agent. “Do you mind?” I asked Mary Ann. “You know what I like.”

  “Sure.” She bounded from the car and into the store.

  “Hey, Elizabeth.”

  “You called?”

  I explained my dilemma. “Today I’ve decided to wait until I talk to the victim’s wife before pursuing the story.”

  “That’s a good idea.” She remained silent for a moment. “Stormi, you don’t have to put yourself in danger or compromise your principles for a story. You’re a talented writer. You have a hundred stories locked in that head of yours. Your readers won’t care where the story comes from. They just want the next one.”

  “Thank you.” A weight lifted off my shoulders. If Mrs. Worthington has any qualms at all about me digging into her husband’s death, and possibly writing about it, I’ll stop.

  “So?” Mary Ann handed me my drink as I hung up.

  “If Mrs. Worthington is fine with it, it’s a go.” Mom and Greta would be tickled pink.

  We drove fifteen minutes out of town and pulled up to a modest bungalow complete with white picket fence and flowers. Two rocking chairs adorned the front porch. A bird bath and hummingbird feeder sat under an ancient magnolia tree. It was the cutest house I’d ever seen; something out of a fairytale.

  A tiny woman emerged from around the corner of the house before we had gotten out of the car. She fairly skipped, swinging a basket of fresh cut blooms on her arms. She hummed a snappy tune I didn’t recognize. Once she spotted us, she froze. If this was Mrs. Worthington, she looked nothing like a grieving widow.

  I exchanged a surprised look with Mary Ann and approached the house. “Mrs. Worthington?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m Stormi Nelson, and this is my assistant, Mary Ann Steele.” I held out my hand. “Our condolences on the death of your husband.”

  She wiped her hand on her dress and returned my shake. “Thank you. It’s a … terrible thing. Please, come in.” She led the way into a house as quaint inside as out.

  Doilies covered the arms of chairs and the sofa. A quilted table runner adorned the kitchen table, and over it all hung the scent of baking cookies.

  “I used to work for your husband,” Mary Ann said, taking a seat at the table.

  “I remember. You always were a sweet little thing.” Mrs. Worthington busied herself at the counter, taking glasses from the cupboard. “I’ve cookies and fresh-squeezed lemonade. Jim always wanted some around. I guess it will take a while to break the habit.”

  “Mrs. Worthington?” I sat and folded my arms on the table. “I’d like to dig into how your husband died and write a story about it. Are you opposed to that?”

  She stiffened, then her shoulders slumped as she faced us. “Not one iota. But you make sure you get your facts straight. You hear me? None of this false information about what a wonderful, caring, sweetheart he was. Jim Worthington was none of that.” She slammed her hand on the table. “None!”

  She took a deep breath and smiled. “But, I’m not one to speak ill of the dead. You’ll have to get your information from someone else. Lemonade?”

  “Oh, uh,” Mary Ann glanced at me with wide eyes.

  I stood. “No, I’m afraid we have a very busy day ahead of us. Again, we’re sorry for your loss, and if there is anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to call me.” I scribbled my cell phone number on a napkin, forced a smile, and dashed out the door as if the hounds of hell were on my heels.

  Mary Ann must have been as spooked as I was. She peeled rubber from the driveway and headed back to town in record time. She pulled into the alley behind the bookstore. “We forgot to get permission.”

  “I’m not going back there to ask.” I shoved my door open and headed for the back door of the shop, holding my hand out for the key.

  “I guess she kind of said we could. I mean, she said we could investigate.” Mary Ann dropped the key into my palm and stepped back, glancing up and down the alley as if we were on the verge of being discovered doing something illegal. We weren’t, were we?

  The key slid into a well-oiled lock and within seconds, Mary Ann and I were safe from prying eyes and in the dim recesses of the town’s one and only bookstore. I loved the smell of paper and ink. I took
a deep breath.

  Mary Ann flipped on the light, revealing a workspace covered with boxes of books. “Who is going to run this store now? Look at all these. It will be a shame if they’re tossed.”

  “Maybe Mrs. Worthington will take over the store once she’s done grieving.” Ha! The woman hadn’t shown an ounce of grief. I’d say she was rather happy over her husband’s death.

  “What are we looking for?” Mary Ann opened a file cabinet.

  “Anything that might explain why he was killed.” Hopefully, my sister was finding some information at the police station. Mainly, cause of death.

  “What are you doing?”

  Mary Ann and I screamed and plastered ourselves across the wall as Mom and Greta barged through the back door. We should have locked it.

  “Not funny.” My heart beat so fast, it was a wonder no one could hear it. “Mrs. Worthington said it was all right if we investigated. We thought we’d start here.” I narrowed my eyes. “Why are the two of you here?”

  “We had the same idea.” Mom grinned. “It was a nice surprise to find the door unlocked. Greta thought we might have to break in.”

  For an ex-police officer, Mom’s sidekick walked a thin line. “The two of you are going to be the death of me. Go look for clues,” I ordered.

  Mom had no sooner opened the office door to the main room of the store, before the bell jingled over the glass doors in front. We left the office door cracked, turned off the light, and hunkered down to eavesdrop and wait.

  “Who is it?” Mom hissed.

  “I don’t know.” I put a finger to my lips.

  “What do they want?”

  “I don’t know. Hush.” Seriously.

  “I doubt the widow will resume business,” a man said. “We should be able to purchase this place for a song.”

  “What about the other stores along this street?” another man asked.

  “You let me worry about that.”

  “Gentlemen, if you’d like to take a deeper look, I’m sure you’ll find the place more than satisfactory for your purposes.”