The BBQ Burger Murder
A Sleepy Creek Cozy Mystery Book 3
Rosie A. Point
Contents
Meet the Characters…
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
More for you…
Thank you, Reader!
Copyright Rosie A. Point 2021.
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Meet the Characters…
Christie Lilith Watson: The heroine of the story. She’s opened her own private investigation company in Sleepy Creek. She’s focused, determined, and perhaps a little bit overprotective of the town.
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Agatha Dupin: Christie’s long-lost cousin on her father’s side. She’s into wearing knit tights and overbearingly large hats, and is not great at anything investigative, though she’s determined to learn so she’ll get her inheritance from her father.
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Griselda Cotton: Christie’s best friend. She owns the Burger Bar in Sleepy Creek and is always ready with a helping hand or a shoulder to cry on. Great cook, easily flustered, and loves animals.
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Mississippi Waters: One of the terrible twins who own Terrible Twos Antiques in town. Nigh on eighty-years-old, she’s a firm believer in keeping cats in the off chance one dies alone in an apartment—the cat will serve as a handy human body disposal. Snarky.
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Virginia Waters: Missi’s softer spoken twin, with blue-gray hair and a can-do attitude. She often encourages Christie to get involved in murder cases, and is very rarely grumpy, unless it’s because of her sister.
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Detective Liam Balle: The handsome detective who’s always determined to do the right thing, even if it means arresting Christie for interfering in his investigations. He has a chin dimple. Christie’s boyfriend.
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Detective Arthur Cotton: Liam’s partner, hence the pet name for their duo: Cotton and Balle. He’s Griselda’s husband, blonde, slightly overweight, and criminally shy.
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Curly Fries the cat: Eats like a horse, moves like a snail, black fur with a pointy face. Favorite past times include staring at Christie, sitting on Christie’s head while she’s asleep, and eating. She hates the walking portion of the day now that she’s on a diet.
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Poirot the cat: Christie’s highly intelligent and well-behaved cat. He has markings just like an inspector with circles around his eyes and a little kitty mustache.
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Mona Jonah: The Gossip Queen of Sleepy Creek. She’s got nothing nice to say about anyone and is more than happy to spread rumors whenever she has the chance. The head of the Gossip Circle. The ex-editor of The Creeker Gazette, the local newspaper.
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Shayna Quill: Sister of Robert Quill. Shy and soft-spoken, she is one of Mona’s biggest fans and is good friends with Emma Carte.
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Nadine Whitmore: Loud and outgoing. A member of the Gossip Circle and a good friend of Emma’s. She works at The Creeker Gazette as a columnist.
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Robert Quill: Emma’s boyfriend, Robert, who wouldn’t hurt a fly… or so he says. He’s a supportive guy, for the most part.
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Parker Dirke: Parker is Emma’s ex-husband who recently bought a house in Sleepy Creek, or so the rumors say. Unfriendly, full of himself, and believes that money makes a person more valuable.
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Emma Carte: The new editor of The Creeker Gazette. She’s well-liked and very experienced in print media. A natural born leader who was respected and loved in Sleepy Creek.
1
“You’re killing me here.” I grasped the edge of the rich oakwood desk, my gaze fixed on the beady-eyed guy across from me. “Come on, Mitch, you know I’m good for the money. It’s just a slow month, that’s all.”
“Slow month.” My cousin, Aggy, nodded next to me, her oversized sun hat wobbling. Because, of course she’d chosen to pair an oversized sun hat with her summer dress, cherry red bob, and round-framed glasses.
“Miss Watson,” Mitch said, adjusting his tie. “You know, I’m not in the business of handing out favors. Just because you need a loan, doesn’t mean First Bank Central can grant you one. Frankly, your track record is… not good.” He tapped a few keys on his keyboard, eyes narrowed at his monitor. “You’re still paying off a loan from another bank, and your credit score leaves much to be desired.”
“Mitch, please.”
“I agreed to see you because Griselda’s a mutual friend, Miss Watson, but that doesn’t mean I can guarantee anything.”
“Mitch.” It was all I could say. I was beyond desperate.
Another summer in Sleepy Creek had come and my private investigation business wasn’t just on the rocks, it was battered, broken. Like the pieces of an old ship that should never have left port in the first place. Business wasn’t slow. It was verging on non-existent.
The only business I had—finding missing cats that often turned out to be hiding under sofas or sleeping in flower beds—didn’t pay the rent I owed on my office space.
“I’m sorry, Miss Watson,” Mitch replied.
A flush of heat rose up my throat, anger building inside me hot and fast. I pictured flicking the gold-plated sign on his desk that read Mitch Mitchson at his face. But, ridiculous last name aside, this wasn’t his fault.
It was mine.
I had rushed into this business, trying desperately to make sense of my place in town. And two years on, I still hadn’t eked out an existence that didn’t involve a dilapidated apartment with my hipster cousin sleeping on the futon in my adjoined living room and kitchen.
“Please,” Aggy whispered, clasping her hands together, her bracelets rattling. “You’ve got to help her. She’s great at being a private investigator. She’ll pay you back.”
Mitch folded his scrawny arms. “I can’t help you.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and let the reality sink in.
I was done. Over. Finito.
My office would close, and I would lose my apartment. All I really needed was one good case. One that paid the bills for another month, just until I could come up with a new “life plan.”
Grizzy, my best friend who owned the Burger Bar, would’ve told me to set up a vision board. I’d rather eat raw tofu.
“Fine,” I said, at last, through clenched teeth. “Fine. Thanks for your time, Mr. Mitchson.” I rose from the remarkably uncomfortable chair and gestured to my cousin. “Let’s go, Aggy.”
We exited the office, taking the walk of shame through the bank, and heading out into the sunshine. I stopped and took a breath, trying to collect my thoughts about this. It couldn’t be a disaster, right? There had to be a solution.
“Are you OK, Christie?” Aggy asked, stroking my arm. “Do you need a Kleenex?”
“In the past year,” I said, “have I ever needed a Kleenex?”
“No.”
“Then why would I need one now?” I was grumpy. I’d freely admit that. Mayb
e it was the crushing realization that I had failed again. Failed as a homicide detective and now failed at opening my own business.
Stop it. You can’t wallow. Fix it.
If Mitch at the bank wouldn’t give me a loan, I’d find an alternative method of keeping my business afloat.
“What’s next on the agenda?” I asked my cousin, trying to distract myself from impending despair.
Aggy fumbled her phone out of her cross-body strap leather satchel. She tapped on the phone’s screen to bring up my appointments.
I held back even more frustration. If I couldn’t figure this out, I wouldn’t be able to provide for my cousin. She’d turned up a year ago, out of the blue, because her father had passed and she needed my help. Namely, she had to become a successful private investigator in order to get her inheritance.
That was what she thought, at least. The truth was, Aggy’s father had sent her out here to hide from the enemy he had made. As a CIA agent, he had stepped on the toes of a very powerful, very scary businessman.
And, in the year since I’d discovered that information, nothing had happened. No news from the CIA officer who had told me about it. No arrests. No dark figures appearing out of the woodwork to attack my cousin, my only living family connection, or the town I cared so much about.
“Mrs. Immelman has lost Pickles, her new cat,” Aggy said, interrupting my train of thought. “We agreed to stop by and check it out today at 10:00 a.m.”
“All right,” I said, “let’s do that.” It was a cool twenty bucks that would pay for dinner, so why not? And I happened to like helping the people of Sleepy Creek, even if they were seriously bad at keeping track of their cats.
I started off down the sidewalk, heading for my red 1979 Chevrolet Corvette, and Aggy chased after me. “Can we go to the Burger Bar afterward?” Aggy asked. “I’m hungry.”
“Sure.” It wasn’t a big ask because Grizzy gave us a free meal every day. Lunch or dinner, whichever we preferred. I’d never tell her that it was the only meal I got in a day, lately.
She’d be furious if she found out, as would my boyfriend, Liam, but it grated on my stupid pride too much to ask for help, especially from people who had helped me so much already.
We got into the Corvette, and I stroked it’s weathered dashboard, willing it to start on the first try. I turned the key, and the engine purred to life.
Ten minutes later, after a drive through Sleepy Creek’s broad streets with their wrought-iron lamp posts and cutesy brick buildings, we arrived at Mrs. Immelman’s house. She lived right across from Grizzy’s two-story home, and was out in the yard, pottering around with her hand over her eyes.
“Christie!” Mrs. Immelman cried, as I emerged from the car. “You made it. I was thinking you wouldn’t come.”
“What time is it?” I murmured to my cousin.
“Quarter to ten.”
So we weren’t late. Mrs. Immelman was just eager. “Any sight of Pickles yet?” I approached the elderly women—gray, short hair and green, sparkling eyes—bringing up the best smile I could manage.
“Nothing. I can’t figure where she’s run off to,” Mrs. Immelman said. “Oh, please, Christie, you’ve got to help. This isn’t like the last time. See?” She pointed to the window sill where Pickles and the other cats liked to hang out. “She’s not there.”
“And you’ve checked under your bed?” I asked.
“I can’t get down on my knees,” Mrs. Immelman replied, waving at her legs. “Doctor’s orders. My bones aren’t what they used to be.”
“You should try soy milk.” Aggy was ever the one to peddle her beliefs about vegetarianism and organic food, though she’d eaten as many good old-fashioned BBQ burgers as me over the past year.
“Soy milk? What’s that? No, thank you, dear. I’ll stick to the regular old half-and-half, thank you very much.”
“Right,” I said, before I got sucked into the brewing argument. “Mind if I take a look around inside, Mrs. Immelman?”
“Of course, dear. Hurry. I can’t stand the thought of Pickles going hungry.”
I left Aggy to keep Mrs. Immelman entertained and jogged up the front steps.
“When last did you see her, Mrs. Immelman?” Aggy’s question drifted after me in the hot morning air.
“This morning when I gave Pickles her kibble.”
I sighed at the reply and made a beeline for the master bedroom downstairs. I entered it, wrinkling my nose at the overpowering scent of cat urine and rose petals, and got down on all fours. I peeked under the bed.
And there was Pickles, the tortoiseshell cat, lying on a blanket she’d dragged off the bed and… “Oh!” A swirl of delight coursed through my body, starting in my chest and radiating outward.
Pickles lay on her side, four little tortoiseshell shapes huddled up against her, shifting and pawing at her belly.
The mystery of the missing cat was solved. I grinned at the sight of the newborn kittens, lingering for a moment to study their little movements, while Pickles watched me, warily.
“Good job,” I whispered. “That can’t have been easy by yourself.”
Pickles gave a short meow of thanks. Or contempt. One could never be sure with cats.
I scooted backward, then ran out of the house to deliver the good news to Mrs. Immelman.
Yeah, maybe today wouldn’t be so bad. Newborn kittens were a good omen, right?
2
Entering Grizzy’s Burger Bar was like being transported back in time to a retro diner that smelled of burgers and milkshakes. Folks ate their food out of red baskets on checked tissue paper, and drank milkshakes topped with cream and sugary red cherries.
I stopped inside the door, inhaling the scent and allowing memories and joy to wash over me.
My best friend, Griselda Cotton, stood behind the bar at the back of the restaurant, stacking milkshake glasses. She caught sight of me in the mirror along the back wall, and turned, grinning.
“About time,” Grizzy called. “It’s nearly lunch.”
Aggy rushed past me and plopped down on one of the puffy red bar stools in front of the bar. “What’s the special today, Griselda?” she asked, eagerly.
“Excuse my cousin’s lack of manners.” I sat down next to Aggy, nudging her. “How are you today, Griz?”
“I’m good, Chris. A little grumpy, but good.”
“Grumpy? Why?” I asked.
“No reason,” my best friend replied. “I guess it’s because of the full moon. It makes people crazy, you know.”
“Ooh. Yeah.” Aggy’s eyes went round behind her glasses, magnified by the thick lenses. “Yeah, the moon has power over us all.”
“Don’t start.” I held up a hand. “I’d like my burger without a side of paranoid delusions, thank you, Agatha.”
“You’ll see. Something strange will happen today,” Aggy said.
“Strange?” Grizzy asked, already in the process of making us our favorite milkshakes—chocolate for me and lime for Aggy. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” Aggy twiddled her fingers, bracelets rattling, in an attempt to increase the mystery. “But it’s going to happen. When the full moon is out, people do crazy things.”
“What’s the burger special today?”
“BBQ Burgers. Want ‘em?” Grizzy asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Two BBQs with fries, Jarvis,” Grizzy called.
Her longtime chef appeared in the window. “Comin’ right up, mon,” he called, his Jamaican accent as thick as the day I’d first met him.
“You can change the subject if you want,” Aggy said, breathlessly. “But the truth is, the full moon is powerful. We’re all made of water, right? And the moon controls the tides. So you can’t tell me that—”
“If we blame the full moon for people’s crazy actions then we’d never hold anyone accountable for the terrible things they do,” I said.
“Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” Grizzy scooped ic
e cream into her blender.
“Or the wrong side of the moon,” Aggy murmured. “Believe me. Something bad is going to happen during the full moon. It always does.”
“Ridiculous. You can’t seriously believe that—”
The front door of the Burger Bar crashed open, the bell above it tinkling frantically, and Missi and Vee, the terrible twins, strode into the restaurant. The diners gasped or dropped their fries, a few pausing with burgers halfway to their mouths.
“Extra, extra,” Missi called, her eyes wild, as she raised a copy of the local newspaper, The Creeker Gazette. “The editor of the newspaper has been murdered.”
For once, it wasn’t just the sight of the twins—two women in their eighties, who ran an antique shop, and happened to be feared by the locals—that drew shocked cries.
“Really, Mississippi,” her twin sister, Vee, said. “Do you have to be so brash? A woman has been killed. And you’re not a newspaper street vendor from the mid-19th Century.”
“People deserve to know.” Missi swaggered over to the milkshake bar. She slapped the newspaper down on the countertop, and Aggy craned her neck at the headline. “Don’t bother,” Missi said. “It’s yesterday’s paper.”
The BBQ Burger Murder Page 1
