by Renee George
For Whom The Smell Tolls
A Nora Black Midlife Psychic Mystery Book Two
Renee George
Barkside of the Moon Press
For Whom The Smell Tolls
A Nora Black, Midlife Psychic Book 2
Copyright © 2020 by Renee George
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright holder.
Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement by the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and storylines in this book are inspired only by the author’s imagination. The characters are based solely in fiction and are in no relation inspired by anyone bearing the same name or names. Any similarities to real persons, situations, or incidents is purely coincidental.
Print Edition May 2020
ISBN: 978-1-947177-35-2
Publisher: Barkside of the Moon Press
Contents
Acknowledgments
Blurb
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
War of the Noses
Pit Perfect Murder
Paranormal Mysteries & Romances
About the Author
Praise for Renee George
“Sense and Scent Ability by Renee George is a delightfully funny, smart, full of excitement, up-all-night fantastic read! I couldn’t put it down. The latest installment in the Paranormal Women’s Fiction movement, knocks it out of the park. Do yourself a favor and grab a copy today!”
—Robyn Peterman NYT Bestselling Author
"I'm loving the Paranormal Women's Fiction genre! Renee George's humor shines when a woman of a certain age sniffs out the bad guy and saves her bestie. Funny, strong female friendships rule!"
-- Michelle M. Pillow, NYT & USAT Bestselling Author
"I smell a winner with Renee George's new book, Sense & Scent Ability! The heroine proves that being over fifty doesn't have to stink, even if her psychic visions do."
-- Mandy M. Roth, NY Times Bestselling Author
“Sense & Scent Ability is everything! Nora Black is sassy, smart, and her smell-o-vision is scent-sational. I can’t wait for the next Nora book!
—Michele Freeman, author of Hometown Homicide, a Sheriff Blue Hayes mystery
For My BFFs.
You inspire me every day.
Acknowledgments
A huge thank you to Robyn, Michele, Robbin, and Kelli. It took a village to write this book, and thanks to you, it’s awesome. Thank you for being my people!
To the PWF #13 - Thanks for bringing attention to heroines of a certain age. You ladies are magnificent.
My husband Steve and my son Taylor for taking up the slack around the house, and most of all, leaving me alone to write! I literally couldn’t do this without you.
And finally, to the readers. You are making this midlife writer happier than you can even imagine! Thank you for loving Nora and going on this journey with her and her BFF brigade.
My name is Nora Black. I’m over fifty and enjoying my life to the fullest. That is, when I’m not worried about graying hair, back pain, allergies, and a psychic gift that sometimes stinks.
After solving a murder with the help of my new scent-induced psychic ability, I’m thrilled to report that everything is finally getting back to normal. Better than normal, actually. My BFFs work with me at my Scents & Scentsability shop, I’m dating a young, hot detective, and the upcoming Memorial Day weekend promises to bring in lots of tourists to Garden Cove.
There’s not a thing in this world that could spoil my great mood…
Nothing except a suspicious death. When police officer Reese McKay asks me to use my aroma-mojo to look into the “accidental drowning” of her black-sheep cousin, I can’t turn her away. Especially now that she’s become a friend.
With help from my besties Gilly and Pippa, along with an unofficial assist from Detective Hot Stuff, I’m determined to crack the case of the drowned girl and sniff out the killer before he or she can strike again.
Chapter 1
“I’ve made a decision, Nora. You’re not going to like it, but I really need you to be okay with it.” Gilly Martin, my best friend in the world, hit me with her most earnest gaze. “I hope I’ll have your support.”
It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and we were finishing the closing cleanup of Scents & Scentsability, my spa boutique in Garden Cove. Since I’d added the massage component, Gilly’s part of the business, the sales of our lotions, massage oils, and soaps had doubled.
I shook my head. “Please don’t tell me you’re pregnant,” I said teasingly as I wiped the inside of the front door, but the darkening in Gilly’s brown eyes made me gasp. “You’re pregnant? How? Why?” I asked, appalled at the idea. “For the love of Pete, you’re fifty-one years old, Gillian Judith Martin. You have two teenagers getting ready to start their senior year. Why would you want to start over?”
Gilly’s frown deepened for a second, then her lip began to tremble. Was she going to cry?
“I’m sorry!” I said quickly. “Of course, I support you. I’m here for you no matter what.”
A choking sound bubbled from her lips as she turned away from me.
“Please don’t cry.” I was a terrible BFF. Gilly needed my understanding, my patience, my love—not my judgement. “I’ll even take those awful Bradley childbirth breathing classes with you if you want.”
Now she was in a full-on sob…or at least, I thought.
“Are you laughing?”
“Nora, you are so gullible.” She slapped the counter and wheezed. “I can’t catch my breath.”
Her laughter verged on hysteria. I was not amused. “You’re a butthead,” I informed her with a raised brow.
“I never said I was pregnant,” Gilly answered. “But your assumption is hilarious. You should have seen your face.” Her whole body shook with laughter and she literally slapped her knee. “Priceless.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine, fine.” I put down the Windex bottle. “Why do you need my support?”
She straightened, suddenly sobered, and with calm measure, she declared, “I’ve decided to grow out the gray in my hair.”
Nooooooo! This was far worse than a whoops baby in my book. I took a few slow, deep breaths, then summoned my strength. “That’s so amazingly great.” I stared at her chestnut-brown hair. It was pulled back into a braid, which was the way she liked to wear it when she worked. I could see the rich brown of her hairline, which meant she’d colored it recently. “I’m here for you. Totally,” I added.
“It’s a good thing you don’t make a living as a spy, because you’re saying one thing, but your face,” she circled her fi
nger at me, “is telling me a whole ‘nother story.”
The idea of watching Gilly grow gray was like watching my own mortality. I wasn’t sure I was ready for it. “When did you decide this?”
“Been thinking about it for a while now. The gray is growing out faster than every six weeks. I have to do touch-ups at home every couple of weeks now in between trips to the salon.”
“I do my own color. It’s not that big of a deal. I can teach you.”
She placed her hands on her rounded hips. “I’m going gray, Nora, and that’s the end of this conversation.”
I winced. “It’s your life.”
It was Gilly’s turn to roll her eyes. “It’s my hair, not my life.”
I raised my brows but left it at that. “Can you believe Pippa is learning how to drive a motorcycle?” I asked, changing the subject.
“She’s going to break her flippin’ neck!” Gilly exclaimed. Gilly had been ranting about Pippa’s decision for a week now, so I knew the redirection would work. “Just because her biker barista rides, doesn’t mean she has to do it. I mean, she’s younger than us, but she’s still no spring chicken.”
I looked around as if our thirty-something friend might overhear Gilly’s complaints even though I knew Pippa was spending time with her guy on this lovely Wednesday afternoon. This was her only chance for time off, considering we were two days away from Memorial Day weekend, one of the biggest tourism weekends of the year.
“Pippa will be fine,” I reassured Gilly, even though I wasn’t exactly convinced myself.
“I wish you had futuristic visions, instead of seeing past memories. I’d feel a lot safer knowing that Pippa would be safe on that crotch rocket.”
“There are no guarantees in life,” I said. “And the only way to stop Pippa from riding a motorcycle is to hog-tie her then lock her in your basement until the end of time.”
“Works for me,” muttered Gilly. “When’s the last time you smelled her?”
Oh for the love of Pete’s pits. I’d had enough of being forced to sniff my friends. After dying for twenty-seven seconds during my hysterectomy, I’d woken up with a nose that could literally smell trouble. At least if that trouble was contained in the memories of other people. It seemed to work as long as the odor evoked strong emotions, so the visions weren’t all bad, thank heavens.
The first several weeks after finding out about my new smell-o-vision gift, Gilly and Pippa had constantly made me smell them—like, all day, every day—to test my ability. As a result, I now knew way more about my two closest gal pals than I wanted to or should. I was so happy when the shiny newness of my ability finally wore off, and they stopped shoving their wrists under my nose.
“Jordy will make sure she’s safe,” I said.
I’d given Jordy Hines, the tattooed owner of Moo-La-Lattes and Pippa’s new beau, a lecture about Pippa wearing a helmet and pads at all times that served as a not-so thinly veiled threat. Pippa was like our younger sister. And we followed the sibling rule: We were allowed to torture her, but we’d junk-punch anyone else who hurt her.
“Are we still on for dinner tonight?” Gilly asked.
“Of course, we are.”
My BFF had been a little lost this past week, because her ex-husband, Giovanni Rossi, had called a few weeks back and asked if the teen twins could fly out to Vegas to spend time with him. She’d never spent more than a night or two away from her dynamic duo, and their absence was taking its toll. Next summer, the twins would graduate high school and go off to college. I couldn’t imagine what Gilly would be like without her children around for months at a time. It would probably feel like getting fired from motherhood.
I’d made a standing date with her for every day the kids were gone, and since they still had one more day in Vegas, I was Gilly’s for the night. She needed the company, and in all fairness, she’d done as much or more for me, especially when I’d dealt with the last harrowing months of my mother’s terminal cancer. Gilly had been a rock for me, offering a safe space to break down when I felt overwhelmed.
Gilly walked past me and gave me a hip bump. “I feel bad keeping you from Detective Hottie.”
“Ezra’s been busy with work and such,” I said. The “and such” was actually Ezra’s teenaged son, Mason. The sixteen-year-old boy was staying with him while Ezra’s ex-wife, Kati Portman, and her resort-owner husband went on a two-week vacation to the Bahamas. Ezra hadn’t introduced me to his son yet, but also, I hadn’t asked for an introduction.
I’d never had kids. Being the godmother of Gilly’s teens was the closest I’d ever gotten to motherhood. And I was happy with my choice not to have had children. Still, a part of me would have liked Ezra to, at least, want me to meet his kid. I mean, while we hadn’t exactly defined our relationship, we were more than just mattress buddies.
“Is there trouble in paradise?” Gilly teased. When I didn’t answer right away, Gilly narrowed her gaze. “You know I’m not serious, right? Are things okay between you and Easy?” Easy was Ezra’s nickname, used by co-workers and friends. I called him Ezra, but I wasn’t above teasing Mr. Easy Like Sunday Morning.
“Ezra and I are awesome,” I said, not wanting to delve too deeply into what might or might not be going on between Ezra and me. “Like I said, he’s been busy, is all. You know how it is with kids around.”
“Oh, that’s right. He has his son. For how much longer?”
“Until next weekend.”
“I still can’t believe Big Don let Roger go away over Memorial weekend.”
Donald Portman owned Portman’s on the Lake, one of the big five resorts in Garden Cove. His son Roger managed the place for him, and eight years ago, Roger married Ezra’s ex-wife, Kati. Ezra had relocated to the area to be closer to Mason. I hadn’t been around then; my career had taken me to Chicago. But I’d grown up with Roger. He was a year older than Gilly and me, and he’d always been a showboat.
“I can’t believe Big Don let Roger go on vacation at all, much less during the busiest tourist weekend of the year.” I shrugged. “Maybe the old coot was feeling generous.”
“Hah!” Gilly clucked her tongue. “Big Don doesn’t have a generous bone in his body. And believe me, I know. The man wagged his ungenerous bone at me once when he’d stopped in for a massage at the Rose Palace.”
I swallowed back a gag. “That’s disgusting.”
“I wish he was the worst person I’d ever run into at the Rose Palace.”
Until recently, Gilly had been the spa manager at the Rose Palace Resort. That is, until Phil Williams, the jackhole who ran the resort, had fired her after she’d gotten arrested for a murder she didn’t commit. Phil had been up to his filthy eyeballs in the death of Gilly’s ex-boyfriend, Lloyd Briscoll. Unfortunately, the only person who could connect Phil to Lloyd’s murder was the actual killer, Carl Grigsby, a dirty cop on Phil’s payroll. He told me about Phil right before shooting me. The bullet had ripped through my leg, and I hadn’t given him another chance to aim better.
I beat him into a coma. My ex-husband, Shawn, who happened to be the chief of police, had ordered police protection around the clock for the time being, just in case Phil got it in his head to take out the only witness to his connection to Lloyd.
Sometimes, I went to the hospital to sit with him. I’m not sure why. I didn’t feel guilty for knocking his head in. It was him or me. Carl Grigsby had totally deserved it. But it wasn’t justice. He needed to wake up so he could face the consequences of his actions, for the arsons, the murder, and for shooting me.
“I’m glad you’re working here now,” I told her. “With me.” I put my arm around her shoulder. “And you no longer have to deal with lecherous men looking for happy endings.”
Gilly laughed. “That’s the God’s truth.” She put away the last of the cleaning supplies in the utility closet. “Let’s get out of here.”
After turning off the lights, turning on the alarm, and locking the door, we separated on the sidewalk. S
ince early-bird tourists were already in Garden Cove, parking spaces were scarce. Gilly had parked two blocks down in a public lot on the other side of Dolly’s Dollhouse Emporium, but I’d gotten to work early enough to get a space one block over near the courthouse.
I smiled when I saw a familiar face coming up the sidewalk. “Reese, how nice to see you.” Reese McKay, a young patrol officer, had been one of the cops on the scene the night I’d been shot. As a matter of fact, she’d been Carl Grigsby’s unlucky partner. No one had been more shocked about Carl’s seedy side than her.
She smiled back and waved. “Hey, Nora. Nice day, huh?” She looked up at the clear blue sky and shielded her eyes from the sun before pivoting her gaze back to me. “I hope this keeps up for the weekend.”
“Same,” I replied. I dug my keys from my purse. “It’s going to be a busy weekend.”
“Tell me about it.” She sighed. “I don’t know who’s worse, the drunk and rowdy tourists stirring up trouble or the small-time crooks in Garden Cove trying to rip them off. It’s a nightmare.”
She wore a pair of jeans and a butter-yellow tank top. Her strawberry-blonde hair was down around her shoulders, and the wind kept whipping strands about her face.
I jangled my keys. “I don’t want to keep you from your errands.”
Reese snorted as she pushed the offending hair away, and she looked back toward the courthouse. “I wish you were interrupting errands.”
