Dickens of a Death

by Ashantay Peters

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedications

  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

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Dickens

  of a

  Death

  by

  Ashantay Peters

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Dickens of a Death

  COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Ashantay Peters

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Diana Carlisle

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Mainstream Mystery Edition, 2014

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-578-4

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedications

  Mom, thanks for supporting

  my childhood Nancy Drew addiction.

  ~*~

  To Lori Waters, and Robin,

  thanks for your ongoing support.

  Chapter One

  “You know I’d help you bury a body. Rob a bank. Not that you need money. But volunteer for Dickens Days?” I shuddered. “Please, Ginger, don’t ask. I’m not ready to think about Christmas. I’m still recovering from Halloween.”

  We were six weeks out from the annual mid-December Granville Falls city event. The weekend was begun to lure tourists to spend money in our picturesque downtown. Not only was Dickens Days a big tourist event, the income from tours and vendors supported local charities.

  My best friend, Ginger Howe’s big brown eyes exerted a tractor beam effect, pulling me into her pleading gaze. “Katie, I need you. Richard Shorter is the committee head, and you know what he’s like.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I snickered. “Said backwards his name is Little Dick. What were his parents thinking?”

  She pushed a lock of her red hair behind her ear. “I think you’re the only person in town who calls him Dick instead of Richard.”

  “Just cause he’s got one doesn’t mean he has to act like one. Even though his actions prove he has a small penis.”

  Ginger sighed. “That’s why I need your help. I just left the organizational meeting. Dick, I mean Richard, assigned me to head decorations.”

  I groaned. Ginger had drawn the worst assignment. Not only did the chair have to coordinate with the city Public Works Department, they rode roughshod on any homeowner who tried to slip in LED lights instead of using traditional garland and such. Some of the new folks from Charlotte, North Carolina, who’d bought into the Granville Falls Historic District had more money than, well, tradition. The decorations chair had to walk a fine line. For sure, it was no plum assignment.

  “Why you?” I backtracked. “I know you can handle the job, but I thought Mrs. Goodnight had a lock on the chair position.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “If you’d been listening to me, you’d know Mrs. Goodnight just had emergency surgery. She’s in rehab and not expected to be fully recovered until New Year at the earliest. Mrs. Goodnight agreed to help, she just can’t get around town.”

  “Lucky you,” I mumbled. Mrs. Goodnight, unlike Little Dick, did not live up to her name’s potential. “You’ll just have decorations, right? Not the costumes too?”

  During the weekend event, our historic homes opened for tours and citizen volunteers strolled the main residential boulevard dressed as late nineteenth- century characters come to life. Chestnut roasting stands and street vendors selling sweetmeats and hot cider added veracity. The costumes chair had the biggest headache outside of the decorations chair. Or the Granville Falls Police Department’s overworked security detail.

  “No, thank goodness.” Ginger exhaled a big breath. “Remember that year I got stuck with costumes?”

  I looked down to hide my grin. “Is Joey Cannoli working as a musician again?”

  Two years ago, Joey Cannoli—that was his grade school nickname, his real last name long ignored—had worn a Sgt. Pepper’s costume in his role as an itinerant street musician. He’d earned good tips from the Baby Boomers. Ginger hadn’t fared so well with the event coordinator.

  Ginger grinned. “I should have paid Joey for that stunt. My name has never been mentioned in connection with costumes again.” Her grin died. “So will you help me? My mom wants you, too. She’s chairing the home tour, so her hands will be full.”

  Damn. She’d brought out the big guns. My pulse skittered. I owed Ginger, and her mother, Patricia Winslow, my life. Literally. My parents had died when I was nine, and the Winslows had given me refuge from the tyrannical aunt who’d had my guardianship.

  “Shoot. Okay. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and Shorter will keel over. Your mom would be a much better event coordinator, and everyone would enjoy themselves in the process.”

  She shook her head. “Got that right. I think the man’s collected one too many Napoleon-era baubles for his own good.”

  I put on my innocent expression. “Speaking of dictators, you can tell my hunka burning love Dirk, that my helping out is your idea. This time, if something goes wrong, I want him to know it was all your fault, Ginger.”

  Dirk Johnson is my sexy live-in cop and shouldn’t be confused with Dick Shorter, even though their first names are only one letter different. Dirk is tall, dark, and built like a horny woman’s fantasy. His butchered haircuts and crooked nose only add to his appeal.

  To further the comparison between Dirk and Little Dick, nothing about Dirk Johnson is short. Nothing. We share his home as my 1920s bungalow is under perpetual renovation. Plus, he has a hot tub. Enough said, right?

  She narrowed her eyes. “Since when do you need permission? What can go wrong with decorations? Besides someone using mangoes instead of oranges in a centerpiece?”

  I didn’t answer Ginger’s questions, wishing the chill traveling down my spine was excitement.

  ****

  “Dickens Days is the craziest damn weekend of the year.” Dirk ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, second to July Fourth, but still. I’d rather you weren’t in the thick of things that weekend.”

  If it were up to Dirk, I’d be Suzy Homemaker—one of our ongoing bones of contention. “At least I’ll be inside, in one location.” Have I mentioned that the decorations committee also dressed in costume while conducting open house tours? Yep, I was one lucky “volunteer.”

  “Plus, Ginger will be with me. What kind of trouble can I get into with her?”

  His eyes narrowed into slits. Oops. Maybe I shouldn’t have reminded Dirk that Ginger and I had gotten involved in one too many murders over the last year.

  I quickly added a disclaimer. “We’ll be station
ed at Winslow House.”

  His expression blanked.

  “Ginger’s parents’ house. Her mom will be there with us.” Ginger’s childhood home was large and so historic it rated a name.

  Dirk shook his head and glanced at Ginger. “This is already a done deal, isn’t it?” he mumbled under his breath. “How’d you get sucked in by Little Dick?”

  I turned to face Ginger. “See? I’m not the only one who calls Shorter by his correct name.”

  She looked at the ceiling and didn’t answer, but her lips quirked.

  Determined to keep my promise to Ginger, I pulled out my almost nonexistent flattery skills. “Besides, you’ll be on duty, so nothing will go wrong.”

  He snorted. As I said, I’ve never learned the girly-girl stuff. Which probably explains why I work in the construction industry.

  Dirk pulled me against his side. He leaned to nuzzle my neck. Well, maybe I’m not hopeless in the flirting department.

  “I’m not your parent. You don’t need my permission.” He nipped my ear. “It’s just that the two of you find trouble faster than anyone I know.” Moving to nuzzle my jaw, he continued. “I hate I won’t be there with you.”

  “Don’t let him kiss you into submission, Katie.” Ginger’s laughter filled the room. “Unless that’s what you want.” Her “good-bye” sounded as the front door clicked shut.

  “Promise me you’ll be careful. I’ve seen way too many holiday celebrations gone bad.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d rather we were skiing in West Virginia that weekend.”

  “Nothing will happen with you on the security detail.”

  “Enough flattery. I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

  His lips came down on mine.

  This time, the spine-tingling chill really was excitement. Oo-la-la and pass the candy canes.

  Chapter Two

  The intervening weeks passed quickly. Bare branches replaced hillside vistas of colorful leaves. Lawns turned brown. Holiday decorations were up and ready for judging. The proverbial chill hovered in the air. Now our biggest task remained surviving the event weekend without murdering Little Dick.

  I’d had it with Shorter’s iron control, and I hadn’t had to deal with him directly. Listening to Ginger and her mother complain about him set my nerves on edge. My friend’s last minute request to beard the man in his den had not endeared me, either.

  “Katie, it’ll just take a minute.”

  “Why can’t you e-mail Little Dick? God knows he’s got the Internet running through his veins given his daily message blasts.” Ginger had shown me one of his e-mails. The three pages resembled a field marshal’s orders. For sure, the man had a control mania.

  “I don’t need to talk with him. We’re meeting Mom. I promised to run interference and pull her out of the man’s clutches.”

  I still searched for a reason we should make a phone call claiming an emergency when my friend delivered the coup de grace.

  “Mom said she’d treat at the Chocolate Fix.”

  Not that I really needed a bribe to help Mrs. Winslow or a reason to visit my favorite shop. Ginger and I never passed up our weekly visit to the store alternately known to us as Heaven on Earth. Seconds later, with smiles on our faces, we entered Richard Shorter’s antique store.

  A light scent of lemon oil didn’t entirely mask the smell of old wood, though dust wouldn’t dare settle here. Differing from many places filled with old stuff, however, this store was laid out with clean lines and simple displays highlighted with discreet lighting and even more circumspect price tags. No kitschy 1950’s pieces or frilly knick-knacks positioned to catch my elbow in here. Just another indication the merchandise would forever remain out of my price range.

  His holiday decorations were equally as elegant. Bouquets of holly and white mums were scattered throughout the store. Garlands of long-needled pine, real not plastic, interspersed with wide gold ribbon surrounded the doorway leading to another showroom. Small white twinkle lights filled a clear glass vase topped with silk poinsettia. The only Santas I noted were portrayed on framed and yellowed Victorian-era greeting cards.

  The store’s style reflected the slight, medium-height middle-aged man who sported a neat mustache and carefully shorn wavy brown hair. His jackets featured wide lapels and he often wore bowties and white shirts with high collars. I figured if Richard Shorter thought he could get away with wearing a cravat and velvet jacket, he would. Instead, he chose clothes that intimated the mid-Victorian years.

  The smile I’d plastered to my face didn’t last longer than the quick scan of my surroundings. Classically styled Christmas music didn’t mask the angry voices steadily rising in volume and emanating from the store’s rear.

  “Oh, dear,” Ginger said. She hurried toward the argument, me on her heels.

  “You’re a thief.” Ginger’s mom’s voice echoed in the small room Shorter used as his office. “You told me you’d checked the provenance yourself.”

  “I did. The papers are authentic, and so is the secretary I sold you.”

  “Liar.” Mrs. Winslow never backed down from a fight, a characteristic I admired. “I showed your supposed certificates to an expert from Charlotte.”

  “No one—”

  Mrs. Winslow’s voice overrode him. “Don’t tell me no one else in this area is expert enough to check on you.”

  Ginger and I peeked at the scene from the doorway. Mrs. Winslow stood in front of Shorter, who was seated at his desk. Ginger’s mom didn’t lose her temper often, but when she did, the results were scary. If I’d been him, I’d have cowered.

  Mrs. Winslow braced her hands on his desk and leaned over him. “Get ready, Dickie. Once my independent appraiser has finished checking my collection, I have a feeling your business, and you, will be finished in Granville Falls.”

  “Your threats can’t hurt me.”

  She straightened, crossing her arms. “No? Care to make a bet on that? Say, I win, and you buy back everything you sold me that isn’t authentic? Not to mention all the pieces you sold my friends based on my recommendation of your store?”

  Even at fifteen or more feet away, I could see his complexion pale.

  “I thought so. You’re as fake as the stuff you sell here.” She sniffed.

  A soft bell chimed from the storefront, but my attention stayed glued on the scene in front of me.

  Shorter’s face went from ashy to florid. “Your threats are baseless.”

  “I’ll make sure your business and you are closed down. For good.”

  He stood. “You’re threatening me? I don’t think so.”

  He made to move around the desk. Patricia’s shoulders went back, and she held her ground.

  “I don’t threaten. I keep my promises. No matter the cost.”

  A loud gasp sounded. Everyone turned to look at the woman who stood behind me, someone I hadn’t heard approach.

  Crap. Mrs. Rose. Not only did Mrs. Rose hold title as one of the biggest gossips in a town filled with gabbers, she’d married a man who had a long-standing feud with Ginger’s mother. And, double crap, Stephen Rose had recently been elected interim mayor, kinda making him Dirk’s boss. I told myself to keep my mouth shut.

  “Is there a problem?”

  Oh, and did I mention that neither of the Roses had an intellect larger than a Beer Nut?

  Mrs. Winslow recovered first. She answered the query with a polite but cold tone. “This is none of your business, Madeline. I suggest you leave. Now.”

  Mrs. Rose, all of five foot three without her trademark stilettos, thrust her shelf of a bosom forward. I sidestepped both her chest and the swirl of cloying perfume.

  “Pardon me? Patricia, are you making a threat?”

  “No.” Her chin went up. “I believe my comments fall under the definition of promise.”

  “In that case, I think I’ll call my attorney,” Shorter said. “A slander suit may be necessary.”

  Little Dick looked too satisfied for my wellbeing
so I responded, “Maybe you should watch yourself, Dick. You’d have to prove her allegations are untrue, and you can’t.”

  Mrs. Rose faced me. “I understand Stephen and the chief are looking at police staffing right now. Perhaps after I call my husband, I should inform Chief John about his detectives’ associates.”

  Crap. Once again, I’d stuck my foot in the poop.

  Ginger moved in front of me, blocking my view. “I’m sure the police are busy, what with Dickens Days this coming weekend. But beyond that, you walked in on a private discussion.”

  She gave me a slight push toward her mom, and I caught the hint. Taking Mrs. Winslow’s arm, I shepherded her from the office, through the store and out. We stood on the sidewalk, waiting for Ginger.

  “Thank you, dear.” She inhaled and blew a long breath. “I would have said something awful if I’d had to deal with those two by myself.”

  I figured she’d already played into Shorter’s hands. Madeline Rose would spread her version of the story all over town within an hour. Only Ginger’s presence in the office would have stopped her from already starting. Luckily, Mrs. Winslow had plenty of influential friends. Still, this situation held definite negative possibilities for her.

  Ginger bustled from the store. “I’d think that woman would profit from a frontal lobotomy if I didn’t suspect she’d already had one.”

  My jaw dropped. My friend was no saint, but she usually operated from the “speak no evil” mode. Unless someone deserved a verbal rap on the knuckles. Then she could—and did—deliver.

  Mrs. Rose and Shorter watched us from inside the store.

  “Let’s move.”

  We crossed the street to the Chocolate Fix. This shop was not only a slice of paradise but also gossip central, along with the Hair Shack Salon. The store proprietor and our friend, Mona, greeted us as we entered.

  My salivary glands recognized the scent of chocolate, coffee, and spices. I swallowed saliva so I could order. My friends and I settled at a small marble-topped table and within moments, Mona delivered a plate of delicate pastries each sliced into threes, along with our hot drinks.

  “The pastries are my treat. A new product I’m developing. Let me know what you think.”