Murder in the Park
A Fran Finch Cozy Mystery
Ivy McAllister
Fairfield Publishing
Contents
Copyright
Message to Readers
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
Thank You!
Copyright © 2017 Fairfield Publishing
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Except for review quotes, this book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, without the written consent of the author.
This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental.
Message to Readers
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Chapter 1
Fran turned over the glitzy front cover of her brand new notebook and lifted the page to her nose. Hmmm. There was nothing like the scent of a new pad of paper, reminding her of the first day of a new school semester. It felt like a fresh start.
And there was nothing Fran needed more than a fresh start.
My plan to make things right, she wrote, trying to feeling as optimistic as possible.
But then her pen hovered over the blank page and all her positive thoughts began to slowly seep out of her mind like there was a leak somewhere.
“Oh man,” she said, pushing her fingers into her short dark hair, her elbows stuck on the desk. She was still in her tiny bedroom in her mom’s house, which was stuck in some 1990s little-girl time warp she hadn’t bothered to dig out of. There was a lava lamp, a jungle-themed bed cover, and even a picture of a fresh, young Leonardo Di Caprio on the wall. Exactly not how she had imagined her second summer after graduation from college. She’d had glorious plans and all kinds of grand schemes, but they’d all crumbled around her ankles into dust. She wasn’t renting her own little artsy loft in a metropolitan city, after all. And she certainly wasn’t putting on amazing all-night penthouse parties for models and music stars.
Her gray cat Percy—who reminded her of a snobby, fat, English aristocrat with a squashed up face and a pompous attitude—wound himself around her legs and nuzzled into her ankles. He could be very arrogant, strutting around on his puffed up paws like he owned the place and was only very graciously letting Fran and her little brothers and her mom live there. But he was also super affectionate. Fran reached down to tickle his chin and he turned his head toward her, closing his eyes in cat bliss and purring until the chair leg vibrated. “Oh, Percy,” she said. “I really messed up this time, didn’t I?”
Her old iPhone began to buzz on the table. She peered over, expecting it to be Jared, begging her to take him back, even though she’d caught him making out with some random girl when she’d come back from her totally busted promotional event, ready to snuggle up in his arms and have a good cry. That night quickly became known as The Worst Night Ever. But it wasn’t Jared. It was a number she didn’t recognize.
“Hey,” she said, then added, “Fran Finch,” remembering to be professional, in case there was the teeniest tiniest chance it was a prospective client.
“Fran, Fran, Fran!” a happy voice said on the other end of the line, almost like a game show host.
“Is that…” Fran actually got up from her chair in excitement. “Emily?”
“No,” the woman’s voice on the other end of the line said, confused. “It’s Brett. From school. Remember? I was Prom King?”
“Emily, you goofball!” Fran said. She started walking around her little room, suddenly full of energy. “I haven’t heard from you in so long. What are you doing now? I heard you moved out to the Hamptons and you were making a killing flipping mansions. Is that true?” It was hard to believe, since Emily was the class clown who flunked most of her exams and seemed to sail through school on her charm alone.
“Yeah, yeah,” Emily said, bored. “I went into that after school and did it for a while but it was like, soul-sucking, you know?”
Fran flopped on the bed. She couldn’t even get a single client for her party planning business. And here Emily was, already giving up huge success. Fran tried not to feel jealous, but it was a teensy bit hard. “So what do you do now?”
All the enthusiasm bounded back into Emily’s voice. “I’m a nanny!” she said. “I’m in Little Hampton now, a village in the Hamptons, and I look after this little girl Waverly. Oh my gosh, she is so sweet, you wouldn’t believe it.”
“Aww,” Fran said. She’d always loved kids, especially taking her boisterous brothers under her wing. She wondered if she’d ever be a mother herself, or if she was more ‘fun auntie’ material. It was tough when there was no eligible man in the picture…
“And I know you’re a party planner, because I was Facebook spying and I checked you out.” Emily laughed. “That’s true, right?”
Fran paused before she answered. Could she really call herself that? She’d been pushing for a few months now, and had begged her mom to lend her the money for the promotional event she was sure would bring in clients. But $3,000 and no clients later, and in debt to her mom before she’d even started, it felt like the dream was going down the tubes, and fast. But then there was that one memory that kept her going, kept her pushing. She swallowed. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
“Well, good. I hope you’re free, like, right now.”
“What?” Fran shot to her feet again. Then she darted over to the window and pulled back the horrible pink checkered curtains. “Are you here? With…Waverly?”
Emily laughed all the more. “No, dumbo. But get this. Waverly is about to turn eight. Her mom is totally freaking out… She doesn’t live here, by the way, the guy’s new wife does. Anyway, the new mom is totally hopeless when it comes to anything except shoving her nose in a book about some obscure subject or other, so she didn’t organize anything.”
Fran’s heart was already beating faster as Emily continued, “And Byron, that’s the guy I work for, he thought that Waverly’s mom having a party was good enough, but then Waverly’s mom totally freaked out and was screaming about what kind of father was he, blah blah. Waverly needs to have two parties, she said. So I’m hearing them yelling, and I’m like oh boy, this again? So I hear him scream he doesn’t know how to put on a kid’s party and he’s got more important things to do. And something in my brain clicks from when I Facebook stalked you, so I run in there and save the day. You’re arranging the party. Sound all right?”
Fran could barely catch a breath. “Are you… This is a joke, right?”
“Yeah, I think it’s kind of a joke having two enormous birthdays for this little kid but—”
“No, I mean, are you for real? I can come and do the party?”
Emily snorted. “It would be a pretty dumb prank.”
That reminded Fran, Emily had been no stranger to silly prank calls back in their teenage days. Plus, Fran couldn’t even dare to believe that she’d just land
ed a super rich client with a little kid’s party—she’d have free rein to create a wonderland, a party no guest would ever forget. Thoughts of princess towers and water slides and a huge feast spread out on long tables tucked away in a flower garden were already playing themselves out in her head like a glittering show reel. No, she told herself. It couldn’t possibly be true. “Hmm,” she said, not sounding entirely convinced. “You’re probably at home in your dad’s house across town. Hamptons, yeah right.”
“All right, fine,” Emily said, and hung up the phone.
The beep sounded just awful in Fran’s ear. “No, no! I didn’t mean it!” She pressed Call again, but Emily rejected the call. “Oh, man,” Fran said, then let out an “Ugh!” in frustration. She’d only been kidding around. And now, however many times she pressed Call, the line went dead over and over.
Fran sank back onto the bed, feeling like she’d missed her big chance. She flopped back and stared up at the ceiling, wondering why she was such a screw-up. Nothing ever really seemed to go right.
Percy came over to her and sprang onto the bed. Then he padded over the duvet up to her ear and meowed plaintively, wanting to be stroked. “Yeah, well, what if I want someone to stroke my head, huh?” she snapped. But when she looked at his squishy face, she couldn’t help but melt. She let her fingers get lost in his fluffy coat and sighed deeply. “I think I’ll be here all my life, Perce. And you’ll be the only person that doesn’t think I’m a complete failure at life.” He meowed back with a haughty look. Fran tried to work out what he was saying, as she often did. Her best bet was, “Don’t be so ridiculous. Stroke me, stroke me, and everything will work out.”
Fran tickled him under his chin. “Is there such a job as stroking cats for a living? I’d be good at that.”
Then her phone beeped. She looked down. Video message received. She frowned, hoping it wasn’t going to be some big bunch of roses pressed up against Jared’s face, with his mournful, puppy-eyed look and a caption saying I still love you, Fran. She’d deleted three of those already. The last one even had a sparkles filter on it.
She clicked into it to see a frozen image of Emily and a little girl standing in front of an enormous mansion. Fran clicked play. Immediately, Emily stuck her tongue out, then grinned broadly. “See where I am, huh? Where are we, Waverly?”
“Little Hampton!” the tiny girl yelled back. She was a slim girl with black hair, pale skin, and a feisty expression that made Fran warm to her instantly. “So get your butt down here and come do my party for me!” That was no pretty pink princess, that was for sure.
“Shh!” Emily said, then made a mock grimace at the camera. “I told her to say that but it sounds so much worse than I thought.” Then she put her hand on her substantial hip and pretended to frown. “Anyway, missy, you heard her. Get your crazy self an airplane ticket N. O. W. because this party is last minute and we need you here, like, the day before yesterday.” She then gave a wild wave and Waverly bounded up to the camera to join in, waving madly and grinning, showing off all the gaps in her teeth. “Bye!”
Fran squealed with excitement. “Percy, we’re going to the Hamptons! Eek!”
She began tapping on her iPhone screen but within seconds, her phone was ringing again.
“So…?” Emily said.
Fran swiped away from the call and back onto her internet browser. “Girl, what can I tell you? I’m already looking for flights.”
Chapter 2
“I hope you and Percy will find your stay comfortable,” old Mrs. McCabe said as she led Fran through the old farmhouse hallway into the bedroom. Fran set the cat basket down and popped open the front cage so Percy could prowl out and check out his new surroundings.
“It’s very beautiful, Mrs. McCabe,” Fran said, looking around at the rustic room with exposed beams and a dark barnwood floor. A hand-sewn patchwork quilt was strewn over the bed. Everything about Mrs. McCabe’s place was rustic.
Fran had taken a taxi from the airport, and had been enchanted when they’d turned off the main street flanked on either side with enormous mansions and pulled into a remarkably not-showy entrance, compared to the huge wrought iron gates the rest of the street had. The winding narrow gravel path took them through open fields where long lines of small green bushes grew. “My, my,” the driver had said, “I didn’t know there was even a square foot of farming land left around here.” Soon they’d arrived at an old farmhouse with aging wood siding and a wraparound porch. White flowers that Fran didn’t know the name of trailed all around, so prolifically that she had to step over a couple of vines to lug her case up the steps to the porch. The whole place had this unbridled, untamed but undeniably charming feel.
Mrs. McCabe reached out with a wrinkled hand and patted Fran on the arm. “Thank you, dear. We do try and keep it looking homey, at least.” Her blue eyes were bright behind her thick glasses, and her halo of fuzzy white hair glinted in the sun that streamed through the open shutters. “How did you find out about us here?”
“Trip Advisor,” Fran said with a smile. “I booked through there.”
“Oh, hmm, yes, yes.” Mrs. McCabe hurried over to the bed and plumped the pillows, even though they didn’t need it. “My nephew Leon deals with all that. I could do it myself, you know. I’m a wiz at computers, not like these other old folks who can’t keep up. Not me. I read all my books on my Kindle Fire, and we do all the accounts on the computer now. I was thinking of starting a YouTube channel about quilting, but what with the farm and the B and B, I barely have a spare minute.”
Fran had been watching Percy as he found a comfortable spot under the dresser and curled up, squeezing his eyes shut in his imperious fluffy face. But she was so amazed by Mrs. McCabe’s technical prowess—the lady looked at least eight-five! “Wow,” Fran said. “You sound busy.”
Mrs. McCabe stood up proudly, then started shaking down the curtains. “Well, no one cares about this place as much as I do. And I don’t want any staff to help. It would make it just like…” She waved her hand, gesturing to outside and rolling her eyes. “Well, the less said about them, the better.”
Fran perched on the edge of the bed. “About who, Mrs. McCabe?”
“Oh, everybody,” Mrs. McCabe grumbled. “You know, Little Hampton used to be much nicer. Sure, there were a lot of rich folks in their fancy mansions, but there were farming folk, too. Proud people who were no strangers to hard work. And we all used to get along, would you believe? Farmers and these rich folks that don’t work much, side by side. But then the kids of these farmers sold out all the land to these rich folks and now we’re the only farm left in Little Hampton.”
Fran nodded, finding it interesting. She’d never even thought about the history of the place. When she’d found The Old Farmhouse on Trip Advisor, she had found it a little strange that such a place was nestled between the huge white houses with swimming pools bigger than her mom’s whole lot. “So you’re not selling,” Fran said.
“No!” Mrs. McCabe said, scandalized. “Between you and me, I’ve been offered millions for this land. Millions and millions. So some celebrity can build their third mansion, no doubt.” She crossed her arms and her voice began to raise and quiver with feeling. “But I’ll never sell. This is where I grew up, and I’m not giving a single acre to—”
“Auntie Molly giving you the obligatory lecture?” a voice said from the doorway. Fran turned to see an awkward-looking man leaning against the doorframe. His mousy hair stuck right up, like he hadn’t cut it short enough to be a buzz cut but had taken too much off for it to fall down nicely. He was ever so slim, which gave his eyes quite a beady look, but there was a kind glow about him. Fran didn’t find him attractive, but instantly warmed to him. “Take no notice,” he said. “You’re Fran, I’m guessing? You booked through Trip Advisor?”
“That’s me,” Fran said. He leaned over and offered his hand, so she shook it. “And you’re Leon.”
“Guilty,” he said.
“And that’s P
ercy, her cat,” Mrs. McCabe said. “Anyway, it’s not a lecture. Fran asked about the history here.”
That wasn’t entirely true. Fran smiled in any case. “I was glad to hear it. But I really must be going now. I’m supposed to be meeting my friend Emily. She’s the nanny for one of the families here.”
“Which family?” Mrs. McCabe asked. “We can give you directions. Or Leon will take you down there in the truck.”
“It’s the Stratfords.”
Mrs. McCabe and Leon looked at each other with wary eyes.
“Oh,” Mrs. McCabe said darkly. “The Stratfords.”
Fran laughed shakily. “Am I missing something? Is there something I should know?”
Leon forced a laugh. “Oh, no, don’t you worry. We’re just not the best of pals, our families. You want a ride? It’s a twenty-minute walk otherwise.”
“Sure, thanks,” Fran said. “Just so I know the way. I’ll walk back, though. I don’t mind.” She coaxed Percy into his basket—Emily had told her that Waverly, a big animal lover, was dying to see him—and shut it, then straightened up with a big smile. “Ready.”
“No offense, but I don’t like him that much,” Waverly said confidently, looking down at Percy with a disdainful expression. She’d swung her single black braid over her shoulder and planted her pale hands on her denim coveralled hips. “He looks grumpy.”
Percy padded around on the sunny veranda, his face as disdainful and squashed up as ever.
“He is,” Fran said, feeling relaxed enough that she appreciated the little girl saying just how it was instead of sugar-coating her feelings. She leaned back in one of the elegant yet comfy white wicker chairs, gazing over the ocean. Bougainvillea, trailing in bright magentas and purples and peaches over the pergola style roof above, dappled the tiled veranda, and the blossoming ends of their vines swayed gently in the breeze. “But he can be nice, too. He’s like a fat old man, isn’t he?”
Murder in the Park (Fran Finch Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 1
