Starke Naked Dead (Starke Dead Mysteries Book 1)

by Conda V. Douglas

  “Leaving me won’t make it hurt any less,” Aunt Maddie said, tears in her voice.

  “I’m not leaving you. I’m—” My knees buckled. I dropped my suitcase.

  “Oh, my sweet, dear girl.” Aunt Maddie threw her arms around me.

  I buried my face in her old coat and smelled decades of good garden loam and long winters of smoky attempts at fireplace fires. The heady scent of home. “I did a terrible thing,” I sobbed into the old fabric.

  “Oh Dora,” Aunt Maddie said. “Terrible things happened.”

  “I killed a man. A friend. A father.”

  “Yes.” She patted my back with a strong stroke I remembered from my childhood, not too soft, not too hard.

  “I killed Lester. I can’t take that back. I can’t make it right.”

  “No, you can’t.” She squeezed me tighter. “All you can do is continue. Even with terrible grief. Even with terrible guilt. As best you can. That’s why Buddhists call life ‘practice.’”

  I leaned back and looked at my aunt. “Since when did you become such a good Buddhist?”

  “Since I started listening to you.” Tears ran down my aunt’s face.

  In Aunt Maddie’s eyes I saw my agony reflected. How could I abandon her? I reached out and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I guess I’ve got to get started on better karma sometime.” I wiped away my own tears.

  My aunt smiled with all of her soul.

  “It’s about time,” Mama Chin said as she banged out of the kitchen, a tray in her arms. “These are best warm.”

  On the tray, plates of cinnamon rolls and mugs of coffee rested resplendent. I smacked my lips. My appetite twinged.

  Mama Chin pushed aside the money and set down the tray. “Vegan. I promise.”

  Mrs. McGarrity opened the front door again. She’d shortened Bark’s leash to where he stood so close to her to be almost hidden under her bulk.

  Mama Chin’s hands became fists.

  Mrs. McGarrity held up a little bag of small brown bits. “Fresh baked homemade rat treats?” she said with a world of question in her voice. She gave the bag a shake.

  Freddy sat up in his cage.

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. McGarrity said in Freddy’s direction. “Truce?” she asked of Mama Chin.

  Mama Chin pointed at Bark. “The dog—”

  “Will stay right next to my side, under my control, every moment.”

  Mama Chin rubbed her chin. Freddy gave a hopeful squeak. Mama Chin shrugged. “Why not? There’s plenty of cinnamon rolls for everyone.”

  The Widows Brigade piled in with Mallard bringing up the rear. Mrs. McDay picked up the errant bills on the floor. She started stacking them, humming under her breath.

  Tony’s car slowed to park outside Mama Chin’s. He leaned out the driver’s side window, took a look at the party, gave a grin and a wave, and drove off.

  I snatched the last roll off the platter. “So,” I said to Aunt Maddie, “I figure we can repair Charles’s paintings first—”

  “No,” my aunt said.

  “What?”

  My aunt shook her head. “You were right about Charles, Dora. He’s never coming back.”

  “But—”

  Aunt Maddie shrugged. “It’s okay, I’ve accepted it.” She looked at me. “Or as you would say, I’ve moved farther down my path.”

  “But—” I took a bite and chewed before I said more.

  The front door opened again.

  “For heaven’s sakes,” Mama Chin said, “this restaurant is busier now than when it was open. We’re closed,” she said to the tall, lean older man who stood in the doorway.

  With his long lantern jaw and his long gray hair pulled up into a topknot the man looked familiar. What man wore his hair in a bun on top of his head? What man that I knew?

  “Charles?” Aunt Maddie gasped.

  Double Ohm.

  About the Author

  Conda grew up in the ski resort of Sun Valley, Idaho. Her childhood was filled with authors and artists and other creative types. She grew up with goats in the kitchen, buffalo bones in the living room, and rocks in the bathtub. Now her life is filled with her cat and dog, permanent boyfriend, and writing.

  She’s traveled the world from Singapore to Russia and her own tiny office, writing all the while. She delights in writing her cozy Starke Dead creative woman mystery series with amateur detective jeweler Dora Starke. The more Dora discovers cursed jewelry, her aunt digging graves, and a rampant poisoner, the more fun Conda has—although sometimes Dora complains about her plight!

  Next up, Starke Raving Dead, in which Dora’s mad Aunt Maddie proves the aptness of her name. When she’s not writing Dora into her quirky and quixotic mysteries, Conda writes the popular tween fantasy Mall Fairies series. The fairy inspiration for her Mall Fairies came from the sparrows that live in the Boise Towne Square Mall in Boise, Idaho. When not rescuing fairies from humans, cats, and themselves, Conda works on the last title in the Mall Fairy trilogy, The Mall Fairies: Destiny.

  Make sure to connect with Conda through her website or social media.

  Blog: http://condascreativecenter.blogspot.com

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/conda.v.douglas

  Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/condadouglas/

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/Conda_V

  Amazon author page: https://www.amazon.com/author/condadouglas

  Now enjoy this excerpt from Mild West Mysteries: 13 Idaho Tales of Murder and Mayhem. You’ll recognize Dora and Nance from Starke Naked Dead in this story about the tribulations of the self-employed, especially if they’re jewelers. Luckily, only rarely do such trials turn deadly…

  Conda’s note:

  This first story is from my Starke Dead cozy mystery series. Stealing Patterns is all about my main character’s, Dora’s, world of jewelry design and selling, especially the hard, grinding work of selling said designs. One difficult but effective way to do that: trade shows, as is shown here—and from the point of view of one of Dora’s nemeses, uh, friends, her sometime boss, Nance.

  Growing up with a jeweler father, I remember many events, all too well, much like this one, without the major crime. However, there is always much of the minor crime of stealing patterns in any trade show or conference.

  Stealing Patterns

  “If you’re going to thieve, you’d better be a little more subtle about it,” I demanded of the scruffy locked-in-fashionable young man. The only note of original style I spotted on his torn jean and faded hoodie clad body was his distinctive jewelry.

  Every piece of his jewelry suite incorporated elements of a revolver. He sported the barrel on a black leather wristband and the stocks and barrels of two guns strung with more leather made a necklace. Most striking, if obviously heavy, each earlobe wore earrings made out of triple brass shell casings, no loaded bullets, cradled by a gold wire hanging low on his ears.

  I could see why the young designer got invited to submit to the jury and then judged good enough to be here at Boise’s very first (and maybe last, if this nonsense continued) International Idaho Jewelry Exhibition. I supposed that I should be grateful that Boise grew to the point that it could now support a major exhibition. Grateful that now I only needed to drive three hours—okay three and a half if I drove the speed limit, from my gallery in ski resort Starke Idaho, instead of the many more hours to Portland or Seattle or the two-day long trek to San Francisco. Difficult to do, when the same sneaky stealing happened here.

  The thief stood three feet away from my table where my ex-employee and now temporary employee, Dora, frantically placed my presentation pieces. The object of my ire covered his cell phone, held waist high with his other hand as if I hadn’t noticed. Too little, too late. Perhaps he believed I was too old, being in my fifties, to recognize what he did. Wrong.

  I resisted the urge to snatch the phone away and delete the photos of my award winning designs. “At the very least, be more traditional and sketch ’em out when I’m not l
ooking, sheesh.”

  At a judged jewelry exhibition like this, sure every designer studied the other award winners’ designs for, ahem, inspiration. Patterns, it’s all about those, we always searched for new ways to make our patterns. Or, to speak true, as any good Buddhist such as myself, Nance, we’d sometimes outright copy. Maybe even copy that bracelet—I stepped closer and loomed over my fellow thief to stop us both. I’m six foot three; I can do that so well.

  Mr. Scruffy shuffled backward out of my looming, grinned and waved the cell phone. “New times, new technology, and who says I’m taking pics of your great jewelry?” He pointed with the phone at Dora. Or rather at her mid-sized cleavage, the biggest part of my short—petite—assistant and part of the reason I insisted she work the show with me.

  I’d also insisted, that instead of her usual heavy cotton jeweler’s apron over jeans, she wear a low-cut black velvet dress, with my signature Dog Face Mountain pins attached and my award winning platinum and sapphire necklace in pride of place centered in her cleavage. That way every customer got an eyeful of my designs, no matter where they looked and most of them looked straight at that arrowed portion of Dora.

  Dora straightened and glared in the chauvinist pig’s direction. Mr. Scruffy shrugged an apology and walked away. He moved to the best table in the room, next to the only glass display case, a monster at eight feet tall and five wide. The case stood next to the only unlocked single door in, affording an automatic sight direction for customers, plus lots more display.

  Scruffy slouched into a chair and shared something on his phone with one of his companions, a great hulking overall clad master jeweler while I wondered why and how he got the coveted First Prize place. I mean, his dramatic stuff stood out well in the glass case, but still those pieces couldn’t be worth as much as one of my necklaces—maybe a security measure?

  After all, the sleepy security guard sitting in the corridor next to the door didn’t look like he’d be much use, although the sizeable gun in his holster might. Plus, he might just need the weapon to keep back the sizeable crowd waiting in the corridor for the show to open. I nodded. It’d been worth the thousand dollar entry fee to get into this “invitation only juried” exhibition. The organizers obviously used that money to promote and bring in wealthy, eager customers.

  “Good riddance,” Dora said of the departed guy, breaking into my musings. “Another moment and I’d have gone against all my teachings and smacked the snot,” she continued, just as my gaze floated to the large decorative clock above the door. Uh-oh.

  Ten minutes, only ten minutes left. “Never mind him,” I said as turned back to our tiny table, perched next to the other exit, a fire door leading outside.

  “Darn fool judges,” Dora said, interpreting my grimace as she so often did. We sometimes worked great as a team. “Give you Fifth Place will they? When they gave those jerks,” she pointed at Scruffy Guy and Hulk, “First Place? No woman would ever buy those earrings. They’re too heavy for a woman to wear.”

  I smiled at her vehemence on my behalf while I took a long, careful survey of my carefully planned display. Platinum and gold rings perched, each snug on a one finger stand in a large heart-shaped pattern on the black velvet. Diamonds and high water rubies sparkled in the settings. In the center of the ring-created heart, necklaces copied the heart form.

  The longest chain enclosed a smaller chain, and one more within surrounded my best piece. A rose pin of rose colored diamonds gleamed in the center. Sure, the pin would’ve been bland, except for the leaf curling around one petal, a leaf picked out in emeralds.

  Dora crossed her arms over her chest, obscuring my jewelry. I opened my mouth to remind her she was a walking display when she said, “A touch too sparse and cutsey-wutsey, the display, don’t you think?”

  She snarked about the display we planned together. Typical. When would she ever learn Right Speech? I tried to teach her all I knew, and that’s extensive, about our shared Buddhist beliefs. She should be grateful. Right Thought, all the way.

  Well, maybe not.

  I couldn’t afford to bring more. I needed to sell a few pieces before making more of my high end stock. Platinum, gold, and precious gems cost and too many too expensive pieces could sound a death knell for a jewelry business.

  But did the display appear too old-fashioned, too cute? I puffed out a long, tired breath. No, no. And even if it did, the form of the display helped prevent any theft. It’d be obvious if any piece found its way off the table and into a pocket, purse, or, I’d known it to happen, mouth. Should I rethink the whole thing? In three minutes?

  “What if we shift the display into concentric circles instead of the heart shape?” Dora suggested.

  I agreed. “Brilliant.” I reached for one of the ring stands when a screech, bang and crash made me jump and Dora scream. I whirled around to see that the glass case next to the entry had toppled over, shattered glass everywhere. Hulk jeweler stood to one side, obviously the instigator of the crash. The old security guard, on his feet, stood in front of the crowd, pressing in toward the door. Scruffy guy tore his bracelet off and had the barrel released in a second. He reached for the necklace as Hulk headed in Dora’s direction, hand out.

  I spotted the pattern. Hulk would grab and snatch the best pieces, starting with my necklace while his buddy completed creating the gun. Then, shoot the guard and in the resulting melee, escape out the exit. How to stop—I stared at Scruffy, who was almost finished with putting together the gun. Next, the bullet earrings. Earrings.

  In an instant, I whirled around and nodded my head toward the guy, hoping to communicate my plan to Dora. It worked. Petite Dora scuttled around Big Hulk and, with me, sprinted to Scruffy. He reared back as we arrived. Together we each reached and grabbed an earring and yanked. Hard.

  “Ouch!” He cried as the wires cut through the tender earlobes.

  I turned in time to see Hulk bearing down on me, when a bang resonated through the room. Plaster filtered from the ceiling, where a hole showed.

  “Freeze!” I heard through the ringing of my ears. In the doorway, through the frame of the fallen case, the security guard stood, gun aimed in a two handed grip.

  Dora nudged my arm and when I looked at her, held up the bloody earring. “Good thing you taught me it’s all about the patterns!”

  Check out this and the rest of the Mild West Mysteries, 13 Idaho Tales of Murder and Mayhem.

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/1622060466 print

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B016SDH1KE kindle