Maggie and the Black-Tie Affair
A Carita Cove Romantic Mystery
Barbara Cool Lee
Pajaro Bay Publishing
Contents
Introduction
Newsletter
Copyright & Dedication
Maggie and the Black-Tie Affair
Jasper
Booklist
Newsletter
Charities
Stay in Touch
Introduction
Maggie and the Black-Tie Affair is a pint-sized story introducing you to the new Carita Cove romantic mystery series:
A bored trophy wife. A cynical movie star. One evening to save an innocent girl from prison. None of them will ever be the same after this Black-Tie Affair.
Maggie McJasper is starting over in a little California beach town. She has a craft shop, a nice circle of friends, and a handsome movie star who keeps flirting with her. Life would be pretty great if she could just stop stumbling over dead bodies….
The Carita Cove romantic mysteries are fun and heartwarming reads, with no swearing or love scenes, and no gruesome violence to keep you up at night. Collect them all:
* * *
1. Maggie and the Black-Tie Affair
2. Maggie and the Inconvenient Corpse
3. Maggie and the Mourning Beads
4. Maggie and the Empty Noose
5. Maggie and the Hidden Homicide
6. Maggie and the Whiskered Witness
7. Maggie and the Serpentine Script
8. Maggie and the Rattled Rake
And more to come. Click here for the latest booklist.
Copyright © 2019 by Barbara Cool Lee
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Neither the author nor the publisher claim responsibility for adverse effects resulting from the use of any recipes, projects, and/or information found within this book.
This edition published: October 22, 2019
2021-01-15-D
Maggie and the Black-Tie Affair
December 31, Late Evening
Carita, California
* * *
The ritzy New Year's Eve party was in full swing at Casablanca, Michael "Big Mac" McJasper's beach house in the coastal town of Carita, California.
Magdalena Lopez McJasper, known to all as Maggie, glanced surreptitiously at a clock. Just a few more hours and she would finally get to celebrate the new year the way she wanted to:
She would peel off the belly-squashing Spanx that were the only thing keeping her sparkling silver Jenny Packham gown from bursting at the seams.
She would remove the acrylic nails that were already sporting a big chip that snagged on everything she touched.
She would put on her sweats, sit out by the pool in the moonlight, and start that last Agatha Christie novel on her ereader.
And she would eat. After starving herself to fit into this dress, she was famished.
But all that was still hours away.
So Maggie surveyed the room instead, watching for anywhere things might be lagging and need a hostess's deft touch to keep the energy going.
The party was made up of the same cliquish little group of actors, directors, models, agents, hangers-on, and sycophants as always. An exclusive party, small enough for guests to feel flattered to be invited, yet not so small that they couldn't make connections.
They all milled around in the huge, high-ceilinged living room of Casablanca, with its view out the glowing windows to the blue-lit waterfall pool and the gigantic rusting wave sculpture by a famous artist, to the endless sky and water of Carita Cove beyond.
But no one glanced out the windows. They were focused instead on their fellow lucky insiders, and the deals to be made.
She smiled automatically when anyone glanced her way.
She knew most of the guests, but didn't really know any of them. Did that model miss her family in Belgrade? Did that director ever wish he'd chosen a different career? Did that agent really intend for his hair to look like that?
She mingled, and made sure everyone had champagne, and chatted amiably, as was her job at these events. They had the same conversations about the same narrow list of subjects, and everyone judged everyone else's appearance, financial status, and (most importantly for this crowd) their position on the pyramid of Hollywood power.
And here came someone at the top of that pyramid. Reese Stevens had shown up, with the latest pretty actress/model on his arm. All heads turned.
Or actually, they didn't. Everyone oh-so-casually glanced in his direction, and then went back to whatever they were doing. But she knew they were all watching out of the corners of their eyes, hoping for that chance to, in a very cool and unstudied way, strike up a conversation with the studio's number one box office star.
Her husband commanded that same kind of attention, though for a very different reason. Her dear husband Mac was not, unfortunately, a six-foot-three and drop-dead gorgeous blond movie star. He was middle-aged, and his scalp had only recently healed from getting hair plugs to cover the bald spots.
But her Mac could work a room with the same charm that had captured her attention all those years ago. He was in great shape from his daily laps in the pool, and she still thought he was an attractive man, in a more regular guy with a good tailor way.
But to this crowd, Mac's star quality rivaled Reese's, because he was a producer at a prestigious boutique film studio, a behind-the-scenes executive who had launched a dozen careers.
So everyone wanted to close a deal with Big Mac.
And so they were nice to her.
Maggie excused herself from a scintillating conversation about retail receipt calculations between a studio accountant and an aspiring actor who was making a heroic effort to not yawn, and wandered over to the buffet, which had been set up by the massive stone living room fireplace.
A bit too close to the fireplace.
She pointed out to the caterer that the chocolate cake was melting, and the staff scrambled to move the buffet out of harm's way. She resisted the urge to help them. Mac hated when she acted déclassé, as he called it.
She called it treating staff like human beings, but Mac didn't agree. The staff should be invisible, and she should be visible.
So she didn't offer to help the group of college kids and locals who moonlighted at these fancy parties to make ends meet in Carita. She just smiled at them, and turned away from the efforts to rescue the gourmet meal.
No dinner for her tonight. Her best friend Brooke was home in her pajamas, eating pizza and binge-watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. But Brooke didn't have a husband who considered every holiday a chance to further his career—and who considered his wife an important part of the scene decoration for this little staged event.
So Maggie just stood there, the firelight making her silver evening gown sparkle, wearing diamond earrings the size of chandeliers (a guilt present from Mac the last time he'd been out of the country micromanaging some over-budget production), and wishing she hadn't chosen the silver Manolo pumps that pinched her toes, and hoping there would be some cake left when this was done.
And she was over it.
Over the whole thing.
The
party.
The shallow people (none of whom would even speak to her if she weren't married to a big shot).
The prime rib (that the men were devouring and none of the women were touching, lest their own evening gowns end up too small).
The house—
No. She stopped herself there. She wasn't over the house.
She loved this house. She actually loved this house best of all their houses. She had redecorated it herself when Mac had decided he wanted to spend more time in Carita, the self-proclaimed Playground of the Stars a few hours from LA. The town prided itself on its down-to-earth, funky beach-town vibe (while being in reality one of the most expensive places in California, thus keeping out the riffraff).
She loved Carita. She loved the little downtown with its coffee shops and boutiques. She loved The Row, the exclusive street of oceanfront houses that stretched along the sandy beach like a pearl necklace.
And Casablanca was right in the center of the necklace, in the prime spot where the curve of the cove had deposited the golden sand at their feet.
She loved this house overlooking the sea. She loved the small-town escape from LA's fussy, empty lifestyle of spas and shopping and dinner parties where everyone jockeyed to get closer to the centers of power.
Her husband was one of those centers of power, being a producer of films that earned the studio a fortune and made actors into household names.
But she? Where did she fit into this perfect fairy tale?
Reese Stevens and his latest date, a truly lovely young woman who had clearly not eaten chocolate cake in years, were talking to the droning accountant now. Presumably he was still regaling them with his theories on net versus gross tax bases.
The woman was skinny as a rail, with bolt-ons and a mane of toffee-colored hair. Every time she tossed her hair back and laughed, her earrings glittered.
Now that they were closer, Maggie recognized the earrings. They were a pair of absolutely stunning Miyamotos in the Waterwheel design, worth a solid 250K.
The woman also sported a simple diamond ring, which Maggie was happy to see was not on her engagement finger. She knew Reese slightly from his attendance at all Mac's parties, and she somehow couldn't imagine him dating an engaged woman. Or, even worse, proposing to one whose voice, now that Maggie could hear her, sounded exactly like fingernails scraping across a blackboard.
Maggie tuned out the sound and focused on the earrings.
The waterwheel effect was beautiful. There was a little diamond-studded hoop at the top of each earring, then white gold chains, also studded with diamonds, fell down like water drops, each ending in one of the stunning pearls for which Miyamoto was justifiably famous.
Her fingers itched to get to her craft table and try something out. What if she reversed the design, putting big faux pearls at the top of the earring, instead of the bottom? Changed up the color, using her favorite velvety purple glass pearl instead of a real one? And what if she created a swirl of tiny beads hanging from the center, instead of platinum chains attached around the outside?
The resulting earrings would be completely different from the Miyamotos. They would have a similar whispering movement every time she turned her head, but they would be crafted from little glass beads in a rainbow of colors, and would be anchored by silky purple faux pearls instead of quite real and quite priceless gems.
If she used sterling silver components to hold them together, they would even match the silver evening gown she was wearing.
Then she deflated. Mac would never let her wear homemade earrings to a party like this. But she could still make them, and maybe wear them when he was out of town. Or she could give them to a friend. They would be fun to create, anyway.
Mac never understood why she didn't just use the Black AmEx card he provided to buy whatever she wanted, instead of creating things from scratch. But maybe that was because he didn't feel as useless as a pretty vase sitting on a shelf, the way she often did.
She smiled to herself. Her earrings would cost less than ten dollars, would be completely different from the ones the girl was wearing, and yet she would love them more than the designer ones. They would be her own creation, something she thought of herself, then brought to life with needle and thread.
"Are you jealous?" the nasally voice said.
Maggie realized she was still staring at the woman's earrings. "Sorry," she replied. "I was just admiring your Miyamotos."
The girl examined Maggie from head to toe, then dismissed her as unimportant. "Too expensive for you, honey. You're too old to get a man to give them to you."
Wow. Great manners on this girl. Maggie bit back a retort. This was a business event, despite all the trappings of a festive party, and she didn't want to cause a scene that could disrupt all the wheeling and dealing her husband was doing here tonight.
Reese strolled up, a glass of orange juice in his hand. He came within earshot just in time to hear Maggie say, "I'm only about a decade older than you. And believe me, kid, those years are gonna go by fast."
"You wear it well," Reese said to her. "I'm so glad you didn't wreck your face with fillers and lip boosters."
She raised an eyebrow at him. "Is that sarcasm because you can see my wrinkles under these lights?"
"No," he said. "It's not. I'm not always sarcastic, you know."
"I didn't know," she replied.
"So where's Big Mac?"
"On an important call. The Chinese distributor for that post-apocalypse film is having some sort of crisis."
He rolled his eyes. "Aren't they always?"
The girl on his arm whined, clearly not happy that he was talking to a thirty-something brunette whose hips were larger than her waist. She whispered something to him, the last part of which sounded like "liposuction."
Reese smirked, and then, with the sweet smile that had broken a million hearts onscreen, said, "I forgot to introduce you. This is Maggie McJasper, your hostess."
His date went pale under her spray-on tan. "I'm so happy to meet you," she said swiftly.
"I'm sure you are," Maggie said. "And your name is…?"
"Oh, sorry," Reese said. "This is…."
Then he stopped. He turned to the woman clutching his arm, and with a quizzical expression, asked innocently, "what was your name?"
"Felicia Dalton," she said.
"Right," he said blandly. He turned back to Maggie and winked. "Maggie, this is Telisha Malton."
"It's nice to meet you," she said. "Excuse me while I check on my guests."
She left them there. She knew Felicia would forgive Reese. It would be hard not to, with those chiseled features and the cobalt blue eyes that were his trademark.
But even if he'd been downright ugly, no ambitious actress would dare to be offended by Reese Stevens. He was her ticket to this party, and so anything he said would be forgiven.
She often got the impression he pushed the limits of people's tolerance of him just to see how fake they were. Most were fake. Most everyone at this party was. She'd seen it herself. She was a beloved part of this little insular community, just as long as she was married to Big Mac McJasper. If she ever left him (and let's just say the bloom was off that particular rose), she too would find out who was only faking friendship pretty quickly.
She scanned the room. It hadn't been that long ago when Mac would have been right by her side, proud and happy, attentive and loving. But she had felt him drifting away for a while now. She'd even suggested the couples therapy that Nora swore had saved her marriage. He had put her off with a distracted, "maybe after the first of the year."
Their tenth anniversary was coming up after the first of the year. It was hard to believe that was possible. Where had the time gone?
She wandered out onto the patio.
She stood out there for a long time, working up the nerve to go back and face the party.
"Champagne?"
She turned around to see Reese offering her a crystal flute.
She smiled. "You don't need to give me your champagne."
"Yes, I do." He held it out to her, and she took it. "Some idiot stuck it in my hand and I need to dump it before a paparazzo with a telephoto lens gets the money shot of me drinking."
"Of course." His hard-won sobriety was part of his fame. And more importantly, he couldn't get film roles without artist liability insurance, and that meant proving he was staying sober.
She took a sip. "It's gone flat."
She set it on the rim of a potted plant. "I'd actually rather have a cup of coffee."
"Me, too," he said. "I've been guzzling orange juice. I'm sick of sparkling water. Why can't these parties ever have enough non-booze options?"
"Sorry," she said. "I'll talk to the caterer about it before next time."
"Don't worry. I'm just whining. It's a great party."
"Sure," she said.
"I can think of worse places to spend tonight," he said.
"I'm sure you can."
The moon shone down on them on this clear evening, making the pool glimmer like diamonds.
"Gorgeous, isn't it?" she said.
"Yeah. I'm sure Big Mac paid NASA a bonus to get the moonlight just right."
She laughed.
They both stared at the rusting iron wave sculpture that towered over the pool like a deranged vulture.
"No offense, Maggie, but that thing is just plain ugly."
"It's famous. Or something. It came with the house and now I can't figure out how to get rid of it without offending the art world."
They listened to it rattle in the breeze.
"Hey," he said softly. "About what I said back there—I'm sorry if my fillers comment was rude."
"Don't worry about it."
"I was just mad at Felicia and it came out wrong."
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