Midnight Mysteries: Nine Cozy Tales by Nine Bestselling Authors

by Ritter Ames

  Despite handling the wooden box this morning she’d not received her usual energy boost from it; more likely it was sheer mental overload from the thousand bits of information coming her way during the interrogation and evidence collection at Beau’s office. Even after she’d left to go home, her husband had paperwork to finish, the deputies were cataloging evidence, and the crime scene techs were going through Amy Pritchard’s car with bright lights, tweezers and magnifying glasses. She wasn’t sure how he handled the intensity of law enforcement—owning a very busy bakery felt mild by comparison.

  A familiar Land Rover pulled into the parking lot, catching her attention. Rupert parked in front of Mysterious Happenings and walked into the bookshop with a wrapped gift in hand. Perhaps he’d taken pity on Ivan, who continued to bemoan the fact business had dropped off since Halloween night and news of the murder. Maybe she could help boost her neighbor’s spirits too.

  Sam set her cup down and stepped behind her display case of pastries. She chose a half-dozen of the prettiest cookies and most popular scones and muffins, placing the assortment into one of her purple bakery boxes and tying a bow around it.

  To all outward appearances the bookshop was returned to its former self. With furniture back in place, shelves dusted and attractively arranged and the two cats happily asleep on one of the forest green wingback chairs, the events of the past weekend melted away and the store welcomed all who entered.

  Sam placed the bakery box on the counter near where Alex chatted with Rupert. “Ivan’s just in the back,” Alex said when she noticed a second gift. “I’ll go get him.”

  Sam turned to Rupert once the store assistant had left. “So, all’s well?”

  “It was incredibly generous of Beau to give the spell book back to me before his case has actually gone to trial.” He held up the wrapped package and Sam guessed the book was inside.

  “There may not be a trial. Amy basically confessed on tape. It’s going to depend on what her attorney advises. Even so, the murder charge will put her farther away than the theft of a book.” Sam acknowledge the package. “You’re giving it away? If it turns out to be worth something, it’s a very generous gift.”

  “It’s an item I don’t need anymore. I’ve lost my yearning to write a story about witchcraft. I think the book can do more good for someone else.”

  “You think Ivan will want it?” Sam could hear the skepticism in her own voice.

  “We’ll see.”

  Movement at the front door caught their attention. Kelly and Riki came in together. Outside, Sam saw Zoë getting out of her car.

  “Who’s watching Puppy Chic?” Sam asked Riki.

  “We put the Closed sign out for a few minutes. My first appointment isn’t for another half hour,” Riki said. “I have a little surprise for Ivan. Where is he?”

  Zoë joined the group, giving Sam a hug and assuring them she was feeling much better since the weekend. From the wink that passed between them, Sam got the idea Kelly had invited Zoë to what was turning into an impromptu little party.

  Voices came from the back, Alex coaxing her boss to come out. When he saw the bakery box and the group his face lit up.

  “Is good to be seeing friends,” he said, reaching out to touch hands here and there.

  Rupert held out his gift.

  Ivan took it tentatively and tore off the book-themed wrapping paper. His face paled. “You have received it back?”

  “Let me say something before you decide whether you want it. I know this volume has unpleasant memories and it’s not my intention to give you something to cause pain.” Rupert reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. “Think of this as that game show on TV, the one where you may choose the gift you know or take the unknown behind the curtain. Except what’s behind the curtain this time is in this envelope, and I will allow you to look at it before you must decide.”

  Everyone crowded around, eager to see what Rupert’s mysterious game would turn into.

  Ivan lifted the flap on the envelope and peered inside. Sam could see it contained cash.

  “It’s ten thousand dollars,” Rupert said. “I contacted a friend of mine who is a dealer in rare books. With some detailed video footage of this book, he offered this sum. I want you to have it, Ivan, to get your store back on its feet and just because. I’m sorry my play ultimately caused such anguish. You may either accept the cash, in which case I will send the book to my friend, or you may keep the book and see if you can receive a better price by selling it yourself. The choice is yours.” He set the envelope on the counter beside the book.

  Ivan’s lower lip quivered. He stared at the gift for a moment then threw his arms around Rupert’s substantial middle. “Thanking you, dear friend! I thank you! Your friend is welcome to have the book and be selling it for big price.”

  Rupert smiled and lifted the smaller man off his feet for a second. Sam and the girls gathered around to congratulate and hug Ivan.

  “I have a little surprise for you as well,” Riki said, backing away and wiping her eyes. “Chocoholics Unanimous is revived. I have spoken with several people in recent days who would love to become members of our group. You know we have a little reputation, don’t you? The book club for people who love mysteries and chocolates—everyone wants in. Confidentially, I believe Sam’s pastries are the big selling point, although I’ve told them all that holding meetings at Ivan’s store and purchasing the books from him is a requirement.”

  “It was Amy Pritchard who insisted the Chocoholics limit the size of the group,” Kelly said. “I wanted to join a long time ago.”

  “Is wonderful news!” Ivan said, glowing as he put his envelope of cash away under the register. “And I have way to celebrate for us. Wait here.”

  As if anyone would immediately leave.

  He returned with a bottle of champagne, which he held up. “Was here for party. No one opened.”

  Alex came up with some small plastic flutes and Rupert did the honors of opening the bottle.

  “To my good friends,” Ivan said, raising his glass.

  They all toasted.

  Something had been weighing on Sam since the previous day. After her first sip of champagne she spoke up. “Amy Pritchard said something yesterday in the midst of a rant, something that made me realize the differences in people. She was so concerned with appearances, consumed with the idea she and Alan should be together because they looked good as a pair, not because they cared for each other or were happy together. It was sad to hear those sentiments.”

  Nods from the others.

  “So, in addition to Ivan’s toast, I would like to thank each of you for being my friend, to let you know you are an important part of my life.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Rupert. He lowered his voice. “Truthfully, I will be glad to see this book go elsewhere in the world. Before I thought of contributing its value to a friend, I had considered hosting a large bonfire for it. But this is so much better. People are always more important than things.”

  So true. These people meant the world to her. Sam swallowed hard, blinked back the moistness in her eyes, and cleared her throat. “Let’s eat those cookies!”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Thanks for reading Spellbound Sweets to the end. By now you’ve figured out that I love everything about bakeries. Check out my Pinterest boards, including “Cakes That Inspired Me” to see pictures of the cakes I’ve used for inspiration in my books. The goodies continue in all my Samantha Sweet mysteries, where you will find out how and when Sam received that magical wooden box, and how she and Beau got together. I invite you to visit my website at connieshelton.com where you’ll find some of my favorite New Mexico recipes and discover how to get three more of my books for FREE, including Sweet Masterpiece, the book that launched this series!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Connie Shelton is the author of the USA Today bestselling Charlie Parker and Samantha Sweet mysteries. She's known for a light touch when it comes to sex and viole
nce in her stories, but is much more lavish with food and chocolate. She and her husband and two dogs live in northern New Mexico. Visit her website and sign up for her newsletter at connieshelton.com and get her free mystery newsletter.

  * * *

  Books by Connie Shelton

  THE CHARLIE PARKER SERIES

  Deadly Gamble

  Vacations Can Be Murder

  Partnerships Can Be Murder

  Small Towns Can Be Murder

  Memories Can Be Murder

  Honeymoons Can Be Murder

  Reunions Can Be Murder

  Competition Can Be Murder

  Balloons Can Be Murder

  Obsessions Can Be Murder

  Gossip Can Be Murder

  Stardom Can Be Murder

  Phantoms Can Be Murder

  Buried Secrets Can Be Murder

  Legends Can Be Murder

  Weddings Can Be Murder

  Holidays Can Be Murder - a Christmas novella

  THE SAMANTHA SWEET SERIES

  Sweet Masterpiece

  Sweet’s Sweets

  Sweet Holidays

  Sweet Hearts

  Bitter Sweet

  Sweets Galore

  Sweets Begorra

  Sweet Payback

  Sweet Somethings

  Sweets Forgotten

  Spooky Sweet (coming October, 2016)

  The Woodcarver’s Secret – prequel to the series

  Contents

  Lella York has a way of getting herself into trouble, even when she’s doing volunteer work. Who is the mysterious storyteller, and what is going on at the senior living center? And will Lella find out before it’s too late?

  WEEPING MOON

  A short story in the Lella York Mysteries series

  By Maria Grazia Swan

  A RIBBON OF light split the darkness, and in the silent room the creaking of the opening door resonated like thunder. Then she appeared. A white ethereal figure caught in the slice of brightness, she moved swiftly and gracefully across the makeshift stage a few feet above the floor.

  I had lingering misgivings about the presentation, but having given into Sabrina’s insistence I found myself sitting on the front row of this small, almost intimate space that served as the assisted living multi-activity room. Layers of sheer fabric floated around the performer as she stepped around in a dance-like sequence more reminiscent of junior high contortions than Salome’s dance of the seven veils. As the light grew brighter, two things became quite apparent—her costume could have used a good dry cleaner, and the performer was closer to the age of the facility residents than of Salome of the seven veils fame. I sighed, not too loudly, having been warned about the spectators’ rather vocal way of expressing their annoyance toward interruptions.

  The Opera House this was not. Even the musical number in the background supposedly came from the performer’s phone connected to a wireless speaker. And I was at least a hundred times bitchier than usual. Blame that on Larry—his absence to be precise.

  With the warm-up moves out of the way, Miss Dolores plopped herself in the comfy-looking armchair next to a floor lamp at center stage. She picked up a rather thick book from the floor and settled down to read. Sabrina had told me we would be treated to a mesmerizing storyteller, so I didn’t quite get the rather worn-out attire or the reason for the dance, unless she was about to read…erotica? I smiled at the thought and turned to survey the audience. Erotica? At this upscale senior assisted living, finally something funny? Behind Sabrina and me in the front row, there were three more rows of people. Some on regular foldout chairs with the odd walker set beside them, and a few who were relegated to wheelchairs. Personnel had posted themselves at strategic points around the room. All in all, it was a well-organized and well-attended event. There was even a small refreshments table and some trays filled with bite-size cookies, pitchers of lemonade and what looked like tea. A nice young man with a bow tie and vest manned the goodies.

  Miss Dolores began to read, and it didn’t take me long to realize she wasn’t reading. Although the worn-out book sat open on her lap, she was obviously telling her story either by memory or making it up as she went. It didn’t matter. Her voice, so silky sweet, could have read a laundry list and kept us captivated. On the wall behind her a projector showed scenes of green meadows, puffy clouds, and colorful butterflies. Miss Dolores’s tale was about little children and rich ranchers from the past, a glorified version of the Franciscan Friars and the building of the California missions.

  Was that the reason Sabrina had insisted so hard on getting me here? We both volunteered at the San Juan Capistrano Mission. Sabrina was much more involved than I, so much so she received a small salary for her work in the gift shop.

  That little weasel, what was she up to? Why did she drag me here to listen about the Missions?

  Miss Dolores shifted gears as the background screen added some dark skies and low-flying black birds that enhanced her sultry prose. I caught the word Llorona. It sounded so familiar. What story was she telling now? Behind us, the audience grew restless, some chairs scraping the floors. When the performer’s tone rose to a higher pitch, a man’s wheezy voice called out, “Are they having sex yet? Are they?”

  Snickering and more calls for sex could be heard from the back. The lights came on just as an older woman in her bathrobe tried to hit the wheezy man with her cane. She missed and hit the goodies table instead.

  Chaos followed as nurses or aides quickly moved around to calm the residents. The young man with the vest tried to restore some sense, but it was all in vain. The tipping of the table caused the lemonade to spill, and the bite-size cookies rolled around, crumbling and littering the floor. It was sort of funny, sort of sad. The magic (if there ever was any) was now broken as angry spectators turned to name-calling. I didn’t know if I should pretend all was fine or try to help the nurses and aides busy restoring order. Promises of cookies and milk abounded, while some of the patients were wheeled out.

  On the stage the performer didn’t look too happy. She slammed the book shut and pushed back the veil when a piece caught to her moist lips. I felt sorry for her, but it became obvious the show was over.

  “Oh, well. Let’s go say hi to Dolores.” Sabrina stood.

  “You know her?” I asked.

  “Of course I know her. She used to read stories to little kids at some of the libraries around L.A. I’m the one who suggested this place to her.” She grabbed my elbow and pointed me toward the stage where a rather annoyed Miss Dolores was busy packing her props and muttering to herself.

  “Damn. Never fails. There is always some old kook with a one-track mind. No matter how old or how sick, they want sex. Vicariously, of course.”

  We walked past the kid with the goodies, and Sabrina grabbed one of the salvaged cookies.

  “Not sure you want to do that, I rescued it from the floor,” the nice young man said.

  Sabrina shrugged, mumbled something about the five-second rule, and stuffed the thing in her mouth. That’s Sabrina all right.

  She swallowed the cookie and said, “Dolores, this is my friend Lella York. We work together at the Mission.”

  The woman with the veils turned as Sabrina spoke. Up close she looked even older than I’d thought. Under the sheer fabric her wavy hair was mostly grey. Her skin was crinkly, especially around her eyes. I had to say she acted very lively and wired.

  “Hello, Lella.” She held out her hand, palm down, and wrist limp—not completely willing to let go of the drama.

  I shook her hand. “Hello.”

  “Need a ride somewhere?” Sabrina asked.

  “Nah, thanks. Drove my van.”

  “Miss Dolores…” I started. Her amused glance stopped me.

  “Miss Dolores is done performing. But Dolores is listening.” She gave me a half smile.

  I smiled back. “That story you were telling when you were interrupted…Llorona—the word sounds so familiar. I was sort of looking forward to the s
tory.”

  Her laugh erupted spontaneously. “I gather you aren’t from around here.” Her hand moved to encompass a wide range of here.

  “I’m originally from Italy—”

  “Well, that explains it. Every culture has its own La Llorona. Different cultures, different names, same story,” she declared, matter of fact.

  The activity room began to empty; perhaps the residents were headed to their beds. Well, if La Llorona was part of the local folklore, the old folks probably had heard the story many times before—minus the vicarious sex of course.

  “It’s about a beautiful woman who somehow loses her small children. I’m giving you the abridged version. She feels so guilty about the kids’ deaths she commits suicide, but her ghost roams the earth trying to rescue her children. La Llorona translates to Weeping Woman…it’s a Spanish word. A Spanish legend.”

  “Oh, we have something similar where I come from…l’Anguana. Don’t remember much. No dead children, but certainly a river or a creek. I guess you’re right, different cultures, different names, same purpose—to scare little kids.”

  “Or old folks. All in fun; after all Halloween is only days away.”

  “How long are you staying?” Sabrina asked. “Want to go grab a drink and bring me up-to-date?”

  Grab a drink and bring me up-to-date? I wanted to go home. Larry would call soon, and frankly I doubted Sabrina meant to include me in the catch up part, but we’d driven there together. I’d parked my car on the Ralph’s lot off Pacific Highway because of the limited space here at Silver Leaf Manor. What now?

  Like an answer from above, I saw a familiar face. Not necessarily a friendly one. “Hi, Florian, strange to meet you here,” I said to the detective.

  She stopped, frowned. She didn’t remember me? “Florian, it’s me, Lella.” Nothing. I insisted. “Lella York?”

  Her soft sigh told me she got it. “Oh, I thought you were in Arizona with Devin.”