It's Your Party, Die If You Want To

by Vickie Fee

  Also by Vickie Fee

  Death Crashes the Party

  It’s Your Party, Die If You Want To

  Vickie Fee

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Vickie Fee

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Tips for Hosting a Murder Mystery Dinner

  Teaser chapter

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2016 by Vickie Fee

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-0064-3

  First Kensington Mass Market Edition: October 2016

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0065-0

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-0065-1

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: October 2016

  For Daddy Richard Blair and “Mom” Dorothy Fee—gone too soon

  Chapter 1

  I entered Town Square Diner and spotted Morgan Robison, who despite my druthers was meeting me for lunch. My dining companion, a thirtyish blonde with artificially plumped lips, was strategically positioned in a corner booth licking her chops, peering over the top of her menu at a well-built, younger man seated at the counter. If he was typical of Morgan’s usual choice in men, he was also married.

  I was seemingly invisible until I cleared my throat and spoke her name.

  “Liv McKay,” she said, lifting her butt just high enough off the red vinyl seat to give me a limp shoulder hug. “Sit down. I’ve been waiting for ages.”

  “Am I late?” I asked, knowing I wasn’t.

  “No matter. You’re here now, and we have so much to talk about.”

  Morgan is president of the Professional Women’s Alliance of Dixie. The group’s unfortunate acronym is commonly pronounced pee wad. Despite the group’s laughable moniker, the association of women professionals in a male-dominated business landscape had been a big help to me when I launched my party-planning venture three years ago. Fellow members had provided a wealth of practical information on permits and taxes, as well as sent clients my way. Even Morgan, who makes a habit of tap dancing on my last nerve, helped me fill out the paperwork for a loan from the Small Business Administration.

  The waitress brought our orders. I had the homemade turkey potpie. Health-conscious Morgan ordered a spinach salad with vinaigrette on the side.

  Our conversation mostly consisted of Morgan giving me marching orders for PWAD’s annual retreat, set for the coming weekend.

  “You’re just a doll for taking care of this for me, Liv,” Morgan said, answering the buzz of her cell phone as she leapt up from the table and hurried on her way—leaving me with the bill. But I figured picking up the check was a small price to pay for her to go away. Morgan left behind the salad she had taken only a few bites of. I devoured the rest of my potpie before settling the bill.

  I strolled back to the office on the opposite side of the square, from which I operate my party-planning business. The October air was crisp, and the red maples in front of the courthouse dabbed flames against a cloudless sky. Hay bales, gourds, and scarecrows decorated several storefronts.

  Dixie has a quaint town square with a courthouse in the middle and one-way streets on three sides. While big-box stores now dominate the highway, the square is still the heart of our little town. A diner, beauty salon, drugstore, and bakery draw a steady stream of customers each day. The fancy hat shop I remember from my childhood has morphed into a thrift store, and the former grand movie palace is showing its age. But childhood memories of the annual Christmas tree lighting and waiting in line in front of the courthouse to share my secret wishes with Santa mean Dixie’s town square will always hold a special place in my heart. Some days after school when I was little, if Mama didn’t expect to be home by three o’clock, I’d walk to my dad’s insurance office here. A gift shop now occupies that space, but I can still almost smell the Old Spice aftershave of my dearly departed daddy when I walk past.

  Before going up to my office, located above Sweet Deal Realty, I tucked into the real estate office to chat with Winette King, who works there as an agent. The bell on the front door jingled as I entered.

  “How was lunch?” Winette said.

  “I had lunch with Morgan Robison.”

  “You have my condolences,” she said. “I suppose Morgan issued your assigned duties for the retreat. She e-mailed my to-do list.”

  “What’s she dumping on you?” I asked.

  “Cleanup. I’m sure she thinks my people are well suited to cleaning. I probably remind her of the mammy she had as a child.”

  “No, she didn’t,” I said.

  “Oh yes she did.”

  Since Winette is the only active member of PWAD who’s African-American—not to mention that she stands head and shoulders above Morgan in intellect, heart, and moral fiber—it really chapped my hide that Morgan would ask her to do the cleanup. I can’t say, however, that it came as a complete surprise. Morgan was raised with a silver spoon, the only child of one of the wealthiest families in the county. She’s a vice president of Dixie Savings and Loan. Her major qualification for the job is that her daddy owns the bank.

  After standing with my mouth agape for a moment, I said, “I’ll help with the cleaning up.”

  “You bet you will,” Winette said, matter-of-factly.

  “Better yet, if you’d like, I’ll swap jobs with you. Morgan wants me to babysit our guest speaker, Lucinda Grable.”

  “That ghost woman on TV?”

  “Yep.”

  “No, thank you. I’d just as soon hang on to my broom and dustpan,” Winette said.

  Unless you count the lady who won a set of luggage on The Price Is Right, Lucinda Grable is the only celebrity that the town of Dixie, Tennessee, can lay claim to. She hosts a “paranormal reality” series on cable, called P.S. Ghost Encounters. The P stands for psychic and the S stands for scientific. I’m not sure how much of the show qualifies as scientific, or reality, for that matter. But it is entertaining.

  Lucinda provides the psychic e
lement as she senses and sometimes even talks to ghosts. She works with a team of investigators who use infrared cameras and other special equipment to demonstrate that some other worldly phenomena are present.

  “This may be a silly question, but is there any practical or sane reason that we’re having a psychic as the guest speaker at our professional women’s retreat?” Winette asked.

  “Lucinda’s supposed to tell us how she built her local ghost hunting business into a television empire. But she’s also going to try to make contact with ghosts in that little family cemetery down the hill from the lodge. It might be fun, with the retreat being held just before Halloween.”

  “Lord, help us,” Winette said.

  “Okay, I’m headed upstairs. Do you know what Mr. Sweet is up to? I haven’t seen him at all today, or yesterday for that matter.”

  Nathan Sweet is my landlord and the “Sweet” of Sweet Deal Realty.

  “He’s involved in the development of that new shopping center they’re building up on the highway. He spends more time investing in new development these days than he does in selling existing properties,” she said. “The old coot’s probably still got the first dollar he ever made, but he’s busy making more money. You’d think at his age he’d want to retire and enjoy spending some of that legal tender before he kicks the bucket.”

  “Are you kidding? I bet he outlives both of us.”

  “You’re probably right,” Winette said, tossing her head back and letting loose a room-filling laugh.

  Although my office is directly above Sweet Deal Realty, I had to exit through the front door and walk a few steps down the sidewalk to access the stairs that lead up to my office. The street door is topped with a green awning that displays the name of the business, Liv 4 Fun. I had to choose a short business name, since the width of the glass door is the entirety of my street frontage. There’s no restroom upstairs, so my rent includes use of the facilities in the real estate office. Not completely convenient, but the rent’s cheap and the location on the square is primo.

  I had settled in at my desk, caught up on some paperwork, and touched base with a couple of vendors for an upcoming engagement party I was planning when my cell phone rang. I knew from the ringtone that it was my mother, but I answered anyway.

  “Liv, jump in your car and get over here right this minute,” she said in a panicked voice.

  “Mama, what’s happened? Are you okay?”

  I heard some kind of tapping sounds.

  “Oh, dear Lord,” Mama said in a breathy voice before the phone went dead.

  I grabbed my purse and raced down the stairs, hurrying to my car without even taking time to lock the office door.

  My mom lives in a neighborhood just east of the town square, so I was in her driveway within five minutes of backing out of my parking space.

  I rushed in through the kitchen door, which is never locked, and started calling for her. I ran through the house worried I might find her unconscious—or worse.

  I finally found my mama, who stands almost six feet and weighs well over 200 pounds, cowering in the doorway to the back porch, her eyes transfixed. Her one hand was clutching her chest and the other was holding a hoe.

  I grabbed her arm. “Mama, maybe you should sit down,” I said. “Are you having chest pains?”

  “No,” she said in a quiet voice.

  This worried me, since my mama never talks in a quiet voice.

  “I’ll be fine just as soon as you kill that snake over there,” she said as she nodded toward a corner of the porch and shoved the hoe in my direction.

  I took a closer look at the brick floor of the porch and spotted a good-sized snake coiled up near the steps to the backyard.

  “Why in the world did you call me?” I said, feeling more than a little irritated. “Why didn’t you phone Earl?”

  Earl Daniels is Mama’s boyfriend, although she’d never call him that.

  “I tried, but Earl’s out in a field somewhere helping his brother-in-law get soybeans loaded for market,” she said.

  “You’re the one with the hoe,” I said, pushing it back in her direction. “You kill it.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You know I was traumatized as a child when I saw my brother get bit by a snake. The bite ended up leaving a big hole in his leg.”

  She nudged my shoulder and gestured in the direction of the reptile, which had raised its head and was looking our way.

  “But you’ll be fine, hon,” she said. “I don’t think this one’s poisonous.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Pretty sure,” she said. “If you keep an eye on it, I’ll go look up pictures of poisonous snakes in the encyclopedia just to be sure.”

  She was serious.

  “Oh, just give me the freaking hoe,” I said, ready for this to be over.

  I took the garden implement and stepped haltingly toward the hissing creature, which suddenly looked much bigger than before.

  “Hold the hoe out away from you, Liv,” Mama said. “Don’t get too close. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you like it did to Junior.”

  I briefly thought about accidentally hitting her shin with the wooden end of the hoe. But I knew if the snake slithered away into the vegetation and she didn’t know where it had gone, she’d refuse to stay in the house by herself.

  I closed my eyes and slammed the metal edge of the hoe several times against the brick in the vicinity of the snake and then raked it off the side of the porch.

  “Is it dead?” Mama asked from a safe distance.

  “Yeah, it’s dead,” I said, without knowing if it was dead or not.

  Chapter 2

  Even though I hadn’t accomplished as much as I had hoped at the office, I just couldn’t face work after the whole snake-wrangling episode. Dealing with Morgan and Mama was about all the drama I could handle for one day. I pulled up to the building and left the car idling while I locked the front door. I got in the car, but instead of backing out of the space I switched off the engine.

  I decided to leave my car parked in front of the office and walk the eight blocks to my house instead. The weather was perfect—in the seventies with a light breeze—and my fatted calves needed the exercise.

  It wasn’t exactly an aerobic workout, as I kept stopping to chat with people along the way. One of the perks—or problems, depending on how you look at it—of small-town life.

  Deputy Ted Horton emerged from the sheriff’s office just as I stepped onto the sidewalk in front of it.

  “Evenin’, Ms. McKay,” Ted said with a courteous nod.

  Ted’s a nice guy and thoroughly dedicated to his work, but he got slighted a bit in the looks department, mostly on account of an overly long, skinny neck and weak chin. Although he does have a nice smile thanks to the braces he wore as a kid.

  “Evening, Ted. Are you heading home or out to keep the peace?”

  “Neither, I guess—unless a fight breaks out at the diner,” he said with a broad smile. “I’m going to grab some supper, then come back to finish up some paperwork.”

  “Things could get rowdy if Mabel runs out of pie,” I said, referring to the diner’s owner, Mabel Cross, whose pies have been known to incite tussles as customers vie for the last piece.

  “I might have to arrest her for disturbing the peace if she runs out of pie—especially if she runs out before I’ve had a slice.”

  “’Night, Ted,” I said. “Try not to work too late.”

  I had made it about a block before Nell Tucker hollered at me from the doorway of Dixie Dolls Hair Salon.

  “Hey, Liv, is it true Lucinda Grable is coming to our PWAD retreat?

  “It’s true,” I said. “I’m supposed to pick her up at the airport.”

  “Well, ain’t that something. That’s what I’d heard through the grapevine, but I don’t put much stock in gossip. See you this weekend,” the hairstylist said before ducking back into the beauty shop.

 
It was a triumph of self-control that I didn’t burst out laughing when Nell said she didn’t put much stock in gossip, since she spreads rumors thicker than jam on biscuits.

  Leaves crunched underfoot as I strolled through my neighborhood. Neighbors raking leaves and checking mailboxes waved as I walked by.

  As I rounded the corner onto Elm Street, about half a block from home, a noisy, old Buick pulled up alongside me and the driver asked, “You need a ride?”

  “I think I can make it from here. Thanks.”

  “All right, I’ll meet you there,” she said, hitting the gas pedal and speeding ahead before whipping into my driveway.

  Our house is a grand old Victorian lady, although she’s showing her age. If you squint and don’t look too closely at the peeling paint or crumbling chimney, you can get a glimpse of her former glory, which my husband and I hope to restore—possibly even in my lifetime.

  When I walked up to the house a couple of minutes later, Di was leaning against the trunk of her car, flipping through a magazine.

  “This was in your mailbox,” she said, handing it to me, along with a couple of envelopes.

  “Isn’t it a federal crime to tamper with other people’s mail?”

  “I just deliver it,” she said, which is literally true. My best friend, Diane Souther, is a mail carrier who covers a walking route in Dixie. In fact, she was still wearing her uniform, which let me know she hadn’t been home yet.

  “Come on in. I’ll treat you to the beverage of your choice.”

  “Rum?”

  “Help yourself.”

  “Naw, I think I’ll stick with iced tea for now.”

  I poured us each a glass of sweet tea over ice.

  “Let’s sit on the patio,” I said, and Di trailed me through the garage to the backyard. My husband and I had the kitchen of our old house remodeled before we moved in a little more than two years ago. Most of the rest of the interior was in a state of disarray due to the never-ending remodeling, which Larry Joe insists on doing himself. The living room was basically the staging area for other projects.