THE SOUND OF MURDER
Page 1
Praise for the Ivy Meadows Mystery Series
THE SOUND OF MURDER (#2)
“The setting is irresistible, the mystery is twisty, and Ivy is as beguiling as ever, but what I really loved was the depth and complexity of painful human relationships right there in the middle of a sparkly caper. Roll on Ivy #3!”
– Catriona McPherson,
Anthony and Agatha Award-Winning Author of The Day She Died
“It is not easy to combine humor and murder, but Cindy Brown does it effortlessly. Who else would think of combining The Sound of Music with Cabaret with a serial killer? The result is such fun.”
– Rhys Bowen,
New York Times Bestselling Author of Malice at the Palace
“The author blends theater lore with a deeper psychological layer, and always on stage is her delightful sense of humor. The concept of a mash-up of The Sound of Music and Cabaret is as brilliant as it is ripe for absurdity, and readers will thoroughly enjoy this extremely fun mystery that entertains until the final curtain call.”
– Kings River Life Magazine
“The mystery kept me glued to the pages and I enjoyed all facets as each clue got me closer to the killer’s identity…had me roaring with laughter…A delightful read and I can’t wait to see what happens next in this amusingly entertaining series.”
– Dru’s Book Musings
“Brown’s books are well-designed cotton candy, page turners sprinkled with genuine character-based humor and delightfully bad jokes. I greatly enjoyed both Macdeath and The Sound of Murder, and I look forward to the next one.” – Show Showdown
MACDEATH (#1)
“This gut-splitting mystery is a hilarious riff on an avant-garde production of ‘the Scottish play’...Combining humor and pathos can be risky in a whodunit, but gifted author Brown makes it work.”
– Mystery Scene Magazine
“An easy read that will have you hooked from the first page...Brown uses what she knows from the theater life to give us an exciting mystery with all the suspense that keeps you holding on.”
– Fresh Fiction
“A whodunit with a comic spirit, and Ivy Meadows has real heart. You’ll never experience the Scottish play the same way again.”
– Ian Doescher,
Author of the William Shakespeare’s Star Wars Series
“Funny and unexpectedly poignant, Macdeath is that rarest of creatures: a mystery that will make you laugh out loud. I loved it!”
– April Henry,
New York Times Bestselling Author
“Vivid characters, a wacky circus production of Macbeth, and a plot full of surprises make this a perfect read for a quiet evening. Pour a glass of wine, put your feet up, and enjoy! Bonus: it’s really funny.”
– Ann Littlewood,
Award-Winning Author of the Iris Oakley “Zoo-dunnit” Mysteries
“This gripping mystery is both satisfyingly clever and rich with unerring comedic timing. Without a doubt, Macdeath is one of the most entertaining debuts I’ve read in a very long time.”
— Bill Cameron,
Spotted Owl Award-Winning Author of County Line
Books in the Ivy Meadows Mystery Series
by Cindy Brown
MACDEATH (#1)
THE SOUND OF MURDER (#2)
OLIVER TWISTED (#3)
(Summer 2016)
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Copyright
THE SOUND OF MURDER
An Ivy Meadows Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition
Digital epub edition | October 2015
Henery Press
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2015 by Cindy Brown
Cover art by Stephanie Chontos
Author Photograph by AJC Photography
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Related subjects include: cozy mysteries, women sleuths, murder mystery series, whodunit mysteries (whodunnit), humorous murder mysteries, book club recommendations, private investigator mystery series, amateur sleuth books.
ISBN-13: 978-1-943390-02-1
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For my favorite posse members,
Mom and Dad
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The idea for this book began with my dad, when he told me about an unusual day at the Sun City West posse. Dad’s also the catalyst behind my love of mysteries, having introduced me to John D. MacDonald many years ago. My mom also encouraged my love of reading, and has been an enormous help with research. Best of all, they’ve both given me lots of love and support.
I’ve had a lot of support from others too, and would like to thank:
Everyone at Henery Press, especially: Art, for helping me navigate my new author world; Stephanie Chontos for the incredible cover art; Kendel and Anna and Erin for great editorial advice delivered in a positive, encouraging manner; and the Hen House authors, the most welcoming group I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.
The people who helped me get the details right: Sterling Gavette of the Arizona Department of Insurance; Shelly Jamison of the Phoenix Fire Department; D.P. Lyle; the crimescenewriter listserv; and Roger I. Ideishi, JD, OT/L, FAOTA, Associate Professor, Dept. of Rehabilitation Sciences, Temple University. I’d like to give a special shout-out to John Hopper, Director of Investigative Services at JB National Investigations. I called him up out of the blue when I needed to talk to an Arizona PI. He’s been gracious and informative, and patient with all of my questions. Any mistakes are my own.
Bill Cameron, for telling me about his fire-prone VW, and the great guys at Metro Car Care in Portland, OR, for discussing the finer points of car fires with me.
My early readers and writing friends, including Lisa Alber, Delia Booth, Jennie Bricker, Jane Carlsen, Judy Hricko, Bernice Johnston, Ruth Maionchi, Janice Maxson, Shauna Petchel, Donna Reynolds, Rae Richen, and Angela M. Sanders.
The good folks of Oregon Writers Colony, who are unfailingly supportive of me.
Fellow author Shannon Baker, for offering me time and space to finish my edits at her beautiful Arizona writers’ retreat.
My friends who’ve helped me with the promotion pieces of the puzzle: Bruce Cantwell, Pam Harrison, John Kohlepp, Lindsay Nyre, Anthony Petchel, Orit Kramer, and Tricia Serlin.
Holly Franko, writer, editor, and friend. This book (and life in general) would not be as good without her.
Hal, always.
I can’t thank you all enough.
CHAPTER 1
I should never do anything pre-coffee.
“It was only a teeny fire,” I told my uncle over the phone. I sat outside on the steps of my apartment complex, watching the Phoenix Fire Department carry equipment out of my se
cond-floor apartment. Black smoke trailed behind them. The air smelled awful, like the time I’d fallen asleep in front of a campfire and melted the bottom of my sneakers. Except this smelled like an entire Nike factory.
“Teeny fire?” Uncle Bob said. “Isn’t that an oxymoron or something?”
“Nah,” I said. “That’s firefighter language for no one got hurt. Right?” I asked an especially cute guy carrying a heavy-looking hose.
“Yep,” he said over his shoulder as he passed me. “Teeny. No one hurt.”
I smiled at him again and watched him descend the stairs. On the back of his firefighter’s helmet was a sticker that said, “Be Nice.”
“Olive,” said my uncle with a sigh. “Stop flirting with firemen and tell me what happened.”
“I’m not entirely sure.” I was not a morning person. “I got up early to go to that meeting you put on my calendar.”
Since acting didn’t always pay the bills (okay, rarely paid the bills), I worked part-time at my uncle’s private investigation business. Right now I was mostly filing and writing reports, but Uncle Bob promised he was going to give me some real detective work soon.
“You got up early?” I could hear the skepticism in my uncle’s voice. “What time?”
“Eight.” There was a pause on the other end. “Ish,” I finished.
“To go to this meeting that starts in…” I could almost see him squint at the old clock on the office wall. “Twenty minutes?”
“Uh huh.”
“Right. Go on.”
“I put the kettle on the stove.” When my old coffeemaker bit the dust, I had replaced it with a French press, a much better fit for my minuscule galley kitchen. “Then I got in the shower.”
Another pause. Then, “You usually do that? Turn on the stove and get in the shower?”
“Sometimes. Then when I get out, the kettle’s boiling and I make coffee. No waiting.” Not only was I not a morning person, I was not a patient person. Especially in the morning. “Since the water was running, I didn’t hear the smoke alarm.”
“That’s why you didn’t hear the alarm? You were in the shower?” said the cute fireman, who was going back up the stairs. I nodded, though it did seem sort of obvious. I was wearing only a towel.
“So you turned on a gas stove, left the room, and put yourself in a situation where you couldn’t see or smell smoke or hear an alarm,” said Uncle Bob. I could tell he was trying to make a point. “And what happened when you got out of the shower?”
“The apartment was full of black smoke. Really nasty. I could taste it.” I scraped the top of my tongue with my front teeth. I knew I probably looked like a dog that just ate peanut butter, but I really wanted the greasy bitter smoke taste out of my mouth.
“Here,” the cute fireman came back and sat down next to me on the stairs, pulling a Day-Glo green bottle of Gatorade from a pocket in his voluminous fireman’s coat. “Helps with that awful taste,” he said, opening the bottle for me. Not only was he chivalrous, he was even better looking up close, with light brown eyes and the longest lashes I’d ever seen. I was wowed and envious at the same time.
“Thanks.” I hiked up my towel, grateful I’d sprung for the large bath sheet. I twisted open the Gatorade. It was lukewarm, but it did make my mouth taste better. Like pleasant, lemony-limey smoke. The fireman shrugged out of his heavy firefighter’s coat. The t-shirt he wore underneath showed off strong muscled arms. I tried not to stare.
“Olive?” Uncle Bob was still on the line. “Was it really a teeny fire?”
I looked at the big fire truck and the half dozen firefighters going in and out of my apartment. “Yeah,” I replied, sticking with my definition of “no one got hurt.”
“Good. I want you at this meeting. Can you make it?”
“I think I need to talk to the firefighters now.”
The fireman, whose name was Jeremy (it was stenciled on his t-shirt), nodded.
“I’ll be there,” I said. “A little late, but I’ll make it.”
“Glad you’re all right. See you soon.”
Uncle Bob hung up, which was good because I was having a hard time holding my cellphone, the Gatorade, and my towel, which I thought I’d secured pretty well. I was in an awkward position. The stairs outside my apartment were shallow, which was nice for carrying groceries, but not for sitting in a ladylike position wearing a towel and nothing underneath. I made sure to keep my legs together.
Jeremy smiled at me. He had dimples.
“Is this,” I held up the Gatorade, “part of ‘Be Nice?’”
“Sort of,” he said. “It’s part of the Phoenix Fire Department motto.”
I tried to figure out what Gatorade had to do with fires. I figured it wasn’t flammable, but that seemed like a stretch.
“‘Prevent Harm, Survive, Be Nice.’ The Phoenix Fire Department motto,” he explained. “Now, Miss…”
“Meadows,” I said brightly, “but you can call me Ivy.” The green Astroturf covering the stairs tickled my hiney. I tried not to think about it.
“Ivy Meadows?” The smile stayed on his face but his eyes narrowed a fraction.
“That’s my stage name.” Not sure if it was the good-looking fireman or the lack of coffee, but I wasn’t at my sharpest. “My legal name is Olive Ziegwart.”
Jeremy laughed, one of those snort laughs that can make milk come out your nose if you’re not careful. I didn’t laugh.
“Really,” I said. “That’s why I changed it.”
He looked properly chastened. “How do you spell that?”
“It’s ‘Olive’ like in a martini,” I said. “And Ziegwart is spelled Z-I-E-G…wart.”
Another snort laugh escaped his lips. I laughed with him. I was trying for that one.
Two other firemen came out of my apartment and began the trek downstairs. Sweat trickled down their faces, courtesy of the eighty-degree spring morning. One of them, an older guy with a big gray mustache, punched Jeremy good-naturedly on the shoulder as he passed. “Watch out for this one,” he said to me. “He’s crazy about blondes.”
I smiled and nodded, glad my roots weren’t showing.
My phone chimed. A text from Uncle Bob: “Client here early.”
“Any chance I could make a meeting pretty soon?” I asked Jeremy.
“I only have a few questions. But you might want to get dressed too.”
There was that. I wondered if all my clothes smelled like burnt Nikes.
“So I overheard what you said on the phone about turning on the stove. We know the fire started there. Maybe you turned on the wrong burner? One that had something lying across it?”
“Maybe.” I wasn’t sure. That was before coffee and a shower.
“After that I’m guessing the grease trap in the vent caught fire,” said Jeremy. “When was the last time you’d cleaned it?”
“A while back,” I said, fidgeting. Boy, that Astroturf was tickly.
“Well, the rest is history,” said Jeremy. “And so is your kitchen.”
“Really?” I hadn’t thought it was that serious.
My phone chimed again: “ETA?”
“And you’ve got a lot of smoke damage to the rest of the place,” Jeremy continued. “Have you called your land—”
He didn’t need to finish. Mae the manager stormed up the stairs dragging her little poodle on a leash behind her.
“Olive, what the hell? I take Sugar out for a walk and when I come back you’ve burned the place down. This is the last straw.”
To be honest, there had been a few other straws. Like the time I overfilled the communal washing machine with detergent. Who knew it could make so many bubbles?
“You’re out,” said Mae, her gray head bobbing with each word. “Your lease is terminated as of now.”
“I believe that’s ille
gal,” said Jeremy.
Mae finally noticed the large, handsome fireman right next to me. “Oh. Right. Just kidding.” She waved the air around her like it could blow away her words.
Another text from my uncle: “Olive?”
“Also,” continued Jeremy, “although we’re not sure what started the fire,” he slid a glance at me, “we did notice that the wiring in the apartment isn’t up to code.”
Mae had an ear cocked toward Jeremy, but she was glaring at me. “Really,” she said as she turned and stomped down the stairs, pulling Sugar along like a wheelie toy. “Send me the report.” She stalked into her apartment at the bottom of the stairs and slammed the door.
“Thanks,” I said to Jeremy. “I’m not crazy about Mae, but I do love my apartment.”
It was just off Central Avenue, cheap and cute in a kitschy way. Built in the 1940s, the two-story complex had the same layout as the motels we used to stay in on road trips, U-shaped with a swimming pool in the middle. The pool deck was covered in the same patchy green Astroturf as the stairs, and all of it harbored an icky drought-proof mold.
Uh-oh. A thought was beginning to percolate in my coffee-less brain. Astroturf…mold…
“You okay?” said Jeremy.
“Sure,” I said. “Thanks again for the Gatorade.”
Astroturf…mold…tickling…why was the Astroturf tickling me if I was sitting on my towel? Yikes! My bare ass was sitting on the skuzzy fake grass. I jumped up, trying to grab the railing while holding my towel in one hand and my Gatorade in the other. One of them had to go. I instinctively tossed the drink to Jeremy. The cap-less drink.