To Bead or Not to Bead, Glass Bead Mystery Series, Book 4

by Janice Peacock

  TO BEAD OR NOT TO BEAD

  A Glass Bead Mystery

  Janice Peacock

  Vetrai Press

  Lafayette, California

  2018

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Books by Janice Peacock

  Praise for To Bead or Not to Bead

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Acknowledgments and Notes from the Author

  About the Author

  Connect with Janice Peacock

  More Books in the Glass Bead Mystery Series

  Books by Janice Peacock

  High Strung, Glass Bead Mystery Series, Book One

  A Bead in the Hand, Glass Bead Mystery Series, Book Two

  Off the Beadin' Path, Glass Bead Mystery Series, Book Three

  To Bead or Not to Bead, Glass Bead Mystery Series, Book Four

  Be Still My Beading Heart, A Glass Bead Mini-Mystery

  Praise for To Bead or Not to Bead

  “Janice Peacock brings down the house with her latest novel, To Bead or Not to Bead. Once again, the spotlight follows amateur sleuth Jax O’Connell as she tries to save the local community theater and solve a murder before the final curtain call. “Breaking a leg” is the least of her worries in this fun and intriguing story. The Bard would be proud!”

  —D.J. Lutz, author of The Apple Pie Alibi, a Culinary Mystery

  “Another bead-azzling mystery! Follow Jax and her friends as they uncover a dramatic murder that will leave you guessing until the very end.”

  —J.J. Chow, author of the Winston Wong Cozy Mysteries

  “With To Bead or Not to Bead, Janice Peacock has crafted another gem in her Glass Bead Mystery series, with humor, quirky characters and a twisty plot. A fun cozy read.”

  —Vickie Fee, author of Liv and Di in Dixie mystery series

  “Ms. Peacock continues to grow into the difficult role of writing a lasting and engaging cozy series. In her latest, To Bead or Not to Bead, we are drawn into the world of the theatre, where she highlights her gift of spinning an engrossing story.”

  —Heather Haven, multi-award winning author of the Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries

  “A fun, fast-paced cozy with twists and turns galore! Jax O’Connell is a tenacious amateur sleuth with just the right amount of spunk. Her latest adventure is an action-packed mystery that will keep you guessing until the end.”

  —Marla Cooper, author of the Kelsey McKenna Destination Wedding Mysteries

  Copyright 2018 Janice Peacock

  Vetrai Press

  www.janicepeacock.com

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Edited by Ellen Margulies

  Cover design by Janice Peacock

  Original cover concept by Greg Simanson

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  ISBN (EPUB): 978-0-9984819-5-1

  For Kiera

  ONE

  Frankie Lawton stood in the middle of the stage screaming at his volunteers. Dressed in a scarlet suit, with a shock of white hair on his head, he reminded me of Santa—except for his attitude, which was somewhere between bossy and shrill—definitely not jolly. The only thing he was missing was a white beard; the only thing I wished he was missing was his bright red bullhorn.

  “You, over there! That column needs to be downstage left,” Frankie shouted. “And you! Yes, you! Do not let that fall over—it’s fragile for chrissake!” This time he was yelling at me, and I didn’t like it one bit.

  “I’m doing the best I can! This thing is heavy,” I said, mostly to myself, setting down a faux marble column near the front of the stage. Tessa, who was assigned the unglamorous job of using the push broom, swept up next to me.

  “When we said we’d volunteer for this event, I didn’t think that meant we’d be doing all this manual labor. I thought we’d be helping the models get ready for their spin on the runway,” she said.

  “It was your idea to volunteer, so I don’t want to hear it,” I said, wiping a trickle of sweat from my forehead.

  Tessa, my best friend since kindergarten, had roped me into helping at the inaugural auction and fashion show fundraiser for the Homeless Advocacy Team, also known as HAT, a nonprofit that helped teens and young adults find jobs and permanent shelter. When she asked me to help, I knew I had to say yes. One thing I’d learned in all of my years of knowing Tessa: I couldn’t tell her no, and neither could anyone else.

  The gala was sponsored in part by the high school Tessa’s daughters attended. Her girls, Izzy and Ashley, had volunteered to be models in the fashion show and would be wearing clothes supplied by local boutiques. While Tessa was tiny, her girls had inherited their height from their father. Both were tall with long legs, looking nearly coltish as they walked around the stage. In addition to the outfits, the girls would be wearing necklaces designed by Frankie Lawton, a world-renowned jewelry designer. I’d first met Frankie last spring at the grand opening of Aztec Beads, our local bead shop. At the time, he’d placed a huge order for my handmade glass beads, and that had helped launch my career as a professional artist.

  Frankie Lawton had been assigned the role of Master of Ceremonies, but so far he seemed to be acting more like Master of the Universe. He was the closest thing we had to a local celebrity, given that he’d rubbed elbows with the likes of Elton John and Hillary Clinton, creating gorgeous and often oversized jewelry that coordinated with their fashionable pantsuits. He would be an entertaining host for the event, but I didn’t like his attitude as we prepared.

  Today was our first day of rehearsal for the event, which was taking place in just a few days at the Chanticleer Theater in downtown Seattle, Washington. The theater had once been exquisite. Gilt panels with curlicued corners festooned each wall. Crystal lighting fixtures adorned the high ceiling, although some had been replaced or masked by less beautiful, but more practical, equipment meant to light the stage during the community theater plays that the Chanticleer now presented. The venue was impressive, even though it was showing signs of age, with 300 elegantly faded red velvet seats arching away from the curved front of the stage.

  While we were there to produce a fashion show and auction, the stage was also being used for something much more dramatic—a production of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. The play’s set was a 1980s-era rock star ma
nsion, complete with neon-colored furniture, gold records lining the walls, and a little too much animal print to be tasteful. My neighbor Val would have loved it, since she had a penchant for faux zebra. Recently, several theater companies had resorted to modern reboots of classics to pull in crowds. I was worried this wacky modern-yet-retro version of the play would be a disaster. To me, the whole thing looked gaudy, but I supposed if the actors could pull it off, it might be a way to get people into the theater and exposed to the works of Shakespeare. As long as Hamlet didn’t have a green Mohawk, it might work. But what did I know? While I knew a lot about glass, and handmade glass beads in particular, I didn’t know much about theater.

  To get our attention, Frankie was clapping his hands together above his head like a flamenco dancer. When no one paid the slightest bit of attention, he grabbed the bullhorn again.

  “Attention! Everyone! Please!” We all stopped in our tracks, reacting to Frankie’s amplified shouts. “Let’s get everything cleared off the stage!” The tired volunteers each grabbed the set piece they’d brought out. For me, that meant lugging the faux marble pedestal backstage and putting it where I’d be able to find it again later. After sliding it into position in the wings, I turned and slammed into a tall, stork-like man.

  “Watch out! You nearly spilled my coffee,” the man hissed, the fine lines in his gaunt face pulled into a grimace. He cupped his hand over the top of his mug so it wouldn’t splash on his perfectly pressed white Oxford shirt. I noticed the slightest tremor in his hands.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there,” I said to the man as I backed out of his way.

  “You simply can’t be moving so quickly backstage. There’s not much room back here.”

  “I’ll be more careful next time. I’m Jax, by the way,” I said, introducing myself. I didn’t extend my hand to shake, since both of his hands were busy protecting his coffee cup.

  “Austin Greer. I own the place, so if you’ve got any complaints, come and see me,” he said. I’d heard of Austin Greer, of course. He was a well-known philanthropist in Seattle, and his wife, Amanda, was a retired film actress who had been a big deal in the 1970s, when she starred in several blockbuster movies, including a stint as a Bond girl in one of the James Bond films. I wondered why on earth he’d think I’d have any complaints. He glanced at the necklace I was wearing, which featured a set of purple glass beads with light blue polka dots. Austin shifted gears from surly to pleasant. “Say, that’s a nice necklace. Did you get that around here?”

  “Thanks. Actually, it’s my own design. I melt glass with a torch to make the beads.”

  “Do you ever work with other jewelry designers?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Frankie Lawton ordered quite a few beads from me last spring.”

  “You should talk with my wife. She’s a bead importer and designs her own jewelry. Maybe she’d be interested in some of your work. Just give her a call. You can take some things over to our house. She doesn’t get out much.”

  “Sure. Do you want to text me her phone number?” I asked, pulling my phone from my purse, ready to confirm receipt of his message.

  “Sorry, I don’t carry a phone. Never could figure out why anyone would want to have people calling at all times of the day and night. All those bings and bongs—it would drive me batty.” Mr. Greer beckoned a young woman in a gray blazer and slacks who was standing in the wings. Within seconds, she was at his side.

  “Yes, Mr. Greer? How can I help you?” the woman asked.

  “Ah, yes. Nika, this is Jackie,” Austin said.

  “Actually, it’s Jax,” I said, correcting him.

  “Nika is my assistant and one of the wonderful young people who was helped by the Homeless Advocacy Team. Isn’t that right?” Mr. Greer looked from me to Nika with a paternal smile.

  “That’s right, Mr. Greer,” she responded. Although she was smiling, I detected some discomfort in her stance.

  “I think my wife would be very interested in seeing Jackie’s beads and possibly making a purchase. Will you get in touch with Amanda and make an appointment for them to meet?” he asked Nika.

  “Sure, my pleasure,” Nika said as Mr. Greer sauntered off.

  Turning, belatedly, he added, “Nice to meet you, Jackie.”

  I sighed internally. Actually, it may have been audible. Even so, Nika didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’ll call you with an appointment time after I’ve had the opportunity to call Mrs. Greer. What’s your number?” Nika asked.

  I dug through my handbag looking for a business card. Finally, I found one and handed it to Nika. She assured me that she’d be in touch and dashed off to catch up with Mr. Greer.

  Frankie shouted at us to reset the stage with our set pieces, and we hauled our pillars back out to their designated spots for the umpteenth time. Earlier in the day, Frankie explained to us that we had to quickly set up the set pieces between the end of the fashion show and the start of the auction. At least with all this heavy lifting, I wouldn’t need to go to the gym today—not that I ever did.

  “That’s better! You didn’t look like a bunch of bumbling idiots this time. Everyone, please take a seat in the house,” Frankie said. We all milled around, not knowing where to go. “Come on everyone, ‘the house’ is where the audience sits!” He muttered something that sounded a lot like “stupid amateurs,” but I couldn’t be certain. Fortunately, he didn’t use his bullhorn, because if he had, it would have been a race between me, Tessa, and a few of the other volunteers to see who could grab it from him and smash it into a million pieces.

  As Tessa and I took a seat in the front row, we admired the stage in front of us. Along each side of the stage were pedestals that would eventually hold all the auction items. These items had been donated by local businesses and included everything from spa packages and hot air balloon rides to theater tickets and cases of wine.

  Hanging front and center above the stage was an art glass chandelier, its multi-colored glass orbs reflecting the theater lights surrounding it. It was the piece de resistance to be auctioned off as the final item at the gala and was expected to raise many thousands of dollars for the nonprofit. The chandelier was magnificent. It was made entirely of glass and created to coordinate with the cacophony of bright colors onstage. The artist who had created it, known simply as Vega, had designed the luminous piece for the play and Austin Greer had donated it to our auction.

  “All right—” Frankie started, having found his bullhorn again. He was immediately interrupted by Austin Greer—who was the opposite of Frankie in almost every way except that they were more or less from the same species. Mr. Greer stepped up to Frankie and unceremoniously yanked the bullhorn from him. Frankie was clearly taken aback. He clutched at his red bow tie, shocked that this person would be so bold as to grab his beloved bullhorn.

  “Ladies and,” Mr. Greer looked into the audience to see if there were any men. There were not. “And, Frankie. As the director of the gala, let me say thank you for all you are doing to make this event a success.” He turned and pointed the bullhorn at Frankie, who was standing a mere two feet away. “That being said, please remember, you are just the emcee. I call the shots.” Frankie cringed from the amplified voice booming through the bullhorn.

  “That’s Austin Greer,” Tessa said, nodding toward the man.

  “I met him backstage. He was a little rude, definitely an odd bird,” I replied. “But he liked my beads.”

  “You should hear the awful things the girls say about him,” Tessa said with a sigh.

  “Your girls don’t like him?”

  “Don’t get me started. Izzy and Ashley say Mr. Greer is awful. Apparently, he’s condescending and rude—yells when even the smallest thing goes wrong. They almost quit working on the project because of him.”

  “Could they simply be overreacting?” Tessa’s daughters were kno
wn for their dramatics, and not only when they were on stage.

  “Apparently, he treats Izzy, Ashley, and all the girls working with him like idiots. It sounds like he’s a perfectionist. If the girls don’t do everything to his unreasonable standards, he insults them.”

  “Sometimes they fall to pieces even about the smallest things,” I said. And that was true. Tessa’s daughters, while lovely, talented, and smart, were a handful. Tessa was constantly refereeing battles between the girls, and I had witnessed and intervened in my own fair share of arguments between them. I hoped the gala would provide an opportunity for the girls to come together peacefully and that Tessa wouldn’t be too stressed out trying to deal with their issues.

  Mr. Greer took a sip from his coffee mug and continued. “Now, Frankie, go get our models, will you?” Frankie nodded and scurried offstage, if it was possible for a 220-pound man to scurry, to fetch the models from the dressing room. Returning moments later, he asked the models to line up in the middle of the stage. Mr. Greer paced back and forth in front of the lineup, examining the girls as if they were army recruits. Izzy and Ashley were among the five high school girls nervously standing shoulder to shoulder, fists clenched tightly at their sides. None of them made eye contact with the man. “Now, girls, I’m going to show you how to walk like a high-fashion model. Everyone will get a chance to practice.”