Sun Scream

by Barbara Silkstone

  Sun Scream

  Cold Cream Murders -Book 4

  Barbara Silkstone

  Sun Scream©

  Cold Cream Murders - Book 4

  Barbara Silkstone 2019

  All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Starfish Cove, Florida is a creation of this author’s imagination.

  Contents

  Join the laughter!

  Sun Scream

  Cold Cream Murders series

  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

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Epilogue

  Egg Facial

  Cold Cream Murders Series

  Reviews

  About the Author

  Join the laughter!

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  With love & laughter!

  http://secondactcafe.com/barbara-silkstone/

  Sun Scream

  A series of peculiar and highly suspicious accidents threaten the life of the Loud Mouth of the South. Can Olive and Lizzy find the predator before their friend becomes the victim at her own Murder Mystery Party? Help the Cold Cream gals solve the mystery of the corpse and the canapés. Mirth and murder in Book 4 of the Cold Cream Murders.

  Cold Cream Murders series

  Olive Peroni put out her family therapy shingle six years ago never thinking her top client would be the retired head of a New York crime family. When Olive’s Nonna dies, leaving her a condo in Florida and a secret recipe for miracle cold cream, she grabs the chance at a new life in Starfish Cove, Florida, making designer creams for ladies who spend far too much time at the beach. Business is brisk and life is good! Olive even makes a wild new best friend and business partner in Lizzy, the real estate agent who handles the transfer of Nonna’s condo.

  But when the quiet little community on the Gulf of Mexico soon begins to compete with a certain notorious coastal village in Maine, Olive finds herself solving odd-ball murders as often as she soothes wrinkles. Clean and wholesome!

  Each book contains a recipe for homemade cosmetics and beautifiers!

  Chapter 1

  “Jaimie’s late again.” Lizzy jumped off the three-foot wall bordering the front steps of the Toast’s new seaside mini mansion. She wobbled in her wedgies as she hit the ground. “It’s almost four o’clock,” she grumbled. “We’re doing her a favor and she doesn’t have the courtesy to be on time.”

  Tempted to remind my friend she held the Late Lady of Starfish Cove record, I bit my tongue instead. On edge, I concentrated on maintaining a calm demeanor, tightly controlling my breathing and expression. “Relax and enjoy the breeze.”

  “Cool your jets, Lizzy,” Grams said. “I’m looking forward to this. How often do we get to plan a murder?”

  “Usually they’re just sprung on us,” I said.

  Grams placed a kerchief on the rear bumper of Chip’s Jaguar parked just off the driveway under the shade of a large ficus tree. She braced her bottom on the piece of cloth careful not to get dust on her Dali-printed dress. The drooping, melted watches copied from the artist’s famous work formed a fitting pattern for her thin frame, black stockings, and matching orthopedic shoes. She leaned against the car, elbows propped on the trunk—Audrey Hepburn sunglasses covering most of her tiny nonagenarian face.

  Lizzy paced the pavement between the driveway and the steps. She paused in front of me. “Olive, how can you be so calm when we have so much to do at the shop?”

  My business partner was right. The next few days would be like walking a tightrope over Niagara Falls. We were coming up on the possibility of a celebrity endorsement. Our cream was the best wrinkle-remover this side of a steam iron. Words from a world-famous beauty might skyrocket our business. Every entrepreneur’s dream. Maybe. Would mega-success destroy the life I’d created in Starfish Cove? But we had to go for it.

  International film star Sophia Napoli and her small entourage were arriving the day after tomorrow. Lizzy and I still had a lot to do at Nonna’s Cold Cream shop to win her endorsement.

  Yet there we sat wasting precious minutes waiting to help our most irritating friend plan some mischief. She loved playing tricks on people especially her easy-going husband.

  Jaimie and Chip had decided to stage a murder mystery themed party for their housewarming. The event was this coming Saturday and had become the talk of Starfish Cove, edging out the repainting of curbs on Main Street.

  Chip threw himself into scripting a theatrical play designed to involve all their guests and challenge their sleuthing skills. We didn’t know the details yet—only that Lizzy, Grams, and I would be assigned roles to play in a mystery that would take place in a 1920’s jazz bar setting. The play’s murder victim—aka Jaimie Toast—was slated to give us copies of the script and character profiles—if she ever showed up.

  My mouth had turned sand-dry from the tension of wasting time. I chugged tepid water from my thermal bottle. Florida in June—hot but not as wickedly humid as it would become in a few weeks. I blotted a tissue over my cheek coming away with a streak of makeup.

  The white stone and glass structure of their three-story house reflected the sun’s rays, intensifying the heat. The garage was at ground level. The second and third levels held the living quarters. Decorative shrubbery lined the sides of the angular staircase leading from the driveway up to the front door.

  I moved onto the lawn trying to suck in more of the elusive breeze. “We’ll give Jaimie five more minutes,” I made a show of checking my watch. “Chip must be home. We could wait in the air conditioning.”

  “She was pretty specific about not including him.” Lizzy shook her head. “She wants whatever trick she’s brewing to throw him off balance.”

  “Nothing like double-crossing the playwright in his own play.” I turned at the growl of a sports car engine and the last bars of “We Are the Champions” blaring from the speakers.

  Jaimie’s red BMW convertible—top down—turned into the driveway. She gave us a wave and sped past. She screamed as she crashed through the garage door.

  Chapter 2

  My scream was silent. No sound came out of my wide-open mouth. I ran to the garage. The topmost panel of the door stubbornly clung to the rails. The other panels were blown apart like—well, like they were hit by a car.

  Lizzie, Grams and
I rushed in. The solid block wall at the back of the garage held up against the onslaught. Jaimie’s car sat steaming with the hood buckled into a tent shape. The engine silent and the airbag deployed. The Beemer was a foot shorter than when it passed me.

  She narrowly missed Chip’s rarely driven vintage T-Bird, his pride and joy next to his madcap wife.

  Jaimie was pinned between the airbag and chunks of the garage door teetering on the back edge of the seat. She appeared dazed but un-bloodied.

  Coughing from the airbag dust, Jaimie beat the remains of the sack into submission while managing to utter an occasional “Poshookly!” She unsuccessfully tried to open the door, gave up, and worked her feet up onto the seat. With an assist from Lizzy and me and a move that would make a contortionist proud, she twisted herself up and over the jammed door and slid down until her strappy sandals touched the garage floor.

  She fought with her clingy bias-cut skirt strangling her thighs as she steadied herself. When she finally looked up her green eyes were glazed.

  “How many screwdrivers did you guzzle?” Grams said, making bug-eyes at her.

  “I haven’t been drinking—not since the mimosas at brunch. Honest to Pete. I’m telling you the truth. The flippin’ brakes failed. They went to the floorboard. And my Lucky Elf garage door opener didn’t work.”

  She waved the offending device in the air as if it had a personal grudge against her. I took it from her before she slammed it on the concrete. On the backside of it, a creepy leprechaun sticker leered at me.

  A piece of the garage door settled with a crunch. “Let’s get out of here!” I said and slipped the opener into my pants pocket. Defective or rendered inoperable by mimosas?

  Lizzy took Jaimie’s arm and led her from the garage to the front steps, while Grams followed sniffing after Jaimie for the scent of liquor. I shared Grams concern.

  Chip blasted out the front door dripping water, soapy headed, barefooted, and wearing a towel around his waist. He leapt down the stairs two at a time. “What happened? I heard a crash!”

  He slid to a stop and put his arm around Jaimie. “Are you okay?” He hopped from foot to foot on the hot concrete.

  “The brakes failed. And the garage door didn’t open.” She wobbled, broke free from his embrace, and sat on a step.

  “I’ll call an ambulance,” he said, continuing to pogo left, right, left, right.

  “I don’t need an ambulance. Just a scotch, no ice.”

  For all her cheeky bravado, the crash had scared the Poshooklies out of Jaimie. Her complexion was nearly as pale as her platinum hair as she sat silently hugging herself.

  Chip looked at me. I shrugged, letting him know it was his call. He said, “I’ll look at the car before I decide.”

  He hopscotched to the garage ouching all the way. “Holy cats!” His exclamation carried back to us with ear-cleaning clarity.

  Chip returned with his face matching Jaimie’s and his eyes the size of ostrich eggs. He jumped onto a patch of grass. “You could have been killed.” The way he studied her told me he was assessing her alcohol level.

  “Your little roadster is totaled. I’ll call the insurance company.”

  Jaimie didn’t look up. “Is your T-Bird okay?”

  “Miraculously, yes and thanks for asking.” He stooped down next to her and took her hand. “But that’s not important. We need to get you to the hospital.”

  Chip patted her hand then stood. “I’m canceling my trip to Atlanta. I need to be home with you. I’ll have my handyman board up the busted door.”

  “I’d shake my head but it hurts.” Jaimie touched her hand to the top of her noggin and then quickly pulled it away. “I don’t need to go to the hospital and you need to go to Atlanta. You’ve been counting on this meeting with those architects for weeks. You won’t be able to get your pricing on the hotel construction without working across the table from them.”

  “I can send Vann in my place,” Chip said.

  “Sending your partner is not the same as being there yourself. You’re funding the company. You—not cheapskate Vann—need to watch the numbers being crunched.” She touched her head with her hand. “Nasty word.”

  He compressed his lips. “I’ll think about going but only after I call Dr. Holland and see what he says.”

  Grams was strangely silent. A couple of times I caught her studying Chip’s face.

  Finally she leaned over, half whispering to Jaimie. “Call officer Kal…just in case. Brakes don’t just up and fail.”

  Chapter 3

  I expected Jaimie to resist because it was her nature to object to any idea—good or bad—that wasn’t hers. I was alarmed when it was Chip who spoke against calling Kal.

  He cocked his head in Grams’ direction. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to call him. Jaimie’s built quite a record with the Starfish Cove police department—both officially and unofficially.”

  “But Grams is right,” I said. “If Kal or officer Robbie drives past the house and sees the damage, he’ll be ticked off if it wasn’t reported.”

  I ignored Jaimie’s frown and spoke directly to her. “The brakes on the car failed. This should go on the record. It might happen to someone else. Then how would you feel?”

  “Okay Olive, I’ll call him. I’ll call him.” Jaimie flicked her hand at us. “Let’s reschedule our gabfest,” she said, gabfest translating to prank planning.

  Grams and Chip walked Jaimie inside. Lizzy and I shrugged our shoulders at each other. She didn’t know what to do any more than I did. Not often a car destroys a garage door and itself before your eyes.

  Chip returned minutes later wearing shorts and boat shoes. “The tow truck and insurance adjuster are a few minutes out. My handyman is on his way.” He stuffed his fists in the pockets of his shorts.

  “Jaimie’s insisting I leave for Atlanta. Depending on what Dr. Holland says, I’ve got about thirty minutes before I have to cut and run. I hate leaving her alone. Would you gals please keep an eye on my wife? You know how stubborn she gets.”

  I imagined our deal with Sophia Napoli to be a dove fluttering off into the pastel sky.

  Our friend’s needs came first. It wasn’t as if there was that much left to do at the shop. I planned on creating a display for the new inventory—grabbing some more Lucite shelves from the crafts store and some real looking fake flowers. It could all wait.

  “We’ll take good care of her,” I said. “How long will you be gone?

  “I’m returning the day after tomorrow.” He looked from the garage to the house and then to the driveway entrance.

  A spiffy red, white, and blue flatbed tow truck backed up the concrete drive vibrating the ground and spewing diesel fumes.

  Two men stepped down from the cab. By their similarities I guessed them to be father and son. The older one had the remains of auburn hair clinging around his head like a monk. The younger one sported a thick head of hair the same burnt leaf color.

  Monk-hair stomped toward us, addressing Chip. “Anything we should be aware of before we start birthin’ that baby outta your garage? Any flammables inside? We’re not responsible for any damage to the car or the structure.”

  “You’ll have to move the chunks of garage door—just pile ‘em up on the grass. I’ll make it worth your while,” Chip said. “Be very careful there’s a ’55 T-Bird on the left side.”

  “Geez. You’d better come and direct us.” He signaled to the younger man while Chip took a position near his precious T-Bird.

  The dynamic duo lifted the sections of door off the car and stacked them on the lawn at the side of the driveway. Once the convertible was free of the larger chunks, they backed the tow truck closer to the garage.

  The younger man hooked chains on the bumper of Jaimie’s car, winched it out of the garage, and shut off the rumbling monster motor. Sweet silence.

  Chip followed it. “I’ll grab Jaimie’s purse and the car registration.”

  “Never mind. I’ll get her gea
r,” Lizzy said. “You can take care of what looks like an insurance adjuster.” She pointed to a middle-aged man in a short-sleeved white shirt and skinny necktie who mopped his brow as he strode up the driveway.

  The jaunty little car would no longer jaunt. It looked like a giant toddler had pitched a fit and crumpled it in his hands.

  Lizzy passed Jaimie’s purse, straw hat, sunglasses, and a pair of flip-flops to me. I stepped back, my arms full.

  The glove box popped open at her touch. She reached in and retrieved a fistful of papers and the car manual—which was a bit of a joke at this point. No instruction book in the world would put that little car together again.

  Chip took the papers from her. He thumbed through the stack, removed the registration and handed it to the insurance guy while explaining what happened.

  The guy didn’t ask to interview Jaimie, just ascertained she was going to seek medical advice. Mr. Insurance Man took some photos, scribbled a bunch of notes on forms clipped to a board, and drew a rough sketch of the driveway.