Murder Drama With Your Llama (Friendship Harbor Mysteries Book 1)

by Erin McCarthy

  Murder Drama With Your Llama

  Kathy Love

  Erin McCarthy

  Copyright © 2020 by Kathy Love and Erin McCarthy

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  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

  About the Authors

  Also by the Authors

  One

  I had auditioned for a lot of roles in Los Angeles trying to get my big break. Young Blonde on Spring Break. Dead Body in Alley. Sexy Rich Girl. Nerdy College Student. I hadn’t gotten any of those roles. (In my defense, I was pretty sure I only lost that first role because I was a redhead.)

  But now, I found myself cast as Small-Town Maine Pub Owner.

  Only this wasn’t a role. It wasn’t a movie or TV show. This was real life and I was speechless.

  I stared at the clapboard building in front of me and blinked.

  “You own a bar named Steamy’s,” my best friend from California, Oliver, said. “That better be a seafood restaurant reference and not anything else.”

  I didn’t answer, too amazed to acknowledge his humor. It really did look and sound like a set, which was just crazy. Kind of cool. But crazy.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Oliver back up a few steps to view the whole building. It was a lot to take in. The pub appeared to be the first floor of the huge Victorian. Above that, there were two more levels, jutting up into the clear blue sky in a mass of dormers and scrollwork and even a turret.

  Holy cow, I was also cast as the Owner of a Turret.

  “You don’t think this place is haunted, do you?”

  This time, I turned to my friend and smacked his arm. “No! Don’t say that. It does look like a great hangout for spirits, but I have to sleep here. I can’t think about ghosts or I’ll freak out.”

  Oliver gave me a look somewhere between sheepish and “whatever, girl,” which frankly was as contrite as he ever was. Then he stared at the building again. “Soph, you inherited a freaking mansion.”

  I did. Suddenly, I felt more than just awe and wonderment. I felt a little nervous. What did I know about owning a pub? Or owning a house for that matter? A huge house, no less.

  I swallowed a couple times, trying to calm the churning in my stomach. I could totally do this. I wanted to do this. I was tired of L.A. The superficialness, the crowds and the competitiveness. I wanted the clean sea air of a coastal town in Maine. I wanted to be a part of a community. I wanted trees and grass and the peaceful lifestyle that came with small-town living.

  But just as much as all that, I wanted to get to know the grandmother whom I barely remembered. She had left me this amazing place and I wanted to do her proud. But I also wanted a glimpse into her life and who she was—or rather, who she’d been.

  I could do this. It was just another role, right? Take on the pub, wear some Wellies, polish the brass knobs, eat some lobster, or whatever it was Mainers did.

  My father always said my biggest asset was my unbridled enthusiasm. So time to be unbridled.

  “Sophie? Sophie LaFleur?”

  I looked around and spotted an old man standing on the covered porch near a door at the far side of the building. He was slightly stooped with a balding head and clad in a gray button-down shirt and gray dress pants. I blinked, hoping I wasn’t seeing a ghost. Who knew my name. Then the gray man waved and smiled.

  “You must be Sophie LaFleur,” he called.

  I nodded, finding my wits enough to wave back and head up the walkway toward the porch. Oliver followed, so clearly he didn’t think the man was a ghost. Oliver might act all cool and unflappable, but when it came to anything creepy, that was all an act. The guy had suffered nightmares after appearing in a local commercial for a Halloween superstore as a child.

  The gray-clad man met us at the top of the steps, offering his hand as we reached him. I accepted, his hand feeling fragile and boney in mine. But his eyes twinkled, full of life, and I noticed he wore a jaunty red bow tie, which made him look quite dapper.

  “I’d know you were Sunny LaFleur’s granddaughter anywhere,” he said. “You are the spitting image of her when she was your age.”

  His comment pleased me, even though I’d heard that before. From my mother. And my aunt. Although they both said it like it was a character flaw rather than a compliment, so seeing this elderly man say it with a wide smile, which exposed startlingly white teeth, was much nicer.

  “So you knew my grandmother for a long time?” I asked.

  He nodded, his grin growing wider. “I’ve known Sunny since grade school, so I guess you can imagine how long that must be.”

  My insides warmed. Already, I was meeting someone who could probably tell me a hundred stories about my mysterious grandmother. A person I only knew as a voice on the other end of a phone line, who I talked to occasionally in my younger years and who sent me Christmas presents that usually didn’t meet my mother’s approval.

  In my childhood, I’d begged to go visit my grandmother but my mother had refused. Then as an adult, at first I’d been too broke to travel, then too busy filming almost three seasons of a television show, Murder, She Texted. I felt guilty I’d never made it a priority to head east and meet Grammy, as she’d insisted I call her.

  “I’m Cliff Robichaud,” the old man said suddenly as if it just dawned on him that he hadn’t introduced himself. His attention moved to Oliver.

  Oliver looked particularly punk rock today in his gray and black buffalo plaid pants, tight Clash T-shirt, and burgundy combat boots. I'm certain my friend's bleached locks streaked with teal blue and his widely gauged earrings weren't something Cliff saw frequently here in quaint Friendship Harbor. But the elderly man simply smiled and held out his knobby hand.

  Oliver accepted, and I sensed my friend relaxing a bit. He had wanted to make this trip with me, but I knew a rural small town wasn’t really his scene.

  "Silly Soph, there is no way I'm letting you trek into the wilds of Maine without me," Oliver had insisted. "Who's going to fight off all the bears and crazed lumberjacks?”

  Truthfully, I knew it wasn't going to be him. He was a city boy, born and raised. A bear would send him running back to Rodeo Drive. And a crazed lumberjack? He'd either swoon or ask for his number. But I appreciated his concern and I was glad he was there.

  I was no more a woodsman than Oliver. I had been raised in the Valley by upper middle class parents and I was as we spoke, wearing a California girl’s uniform—skinny jeans, flip flops, and a T-shirt that said “Good Vibes.” Everyone needs good vibes.

  Oliver shook Cliff’s hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm Oliver Maddox."

  Cliff's eyes brightened even more. "Oliver Maddox? The Oliver Maddox, who starred in ‘The High Jinx of Hayley and Jake?’

  Oliver blinked, surprised and impressed. "Yes, that was me."

  Now, it was Cliff's turn to look impressed. "I think I've seen every episode. My granddaughters loved that show. Never missed it. And I have to admit, even for an old guy like me, it
was pretty darned entertaining."

  “Thank you.” Oliver was pleased, but I knew talk of the hit show from his youth was always bittersweet. Oliver claimed he’d already fallen into the “where are they now” category at the ripe old age of twenty-seven.

  "I’m sure you are anxious to see the house," Cliff said, waving for us to follow. He headed back down the porch, his gait surprisingly fast for his age and his hunched frame. Spry was the word that came to mind. Probably the first time I’d ever used it.

  He opened the door where I'd first spotted him and led us into a foyer, which had a wooden bench and coat hooks lining one wall. Coats for all types of weather hung on the antique metal hangers as well as several colorful scarves and a floppy straw hat. A pair of gardening boots with mud crusted on the soles sat beside the bench.

  Cliff caught me studying them. "All of your grandmother's items are still in the house. I didn't pack anything up, because I wasn't sure what you might want to keep."

  My grandmother’s will had said that I inherited the pub, her house and all its contents, but the reality of those words hadn't really hit me until I looked at those muddy boots. Grandma had left me everything.

  My gaze returned to those boots. Her boots. A wave of melancholy swelled in my chest, joining the other emotions of disbelief, uncertainty, and even excitement that I was finally here. Oliver touched my arm as if he was reading my jumbled feelings. He was good at reading me, although I'm sure all those sentiments showed on my face.

  "So this door"—Cliff pointed toward a doorway just past a staircase with white ornate balusters and a dark wood handrail and newel post—"leads into the storage area and office of the pub and of course, then into the pub itself. But I'm going to let Dean show you around in there."

  "Dean?" I asked. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but with all the other revelations of the last few weeks, I couldn't recall why or from where.

  "Dean Jordan, he's the pub manager.”

  That's right. In the reading of the will, my grandmother had included that this Dean Jordan would continue on as the manager, which was fine with me. I had no idea how to manage a pub, so I was more than happy for the help. Besides, once Oliver returned to L.A. I would need a friend or two.

  “The ladies seem to like Dean. Which is rough for an old guy like me. He’s stealing all the good ones, leaving me the leftovers.”

  Wow. That was either a poor joke or Cliff was something of a jerk.

  "Let me take you up to Sunny's home." Cliff climbed the straight, steep stairs, again moving like a man half his age. I followed, hand on the bannister and a little breathless once I reached the top. I needed to thoroughly take advantage of the fresh air and nature walks while I was here. Since deciding to give up acting after my show was canceled, I'd also given up my five-day-a-week workout regimen. It showed.

  At the top of the stairs, there was another small foyer area. More coats and shoes lined this space as well. Cliff opened a white paneled door that had been painted dozens of times in the hundred years since this house must have been built. I could see other colors in the places where the current coat of white had chipped away. I stepped through the doorway and into a huge, country kitchen. The walls glowed a warm, sunny yellow and the floors were worn plankboard oak. Another sign of all the years this house had stood. The cabinets were painted a creamy white, but I could tell they were probably original too. I touched the glass knobs and admired the aged bronze hinges. Sunlight from several windows flooded the room, making the space warm and inviting.

  The marbled gray granite counter appeared newer and gleamed in the sunshine. My fingers moved from the antique knobs to a nested set of mixing bowls perched beside a well-used mortar and pestle set. Suddenly, I could visualize my grandmother baking in this wonderful room. The smell of cookies and cakes wafting through the air.

  "Sunny loved this kitchen," Cliff said from behind me. "She was a fabulous cook. She baked all the time."

  I smiled over my shoulder at him. I knew it.

  "She loved to make her edibles. She could outbake Martha Stewart when it came to her pot brownies. Delicious and potent." He winked. “You two would have gotten along.” He pointed to the slogan on my T-shirt.

  My eyes widened, and a sharp laugh escaped Oliver, which he quickly tried to suppress.

  "All purely for medicinal purposes, of course," Cliff added with a grin, his eyes sparkling.

  I nodded, feeling like he might just be displaying “dad” humor. “Of course,” I managed.

  "Let's continue the tour." Cliff waved his arm out again. “I’m pretty good at this. Put me in a skirt and I could be one of Barker’s Babes from the Price is Right.”

  Not dad humor, then. Grandpa humor.

  As I followed, Oliver fell into step beside me, leaning over to whisper, "I think I'd have really liked your grandma. Chocolate paired with getting high is a win-win combo."

  While consuming marijuana wasn’t exactly scandalous in California anymore, it was still illegal in Maine. I shook my head. "I think he was joking."

  Oliver raised a skeptical eyebrow, then linked his arm through mine as we followed Cliff. By the time we finished the tour, I knew Cliff hadn't been joking. I also knew why my mother wouldn’t send me on an unsupervised visit to her. My grandmother had been one eclectic, and by her decorating sense alone, one eccentric woman. Her house was beautiful and wonderfully decorated, but gone were the images of a sweet, portly old granny. Now, I knew my grandmother had been an old hippie with a love for all things odd and mystical.

  The exact opposite of my suit-wearing 100 Million Dollar Club real estate agent mother.

  Oliver pointed to a large, vintage poster of The Grateful Dead over an antique, clawfoot tub in the master bathroom, then mimicked taking a hit off a blunt. I rolled my eyes but laughed.

  My grandmother's bedroom was probably the most extravagant room in the house, decorated in gold and burgundy. An ornate four-poster bed draped in velvet took up the center of the room, which Cliff had referred to as the “magic maker,” a descriptor I could have done without. On her nightstand, she had a stained glass lamp, a crystal ball, and a book still opened to the last page she’d probably read. Tom Wolfe’s The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. I thumbed through it. The pages were dog-eared, and the cover faded. I had a feeling she'd read it many times. Definitely a hippie. Carefully, I set the well-loved novel back down, not wanting to lose her place. Of course, she wasn’t going to be reading it, but somehow it felt right to leave it as it was.

  A set of French doors that led out to a covered balcony saved the richly colored room from being too dark. I strolled over to them and peered out. The backyard looked like an English garden with riots of tangled wildflowers of every color haphazardly lining stone paths. In one corner, a small picket fence surrounded what looked like a vegetable garden. A picture of my grandmother in her muddy boots, tending her medical marijuana flashed in my mind. I grinned at the image.

  Well, Grammy, you are turning out to be a whole lot more than I'd imagined.

  Beyond the gardens sat two other, smaller buildings. I turned to locate Cliff, about to ask him if they were a part of my grandmother's property, when he spoke first.

  "Let me show you around outside. I have quite a surprise for you."

  "There's more?" At that point, if Grammy had a moat, I wouldn’t have been shocked.

  Only a week ago, I lived in a one-bedroom apartment with a bathroom where I couldn't close the door if I was sitting on the toilet and a kitchen where I couldn't open the dishwasher and refrigerator at the same time to this—a four-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath Victorian mansion with porches and balconies and a glorious garden. What more could there be? This was amazing enough.

  It made my impulsive decision to move to Maine seem less insane.

  It felt exciting.

  The sun shone down, full in the sky now as we stepped into the yard. It wasn’t quite as warm as Southern California, but I breathed in deeply, enjoying the slight
crispness to the air. Bees buzzed, birds chirped, only the sound of the occasional passing car interrupted their peaceful hum. No traffic, no honking, no endless drone of people talking far too loud on their cell phones. Just the rustling of the breeze in the trees.

  Then the strangest sound I'd ever heard pierced the calm. A sound somewhere between a loud, long squawk and a small child noisily gargling. I shot a look toward Oliver. He'd frozen, mid-step, his eyes wide, his expression more than a little frightened.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  I gazed around, half expecting a wild animal or worse a cryptid of unknown origins to come charging out of Grandma’s garden, hopped up on weed and paranoia.

  Cliff paused to look back at us as we reluctantly followed him down the trail. “Oh, that’s Jack Kerouac. I knew you’d be surprised.”

  “There is a dead writer’s ghost living in your garden?” Oliver asked me. “I was thinking you might need to hire a gardener but now I think you need an exorcist.”

  There was no way that sound came from a ghost. But I was totally mystified and was about to ask for clarification when Cliff walked around the side of the building that was somewhere between shed and barn and pushed open a large door. Sunlight shone in through a window at the peak of the roof. Dust modes and a sweet, earthy smell drifted through the air.

  At first, I only saw bales of hay and large bags of some sort of animal feed piled against the rough-hewn plank walls. Then I noticed a movement from within a gated stall across the room. And another noise, this time a low hum like a bass note on an oboe.

  "It's okay, Jack," Cliff called toward the stall.

  I saw more movement, then a white, wooly head with pointed ears and a long snout appeared over the stall door. The creature blinked with sleepy eyes, although it could have been its incredibly long lashes that gave the animal such a drowsy appearance. It rumbled again and stuck out the tip of its tongue.