A Viola Roberts Cozy Mystery Collection

by Shéa MacLeod

  A Viola Roberts Cozy Mystery Collection

  Box Set One - Three

  Shéa MacLeod

  A Viola Roberts Cozy Mystery Collection

  Box Set One - Three

  COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Shéa MacLeod

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Cover Art by Mariah Sinclair/mariahsinclair.com

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  The Corpse in | the Cabana

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  The Stiff in the Study

  Acknowledgements

  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

  The Poison in the Pudding

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 1

  The Corpse in

  the Cabana

  Viola Roberts Cozy Mysteries:

  Book 1

  Shéa MacLeod

  THE CORPSE IN THE CABANA

  Viola Roberts Cozy Mysteries: Book 1

  Text copyright © 2016 Shéa MacLeod

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Cover design by Mariah Sinclair/

  www.mariahsinclair.com

  Editing by Janet Fix of www.thewordverve.com

  Proofing by Jenx Byron

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Dedication

  This one’s for my mom. I promised I’d write a book you could read. One without scary vampires and whatnot. Well, here it is.

  Acknowledgments

  With a HUGE thanks to Cheryl Bradshaw and Diane Capri who insisted over cocktails that I really should write that cozy mystery I’d always wanted to write.

  Also thanks to the Big Girl Panties who have cheered me on through the whole process.

  Thanks to my inspiration, Dame Agatha Christie, for penning such wonderful tales of mayhem and murder. If you’re out there somewhere, you changed my life.

  To my marvelous critique partners, editors, and proofreaders who make every book shine.

  And to A for putting up with my crazy. I love you.

  Chapter 1

  The Second Most Haunted Building in Florida

  “IF YOU LOOK OVER THERE on your left, you’ll see the Don CeSar Hotel. It’s the second most haunted building in all of Florida,” the taxi driver declared proudly, as if he, personally, was responsible for the ghosts and their shenanigans.

  “The pink one?” Cheryl Delaney, my best friend and fellow author, craned her neck to see out the window. We were on our way to the Fairwinds Resort for a writer’s conference, and I was feeling more than a little punch drunk from the travel. The flight from Portland, Oregon, took nearly eight hours, and I was still drowsy from the airsickness medicine. “Yep. That’s the one,” the driver said cheerfully. He adjusted his sunglasses on his ruddy nose and ran a hand through thinning hair.

  I peered around Cheryl to see an enormous art deco-style building looming against the harsh, blue sky. Sure enough, it was pink. Pepto-Bismol pink, to be exact. I half wished we were staying there, ghosts or no ghosts. At least the place had character, unlike the rest of the resorts marching their way down the coast of St. Petersburg, Florida. They looked like something out of a bad sixties sci-fi movie, their ugly “futuristic” hulks hovering over the water like spacecraft.

  I didn’t expect a haunted mansion to be painted Pepto-Bismol pink. Like most people, I expected a haunted place to be gloomy, dark, and atmospheric. The Don CeSar Hotel was not your usual haunted mansion.

  “I know all kinds of people who’ve had run-ins with ghosts there,” the taxi driver continued. “They say the ghost of the first owner still walks the grounds.”

  “Oh, how exciting,” Cheryl said with a shiver. “Maybe we’ll see him.”

  I might be a lover of murder mysteries, but I draw the line at ghosts. Cheryl could ghost hunt all she wanted. I was staying away from anything remotely spooky.

  “GET A LOAD OF HER.” Cheryl Delaney nearly dumped her wine all over the polished marble floor as she gestured wildly at one of the women on the dance floor. It was the kickoff party for the Novel Writers of America conference. Being writers, half the NWA Conference attendees were already three sheets to the wind, even though it was barely nine o’clock. “She does know she’s old enough to be his mother, right?”

  I tracked the dancers as they glided, bobbed, and lurched across the polished wood dance floor. Above them bobbed blue and silver balloons filled with helium while an ’80s number thumped over the loudspeakers, loud enough to make my head throb. We’d just flown in from Portland mere hours before, and what I wanted more than anything was a nap. Instead I was stuck at a meet-and-greet.

  I finally found the woman Cheryl was pointing to. She was at least in her early fifties, although well preserved and expensively dressed, and was draped drunkenly on a man at least half her age. Wasn’t the first time I’d seen such behavior at a writer’s conference or from the woman in question. I snorted. Partially in amusement, partially in derision.

  “Natasha Winters is a lush.” I kept my voice low. Gossip spread like wildfire among writers, especially those of the romance variety. The last thing I needed was Natasha getting angry at me. “Unfortunately, she could also outsell us ten times over.”

  “Figures,” Cheryl sighed, sucking down half her Mai Tai in one gulp. She’d gelled her short, brown hair so it stood up in spikes. Anyone else would have looked like a rabid squirrel. On Cheryl,
the look was cute. “Not that I’m complaining. Sales have been good this year, but really...Why do the nasty ones always get the world handed to them on a silver platter?” She glanced around for a waiter, empty wineglass dangling from one hand.

  It was a good question. I mean, Natasha Winters was nice enough, all things considered, but she was a major diva, a drunk, and a total cougar. The kind of woman who made everyone cringe. It was sort of embarrassing, actually, the way she carried on. I was of the opinion that a certain decorum was required of professional writers. A decorum Natasha was sadly lacking. She also happened to be the number-one best-selling romance writer. The woman was raking in money hand over fist. I couldn’t help a small pang of jealousy, which I ruthlessly squashed. I was of the mind that when it came to writing, there were plenty of readers for everyone, and while it would have been nice to have the kind of seven-figure income writers like Natasha Winters commanded, I was perfectly happy with my very comfortable, although less impressive, income.

  “Viola Roberts, how lovely to finally meet you.” A deep voice interrupted my train of thought, jerking my attention from Natasha and her gyrating boy toy to the man who’d suddenly appeared next to me.

  He was tall, over six feet, and gorgeous in a distinguished older man sort of way. Not that much older, I reminded myself. My forty-second birthday was just around the corner and Mr. Gorgeous looked no more than late forties. Possibly very early fifties. He had a slight accent that could have been British...or maybe something else. It was hard to tell. His piercing gray eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, the laugh lines sexy rather than aging. Be still my heart.

  Beside me, Cheryl went dead still, zeroing in on the newcomer. She looked ready to burst with excitement, practically bouncing in her nude-colored heels. Obviously she knew who the gentleman was, which left me at a distinct disadvantage.

  I quirked an eyebrow, giving him the once-over. He was very elegantly dressed in a black suit and matching shirt and tie. “And you are?” It probably came out a little snottier than I meant it. Cheryl nearly choked before gesturing wildly to the waiter.

  “Lucas Salvatore.” He gave an elegant little bow that on anyone else would have been ridiculous. On him it was...sexy. Very European. “I’m a huge fan of your work.”

  The waiter moved just close enough for Cheryl to snag another glass of wine off his tray. She clutched it like a lifeline, eyes darting between me and Salvatore like she was watching a tennis match.

  My other eyebrow went up. “Oh, really? Which work in particular?” I seriously doubted this Lucas Salvatore person had read anything of mine. He wasn’t exactly in my demographic.

  His smile widened, pearly whites bright against darkly tanned skin. “The Cowboy’s Lost Mistress was an enjoyable tale. I read it on the plane.”

  “Uh huh.” I wrote historical romance novels. The kind that involved a great deal of heaving bosoms and ripping bodices and cowboys who were overly fond of tearing their shirts off. I had a hard time picturing Salvatore as being into that sort of thing. And why did his name sound so familiar? I racked my brain but came up empty.

  “Honestly,” he said, “it was a lot of fun.”

  “Thank you.” What else to say? I’d learned to take compliments about my writing, no matter how bizarre, with as much grace as humanly possible. “And what do you write, Mr. Salvatore?” I asked with mild interest. I guessed he was a writer since he was at a writer’s conference.

  Cheryl flailed, face going an interesting shade of purple. I could only assume she was familiar with his work, but his name still wasn’t ringing any bells.

  His smile was genuine with perhaps a trace of self-mockery. Obviously he didn’t take himself too seriously. Good. There were plenty of that sort already. Like the aforementioned Natasha Winters. Writers as a whole tended to be rather full of themselves.

  “Call me Lucas. I dabble in thrillers mostly,” he said, eyeing me over the rim of his glass. He was drinking an Old Fashioned. Whiskey, from the look of it. Not really my cup of tea, so to speak.

  “Ah.” Color me not surprised. He looked the sort for thrillers. Heck, eighty percent of the men attending NWA wrote thrillers. I’d bet he was an ex-cop or something.

  A particularly loud and obnoxious laugh from the dance floor drew our attention back to Natasha Winters. Her top was a bit askew, showing an alarming amount of bosom, and she could have used a hairbrush. The boy toy had a smear of hot-pink lipstick down his cheek.

  “You know her?” Lucas asked, glancing at Natasha with some curiosity.

  “Not really. We’re casual acquaintances. We both write romances, so we run in the same circles.” Sort of. Natasha breathed much more rarified air than I. She considered me far beneath her.

  “Hmmm. Interesting woman.” He was still watching her closely. It was hard to say if it was because he was into her, or because it was like watching a train wreck.

  “If you say so,” I said dryly. I stared down at my own glass. Empty, darn it.

  “I recognize the kid. Kyle something. One of the bartenders here at the resort. Who’s the man staring at her like he’d be happy to wring her neck?” Lucas asked.

  I glanced across the room where a short, balding man glared at Natasha and her shenanigans. He did, indeed, look like wringing her neck was a real possibility. His raspberry and cream striped shirt clashed with the angry red of his face. “That’s Jason Winters. Natasha’s almost-ex-husband. The two have a precarious relationship.” Which was putting it mildly.

  “I see. Well, I shall leave you ladies to enjoy your evening.” He gave me a meaningful look. Which caused odd flutters in the region of my stomach. “I look forward to seeing you again, Ms. Roberts.”

  “Uh, sure. Likewise,” I muttered as he strode away, cutting an elegant figure as he made his way through the crowd toward the exit.

  “Do you know who that was?” Cheryl hissed, eyes on Lucas’s retreating figure. He had a rather nice posterior aspect, not that I noticed. Much.

  I shrugged. “Not really.”

  “Lucas Salvatore is like the number-one best-selling thriller writer. He’s been raking in the dough for a dozen years at least. They’ve made movies of his books. Blockbusters. Like with famous actors.”

  “Oh. That’s nice.”

  Cheryl rolled her eyes. “Nice? The man is filthy rich. And he was flirting with you.”

  I gave a snort of disbelief. “Sure he was.” And if she believed that, I had an igloo in Arizona to sell her.

  THE PARTY WAS WINDING down, more than half the attendees having disappeared over the last half hour. Natasha, on the other hand, was still going strong. She was draped over her boy toy, grinding against him with her lower half. It was awkward, to say the least.

  “For crying out loud,” Cheryl said a little too loudly. She was on her third glass of wine. Wine made Cheryl exceedingly honest. “They should get a room. Give the rest of us a break. I swear my eyeballs are bleeding.”

  Whipping around like a snake scenting prey, Natasha zeroed in on Cheryl. Oh, great. Just what I needed. Jet lagged, a little tipsy, and definitely not in the mood, I watched Natasha stalk toward my best friend.

  “Listen, you little harpy,” Natasha started, her medically enhanced features twisted in a drunken sneer.

  “Natasha, she didn’t mean anything,” I said, stepping in front of Cheryl. “We’re all tired. It’s been a long day. Why don’t we go to bed and pick this up in the morning?”

  Natasha snorted, looking at Cheryl like she was so much dog poo. “She’s just a jealous little witch. Can’t get a man. Can’t sell books.”

  “Jealous? Of you?” Cheryl burst out laughing. I could hear the slight edge of hysteria. Natasha was full of it, of course. Cheryl got plenty of male interest, but she was focused on her career. And she did sell books. Scads of them. She just wasn’t in Natasha’s category. Not many are. Still, Cheryl tended to be sensitive about those subjects. She thrust her chin out. “Oh, yeah, I’ve always wanted to be a d
runken lush.”

  Natasha let out a scream of rage and charged around me at Cheryl. Cheryl’s drink went one way, the glass shattering on the marble tile and red wine splashing across a white tablecloth. Cheryl herself went the other way, Natasha on top her screeching like a banshee. I stood there with my mouth open like an idiot while the two of them rolled around, yelling insults at each other and occasionally landing punches. Cheryl, being less drunk and much younger, was landing better hits, but Natasha was a wily one, and Cheryl would likely be sporting a black eye come morning.

  Shaking myself out of my stupor, I reached down and grabbed the nearest arm, trying to yank whomever it belonged to away from the fight. “Stop it. Both of you. For goodness sake— Ouch!” I got an elbow in the cheekbone for my trouble. Cheryl wouldn’t be the only one with a black eye.

  “Here. Let me.” It was Lucas, back from wherever he’d slunk off to. He grabbed Natasha under her armpits and lifted her off Cheryl as easily as if he were lifting a child. It couldn’t have been as easy as it looked. Natasha was screaming and kicking the entire time.

  I leaned over to help Cheryl off the floor, my cheekbone still smarting from whoever’s elbow. I was blaming Natasha.

  “Ms. Winters, you need to calm down,” Lucas was saying in a soothing voice.

  Natasha let out a string of words that would have had my mother reaching for the soap.

  “Now, is that any way for a lady to talk?” Lucas asked mildly.

  My eyes widened. If Lucas Salvatore didn’t want a knee to the groin, he probably should back off the lecturing. Let me tell you, if a man spoke to me that way, he’d be missing body parts.

  Fortunately for Lucas, Mr. Winters appeared. He somehow got Natasha more or less under control as he guided her out of the ballroom. Her boy toy had long since disappeared. Probably embarrassed to death, or worried about losing his job. I was pretty sure he was one of the bar staff since he wore a staff polo shirt.