Amy King Cozy Mysteries- The Complete Series

by N. C. Lewis

  "Yes, Stan's the lead guitarist of the Tarry Town Revival. The group is on the road a lot. Danielle used to travel along but prefers to stay at home these days."

  Nick nodded in approval. "I've always liked their music, and Stan's a member of the fundraising committee at the Shoal Creek Homeless Shelter—a good man."

  "Oh, and I've also paid for an advertisement in the Austin High Society Magazine."

  Nick was silent for a moment. "Interesting!"

  "What makes you say that?"

  "That magazine is aimed at corporate executives. I'd have thought you would have gone for a home and furnishing type of magazine. You'll be the only stager in the Austin High Society Magazine."

  "Exactly. I'm targeting corporate clients."

  "Oh," said Nick with a sly smile. "Target a niche market. Very clever. I love it!"

  "Really?"

  "Yep and Danielle is a great choice. Who knows, we might get some free tickets to one of Stan's concerts. That'd be fun!"

  Amy wriggled in her seat, placing an arm around her husband and hugging him tightly. She was pleased Nick agreed. There'd been married for such a long time they often had similar impressions and feelings. Sometimes it amazed Amy just how closely their minds worked. "I'm meeting with Danielle tomorrow for lunch at the Bellowing Spoon. I'll try to persuade her then."

  Nick ran a hand through his wife's soft hair. "The only thing you need now is a client."

  What Amy said next surprised him. "Oh, I almost forgot, already got a client. My first paid staging event."

  "Where?"

  "A.E. Antiquarian Books on Twelfth Street. It's run by a Mr. Alan Earl."

  Chapter 5

  The late sun splashed its final brilliant rays of the day onto a billboard for easy loans hung at a slant over a row of rusted dumpsters as Eddie Yates eased his battered Honda Civic into the Five Star Motel parking lot, shifted into park, and pulled the key from the ignition. The potholed blacktop, dotted with piles of litter, had ugly brown weeds growing through cracks, and grackles strutted with confidence, pecking at discarded, cheap takeout meals, and perching atop rotten leaves piled up in moldy brown clumps on the sidewalk.

  Eddie sat for a few minutes, gazing with tired eyes at the motel entrance. The Five Star Motel, a multi-story, pink stucco building done in a phony, Spanish hacienda style looked sad, with peeling paint, washed-out, dirty windows covered with bars on the ground floor, and the F was missing from the Five Star Motel sign.

  The rattling grumble of an ancient Ford Escort caught Eddie's attention. It hung low like a stooped old man and growled like an angry black bear as it pulled up next to Eddie's Civic. The occupants, a white-haired man with the face of a shrew and a thirty-something woman with matted black hair and greasy brown skin, argued. They tumbled out of the vehicle swearing and yelling as they made their way along the cracked sidewalk to the hotel entrance.

  Eddie's cell phone rang.

  "Yup," he said in a gruff voice.

  "It's your sugar daddy, Alan Earl. Anything new for papa?"

  "Yup," repeated Eddie. "Got me some nice manuscripts for ya. They got your name all over them. Usual price?"

  There was a pause.

  "Times are getting tough, Eddie. Sugar Daddy Earl can't pay what he used to."

  Another pause.

  Eddie turned his head, watching the arguing couple disappear into the motel. "How much?"

  "Ten percent of the usual rate, even then I'm shaking down the queen bee."

  Eddie felt a vein pulsate in his neck. He was barely making it. Buyers for his merchandise had dried up, and now he had to call the filthy Five Star Motel fleapit, home. He couldn't take ten percent for the stolen manuscripts; he simply couldn’t.

  "Listen here, Alan—"

  "Ten percent is my best offer. Take it or leave it. Sugar Daddy Earl ain't negotiating."

  Eddie fell silent. He considered himself an artist at what he did. No fanfare in the newspapers about his crimes, no alarms ringing in his ears, and no security guards chasing after him with guns drawn. He stole manuscripts from museum and university archives. Years ago, he'd lifted an original of Mark Catesby's The Natural History of Carolina, Florida, and the Bahama Islands. It was months before the authorities discovered the document was missing. Enough time and distance for cash payment by Alan "Sugar Daddy" Earl and for him to disappear like a ghost into the shadows. The neat quiet work of an artist.

  "No!" Eddie shouted at the cell phone, smashing his fist into the dashboard. He gulped in air, with ragged short breaths. "No way," he said again, then hung up. If Alan Earl wasn't paying the usual rate, he'd find a buyer who was. For a moment, fuming with rage, he watched as two grackles fought over a filthy scrap of pizza crust. The two birds squawked and scratched at each other. A third grackle swooped down snatching up the pizza crust and flew away.

  Eddie opened the car door and stepped out. He shaded his eyes and looked up at the façade of the Spanish hacienda. "Home sweet home," he muttered bitterly as he walked toward the motel entrance.

  Inside, Eddie glanced around furtively. The gloomy reception area smelled of cheap beer and cigarettes. His room was on the second floor, up two flights of stairs and down a musty-smelling hallway. He was late with his rent and wanted to avoid Ethel Babish, the landlady. Daily visitors paid in advance, the motel's unofficial long-term residents like Eddie paid week by week in cash.

  Fortunately, the reception desk was empty. He slipped past it, along a corridor and up two flights of stairs to his room. Inside, he flicked on the light switch, cockroaches darted for cover. The room smelled of moldy bread and bleach.

  Perched on the end of his bed Eddie picked up his cell phone and dialed.

  After three fruitless hours, he'd exhausted his contacts—no takers. Frustrated, he rose to use the bathroom. Eddie had eaten a heavy breakfast and wanted to unload, urgently, but he'd forgotten the toilet didn't work. Yellow tape wrapped the bowl.

  He swore.

  Nothing in this cheap, flea-bitten motel room worked, except the television, and that only played the community service announcements channel.

  Eddie hurried back along the hallway, down the stairs to the communal restrooms in the reception area and slipped into the "Men's," closing the door silently behind him. The tiny windowless room stunk of stale urine and vomit. He glanced at the sink, half filled with the partially digested remains of a mix of beer and Chinese food. His stomach wrenched at the sour smell. Swiftly, Eddie pushed the door on the single narrow stall and stared with disgust at the bubbling brown water, cracked bowl and excrement-smeared toilet seat.

  He cursed.

  Then someone pounded on the bathroom door.

  "Eddie Yates, I know you are in there."

  It was the landlady, Ethel Babish.

  Eddie didn’t answer.

  "Come out now," she said, only a couple of decibels from shouting. "I bet you think this is funny, huh? Well, you won't be laughing when the boys show up."

  Eddie heaved a frustrated sigh. "Can't a man use a restroom in peace?"

  "Not if he is late with the rent."

  "Give me a few minutes, please."

  Silence.

  When Eddie came out, Ethel was behind the reception desk, her chair swiveled so she could watch the men's room. She was in her sixties with reddish-black hair pulled into an untidy knot, and she waved a cheap plastic pen in the air.

  "Ah! Here the emperor comes now. I hope our throne was up to your exacting standards," Ethel mocked. "Now, cough up." She held her hand out.

  "Tomorrow. I'll have the cash for you—tomorrow."

  "It doesn’t work like that, Mr. Yates," she said in a low menacing voice. "Pay now or else pick up your belongings from the dumpster by the fire escape at the side of the building."

  "Now listen here," said Eddie raising his voice. "I need more time!"

  Out of nowhere three men with shaved heads appeared. Eddie knew them as Ethel's little helpers. He yanked out his wallet and co
unted out the bills.

  "Don't be late again," snarled Ethel with a flick of the pen. "My establishment doesn't like late payers."

  Eddie Yates didn't look back as he scurried to his room.

  He sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, thinking. The futility of his position came to him fully now, like an approaching freight train. His breath quickened. A vein pulsated violently in his neck.

  He was fuming now—blind rage.

  "I've had it with everyone, and they're all going to pay, especially Alan 'Sugar Daddy' Earl."

  Chapter 6

  It was only eleven thirty in the morning and the Bellowing Spoon was busy. Amy sat waiting for Danielle at a corner table. Businessmen in their dark suits mixed with tourists trying to decipher the menu. A mother and father with their teenage children sat at the next table. The noise level was high.

  Amy reviewed the appetizers and wondered whether she'd have the courage to ask Danielle to join her in the Studio Shoal Seven venture. Doubts began to rise in her mind about the whole idea. Surely, she told herself, there were plenty of stagers already in Austin. Wasn’t the Austin Monthly Magazine already filled with wannabes advertising their wares? And what about the Austin Woman Magazine? She'd given up counting at twenty. No, setting up a staging business is a foolish idea.

  Then she remembered what her mentor from the staging course had recommended. "Find your niche and dominate it." Amy's niche was staging for business, and Studio Shoal Seven already had its first client. I'll keep going; see where it leads.

  Amy glanced down at the menu unable to make up her mind. The Bellowing Spoon's oysters, calamari, grilled scallops, shrimp cocktail, and salads were all excellent. She looked up, still undecided, and scanned the gathered crowd at the entrance for the third time. "Danielle, over here."

  Danielle: long-limbed, angular with eggshell brown skin, and wild, curly, jet-black hair, waved and hurried over. As usual, she wore colors that didn’t match. Today, silver shorts, a corn yellow blouse with frills the size of a lion's mane around the neckline and a red Aspinal Hobo Bag slung over her shoulder.

  Her hazel eyes glittered as she sidled into a seat. "Amy girl, this city's growing by the second, ain't the quiet small town of my childhood anymore."

  "Tell me about it!"

  The mother of the teenage children got up and hurried off toward the restrooms. One of her teenage daughters followed behind, dancing around the crowded tables with the flexibility of a ballerina and squeezing through the gaps.

  The noise level didn’t drop.

  Danielle had just picked up the menu when the wine steward, a wizened little man with eyes as sharp as a fox and wearing a black tux, white shirt, and burnt-orange bow tie, appeared. He looked at them morosely and fiddled with his bow tie.

  "A glass of merlot," Danielle said.

  "Is the house sufficient for the madam?" He bowed and spoke simultaneously.

  "Yes."

  The wine steward's fox-like eyes turned inquiringly to Amy.

  "Nothing for me."

  Again, he bowed, leaving as silently as he arrived.

  "How's Stan?" asked Amy, leaning slightly forward.

  Danielle said thoughtfully, "You mean how are the Tarry Town Revival? Or at least that might as well be what you mean. Well, Stan and the rest of the group are touring Germany and France this week. The group plays at the Limoges Concert Hall on Saturday."

  "Never heard of that venue. Is it in Germany?"

  Danielle lifted her face and let out a sigh. "Me neither. It's on the outskirts of a French town called Limoges. They sold out, eight thousand tickets!"

  The father of the teenagers looked at Danielle briefly; then he looked across the crowded tables toward the restroom. His wife appeared with their daughter.

  Amy smiled with her eyes without moving her lips and leaned farther forward. "You should be there with Stan. France is an amazing country." She glanced across at the family with the teenagers, seeing herself with Nick and her daughters a few years earlier.

  The wine steward returned. He poured Danielle's merlot expertly into a tall wine glass and topped up Amy's tumbler with water. Then he silently disappeared, and Danielle continued.

  "France is great for vacationing and shopping. But touring with the band—no! Been there, done that. Anyway, I'll travel with Stan during the school summer vacation." She picked up on the mild surprise in Amy's eyes and leaning back in her chair adding, "Believe me, traveling with the band is no fun."

  "I guess not," Amy replied, although it sounded like a lot of fun to her, but by the tone of Danielle's voice, she figured it wasn't all tourist destinations and fancy restaurants.

  "Your orders, please," said a waiter appearing as silently as the wine steward. They both ordered a medjool date salad, a modern American version of an ancient Egyptian staple. The Bellowing Spoon variety contained pitted medjool dates with goat cheese, baby arugula, candied walnuts and fig dressing.

  "How is the job?" asked Amy chewing on a rather juicy date.

  "Oh, this is so good," Danielle said, forking in a mouthful of salad. "I've been a teacher's assistant for three years. I need something more challenging, but I've no idea what."

  "What about becoming a teacher?"

  Danielle put down her fork. "Stan suggested that but… no… I'm done with the classroom."

  Amy felt a surge of optimism. Was now the right time to ask Danielle to join her? Yes, she thought, I'll ask her now.

  But Danielle spoke first.

  "You know Amy, I've always admired what you do."

  "You have?"

  She waved a fork and said, "Yes… you're living the life I want."

  Amy's head jerked. "I am?"

  Danielle gazed with admiration across the table and leaned back in her chair. "Yes, you and Nick have the perfect life. I want to be like you." She paused, lowered her voice and whispered, " I've decided to become a full-time homemaker."

  Amy dropped her fork on the table. It clanged on the side of her plate like a fire alarm. "Oh, are you sure?"

  "Yes. I'm done with work for good."

  "But you don't have kids, and Stan spends half his time on the road," replied Amy unable to contain her shock.

  Danielle laughed; it was an uncertain halting sound. "I'll find something to do… maybe spend more time on the road with Stan."

  Amy saw her opportunity. "But Danielle, you don't like being on the road."

  She folded her arms and pushed her plate away. "Then what do you suggest?"

  Amy held her breath. "Join me in my new business."

  "Your new business?"

  Amy explained her plans and mentioned the first client.

  The waiter reappeared. "I hope you found everything was in order today," he said, robotically picking up the empty plates. "Dessert menu?"

  "No," they said in unison.

  "What about coffee?"

  They ordered.

  The waiter disappeared.

  Almost instantly Amy leaned forward and asked, "So, what do you think? Are you interested in joining me?"

  A slow smile tugged the corners of Danielle's lips. "Oh yes!" she exclaimed. "It sounds fantastic. Count me in."

  Chapter 7

  Tim Clark loathed queso and chips. He hated the dish more than working for A.E. Antiquarian Books. It was after eight p.m., and his longtime girlfriend, Esther, was late coming home—again. She had promised to bring dinner this evening to celebrate his birthday. Instead, Tim sat alone at the kitchen table in their tiny, second-floor East Riverside Drive apartment, staring at a plate of chips and a microwaved tub of the bright yellow glutinous mess.

  "Oh, darling Tim," she had said last time, "something urgent has come up. The whole team must work late to complete a rush order. I'd like to say no, but your job pays so little and we need the money."

  What would it be this time he wondered, sourly? But they've called an urgent staff meeting. But the big bosses from headquarters are coming to visit. But management
has ordered a team-building event. But, but, but. Whatever it was, Esther was late, and he knew she wouldn’t be back with his birthday dinner.

  Tim picked up a chip between his thumb and forefinger and plunged it into the substance coagulating in the little plastic tub. When he got paid on Friday, he'd order takeout. Blackened catfish with a side of fried green tomatoes, two slices of fried cheesecake and two bottles of beer. But right now, he was broke.

  He swallowed hard to control his rising nausea and steeled himself to take the first mouthful. Globs of the lumpy yellow goo dripped from the chip. Tilting his head back he dropped the pale imitation of a Mexican staple between his quivering jowls and chewed.

  It had been a grueling day as it always was at the bookstore. Not that the work itself was physically demanding. It was the constant jibes, complaints, and humiliating put-downs of the owner, Alan Earl, that made Tim feel tiny and miserable. He wanted to quit, but Alan paid him just enough to keep him from that. It's as if, Tim thought bitterly, he is playing with me like a cat toying with a mouse.

  And of course, there was Esther. She always reminded him they needed the money. So, he continued to work for Alan Earl.

  It was the apartment telephone that disturbed his thoughts. Stunned by the suddenness of its insistent clamor, Tim remained at the kitchen table for a few moments in a state of deep weariness. For a moment he dared not breathe. The apartment phone never rang. It must be her.

  He hurried to the hallway where the telephone sat on a little plastic table next to the front door.

  "Hello," he half whispered.

  "Hello, darling." Her voice sounded energized, excited, as if she were looking forward to an upcoming adventure.

  "Is that you, Esther?"

  "Who else would it be?"

  "How are you?"

  "Oh, I'm fine."

  "What’s up?"

  "Nothing really. It's just that I've got to work late tonight. I know it's your birthday but—"

  "You promised you'd be home for dinner."

  "I know, I know. It's just that Mildred, you've met Mildred, haven't you? She works the late shift."

  "No, I've never met her," he said, trying to speak quietly and control the quivering of his voice. "What's Mildred got to do with you working late on my birthday?"