Cozy Suburbs Mystery Box Set

by Lisa B. Thomas

  “Heavens no! That’s the strangest part of this. I got this really strong taste of candy in my mouth. I don’t know where it came from, but it was real. I promise.” Her eyes implored Sandra to believe her. “Another thing that was real was when I said you have a lot of spirits around you. Don’t ask me how I know. It’s just this feeling I have when I look at you.”

  Sandra shivered. “What do you see now?”

  Deena started to interrupt. The last thing Sandra needed was more talk of ghosts and ghouls.

  “I know this doesn’t make sense,” Tonya said, “but when I look at you I keep seeing a girl. A little girl. It may just be my imagination.”

  The front door opened, and a man stuck his head in. “Tonya, it’s time.”

  “That’s my uncle. I better get going.”

  Sandra walked around the counter and gave Tonya a hug. “Take care of yourself. You know where I am if you need anything. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  “Thanks.” Tonya turned and hurried out the door.

  Deena stared after her. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Uh-huh.” Sandra touched her stomach and smiled.

  The woman who had been in the dressing room brought several items up to the counter. “I’m going to get these.”

  Sandra snapped out of her trance and began ringing up the clothes.

  “By the way,” the woman said, “when I was in the dressing room, I kept hearing a weird knocking sound.”

  Sandra’s mouth dropped open as she swung around to stare straight at Deena.

  Deena laughed and shook her head. “I think I just came up with a suggestion for Mayor Thornhill’s slogan contest.” She waved her arms. “Maycroft: Don’t get too cozy!”

  THE END

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: This was a fun book to write. I found Tonya to be an interesting character. I was happy she dumped Roscoe.

  I’d really appreciate a review on Amazon. Also, you can sign up for my newsletter to receive a free book and information about giveaways, discounts, and new releases. Sign up here.

  SHARPE TURN: MURDER BY THE BOOK

  Copyright © 2016

  Lisa B. Thomas

  Cozy Stuff and Such, LLC

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Prologue

  No wonder women in Texas have such big hair. Her stylist used more aerosol hairspray in this one sitting than the entire line of Rockettes would use in a whole stage show. Alexis Dekker stared at her reflection in the rearview mirror as she raced back to her house on Battle Bend Road.

  Obviously, these hillbillies in Maycroft had no idea how to do hair. This was her third attempt to get a decent cut and style since she and Max moved here three months ago, and it would definitely be her last. She didn’t care what it cost; she would be flying back to the city to let Daphne do her hair from now on. Max would just have to get over it.

  Besides, it would give her an excuse to leave these hicks for a few days a month and soak up some of her beloved New York—not to mention all the shopping she could do.

  Unfortunately, Maycroft was east of Dallas and quite a distance from the airport. She would get a car to pick her up. Yes, that would work. She hated driving anyway. In the city, she had always taken cabs.

  Ahhh. But she did love the smell of rich leather. She ran her hands around the steering wheel of the new pearl red Audi Coupe and took in a deep breath. She veered onto the small road that led to the northeast side of town where her husband had chosen a secluded ranch-style home for their retirement bungalow.

  Retirement. Like a writer had anything to retire from. All he did most days was lock himself inside his study and pound away on the keyboard. When they lived in the city, at least they’d go out to dinner in the evening with friends. Now that they had moved to Nowheres-ville, Texas, they ate at home. Luckily, Max did most of the cooking. He knew better than to expect her to do much more than fix the occasional sandwich or pour wine.

  Her husband had convinced her to sell their New York City apartment. Alexis had protested but finally had given in. After all, she had plenty of friends to stay with when she visited. Besides, Max wouldn’t be around forever. He had a strong will but a weak heart. When the time came to bury him six feet under, she’d be looking down from a penthouse in Manhattan.

  Her headlights shone on a pothole up ahead, but she was going too fast to swerve around it. The small car jolted, and she bounced around, hitting her head on the side window. The wine fridge lying in the back seat rattled with the jarring motion of the car.

  Alexis cursed the stupid rural town with its winding roads and overgrown pastures and reached for the side of her head where a bump had already begun to form. She glanced back over her shoulder, trying to see if the wine refrigerator had ripped the leather car seat. When she turned back around, the looming tree grew larger against the dusky sky, like a vicious serpent reaching out its tentacles to grab her. The ancient oak was a sentinel, ready to claim anyone who dared to challenge the road’s wicked curve. She slammed on her brakes.

  It was too late.

  She covered her face with both arms, her hands balled into fists. She sucked in her breath and squinted her eyes as tight as possible, bracing herself for the impact.

  One lone survivor. A bottle of red wine, left in the trunk from a previous shopping trip, rolled across the pavement amongst the rubble and debris, coming to rest intact against the base of the old tree.

  Chapter 1

  Compared to a conspiracy, a knife fight, and multiple broken bones, Deena Sharpe’s latest problem was small potatoes. After all, she had survived a lot worse circumstances this past year. But in light of her cozy life in her cozy town, this was huge. A Texas-sized showdown was brewing in the Sharpe family, and she was determined to come out the winner.

  The titles on the spines of the library books blurred as she craned her neck to read those on the top shelf. If only she were taller. Not freakishly tall, but more than her five-feet-five inches. Gary was over six feet. He could see and reach all the high shelves. Too bad he was at work.

  Maybe if she knew what she was looking for, the chore wouldn’t feel so tortuous. For whatever reason, this was her blind spot, and the all-too-familiar wave of discouragement began to drown her optimism.

  Her toes strained at the ends of her loafers to keep her pushed up long enough to read the titles. As she pulled down a thick tome with a colorful cover, dust drifted through the air and brought on a powerful sneeze.

  That was enough. At her feet lay a stack of cookbooks she’d already pulled from the library shelves. Would she uncover the magic bullet buried somewhere inside to conquer this upcoming challenge?

  Her blood boiled at the thought of last December when Gary’s mother threw down a proverbial gauntlet, which in this case was more like an oven mitt. And, it had been oh-so public. The entirety of the Sharpe family had come from places far and wide to gather as one in Deena’s little house in the suburbs. It was the Christmas festivity she had long dreaded. No one seemed to care that she’d just gotten out of the hospital and had saved Estelle’s life. The only thing the Sharpes seemed to care about was that the food came from Molly’s Homestyle Café and not from her own kitchen. Was she really supposed to cook after all that?

  Of the many hats Deena had worn throughout the years—wife, sister, teacher, reporter—“hostess” was the one that never quite fit. It was the hat that would slip to the side, teeter, and then fall straight to the ground.

  Her mother-in-law was eighty-two going on fifty. It wasn’t that she acted fifty; it was that she was stuck in the fifties. If a woman back then didn�
��t have an inner-June Cleaver, there was something wrong with her. Deena was too progressive for the elder Mrs. Sharpe. Gary’s sister was a natural. And she had kids. Deena and Gary had not been able to have children. Still not an excuse.

  Scooping up the books, she trudged along like “dead chef walking” toward the front desk. Cooking. She needed help and she knew it. Wasn’t acceptance the first step to recovery?

  She plopped the stack on the counter and stared into the cold, dark eyes of librarian Betty Donaldson. “Hi. I’m Deena. And I can’t cook.”

  Betty snickered as she read some of the titles. “How to Cook Anything. Mealtime for Beginners. No-Brainer Baking.”

  Deena’s chin dropped to her chest. “I know. It’s pitiful to be pushing sixty and have to admit I can’t do something that others consider a no-brainer.” Sure, she was being overly dramatic, even pathetic. She didn’t care. That’s how she felt.

  Betty robotically scanned the barcodes into the computer. “So, why now?”

  Deena hesitated. Betty was probably thinking, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Maybe she was an old dog, but she was teachable. Hadn’t she learned to ride a horse at thirty-five? Hadn’t she learned to play Sudoku when it was all the rage? Sure, she hated it and quit, but she had learned. She had even mastered Gary’s fancy remote control for their new big-screen television.

  But cooking was a horse of a different color. “Gary’s sixtieth birthday is coming up, and his mother dared me—dared me—to try to fix his favorite dessert.” She put her hand to her forehead and let out a sigh. “She’s never accepted me because I didn’t give her grandchildren. I had a hysterectomy at thirty, so she thinks I’m defective.” Deena waited for Betty to offer up the obligatory sympathy and tea one would expect.

  Nothing.

  Deena continued. “So I signed up for a cooking class through the adult education program at the community college.” She picked up one of the cookbooks. It smelled like burnt sugar. Not a good sign. “I thought I’d try to do some self-study before the first class tonight.” Her head ached from reading all the titles. How was she going to handle reading the insides?

  Betty peered over black reading glasses. “You realize that cooking and baking are two different beasts, right?”

  “It’s all a black art to me. I might as well be trying to rebuild a car engine or paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”

  “That’s been done, so you’re off the hook for that one.” Betty walked over to shush some teenagers laughing too loudly by the computers.

  Cooking was an art. The Art of Cooking. That was one of the cookbooks she’d left on the shelf. Sure, she could throw some ingredients in a pan and heat them up, but that wasn’t the same thing. She eyed the books as though they were weapons of mass destruction.

  Betty returned to the eagle’s perch.

  “Nobody criticizes you if you can’t play the piano or sing an aria, so why is it so humiliating if you can’t cook?” Deena asked. “It’s a talent, right?”

  Betty arched an unplucked eyebrow and huffed out an unsympathetic groan. She was close to retirement age and looked every bit the part of the spinster town librarian. Except, she was married and hated cats. A sly grin belied her amusement at Deena’s plight as she thumbed through some of the pages of one of the books.

  “I’m an untalented failure.” Deena crossed her arms on the counter and dropped her head. She was looking for support but had come to the wrong place.

  Betty whacked Deena’s head with a copy of Cooking for Dummies. “Lighten up. I’ve never seen you so discouraged. I’d be glad to help you, but I can’t cook either.”

  “Really?” Deena sucked in a quick breath, and her spirits rose as she looked up. “But you always bring such nice dishes to our luncheons.”

  “Two words: Marie Callender’s. Check the frozen food aisle.”

  Relief washed over Deena, but the feeling was short-lived. An image of Mrs. Sylvia Sharpe with her perfectly coifed silver hair and nearly wrinkle-free skin danced in front of her face. For such an old woman, she showed no mercy when she threw down the dessert challenge like a WWE wrestler. Then it hit her. “You know, maybe I don’t need to learn a bunch of fancy cooking techniques. I just have to master this one dessert. After all, Gary’s mother lives out of state, so we don’t see her that often. Plus, she’s getting up there in age and—”

  “Deena Sharpe! Don’t even think like that! Talk about bad karma.” Betty crossed herself even though she wasn’t Catholic.

  At least Deena didn’t think she was. She had known Betty for years but couldn’t recall her ever mentioning church.

  Clamping her mouth shut, Deena pictured her mother-in-law in her “Kiss the Cook” apron and high heels. Actually, that was someone she’d seen on Mad Men. “You don’t know what it’s been like to live under the shadow of Betty Crocker all these years,” she protested.

  “Uh, I don’t? My name is Betty. Do you know how many times people call me Betty Crocker?”

  Deena had to laugh. “Fair enough. We’re tied.” She reached for the stack of books. “Maybe I’ll just take the ones on baking.”

  “Good idea.” Betty punched on the keyboard and re-scanned the books. Then she pulled off her glasses, leaving them to hang on the gold chain around her neck. “You know who is an excellent cook, don’t you?”

  “Who?”

  “Your neighbor—Christy Ann. I bet she’d be willing to help you.”

  Deena nearly choked on her own saliva. Of all the people she made an effort to avoid in their small Texas town, Christy Ann was at the top of her list. She was one of the most competitive people Deena had ever met. The woman could turn praying into a competition. “Over my dead body. I don’t care if she’s the ‘Julia Child of Maycroft,’ she’s the last person I’d ask for help.”

  “Suit yourself.” Betty slid the two baking books across the counter and stacked the others on a cart to be re-shelved.

  “I wonder if I can get my money back for the cooking class.”

  “Here’s a thought,” Betty said, brightening and straightening her square shoulders. “Why don’t you take the Mystery Writing course with me? That’s right up your alley. I’m surprised you haven’t tried to write one already.”

  “Mystery writing?” Deena’s eyes darted back and forth between Betty and the book-lined shelves. “I must admit that I’ve thought about it. When I was teaching, I was too busy. Then there was my brief stint at the newspaper...”

  “I used to always read your articles. They were a little dry but well written.”

  Deena’s face tightened. “They were news stories. They were supposed to be dry.” Her claws flared like a mama cat’s.

  She fished in her purse for her car keys, needing time to think. Writing a novel was an idea she’d toyed with on and off but never seriously considered. Journalist and fiction writers were as different as...well...cooking and baking. It would be hard to make the transition. Still, it might be fun to explore. “I wonder if the class is full already.”

  “Actually, it is. But I know the gal at the college in charge of enrollment. I could get you in. Besides, there’s always at least one person who drops out of these things. I can call her.”

  Deena faced another watershed moment. Like when Ian Davis asked her to work for him as an investigator. Look how that turned out. She ended up at the wrong end of a sharp blade. Throwing caution to the wind, she agreed. “Sure. It sounds like fun.”

  Betty rocked back on her heels. “Here’s the best part. It’s being taught by Max Dekker.”

  Not quite as famous as John Grisham or James Patterson, Max Dekker had a blockbuster debut novel. He continued to put out hit after hit and just recently moved back to Texas to settle into semi-retirement.

  “I saw his name in the course catalog. I couldn’t believe such a well-known author would teach a class in our squatty little town.”

  “Actually, when I heard he and his wife moved to the area, I called my friend at t
he college and asked her to set up the class. She owed me a favor.” Betty jutted out her pointy chin as though taking a dare. “She bugged him so much that he finally gave in.”

  The wheels turned in Deena’s head. Maybe this was it. The thing she’d been looking for to fill the void left by quitting her teaching job and being fired as a reporter. Deena Sharpe: Mystery Writer. She liked the way it sounded.

  “You missed the first class last Monday, but that’s not a problem. Be here tonight at seven o’clock sharp. Should be an interesting class.”

  Deena chuckled as she tucked the baking books under her arm. “Maybe I’ll write one of those cozy mysteries that includes recipes. That’ll show Gary’s mother he married a good woman.’”

  THE ATTIC IN DEENA’S suburban ranch-style house was stifling hot. In many parts of the country, mid-September meant cool breezes and golden leaves. Not in Northeast Texas. The heat was sticking around like an unwanted guest. Sweat beads dripped in her eyes as she looked for the old metal trunk that housed her childhood memories.

  Crazy, the things she chose to keep. Nothing valuable to anyone but her. Most of it was more like trash than treasure.

  She spied the trunk she wanted under a stack of tubs filled with Christmas decorations. Getting to it would involve moving other boxes and bins and walking across parts of the attic without flooring. Not worth it. She climbed back down the ladder to the safety of the garage.

  What were the chances the short story she had written in high school was worth revisiting anyway? From what she remembered, the main character was a sixteen-year-old girl who wanted to solve the mystery of her missing teacher. It was kids’ stuff. Maybe when she had a few real novels under her belt, she would dig the old story out for a good laugh.

  This newest endeavor had her antsy. She couldn’t wait for Gary to get home to tell him about her day. Hopefully, he wouldn’t give her his, “Here we go again” speech. She had heard it much too often lately.