Praise for
KILLER CONTENT
“Odessa has an unconventional, appealing voice, and she’s no shrinking violet. I laughed out loud in places. Killer Content is a killer read!”
—New York Times bestselling author Sofie Kelly
“Blacke pens a delightful main character in boots-wearing Odessa Dean, a rural Louisiana transplant to Brooklyn. I loved this immersive whodunnit, with its diverse cast and unique social media theme. #killermystery.”
—Jennifer J. Chow, author of Mimi Lee Gets a Clue
“Sparkling with delightful dry wit, this tale of a small-town Southern girl taking on the big city is a debut that satisfies from beginning to end.”
—Laurie Cass, national bestselling author of Gone with the Whisker
“Cowboy boot–wearing Odessa Dean brings Southern sensibility to the Big Apple. Quirky characters, viral videos, books, beer, and murder! An entertaining Millennial tale.”
—Abby Collette, author of A Deadly Inside Scoop
“In lieu of the standard cute cop vs. talented amateur standoff, Blacke’s quirky characters and offbeat plot twists allow her debut to work some pleasing variations on the theme. Refreshing fare.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Cozy fans will enjoy seeing Brooklyn (and Brooklynites) through spunky outsider Odessa’s eyes as she gathers the evidence. Distinctive characters enhance the lively plot. Blacke is off to a promising start.”
—Publishers Weekly
TITLES BY OLIVIA BLACKE
Killer Content
No Memes of Escape
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2021 by Olivia Blacke
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Blacke, Olivia, author.
Title: No memes of escape / Olivia Blacke.
Description: First Edition. | New York: Berkley Prime Crime, 2021. |
Series: Brooklyn murder mysteries; 2
Identifiers: LCCN 2021012455 (print) | LCCN 2021012456 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593197905 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593197912 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3602.L325293 N6 2021 (print) | LCC PS3602.L325293 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021012455
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021012456
First Edition: October 2021
Cover art and design by Rose Blake
Book design by Alison Cnockaert, adapted for ebook by Shayan Saalabi
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Cover
Praise for Killer Content
Titles by Olivia Blacke
Title Page
Copyright
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
Chapter 25
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
Odessa Dean @OdessaWaiting ∙ July 12
Look who’s back, y’all. #NYC #Williamsburg
We won!
I wasn’t used to winning, or even being on the winning team. In high school, back in Louisiana, they used to make everyone play volleyball in the old echoey gym and without fail, whatever team I was on lost. They even had a special nickname for me, Odessa the Jinx. If only they could see me now—the undisputed champion of the Williamsburg—Brooklyn, not Colonial—Summer Cornhole Tournament.
There was a big, heavy trophy and everything.
I know, I know, there’s a common misconception that my generation was raised on trophies, but before today I’d never won a single trophy in my entire life. I was starting to realize that I had a gigantic competitive streak I’d never discovered before.
Then again, ever since moving—albeit temporarily—from the sleepy little town of Piney Island, Louisiana, to the trendy Brooklyn neighborhood of Williamsburg, I’d discovered a whole lot about myself. I used to think of myself as Odessa, the perkiest waitress at the Crawdad Shack, who was friendly, decent with a sewing machine, and unfailingly polite to the elderly. Now I was still all those things—except substitute Untapped Books & Café for the Crawdad Shack—but now I’d learned to cook a few simple meals, could navigate the confusing New York City subway system (as long as I had the MTA app up on my phone), and apparently, reigned supreme at cornhole.
Talk about self-improvement!
Cornhole was similar to horseshoes, except instead of throwing iron horseshoes at a pole, contestants took turns tossing weighted beanbags at a hole in a short wooden wedge. I’d never played cornhole before today, but beginner’s luck must have been on my side because my partner and I beat all the other teams. Winning was a new sensation for me, and I loved it.
Before coming to Williamsburg for three months to apartment- and cat-sit for my aunt Melanie while she toured Europe, there were a lot of things I’d never experienced. Food trucks. Ubers. Street tacos. Craft beer. Avocado toast. Since moving here, I’d also found out I was adept at solving murders, but I didn’t plan on doing that again anytime soon. No, siree. One was more than enough for me.
One and done.
I was out of the murder solving business.
My best-friend-slash-roommate, Izzy, threw her arm around my shoulders. “We did it, Odessa!” She stretched out her other arm to get a selfie of the two of us cradling the massive trophy.
“I know, right?” I agreed.
Izzy Wilson was one of the first people I’d met in Williamsburg. As the spunky cashier at Untapped Books & Café, where I served an ever-revolving menu of savory dishes, artisanal sandwiches, and a wide selection of cold craft beers to our eclectic customers, we clicked instantly. She appointed herself my personal guide to all things Brooklyn, so when she needed a place to crash for a few days, I let her stay with me. That had been three weeks ago, and she was still there.
Izzy was taller than me, and had longer arms, which gave her a better angle for taking the picture. “Hashtag squad goals!” she
said, making a goofy grin. The light caught her hair—which was only a few inches long. This week it was a shade of aquamarine that I imagined the ocean around the Bahamas must look, and it made her look like an ecstatic pixie.
“Send that to me, will ya?” I asked.
“I’ll post it to Insta,” she replied.
“Perfect,” I agreed. Since moving to Williamsburg, I’d seriously upped my social media game. I went from only updating my status when something interesting happened to posting to multiple sites a day, several times a day. Plus, I was in charge of the social media accounts for the bookstore-slash-café where Izzy and I worked.
Izzy swiped around on her phone. “Done.” She checked the screen. “Plans?”
“None,” I admitted. “It’s a good thing I’m working the late shift. I never expected to make it past the first round of the competition, much less win the tournament.”
“Me, too. Evening shift, I mean. I never doubted we’d come out on top. The two of us together? Unstoppable.” Undoubtably filled with the same pride I was, she grinned again at the trophy as I wedged it into my messenger bag. “This totes calls for a celebration.”
I checked my bank account balance on my phone. It wasn’t pretty. Williamsburg had an awful lot to offer. A fabulous range of live indie music. Mind-blowing street art. Delicious, flavorful dishes served from an ever-rotating fleet of food trucks. A unique and constantly changing selection of funky craft beers.
And none of it was cheap.
Despite working as many hours as the café would allow and staying at my aunt’s for free in exchange for keeping an eye on her adorable cat, Rufus, I was perpetually broke. “As long as your idea of a celebration doesn’t cost much more than a lemonade at that new handcart in Domino Park, I’m in.”
Izzy hooked her arm around mine. “I know a little place where the beers are cold, the service is great, and we always get a discount.” We spent enough time at Untapped Books & Café working, and still found ourselves there off the clock more often than not. In addition to the very handy employee discount, pretty much everyone I knew in Williamsburg either worked there or ate there every day.
Food at Untapped was half-price for us, but we paid full price for beer unless we were overstocked. “The way we’re pushing Pursuit of Hoppiness, they’d probably pay us to take it off their hands,” I suggested.
“Sounds good. After that tournament I’m starving and Parker’s been working on a vegan mock-egg salad I’m dying to taste test.”
Izzy, like approximately half of Williamsburg as far as I could tell, was vegan. Parker Reed, the enthusiastic day chef at the café, was always inventing new recipes for our eclectic customers. He was a genius in the kitchen and made sure to have options for multiple dietary restrictions from vegan to gluten-free. I used to think vegan food sounded gross, but the more dishes I tried, the more I liked it. I wasn’t giving up delicious fried shrimp po’ boy sandwiches anytime soon, but a vegan egg salad sounded intriguing. “Deal,” I agreed.
We turned the corner and almost smacked into a clump of women who were giggling in that high-pitched tone that usually indicated one too many mimosas with brunch.
The white woman in the center of the cluster wore a light pink silk blouse. Her long nails were painted almost the exact same shade of pink. She had on little jewelry save for a diamond that was too big and shiny to be real that dangled from a simple gold necklace. She literally looked down at me over a hawkish nose, and said, “Excuse you,” in a haughty voice, as if she and her gaggle of friends weren’t the ones hogging the entire sidewalk.
“Vickie?” Izzy asked. “Victoria Marsh?”
The woman’s head swiveled toward her. “Izzy? Isabelle Wilson? Wow, it is you. What a surprise.”
“Oh em gee!” another woman said, pushing her way to the front of the cluster of women. They made enough noise and took up the space of a dozen people, but when they weren’t all chatting away, I realized there were just four of them.
She was a Black woman, dressed in a casual button-down, comfortable-looking shirt with wide-legged pants. Instead of a purse or backpack, she carried a colorful bag that was stuffed to the brim. Judging by the rubber ducky, penguin, and teddy bear pattern, I guessed it was a diaper bag. She had piercing holes in both earlobes but no visible earrings, and wore her hair super short. “Izzy!” she squealed.
Izzy closed the distance between us and the other women and threw her arms around her waist. “Gennifer!” she squealed, rocking back and forth in a hug. “It’s been . . . what, forever!”
“Three years, at least,” she responded, wheezing as she pried herself free of Izzy’s embrace. Having been on the receiving end of an enthusiastic hug from Izzy before, I sympathized with her for being out of breath. She turned to me. “Hi! I’m Gennifer-with-a-G Buckley. You are?”
“Odessa Dean,” I replied. “Take it you know our Izzy?”
“Know her? Only since we were both in diapers.” She turned her attention back to Izzy. “What are you doing in Brooklyn? Last I heard, you moved to Minnesota or some place with cows.”
I turned my attention to Izzy. I had a hard time picturing Izzy surviving in the Midwest. I wasn’t even sure that vegans were welcome in Minnesota, and her short blue hair might raise a few eyebrows.
Izzy laughed. “Where’d you hear that? Me, leave New York? Not hardly. How’s Pete? And little Penny?”
Gennifer flashed a dazzling wedding ring in a subconscious gesture. “All good. Pete just got a promotion, and Penny’s growing like a weed. She’s with her grandma today.”
“I must admit, I never expected to bump into you in Brooklyn,” Izzy said. “I thought the ferry gave you hives.”
“Ferry?” I asked.
“Staten Island Ferry,” Gennifer clarified. “Izzy, Vickie, and I grew up together on Staten Island.”
Vickie interrupted, fluttering perfectly shaped pink fingernails near her throat. “Gosh, we’ve known each other since, what, sixth grade?”
“Fifth,” Gennifer supplied. “Vickie, Izzy, and I all lived on the same block.”
“You did?” I asked, shooting Izzy a sideways glance. I was still getting the hang of New York. The city was made up of five boroughs—including the most well-known, Manhattan, and my borough of Brooklyn. Inside each of the boroughs were individual neighborhoods, like Williamsburg. There was a certain hierarchy of desirability and panache that came with location, along with quite a few stereotypes. I never would have imagined that Izzy had started out in Staten Island, the most suburban of all the boroughs.
“Sure did. Dongan Hills pride!” Gennifer said, slapping Izzy on the back.
“Of course, some of us got out of Staten Island as soon as possible and never looked back,” Vickie added with a self-satisfied grin on her face.
“Of course,” Izzy agreed, while rolling her eyes. “What brings you across the bridge?” One of the things that confused me to no end was how New Yorkers not only rarely ventured out of New York City, they hardly ever left their own neighborhood, much less their borough, especially if it meant taking a bridge or tunnel. Manhattanites rarely visited Brooklyn, Queens, or the Bronx if they could help it, and liked to pretend that Staten Island and New Jersey didn’t exist at all.
“We’re celebrating,” Vickie replied, straightening her shoulders. “We have a reservation for an escape room over on Fifth. I’d love to stay and chat, but if we don’t hurry, we’re gonna be late.”
I doubted she’d ever been late for anything in her entire life. She was like those customers who showed up five minutes before opening and then acted huffy when we didn’t unlock the doors early to accommodate them. Considering no one on the staff—myself included—was ever on time, opening at the posted time was challenging enough without the early bird knocking on the door demanding their turn at the proverbial worm.
“Izzy, why don’t you guys jo
in us?” Gennifer suggested. “Becks and Nadia dropped out at the last minute, so we’ve got spare tickets. Come along. It’s already paid for, so it wouldn’t cost a cent.”
Vickie’s smile twitched but was back in place so quickly I might have imagined it. “Oh, I’m sure Izzy and her little friend have plans.” She didn’t glance in my direction, but as it was the first time she’d acknowledged my presence since she’d almost trampled me, I’d assumed she had forgotten that I existed.
“Nope,” I interjected. “Free as a bird.” Izzy jabbed me with her elbow, but I ignored her. “We’d love to join you, right?”
Izzy glared at me, and I suppressed the urge to giggle. I couldn’t remember seeing her grumpy before. She was perpetually cheery. I should know. As her roomie, I’d seen her wake up with a smile on her face. She whistled to herself when she did dishes. She volunteered to do laundry because she thought it was fun. I’d even caught her singing in her sleep. “Um, yeah, sure,” Izzy said.
“Then it’s settled!” Gennifer said brightly.
“The more the merrier,” Vickie agreed, but her dry voice said otherwise. I was starting to wonder if inviting myself along was such a good idea.
“Yup,” Izzy agreed. “Only, you said you were going to that escape room on Fifth? ’Cause you’re headed in the wrong direction.” She pointed back to the way they’d come. “It’s behind you.”
“Yeah, sure, of course. You know how it is. I get turned around every time I leave the city,” Vickie said.
“Sure you do,” Izzy muttered.
New York City might be comprised of multiple boroughs covering over three hundred miles, but “the city” usually referred to the blocks of Manhattan below 110th Street. No matter that Williamsburg was hipper than any place in Manhattan, it might as well have been as backwater as Piney Island, Louisiana, as far as Manhattanites were concerned.
In the six weeks I’d been here, I’d only ventured into Manhattan a few times. I’d done a few of the touristy things like touring the Statue of Liberty, Times Square, and the Chrysler Building. Izzy had taken me to see a band called Jimber Timber play in the Village. Mostly I’d stayed in Williamsburg, because even if I lived here for the next hundred years, I would never be able to sample more than a sliver of all that my new neighborhood had to offer. If women like Vickie never wanted to cross the bridge into Brooklyn, I was all right with that. It was crowded enough without her.
No Memes of Escape Page 1
