Ainsley Moses never thought she'd become a representative for the dead. But as a newbie obituary writer for the Aurora Fall's Guardian, she gets a sneak peek at her new profession. Her ex-best friend and rival newspaper worker turns up blue and stiff as a board in the women's bathroom - after they've had a less than civil confrontation.
Ainsley's in the habit of memorializing the dead, not finding them. But now she's saddled with a motive for murder - killing to drum up obituaries in order to further her career in a dying newspaper business where everything is going digital.
When another victim meets his maker with a connection to the first victim, Ainsley has to make nice with a hard ass, bombshell Detective who's dead set on closing the case or risk the calm of their cozy town. Ainsley's charming ex-boyfriend turned roommate, Gage Sullivan, comes to her aid as they throw themselves into deadly research. Every obituary interview brings them that much closer to finding a killer connection. While fighting her new rep as a prime suspect, her matchmaking, Stepford mother is intent on keeping her daughter's dirty laundry under wraps and her sex addicted wealthy grandparents want to buy her way out of jail. Or at least help her learn how to make a shiv.
None to thrilled with the idea of making friends with a cell mate named Betty the Bruiser, she'll wade knee deep into a cesspool of the town's secrets, gossip, and lies. But with a whacky cast of characters hell bent on keeping the peace, no bit of personal information is sacred. They have to find a killer - before Ainsley loses her freedom and her chance to make peace with a fate that scares her more than anything else in life.
“Excuse
me, Miss?”
My
head swiveled to the right and the left—no one. I looked up into the industrial
lofts circling around and up the perimeter of the building, where all the
important people in the newspaper business kept their hours. A stranger stuck
his head out over the balcony. I couldn’t get a good glimpse with my head at a
whackado angle and all the blood rushed into my temples.
I
quickly stood up, fighting off the dizzy spell, and the pinch of my heels. I
clamored up the winding, wooden circular stairs into the lofts and toward an
epically tall man with razor sharp cheekbones that could make women riot in the
streets. His light green gaze narrowed and he cleared his throat. His bleached
blond hair was curly at the ends with black roots, and he wore a suit that was
more vintage 1920’s than anything I’d seen in my coastal college town—and yet
it fit him to utter perfection. A gorgeous, trim swimmer’s body beneath his
light cream dress shirt and…this couldn’t be going anywhere good.
If
this was my new boss—well, I wasn’t going to finish my thought.
His
brow’s raised in expectation. Maybe my day was less gloom and more va-va-voom.
He offered me a smile which shifted heat down to the bottom of my curled toes.
“Yes?”
I slung my black studded messenger bag over my shoulder with a thump and the
bag hitting against my hip made me wince. “Nice to meet you. I can’t wait to
get chatting, let me just get my resume out.” I stuck my hand out waiting for
his firm grip in mine. When he didn’t extend his hand to take mine, I mentally
brushed off the dust from my social skills, and dug in my bag for my resume. He
kept walking down the hallway and I swallowed the lump in my throat.
I
followed him down the creaky steel balustrade to his office. He paused at the
entryway where I almost slammed into what I imagined was a firm backside. The
seconds ticked by while I was busy fumbling through several notebooks, open
packages of orange Tic-Tacs, and wadded up pieces of paper. Until I sidled past
him and maneuvered into the generic wooden chair facing the typical name plated
desk of my future boss. Streamers of spring light dappled across the dust
mote-strewn room and I looked back down at the bag in my lap.
“Here
we are,” I practically shoved the crisp paper into his chest. He hovered above
me and I dumped my bag to the side of the chair. “Hit me with anything, I can
take it.”
My
confidence was likely to take the blow as I folded my hands in my lap, crossed
my ankles, and pasted on the fake smile of interviewees everywhere. Not the
best start to new and improved Ainsley—but at least I’d woken up this morning,
there was that. I watched him as a curled lock of his platinum hair fell
against his forehead, released from its prison of hair gel, while he scanned my
resume. One side of his mouth curled upward. Was his smile because of the work
experience at the University bookstore or my creative use of effulgent? Sure
the ink was slightly smudged from the typewriter, but damn it, laptops melt in
dorm room fires. Not as though mine was impervious.
“I
can type as fast as you need me to and I’m an advanced master in spellcheck.
The little squiggles don’t know what they’re in for and I know my master’s
degree is in library science but I’m a really good reporter, I’ve seen the
movie Newsies, like eight bazillion times and who doesn’t know about
dead people? I’ll do them justice—”
“While
I’ll take that all into consideration, Miss Moss, um, I don’t work here. I’d
actually called your name because your mother had mentioned to me that she
wanted to get you out of the house and…you don’t recognize me, do you?”
“N—no.”
Mortification
didn’t directly lead into recognition, so that would be a negative. I squinted
at him hoping maybe it would bring everything into focus. Meanwhile I tried to
ignore the blush creeping up beneath my cheeks to singe upward along my cropped
hairline. His lips pursed while he shuffled from one foot to the other and
shoved a hand in his pocket.
“You’re
not my new boss?” I lamely put out into the universe, twisting my fingers in my
lap.
“Not
so much. Only a perspective roommate. I met your mother at the Shop and Hop
this morning picking out a new box of Wheaties. Because you and I dated in
eighth grade and things didn’t work out, your mother is convinced I’m gay,
which leaves me as prime pickins when I’ve got space to rent in my renovated
Victorian.” He seemed to smile at a memory, laughing to himself. “I don’t know
what you did to that woman, but she’s more than ready to get rid of you.”
There
was a beat when I considered any number of sins I could have committed in my
mother’s eyes. The list was long and probably in alphabetical order. And while
I was still under her roof, a lot of what she thought of me still mattered a
whole hell of a lot.
“Aw, blast, where the hell are my manners
today?” He ran a large hand through his hair and eased it along the top of his
head, as if he were looking for something up there. Maybe a hat? Sure matched
the southern charm oozing from every pore. “Gage Sullivan, possible landlord,
and former dumpee. I’m here to interview with Mr. Spencer for an advertising
slot in the paper for my home business.”
He
held out my little resume. A flash-bang of sudden memory made me lick my lips.
We’d dated for two weeks in junior high and I’d dumped him for a fictional
character—a one Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, because, and I quote “he knew how to
treat a girl”. And Gage had been too busy running track, riding four-wheelers,
and sleeping in on the weekends to amuse me.
Yeah,
no idea what I’d meant with that one-liner either. But not having an
explanation for my teenage mistake didn’t keep the old memory from searing my
brain as I wrapped my mind around the pseudo-stranger’s proposition to move in
with him.
“You’ll
probably need your resume again. I just wanted to make you aware of the
situation, with the house. Your mom seemed pretty dead set. I’ll be on my best
behavior as a landlord, cross my heart and hope to die.” He winked and my
thighs tightened together as my body went taut with uncomfortable awareness. I
snatched my resume back from his outstretched fingers—piano player’s fingers.
“She’s
pretty persistent…about everything,” I muttered holding my violated resume to
my chest and wondering whether to stumble out or sit there waiting for my
actual boss. “You know I don’t have any money, right? Not exactly a great
rental prospect without rent money.”
“I’m
not adverse to IOU’s.” His light green eyes lit up and he leaned back against
the desk crossing his arms. “At least I’ll know exactly where to go for
collection services.”
Footsteps
sounded outside the door and my head twisted so fast toward the doorway I might
as well have been possessed. My fingers curled in my lap, as if I was getting
caught doing something I shouldn’t, and someone was going to call me out on it.
Whoever walked into the office next was probably my new boss. But my track
record at this point was pretty shoddy.
“Ah,
glad you two made it down here. I’m sorry for the delay, there was a pie fight
in the diner and someone had to cover the story before it got all cleaned up.
As you know, we’re a little shorthanded around here lately.”
The
voice belongs to Paul Spencer, head of our small town newspaper. Or, that was
who I thought he was given he took the seat behind the big oak desk with the
super nifty swivel chair and the name plate “Paul Spencer”. But, what did I
know? I’d been wrong the first time.
“Is
that your resume?” He pointed toward the paper still pressed against my
breasts. “May I have it?”
I
handed it to him without a word. The incredibly thin man scratched the top of
his hair, which stuck out everywhere in a garish red hue I’d recently seen in
the semi-permanent hair color aisle. It was so damn vibrant. Frankly, it made
me a bit envious, as I absently pet my own shock-rock red highlighted black
pixie cut. He straightened the bowtie at his throat, cracked his neck, and
rubbed the stubble at his chin, which proved the vibrant shade of red was au
natural. When he propped a Converse sneakered foot on the edge of his desk, I
grew a little worried.
Did
he plan on shooing out Gage or was this some kind of kinky, three-way interview
on camera somewhere? Better to go with a flow, I guessed. He made a few low
noises of approval. His hand fished in his khaki pocket until he came up with
the dreaded red pen and circled what must have been ninety things—even if I
didn’t have many things to circle on my itty-bitty resume. Mercifully, he
lowered his weapon a second later and locked eyes with me.
“Your
Sylvia Moss’s girl, aren’t you?”
I
nodded. All of my good interview answers wasted on the phony sitting beside me.
Yes, those were my good interview answers.
E. Hepner is the cozy mystery pen name of erotic and erotic romance author Elise Hepner. She writes small town heroines with an alternative edge put in big time situations where death, hijinks, and overall shenanigans ensue on a daily basis. Also a little romance - which they may or may not be ready for, given the pile up of dead bodies.
Some of her favorite cozies are ones by Kate Carlisle, Ali Brandon, Janet Evanovich, an Gemma Halliday. When not thinking about corpses and trickery, she's planted in front of the TV petting her demanding cat or looking up things on Google that she really doesn't want on her internet history.
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