Diana Orgain's Blog, page 2
August 13, 2022
Double Trouble (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book Twelve) Sneak Peek – Chapter Two pt.2
Did you miss Chapter One?
Did you miss Chapter Two part One?
From Double Trouble
Chapter Two Continued…
By instinct, I leaned forward, covering Laurie, protecting her from the oncoming frosting missiles.
“Nooooooo!” my sweet husband called, lunging toward us, arms outstretched. He made contact with one of the cakes face-first, knocking it off course.
A light shower of pink crumbs rained down around me. A girl . . .
Then the second cake hit my head, rattling my skull.
Laurie’s whimpering sobs heightened to a shriek. I blinked, shaking off the cake, inspecting Laurie for injuries.
“Are you okay?” I asked in a soothing voice.
Much to my relief, Laurie was fine—a few flecks of frosting dotted her party dress, and one of her shoes was covered in pink crumbs, but she’d mostly avoided the disaster. My head pounded, and I reached up to touch my hair.
I was covered in cake.
I pulled my hand away, staring blankly at the white frosting and pink crumbs on my fingers.
Pink. Again.
Two pink cakes.
I blinked a few times, trying to process what had just happened.
“Two girls!” cried Jim.
I glanced from person to person. Jim was fist-pumping the air, a mask of cake coating his face and the front of his button-up shirt. Everyone else in the room was deathly silent and wide-eyed, every mouth covered by a hand.
I shifted Laurie onto my hip and reached up toward Jim. He leaned over and helped me to my feet. Laurie’s shrieks returned to soft whimpers, and she reached for her daddy with a choked sob.
“Are you all right, honey?” Jim asked in concern.
“I’m just fine,” I said, my hand drifting to my hair again. “A little bit of a headache, maybe. Are you all right?”
“I’m great!” he exclaimed. “We’re having baby girls!”
I looked around the living room at the explosion of pink. “You’re not disappointed that you’re not having a son?”
“Not in the least. This is going to save us so much money.” He fist-pumped the air and started chanting, “Hand-me-downs! Hand-me-downs!”
From the couch, my mom tittered, then burst into a fit of giggles. After a moment, Galigani followed suit, leaning forward with his face in his hands and chortling.
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Then the whole party dissolved into laughter—everyone except Paula and her husband, whose faces had paled to the same shade as the vanilla frosting that now adorned my hair. David stood a few steps away from me, shaking. Paula was at his side, tears brimming in her eyes.
I grinned at them. “Well, this is certainly a gender reveal to remember!”
My mom crowed. “One we’ll never forget!”
I waddled a couple of steps toward Paula. “It’s a great party,” I said in a reassuring voice.
A tear streamed down Paula’s face. “I ruined it!” she cried. “I should have just gotten the cakes from the bakery at the grocery store, so we had them in place before the party started! We should never have tried to bring them in partway through, amid all the chaos.”
A pang seized my midsection, and I sucked in a gasp, lurched backward, and grabbed Jim’s arm.
“What is it?” Jim asked.
I let out a slow exhale, then carefully inhaled. Breathe through it.
Then the pang released me, and I let out a shaky laugh. “Just a Braxton Hicks contraction—I feel fine now.”
Jim studied me in concern, but I waved it away.
“They’re perfectly normal at this stage of pregnancy,” I assured him. “I’ve already had a few this week.”
I shuffled forward to grab Paula’s hand. “Don’t feel bad! You’re going to see how hysterical this was in a week!”
I gestured at the other partygoers. My brother-in-law had fallen to the floor laughing, and tears of mirth streamed down Rachelle’s face, smudging her mascara. She wiped the tears away, then broke into another fit of guffaws.
“See,” I added, “best party ever—the guests are having a great time.”
Paula managed a shaky smile. “I guess they are.”
“Now,” I said with a grin, “could you do us a favor and get Laurie changed into a new dress? Jim and I are both in dire need of a shower.”
Paula nodded mournfully. “Let me rake the worst of that cake off your head and into the trash. We don’t want to clog your drain.”
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF DOUBLE TROUBLE HERE
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Double Trouble (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book Twelve) Sneak Peek – Chapter Two
Did you miss Chapter One?
From Double Trouble
Chapter Two
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls!” called Paula, standing on an upside-down bucket in my living room. “In five minutes, we’re going to have the gender reveal for the twins! Everyone start thinking about making their way into the kitchen. David is arriving with the cakes any moment.” She placed her hand dramatically over her chest. “I was starting to worry the bakery wasn’t going to finish them in time!”
From across the room, I made mournful eye contact with Jim. Paula’s idea for a gender reveal was a pair of cakes—cupcake-sized, I hoped—that she wanted Jim and I to smash into each other’s faces like an enthusiastic bride and groom at a wedding reception.
The idea didn’t thrill me . . . but Paula had been so enthusiastic, and it seemed easier to play along.
I was too pregnant to argue.
Our house was packed out with friends and family. My mom and her boyfriend Galigani sat on the couch in conversation with Jim’s brother, George, and George’s wife, Kiku, who was holding her little one. My dad and stepmom stood near the doorway to the kitchen with Deb, my policewoman friend. Laurie shuffled across the floor, chasing Paula’s toddler son, and our poor cat Whiskers hid under one of the couches evading Paula’s nine-month-old-daughter Chloe.
A knock sounded at the door, and I opened it to find my friend and rival PI, Vicente Domingo and his cousin Baramendi, with Sergeant McNearny a step behind them.
“Sorry we’re late!” Baramendi said. “We were just wrapping up a few loose ends at work.”
Vicente shrugged sheepishly. “Kate knows how it is,” he said. “Sometimes you just can’t break away from an important case.”
“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow, suddenly intrigued. “Anything I can help with?” I asked against all my better judgment.
McNearny scowled at me, though there was a grudging respect in his eyes. “Not a chance, Connolly. You’re on maternity leave, remember? Galigani said you told him yourself that you didn’t want any cases for a few weeks.”
“That’s right,” Galigani piped up from his position on the couch.
“I know, I know,” I grumbled, waving them inside. “I’m just not a hundred percent sure I meant it.”
Vicente chuckled, and the group joined us inside.
McNearny grumbled, “Connolly, with your uncanny sense of timing, there’ll probably be a murder in the hospital while you’re giving birth.”
From across the room, Deb yelled, “I heard that, Sergeant! Don’t you be giving Kate a hard time now.”
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Just then, Rachelle—our new nanny—walked out of the kitchen, carrying two glasses of ice water. “Hi Uncle Patrick!” she called, waving cheerily at Sergeant McNearny.
The sergeant muttered something unintelligible in my general direction. He still wasn’t thrilled that I’d hired his niece as our nanny—but it seemed like he was starting to get used to the idea.
A shrill baby scream broke over the party noise. I whirled, my heart jolting to a gallop, to see Laurie sitting on her bottom in the middle of the living room, her face crumpled in a deep sob.
“Ooooh!” I cooed as I swooped toward her and eased myself to sit at her side. “What’s wrong, little duck? Don’t cry at your own birthday party, sweet girl!”
Laurie threw herself into my lap with a guttural sob.
“Oh, honey,” I murmured, stroking her back. “Did you fall down?”
Paula’s three-year-old peeked out from behind Rachelle’s legs, his wide-eyed expression giving him away.
I crossed my arms and trained a stern stare on him. “Danny,” I called in a commanding voice. “Did you make her cry?”
Danny bit his lip, then took a small step forward and pulled a stuffed duck from behind his back. “Sorry, Laurie,” he said, holding out the duck.
I accepted the duck from Danny and handed it to Laurie. She grabbed it and clutched it tightly to her chest.
“Oh, did he take your duck?” I asked. “See? He gave it back and said he’s sorry. Can you say, ‘I forgive you’?”
Laurie just studied Danny dourly, and I suppressed a snort. I hadn’t expected Laurie to actually repeat the words, but her expression clearly communicated that she did not forgive him.
The door opened, but I ignored it, focusing on negotiating a peace between the two children. “Danny, can you—”
Someone jostled my arm, and I looked up sharply. My eyes widened. Paula’s husband had arrived with the cakes. And . . .suddenly a delighted baby Chloe zipped across the floor to greet her father.
Oh no.
He was tripping, falling, windmilling his arms with panic in his eyes.
The world slowed down as the cake boxes flew toward the ceiling, flipping over in midair and dumping a pair of bigger-than-cupcake-sized white-frosted cakes directly above our heads.
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF DOUBLE TROUBLE HERE
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Double Trouble (Maternal Instincts Mystery Series: Book Twelve) Sneak Peek – Chapter One pt 2
Did you miss Chapter One part One?
From Double Trouble
Chapter One Continued…
I frowned. “It was in dire need of organization. I think it hadn’t been done in a whole year.”
“A year,” said Paula, overenunciating the words. “What happened a year ago?”
Oooooooh. I pushed the cart forward a few steps, feeling sheepish. “Okay, so maybe I go into nesting mode in the last month of a pregnancy. Is that a crime? Should we call a detective?”
Paula’s serious expression wavered, and she suppressed a giggle. “You are a detective. Wait—you don’t have any cases on your plate right now, do you?”
I shook my head. “No. No way. The next few months are going to be crazy busy, and I can’t take on any new cases. I told Galigani that already. He agrees. I deserve a little maternity leave.”
Paula stood in front of the cart, her arms crossed. “Exactly! That’s what I’m saying. You don’t need to vacuum again—give yourself a break. Remember how you ended up on bedrest for the last week of your pregnancy with Laurie?”
With a scowl, I protested, “That was preeclampsia! It had absolutely nothing to do with overexerting myself nesting.”
She studied me skeptically.
“In fact,” I added, “Dr. Greene told me that staying active might even help me avoid preeclampsia bedrest.”
“You and your facts.” She turned away from me to riffle through another rack of clearance items. “But I’m still not going to let you cut short our girls’ day so you can go vacuum. We have a party to plan!”
I fell silent, glancing up at the Halloween inflatables. That witch was definitely mocking me—there was an unmistakable gleam in her eyes. Her expression somehow reminded me of Sergeant Patrick McNearny, the homicide detective I often feuded with while solving murder cases.
I smirked quietly to myself. I wouldn’t tell Sergeant McNearny that he reminded me of an inflatable witch. He might not appreciate the humor.
“Oh!” Paula whirled back toward me, holding up a roll of blue crepe streamer. “Your ultrasound! How did it go?”
Resting a hand on my baby bump, I said, “Dr. Greene said she was finally able to tell if they’re boys or girls—”
“One of each?” Paula squealed, eyes shining. “That’ll be so fun! Oh, you can dress them in little outfits that almost match, but with boy and girl flair for each, and—”
“I don’t know that it’s one of each,” I interjected. “She didn’t tell me. I’m dying to know, but Jim wants to be surprised.”
Paula made a face. “I’ll talk to him. He’s crazy. We need to know.” She set the blue streamer back on the shelf in a huff. “What if you have two little boys and a closet full of Laurie’s pink onesies?”
I swallowed back a sudden surge of anxiety. “Laurie had a lot of neutral clothes when she was tiny,” I said weakly.
But deep down, I knew Paula was right. If either of twins was a boy—and especially if both of them were boys—we’d be totally unprepared.
Newborns spit up on six outfits a day. And twins . . .
We’d be dressing them in pink frilly skirts by the end of the first week!
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I glanced down at my purse in the cart, then unzipped it and pulled out a thin white envelope. “I had Dr. Greene write it down and put it in this envelope, just in case I could talk Jim into it. Should I open it? We could shop for baby clothes while we’re here, and—”
Paula snatched the envelope from my hands. “I have a great idea!” she exclaimed. “Let’s do a gender reveal at Laurie’s birthday party! Everyone will be at your house, anyway. I’ll handle all the details, and surprise you and Jim!”
My lips twitched.
I’m not so sure about this . . .
“But shouldn’t this party be about Laurie?” I asked. “We’d be letting the new babies take center stage at her birthday celebration. I already feel like I’m not making a big enough deal about it by capping the budget at two hundred dollars.”
Paula waved away my objection. “Laurie will be fine. She’s not going to know the difference.”
Well, that’s true. I was just thinking that Laurie won’t even remember this party . . . but still . . .
“I won’t take no for an answer,” said Paula firmly, turning on her heel and pointing to the left. “To the party aisle!”
After another moment of hesitation, I nodded and pushed the cart after Paula. It was always easier to cooperate with Paula’s whims than to resist them.
Maybe if I cooperated, we’d get home sooner.
And then I can vacuum.
In my open purse, I spied a half-crumpled piece of paper. My newest to-do list. I smoothed it out, looking at everything I needed to do.
Party planning. Focus on throwing Laurie a great first birthday.
We turned onto the party aisle, and my eyes landed on the last item on my list—one I’d scratched out already: 8. Find a new case? No, not this month. No time.
I nodded, satisfied with my decision. Even though part of me itched to put my detective skills to good use, the smarter part of my brain knew I should take a few weeks off.
Unless, of course, a case finds me . . .
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF DOUBLE TROUBLE HERE
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March 21, 2022
4 Sleuths & A Bachelorette ~ A Killer Foursome Mystery ~ Preview of Chapter Four Continued!
From 4 Sleuths & a Bachelorette
Did you miss Chapter One?
Did you miss Chapter Two?
Did you miss Chapter Three?
Did you miss part one of Chapter Four?
Chapter Four Continued…
“Too bad. With your Sophia Loren looks and height, I could make you a star—your very own baloney commercial.”
“Baloney?” Rock boomed before I had time to process the processed meat offer. “You been holding out on me, Zelda?”
“Like I told you, Rock, the Oscar Mayer gig doesn’t showcase all of your talents.”
“Does too. I went to Higgly Piggly and saw Babette passing out wieners with her hands.”
“Sure, and those wieners are heated. You wanna get a burn?” She blew out a mouthful of smoke to emphasize her point.
Rock retracted his hands in horror, then slipped his glove back on.
Zelda pointed her cigarette at him. “I didn’t think so. Now, I didn’t tell you this before because I didn’t want to get your hopes up, but I’m trying to negotiate you a deal with Ball Park Franks. They sell ’em cold in the package, so there’s no risk to your hands. And the best part is, you can flex your biceps when you tell customers the slogan about how they plump when you cook ’em.”
Rock’s eyes gleamed like the sheen on a hot dog fresh off the grill. “Heeeyyy, I see where you’re going with this. I could piggyback off the franks deal to break into bicep modeling.”
I smirked. Based on Rock’s IQ, the “piggyback” pun wasn’t intentional.
“Slow down, Rock.” Zelda stood and doused her cigarette in her highball glass. “That’s a tall order even for an ace agent like me.”
So much for dreaming big.
Zelda went to the food table, allowing me the opportunity to discuss drinks with Rock. “So what cocktails are you serving?”
“Screwdrivers and Cuba libres.”
Perfect for a sad Seventies happy hour. “I think we need something more fun.”
He rinsed a glass with water from the soda gun. “If you’re thinking New Orleans drinks like Hurricanes and Hand Grenades, I don’t know how to make them.”
“Definitely not those.” I didn’t want a repeat of Babette during Mardi Gras, and if we were doing NOLA drinks, I’d pick The Obituary Cocktail and The Corpse Reviver #1, #2, and #3 to go with the décor. “How about limoncello martinis and Campari spritzes?”
“Are those German?”
Mamma mia. Apparently, Rock wasn’t short for Rocco. I looked around the room for inspiration. Dora the Explorer balloons and a cake that read Happy Birthday Harry gave me an idea. “Let’s do margaritas as our fun drink, and The Dirty Harry for those who can handle the stronger stuff.”
Zelda returned to the bar with a plate of party food. She pulled out her lipstick-stained teeth, put them on a bar napkin, and gummed a cocktail wienie.
I tried not to stare at the crime scene happening in her mouth, but I couldn’t help myself. I’d been a PI in NOLA for three years, and I’d never seen characters like these.
My ringtone went off. I rummaged in my hobo bag for my phone, hoping it was Bradley. This time he was going to do me a favor where Babette was concerned and get me a red-eye flight home. That cabbie was right about not staying the night.
The cell display dashed my hopes. It was my parents’ number, and I promptly declined the call. The last thing I needed was for my meddling mom and Sicilian nonna to find out I was at a bachelorette party. The event was depressing enough without them calling me a zitella, or old maid, and whining about not having grandchildren.
As if to remind me of my old maid and childless states, a seriously pregnant woman came to the bar. She held up a picture on her phone of an infant and a cat. “How cute is this, Zelda?”
The agent was so excited she put in her teeth. “Whoa, baby! I see six-figure potential, Kate.”
“Really? Oh my gosh, I can’t wait to tell Jim.”
“Yeah, Friskies, Purina, Fancy Feast…any one of ’em would pounce on this deal. Just think, your cat could pay for your baby son’s college at an Ivy League school.”
Kate’s arm dropped, and so did her eyelids. “That’s my daughter.”
“Yowza.” Rock’s brow furrowed. “You sure that isn’t a boy?”
“I’m her mother. I think I’d know her gender.” Kate shoved her phone in my face. “Does my little Laurie look like a boy to you?”
She did, but I had to be careful because the woman was clearly hormonal. “Of course not. Look at her…pink dress.”
“Right?” Kate shot a mama-bear look at the tactless talent agent and her thick-skulled client.
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I pulled her aside before things got grizzly. “Between you and me, I don’t think Zelda sees too well. She thought my name tag said ‘Frenchie’ and offered me a baloney commercial. I mean, processed meat? At the very least, I’m prosciutto di Parma.”
“Oh, I so agree.”
A petite woman with hair straight off the cover of Vogue came toward us. “You must be Franki. I’m Valentine, a friend of Babette’s.”
“Pleasure,” I said. And it was because her heels added much needed sparkle to the room. “Speaking of the bachelorette, where is she?”
“She should be here fairly soon.”
“I’ve got the drinks under control, so if you want I can go to the lobby and keep an eye out for her.”
“That won’t be necessary. We’ve still got time.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “That’s good, because I would’ve had to keep an eye out for Mo, the hotel clerk, too.”
Valentine and Kate giggled, and I joined in. The party was looking up—until I saw a woman in a black dress and kitten heels careening toward us. She was the only other normal-looking person in the group, so I figured she was Merry, fleeing the other arriving guests, not that anyone would try to crash this party.
“Excuse me, ladies, but we’ve got a situation. Charlie’s been hitting the booze pretty hard, and I’m not talking mai tais with cabbage and bullets. He’s shooting straight tequila.”
I wasn’t sure where Merry got her drink recipes, but it was a good thing she’d been assigned the invitations. “Which one is Charlie?”
She unfurled her arm in the direction of a table opposite the bar. “I present to you Babette’s groom-to-be.”
A guy in a crumpled brown blazer and semi-unbuttoned shirt tossed back a shot and slammed the glass. He got up, stumbled to the bar, then jumped back and spun on the guests. “Who the hell brought that down here?”
Rock pointed a girly glove at me. “She did.”
I stiffened. Everyone was staring except for a woman in black glasses who was reading in a corner—and Zelda who was making herself another scotch and soda. It took me a second, but I realized that Charlie was talking about my suitcase. “Uh, I was running late, so I brought my bag with me. I can run it upstairs real quick.”
“What? No.” Charlie scanned the guests, almost catatonic. He wiped his nose with his forearm and semi-staggered from the room.
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF 4 SLEUTHS AND A BACHLORETTE HERE
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4 Sleuths & A Bachelorette ~ A Killer Foursome Mystery ~ Preview of Chapter Four!
From 4 Sleuths & a Bachelorette
Did you miss Chapter One?
Did you miss Chapter Two?
Did you miss part one of Chapter Three?
Chapter Four
Franki
“Here we are, lady.” The cab driver eyed me in the rearview mirror. “It ain’t the Ritz.”
I could see that. The hotel was maybe a half a Trip Advisor star above the level of rooms by the hour. I climbed from the backseat with my charcoal overnight bag and handed the driver two twenties. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks.” He removed the cigar from his mouth. “Now I got a tip for you—don’t spend the night in this dump.” The tires squealed as he peeled out of the lot.
“And people say New Yorkers aren’t friendly.” I pulled up the handle of my bag and wheeled it into the lobby, which reeked of cheap cologne and pepperoni. As I approached the reception desk, a fifty-something male with thinning hair and a name tag that said Mo put a half-eaten Hot Pocket on the counter and wiped tomato sauce on his gray uniform.
“I’m Franki Amato. I’ve got a reservation for the weekend.”
He eyed the computer. “I don’t got anyone by that name. You sure you’re in the right place?”
I’d been asking myself that very thing since the cab sped off. “Our research assistant at Private Chicks made the reservation, so it could be under my full name, Francesca Lucia Amato.”
“Private Chicks?” His gaze meandered from my face to my chest. “That a men’s club?”
My lips curled, and I squeezed my suitcase handle. “It’s a PI firm. I’m an investigator.”
He threw up his hands like he was under arrest.
“Easy, Mo. I work in New Orleans, not New York.”
He resumed his search for my reservation, and I wished I’d followed my gut and declined Merry Wrath’s invitation to Babette’s shower. I didn’t know the former, and I’d only met the latter once. But my fiancé, Bradley Hartmann, had gone to school with Babette in Boston, so he’d asked me to accept as a favor to him. The thing was that I’d already done him a favor on Babette’s behalf during Mardi Gras three months earlier when he’d let her and some of her friends use his apartment while he was out of town, and the experience had verged on distasteful.
Babette had managed to get herself arrested for nudity in the French Quarter, a nearly impossible feat during Carnival season. From what the police told me, she’d topped off her Pat O’Brien’s Hurricanes with a Hand Grenade at the Tropical Isle Bar, and the cocktail combo had proved explosive. While she was doing the Macarena with the Dancing Hand Grenade—the bar’s green Humpty Dumpty-shaped mascot with dopey eyes, a goofy grin, and a white fuse assembly that looked like a bow—the mascot for a local chain called Dat Dog shimmied up, and he and Babette decided to swap costumes in the middle of Bourbon Street. She stripped off her Mardi Gras Queen number and was sliding into the hot dog outfit when a cop loaded her into a paddy wagon bound for New Orleans Central Lockup.
Through no fault of my own, I’d spent the night in that jail two years earlier on my thirtieth birthday. And after a large woman with a severe skin-sloughing condition had used me for a pillow, I was less than thrilled to return. But because Babette had contacted Bradley with her one phone call, he’d woken me up at three a.m. and asked me to bail her out.
When I arrived at the jail, Babette was still wearing the Dat Dog costume, and because she was naked underneath, I made her stay in it. It’s a good thing I drive a convertible because the costume wouldn’t allow her to sit, so I had to lay her out lengthwise across the front and backseats. The whole way to Bradley’s apartment, she alternated between babbling about method acting and getting into character and singing “na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na…DAT DOG!” like she was Batgirl in a bun. But the truth was that instead of the Batmobile, she’d turned my cute 1965 cherry-red Mustang into a wannabe Wienermobile. Frankly, the whole hot dog escapade had left a bad taste in my mouth, and I hadn’t eaten one since.
Mo picked up the Hot Pocket and took a bite. “Found you. Did you want the continental breakfast?”
Based on his meal, I went with, “No.”
He slid a key card envelope toward me and leaned on the counter. “Your room’s on the third floor.” He flashed yellow teeth flecked with mozzarella. “Want me to help you with your suitcase?”
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“It’s on wheels. I’ve got it.” Given his greasy fingers and matching demeanor, I took the envelope with my fingernails and held it at arm’s length. “Where’s the bachelorette party for Babette Lang?”
“In the Big Apple Room. Head down the hall and take a right at the elevator.”
I nodded and pulled my suitcase into the hallway. Before I pressed the elevator button, the door opened to a man and woman making out. He was leaning against the back wall, and she was all over him like the mozzarella on Mo’s teeth. I couldn’t say the same for her slinky silver dress, which was in serious danger of slinking off.
Fortunately, the door closed. Since I was already late, I decided to skip the trip to my room. Given the things I’d seen in the hotel, I was confident that my black turtleneck and slacks were appropriate for the occasion, not to mention my Italian designer boots.
The event room was more Big Easy than Big Apple. Faded gold drapes, worn velvet upholstery, and filthy shag carpeting spoke of one hundred too many parties—in the 1970s. The look reminded me of a funeral parlor I’d seen outside of Baton Rouge where you could bury a loved one and buy life insurance all in one visit. And, in all honesty, the room was actually nicer than the bordello-chic furnished apartment I’d rented sight unseen from my sixty-something ex-stripper landlady.
I spotted a tape dispenser on a card table by the door and, taking a cue from Mo, made a name tag. Judging from some of the guests, I didn’t want to introduce myself.
A woman in a perfectly pressed navy suit marched up. “Are you Franki, by any chance?”
“That’s me.” I stuck the name tag on my chest.
“I’m Chelsea, Babette’s future sister-in-law. I have you on drinks, and if we’re going to save this event, I need you to do better than Valentine’s decorations and Kate’s food.”
My head retracted at her directness. “I’ll do what I can, but I’m not a bartender.”
“That’s fine because we’ve already got one.” She gestured to a young man with the chiseled features of a model, who was carrying a box of booze into the room. “But he’s got the imagination of a rock, so he needs suggestions.”
“I’m on it.” I made a beeline to the bar, mostly to get away from Chelsea. I stood to one side while the bartender poured a scotch and soda for a mature woman in a curly blonde wig with red lips lined à la Lucille Ball and eyeliner that made my signature cat-eye look kittenish. Even more jarring than her exaggerated makeup were the lime-green gloves on the bartender. They went all the way up to his sizeable biceps, which explained the gloves’ flower-blossom-style opening—but not entirely.
“Hey, I’m Franki.” I extended my hand.
He snatched his gloved mitts away like I was holding Mo’s greasy Hot Pocket. “Rock. Rock Stone.”
I suppressed a smile, wondering whether Chelsea had known his name when she’d made the crack about his imagination. “Edgy, but redundant.”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“You know, rock, stone, they mean the same thing?”
“Yeah.” He flexed his biceps. “Hard.”
Dumb as a rock came to mind. I wheeled my suitcase forward. “Could you stash this behind the bar?”
He scrutinized the handle.
“Careful, Rock.” The painted lady swallowed a slug of scotch and pointed at my suitcase. “That handle looks cracked.”
“I see that, Zelda.”
I didn’t, but I had squeezed it pretty hard when Mo leered at my rack. “Do you have hand injuries, or something?”
“Nah,” Zelda answered for him. “He’s protecting his moneymakers.”
Rock carefully peeled off a glove. “Bartending’s my side gig.” He flexed his fingers like a proud peacock spreading its feathers. “My dream is to be a hand model.”
“A hand model?” I repeated. “Just…hands?”
The woman lit a cigarette in clear view of a No Smoking sign. “That’s right. I tell my clients to dream big.” She exhaled at me. “I represent Rock and Babette.” She squinted at my name tag. “You already got a talent agent, Frenchie?”
“Franki, and no. I live in New Orleans, and I’m not interested in acting.”
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF 4 SLEUTHS AND A BACHLORETTE HERE
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4 Sleuths & A Bachelorette ~ A Killer Foursome Mystery ~ Preview of Chapter Three Continued!
From 4 Sleuths & a Bachelorette
Did you miss Chapter One?
Did you miss Chapter Two?
Did you miss part one of Chapter Three?
Chapter Three Continued…
“Anyway…” Chelsea ignored my question. It was very difficult having a conversation where you were being ignored. “Take a look at the food. The cake is a scream. Babette will love it,” she said in a voice that implied that she didn’t love it. “And those balloons are so…so fun.”
I spoke up in support of whoever brought them because they seemed like a kindred spirit. “I like the balloons and cake.”
The woman continued to act as if I hadn’t spoken. “I’m sure you all did the best you could on such short notice.” She patted my arm. “Anyway, Charlie…the groom, is around here somewhere. I should introduce you to my family to make you feel more welcome.” She stared into the dim recesses and pointed out a woman reading. “That’s my sister.”
The woman seemed to know we were talking about her and looked up in annoyance. She had thick, black-framed glasses and a hairstyle that screamed Velma from Scooby-Doo. An angry Velma, it appeared, as she scowled before turning back to the book. Now I knew the names of three people—Chelsea, Charlie, and their sister, Charlene—whose name I recalled from the guest list. It seemed like a win, but I kept it to myself.
“And who are the others…” I looked around, but Chelsea had left me for the bar.
What just happened? Chelsea had passive-aggressive down to an art form. She seemed nice but also seemed like a bit of a snob. Simplistic invites? What kind are you supposed to have? They were pink and had a couple of flowers on them. I thought that would be all right.
Oh well. It was only one night, and I could get along with anyone. I’d once turned a tense meeting—between a Ukrainian diplomat and a general from Russia who’d invaded Crimea—into a fun karaoke night at a dive bar in Paraguay that, come to think of it, must’ve had the same decorator as this hotel. I could do this.
Steeling myself, I took the opportunity to approach the other sister. “Hi, Charlene.” I held out my hand. “I’m Merry.”
“It’s CHarlene,” she snapped. “With a hard Ch! Why can’t anyone remember that? It’s not like it’s difficult!”
“I had no idea,” I apologized. “My bad.”
It’s been attributed to many people, but someone once said, Diplomacy is the art of saying “nice doggy” until you can get your hands on a rock. I was pretty sure in this case my “rock” would be a large glass of wine.
“Your invitations sucked,” Charlene said. “They were way too fancy.”
Maybe two large glasses of wine.
“Your sister just told me they were too simple,” I said.
Charlene with a hard Ch sneered. “Well she’s an idiot. Can you believe she got Babette the Bimbo and our brother together?”
“Babette’s not a bimbo,” I warned. Okay, I wasn’t close enough to the bar and I didn’t see any rocks, but maybe I could chuck the fake fireplace at her.
“She never says my name right.” She got up, and I noticed she was reading Moby Dick. “I can’t stand the woman. She has no business being in our family.” And with that, she stormed away.
The party hadn’t even started, and I was already screwing up. I walked over to the bar and ordered. The bartender winked and did a very dramatic pouring of the house red, fanning his green-gloved hands and using jazz fingers as if he was demonstrating that this was, in fact, a wine glass and he was, in fact, pouring wine.
“The name’s Stone,” he said as if introducing himself as James Bond—something spies never do, by the way. “Rock Stone.”
I laughed. “You’re joking.”
He seemed insulted. “No. I’m not. It’s my stage name.”
I walked away before he could tell me anything else…or at least before I could make fun of him. As a role model for little girls, I was always trying to better myself, and mocking this guy just because he was weird kinda seemed like a bad thing.
Charlene was on the other side of the room reading as Chelsea passed me and sidled up to Rock Stone with an empty glass. So those were Babette’s future sisters-in-law? I silently wished her good luck. I had two of those…twins who were middle-aged taxidermists. Randi loved and adored me, while Ronni believed I was a pestilence on this Earth, on par with roaches, Russian figure skaters, and toxic waste.
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By the way, they specialized in anthropomorphic taxidermy, where they stuffed, dressed, and posed dead animals as people doing people-y things. Often, Ronni portrayed me with a roach. Still, I cherished my mockup of a capsizing Titanic, complete with tiny hamsters screaming in terror. They really were talented.
I thought about what the sisters had said. Chelsea had introduced Babette to her brother, Charlie. The women must know each other professionally, what with Chelsea being a pharmacist and Babette in pharma sales. I didn’t know much about Charlie, but I had met his sisters. Hopefully, he wasn’t like Charlene, who seemed to loathe Babette. Perhaps Charlie was a happy medium between his sisters. I’d hate to think Babette would end up with a sister-in-law who hated her.
And to hate her over the pronunciation of her name? Was it really about that, or was Charlene one of those women you just couldn’t make happy? She seemed smart. Not a lot of people read Moby Dick for fun—especially at a bachelorette party. Or was the book just a prop for her to hide her disgust behind?
As if she knew I was thinking of her, Charlene looked up at me, and I could swear she growled from across the room. That woman did not want to be here. Had Chelsea made her come? Had Charlie guilted her into it? As long as she didn’t ruin Babette’s party, I’d let her be.
I took a gulp of wine and closed my eyes. God willing, I’d gotten all of the oddball folks out of the way. Surely Babette had some nice, normal friends.
“Interesting place, isn’t it?” The very pretty woman in the pink skirt and high heels was at my right elbow. “I’m Valentine.”
The warmth in her voice made me relax all the way down to my shoes. Or maybe it was the wine.
I held out my hand. “I’m Merry. I remember your name from the list.”
We shook hands, and I noticed her genuine smile. I was going to hang around her for the rest of the night. Hopefully, she wouldn’t mind that too much.
The pregnant woman walked over to us. “Hi! I’m Kate. Are you normal? Because other than Valentine here, I haven’t met anyone normal yet.”
Okay. I’d found my crew for the night. Stick with them and what could go wrong?
My cell buzzed with a text from Hilly.
Forgot and heated up oven without taking your gun out first. You’re gonna need a new stove. Betty’s working on plans to kidnap the mayor. She’s a funny kid. Bye!
I didn’t respond and shoved my cell into my purse. It wasn’t the first time I needed a new stove. I really should find another place to hide my weapon. Live and learn, right? I turned back to my new friends to find Valentine telling Kate about how she once took down a bad guy with a can of hairspray and a hat pin.
At last! Somebody normal to talk to.
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF 4 SLEUTHS AND A BACHLORETTE HERE
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4 Sleuths & A Bachelorette ~ A Killer Foursome Mystery ~ Preview of Chapter Three!
From 4 Sleuths & a Bachelorette
Did you miss Chapter One?
Did you miss Chapter Two?
Chapter Three
Merry
I’d seen nicer places in third-world countries. The hotel’s party room looked like it was designed by an unhinged decorator who thought despair was a solid color scheme for a room that hosted happy events like wedding receptions.
The biggest difference between this place and the Chechen dive I frequented back in my spy days was that the furniture was largely intact, and it wasn’t being run by goats. Although I must say that I did know one or two competent goats back in the day, including Baaaaart, who could make a pretty mean mai tai—as long as you didn’t mind that instead of the usual umbrella with a cherry, you got a spent bullet casing on a twig.
I was still wandering around the dim, smelly room, repeatedly adjusting a fake fireplace that sagged against a wall and consulting my clipboard with the guest list without the faintest idea what I was supposed to be doing.
Why was I handling the guest list? I should’ve been the last person to pick. Even I wouldn’t have picked me. I could organize a camping checklist and, back in the day, a spreadsheet of hidden nukes in Moldova. But a list of women I’d never met for a bachelorette party where I had a passing friendship with the bride-to-be?
Okay, I did know her a bit better than that. Babette and I had worked together. My name is Merry Wrath, and I’m an ex-CIA agent-turned-volunteer Girl Scout leader in my hometown of Who’s There, Iowa. The reason I’m ex-CIA is because the Vice President of the United States “accidentally” outed me to get back at my senator dad. And while I didn’t like leaving my chosen career, the scout gig in Iowa was growing on me, and with my precocious troop, was almost as dangerous. Anyway, for one of my very first field assignments, my cover was a pharmaceutical saleswoman. I’d found Babette through LinkedIn and asked if I could shadow her for a bit to learn the ropes.
Happily, she agreed. I spent a month following her around, learning the tricky lingo (you try learning to pronounce Montelukast or Xylometazoline). She wasn’t like my usual friends. Babette was blonde, bubbly, and beautiful. I was decidedly more low maintenance, with a penchant for clothes I could wear to comfortably outrun a Yakuza assassin or a two-time Olympian sprinter from Bosnia who didn’t take kindly to my Putin jokes.
Surprisingly, Babette and I became friends rather quickly. Babette saw what I did as acting and told me she’d always been interested in theater. We worked during the day…well, she worked and I watched her work. And we spent the evenings hanging out in bars or at her place. Turns out, she was a lot of fun.
After the month was over, I was shipped off to Syria and didn’t really see her face-to-face again. Oh, we’d texted and emailed over the years, but that was it. Imagine my surprise when someone named Chelsea not only invited me to Babette’s bachelorette party, but also put me in charge of invitations. By the way, never accept an invite to a Chechen bachelorette party unless you really, really like cabbage and bullets in your mai tai.
My cell went off and I looked. It was a text from Betty, the most dangerous eleven-year-old girl in Iowa and a member of my troop.
Remember how you said we could have a sleepover at your old house?
No, I texted back, I didn’t. And certainly not without adult supervision.
It’s okay, we have Hilly. We’re going to make frozen pizzas and learn about “wet work,” whatever that is.
Fantastic. The girls had Hilly Vinton with them. She was an assassin for the CIA, who wasn’t an assassin, because the CIA doesn’t have assassins because it’s illegal (I’m required to say this due to a non-disclosure clause). Hilly loved the girls, but she thought it was okay to teach them how to hog-tie a target so he’d strangle himself if he struggled.
After texting Hilly to remind her not to turn on the oven without taking my hidden gun out first, and not to teach them anything too lethal, I consulted my clipboard for the fifth time. Why was I still holding it? I didn’t know any of these people on the list. I’d already sent out the invites, so my job was done. I walked over and put it on the fake mantel of the fake fireplace, which resulted in the whole thing crashing face down on the floor. After setting it back up and handing the clipboard to the bartender, I realized I should maybe do something.
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A few people had been in and out of the room, and I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to introduce myself or just stand in a corner until Babette showed up. My best friend, Kelly, would know, and I’d ask her, but she laughed for two straight hours when I told her I was handling the invitations to a bachelorette party, so there was no way I’d give her the chance to laugh at me again by asking about proper protocol.
I did text her to say she might want to join the sleepover at my house, already in progress, and I reminded her of the gun in the oven, too. Safety first!
The people in the room must be on the guest list that I’d just handed the bartender. I’d noticed a very pregnant woman who’d set up the food table and then left. There was a gorgeous woman in sparkly shoes who seemed more like the type Babette would hang out with, and a couple of other people scattered around.
Despite the god-awful setting, someone had decorated with Dora the Explorer balloons. Yay! I was a huge Dora fan, always imagining her as a spy, with that monkey Boots as her handler. In fact, until Kelly made me buy real drapes, I was using Dora bed sheets for curtains in my living room. I decided this was a good omen, and I relaxed.
It seemed to me I should mingle. I looked down at my clothes. Maybe after I changed. A quick hop up to my room and I was back downstairs in black kitten heels and a simple, little black dress. My hair was still an unruly mess, but I’d run my hands through it and put on a little makeup so I didn’t look too dowdy. It would have to do.
Upon reentering the reception room, I checked out my second-favorite thing after the bar—the food table.
I laughed out loud when I saw the Happy Birthday Harry cake. Obviously, the person who handled the cake and the balloons was destined to be a new friend.
“Excuse me.” A woman who looked like she should’ve been the one to handle the invitations appeared at my elbow. She was handsomely attractive in an I’ll-eat-you-for-lunch corporate way. It was obvious that she was a force to be reckoned with, and I wondered if she were related to the dominatrices who ran human resources at the CIA.
I pasted on the smile I thought went more appropriately with the moment and asked, “Can I help you?”
Like I could help anyone, unless they needed help field-stripping an AR-14 or instructions for driving through Ulaanbaatar. Helpful tip: Mongolians don’t think of traffic lights as more than a three-color decoration that gives them license to race around, dodging other vehicles just before crashing. It would probably be best to hire a driver…and wear a blindfold.
The woman smiled as she looked me up and down. “Which one are you?”
She continued before I could respond. “You’re obviously not the very pregnant one. And you’re certainly not the New Orleans private eye. And judging by your hair, you’re not the pretty stylist.” The woman smiled warmly, but her eyes seemed critical. “Which makes you the one from Iowa I sent the list to.”
Aha! Now I knew someone in the room by name. “You must be Chelsea. You gave me the list for the invites.”
“Of course I did. You were in the CIA. That made you the best candidate for the job.”
After some mental gymnastics where I totally failed to put those two things together, she continued.
“I’m the groom’s sister and a friend of Babette’s. I introduced them. It’s so nice of you to handle the invites for me. I’m sure you found it strange since you didn’t know anybody.”
“Then why didn’t you take care of that?” I asked bluntly. Iowan. We don’t know how to be subtle.
Chelsea gave me a pitying grin as she patted me on the arm. “I got you the names from Babette’s address book. The invitations you designed had an…interesting simplicity to them.”
Did that mean she didn’t like them? This woman seemed friendly and all, but there was an icy undertone to her words.
“You probably would’ve done a better job.” I decided to go for flattery.
She waved her left hand dismissively. “I’m too busy for that. I’m a pharmacist, you know. From what Babette told me, you don’t have a job.” There was that warm smile again. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. I just figured you had the time.”
“Are you the one who picked this location?” I asked.
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF 4 SLEUTHS AND A BACHLORETTE HERE
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4 Sleuths & A Bachelorette ~ A Killer Foursome Mystery ~ Preview of Chapter Two Continued!
From 4 Sleuths & a Bachelorette
Did you miss Chapter One?
Did you miss part one of Chapter Two?
Chapter Two Continued…
“Oh, thank you,” I said. “I think I can manage getting to my room on my own. I just need to put my feet up for a minute before Babette arrives.”
He nodded but proceeded to follow me down the corridor anyway.
“You flew in from Cincinnati?” he asked.
“San Francisco,” I corrected.
“Ah, right. That’s what I meant. Babette’s told me so much about you. You knew her from beauty school.”
I frowned. “College,” I said. “We went to university together.”
Babette had never gone to beauty school. What was he going on about?
He laughed overly loud. “Ha! I knew that. I’m just kidding. I always tell Babette she’s such a beauty she must’ve gone to school for it.” He waved his pointer fingers in the air as if making a silent drum roll.
I arrived at my hotel room door and couldn’t get the key card into the slot fast enough.
Poor Charlie. He was probably just nervous to meet Babette’s friends, but I felt the distinct and very real need to end our conversation.
“It was so nice meeting you.” I pushed open the door to my room. “I need to make a few calls and check in at home.”
He rested his hand on the doorframe and leaned in, as if waiting to be invited into my room.
What the…?
He drummed his fingers on the frame. “Did uh…did Babette mention anything to you about what time she was arriving?”
“No. I assumed you were bringing her to the event.”
He laughed loudly again, showing me his overly white teeth. “Nah, I’m not allowed down there. You know, girls’ night and all.”
The single chair in the corner of my room beckoned me.
How could I make him go away?
“Oh! Listen, Charlie, I really have to put my feet up for a bit. Do you mind giving Babette this box of Ghirardelli chocolates that I brought?” Without waiting for his reply, I dug into my suitcase and produced the stunning tin of Ghirardelli premium chocolates that only a heathen could resist.
He immediately pounced on it.
“Babette loves chocolate,” he said. “Only, you know, I don’t let her eat it. Waistline and all,” he clucked.
With that comment, I didn’t feel bad about slamming the door in the man’s face.
What an absolute donkey.
What kind of man makes a comment on his bride-to-be’s waistline to her six-months-pregnant-with-twins friend!
I padded over to the hotel chair in the corner and slipped off my ballet flats. My feet instantly ballooned, and I knew it’d been a mistake. I’d never get the shoes on again. I propped my feet onto the hotel desk and grabbed my cell phone.
I missed Jim and Laurie so much it hurt.
Why had I thought it would be a good idea to leave them?
I dialed Jim, and he picked up on the first ring. “Hey, stranger. How’s the wild bachelorette party?”
“It hasn’t started yet, but I miss you guys like crazy. How’s Laurie?”
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“She’s good. Just gave her a bottle and a bath. Here, you can talk to her.” He put her on the phone, and nine-month babbling almost brought me to tears. When Jim got back on the phone, he heard the emotion in my voice. “Babe, it’s only a weekend! You need this break, remember? As soon as the twins are born, there’ll be no travel for a while. So enjoy yourself.”
“You’re right.”
“How’s the hotel?” he asked.
I laughed. “Honestly, this place is a dump!”
“Really?”
“Yes! I have no idea what Babette was thinking. Another thing, I just met the groom-to-be, and I don’t know about him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t put my finger on it. Just got a bad feeling from him.”
“He’s probably nervous,” Jim reasoned. “It’s hard to meet all the girlfriends at once.”
I chuckled. “I guess so.” I rubbed my feet and thought for a moment. “Remember I told you in college Babette always ended up with losers?”
“Kate, we aren’t in college anymore. I’m sure he’s a nice guy.”
I sighed. “Did I ever tell you about the time she hooked up with Johnny, the pretty boy who was also a petty criminal, and he stole Babette’s grandmother’s heirloom sapphire bracelet that was gifted to Babette on her grandma’s deathbed?”
Jim groaned. Clearly he didn’t want to hear the story, but I ignored him.
“That bracelet was supposed to be the thing for Babette to wear at her wedding. You know, something borrowed, something blue, something old, something new.”
Jim made a noise in the back of his throat that was supposed to give me the impression he was listening, but I also heard the familiar suction noise of the refrigerator opening and then the tell-tale click and fizz of what I knew for certain was a beer being opened. I’d just lost my audience, but I continued. “Babette said that bracelet could count as two things in one, because it was old and blue. She cried for weeks when pretty boy Johnny pilfered it.”
“Yeah,” Jim said, doing nothing to mask a big gulp of his beer.
“I don’t think Babette ever recovered the bracelet. She’s probably missing it now more than ever, seeing as she’s about to marry.”
“Uh-huh,” Jim said.
“And I can’t believe she’s marrying this clown!”
“Give him a chance, honey.”
“I will,” I assured Jim as we hung up.
I glanced first at the time, then at my feet. The swelling wasn’t letting up, but I’d be darned if I was going down to the party in anything less than something festive. I dug around in my suitcase and found my croc-embossed mules with the much-needed arch support. With an open heel, they fit perfectly and masked my elephant feet.
My phone pinged repeatedly, and I checked it to find a slew of photos from Jim of Laurie and our kitten, Whiskers. I pocketed the phone, armed now to rejoin the party downstairs.
Before I left the room, I crossed over to take a peek in the mirror.
The shoes complemented the outfit beautifully, giving it an extra pop of color. Go me. They were sapphire blue, which made me think of Babette’s bracelet.
Was she really going to marry Charlie?
Oh, Babette!
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF 4 SLEUTHS AND A BACHLORETTE HERE
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4 Sleuths & A Bachelorette ~ A Killer Foursome Mystery ~ Preview of Chapter Two!
From 4 Sleuths & a Bachelorette
Did you miss Chapter One?
Chapter Two
Kate
To Do:
Figure out food for Babette’s bachelorette party. Call home. See Niagara Falls. Try not to miss Laurie and Jim too much. Does this hotel have a spa?“Would you mind excusing me for a second?” I asked Valentine. “My feet are killing me.” I rubbed my protruding belly. Being six months pregnant with twins is no walk in the park.
“I think I have a few minutes before Babette gets here. Plus, I’m dying to call home,” I said.
“Of course,” Valentine said. “Don’t give it a second thought. I’ll put the cake on the table with the rest of the food.”
I nodded my thanks and wiggled my fingers at her, then turned and crossed the dank party room. Seriously, the hotel needed a little TLC.
W hat had Babette been thinking?
Maybe she didn’t know how rundown the hotel had become. My invitation had come from a Merry Wrath, whom I hadn’t met yet. Probably the party was a surprise to Babette.
But she’d smile and play along. Babette was a trouper.
I was excited to see her. We’d been friends since college, and I hadn’t seen her since my own bachelorette party, which my best friend Paula had arranged on a Napa Valley Wine Train tour. But my poor feet had swelled on the plane and I needed to get them propped up stat, or I’d be reduced to wearing the non-slip socks they’d given me during the flight.
I passed the fake fireplace and left the room. At the end of the hotel corridor, a heavy exit door was propped open. Mercifully, gales of crisp air streamed in. I gulped greedily, thankful to breathe air that was fresher than in the party room. I marched toward the elevator just as a harried woman reeking of cigarette smoke and screaming on her cell phone burst through the exit door and closed it.
“She’s no good! I keep telling ya that. Why don’t you listen for once in your life?” she shrieked into her mobile.
I pressed the elevator button and waited, trying not to eavesdrop.
“Listen, everyone wants their big break. They just don’t want to work for it.” She squinted over at me, her eyeliner and mascara so heavily applied it was hard to make out if she wore false eyelashes or if there was a bat stuck to her face. She had a mop of blonde curls gathered at the top of her head and bright red lipstick stuck to her teeth.
“Going up?” she screeched at me.
I refrained from notifying her that we were on the ground level and that up was the only way to go. Instead, I politely nodded.
“Good!” she barked.
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The elevator pinged and the doors opened. As much as I was desperate to get to my room, I hesitated.
Do I really need to ride the elevator with this woman?
She stepped into the elevator and thrust a bangled arm out to hold the door for me. I obediently followed her in.
“Don’t call me, I’ll call you,” she cracked into the phone and abruptly hung up. She turned to me and demanded, “Floor?”
“Four,” I squeaked.
She whacked the number panel. “You here for the party?”
I nodded as the elevator lurched upward.
“How do you know Babette?”
My eyes widened. How could this woman possibly know Babette?
“College,” I mustered. “And you?”
The elevator pinged and the doors whooshed opened.
“I’m her talent agent, darling.”
Talent agent? Babette was a pharmaceutical salesperson. When had she landed a talent agent?
Before I could react, she strode out of the elevator, and a couple stepped in. The woman had a severe, striking look with dark wavy hair and wore a classic navy sheath dress suit. The man looked a bit disheveled. His hair was floppy in front and, although he wore a brown blazer, his blue dress shirt was unbuttoned almost to his navel.
“You’re making a mistake, Charlie,” the woman said. “That’s all I’m saying.”
Charlie?
Babette’s groom was named Charlie…could this be the groom-to-be?
The doors closed and the elevator jolted upward. The woman’s hand flew to the side railing. “Are we going up?”
Charlie flashed me a look. “Sorry. We didn’t check.”
“No problem,” I said. “Just popping up to my room before the party. Are you Charlie Miller?”
He straightened. “I am. And you are?”
The elevator pinged, having arrived on my floor. “I’m Kate Connolly, Babette’s friend.”
The woman’s face soured at the mention of Babette.
What was that about?
Charlie turned to the woman. “You head on down, Chelsea. Have a good time.” He held the elevator door for me and followed me out. As soon as the door closed, he sighed. “My sister is kind of high maintenance.”
Hmmm. Babette’s future sister-in-law was troublesome.
Why wasn’t she ecstatic to have Babette join their family?
Anyone with half a brain would be over the moon to welcome Babette into their family. Then I thought of my own troublesome sister-in-law. Family could be challenging, especially the extended-family kind.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” Charlie asked, looking pointedly at my protruding belly.
I didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved. At six months pregnant I wasn’t exactly an invalid, but flying cross-country had rendered me rather useless at the moment.
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF 4 SLEUTHS AND A BACHLORETTE HERE
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4 Sleuths & A Bachelorette ~ A Killer Foursome Mystery ~ Preview of Chapter One Continued!
From 4 Sleuths & a Bachelorette
Did you miss Chapter One Part One?
Chapter One Continued…
Valentine
I was within two feet when he started singing the company’s wiener ditty. Wait a minute! That wasn’t a guy’s voice. Even with the drilling in the background, I could tell that lustrous voice belonged to a female. Holy jumpin’! Not just any female. That was Babette’s voice.
I twirled around and stared into the face of my once chubby friend, her tall, voluptuous figure hidden inside the foam costume, her eyelids sparkling with eyeshadow the color of yellow and green condiments. It wasn’t meant to look garish, but as a beautician, I would’ve toned it down a bit.
“Babette?”
Her eyes widened. “Valentine!” Ignoring ogles from shoppers, she dropped the tray on the table beside her and pulled me in for a warm squeeze.
I gaped wordlessly past her shoulder, then back at her in her hot dog costume. “Why are you dressed as a wiener?” Oops. I really had to work on my quick tongue.
She picked up the tray again, offering me a sample, and filled me in on her job situation. “It’s not all bad,” she cooed, her mouth twitching into a thin grin. “I get these complimentary baby jars of mustards that my boss, Stanley, wants to charge customers for.” She pried open my bag with her free hand and tossed some inside. “Tightwad. He’d kill me if he saw me handing these out.”
She bit her luscious lips, and suddenly I was back to hot summer days, eating red Popsicles as kids, then giggling as Babette chased neighborhood boys for a fat kiss.
I bit into a mini sausage, and she smiled, trying to make light of things. “I even got a commercial spot dressed in this wienie.”
I gulped down the bite that seemed to stick in my throat. “Well, that’s…something.” I wanted to be encouraging, but what more was there to say when my friend was dressed like the Oscar Mayer wiener?
“Of course, Stanley negotiated a deal with my agent, ensuring he sat in on the whole production.” She rolled her eyes coolly, then slid the tray back on the table. “Cheapskate.”
Yikes. This was worse than I thought. How could Babette have sunk so low?
“Enough about me.” She pushed her face through the rubber hole to take a better look at me. “You look gorgeous as ever! Little Valentine, with her long, glossy hair, always made up adorably.” She grabbed my hands and held me out at arm’s length. “And here you are, dressed in pink, cute tutu and all.”
This was just like Babette. She didn’t see things through dull lenses. In her eyes, I was a ballerina with enough sparkle to light up a room. I looked down at myself. In truth, my sleeveless dress and light-to-dark pink skirt did have a sheer tutu effect. And okay, my glittery hoop earrings and spiked heels didn’t hurt the look. But Babette simply had a way of making you feel good about yourself.
A guy hauling a beer belly ambled up to us and gawked from the tray of wieners to Babette. “You work here? Or is someone else handing those out?”
Unruffled by his ignorance, Babette looked the guy square on, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Someone else is handing them out. He’s in the frozen food section dressed as a Fudgsicle.”
The guy grunted and hoisted up his pants. “Figures I’d get this kind of service here.”
“Awful, isn’t it?” Her smile was unapologetic. “If I were you, I’d hit the grocery store down the street. Tell them I sent you.”
The guy trucked off, and Babette’s face instantly lit up as if we hadn’t been interrupted. “Tell me all about that swarthy, tough detective you’re wildly in love with. I hear he’s hard-muscled and hot.”
I loved that our moms kept up with the finer details of our lives from the old neighborhood. Wouldn’t want to miss a chance at friendly gossip.
“Ooh, Michael Romero,” she gushed. “Even his name sounds sexy.”
I understood the sentiment. My breath caught in my throat at the mention of Romero’s name, sparking the memory of his intimate send-off when I’d told him I was going away for the weekend. But Babette was engaged, and this was all in fun. Or was it? Her words were sincere, and her eyelids were full of sparkle, yet she’d lost some sparkle, and the slight nervousness in her tone told me something was worrying her. Might’ve been her tightwad boss. Maybe it was her job.
Oh no. My pulse stopped cold in my veins. What if it was Charlie and her upcoming marriage? I hadn’t met this fiancé, but the last one was no prize. Babette didn’t have the greatest track record when it came to men, and I hoped, if she was taking the plunge again, that this time she was certain.
“We’ll catch up at the party.” I wolfed down another wiener and gave her a quick hug.
“Okay, but Valentine…please don’t announce it that I work here. I mean, most of you know, but I’d rather not publicize that I’m wearing this dreadful costume day in and day out.”
I might’ve screwed up on the decorations, and I might’ve ruined the wrapping on her gift, and I might’ve—wait. Where was I going with all this? Oh yeah. I could do this favor for Babette. “My lips are sealed. Just don’t forget to act surprised when you arrive later.”
She gave me a strange look. “Huh? I already know about the party.”
“I know, but it’ll be more fun when you walk in if you act shocked.”
She swung her hips back and forth in a seductive way. “If there’s one thing I can do, it’s act.”
***
It was almost six o’clock, and the front desk had heard nothing from the airline about my bag. This meant I needed to get creative on how I was going to beautify the party room.
The hotel assured me they had white tablecloths—a plus—and tall candleholders if I needed them. I had balloons I’d picked up at the grocery store. They had Dora the Explorer’s face on them, but it was either that or Bart Simpson’s thanks to Higgly Piggly’s noisy party section being under renovation, leaving me little choice. At any rate, Dora was a kickass little adventurer like Babette always was. And the balloons had a pink background. Good enough for me.
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The other small issue was the cake. The bakery’s decorator had gone home sick, and I didn’t get the cake I’d ordered. Well, I promised a cake for this party, and a cake was what I got.
I returned to the matter at hand and dumped the contents of my beauty bag onto the bed, taking stock of what I had. Combs. Scissors. Flat iron. Bobby pins. Nail polish. Ribbons. Hair extensions? Hmm. I’d planned on taking those out after Monday’s playtime visit with the hospital sick kids. I grinned. Cute tykes, even if I did walk out of Rueland Memorial half the time with nail stickers on my nose and lipstick on my cheeks.
I steered my gaze from my black bag to the flashy, hot pink shoulder bag I’d bought as Babette’s bachelorette gift. Unfortunately, the shimmery pink boa that once covered it was in a heap on the bed. Well, decorating the bag with it was a good idea at the time.
I went back to studying the hair extensions. They weren’t fabulous on their own, but if I had skewers to give them a spine, then stuck a wisp of boa down the middle and pinned a few glittery bobby pins on the hair ends, they might make attractive, cascading centerpieces. And at the end of the night, each guest could take home a handful of posh bobby pins. I rounded up little tubs of butterscotch conditioner that had also been floating around in my bag. Perfect. Another party favor.
Heck, Babette wouldn’t care if her gift wasn’t wrapped. More, she’d go gaga over the contents inside: massage oils, bubble bath, sexy slippers, mini bottle of champagne, and bag of red jelly beans—her favorite. To spruce it up, I staged the bag open and tied a ribbon through the straps into a fancy bow. It had Valentine panache, and Babette would love it.
***
The party room had an honest-to-god funeral-parlor feel. A fake fireplace leaned against one wall, abstract pictures hung on another, and functional drapes decked the windows. Mr. Clean could’ve done wonders with the stale smoke in the air, but at least the tablecloths looked clean, and the Dora the Explorer balloons brightened the place.
Good thing I’d given myself a squirt of my signature Musk perfume before leaving my room. I would’ve had to shoot myself if the smell of stale smoke followed me around all night.
I glanced at the buffet table where a female a few years older than I am in a light, baggy top and dark pants inspected trays of finger foods. She had mid-length brown hair bordering on frizzy, and from the back it looked like she was counting things off on her fingers. By her appearance, I guessed she was the caterer.
I zoomed in on the table. Aha! Fruit kabobs with bamboo skewers! Exactly what I needed for my centerpieces. I could almost hear the Mission Impossible music as I plotted how to pinch the skewers from the fruit tray without attracting attention.
I almost had my execution drilled in my head when the woman at the table turned slightly and licked her lips. She was quite adorable with big round eyes, and yowza, she was pregnant, really pregnant. Maybe she was having one of those pregnant-woman cravings I always heard about. But was she the caterer? An employee? A guest?
She turned back to the table, leaned over, and popped a cream puff in her mouth. No way! Now I knew she wasn’t an employee. Granted, this wasn’t the Ritz. If a worker filched a cream puff, who cared? Not me. I wasn’t here to snitch. I was focused on the fruit kabobs.
I took a cursory glance around the room to see what else was happening. A slim woman with short, curly blonde hair gave a casual look at the clipboard in her hand, then shrugged and exited the room. Merry Wrath perhaps?
The bartender was busy talking to an older woman sitting at the bar who was wearing a wig that looked on par with Mrs. Horowitz’s hair. She was sampling—or more like slugging—a serious glass of alcohol. I envied her. One glass of that stuff and I’d be flat out on the floor for the rest of the evening. Exactly why I wouldn’t be drinking tonight.
My gaze shifted back to the pregnant woman. Poor thing. Her unmanageable curly hair looked like it could use some TLC. Maybe once she was done popping cream puffs, I’d go over and hand her a few tubs of butterscotch conditioner. While I waited for her to vacate the food table, I plunked the fancied hair extensions into the tall candleholders that the staff had provided.
My insides bubbled with delight at the array. Forget the skewers. The glittery extensions flared up from the candleholders and cascaded out like fountains. It was a sight to behold!
I was about to pat myself on the back when the pregnant woman dusted the icing sugar from her hands, gave me a short wave, and waddled over. I turned around, wondering if she was looking at someone else, but there was no one behind me. Only the cake that I was hiding.
She stopped in front of me and extended her hand. “Valentine?”
“Yes?” I smiled and shook her hand.
“Kate Connolly. I’m a friend of Babette’s. I saw you decorating, and from everything Babette’s said about you, I knew this had to be Valentine.”
I wanted to ask if everything meant acting on instinct, getting into trouble, and regretting my mistakes, like purchasing the hunk of pastry behind me. Instead, I gave a faint, lighthearted laugh, curbing my nose from twitching like it always did when I was nervous or in danger.
“Thanks for handling the cake.” She peered over my shoulder. “Is that it?”
“Uh, yes.”
“Awesome. Would you mind if we put it on the buffet table with the rest of the food?”
I bit my lip, harried by the memory of what I’d gone through today. “Sure.”
I moved aside, and Kate looked down at the cake. “It says Happy Birthday Harry.”
“I know. Do you think Babette will notice?”
Kate giggled, then shifted her stare from the cake, to the funeral-parlor setting, to the motley crew that were beginning to arrive, and I knew she was wondering what else was in store for tonight.
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Diana Orgain is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, Love or Money Mystery series, and The Roundup Crew Mysteries. Diana is also the New York Times Bestselling co-author of the Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. To keep up to date with the latest releases visit Diana at www.dianaorgain.com GRAB YOUR COPY OF 4 SLEUTHS AND A BACHLORETTE HERE
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