Coastal Playhouse Mysteries #1
Cozy Mystery
Publisher: Archer Mysteries
Date Published: July 9, 2019
ROMEO, ROMEO, WHEREFORTH ART THOU?
Acting jobs are scarce now for former TV teen detective Antigone Alden. So when a teaching position opens up at Southern Coastal University, Tig packs up her teenage daughter and heads home to the Outer Banks of North Carolina.
The house she inherited from her mother isn't entirely empty, however. Her mom seems stuck between this life and the next, and now Tig is a local reporter's prime suspect in the murder of the former theater professor. Given his reputation as ladies' man, there are plenty of people with a motive.
Tig isn't a detective. She just played one on TV. Will that be enough to help her find the killer?
Excerpt:
About the author:
The discovery of Amundsen’s body meant that all of my classes were
canceled. Lunch with Dean Prendergast was canceled, as well. I was perfectly
okay with that since I no longer had the slightest bit of appetite.
Dr. Martin Peele arrived at Muncey Theater just before campus
police, about ten minutes after Ben phoned him with the news about his junior
colleague. Most of my interviews for the open position had been handled in an
online video conference, but I’d met Dr. Peele in person once, when I was on
campus with my mother a few years back. A short, squat man with thick eyebrows
and an expressive face, he reminded me of a slightly taller and younger Danny
DeVito. My first thought when I met him—aside from the fact that he had sweaty
palms—was that he was tailor-made for character acting.
As soon as Dr. Peele was inside, campus police turned their
questions to him, which made sense, given that I’d never even met
Amundsen…well, at least not when he was alive. So I slipped out the side door
with a book, in search of someplace quiet, preferably with lots of fresh air. I
ducked into the cafeteria to grab coffee from the vending machine and then
found an empty bench at a little park between Muncey Auditorium and the main
campus. The last inch of the coffee remained in the bottom of the cup as I sat
on the bench reading, so that I could bring it up to my nose and breathe it in
as needed. Even a half hour later, out in the wide open where the January air
carried a hint of the ocean, the awful smell from the theater remained lodged
in my nostrils.
The scrappy girl detectives on Private Eye High encountered
a corpse in pretty much every episode, and there were even a few cases where
they stumbled upon a long-dead body. Given that the makeup department generally
did an excellent job of making the bodies look real, I would have sworn that I
was fully inoculated against squeamishness. But I’d never really considered the
olfactory element. Murder mysteries will be much less popular if anyone ever
invents smell-i-vision.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Antigone Alden. How is it that you’re in
town less than twenty-four hours and we already have a dead body?”
I hadn’t heard Alicia Brown’s voice in more than twenty years, but
the nasal twang was unmistakable. When I left Caratoke High School at the end
of my sophomore year, after landing the part in Private Eye High, Alicia
was the reigning Queen Bee-with-an-itch. She didn’t like me for one simple
reason: Travis Lamm did like me. In fact, he liked me so much that we’d
ended up dating for over three years, even keeping the relationship going after
I was in California.
Sighing, I snapped shut the technical theater text I’d been
thumbing through halfheartedly. “The body’s been in the trap room for way more
than twenty-four hours, Leash.”
I didn’t even have to look up to know the expression on Alicia’s
face when I pulled out the old nickname, Leash. I could picture the
woman’s ferretlike nose twitch perfectly. That’s one good thing about old
frenemies. You already know which buttons to push.
“You stepped right into his job,” Alicia said. “That might make
some people a little suspicious. Or maybe trouble just follows you around like
a bad stink. Can’t believe you’ve decided to come back and live among us
commoners. Is California’s cost of living too high for washed-up has-beens?”
At that point I did look up and was surprised that the
Alicia in my head didn’t look much like the one standing in front of me.
Alicia’s hair was platinum now, rather than her natural brassy blonde. Two
decades of tanning booths, Quarter Pounders, and cigarettes had taken a toll.
Alicia now looked more like her mother, who’d sat in the bleachers at home
games, than the pert and perky head majorette who had strutted across the field
at halftime.
Rather than try to cover my surprise, I decided to use it. “Wow. I
am so sorry, Mrs. Brown! I could have sworn I was talking to your daughter,
Alicia.”
Alicia cocked her head to one side. I could almost hear the hamster
wheel spinning away as she tried to dredge up a smart retort.
I decided to spare her the torment, thinking maybe if I just cut
to the chase, Alicia would leave. “Did you want something, Alicia?”
“Actually, I do. I’m the lead reporter for The Clarion
these days and unfortunately, my editor tasked me with writing a human-interest
piece on your move back to Caratoke. Us being old friends and all. I have to
get a photo to go with the article, so say cheese.” Alicia held up her
phone and snapped the picture before I even had time to smile. She tucked the
phone back into her little red handbag and then turned on her heel to walk
away.
“You’re not going to ask me any questions for the article?”
“Now why would I do that? I have all the information I need right
here.” She tapped one well-manicured finger against her temple. “Plus, there’s
some actual news to cover over at Muncey.”
As Alicia clacked off down the sidewalk, a tall man in a police
uniform rounded the corner of the building. She altered her course slightly to
intercept him, placing one hand possessively on his chest as she leaned in to
ask him a question.
That sight triggered a massive case of déjà vu. Suddenly I was
sitting on a bench outside the high school, a few weeks after my fifteenth
birthday. It must have been a Friday, because Travis was wearing his Caratoke
Tiger Sharks jersey and the team only did that on game days. Alicia walked up
to him that day and rubbed her hand across his chest.
But Travis’s eyes had not been on Alicia Brown. He’d been looking
at me, which had royally pissed off Alicia. And now, more than twenty years
later, Alicia was royally pissed yet again. Travis waved her vaguely toward the
theater, and then began walking toward the bench where I was sitting.
Alicia glared at his back, then stomped off toward the auditorium.
For one brief second, I felt sorry for her. My mom had told me both of them
were married—not to each other—but it was clear that Alicia still carried a
torch.
To be fair, it was really, really easy to see why. I have never
been one of those women who goes all weak-kneed over a guy in uniform. But
Travis Lamm was even better looking at forty, in his Caratoke police uniform,
than he had been at eighteen in that football jersey. And he’d looked mighty
fine in that football jersey.
I stood up as he approached, trying to decide on the appropriate
greeting for a first love you hadn’t seen in nearly two decades. Did you shake
hands or hug it out?
Travis decided for me. He grinned, opened his arms wide, and I
stepped into them. It was a quick, friendly hug. Five seconds, tops. But there
was way too much history between us—ancient though it might be—for me to be
totally unaffected.
“Kind of a lousy welcome home. You doing okay?”
For a second, I thought Travis meant seeing Alicia, but then I
realized he was here investigating Amundsen’s death.
“Let’s just say I’m in no hurry to eat lunch,” I told him. “But
you’re probably immune to that kind of thing by now.”
“No, ma’am. That’s something you never get used to.”
If it were anyone else, I’d have been annoyed at the ma’am,
especially when I’m two years younger than the person doing the ma’aming.
But that word is second nature to Travis, like drinking iced tea with enough
sugar to send most people—or at least those not born in the South—into a
diabetic coma. If you are male, Travis calls you sir. If you are female,
he calls you ma’am.
The last time we’d spoken face-to-face was on a short trip to
Mexico when Travis was about to start his junior year at North Carolina State.
I was taking the occasional class at UCLA during what I hoped would be a short
hiatus between acting jobs, after Private Eye High ended. In retrospect,
I think we both realized the Cancun trip was goodbye. But we held on for a bit
longer, just talking less often. Writing less often. One day, I realized it had
been over a week since we’d spoken, and I finally screwed up the courage to
call and end things officially. He’d sounded a bit relieved. Maybe I’d sounded
that way to him, too, and maybe I had been relieved. But it still hurt,
and I’d had more than one good long cry over what might have been in the months
afterward.
It was a minor miracle that we lasted as long as we did. Travis
came out to LA twice, and didn’t much care for it. I’d rarely managed more than
a month off in the summer when we were shooting the series. We were both in
Caratoke for the Christmas holidays, but that left a whole lot of time apart
and eventually, the absence took its toll. He finished college, joined the
state police, and spent the next decade in Raleigh, according to the sporadic
updates Mom passed along when she ran into Travis’s sister at some college
event. And then about a year ago, the Caratoke chief of police retired. They
wanted someone with local ties, so Travis moved back.
“I didn’t realize you were replacing Amundsen until I spoke to
Dean Prendergast just now,” he said, smiling down at me. “It’s good to see you.
Can’t say I ever thought you’d end up back in Caratoke.”
“Makes two of us. But…life tosses you a curveball every now and
then.”
“You can say that again.” Travis’s cell phone buzzed and he
checked the text on the screen. “Medical examiner just arrived. Listen, Tig,
we’re going to need to get a full statement from you about finding the body.
You can stop in at the station and give it to one of the deputies if you like.
Or…I could drop by your mom’s house, assuming I’m done here at a decent hour?”
“Sure. It will give us a little time to catch up on the past…” I
trailed off, doing the mental math.
“Well, I just turned forty,” he said. “So…eighteen years?” The
crinkles around his eyes were deeper now, and there were little touches of gray
at his temples. But those sexy dimples still appeared when he smiled.
I gave myself a brisk mental shake. Travis Lamm was married, and
no matter how sexy the dimples, I needed to imagine a big red NO TRESPASSING
sign on his forehead.
“I gotta run,” he said. “But I just wanted to say how sorry I am
about your mom’s accident and that I couldn’t be here for the funeral. I
had…something going on with the family out of state. Miss Caroline was always
one of my favorite people. It’s hard to believe she’s gone.”
Travis turned and jogged back toward the auditorium after those
last words. I was glad he didn’t wait for me to respond, because my reaction to
his condolences was something between tears and nervous laughter. I’d buried my
mother nearly three months ago, and Travis was right. It was hard to
believe she was gone.
Especially when I kept seeing her. Hearing her.
About the author:
Jessa Archer writes sweet, funny, warm-hearted cozy mysteries because she loves a good puzzle and can't stand the sight of blood. Her characters are witty, adventurous, and crafty in the nicest way. You'll find her sleuths hand lettering inspirational quotes, trying to lower golf handicaps, enjoying a scone at a favorite teashop, knitting a sweater, or showing off a dramatic side in local theater.
Jessa's done many things in her long career, including a stint as a journalist and practicing law. But her favorite job is spinning mysteries. She loves playing small-town sleuth and transporting readers to a world where the scones are delicious, wine pairs with hand lettering, and justice always prevails.
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The excerpt sounds great
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