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I’D HAVE GIVEN ANYTHING for a really juicy murder.
A romance novelist’s life involved skirting one unmitigated disaster to another. Or maybe that was just me. The current disaster was a raging case of writer’s block, so bad that dead bodies were starting to sound good. Even relocating from my writing den at home to a table at my favorite wine bar wasn’t helping. Maybe I should give up historical romance and write crime thrillers?
I sighed and glanced around Sip. It was a cozy place with a wide front window overlooking the Columbia River, warm red walls, and wide plank floors. Racks of wines—all from Pacific Northwest wineries— lined nearly every wall and a great deal of floor space. The rest of the room was taken up by little round tables covered in cheerful red and gold cloth so patrons could sit and enjoy a glass. Or bottle.
Nina Driver, who not only owned Sip but was a good friend of mine, was busy behind the bar unpacking boxes of newly delivered cabernet. Her long, honey hair tumbled about her shoulders as she hummed softly to the old-school jazz playing over the stereo system.
At the end of the bar sat one of the more colorful denizens of Astoria, Oregon. A regular at Sip, Lloyd was somewhere between sixty and eighty, his craggy features and wild beetle brows making it impossible to tell which. His white hair stood straight up as if he hadn’t brushed it in days, maybe a week even. He leaned heavily on the bar, staring soulfully into a glass of red.
I scowled at my laptop screen, willing words to appear. No luck. I had a looming deadline, and the story was stuck.
“You lied to me, Scarlet,” he said, his manly chest heaving. (Did manly chests heave? I’d have to look into that.) “I can never forgive you.”
“But Rolf,” she cried, “I did it for your own good.” Tears poured down her beautiful face, turning her blue eyes a stormy gray.
Good grief, that was melodramatic. My readers would love it. But what did Scarlet lie about? That was the million-dollar question. And if I couldn’t answer it, I’d be the next dead body, thanks to my editor.
“I could kill him!” Portia Wren stormed into Sip and slammed her turquoise designer purse on top of the polished wood bar, hard enough to make a substantial thwack. She hiked herself onto one of the tall stools. Her snug blue and green dress slid up her thighs like it was trying to escape the laws of gravity. She didn’t seem to notice, but Lloyd sure did. His eyeballs nearly popped out of his head, despite him being three sheets to the wind already.
“Keep your eyeballs in your head, Lloyd.” The order was snapped out from behind a rack of Bordeaux where Nina was stocking up. I would swear the woman had eyes in the back of her head.
Portia and I shot Lloyd a scowl, though he couldn’t see me since I was sitting behind him. He dove back into his wine glass with gusto. It wasn’t that anyone could blame Lloyd, exactly. Portia had a way of attracting attention. The woman had curves that wouldn’t quit and dressed like a runway model, despite Astoria being a small, wet, coastal town and not Milan or Paris.
“You look like you could use this,” Nina said, emerging from behind the rack. She was a tall woman, though not as tall as Portia, and her voluptuous figure was crammed into a cranberry knit dress. She set off the ensemble with knee-high, black boots and her naturally pouty lips painted with a cranberry-color lipstick. She may have passed the fifty mark, but I could only aspire to be half as sexy as Nina.
She set a large wine glass in front of Portia and held up a bottle. I knew without looking that it would be a dry, oaky chardonnay—the only kind Portia ever drank. The minute the glass was full, she snatched it and chugged back half in one go.
I used the interruption as an excuse to escape my laptop. I got up and joined Portia at the bar. “Who do you want to kill? And can I help?” I asked, only half kidding. Mess with my friends, feel my wrath. I may not look scary, being of the short and plump variety, but believe me, I’m devious.
Portia snorted delicately. “The Louse.”
“Oh,” Nina and I chimed in unison.
“The Louse” was August Nixon, Portia’s boss at the local museum, Flavel House. The gorgeous landmark Victorian that drew tourists from around the globe was, unfortunately, run by a big, fat jerk.
“Better be careful about making murder threats,” Nina joked. “Viola will have to hunt you down and see that justice is served.”
I rolled my eyes. One time. One time, I—Viola Roberts, author of bodice-ripping Western romances—solved a murder and now it was an eternal joke among my friends. “More likely I’d help her hide the body. What happened, Portia?”
She sighed and swallowed her remaining wine before handing the glass back to Nina for a refill. “I was in one of the storage rooms doing inventory, and he cornered me. Started putting his gross, sweaty hands in places he shouldn’t.” Her face was nearly as red as the walls of Sip, making her short, platinum hair look like a nimbus of white fire.
“You need to report that...jerk,” Nina said. Clearly, she’d wanted to use a stronger word, but Nina didn’t like to swear at work. Outside of work, she swore like a longshoreman. “No wait, forget that.” Nina waved off the idea of reporting Nixon. “Knee the sucker. Right in the—”
“I think reporting him is the better option,” I interrupted. While kneeing her boss in the delicates would probably be satisfying, Portia would likely be the one who ended up in trouble, in this day and age. “Turn him in. Report him for sexual harassment. This is not okay.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Portia scowled. “But who am I going to turn him in to? He’s the boss. And it’s not like we have an HR department. I am the HR department.”
She had a point. Astoria was a small town, and the museum had just four employees, two of which were part-timers. There were another half dozen volunteers who showed tourists around on weekends and during the summer months. Basically, August Nixon was king of his Victorian castle.
“How about the head of the historical society?” I suggested. “Surely they have some say in the matter.”
“Please. The Louse is loaded. And he’s got all kinds of powerful friends, including the mayor and a judge. No way they’re going to kick him out. Not as long as he wants the job.”
I grimaced. That was the problem with this world. Those in high places got away with murder, sometimes literally, while the rest of us paid for it. But I didn’t want to focus on the negative. I needed to help my friend.
“You could report him to the police,” I suggested. “That won’t look too good for him with his fancy friends. Might knock him down a rung or two.”
“Yeah, and he’ll make my life even more miserable,” Portia groaned, taking another deep swallow of wine from her glass, which had been magically refilled. Every move was elegant. I caught Lloyd peeking at her again and threw him another scowl.
I stared out the large front window. It had been a rare sunny spring day, and the early evening light glinted off the water below. It was nearing sunset. Magic time.
The bell above the door jangled as a group of tourists walked in. Nina excused herself to greet them and hand out the daily wine list. Sip was one of those places where you could buy a bottle (or case) of wine and sit at the bar and drink it. Or just have a glass. It was also the local watering hole of sorts for those who preferred wine over beer and conversation over ear-bleeding music or giant TV screens full of sports. It was also about the best place to catch up on town gossip, which was why I liked it.
“So,” said Portia, changing the subject, “have you heard from Lucas lately?”
I felt myself blushing and told myself sternly not to be an idiot. “Oh, you know, now and then,” I said, trying to play it cool. I fooled no one, certainly not Portia.
I’d met Lucas Salvatore several months earlier at a writer’s convention in Florida. The same convention where I’d found a dead body, been accused of murder, and managed to get both myself and my best friend Cheryl Delaney into and out of trouble. Like Cheryl, Lucas was a thriller and mystery writer. He also had a secret love of romance novels. Go figure. Although we’d been on a few dates, it was difficult, what with him living nearly two hours away in Portland.
Portia and I chatted over wine as the sun sank into the bay and our stomachs began to rumble. Lloyd had long since staggered off, and the tourists had departed to the nearest eateries. Only a couple die-hard locals were left.
Portia and I waved goodbye to Nina and headed out into the cool evening. “I’m meeting Cheryl for dinner. You want to join us?” I asked Portia as I shrugged into a lightweight jacket and twisted my long, dark brown hair up into a quick bun to avoid wind tangles. Clouds were beginning to scuttle across the darkened sky. No doubt there would be rain before morning.
Portia shivered. She hadn’t brought a jacket, silly girl. “I’ll take a rain check. Right now, all I want to do is get my pajamas on and curl up with some mind-numbing TV.”
We said our goodbyes, and Portia sashayed away, nearly giving a passing tourist a heart attack. He did a double take so hard he nearly tripped over his feet. His wife angrily smacked him on the back of his head and stormed off. He stumbled after her making loud protestations of his innocence. I hid a smirk as I turned to walk uphill toward Fort George Pub.
Astoria is built on a hill where the Columbia River meets Youngs Bay before flowing out to join the Pacific Ocean. The docks are on the waterfront, naturally, with the town center running parallel to the river a couple blocks in. From there, the city marches uphill toward the Astoria Column, the crowning glory of Coxcomb Hill. I’d read once that the monument was patterned after the Trajan Column in Rome. I’ve never seen it— the one in Rome, I mean—so I couldn’t tell you if that’s true.
Most of the houses in Astoria were glorious old Victorians painted in wildly bright colors. Made the town look like a mini San Francisco. But sprinkled in between were Craftsman cottages, a few Cape Cods, and the odd modern home.
Fort George Pub was in a renovated warehouse a block up the hill from the main drag. I made it in record time to find Cheryl already there, sitting at one of the rustic tables, a pint of something golden in front of her. Personally, I hated beer, but Cheryl enjoyed the odd glass. She waved me over with a grin.
She was dressed similarly to me in jeans, boots, and a casual top. On me, it looked relaxed and comfy. On her, it looked stylish and charming. Her short, brown hair stood up in cute little spikes that would have made anyone else look like they’d just rolled out of bed. On her, it was artistic and stylish.
“So, how goes the writing?” she asked as I took the chair across from her.
I rolled my eyes. “Same as ever.”
She gave me a look of sympathy. Only another writer could understand the frustration of writer’s block. “Really? Getting out of the house didn’t help?”
“Not even a little. Maybe I need a trip to Eastern Oregon or something. See some real cowboys. Visit a ghost town. I don’t know.”
She gave me a look. “You don’t even like cowboys.”
I shrugged. “Anything for my readers.” It was true. I didn’t much like cowboys, ranches, country music, or any of that other stuff that one might think went along with writing historical Western romances.
“Speaking of...how is the gorgeous Lucas?”
“Were we speaking of that?”
She glared at me. “What is your problem, Viola? You’ve got a gorgeous, smart, talented, not to mention rich guy who is totally into you, and you act like you’re about to visit a dentist’s office.”
She was right. It was nuts. I should be throwing myself at the man, but that wasn’t my style. Plus, I’d gotten used to being alone. Other than a brief flirtation with marriage in my early twenties, I’d avoided long-term commitment. It wasn’t for me. Although Lucas Salvatore seemed to be shaking that long-held belief. Still, I wasn’t ready to go there.
“How about you?” I said, switching the subject. “Meet anyone interesting lately?”
“Men,” Cheryl said with a scowl. “I’ve got no time for them. I’ve got a deadline, you know. This book isn’t going to write itself.”
“I hear you.”
The waiter interrupted with our burgers, and we both dived in. Mine had bacon jam and bleu cheese. The smoky bacon and tangy cheese was absolutely perfect, and I nearly moaned in delight.
I felt badly for Cheryl. She’d met a lovely man at the Florida conference. It had seemed like things were going well, despite the differences between them—he lived on the East Coast and she on the West. He was a vegetarian; she wasn’t. That sort of thing. Then he dumped her to get back together with his old girlfriend. It had taken a lot of Ben & Jerry’s to get her over that one. She was still pretty much off men, even though I kept pushing. Gently, of course. It was my job as her best friend.
While we ate, I told her about Portia’s troubles with The Louse as well as our conversation about dealing with the situation. “She seems to think she’s stuck. That there’s nothing she can do.”
Cheryl snorted. “Maybe she should go with Nina’s first suggestion. Consequences be hanged.”
“Believe me, I’m tempted to do it for her.”
We were waiting for the waiter to bring us our check when my phone started playing “Everybody Have Fun Tonight” by Wang Chung. I literally had no idea how my ringtone had gotten changed. Probably one of my nephews. They were always doing things like that as pranks when I visited my sister in Portland. I probably should have changed it back, but I liked the catchy tune. The caller ID told me it was Portia.
“Hey, girl,” I shouted cheerfully over the din of the pub. Maybe she’d changed her mind. “We’re at Fort George. Want to join us?”
“Viola, I’m at the museum. You’ve got to come quick.” She sounded panicked, which wasn’t like Portia.
“Is everything all right?” I asked, digging around in my purse for bills. I threw some on the table, not caring if I was overpaying or not.
“No, everything’s not all right,” she wailed. “The Louse has been murdered!”