Scripted to Slay Read online

  Scripted To Slay

  St. Marin’s Cozy Mystery 6

  ACF Bookens

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Harvey and Marcus’s Book Recommendations

  Want to Read about Harvey’s First Sleuthing Expedition?

  Also by ACF Bookens

  About the Author

  1

  I sat in my reading chair and looked out the window. The snow had started overnight, and the forecast was for it to continue well into the morning. I was so excited. We almost never got snow out here on Maryland's Eastern Shore, and I loved snow, especially if it snowed me in, which was the case today. All of St. Marin's was basically shut down because, well, because we didn't have a snowplow. The town had never invested in one, and I had to say that seemed wise to me. Now, all of us could just stay in and read with hot cocoa and extra marshmallows.

  Many of my neighbors were not of my perspective, though, my mother included. She had texted no fewer than nine times to lament how awful it was that she couldn't get out. After the ninth message, I had replied, "Urgent meeting today? Medications to fill? Friend without food?" Her extended silence followed by the acidic "Hardy har har" in reply told me that she'd gotten my point. My mother was retired, and while she stayed busy with charity events – a volunteer gig that she was incredibly good at – she had no need to go out. She and Dad had enough food to keep the town fed in light of the apocalypse, and they'd put in a whole house generator when they'd bought their condo. So even if the power went out, they'd be warm and toasty.

  As would I, by my fire with a lap blanket, my chubby cat, Aslan, and my hound dog, Mayhem. Plus, I wouldn't have that pesky hum of the generator. My bookstore was closed for the day, and I was going to enjoy the quiet. Alone. It was blissful.

  My best friend and roommate, Mart, had stayed over at her boyfriend, Symeon's, house the night before, and my fiancé, Daniel, was out and about with his tow truck helping people out of ditches – both those who thought they could drive in snow but couldn't and those brave souls who had to drive because of work. He'd be gone all day most likely, so I was already hunkering down with Angie Thomas's new book, Concrete Rose, and coffee. I could pretend I'd miss Daniel – and I would in a mild kind of way that gave me a little pause when I thought too hard about it – but mostly I was just giddy with the quiet. The quiet of snow was absolute, and it felt like my spirit needed that relief.

  * * *

  I had just made it through the first half of Thomas's stellar book when my phone dinged. I rolled my eyes, expecting Mom to be whining about how she can't stand to be trapped in her luxury condo on the water for one more minute, and picked up my phone. It was Daniel. "Headed down the shore to help with a multi-car pile-up near the Bay Bridge. Don't think I'll make it back safely tonight. I’m sorry. Stay warm."

  I sighed, let myself ponder the lack of "I love you" in his message for a minute, and then remembered that he was out helping people . . . and that this meant I had the entire day to do with as I wished. "Oh, I'm sure everyone will be so grateful. Drive safely," I replied in kind with a pang of something I wasn’t willing to consider. Then I tucked the phone under my leg and started reading again.

  Sometime around three p.m. and eighteen slices of cheese and a bowl of popcorn later, I unfolded myself from under Aslan, much to her annoyance, and decided to don all the cold weather clothing I owned – scarf, hat with ear flaps, a massive eggplant-purple parka, and my fleece-lined boots to go for a walk. Mayhem would have gladly done her business at the edge of the porch to avoid getting her feet wet, but given the opportunity to pull me bodily through snow banks, she managed to muster up a tail wag as I put on her leash.

  Once we were out the door, the bracing cold and the bright light of the newly showing sun told me we'd made the right call. I could feel the blood starting to pick up in my circulatory system just to keep my body warm. So Mayhem and I headed out through the six or so inches of show that my friends in the northern climes would scoff at as "a dusting." Here, though, this was a named Blizzard, Blizzard Paco. I didn't understand this phenomenon of naming every storm, not just hurricanes, but at least I knew how to address the air around me as I walked. "Paco, thanks for this. I appreciate the day off and the beauty. So yeah, thanks," I said out loud as Mayhem and I turned onto the wonderland that was our town's Main Street after a snow storm.

  Everything was glittering, and there were tufts of snow on the streetlamps and awnings. Someone with a plow on their pick-up had graciously done one pass up the street, so the piles of snow by the sidewalk were substantial. Up ahead, I could see some of my fellow shopkeepers beginning to shovel their square feet of sidewalk. I sighed and decided to do my duty, too, even though I kind of wanted to simply go on back home, finish Thomas's book, and binge the new season of Glow Up that I'd been saving for a special day.

  I trudged over to the hardware store and bought their only remaining snow shovel. It was a massive thing, bright yellow and built like a front-end loader, but it did the trick. Within a few minutes, I had the sidewalk in front of my store clear, and I was making my way across the parking lot between my shop and the garden center. Mayhem had insisted on going into the bookstore, so she was now watching me intently from the warmth of my shop's front window. She had such a hard life.

  I was just heading back to stow my new shovel at my shop after digging out a couple more store fronts for friends when I heard my name. I looked up from where'd I'd been trying to pry individual snowflakes from the concrete and saw Max Davies, the man who owned the French restaurant up the street from me, smiling and waving. Well, I think it was what you'd call a wave. Max's hand moved like it was a mechanized part of an early robot, all stiff and awkward. But he was definitely calling me, and soon his stiff waved turned into an awkward beckoning motion.

  I shot Mayhem a look and secretly hoped she'd nudge the store door open and make a break for it so I could chase her down in the snow rather than talk to Max, but she just looked back at me, forehead wrinkled, like she was enjoying the strange show. I sighed, propped my shovel against my store door, and walked down to Max.

  Max Davies was a nice enough man if you liked arrogant, know-it-alls who think they are God's gift to, well, you in particular. Max had a serious thing for me, and while I always felt awkward saying that when someone asked why he kissed my hand for so long on every greeting, it was the truth, a truth I hated. He'd been pursuing me in his really off-base way ever since I'd moved to town more than a year ago, and despite the fact that Daniel and I were engaged, he hadn't slowed down in his pursuits at all. More than once I'd thought about telling him what he could do with his slobbering hand kisses, but St. Marin's is a small town . . . and I didn't want drama . . . okay, I didn't want conflict. Drama just seemed to be part of Max's way in the world.

  Now, he was grinning at me like he'd just seen snow for the first time, and I braced myself. This couldn't be good. "Hi Max. What's up?" I said as I stopped a safe two feet away and kept my hands in my pockets.

  "Bonjour, Mademoiselle," he said with his fake French accent. Max was from Baltimore, and while he made the best risotto I'd ever had, there was nothing actually French about him. "I see you have been working hard for hours, and I wanted to invite you in for your favorite to help warm you up."

  I looked at my watch. I'd been shoveling for thirty minutes, not exactly hours, but I was c
old . . . and if he was talking about his mushroom risotto, he was right. It was my favorite, and I was starving. Still, I hesitated.

  The problem was that Max often thought I should like things even when I didn't. One time, he'd brought me a chocolate dessert flavored with orange liqueur after I'd told him specifically that I didn't like chocolate and fruit together. He had made some comment about me just needing help to train my palate, and I had shoved the dessert in front of Mart, who had devoured it with revenge-filled glee. So while I was tempted by the idea of risotto, I couldn't be sure he'd actually give me risotto. Plus, I could be sure he would be there, and that alone was just about enough reason to walk away.

  But I was cold and hungry, and a quick scan of the street told me that no one was going to come, not even my dog, to rescue me. So I nodded and trudged along behind him into his restaurant. It was warm inside, and Max had a fire roaring in the fireplace that was the centerpiece of the room. I could hear someone knocking around in the kitchen. For a moment, I wondered if it was Symeon, Mart's boyfriend, but then I remembered that her text earlier had said he'd taken the day and that Max was okay with it because the sous chef was available for the limited fare they'd offer to anyone who stopped by. Anyone being me, it seemed. The rest of the dining room was empty.

  Max gestured for me to sit in the front window, and I wondered if he wanted to use me as bait for other customers. But then I realized, with a little surprise, that it was actually the best seat in the house. The raised platform by the window gave me a view up and down Main Street, and I could see the white lights that most shopkeepers left up in their windows year-round reflecting off the snow as dusk began to settle in. The sky was that pearl-gray of a winter's afternoon, and with the slight breeze off the water that was picking up tendrils of snow, it looked like a postcard. I found myself strangely grateful that Max had invited me in.

  Even when he showed up with a warm mug of wine without asking me if I'd like any, I couldn't muster up enough snark to comment. Instead, I took the heavy ceramic mug in both hands and took a sip of the sweet white wine that was spicy and lemony, and then I sighed. It was really good. Max then brought me a salad full of spicy arugula and dressed with a vinaigrette that was tangy and rich. Finally, he carried over a beautiful, ceramic bowl full of his mushroom risotto, and I almost groaned out loud. I don't know what he did to make that dish so amazing, but on this evening in this setting, it felt like I was going to be eating ambrosia, the food of the gods.

  After Max set down the bowl, I thought he might decide to join me, especially given the quiet in his restaurant, but instead, he smiled and walked away. I was grateful. There was something about this meal in this place by myself that felt sacred, special, and while I knew that I should be missing Daniel, I also knew that some of the most memorable times in my life were when I had chosen to be alone. I had a feeling this would be one of those times.

  I savored every morsel of that risotto and had just set down my spoon when Max returned with a slice of apple galette that looked divine. It was caramelized on the bottom, and across the top, Max had drizzled just the lightest bit of cinnamon glaze. As he set the plate in front of me, he said, "I decided ice cream might be too much, but if you'd like some—"

  I put up my hand. "No, this is perfect." I looked up at my host and smiled, maybe really smiled at him for the first time. "Thank you, Max. This has been an incredible meal." And I meant it. Somehow, this was exactly what I needed to end this restful, magical day.

  I ate my dessert and waited for Max to return so I could ask for my bill. When he came back, he handed me a waiter's notebook, and inside it said, "For Harvey. With my compliments. Thank you for treasuring my food as I treasure you." I stared at the note and smiled. Then I looked up and waved to Max who was standing at the bar with a small smile on his face.

  I never would have guessed it, but tonight Max had shown that some woman, someday, would win a fine man's heart. I smiled and bowed my head. Then, I slipped on my coat and hat and headed toward the door.

  The sun was almost down, and I took one last deep breath of the warm air before I stepped back into the cold again. Then, I heard Max yell, "Get help, Harvey. Get help!"

  Bless my heart, I almost didn't turn around because I assumed this was some ruse on Max's part to get me back in so he could ruin a lovely evening with skeeziness. But something about his tone of voice sounded authentic, so I stepped back inside and looked around. He was nowhere to be seen. "Max?"

  "Over here, Harvey. Call 911." His voice was coming from behind the bar.

  As I rushed over, I took out my phone and dialed, but as soon as the operator picked up, I realized I didn't know what to tell her. So I jumped up and stretched over the bar so I could see. There, crumpled in a heap, was a young woman. "Is she alive, Max?"

  He stared up at me and gave a little shake of his head. "I don't think so."

  I realized then that the operator was still on the line and asking me if everything was alright. "Someone's dead," I said, too stunned to be tender with my words. "Send help." I gave her the address and hung up.

  Then, I raced around the bar and squeezed in next to Max. Normally, I would be doing my best to avoid this close a quarters with my quasi-stalker, but a good risotto free of come-ons and a dead body will disrupt any person's norms. "You know her, right?"

  Max rolled his eyes at me. "Of course, I know her. This is Lizzie, my bartender."

  I felt a tiny pang of both annoyance and relief that Max was, it appeared, back to being his condescending self. I crouched down and tried to get a look at the young woman's face, but she was folded over, her face buried in her shins. "Do I know her?"

  Max shook his head. "I just hired her last week. Tonight was her first night."

  "Killed on her first night at a new job." I was trying to keep my brain from spinning as it began to ask the questions that sprang to mind when I encountered something I didn't understand. My friends called me nosy, but I preferred the term curious. Still, now was not the time. "Do you know if she had family?"

  "I don't normally take a full genealogy when I interview my employees, so no," Max's voice was clipped and hard, but I decided to cut him some slack given the circumstances.

  A few seconds later, I could hear a siren making its way up the street more slowly than usual. The snow was impeding even the sheriff's progress, I supposed. Eventually, though, I heard the crunch of tires out front, and then the door of the restaurant opened as Tucker Mason, the sheriff of St. Marin's came in, shaking off his ball cap and stomping his feet. The last few melting snowflakes stood out against his brown skin.

  I waved Tuck over, and he sighed when he saw me. I, largely for reasons beyond my own control, I would argue, had ended up involved in the surprising number of murders that cropped up in St. Marin's. At first, I had butted in, trying to help as was my way and finding out that my idea of help was the sheriff's idea of hindrance. Now, I tried to stay out the way, even if my curiosity sometimes got the better of me. "I was here for dinner. That's all," I said defensively as the sheriff reached the bar.

  "That's true," Max said. "Neither of us knew Lizzie was back here during the entire meal."

  Tuck raised an eyebrow and looked at me. "You two were having dinner?"

  I shook my head vigorously. "Um, no. Max made a splendid meal for me because I'd come into town and shoveled snow. We did not, however, dine together." I stared hard at Tuck. He was a good friend, and he knew how much Max's advances annoyed me. Plus, as discreet as he was, I knew that if he suspected anything untoward, he would tell Daniel, and I didn't want Daniel worrying for what was truly no reason.

  Tuck smiled. "Got it. Okay, so who is this?" He knelt down by Lizzie's body, double-checked her pulse, and then lifted her head.

  "This is Lizzie Bordo, my new bartender," Max said.

  I couldn't help myself: I snickered. "Lizzie Bordo . . . your bartender. That's not her real name is it?"

  Max furrowed his brow and stood up to look
at me. "What do you mean?"

  "Come on, Max. You hired a bartender named Lizzie Bordo . . . like the wine." I tilted my head and looked at him out of the corner of my eye.

  "Oh, that . . ." He shrugged.

  "I was actually thinking Lizzie Borden," Tuck said as he stood. "Seems oddly fitting."

  "Because she was axed to death?" I looked again to see if I had missed a copious amount of blood but didn't see a thing.

  "Well, no, but just because she's goth and, well, dead." The sheriff came around the bar and sighed. "Sorry, that was a disrespectful. It's been a long day, and it now looks," he glanced at the bar, "like it's going to be a long night."

  I couldn't even imagine. I knew that Tuck had probably been out helping stranded motorists most of the day, and I knew he wouldn't let Lizzie's death go uninvestigated even until morning.

  "Do you know if she had family?" Tuck asked Max.

  I snickered again. "Max doesn't take a family genealogy when he does an interview, Tuck, geez."

  Max sneered. "I do have an emergency contact if that would be helpful."

  Tuck nodded with exaggeration. "I'd say this qualifies as an emergency, Max. Could you get that information, please?"

  With a huff, Max went into the back room, and Tuck pulled out a chair at the nearest table. "Did you know her?"

  I shook my head as I sat down next to him. I knew this routine. I had to answer a few questions before I could head out. "Didn't even know she was here until Max found her as I was leaving. Any idea how she died?"

  "If I did, would I tell you?" The sheriff gave me a pointed look.

  "Understood. Poor woman. It was her first night." I looked over at the bar and realized that despite the warmth of my meal and the actual hospitality of Max, my image of a pleasant night was now ruined because a woman had lay dead the whole time just behind the bar. Then, a horrible thought struck me. "Tuck, do you have any idea how long she's been dead?"