Murder With All the Trimmings Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue: Christmas Eve

  Shopping Tips

  Teaser chapter

  Praise for the Josie Marcus, Mystery Shopper Series

  Accessory to Murder

  “A funny, laugh-out-loud whodunit. Elaine Viets has created characters that you can identify with. . . . This is one book you don’t want to miss.”—The Romance Readers Connection

  “A well-thought-out whodunit starring a sleuth who is totally believable and a bit quirky.”—Midwest Book Review

  “A very interesting series. . . . I’m looking forward to the next book.”—Deadly Pleasures

  High Heels Are Murder

  “[A] laugh-out-loud comedic murder mystery guaranteed to keep you entertained for any number of hours—the perfect read for a rainy day. . . . Shopping, St. Louis culinary treats, and mayhem abound, providing for a satisfying read.”

  —Front Street Reviews

  “High Heels Are Murder takes Josie into the wicked world of murder, mayhem, and toe cleavage. From the sweat and toil of having to work three jobs to afford a Prada knockoff to the glamorous world of stiletto shopping, Viets spans the female psyche with panache and wit.”—South Florida Sun-Sentinel

  “Viets has written one of the funniest amateur sleuth mysteries to come along in ages. Her protagonist is a thoroughly likable person, a great mother, daughter, and friend. . . . The strength and the freshness of the tale lies in the characters.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  Dying in Style

  “Finally, a protagonist we can relate to.”

  —Riverfront Times (St. Louis, MO)

  “Laugh-out-loud humor adds to the brisk action of Dying in Style...with an insightful look at the bonds between mother and daughter, the challenges of living in a multigenerational household, and the rewards of nonjudgmental friendship.Viets’s fast pace is complemented by realistic dialogue and well-drawn characters in believable relationships. Viets affectionately uses her native St. Louis as the backdrop for this new series.”

  —South Florida Sun-Sentinel

  Praise for the Dead-End Job Mystery Series

  Murder with Reservations

  “Humorous and socially conscious . . . rollicking fun.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Brave Viets preps by actually working the jobs she describes in loving and hilarious detail, giving her offbeat series a healthy balance between the banal and the bizarre.”—Kirkus Reviews

  “Viets shows an uncanny ability to mix humor, quirky characters, and murder into an entertaining page-turner.”

  —Romantic Times

  “This novel goes deeper than Viets’s previous books, as Hawthorne must confront her complicated feelings. . . . Her style of justice will make this book—and its ending—one of Viets’s most satisfying.”—The Miami Herald

  Murder Unleashed

  “Full of wry social commentary.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Elaine Viets knows how to turn minimum wage into maximum hilarity. With such a fast-paced story and nonstop wisecracks, never has a dead-end job sounded so downright funny!”

  —Nancy Martin

  “Wickedly funny.”—The Miami Herald

  “Viets has a wry way with humor. . . . The snapshots of lunatic dog owners are priceless.”—Kirkus Reviews

  Dying to Call You

  “Viets writes a laugh-out-loud comedy with enough twists and turns to make it to the top. . . . In fact, she’s been nominated for a truckload of awards this year. . . . There is a good reason why Viets is taking the mystery genre by storm these days. . . . She can keep you wondering ‘Who done it?’ while laughing all the way to the last page.”—Florida Today

  Murder Between the Covers

  “Wry sense of humor, appealing, realistic characters, and a briskly moving plot.”—South Florida Sun-Sentinel

  “A great writer . . . simply superb.”—Midwest Book Review

  Shop Till You Drop

  “Fans of Janet Evanovich and Parnell Hall will appreciate Viets’s humor.”—South Florida Sun-Sentinel

  “Elaine Viets’s debut is a live wire. . . . Helen Hawthorne takes Florida by storm. Shop no further—this is the one.”

  —Tim Dorsey

  “I loved this book. With a stubborn . . . heroine, a wonderful South Florida setting, and a cast of more-or-less lethal bimbos, Shop Till You Drop provides tons of fun. Six-toed cats, expensive clothes, sexy guys on motorcycles—this book has it all.”

  —Charlaine Harris

  “Fresh, funny, and fiendishly constructed . . . a bright start to an exciting new series. This one is hard to beat.”

  —Parnell Hall, author of the Puzzle Lady crossword puzzle mysteries

  Also by Elaine Viets

  Josie Marcus, Mystery Shopper Series

  Dying in Style

  High Heels Are Murder

  Accessory to Murder

  Dead-End Job Mystery Series

  Shop Till You Drop

  Murder Between the Covers

  Dying to Call You

  Just Murdered

  Murder Unleashed

  Murder with Reservations

  Clubbed to Death

  OBSIDIAN

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  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

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  First Printing, November 2008

  Copyright © Elaine Viets, 2008

  eISBN : 978-1-440-65300-1

  All rights reserved

 
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  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  To my St. Louis friend, Janet Smith

  Acknowledgments

  So many people helped me with this book; I don’t want to forget anyone. Thanks to my St. Louis experts, Jinny Gender, Karen Grace, and Janet Smith. Thanks also to Valerie Cannata, Colby Cox, Susan Carlson, Kay Gordy, and Anne Watts.

  I also want to thank Emma, my expert on nine-year-olds. She used to be one last year. Emma gave me deep background on what it’s like to be nine years old. I wish I could use her real name, but the world is a dangerous place these days for little girls.

  As always, thanks and love to my husband, Don Crinklaw, for his extraordinary help and patience. It’s not easy to live with a writer, but he manages.

  My agent, David Hendin, is still the best.

  My editor, Kara Cesare, devoted long hours to editing and guiding this project. Thanks also to Lindsay Nouis and the ever-careful Obsidan copy editor and production staff, and to publicist Leslie Henkel.

  With thanks to Book Tarts—Nancy Martin, Michele Martinez, Harley Jane Kozak, Kathy Sweeney, and Sarah Strohmeyer—you’ve been true blog sisters on The Lipstick Chronicles.

  Many booksellers help keep this series alive. I wish I had room to thank them all. I really appreciate their efforts.

  Thanks to the librarians at the Broward County Library and the St. Louis Public Library who researched my questions, no matter how strange, and always answered with a straight face.

  Thanks to public relations experts Patti Nunn and Jack Klobnak.

  Thanks to super saleswoman Carole Wantz, and to the many members of the mystery community who were so kind to me when I was sick.

  Special thanks to the law enforcement men and women who answered countless questions on police procedure. Some of my police and medical sources have to remain nameless, but I want to thank them anyway. Particular thanks to Detective R. C. White, Fort Lauderdale Police Department (retired).

  Any mistakes are mine, not theirs.

  Chapter 1

  “Mom, can I see your wedding pictures?”Amelia Marcus asked.

  “My what?” Josie Marcus hit the gas and nearly smacked the Hummer parked in front of them. Great. It was owned by the PTA president. Josie gave the woman an insincere smile and a little wave.

  “Your wedding pictures,” Amelia said. “You know. When people get married, they get pictures taken. Woman in a white dress. Man in a black tux.”

  “Don’t get sarcastic with me, Amelia Marcus,” Josie said.

  The air seemed to be sucked out of the car. Josie felt an odd, still silence, as if she’d just survived a bomb blast. She’d been dreading this question from her nine-year-old daughter for almost a decade, since the moment Josie knew she couldn’t marry Amelia’s father.

  “Put your seat belt on,” Josie said.

  Amelia had thrown her winter coat in the backseat, dropped her monogrammed backpack on the floor, and flopped down on the front seat. She must have had a difficult day at the Barrington School for Boys and Girls. Amelia’s hair stuck up at odd angles and her socks slid down into her shoes. Again.

  My daughter has inherited the slippery-sock gene from me, Josie thought. Amelia’s rich, dark hair and long nose were from her father, Nate. The sprinkling of freckles, like tiny flecks of chocolate, was all her own.

  Josie thought her child would be a dramatic-looking woman. She was glad Amelia hadn’t inherited her mother’s ordinary looks. As a mystery shopper, Josie needed to blend in to the crowd when she went to the mall. But her daughter stood out, even in the throng of schoolchildren.

  Not that I’m prejudiced or anything, Josie thought.

  The school grounds were filled with yelling, shrieking children, running in the pale December sun. It was sixty-two degrees, unusually warm for winter in St. Louis. Tender green plant spears were poking out of the mulched beds and the trees were budding. The new buds would die in the next frost.

  Josie eased carefully out of the school driveway, praying she woudn’t hit any kids darting heedlessly in front of her moving vehicle. With her luck, she’d clip the child of a lawyer. Worse, two lawyers.

  “Mom,” Amelia said. “I was asking about your wedding pictures. You’ve never showed them to me.”

  “My wedding pictures . . .” Josie repeated as she sailed through the stop sign at the end of the school drive. Horns blared and brakes screeched.

  “Mom, that lady in the black SUV flipped you off.”

  “Shame on her.” Josie gritted her teeth and tried to delay the inevitable. “Why do you want my wedding pictures?”

  “We’re doing a family tree for class,” Amelia said. “Grandma showed me her wedding pictures. She has a leather photo album with gold letters. She got married in 1953 and wore a white lace Cinderella dress. She was really skinny.”

  Grandma Jane had been a fairy-tale beauty. Too bad her marriage to my father didn’t have a happy ending, Josie thought. That particular prince turned out to be a toad in a pin-striped suit. He walked out when I was Amelia’s age. Mom worked herself half to death to put me through school. And she wonders why I didn’t want to get married.

  “Mom,” Amelia nagged, “where are your wedding pictures?”

  It was hard to think straight with horns blaring and Barrington parents glaring.

  “Uh, I don’t have a wedding album,” Josie said.

  “Were you too poor?” Amelia said. She was a scholarship student at a rich kids’ school.

  “No,” Josie said. She’d considered creating a fake album by Photoshopping pictures. But she’d promised herself she wouldn’t lie to her daughter.

  “Why not?” Amelia said.

  “It got lost in a flood,” Josie said. The lie just sprang out of her mouth.

  “What flood?” asked Amelia. “We live on a hill in Maplewood.”

  “The Great St. Louis Flood of 1993. It happened before you were born.”

  “Jarred said his parents didn’t have any wedding pictures because they didn’t get married. His mother said marriage was middle-class. Zoe called Jarred a little bastard. She got detention from Ms. Apple.”

  “Good,” Josie said.

  “Ms. Apple said that Zoe was judgmental. That’s so last century.”

  “She’s right,” Josie said.

  Zoe was nine going on thirty-nine—the first girl in Amelia’s class to tongue-kiss a boy, drink a martini, and smoke cigarettes. She dressed like Britney Spears on a bender and dispensed wildly inaccurate sex information. She told Amelia that Coke was a contraceptive douche and that girls couldn’t get pregnant the first time they had sex. Josie was amazed how many of the dangerous myths of her youth still survived.

  Amelia seemed to be measuring Josie’s loud silence. “Mom, did you marry Dad?”

  “Uh,” Josie said.

 
“I’m a bastard, aren’t I?” Amelia said.

  Josie wanted to cry. “No, sweetie. That’s a terrible word. Don’t ever use it. Children are not to blame for what their parents did—or didn’t do.”

  “You didn’t marry Dad, did you?”

  “No,” Josie said.

  “Why did you lie to me?”

  “Because I didn’t want to hurt you. I was wrong, honey,” Josie said. “I loved your father very much. But I didn’t want to marry him.”

  “Why not?” Amelia said. “You told me you should wait until marriage to have sex.”

  “That’s the ideal,” Josie said. “But sometimes people don’t live up to the ideal.”

  “I bet Grandma was pissed when you got pregnant.”

  “Amelia! You know better than to talk like that. Yes, Grandma was angry when I failed to live up to her standards. But then you were born. When she saw how cute you were, she forgot all about being mad.”

  “What about Dad?” Amelia said. “Did he think I was cute?”

  “I’m sure he would.”

  “Would? Did he ever see me? Was he dead when I was born?”

  “Yes.” A second lie. Sort of. As soon as Nate was arrested for selling drugs, he was dead to me, Josie thought.

  “Where’s he buried?” Amelia asked.

  “What?” Josie said. More horns blared.

  “Mom, that was a red light,” Amelia said. “You drove through it.”

  “I know that,” Josie said. Damn, her daughter was persistent. The kid could be a telemarketer.

  “Is he buried in Arlington?” Amelia asked. “Zoe’s grandfather fought in World War Two and he’s buried there.”

  “No, he’s not buried in Arlington,” Josie said. “He’s buried in Canada.”

  That was the truth. Nate was buried in a Canadian prison. Josie considered his crime worse than murder.

  She’d known this conversation was coming. She’d had plenty of time to invent a good answer. Josie had rehearsed this scene in her mind, with all the wise and tender things she’d tell her daughter, but the time never seemed right.

  Josie’s mother had wanted Josie to marry Nate, then divorce him. “At least give the baby a name,” Jane had said when Josie announced her pregnancy.