Pernod was indeed Brandy's pride and joy.
The border collie, so full of life and spry as a puppy, had turned into a constant companion by the time Brandy was a senior in high school. The two were often inseparable, except when Brandy had to leave Sweetberry Grove twice a year for boarding school in Finland.
But when she was home, Pernod rarely left her side.
Except, too, when Brandy sneaked out of the house.
Which was often.
Because Brandy had a secret.
A big secret.
Pernod wasn't just the name of her beloved pooch, it was also a code name for her secret lover. A lover she had had since she was a mere sixteen years of age.
That, incidentally, was also the year that Ginny stepped into her life and ruined everything. So it was only natural for her to seek comfort in warm, loving, and generous arms.
The arms of...
...Yvette Altelier.
So when Benedict E. Nelson had raged into Yvette Altelier's office demanding this and that and having his primadonna hissy fit, Yvette was mad. Pissed, actually. But she was also scared. Shaking in her 4-inch Jimmy Choos.
Yvette couldn't help thinking that handsome, clueless lawyer was going to ruin her carefully-balanced life: good social position, prominent law practice, and Brandy. Damn him! In her experience, good-looking men were all the same: always putting their nose - among other body parts - where it didn't belong.
And this was all happening because Brandy's father, Gordon, had to go and get himself killed. If he'd been less of a hard-nosed, unfeeling businessman, he might have developed fewer enemies and no one would be in this predicament. Yvette was really seething now.
Of course, she reminded herself, if Gordon had been a nicer person she never would have been able to get so close to Brandy. Beautiful, outspoken, petulant, and overly-emotional Brandy. Yvette's blood pressure started to drop precipitously as she thought of her dear, sweet Brandy.
Then she sighed. Not a sigh of love, but a sigh of resignation.
She was going to have to find a solution to this whole mess, and fast. It wasn't something she could simply solve in the courtroom, no matter how many times she terrified Benedict E. Nelson.
The only way to solve this once and for all, she thought, was to look up that nosy girl who always seemed to be one step ahead of the police.
"Trixie!" Yvette called to her assistant. "Get me Anise Starr on the phone right now!"
Showing posts with label cozy mystery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cozy mystery. Show all posts
Monday, May 30, 2016
Saturday, April 30, 2016
Créme Yvette: chapter 4 of a cozy mystery
We humbly dedicate this post to the memory of Robert J. Cooper, who helped to bring back Créme Yvette, as well as the ubiquitous elderflower liqueur St. Germain. He passed away at age 39 on Monday, April 25 from causes that weren't immediately known.
_________________________________________________________________
Yvette Altelier was many things: hot-headed, incisive, bold - but she was not sycophantic.
So when Benedict E. Nelson strolled into her office on that balmy Tuesday morning, mewling about his client's stepmother and her vicious streak, she wasn't moved. Hell, she wasn't even interested. At all.
"I was wondering," Benedict said in that smooth, caressing voice of his, "if you'd agree to me submitting an injunction Ginny Alexander."
Yvette's eyes narrowed to slits ("Pure evil!" her ex-husband often exclaimed). "Against what?" she spat.
"Brandy's gone through enough in her short life. I'd like to warn Ginny against saying anything negative about Brandy's father... or Pernod, for that matter."
"Pair-no?" Yvette could hardly help herself from spitting out the word. It sounded like an idiotic term the nouveau riche would trot out to make them feel better about their status amongst the Old Money of Sweetberry Grove. Which, in the case of the Alexander family, was extremely likely. "What the hell is that?"
Benedict scoffed and rolled his eyes. As if he'd been in Sweetberry Grove long enough to know everything about everyone.
Yvette placed her hands on her hips.
"Pernod is... was... Brandy's childhood border collie."
Yvette shifted her weight, and picked at the cuticle of her left thumb - an action she subconsciously did whenever she was losing patience. If Benedict kept this up, she'd have a a raw scrap of meat instead of a nailbed.
"Perhaps I should explain," Benedict E. Nelson began.
Yvette arched her eyebrows as high as they could go.
"Well, you have probably figured out for yourself that Brandy and Ginny have a relationship that is...ahhh -- how should I say this? --"
"Yes, counselor. A difficult relationship. So what? I once pulled off my mother's wig at a debutante ball after she convinced my boyfriend, Sanders, that I wasn't a socially appropriate match for him. We all have our sob stories."
"Oh! Yvette, that sounds horrible. To think, your mother drove your beau off just because you were of better social standing!"
Yvette stared blankly at him and began tapping her long purplish-red fingernails on her desk with an air of impatience and aggravation. Benedict's stomach dropped, like those recurring dreams when you realize that you're completely naked in a public place.
"No, Benedict. She convinced him that I was too bossy and plain to be a good match for his family's station."
Benedict gulped and fidgeted with his collar.
"Anyway, sir, I know they have a tense relationship. What does that have to do with the damn dog?" Yvette kept drumming her fingernails on the desk, and Benedict couldn't help but watch them, almost entranced, to see when she'd rap them so hard against the dark oak desk that one would fly off and smack against a piece of her gilt-edged, monogrammed desk set.
"You see, Yvette, Pernod was...well...you might say she was Brandy's best friend growing up. Being from the wealthiest family in Sweetberry Grove and having a hard-nosed businessman like Gordon for a father, she didn't have much chance to get to know kids her own age. They were all either put off by her family's position, or had been on the wrong end of one of Gordon's business dealings."
Yvette's nails kept rapping the top of the desk. Lord, did they make Lee Press-Ons out of titanium these days? And how often did she have to get that gorgeous old antique desk sanded and refinished?
"W-w-well," said Benedict as he kept one eye on her nails, "the dog, Pernod, was a bit of a problem when Ginny came into the household. Brandy loved that old mutt, but Ginny - well - she was never terribly fond of animals to begin with. You wouldn't believe the pack of trouble that dog caused: screaming matches on the porch, surreptitious trips to the pound, late-night calls to animal control and to the police! The dog became like the child in a really bad divorce."
"And for this you've wasted 7 minutes and 24 seconds of my time, Mr. Nelson?" Yvette asked as her nails finally stopped digging into the desk and instead pointed menacingly at Benedict. As annoying as the constant tapping was, he did wish she'd kept doing it; this was menacing and downright scary. Whoever that Sanders fellow was, Benedict thought he'd dodged a bullet by avoiding a date with Yvette.
"Counselor, please leave my office and don't darken my door unless you have something that's infused with at least a hint of common sense or legal precedent. Either would be a delightful change of pace. Now, good day. My assistant, Trixie Belvedere, will show you out."
"Trixie!" Yvette called loudly into the next room, "I believe Mr Arnold will agree that our meeting is finished."
Benedict nearly sprinted for the door.
_________________________________________________________________
Yvette Altelier was many things: hot-headed, incisive, bold - but she was not sycophantic.
So when Benedict E. Nelson strolled into her office on that balmy Tuesday morning, mewling about his client's stepmother and her vicious streak, she wasn't moved. Hell, she wasn't even interested. At all.
"I was wondering," Benedict said in that smooth, caressing voice of his, "if you'd agree to me submitting an injunction Ginny Alexander."
Yvette's eyes narrowed to slits ("Pure evil!" her ex-husband often exclaimed). "Against what?" she spat.
"Brandy's gone through enough in her short life. I'd like to warn Ginny against saying anything negative about Brandy's father... or Pernod, for that matter."
"Pair-no?" Yvette could hardly help herself from spitting out the word. It sounded like an idiotic term the nouveau riche would trot out to make them feel better about their status amongst the Old Money of Sweetberry Grove. Which, in the case of the Alexander family, was extremely likely. "What the hell is that?"
Benedict scoffed and rolled his eyes. As if he'd been in Sweetberry Grove long enough to know everything about everyone.
Yvette placed her hands on her hips.
"Pernod is... was... Brandy's childhood border collie."
Yvette shifted her weight, and picked at the cuticle of her left thumb - an action she subconsciously did whenever she was losing patience. If Benedict kept this up, she'd have a a raw scrap of meat instead of a nailbed.
"Perhaps I should explain," Benedict E. Nelson began.
Yvette arched her eyebrows as high as they could go.
"Well, you have probably figured out for yourself that Brandy and Ginny have a relationship that is...ahhh -- how should I say this? --"
"Yes, counselor. A difficult relationship. So what? I once pulled off my mother's wig at a debutante ball after she convinced my boyfriend, Sanders, that I wasn't a socially appropriate match for him. We all have our sob stories."
"Oh! Yvette, that sounds horrible. To think, your mother drove your beau off just because you were of better social standing!"
Yvette stared blankly at him and began tapping her long purplish-red fingernails on her desk with an air of impatience and aggravation. Benedict's stomach dropped, like those recurring dreams when you realize that you're completely naked in a public place.
"No, Benedict. She convinced him that I was too bossy and plain to be a good match for his family's station."
Benedict gulped and fidgeted with his collar.
"Anyway, sir, I know they have a tense relationship. What does that have to do with the damn dog?" Yvette kept drumming her fingernails on the desk, and Benedict couldn't help but watch them, almost entranced, to see when she'd rap them so hard against the dark oak desk that one would fly off and smack against a piece of her gilt-edged, monogrammed desk set.
"You see, Yvette, Pernod was...well...you might say she was Brandy's best friend growing up. Being from the wealthiest family in Sweetberry Grove and having a hard-nosed businessman like Gordon for a father, she didn't have much chance to get to know kids her own age. They were all either put off by her family's position, or had been on the wrong end of one of Gordon's business dealings."
Yvette's nails kept rapping the top of the desk. Lord, did they make Lee Press-Ons out of titanium these days? And how often did she have to get that gorgeous old antique desk sanded and refinished?
"W-w-well," said Benedict as he kept one eye on her nails, "the dog, Pernod, was a bit of a problem when Ginny came into the household. Brandy loved that old mutt, but Ginny - well - she was never terribly fond of animals to begin with. You wouldn't believe the pack of trouble that dog caused: screaming matches on the porch, surreptitious trips to the pound, late-night calls to animal control and to the police! The dog became like the child in a really bad divorce."
"And for this you've wasted 7 minutes and 24 seconds of my time, Mr. Nelson?" Yvette asked as her nails finally stopped digging into the desk and instead pointed menacingly at Benedict. As annoying as the constant tapping was, he did wish she'd kept doing it; this was menacing and downright scary. Whoever that Sanders fellow was, Benedict thought he'd dodged a bullet by avoiding a date with Yvette.
"Counselor, please leave my office and don't darken my door unless you have something that's infused with at least a hint of common sense or legal precedent. Either would be a delightful change of pace. Now, good day. My assistant, Trixie Belvedere, will show you out."
"Trixie!" Yvette called loudly into the next room, "I believe Mr Arnold will agree that our meeting is finished."
Benedict nearly sprinted for the door.
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
Bénédictine: chapter 3 of a cozy mystery
"Order! Order in the courtroom!" Judge Angus Turra bellowed as he banged his gavel, banged it harder than Anise had ever seen. She idly wondered if Judge Turra had a backup, in case he destroyed this one.
Brandy was at the defendant's table, nearly curled into a ball in the wooden chair that seemed enormous, given her thin, wobbly frame. Her striking amber-colored hair and demure powder blue dress stood out against the dark chair, dark table, dark judge's bench - dark everything, really. But even if she hadn't stood out for being so beautiful and, in contrast, bright, she would have stood out for the siren-like, snot-filled wailing she'd been emitting since she came up the steps of the Sweetberry Grove Courthouse.
"BAAA WA THEY THIN KIIII MAA DAAAA!!!" she wailed, for at least the eighty-third time since Anise had come and sat unobtrusively in the back of the courtroom.
"Young lady!" bellowed Judge Turra "You'll have to calm down or I'll have no choice but to send you to jail for contempt! Or is it disturbing the peace? Aw hell, bailiff, can I just throw her in the holding cell for being damned annoying!?"
The bailiff, shaking with repressed laughter, could only shake his head vigorously: no.
Benedict E. Nelson, Brandy's lawyer, leaned close and tried to whisper into her ear.
What a brave man, Anise thought, getting his handsome face so close to Brandy, who was flailing like a garden hose on full blast.
"Now, Brandy," Benedict said, "you know that they have to go through this process, since your fingerprints were found on the murder weapon, to clear you of killing your daddy so that they can get on with finding the real killer. The more you cooperate, the quicker this will all be over with."
"BAAAIIIIIII CAAAAAAAANT!" Brandy wailed, reaching a pitch that Anise feared might bring every stray dog in Sweetberry Grove to the courtroom.
"Yes, my dear. Yes, you can," Benedict said to her. And winked.
Anise felt her stomach starting to lurch. He winked!? At Brandy!? Really, what could a handsome, smart, well-dressed, successful man like Benedict see in... her!?
The ploy worked, though; Brandy's voice came down out of the stratosphere and back into the range of normal human hearing, though it still sounded like gibberish to Anise.
"Whaaa I have dooooo?" she asked in a tired, forlorn, but strangely hopeful voice, like a kid who has just been told that, despite having a tantrum, they can have a super gummy light saber ninja candy. Or whatever it is kids were into stuffing into their mouths these days.
Yvette Altelier, the prosecuting attorney, had already lost patience, though.
"Your Honor," Altelier cooed, smoothing her lilac-colored power suit's skirt. She stalked toward the bench on stiletto heels that could have poked holes in floors that weren't made of solid oak, and laid her hand on the judge's bench.
Anise Starr's stomach flipped. Altelier was a wasp in court, and her stinger was pointed at Brandy.
"Your Honor," she repeated, her aquiline eyes shifted mercilessly in Brandy's direction, "enough of these histrionics. If it pleases, the court, the defense calls to the stand its first witness: Ginny Alexander."
Judge Turra nodded.
The courtroom doors swung open dramatically, and in stalked Ginny Alexander. She was dressed in a striking Marchesa dress from the spring 2016 collection. Sure, it was from the ready-to-wear line, but it was appropriate mourning attire: black, striking, and the mark of a powerful woman in control of her body and mind.
Ginny sneered imperceptibly at Brandy as she strode by. She situated herself at the witness stand, straightening her back and gazing icily at the jury.
For the second time in half a minute, Anise Starr felt her stomach sink. Ginny Alexander was no shrinking violet, and it wasn't a secret that she despised her step-daughter. Anise watched Benedict fiddle nervously with the hem of his suit coat.
"Mrs. Alexander," Yvette Altelier began.
"Rickey," Ginny interrupted. "I reverted to my maiden name after that coward murdered my Gordon."
A buzz of excitement vibrated through the courtroom.
"Ms. Rickey," Yvette corrected. "Tell me about your relationship with Gordon Alexander."
Ginny's porcelain hand fluttered up to her throat, grazing the powdered skin with apprehension. "Gordon Alexander was the love of my life. He found me at a time where I was at my lowest. I had just lost my darling Pomeranian, Schatzi, in a tragic fire. I was bereft, unmoored - an absolute disaster. But Gordon saw past that. He saw that underneath my grief, under my heartbreak, there was still a spark. And when he asked me to marry him, six weeks after we met, I knew I couldn't resist."
"Couldn't resist his money!" Brandy cried out, desperately.
"Order in the court!" Judge Turra hollered, banging his gavel.
Brandy didn't seem to hear. "She never loved him! She's the one who had him killed - just to get her inheritance!"
"I said ORDER!" Judge Turra bellowed, his face becoming purple.
Brandy began to sob hysterically. "But she did! She did."
The gavel hammered again and again until it splintered on the bench.
An eerie silence filled the courtroom. Dust mites floated in the waning sunlight.
Judge Turra glared at Brandy, sweat glistening on his brow, anger emanating from his every pore.
But before he could say another word, a soft sob erupted the silence.
A sob from Ginny Rickey.
A cast of eyes turned to her. Her hand had fluttered to her mouth.
"No," Ginny whispered. "No. She's right. I did want him dead. But so did..."
And that's when the shot rang out.
Brandy was at the defendant's table, nearly curled into a ball in the wooden chair that seemed enormous, given her thin, wobbly frame. Her striking amber-colored hair and demure powder blue dress stood out against the dark chair, dark table, dark judge's bench - dark everything, really. But even if she hadn't stood out for being so beautiful and, in contrast, bright, she would have stood out for the siren-like, snot-filled wailing she'd been emitting since she came up the steps of the Sweetberry Grove Courthouse.
"BAAA WA THEY THIN KIIII MAA DAAAA!!!" she wailed, for at least the eighty-third time since Anise had come and sat unobtrusively in the back of the courtroom.
"Young lady!" bellowed Judge Turra "You'll have to calm down or I'll have no choice but to send you to jail for contempt! Or is it disturbing the peace? Aw hell, bailiff, can I just throw her in the holding cell for being damned annoying!?"
The bailiff, shaking with repressed laughter, could only shake his head vigorously: no.
Benedict E. Nelson, Brandy's lawyer, leaned close and tried to whisper into her ear.
What a brave man, Anise thought, getting his handsome face so close to Brandy, who was flailing like a garden hose on full blast.
"Now, Brandy," Benedict said, "you know that they have to go through this process, since your fingerprints were found on the murder weapon, to clear you of killing your daddy so that they can get on with finding the real killer. The more you cooperate, the quicker this will all be over with."
"BAAAIIIIIII CAAAAAAAANT!" Brandy wailed, reaching a pitch that Anise feared might bring every stray dog in Sweetberry Grove to the courtroom.
"Yes, my dear. Yes, you can," Benedict said to her. And winked.
Anise felt her stomach starting to lurch. He winked!? At Brandy!? Really, what could a handsome, smart, well-dressed, successful man like Benedict see in... her!?
The ploy worked, though; Brandy's voice came down out of the stratosphere and back into the range of normal human hearing, though it still sounded like gibberish to Anise.
"Whaaa I have dooooo?" she asked in a tired, forlorn, but strangely hopeful voice, like a kid who has just been told that, despite having a tantrum, they can have a super gummy light saber ninja candy. Or whatever it is kids were into stuffing into their mouths these days.
Yvette Altelier, the prosecuting attorney, had already lost patience, though.
"Your Honor," Altelier cooed, smoothing her lilac-colored power suit's skirt. She stalked toward the bench on stiletto heels that could have poked holes in floors that weren't made of solid oak, and laid her hand on the judge's bench.
Anise Starr's stomach flipped. Altelier was a wasp in court, and her stinger was pointed at Brandy.
"Your Honor," she repeated, her aquiline eyes shifted mercilessly in Brandy's direction, "enough of these histrionics. If it pleases, the court, the defense calls to the stand its first witness: Ginny Alexander."
Judge Turra nodded.
The courtroom doors swung open dramatically, and in stalked Ginny Alexander. She was dressed in a striking Marchesa dress from the spring 2016 collection. Sure, it was from the ready-to-wear line, but it was appropriate mourning attire: black, striking, and the mark of a powerful woman in control of her body and mind.
Ginny sneered imperceptibly at Brandy as she strode by. She situated herself at the witness stand, straightening her back and gazing icily at the jury.
For the second time in half a minute, Anise Starr felt her stomach sink. Ginny Alexander was no shrinking violet, and it wasn't a secret that she despised her step-daughter. Anise watched Benedict fiddle nervously with the hem of his suit coat.
"Mrs. Alexander," Yvette Altelier began.
"Rickey," Ginny interrupted. "I reverted to my maiden name after that coward murdered my Gordon."
A buzz of excitement vibrated through the courtroom.
"Ms. Rickey," Yvette corrected. "Tell me about your relationship with Gordon Alexander."
Ginny's porcelain hand fluttered up to her throat, grazing the powdered skin with apprehension. "Gordon Alexander was the love of my life. He found me at a time where I was at my lowest. I had just lost my darling Pomeranian, Schatzi, in a tragic fire. I was bereft, unmoored - an absolute disaster. But Gordon saw past that. He saw that underneath my grief, under my heartbreak, there was still a spark. And when he asked me to marry him, six weeks after we met, I knew I couldn't resist."
"Couldn't resist his money!" Brandy cried out, desperately.
"Order in the court!" Judge Turra hollered, banging his gavel.
Brandy didn't seem to hear. "She never loved him! She's the one who had him killed - just to get her inheritance!"
"I said ORDER!" Judge Turra bellowed, his face becoming purple.
Brandy began to sob hysterically. "But she did! She did."
The gavel hammered again and again until it splintered on the bench.
An eerie silence filled the courtroom. Dust mites floated in the waning sunlight.
Judge Turra glared at Brandy, sweat glistening on his brow, anger emanating from his every pore.
But before he could say another word, a soft sob erupted the silence.
A sob from Ginny Rickey.
A cast of eyes turned to her. Her hand had fluttered to her mouth.
"No," Ginny whispered. "No. She's right. I did want him dead. But so did..."
And that's when the shot rang out.
Saturday, February 27, 2016
Infused brandy: chapter 2 of a cozy mystery
Brandy Alexander’s face was wrinkled. Of course, she didn’t have wrinkles - Botox, skin scrubs, laser peels, and regular sessions with her dermatologist had seen to that. Her face was scrunched up in worry - and it was definitely not a good look. Her marriage to the wealthy Cassius C. Remengton was still up in the air! She fingered the princess-cut diamond in her ring while she thought:
“Damn. That rich old bastard might get away!”
The money that she got from her trust fund was running out fast, and she wouldn’t come into inheritance until her dear old daddy and that old bat died. That old bat, of course, being her stepmother Ginny, but everyone called her “Fizzy” for some idiotic reason that Brandy never understood.
What Fizzy didn’t understand is that Brandy really needed those weekly blow-outs and regular manicures to look her best so she could land a well-to-do man like Cassius and keep the family name from going down the damn toilet. Not that her daddy, Gordon, hadn’t almost taken care of that already.
“Hellfire, Daddy! We have to have a talk right now!”
Brandy leapt up from her vanity, put down her hand mirror - real silver, thank you, not just silver plate - and ran to the study, where Gordon spent most of his time.
“Daddy? Daddy! Is that screwball woman with you? We need to talk, and we need to talk now. My very future is at stake!”
She was always good at dramatics. Before pushing the door open, she took a deep breath, squeezed some tears out, and readied herself for a hysterical sob upon entering the room.
But she needn’t have gone to all that trouble. The scream that she let out when she entered the room went from fake hysterics to real terror in a nanosecond.
Gordon - her daddy! - was on the floor, staring, glassy-eyed towards the open window, a broken gin bottle lying on the floor beside him. And there was a knife sticking out of the back of his tweed jacket, which was soaked with red, coppery-smelling blood.
Anise Starr had never felt so perplexed about a series of events before; she knew Sweetberry Grove and its residents like the back of her hand, but ever since the arrival of the town’s new lawyer, Benedict E. Nelson, Esquire, her world was topsy-turvy. He was handsome, yes, and debonair, and definitely out of her league: he brought with him a Manhattan sensibility - uptown, cultured, and soaked in the kind of intoxicating urbanity that she herself would never experience. Not in Sweetberry Grove, anyway.
Two days after Benedict arrived, the wealthy and beloved Gordon Alexander had dropped dead. Not of a heart attack. Of a knife in the back.
And the prime suspect? His adoring daughter, Brandy Alexander.
It didn’t make a lick of sense. Brandy and Gordon had always been so close - “Like father, like daughter!”, Brandy’s stepmom used to say. This always confused Anise - Brandy lacked her father’s full beard (she really only had a mustache when she forgot to use her depilatory cream) and rogue sense of style.
But Brandy’s fingerprints were all over the broken gin bottle that was laying next to the corpse. And the handle of the knife? It not only bore her fingerprints, but it also had chips of fingernail polish on it. Her fingernail polish. Cherry Berry Blast. The local Woolworth’s always had it in stock, just for Brandy.
It was the damn nail polish that landed Brandy in the clink - and had also landed her the handsome Nelson as her lawyer.
Rumor had it that Cassius C. Remengton wasn’t happy about this turn of events.
Brandy was spending an awful lot of time with Benedict E. Nelson.
But then again -- so was Anise.
Shout out to GoogleDocs: Dave and I enjoyed our infused brandies while writing this jointly tonight!
“Damn. That rich old bastard might get away!”
The money that she got from her trust fund was running out fast, and she wouldn’t come into inheritance until her dear old daddy and that old bat died. That old bat, of course, being her stepmother Ginny, but everyone called her “Fizzy” for some idiotic reason that Brandy never understood.
What Fizzy didn’t understand is that Brandy really needed those weekly blow-outs and regular manicures to look her best so she could land a well-to-do man like Cassius and keep the family name from going down the damn toilet. Not that her daddy, Gordon, hadn’t almost taken care of that already.
“Hellfire, Daddy! We have to have a talk right now!”
Brandy leapt up from her vanity, put down her hand mirror - real silver, thank you, not just silver plate - and ran to the study, where Gordon spent most of his time.
“Daddy? Daddy! Is that screwball woman with you? We need to talk, and we need to talk now. My very future is at stake!”
She was always good at dramatics. Before pushing the door open, she took a deep breath, squeezed some tears out, and readied herself for a hysterical sob upon entering the room.
But she needn’t have gone to all that trouble. The scream that she let out when she entered the room went from fake hysterics to real terror in a nanosecond.
Gordon - her daddy! - was on the floor, staring, glassy-eyed towards the open window, a broken gin bottle lying on the floor beside him. And there was a knife sticking out of the back of his tweed jacket, which was soaked with red, coppery-smelling blood.
* * * *
Anise Starr had never felt so perplexed about a series of events before; she knew Sweetberry Grove and its residents like the back of her hand, but ever since the arrival of the town’s new lawyer, Benedict E. Nelson, Esquire, her world was topsy-turvy. He was handsome, yes, and debonair, and definitely out of her league: he brought with him a Manhattan sensibility - uptown, cultured, and soaked in the kind of intoxicating urbanity that she herself would never experience. Not in Sweetberry Grove, anyway.
Two days after Benedict arrived, the wealthy and beloved Gordon Alexander had dropped dead. Not of a heart attack. Of a knife in the back.
And the prime suspect? His adoring daughter, Brandy Alexander.
It didn’t make a lick of sense. Brandy and Gordon had always been so close - “Like father, like daughter!”, Brandy’s stepmom used to say. This always confused Anise - Brandy lacked her father’s full beard (she really only had a mustache when she forgot to use her depilatory cream) and rogue sense of style.
But Brandy’s fingerprints were all over the broken gin bottle that was laying next to the corpse. And the handle of the knife? It not only bore her fingerprints, but it also had chips of fingernail polish on it. Her fingernail polish. Cherry Berry Blast. The local Woolworth’s always had it in stock, just for Brandy.
It was the damn nail polish that landed Brandy in the clink - and had also landed her the handsome Nelson as her lawyer.
Rumor had it that Cassius C. Remengton wasn’t happy about this turn of events.
Brandy was spending an awful lot of time with Benedict E. Nelson.
But then again -- so was Anise.
Shout out to GoogleDocs: Dave and I enjoyed our infused brandies while writing this jointly tonight!
Saturday, January 30, 2016
Crème de cassis: chapter 1 of a cozy mystery
So here it is: our first foray into writing a cozy mystery based on our liquor of the month. We decided to take a "telephone" approach to the story - I wrote the first section and Dave brought it home. There is a clever allusion to our next liquor because Dave is a goddamned genius.
Cassius C. Remengton had a problem.
And everyone in the town of Sweetberry Grove knew that when a problem arose, Anise Starr was the detective who could crack the case.
"Mr. Remengton," Anise Starr cooed, straightening the leather swivel chair behind her massive oak desk. She rested her elbows on the ink blotter, steepling her fingers, and narrowing her eyes.
"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Detective Starr," Cassius said. "As you know, I have been courting Brandy Alexander for several months now."
"A lovely girl."
"Indeed. For her birthday, I bought her a bottle of beautifully-hued liqueur. Alas, I have discovered that the spirit lacks taste, depth, and mixability. Brandy is a lady of refined tastes, and I fear that she will dismiss my token of love." Cassius C. Remengton slid a decanter of deep purple liquid toward Detective Starr. She removed the crystal stopper and inhaled deeply.
"Why don't you take a sip, Miss Starr?" Remengton suggested.
"Why, Mr. Remengton. I'd be delighted," replied Anise too quickly, hoping Remengton didn't notice the slight quaver in her voice. "Did you pick this up from Mr. Collins's specialty liquor store on Main Street?"
"No, Tom doesn't carry anything quite special enough for this particular occasion. I created this little blend myself. You see, I plan to drink this with Brandy on our wedding night, to celebrate the beginning of our life together. I'd like you to try it first, though, to make sure it's...palatable."
"Niecy," Anise thought to herself, "you've really gotten yourself in over your head this time!" The liquor was a lovely color, smelled sweet and fruity, and had a hint of - what was that? - nuttiness.
Thoughts raced through Niecy's head as Remengton poured them both small snifters of the dark, almost syrupy liquid. Everyone in town knew his real estate empire was faltering and he was badly in need of money - heck, he'd even fired his maid and only had his cook and groundskeeper come in twice a week! The match with Brandy, the homely older daughter of the wealthy founding family of Sweetberry Grove had always seemed odd, but everyone's talk had just seemed like gossip. "Love springs out of the most mysterious places," Brandy had told the crowd at the dinner last weekend.
But now, as she raised the glass to her lips, Anise's hand trembled.
Was Remengton suspicious of her having asked too many questions? Had he noticed her hesitation earlier?
Were those almonds and cherries she smelled, buried in the ripe taste of currants? Or was it...gulp...cyanide!?
Cassius C. Remengton had a problem.
And everyone in the town of Sweetberry Grove knew that when a problem arose, Anise Starr was the detective who could crack the case.
"Mr. Remengton," Anise Starr cooed, straightening the leather swivel chair behind her massive oak desk. She rested her elbows on the ink blotter, steepling her fingers, and narrowing her eyes.
"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Detective Starr," Cassius said. "As you know, I have been courting Brandy Alexander for several months now."
"A lovely girl."
"Indeed. For her birthday, I bought her a bottle of beautifully-hued liqueur. Alas, I have discovered that the spirit lacks taste, depth, and mixability. Brandy is a lady of refined tastes, and I fear that she will dismiss my token of love." Cassius C. Remengton slid a decanter of deep purple liquid toward Detective Starr. She removed the crystal stopper and inhaled deeply.
"Why don't you take a sip, Miss Starr?" Remengton suggested.
"Why, Mr. Remengton. I'd be delighted," replied Anise too quickly, hoping Remengton didn't notice the slight quaver in her voice. "Did you pick this up from Mr. Collins's specialty liquor store on Main Street?"
"No, Tom doesn't carry anything quite special enough for this particular occasion. I created this little blend myself. You see, I plan to drink this with Brandy on our wedding night, to celebrate the beginning of our life together. I'd like you to try it first, though, to make sure it's...palatable."
"Niecy," Anise thought to herself, "you've really gotten yourself in over your head this time!" The liquor was a lovely color, smelled sweet and fruity, and had a hint of - what was that? - nuttiness.
Thoughts raced through Niecy's head as Remengton poured them both small snifters of the dark, almost syrupy liquid. Everyone in town knew his real estate empire was faltering and he was badly in need of money - heck, he'd even fired his maid and only had his cook and groundskeeper come in twice a week! The match with Brandy, the homely older daughter of the wealthy founding family of Sweetberry Grove had always seemed odd, but everyone's talk had just seemed like gossip. "Love springs out of the most mysterious places," Brandy had told the crowd at the dinner last weekend.
But now, as she raised the glass to her lips, Anise's hand trembled.
Was Remengton suspicious of her having asked too many questions? Had he noticed her hesitation earlier?
Were those almonds and cherries she smelled, buried in the ripe taste of currants? Or was it...gulp...cyanide!?
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