Watching the Detectives Read online

  Praise for The Country Club Murders

  Books in the Country Club Murders

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  Copyright

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

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  thirteen

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  twenty-three

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  The Country Club Murders

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  NUN TOO SOON

  CIRCLE OF INFLUENCE

  TELL ME NO LIES

  Praise for The Country Club Murders

  “A sparkling comedy of errors tucked inside a clever mystery. I loved it!”

  – Susan M. Boyer,

  USA Today Bestselling Author of Lowcountry Book Club

  “Readers who enjoy the novels of Susan Isaacs will love this series that blends a strong mystery with the demands of living in an exclusive society.”

  – Kings River Life Magazine

  “From the first page to the last, Julie’s mysteries grab the reader and don’t let up.”

  – Sally Berneathy,

  USA Today Bestselling Author of The Ex Who Saw a Ghost

  “This book is fun! F-U-N Fun!...A delightful pleasure to read. I didn’t want to put it down…Highly recommend.”

  – Mysteries, etc.

  “Set in Kansas City, Missouri, in 1974, this cozy mystery effectively recreates the era through the details of down-to-earth Ellison’s everyday life.”

  – Booklist

  “Mulhern’s lively, witty sequel to The Deep End finds Kansas City, Mo., socialite Ellison Russell reluctantly attending a high school football game…Cozy fans will eagerly await Ellison’s further adventures.”

  – Publishers Weekly

  “There’s no way a lover of suspense could turn this book down because it’s that much fun.”

  – Suspense Magazine

  “Cleverly written with sharp wit and all the twists and turns of the best ’70s primetime drama, Mulhern nails the fierce fraught mother-daughter relationship, fearlessly tackles what hides behind the Country Club façade, and serves up justice in bombshell fashion. A truly satisfying slightly twisted cozy.”

  – Gretchen Archer,

  USA Today Bestselling Author of Double Knot

  “Part mystery, part women’s fiction, part poetry, Mulhern’s debut, The Deep End, will draw you in with the first sentence and entrance you until the last. An engaging whodunit that kept me guessing until the end!”

  – Tracy Weber,

  Author of the Downward Dog Mysteries

  “An impossible-to-put-down Harvey Wallbanger of a mystery. With a smart, funny protagonist who’s learning to own her power as a woman, Send in the Clowns is one boss read.”

  – Ellen Byron,

  Agatha Award-Nominated Author of Plantation Shudders

  “The plot is well-structured and the characters drawn with a deft hand. Setting the story in the mid-1970s is an inspired touch…A fine start to this mystery series, one that is highly recommended.”

  – Mysterious Reviews

  “What a fun read! Murder in the days before cell phones, the internet, DNA and AFIS.”

  – Books for Avid Readers

  Books in the Country Club Murders

  by Julie Mulhern

  THE DEEP END (#1)

  GUARANTEED TO BLEED (#2)

  CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE (#3)

  SEND IN THE CLOWNS (#4)

  WATCHING THE DETECTIVES (#5)

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  Copyright

  WATCHING THE DETECTIVES

  The Country Club Murders

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition | May 2017

  Henery Press

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2017 by Julie Mulhern

  Cover art by Stephanie Savage

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-211-5

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-212-2

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-213-9

  Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-214-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For my family. Love to you all.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks to Madonna and Sally for all they do, to my family for putting up with deadlines and me talking about murder in restaurants, to the best proofer ever, and to my editors Erin, Kendel, and Rachel. It takes a village.

  one

  There were Mondays—burnt toast, no cream for the coffee, a body in the swimming pool—and there were Mondays.

  This was one of those Mondays.

  The morning began auspiciously enough—golden toast, plenty of cream, no bodies—but it went sideways quickly.

  How was I to know when I heard the doorbell ring that I should have stayed in bed?

  On the stoop stood a woman I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted in my home. Nonetheless, I smiled and opened the door wide. “Khaki, welcome. Please, come in.”

  My last decorator wore Ferragamo flats and twin sets. She also tried to sell me stolen art.

  This decorator shod her feet in stacked heel boots the exact shade of Dijon mustard. She paired those groovy boots with a short suede skirt and a sweater with a scooped neckline that revealed a startling amount of cleavage.

  Why wear such an outfit to an appointment with me? I would not be swayed by the deep vee of her sweater. Was it a visual reminder that she was younger, hipper, and sexier? A not-so-subtle signal that if she couldn’t hold her ex-husband’s interest, I had no hope?

  I forced a smile. Hunter Tafft had done so much for me, I could hardly say no when he asked me to allow his ex-wife to submit a proposal for redoing the study. Looking at her, definitely younger, hipper, and sexier, I regretted my lack of gumption.

  Khaki stepped into the foyer and her gaze took in the bombe chest topped with a crystal vase filled with bronze mums, the sweeping staircase that led to the second floor, the rugs, the art, the crown moldings, and the color of the walls. “You have a lovely home.”

  “Thank you. Would you c
are for coffee?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I never touch the stuff.”

  She didn’t drink coffee? That hardly seemed trustworthy. I liked her less and less. “Tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Probably just as well. There was no telling the age of the Lipton tea bags at the back of the cupboard. We smiled at each other. Politely. Strangers who’d decided to make the best of an uncomfortable situation—as uncomfortable as Shetland wool against bare skin.

  “The study is this way.” I led her to my late husband’s den. Heavy drapes, dark paneling, a mahogany desk the size of Rhode Island, leather furniture, hideous shag carpet, and the lingering scent of tobacco made the room feel like a cave—or given that it was Henry’s room, a well-appointed dungeon.

  “Oh my.” She dug in her purse and removed a steno pad and pen. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Something lighter.”

  She nodded. “Does the paneling stay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hunter doesn’t care for paneling.”

  Hunter doesn’t live here. Hunter Tafft was devastatingly handsome, terminally charming, thrice divorced, and the man Mother had selected to be my next husband. If I had my numbers right, Khaki was his second wife.

  “He’s very particular,” she added

  The muscles in my back and shoulders tightened. This was not a suitable conversation. This was exactly what I’d worried about when I called her.

  “Although—” she rubbed her chin “—given your successful career, he may not be as picky.”

  Did she have any idea how wildly inappropriate her remarks were? Apparently not. Her lips curled, pleased with the knowledge that she possessed secrets to Hunter Tafft that I did not.

  “I’ve often thought that if I’d had a career we’d still be together. He likes independent women—or he thinks he does.” She finished the last bit with a tight little smile.

  Brngg, brngg.

  I thanked God for the interruption and lunged for the phone. “Hello.”

  “Bess is dead.”

  I tightened my hold on the receiver. “You’re sure?”

  “I—” Aggie’s voice cracked. “I’m sure.”

  “I’m so sorry.” And I was. Aggie, my housekeeper, loved Bess with singular devotion. Bess dead? Aggie without her rattletrap Bug would be like Sonny without Cher or MacMillan without Wife. Mother would be thrilled by the news. Mother thought Bess was as out of place at my house as white shoes after Labor Day.

  “Where are you?” I asked. “I’ll come get you.”

  Khaki raised her brows.

  “Milgrim’s.” Aggie’s voice frayed at the edges.

  “You’ve been marketing?”

  “I have four bags.” Her words sounded wet, tear-soaked.

  “I’m on my way.” I hung up the phone. “Khaki, I apologize, but I’m going to have to run out for a few minutes. Will you be all right on your own?”

  Khaki frowned. “Is everything okay?” She sounded as if she cared.

  “My housekeeper has car trouble.”

  Her face cleared. “Go.” She dug a Polaroid camera out of her cavernous handbag, put it on the desk, and stuck her hand in the bag a second time. She dug—and dug. Her brows drew together. “Aha!” Her face cleared and she pulled out a tape measure. “I’ll take a few more measurements. If I get done before you get back, I’ll lock up.”

  “Thank you.” Maybe Khaki wasn’t so bad after all. Or maybe I was just grateful to get away from her Shetland wool scratchiness. She could offer the lowest bid in the history of low bids, but I wouldn’t hire her. Being around her was too awkward.

  I grabbed my purse, dashed out the front door, jumped in my Triumph, and prayed there was enough room in the trunk for four grocery bags.

  The drive to the market was short and Aggie was easy to spot. She was the only redhead wearing a sky-blue muumuu mourning over a VW Beetle held together with chicken wire and love.

  A woman stood next to her—a pretty blonde with a sympathetic tilt to her head. Mary Beth Brewer. A genuinely nice woman. If anyone other than me was going to watch over Bess with Aggie, Mary Beth was a good choice.

  Aggie’s usual pep had disappeared. Her sproingy hair drooped. As did her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Even her muumuu looked ready to cry.

  I climbed out of my car and eyed Bess. “I’m so sorry. I know a good mechanic.” I drove a Triumph. Knowing a good mechanic was a necessity.

  “I think she’s past the mechanic stage.” Aggie patted Bess’s roof. A tear formed at the corner of her eye and ran unchecked down her cheek. “My husband gave her to me for my birthday in 1960.” She didn’t add that losing Bess was like losing Al all over again. She didn’t have to.

  I searched for something to say, found nothing, and hugged her.

  A moment passed and she pulled away. “We should—” she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand “—we should get these groceries home. The ice cream is melting.”

  “I offered to drive her.” Mary Beth shifted her doubtful gaze between Aggie’s four bags of groceries and my tiny car.

  “Thank you,” I said. “That was kind, but we’ll manage.”

  Somehow we crammed the shopping bags into the Triumph’s tiny trunk. Well, three of them. Aggie held the fourth on her lap.

  We didn’t talk about calling a tow service, or buying a new car, or the unexpected warmth of the November afternoon—so warm we left the top down. Instead, we drove in a respectful silence. Presumably Aggie relived her years with Bess. I worried that I’d left Max, the dastardly dog who plots to take over my house, alone in the backyard.

  Unsupervised, he might dig his way to China or, worse, into my neighbor Margaret Hamilton’s yard.

  I drove faster.

  We pulled into the circle drive and parked behind Khaki’s BMW.

  “Who’s here?” Aggie asked.

  “The decorator. I thought she’d be done by now.” I got out of the car, opened the trunk, and pulled out a bag.

  Together, Aggie and I walked up the front steps.

  The door wasn’t quite closed.

  I carried my bag of groceries to the kitchen and deposited it on the counter then walked toward Henry’s study. “Khaki?”

  No answer.

  “Khaki?” My voice rose.

  I pushed open the door.

  Khaki lay on Henry’s heinous carpet and stared at the ceiling.

  Well, not stared. She wasn’t actually looking at anything. Not with a bullet hole between her eyes.

  Oh dear Lord.

  It wasn’t possible.

  It was all too possible. I dropped my purse on the floor and covered my heart with my hands, hoping they might somehow keep it in my chest.

  I joined Khaki on the floor. I had to—my knees gave out. Four days. Four. Days. That’s all the time that had passed since a demented clown tried to kill me. Now this?

  Mother was going to have a stroke.

  Given my heart rate, I might join her.

  “Aggie!” Her name came out as a strangled yelp.

  The knock of her clogs on the hardwood reached me before she did. Max was coming too—his nails clicked against the wood floor. I waited for them, leaning against a chest of drawers near the door. Stars sparkled around my head.

  “What’s wrong?” Aggie entered the study and stumbled. “Oh, hell.”

  That was an understatement.

  We both gazed at poor Khaki. Max, too. He sat, cocked his head, and stared first at the body and then at me as if to say another one?

  A handle poked me in the back and I shifted. “Would you please help me up?” I didn’t exactly trust my legs.

  Aggie hauled me off the floor. “We need to get
out of the house.”

  “We need to call the police.”

  She glanced over her shoulder as if she expected a killer to leap out at us. “Not from here.” She grasped my elbow and led me to the front door. “Stay here. I’ll get Max’s leash.”

  Max’s ears perked. Leash meant walk. Not hardly.

  Aggie was overreacting. If there was a murderer in the house, Max wouldn’t trot after Aggie as if we were preparing for a grand adventure, he’d have the culprit cornered in a closet. But finding Khaki had rendered me near mute. I didn’t have the energy for an argument.

  With Max straining at the end of a leash, Aggie joined me on the front stoop. Where to go? My nice next-door neighbor was ill. The other was a bona fide witch. Disturbing either of them was a bad idea.

  “Let’s go across the street.” I pointed at a stately Tudor. “We can call from the Dixons’.”

  A moment later, I rang their bell. Marian Dixon came to the door. She glanced at me then Aggie then Max. “Ellison, what’s wrong?”

  “Marian, may I please use your phone?”

  She stared at Max, apparently frozen.

  “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  “Of course.” She beckoned us into her home.

  We stepped inside and stopped cold.

  Marian, whom I’d always considered a sane woman, had taken a slight detour into crazy town.

  Aggie, Max, and I were surrounded by a veritable flock of owls. There was a latch hook rug hung on the wall which featured no less than five owls lined on a branch, an owl lamp sat on a narrow table, and a Hickory chair with an owl instead of a harp as its back sat next to it. An owl plant stand held a Boston fern and an owl umbrella stand held owl decorated umbrellas.