Diamond Girl Read online

  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

  The Country Club Murders

  by Julie Mulhern

  Novels

  THE DEEP END (#1)

  GUARANTEED TO BLEED (#2)

  CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE (#3)

  SEND IN THE CLOWNS (#4)

  WATCHING THE DETECTIVES (#5)

  COLD AS ICE (#6)

  SHADOW DANCING (#7)

  Short Stories

  DIAMOND GIRL

  A Country Club Murder Short

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  Copyright

  DIAMOND GIRL

  A Country Club Murder Short

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition | February 2018

  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 © 2018 by Julie Mulhern

  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.

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-362-4

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-363-1

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Matt

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My sincere thanks to the wonderful team at Henery Press and to my friend Charles Ferruzza for sharing all manner of ’70s shenanigans with me.

  DIAMOND GIRL

  February 1975

  Kansas City, Missouri

  Mrs. Russell noticed before the first flowers arrived. I know she did. She’s observant and there’s no way she missed my singing while I dusted or the goofy grin I wore when I mixed batter. But she said nothing.

  Then the flowers arrived. A bouquet of red roses and holly just a few days before Christmas. She raised her left eyebrow slightly and murmured, “Pretty. It looks as if you have an admirer.”

  It wasn’t exactly a question, so I didn’t exactly answer.

  Mac owns a gourmet deli, the type of place that serves paper thin prosciutto and grilled eggplant on crusty rolls.

  If it was just me, I would never have darkened Mac’s door, but Mrs. Russell and her daughter Grace spent some time in Italy last summer and Mrs. Russell developed a taste for Finocchiona salami. Mac’s is the only place within ten miles that carries said salami.

  That’s how we met. Mac standing behind a counter handing me a salami.

  Mac is nothing like my Al.

  Al was a quiet man. Mac doesn’t know a stranger.

  Al loved jazz. Mac loves basketball. He promised to take me to a Kings’ game.

  Al is gone, taken too soon by cancer. I miss him everyday. Mac is here.

  And Mac has a rare salami.

  Mrs. Russell is chairing a grand opening at the museum later this year and I asked Mac to cater one of the committee meetings. He served melon balls wrapped in prosciutto, toast points topped with fresh mozzarella, basil, tomatoes, and balsamic vinaigrette, and a tray of sliced Finocchiona salami and cheeses with olives and cornichons on the side. Everyone wanted his card.

  He took me to dinner to thank me for the sudden rush in business (Mrs. Russell’s friends entertain often) and we talked about things other than hard sausage. We talked about jazz and basketball and running a business. We talked about our histories—Al, and Mac’s late wife, Lucille. How I used to help Al as a private investigator, and how he and Lucille used to run a full-service restaurant. We talked about politics and car mechanics and the perfect length of time to cook pasta. We talked until the restaurant closed.

  When he took me home, he brushed a kiss across my cheek and asked if he could take me out the next night.

  I said yes.

  We’ve been going out a few times a week ever since.

  Like I said, Mrs. Russell noticed the singing and humming. One morning she walked in while I was dancing with the feather duster. She smiled at me as if she took joy in my happiness.

  Happiness isn’t something I expected. When Al died, the world turned dark. But now—with Mac—I sing and hum and dance.

  And there are the flowers. A fresh bouquet arrives every week.

  Mrs. Russell says nothing. She is a private person and she won’t ask for personal information unless I volunteer some tidbit. It’s one of her most admirable qualities.

 
When she’s sitting at the kitchen counter in her paint clothes and her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, she looks less like a country club doyenne and more like someone I could talk to about Mac. I’d like to tell her there are days when my growing feelings for Mac seem like a betrayal of everything Al and I had together.

  Al would want me to be happy. I know that. But knowing is in my head. The guilt I feel is in my heart.

  I’d like to tell her about the fear—I lost happiness once and I’m afraid I won’t survive a second loss. That’s why I hold something back. That’s why I sing about yellow submarines and sitting on a dock by a bay instead of love songs.

  I’d like to tell her where Mac takes me dancing or about the meal we ate together. Instead I empty the dishwasher.

  Ding-dong.

  Mrs. Russell looks up from her coffee. “It’s Tuesday. That’s probably the florist with your flowers.” Like I said, she’s observant.

  I can’t hide the smile that stretches my lips so I hurry down the front hall and answer the front door.

  Except it’s not the florist who’s waiting on the stoop.

  It’s Mac. Mac with a deep furrow in his brow. “Aggie, I need your help.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  He looks down at his feet. He looks up at the sconces that flank the door. He jams his hands in his pockets—for a half-second. Then he crosses his arms over his chest. “That party I catered on Saturday night at the Claytons’…”

  I nod. I helped Mac deliver the food. Mrs. Russell attended the party. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Clayton just called me and accused me of stealing her jewels. She says if they’re not returned by tonight she’ll call the police.”

  My back stiffens, my blood—which had been fizzing like Champagne—boils, and I conjure up an image of Mrs. Clayton. A regal woman with a backcombed helmet of white hair. “You didn’t steal anything.”

  “You know that and I know that, but Mrs. Clayton thinks I stole her grandmother’s pearls.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Tell the police you didn’t do it.”

  Mac looks back down at his feet. “They might not believe me.”

  “Why not?” My voice is as sharp as the February wind cutting through the fabric of my kaftan. “Come inside.”

  Mac steps into the foyer.

  I close the door against the cold. “Why wouldn’t the police believe you?”

  Mac’s hands go back into his pockets and his gaze slides away from me.

  My hands turn clammy. “Why?”

  “I spent some time in jail when I was younger.”

  In all our talking, he never mentioned that. “For what?”

  “A jewelry store heist.”

  The air whooshes out of my lungs. I knew it. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. When Al died, I said to myself, Aggie, you’ve had your happiness. These past few months with Mac—well, I was singing and humming and dancing on borrowed time.

  Mac’s gaze is now fixed on my face. “It was a long time ago, Aggie. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

  “How long?” My voice comes from far away.

  “I was nineteen.”

  I do the math. Forty-one years ago.

  “I was the driver.”

  My knees wobble. Mac is a man with a record. I’m dating a man with a record. What would Al say?

  “My friends asked me for a ride. I didn’t know they were going to rob a store until they’d done it.” His face is a mask of regret. “I did my time and I got new friends.”

  I nod. Slowly.

  “You gotta believe me. I didn’t steal anything from Mrs. Clayton.”

  I do believe him. But a jewel thief and missing pearls go together like chocolate and peanut butter. “What exactly is missing?”

  “The pearls, a diamond ring, and—” something over my shoulder catches his attention and his eyes widen “—I know you. You came into the deli. Three times in one week.”

  Mrs. Russell stands just outside the kitchen door, a rueful expression on her face. She shrugs. “Aggie is very special to me. I wanted to make sure I approved of the man she was dating.”

  Checking out the man in my life on the sly is exactly the sort of thing her mother would do to her. I don’t know whether I’m upset or grateful.

  Before I can decide, she asks, “There’s a problem?”

  “I’ve been accused of stealing from the party I catered at the Claytons’.”

  Mrs. Russell stares at Mac for what seems like an eternity. Her expression gives nothing away.

  I know how her mind works. She’s deciding about him. Guilty? Innocent? Suitable for her housekeeper? Did she hear him say he’s an ex-con?

  Mac, who stands next to me, practically vibrates with tension. He regards her with worry in his dark brown eyes.

  Finally, Mrs. Russell pushes open the kitchen door. “Come on back and sit down. We’ll figure it out over coffee.”

  Mrs. Russell drinks coffee like no one else. She turns a simple drink into a ritual. She pours a cup, adds cream, and stares into the depths as the clouds billow. She sniffs. She sighs. Only then does she sip. And when she takes that first sip, a beatific expression settles on her face. She looks like she’s achieved nirvana. Every time.

  She pours three fresh cups, gives Mr. Coffee a love pat, and asks Mac, “Cream or sugar?”

  “Both.”

  She puts the pewter sugar bowl in front of him, checks the level of cream in the little white pitcher, and refills it before putting it on the counter.

  Mac’s the kind of man who pours his cream straight from the bottle. He’s built like Merlin Olsen. But bigger. He picks up the tiny pitcher and it looks like a piece of a child’s tea set in his hand. “Thank you.”

  Then Mrs. Russell prepares her own cup. She sniffs. She sighs. She sips. And Mac sees the nirvana look.

  I too take a sip of coffee. “I think we should call Mr. Tafft.”

  The nirvana expression fades from Mrs. Russell’s face. “It’s that serious?”

  Mr. Tafft is my Al’s former boss. He’s a lawyer. A good one. And, he has a thing for Mrs. Russell. She, inexplicably, has a thing for someone else.

  I tell her about Mrs. Clayton’s missing jewels.

  “I wouldn’t worry. Not one bit.” She gives us both an encouraging smile.

  Mac does not look relieved, but he doesn’t know Mrs. Russell.

  “Merritt Merriweather was at that party.”

  “Who is Merritt Merriweather?” asks Mac.

  “She’s a lovely woman. Funny, kind—” the but is coming, I can sense it “—but a complete kleptomaniac. Her husband Tug has an understanding with every store on the Plaza. If she comes in and they find something missing when she leaves, they bill him. At parties, he keeps an eye on her. Apparently he let her out of his sight on Saturday. All Sandy Clayton need do is call Tug. He’ll return her jewels.”

  Mac scratches at the stubble on his cheek. “She’s a thief and she gets invited to parties?”

  Mrs. Russell tilts her head as if she doesn’t understand the question. “She’s eccentric. Plus, a hostess knows the risks when she adds Merritt to a guest list. I wouldn’t worry about this. If you’d like, I’ll call Sandy and remind her who the real thief is.”

  Mac answers with an enthusiastic nod. “That would be great. Thank you.”

  “Consider it done.” Mrs. Russell takes a sip of coffee. “I hear you’re catering Joyce Petteway’s luncheon tomorrow.”

  “I am. We’re serving a spinach salad with prosciutto, oranges, ricotta, and walnuts.”

  “Sounds divine. What’s for dessert?”

  “Tiramisu.”

  She sighs the type of sigh she usually reserves for coffee. “I’m so glad I accepted.”

  Tuesday. Laundry day. The sheets and towels are already in t
he washing machine and a basket overflowing with Grace’s clothes is up next. I never had children of my own, so I have nothing to compare it to, but teenaged Grace seems to generate three times more laundry than the average person.

  Mrs. Russell is in her studio painting. I’m to remind her about Mrs. Petteway’s luncheon at ten.

  Brngg, brngg.

  I answer the phone.

  “Aggie?” Mac’s voice on the phone is just shy of panicked.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Two of my servers called in sick and I can’t find anyone to replace them. I can’t serve a lunch without a full staff. Do you know anyone?”

  I think. Hard. “My niece. She’s putting herself through college waiting tables. I bet she has a friend.”

  “Would you call her? Please? I need her at the Petteways’ at ten thirty.” He rattles off an address not far from Mrs. Russell’s.

  “I’ll call her right now.”

  “Thanks, Aggie. You’re the best.” He sounds like he means it.

  I dial my niece. “Felicia, it’s Aunt Aggie. What are you doing today?”

  “I have late afternoon classes. Other than that, nothing.”

  “Could you help a friend of mine out? He needs help serving a luncheon.”

  “A friend? Is this the guy Mom told me about? Max?”

  “Mac.” Max is Mrs. Russell’s dog.

  “Is it him?”

  “Yes.”

  “So I’d be the first person in the family to actually meet him? Even before Mom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure I’ll help.” She speaks with all the enthusiasm of a young woman who plans on holding her secret knowledge over her mother’s head.

  “Thank you.” Relief floods my voice. “Do you have any friends who might be interested? Mac pays well.” I assume Mac pays well. If he doesn’t, I will.