The Phantom of the Opal

A Coastal Playhouse Mini-Mystery

Jessa Archer

Archer Mysteries

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Excerpt: Curtains for Romeo (Coastal Playhouse Mysteries #1)

More Jessa Archer Cozies

About the Author

The Phantom of the Opal

A Coastal Playhouse Mini-Mystery

When Tig Alden, former teen detective on TV's Private Eye High, returns home for her mother’s funeral, she finds her mom the apparent victim of not just the accidental fall that took her life, but also of theft. The black opal ring Caroline always wore—a ring that she had promised to Tig's fifteen-year-old daughter, Paige—is missing.

But who took the ring? Was it the funeral director? Or the student who found the body? Tig is determined to find the opal and sort out the odd behavior of her mother's cat, the aptly-named Attila. This time, however, there are no writers to tell her whodunit. She'll have to rely on her wits—and maybe a bit of help from the cat.

* * *

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Chapter One

“Looking out at all of you gathered here this evening,” the minister said, “it’s easy to see that Carolyn Riggs was beloved by her students and colleagues alike.”

I struggled to keep my expression neutral. When you’re sitting at the front of the chapel, looking out at the audience, you kind of need to keep control. And that’s doubly true if you don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

The minister actually called her Carolyn.

I risked a glance at my mother’s casket, fully expecting to find it spinning, or at the very least, shaking with fury. Caroline Riggs-Alden hated when people called her Carolyn. I remember her grumbling once, not long after we moved to the Outer Banks, that anyone who lived in North Carolina should really know that it’s pronounced Caroline.

Mom never got much sympathy from me on this point. She allowed my father to name me Antigone, and I can guarantee that name gets butchered far more often than hers ever did.

“As many of you know,” the minister continued, glancing down at the note card in her hand, “she spent most of her spare time working with local environmental groups, helping to preserve our coastline and wildlife. Carolyn was an active supporter of the arts, as well...”

My teenage daughter, Paige, was seated in the front row next to her grandfather. She caught my eye when the minister bungled the name a second time. Paige looked horrified, and I was tempted to interrupt and correct the mistake. But the minister, who was still extolling my mom’s virtues, seemed like a sweet lady when we spoke before the service. And to be fair, she probably didn’t know my mother all that well. Caroline wasn’t especially devout, or at least not in the traditional sense. When I was growing up, we attended services on holidays and a few additional times during the year if the mood struck, and it only seemed to strike us when the weather was bad. If the sky was clear, Sunday mornings were reserved for the beach, even in the cooler months. We’d walk along the shore, hunting for shells and talking about our week. Or not talking at all and simply enjoying nature together.

My mother felt closer to the divine on the beach than she ever did in a crowded congregation. She spent her week dealing with people in her classroom and in the faculty meetings that were the bane of her existence, and she needed time alone on the weekends to recharge.

It’s something I inherited from her and one reason I’d initially lobbied against a public memorial service. Dean Prendergast was right, though. My mother’s students and the faculty members who worked with her for so long needed closure.

Even so, I’d kind of hoped the crowd might be on the smaller side, since tomorrow is the last day of classes before students at Southern Coastal University leave for fall break.

I should have known better.

Most of the people in attendance probably were my mother’s friends and students. But a decent number of them seemed primarily interested in catching a glimpse of my dad, and to a far lesser extent, me. Thanks to visits during the holiday season, I’m something of a known quantity in Caratoke. The place is hopping during summer when the tourists pour in to soak up the sunshine and enjoy the gorgeous beaches, but underneath, it’s still a small town. Locals know the story of Tig Alden, the girl who caught her big acting break when she was a sophomore at Caratoke High...and whose career promptly fizzled when the show ended.

Five years on Private Eye High were the high point of my acting career, and I’m certain there are at least a few people in Caratoke who get a perverse pleasure from knowing I peaked before I could legally buy a glass of wine. I landed some supporting roles after that, but for the past decade, I’d been the managing director of a small dinner theater in Burbank. It paid the bills and it was a lot more fulfilling than cobbling together bit parts and dealing with the constant stress of auditions. But the Wildwood Theater had closed for good at the end of the summer season. I was currently, as they say, between gigs.

My father, however, hadn’t visited Caratoke since I was a kid and James Alden is the real deal. Maybe not an A-list celebrity, but he was in enough major films back in the seventies and eighties that he still qualifies as solid B-list. Some people know his face from tabloid covers or from the short-lived reality show he took part in a few years back. But he’s best known these days as the dashing and devilish Vincent Coletti, a role he’s played for the past fifteen years on one of the last surviving daytime dramas, The Sands of Time.

Dean Prendergast had stated explicitly that photographs were not allowed when she sent out the announcement about the memorial. She repeated the request again at the beginning of the service. Still, I spotted at least a dozen people snapping pictures. It took a great deal of effort not to march down the aisle and snatch the phones right out of their hands. I doubt any of them were planning to sell the pictures to the sleaze papers, but it was still a violation of common courtesy. Even celebrities should be allowed a little privacy when they’re grieving.

Most of them focused their cameras on my dad, who sat between Paige and Stepmother #4, Corinne. Others seemed to be gawking at his third wife, Marina Carbone. She was a fairly well-known model before she married my father and now has her own line of designer shoes.

Some people probably thought it was weird that my dad was attending at all. My parents split up not long after I was born. And yet he’s here, nearly four decades later, with two of his subsequent wives. What can I say? We’re a close family. We’ve never let a little thing like a divorce or four keep us from taking care of each other. And James Alden loved my mother. His key character flaw is that he loves most women, and they love him right back—although the smart ones seem to outgrow him once they realize he’s not nearly as intelligent as the men he plays on-screen.

To my father’s credit, he’s never brought home an evil stepmother. Marina is my favorite, though. I hadn’t realized she was flying in for the memorial and I’d  almost burst into tears all over again when I saw her getting out of the car before the service. She was my West Coast mom for five years and helped me through a major bout of homesickness when I first moved to California.

“Tig?” Dean Prendergast said, nudging me with her elbow.

The minister was looking at me, too, and I realized I’d missed my cue. For a moment, as I approached the microphone, I regretted not taking my father up on his offer to speak in my place. But half the people in the chapel would have been angling their phones to catch a photo or video as he spoke, and we both wanted the focus to be on Mom.

I don’t remember much of what I said. If Mom had been ill or especially old, maybe I’d have had the foresight to come up with something deep and poetic. But Caroline was exceptionally healthy for a woman in her mid-sixties, due in part to all of those long Sunday morning walks on the beach.

The opening bars of “Bridge Over Troubled Waters” began as I folded the notes I hadn’t even used and returned to my seat. Mom liked the song, just not as much as she liked “The Sound of Silence,” which was the selection I’d suggested. I guess they considered that a bit dark for a funeral selection, but Caroline would have found the joke completely appropriate.

I joined my dad and Paige at the back of the chapel when the service ended, and we proceeded to shake hands with dozens of people as they left. Some of them I knew at least vaguely. A few I half remembered from middle school and my two years at Caratoke High. There were also some of my mom’s colleagues I remembered from faculty parties. Other faces, however, merged into a sea of sad smiles and condolences.

The one person I’d thought—and yes, even hoped—might attend was Travis Lamm. According to my mom, he’d moved back to Caratoke last year to take the job as chief of police. Travis and I have serious history, and even though we haven’t spoken in years, we parted on good terms. I know he liked my mom and I thought he’d at least stop by. But people can change a lot over the course of a few decades.

Paige leaned against me, and I slipped an arm around her shoulders. It’s a little awkward these days, because at sixteen, she’s a full two inches taller than I am. She was tired. We both were. Neither of us had slept more than a few hours since Dean Prendergast called with the news.

“Will we get to tell Nana goodbye?” Paige asked, staring toward the front of the chapel where the casket sat, surrounded by floral arrangements. We’d left it closed for the public service—I thought I could at least give Caroline that tiny bit of privacy—but the funeral director had said she could open it briefly afterward if we wanted a few minutes alone.

“Sure,” I told her. “After the crowd clears out.

My dad gave Paige a concerned look. “Are you’re sure that’s what you want? It might be easier to just remember her as she was.”

“No, Grampa. I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t seem convinced, but he still thinks of Paige as a kid, toddling around in footie pajamas. Every now and then, I catch him looking at her with this bemused expression, like he’s wondering when this tall, willowy girl replaced the chubby-cheeked toddler who used to curl up in his lap for a bedtime story.

“She’ll be okay, Dad.” I squeezed his arm, then turned to Paige. “I’ll be right back. I need to intercept Leslie.”

Leslie Tully and her husband, George, were gathering their things to leave.

“Did you want to tell her goodbye?” I asked.

George looked toward the front of the chapel. “We didn’t want to impose.”

“Don’t be silly. You were as close to her as family.”

Leslie teaches math at Southern Coastal and has been my mother’s best friend since we moved to Caratoke when I was nine. She and George were the first two people to stop by when Paige and I arrived yesterday. With both of us in California, Leslie was the one who’d had to officially identify the body. She’d also dropped in at the house to make sure Attila, my mother’s gray tomcat, was fed and even agreed to take him for a few weeks until I could find a new place in Burbank that allowed pets.

Paige and I sat on a bench near the front and let the others go first. Leslie and George. Then Dad, with Corinne and Marina on either side. And finally, Paige and I walked up together.

“Delaney told me it would look like she’s sleeping,” she said in a soft voice. Paige’s best friend, Delaney, is a self-professed expert on most things, and the veteran of several funerals. “And it kind of does, if she’d fallen asleep with way too much makeup on.”

Mom would never wear that color lipstick, but otherwise, Paige was right.

They said it was a freak accident. One small misstep in the stairwell. Campus security thought maybe someone had spilled a soda earlier, because there was a sticky patch on the top step that matched one on the bottom of her shoe. A group of students found the body a few minutes later. According to the medical report, she’d died instantly.

I was glad it had been quick. Glad she didn’t suffer. But what Dean Prendergast said about closure for the students was doubly true for her family, especially Paige. She and Caroline were exceptionally close. Summers were always my busiest time when I was managing the dinner theater and one advantage of teaching college is that Caroline had those months off. The beach is only a short walk from her house, so Paige spent most of the summer with her from the time she was around eight.

The two of us stood there for a few minutes longer, sniffing back tears, and then I motioned for the funeral director to close the coffin. The others were gathering near the exit, and when we reached them, my dad extended his arms and pulled us both into a long hug.

I asked if they wanted to come back to the house, but Dad and the stepmoms were tired and said they’d see us at the graveside service the next day. The three of them piled into their rental car and were driving away when Paige halted suddenly and looked back at the chapel. “Nana’s ring. Shouldn’t she be wearing it?”

There was no question which ring she meant. My mom had other rings, and occasionally she wore them as well, but the one that was always on her finger was the ring my dad gave her the day I was born—a fiery black opal, shot through with vivid blues and golds. It was definitely eye-catching. Paige had always been fascinated by it, even when she was tiny.

“No, sweetie. She wanted you to have it. I’m sure it’s in the bag with her things that the funeral director gave me.”

Leslie, who was up ahead with George, turned back. She looked a bit stunned.

“Are you certain, Tig?”

For a moment, I thought she was asking if I was certain Mom wanted Paige to have the ring, but then I realized she was asking whether the ring was in the bag.

“Well...no. I haven’t checked. But the funeral director said that all of her effects were in the bag. I assumed she meant the ring, as well.”

Leslie nodded. “It’s just...I don’t remember seeing it when I went down to identify the body. And I do remember thinking something seemed off. You remember me telling you that, don’t you, George? I thought it was because...” She shrugged helplessly.

I gave her a sympathetic smile. Confirming the death of someone you’ve known for decades must feel very much off, all on its own.

“The bag is in the car,” I said. “Hold on and I’ll check.”

We made our way to the parking lot, and I popped the trunk of our rental car. A clear plastic bag was on the bottom. Inside the bag, on top of the neatly folded clothes, was a smaller pouch with Mom’s glasses, her faculty ID, a silver pendant, and a pair of earrings I bought her last Christmas.

The black opal, however, was missing.

Chapter Two

“Did you check her jewelry box?” Paige asked. “The one on the dresser?”

“Yes. I checked twice. I checked her entire room twice. It’s not there, hon. You were here more often than I was. Can you think of any place she might have left it?”

“No. She took it off sometimes when she cooked. But we’ve both looked in the kitchen. It’s not there. What kind of monster would steal from someone who just died? Nana loved that ring.”

Paige looked like she was going to cry again, and that would almost certainly have been the last straw for my composure, too.

“We don’t know for certain that it was stolen,” I said.

“It must have been. Miss Leslie would have known if she’d lost it.”

We’d gone back inside the chapel to ask the funeral director about the ring before we left. The woman was adamant that the only jewelry Caroline had been wearing was the pendant and earrings they placed in the plastic bag with her clothes. I believed she was telling the truth, but she did seem a bit defensive when I asked if she would double check with her employees.

“I’ll talk to Dean Prendergast tomorrow,” I told Paige. “She was on the scene right after they found her in the stairwell. Maybe someone took the ring for safekeeping and forgot about it. Or...maybe she left it in her office on campus?”

Paige’s eyes brightened a bit. “She has that little cup on her desk. The one I made for her in pottery class. It could be in that, maybe?”

A gigantic yawn punctuated Paige’s last sentence.

“I’ll check tomorrow after the service,” I said. “And now you really, really need to get to sleep.”

“Are you coming up soon?”

“Mmhmm. But I need to call Justin back first.”

She gave me a tiny smile. “I’m glad he’ll at least be here for the burial.”

“Me, too.”

Justin Padgett is my best friend in the entire world. He is also, legally, Paige’s father. It’s a long, complicated story, and Paige has always known a simplified version of the truth. He’s always been just Justin to her, someone she visits for a week in the summer to get spoiled rotten. We spend holidays and most vacations together, although our schedules have gotten a bit complicated since he remarried.

I tried to talk him out of coming. He was touring with Jersey Boys, his first major role in nearly two years. The tour was currently in Minneapolis, which meant he’d have to miss at least three performances and I doubt best friend’s mom qualifies for bereavement leave. But Justin promptly told me that he’d already made the travel arrangements, reminding me that I lost any right to tell him what to do when I signed the divorce papers. This is a long running joke. We both knew we’d be divorcing when we signed the marriage license.

He wound up missing the memorial service anyway, thanks to a snowstorm in Minneapolis that kept the plane grounded for the better part of the day.

“Is he driving all the way from Raleigh tonight?” Paige asked. “It’s kind of late.”

Getting to the Outer Banks isn’t exactly easy. Whether you fly into Raleigh or Norfolk, there’s still long drive ahead of you after the plane lands.

“Not sure. That’s why I need to call him back.” I pulled her toward me and pressed a kiss against her temple. “Try to get some sleep. The service is at eleven tomorrow. Don’t stay up all night chatting with Delaney or Nathan, okay?”

Delaney, whose family recently relocated from Burbank to New York, has been Paige’s best friend since fifth grade. Paige took it hard when they moved, but they still spent almost as much time together, even if it was the virtual kind. Her relationship with Nathan, who lives in Caratoke, was also long-distance and the only slightly bright prospect of this trip for her was that she’d get to see him. Much to Paige’s dismay, however, he was out of town dealing with his own family emergency. We’d probably be back in California before he got home.

Attila rubbed against my legs when I reached the bottom of the stairs. He was a stray when my mom took him in, and she chose the name in part because of his propensity for escaping and waging war on the neighborhood dogs if he spotted them anywhere near his turf. But he hadn’t been his usual aggressive self today, even when the little yapper next door started barking. His appetite was off, too. Normally, he makes a beeline for the kitchen the second someone opens the drawer where the can opener is kept. (Only that drawer. He can tell the difference.) But he hadn’t eaten anything until a few hours before when Paige tempted him with some tuna. Even then, he’d left most of it in the bowl.

I reached down to pick him up but stopped halfway when the phone in my pocket buzzed. Justin’s picture, the one I’d taken on his opening night in Jersey Boys, popped up on the screen.

“Tig. Why didn’t you remind me that there are no real hotels between Raleigh and Caratoke? It’s all trees and farms and narrow bridges.”

“You’ve made the drive from Raleigh with me at least twice.”

“Three times, actually,” Justin admitted. “But you were driving, and I was talking. I wasn’t paying attention to the total lack of scenery.”

“There are hotels in Rocky Mount. Also, in Williamston, and I think there’s one in another town after that.”

“Too late. I passed those when I was still wide awake. All I’ve seen since then are places that make the Bates Motel look like a five-star resort. And right now, I’m in the middle of an actual swamp. I just saw an alligator the size of a Volkswagen.”

Justin is the undisputed king of exaggeration. He probably had gators on the brain after crossing Alligator River. But his description of that stretch of highway as a desolate swamp was dead on.

“Well, I hope you have caffeine,” I said. “The next hotel is Manteo, and by then, you might as well power through because it’s only a half-hour or so farther. I’ll pull out the sofa, or you can take the other bunk in Paige’s room.” I stopped, realizing that there was now another sleeping option. “Or...you could take Mom’s room, I guess”

He must have noticed the catch in my voice. “Are you okay, Tig?”

“Yes. And no. Both. It just keeps taking me by surprise. Paige, too. I think it will be easier on her if I can find that blasted ring. She needs something to hold onto.”

“You don’t think anyone at the funeral home took it, do you?”

“No,” I said. “The woman seemed sincerely worried about it, especially when she saw how upset Paige was. It wasn’t a cheap ring, by any means, but I’m sure they’ve dealt with far more expensive items. You wouldn’t stay in business long if your workers were pocketing jewelry from the deceased. I’m going to ask around on campus tomorrow, see if anyone—”

A loud yowling came from the dining room. I jumped, nearly dropping the phone.

“Was that Attila?” Justin’s voice was a bit shaky. I couldn’t really blame him. If I’d been driving the road he was on—all alone, late at night—and I’d heard that noise, I’d probably have run the car off the road.

“Yeah,” I said. “Or at least I think so.”

“Holy crap. He sounds possessed.”

I made my way toward the dining room to investigate. The room was dark aside from the tiny light over the stove in the adjacent kitchen, but it was obvious that something had spooked the cat badly. His back was arched, and his gray fur stood in spiky little tufts along his spine.

A shiver ran through me as I approached him, partly from the fright he’d given me and partly from the fact that the room was wicked cold. I made a mental note to check for a loose seal around the patio door.

“Attila? Are you okay, buddy?”

The cat didn’t look at me, but continued staring straight ahead, toward the window seat where he spends most of his time on sunny days. He let out another long yowl as he began inching forward, but it gradually changed in pitch to something more like his whine when his dinner bowl is empty.

“What’s happening, Tig?” Justin asked. “This is kind of freaking me out. It’s like a horror movie with nothing but the sound.”

“I don’t know yet. Hold on.”

My eyes stayed glued to Attila as he approached a small patch of light on the cushion, which must have been reflected from the bay window. The cat hopped onto the seat, curled up in the center of the light, and immediately began to purr.

I sat down next to him, and the light slowly faded. Probably a car turning around in the cul-de-sac of the street behind us. After a moment, Attila opened his eyes and looked around the room, confused. But as I stroked his fur, his eyes closed, and he began to purr again.

“Tig?” Justin prompted.

“He got spooked by a reflection, but now he’s...sleeping. I think the lack of rest is getting to the poor guy. He’s been pacing around the house pretty much nonstop since we arrived, clearly hunting for Mom.”

“Maybe you should get some sleep, too,” he said. “I have the code to the garage door. I’ll let myself in.”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll wait up.” I yawned as I moved over to the couch. “I have a book to keep me company.”

Chapter Three

I had definitely intended to wait up.

Paige and I hadn’t seen Justin since we flew to Dallas for his opening night earlier in the year. But the lack of sleep caught up with me. I awoke the next morning on the couch, with a quilt neatly tucked around me. Justin and Paige were both awake and in the kitchen.

I sniffed. Waffles. Bacon. Coffee.

My stomach growled, and I realized with a touch of guilt that neither of us had eaten dinner last night. Paige, who grazes pretty constantly these days, hadn’t even mentioned it. The refrigerator and countertops were filled to the brim with dishes that neighbors and friends of my mom had dropped by since we arrived, but neither of us had any appetite.

I padded into the kitchen on bare feet to find Attila still curled in that very same spot on the window seat, now dappled with early morning sunlight. Had he slept straight through? Then I noticed that his bowl was empty.

“Did one of you dump out Attila’s bowl?” I asked after giving Justin a big hug.

“Nope,” Paige said. “He came over and finished it. Even ate a little of his regular cat food.”

“After complaining loudly that it wasn’t tuna.” Justin flipped a waffle onto the platter. “But you missed all of that because you were out cold, lady. I tried to move you to the bedroom, but you just swatted at me and kept right on snoring.”

That drew a tiny laugh from Paige, but then a shadow crossed her face. I knew what she was thinking because I felt it, too. It seemed wrong to laugh here in this kitchen knowing that her grandmother would no longer be part of it.

I couldn’t change that for either of us, although time might help ease the pain a bit. The one thing I could do, however, was find Paige the keepsake her Nana wanted her to have.

“Do I have time for a shower?” I asked.

“If you hustle,” Justin said. “Otherwise, I can’t guarantee there will be still be bacon on the table.”

I took my phone upstairs to my mother’s room to grab the little book of telephone numbers she’d kept inside the nightstand drawer for as long as I could remember. No doubt all of her important numbers were in her cell phone now, but I don’t know her password, and I saw the little red book last night while I was searching for the ring.

A treadmill partially blocked the nightstand drawer—one of those hefty types you see at the gym, with a cup holder and a ledge to hold your book or tablet. I’d managed to open the dresser far enough to peer inside with a flashlight last night. No ring. Just a pack of tissues, the address book, and a few other odds and ends that had probably been there for decades.

To get the address book out, however, I needed to open the drawer more than a mere smidgen and that meant moving the stupid treadmill. It didn’t help that Attila had decided to curl up in a patch of light at the center of the belt, adding a good fifteen pounds to the total. The machine  clanked and rattled as I shoved it against the wall, but Attila didn’t budge. Oddly, neither did the patch of light, even though I’d moved it almost a foot from the original position. I scanned the room, trying to locate the light source. By the time I glanced back down at the treadmill, both the light and the cat were gone.

“Weird,” I muttered, then pulled the address book from the drawer and began thumbing through until I reached the section labeled P. There were three numbers for Marjorie Prendergast—office, home, and cell. As much as I hated to interrupt the dean this early and at home, I didn’t know if she was planning to go to the office before the graveside service. And I really, really wanted to have a tiny bit of good news for Paige.

“I definitely know the ring you’re talking about,” Dean Prendergast said, after I explained the issue. “Caroline always wore it. But I don’t remember seeing it on her hand that day.”

“Do you think I could stop by and check her office this morning? Maybe security could let me inside? It would mean so much to Paige if I can find it.”

“Certainly. That’s no problem at all. In fact, why don’t you just meet me there?”

We agreed to meet at nine in Markham Hall, which houses SCU’s small psychology department, along with several science labs. I showered quickly, scarfed down some breakfast, and then told Paige and Justin I needed to go on campus to supervise moving the flowers from the chapel where we were last night to the cemetery. I could have simply told them the truth, I guess, but I didn’t want to get Paige’s hopes up.

I was standing in the hallway reading the little farewell notes that students had left on my mom’s office door when the dean—a short, slightly overweight woman in her mid-sixties—arrived. She gave me a sad smile and nodded toward the notes. “We’re going to have a very hard time finding another teacher as dedicated as your mother. She helped so many of these students.”

It was true, and I knew she didn’t only mean academic help. Southern Coastal University is often referred to as Second Chance University by the locals, because most of the students who attend have been flunked out or been expelled from at least one other school. These aren’t students who would normally elicit much sympathy—with the exception of the small percentage of local and scholarship students, these kids have had more than their share of advantages in life. Otherwise, their parents wouldn’t be able to afford the steep tuition. But Caroline Riggs always tried to see the best in her students, pointing out that most of them would have had a better chance in life if their parents had spent less money on them and more time with them.

The dean and I searched the office thoroughly. I went ahead and gathered up personal items as we hunted for the ring—a few photographs, the clay pot Paige had mentioned, and a sweater that nearly had me in tears again because the sandalwood perfume Mom sometimes wore still clung to the fabric.

But there was no sign of the ring.

“Would it be possible to check with the students who found her body? Not that I suspect them of theft, but...”

“That’s okay.” The dean’s mouth tightened a bit. “For one of the three, it’s not outside the realm of the possible. Let me see if I can track them down.”

Dean Prendergast turned on the computer at my mom’s desk. After logging into the school’s system, she jotted down three names and room numbers.

“They may have already left campus,” she said. “A lot of students seem to consider Friday classes optional before break. Optional, period, in some cases.”

“Some things never change.”

“Your mom told me about the dinner theater closing,” the dean said, as we headed over to Burton Hall, where the first student on her list was—possibly—in class. “What are you doing now?

“Brushing up the resume, mostly. My agent is lining up a few auditions. He thinks I’m old enough now that I might be able to tackle the mom roles.”

“Well, I would hope so,” she said, laughing. “You’ve been a mom for nearly sixteen years, right? I wish you had more time here. I’d love to show you the renovations we just completed over at Muncey Auditorium.”

I glanced up the hill toward the auditorium. It wasn’t the theater where I’d been bitten by the acting bug. That had happened six years earlier at the small theater about twelve miles to the north. The Coastal Playhouse was a small melodrama theater that operated only during the tourist season. Each summer, a small troupe of actors performed a thoroughly campy musical, complete with a dashing hero, an innocent damsel in distress, and a villain who twirled his moustache and plotted evil deeds. My favorite role, however, had been the vamp, the sultry character who was usually the villain’s female counterpart. She almost always got the most laughs and had the best songs. My parents had arranged for me to take a small part in the final show of the season, which happened to be just before my ninth birthday. From that moment forward, I’d known I was going to be an actress.

Muncey Auditorium was, however, where I had won my first real acting role, playing Abigail Williams in The Crucible when I was a sophomore at Caratoke High. That was the audition piece my agent had sent out to the producers of Private Eye High, which had convinced them to have me come in for a reading later that year. I remembered the flight to LA for that audition as if it had happened yesterday. As eager as I was to follow my dreams, I was thoroughly dreading the move. Not that I’d minded the idea of living with my father and stepmother. I spent six weeks with them each summer. But if I got the role, that would put an entire continent not just between me and my mother, but also between me and Travis Lamm.

“I’d love to see the renovations,” I told the dean. “Maybe there will be time when I come back to pick up Attila.”

When we reached the classroom, Dean Prendergast stepped inside to locate the first student on her list. She came back a few minutes later with a girl named Amy.

“I’m so, so sorry about your mom,” the girl said.

When I mentioned the ring, she nodded. “I was in Dr. Riggs’s Intro to Psych class freshman year. She talked with her hands a lot when she lectured, so I remember the ring. It was pretty. She wasn’t wearing it that day, though. I’m positive.” The girl glanced at the dean and then back at me, with an uneasy look. “It was the first time I ever saw a body, and it’s...it’s been kind of hard to get the image out of my mind. Her arms were sprawled out like she’d tried to catch herself. I can picture the whole scene in my head really vividly and there was no ring on her finger.”

“Are Livy and Hunter still on campus?” the dean asked, referring to the other two students on the list.

“No, ma’am. I have their cell numbers if you want to call, but...if it’s Hunter you’re wondering about, he was with us the entire time. Like I told the officers, we were going upstairs for our three o’clock class and we found her there on the landing.”

Dean Prendergast nodded, her lips tightening slightly at the boy’s name. It was clear that there was some backstory with this Hunter, but I didn’t ask.

“We can call the other two students if you like,” the dean said as we left the building. “But I know Amy fairly well. She’s a straight shooter. Hunter has...a history, shall we say? But he’s dating Livy, who is Amy’s best friend. And Amy wishes Livy would dump him, so I don’t think she would cover for Hunter.”

I laughed. “And how do you know all this?”

She gave me a sly grin. “Oh, I have a network. Knowledge is power. Keeping up with the drama on a college campus can be almost as compelling as watching The Sands of Time.” Her grin faded. “Although sometimes, you stumble upon things you really wish you hadn’t.”

“Do you think someone could have swiped the ring before those students found her?” I asked.

“Maybe. But...you’re certain it wasn’t Brenda Sills?”

It took me a moment, but I placed the name as belonging to the funeral director.

“I hate to even mention it,” the dean continued, “but she’s had a bit of a financial setback. A bad real estate investment.” A shadow crossed her face. “I probably wouldn’t know that if not for the fact that several of my faculty had money in the same development deal. Anyway, it’s something to keep in mind. I’ll check with campus police, but...you might want to consider contacting the local police, too.”

She was right, of course. But I had very mixed feelings about bringing in the Caratoke Police Department, since the only sign of Travis had been a floral arrangement from “The Lamm Family.” Maybe his wife was the jealous type. I had no real desire to contact him under the current circumstances, but I might not have a choice.

“I’ll call the police if we don’t find it soon,” I told her. “Thanks for humoring me.”

“Oh, it was absolutely no bother, Tig. I’m still in shock over this entire thing. Caroline and I have been friends for decades and I’m going to miss her dreadfully. I can only imagine what you and Paige are going through. I’m sure the ring will turn up somewhere.”

Chapter Four

“Where do you want this potato salad?” Marina asked Justin.

“There should be space next to the ham.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Marina replied with a grin. “He’s holding court with at least a dozen adoring fans.”

Justin rolled his eyes. “I meant the other ham, not James. Can you see if we need more plates or napkins while you’re out there? And maybe get Paige to carry out that cake?”

Caroline’s house isn’t large. Luckily, the day was bright and sunny, so the post-funeral crowd had spilled over onto the deck and backyard. My dad was no doubt grateful for this, given his allergies. Being inside a house with a cat would have had his eyes streaming like a fire hose within minutes.

“I’ve got the cake,” I told Marina at the same moment Attila screeched angrily at some invisible foe. He leapt from the window seat that overlooks the backyard, making a beeline for the front window.

Several high-pitched yaps came from the front yard, followed by the doorbell. The foe was still invisible, but definitely not inaudible.

“Get back out there,” Justin told me. “That’s an order. Go visit with Paige and your family. I’ve got everything else under control.”

And I didn’t doubt that in the slightest. Justin had worked as a sous chef during the years he was waiting for his big break. He’s chronically organized and a world-class multitasker.

I found a spot for the cake on the patio table, and then turned to Marina. “Thank you again. Not just for coming, but for pitching in.“

“It’s no problem, Tig. Really. I’m glad I could do it.” She pushed a strand of raven hair behind her ear and glanced out at the cluster of people near the fence where my father was seated. Her expression grew uneasy, like there was something she needed to say but couldn’t find the words. “I have to admit that I had a bit of a secondary motive. At first, I was going to just call, but with everything else you have on you right now, I decided it might be better to talk in person.”

Fear clutched at my heart. “Is something wrong with Dad?”

“Oh, no! No, no, no...he’s fine. At least, as far as I know. This is about Dominic. And Paige.”

The fist that had hold of my heart squeezed again, even tighter this time. Only two people in the entire world knew there was any connection between Paige and Marina’s cousin, Nic Carbone, and we had just buried one of them. The other person who knew was Justin, and he’d been willing to go through with a sham marriage with a pregnant friend in order to keep anyone else from jumping to the right conclusion.

I opened my mouth to speak, still unsure what I was going to say. Some form of denial seemed the obvious choice, but looking at Marina, with her dark hair and eyes—both of which look a lot like Paige’s and a lot like Nic’s—I wasn’t sure I could lie convincingly.

Marina sighed and pulled me into a hug. “Tig, sweetie, I’ve known since the first time I laid eyes on her. I tried to steer you away from Dominic. I wish I’d tried harder, but I’ve been keeping family secrets all my life—and I really didn’t know how deeply he was involved with them until a few years back. The only reason I’m even mentioning this is that I found out Nic is moving back to the West Coast. He’s going to run the business out there for Uncle Vinnie.”

The business in question was not a small chain of Italian restaurants, as I’d assumed when we began dating. Yes, the food at Vita Bella is obscenely delicious, but they would need to sell a metric ton of garlic knots each day to amass the kind of money that Nic alone blows through. About five months into the relationship, I’d realized the restaurants were a cover for far more unsavory and highly illegal activities. I had decided that the best way out was to give Nic several very good reasons to break up with me. And then, about three weeks after he took the bait, I’d discovered I was pregnant.

“LA is a big, big city,” Marina said. “You’ll be in Burbank, and the only reason Nic ever came out that way was for family dinners, back when I was married to James. You’ll probably never bump into him, but I thought you should know. Because if he sees Paige, he’s going to wonder. And if he takes the time to do some basic math, he’s going to know. He’ll be furious that you kept her away from him, and…” She trailed off and then seemed to switch subjects a bit. “Have you kept up with him at all? Social media or anything?”

“No,” I told her. “I don’t do social media. Paige has SnapChat or whatever it is, but I make her use a pseudonym. I haven’t even googled him.” And that was the absolute truth. I’d almost been afraid to even think his name, worried that I’d somehow jinx things and he’d decide to look me up. That he’d discover I had a daughter who was so very clearly his. Her personality was nothing like Nic, who was outgoing and somewhat brash, but anyone looking at her could see that she was a Carbone.

“Well, he’s on Facebook,” Marina said, “in case you want to snoop. Most of this I know through the family grapevine, though. Nic never married, which is weird in our family, but he has a son. Good-looking kid, just like Nic was at that age. The mom isn’t around anymore. I pushed a little on that point, when I was talking to Aunt Rosemary, and the official word is that she was young and didn’t want the responsibility. Uncle Vinnie bought her off. Handed her a fat check and a new identity on the condition that she give up all rights to the boy. No one has seen or heard from her since. And…I guess it’s possible that’s what happened. Some women don’t want kids.”

Marina shivered slightly, hugging her arms around herself, and then continued. “But here’s the thing, though. Uncle Vinnie didn’t get rich by throwing his money around. I think he’d have taken the cheaper, more permanent route, especially if the woman had any qualms about giving up the boy. If he thought there was even a one-in-a-hundred chance that she’d show back up to make trouble…well, he wouldn’t have risked it. He’s got plenty of people willing to get their hands dirty.”

She didn’t add that one of them was Nic, even though I was pretty sure she knew it. Dominic had a temper seventeen years ago. He didn’t seem like the type who would have mellowed much over time. And killing people was apparently part of his job description. The messages he’d left on my phone the first few days after we split up had been toxic, exposing a side of him I’d never have guessed existed, even after I’d started putting the pieces together. In fact, I’d been listening to one of those toxic messages as I stared down at a pregnancy test that was most definitely positive.

I’d moved back in with my dad for several months after that. He had a much better security system than the small apartment I’d been sharing with a friend from college, although I’d mostly been at Nic’s place since we’d started dating. And then the messages stopped. Nic had moved back to New Jersey, and I assumed, on to his next conquest. I married Justin, and we threw ourselves into the role of happy newlyweds, eagerly awaiting Paige’s arrival. Okay, it wasn’t entirely a role. We were happy, newly-wed, and very much looking forward to Paige, but the relationship was strictly platonic.

Did I believe that Nic Carbone or his father would kill an ex-girlfriend, especially one who lied to him? Yes, I did. And I didn’t want than man anywhere near my daughter. That had been the one sure thing in my universe since the day I learned I was pregnant. But it would be a lot harder to guarantee if he was back in California.

“Thanks for letting me know, Marina. Do you know when he’ll be moving to LA?”

“Aunt Carla said after the first of the year. They’re doing a major restructuring. Uncle Vinnie isn’t in great health and he’s trying to decide who will take over when he’s gone. Nic’s brother is handling some matters down in Florida, so…”

I didn’t push for details. The less I knew about the Carbone family business, the better.

“Thanks,” I said again. “If you hear anything else, could you let me know?”

Marina promised that she would and headed back inside. Craning my neck, I looked around for Paige. I had a strong urge to hug her. To reassure myself that she was safe. I finally located her on the bench swing in the shade of the oak tree, talking to Leslie, George, and Dean Prendergast.

An odd wavering patch of light illuminated the trunk of the tree behind her. As I moved closer, the light began to take shape and for a moment, I saw my mother, standing next to Paige. She was dressed in the outfit that was still in the back of my car—jeans and her favorite blue sweater.

I stopped in the middle of the lawn and rubbed my eyes. When I opened them again, she was gone.

“Mom?” Paige got up from the swing and came toward me, concern in her eyes. “Are you okay?”

I nodded and gave her a shaky smile. “A bit tired, that’s all. My eyes keep playing tricks on me. You look a little bored,” I added in a softer voice. “You can go inside and hang with Justin if you want. Or call Nathan. It’s fine to take a break.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I thought it would be painful, but I kind of like hearing their stories about Nana.”

She was right. I’d been dreading this almost as much as the graveside service, thinking that it would be easier to have only family around. But the tradition of having people over after the funeral was probably a wise one. It provided a needed distraction, something to keep your mind off of the finality of death. Having Mom’s friends share stories and anecdotes about her life almost made it seem like she was still with us.

Which, I realized, was probably why I had imagined her standing there. Just wishful thinking stirred up by the memories everyone had been sharing.

Paige and I rejoined the group, where Leslie was describing a paddle boarding expedition on Currituck Sound that she’d taken with Caroline a few weekends before. “Oh my God, you should have seen us the next day. I could barely walk, and Caroline’s hands were all puffy like something out of a cartoon. We had a good, long laugh about arthritis and creaky old bodies and decided paddle boarding might be a sport best left to the under-sixty crowd.”

“Mom had arthritis?” I asked, a little surprised. She hadn’t mentioned it to me, but then she had never been one to complain about aches and pains. If you asked how she was doing, you always got the same answer—I’m doing great, sweetie. Not a single word about creaky joints or any other infirmities.

“Oh, it wasn’t too bad,” Leslie said. “A lot of women in their sixties have it much worse. Mostly her hands would puff up when she traveled or exercised, but…”

I didn’t hear whatever she said next because something clicked in my mind as soon as I heard the word exercised.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

I took off running toward the house. Justin gave me an odd look as I barreled past him and up the stairs. The treadmill was against the wall, right where I’d left it. Attila was again curled up inside that weird patch of light, only now, it was at the foot of the bed.

The ledge of the treadmill held one of the paperback mysteries my mom liked to read while she walked. It was open to the last page she’d read, and I’d been reluctant to move it and lose her place. Which was silly, but I hadn’t been able to tell her goodbye, and the words on those two pages had been the last words she’d read, or at least the last words she’d read for pleasure. I moved it a bit to the side, and there, pressed between the pages of the open book and the plastic rim at the front, was the opal.

I scooped it up and turned to the door where Justin was now standing.

“You found it!” he said, grinning. His grin faded, however, when he saw my expression. My eyes had shifted to the edge of the bed where the splash of light next to Attila was again taking the shape of Caroline Riggs-Alden. This time I was close enough to see her face, smiling up at me.

“Do you see her?” I whispered. The form on the bed seemed so insubstantial that I was scared my breath alone might shatter it.

Justin raised an eyebrow. “Attila? Yes. But based on the view he gave us when he decided to bathe himself earlier, I’m quite certain that he’s male.”

“No. My mom. She’s right…there.” By the time I got the words out, however, she was no longer there at all.

With anyone else, I might have felt ridiculous, but this was Justin. He was my sounding board for all ideas, no matter how far-fetched. And he was also a firm believer in all things spirit world.

“I don’t see her,” he said, sounding regretful. “But there’s no reason I would. She was your mom, Tig. If Caroline was going to make an appearance to anyone, I’d think it would be you or Paige. Is she still here?”

“No. But I think that’s what startled Attila last night. And I saw her a few minutes ago in the backyard. It only lasts a few seconds and then she vanishes.”

“Well, if you see her again,” he said, “talk to her. Ask what she needs to move on. And maybe where she hid the broom, because I can’t find it.”

Paige was waiting in the living room when we went downstairs. I grabbed her hand and slipped the ring on her finger. Tears filled her eyes as she clutched the ring and pressed it to her lips. Then she hugged me extra tight.

“Where was it?”

“On the book rack of her treadmill. I sometimes put my earphones there at the gym, so when Leslie mentioned Mom’s hands swelling, I thought maybe… And there it was.”

“I’m going to go tell Grampa,” she said, beaming. “He kept saying he’d buy me a new one if we didn’t find it, but...that would have just been a reminder that Nana’s ring was gone. I’m so glad you found it!”

Paige ran back outside.

“You know,” Justin said, “it could have been the ring. Maybe Caroline wanted to be sure it wound up with Paige. Maybe that’s what she needed to be at peace.”

Chapter Five

For a while, I thought Justin was right. Maybe Caroline had just needed to see a smile on Paige’s face one last time. We remained at her house until the next afternoon, and I didn’t see a trace of her ghost. She didn’t hitch a ride with us back to Burbank, either, although I’ll admit I kind of wished that she had.

All in all, it was a bleak Christmas. I guess the first holiday after a death in the family is always hard. Paige was disappointed at not being in Caratoke for Christmas as we’d planned. Justin and Jacob couldn’t make it all the way out to California, and neither could Delaney. Plus, Paige had been counting on seeing Nathan. But the idea of spending the holidays in Caratoke without Caroline was too painful for us to even consider. Maybe the next year would be easier.

I still hadn’t found a new job, which meant that apartment hunting was a challenge. There are few things as mortifying as needing your father to cosign a rental agreement when you’re in your late thirties, and without knowing exactly where I’d be working, I wasn’t eager to commit to a lease anyway. So we packed up and moved in with Dad and Corinne on a temporary basis, knowing we’d have to stay in the tiny guesthouse out back once I rescued Attila, in order to keep my dad’s exposure to kitty dander at a bare minimum.

At first, my job search was local, but what Marina had told me about Dominic returning to LA had me on edge. Caroline’s ghost might not have followed me to LA, but no matter where I went, I saw Nic’s ghost. Every dark-haired guy on the street made me nervous. Paige had noticed the change, too, asking me on several occasions why I was so jumpy these days.

The new restaurant being built in Burbank didn’t help matters. Coming Soon, the sign read. Another Vita Bella!

As much as I hated moving away from Dad, I was increasingly certain that a change of scenery would be good for me. For Paige, too.

In late December, I flew back to Caratoke to sign some legal papers, pack up Mom’s things, and approve some renovations to the house. I’d considered selling, but the realtor said the market was a bit soft and suggested putting the place into a vacation rental program for a year or two. Given the proximity to the beach, he thought it might be a decent source of income. I couldn’t say no to that.

Several times while I was there, I felt like someone was watching me. More specifically, I felt like my mother was watching me. But if some remnant of Caroline Riggs-Alden remained in the house, it didn’t materialize.

Once everything was finished, I drove over to Leslie and George’s house to pick up Attila. I think he was secretly glad to see me—Leslie said he hadn’t really gotten along with their own cat—but he shot baleful looks my way as soon as I walked in the door. I didn’t doubt for a second that I’d be getting the cold shoulder for quite some time as punishment for abandoning him. He would be furious when he learned about the cage I’d bought in order to fly him to LA. He hated riding in cars, so I was sure that flying would have him in a foul mood for weeks.

There really wasn’t a reason for me to drive past my mom’s house on my way out of Caratoke, but it was only a few blocks off my route, and I found the car moving in that direction. I’d spent most of the previous day and a good part of the evening packing up Caroline’s things, taking some to the local Goodwill, and putting others into storage for the time being. It was emotionally grueling. To make things even worse, I’d had a text from Marina waiting on my phone when I woke up saying that she’d learned from one of her aunts that Nic was currently hunting for a house in LA. Which meant I was going to be on edge every time Paige and I ventured out of the neighborhood.

When I arrived at Caroline’s house, I sat in the driveway for a while, just looking at the place. Once it was on the rental market, I didn’t know if it would really feel like my mom’s house anymore, so I decided to take a few final keepsake photos. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw her at the window. But it was apparently a trick of the light or simply my imagination. I blinked, and she was gone.

As I opened the door to get back in the car, I heard a loud yap from the neighbor’s yard. Attila heard it, too. He sprang to the headrest of the driver’s seat, then onto my shoulder, down to the hood of my car, and landed directly in front of a scant five pounds of angry fluff.

This was my first time meeting the creature face-to-face, but I knew him well from the stories Paige had told me. Leo, who was trimmed to look like a miniature lion, belonged to the next-door neighbor, Rebecca Whitley. According to my mother, the woman was even more obnoxious than her little ankle-biter, who had a nasty habit of wandering outside of his own yard to do his daily business. Attila detested the dog, and the feeling was mutual.

The cat arched his back, hissed, and then followed up with a low-pitched yowl. Leo yapped twice and then began what I assumed was a growl, although it sounded more like a rattle. Cursing under my breath, I grabbed the cage from the backseat. I should have put Attila in it to begin with, but he hates the thing and I’d known he was going to have be penned up the entire flight to LAX.

“Attila! Get in the cage.” I felt stupid even saying the words. Cats aren’t exactly known for taking orders under any circumstances, and this cat in particular had never backed down against a dog, let alone an insane little yapper who was less than half his size. There was no way Attila would ever get in the cage short of me shoving him inside, and that would cost me some skin. “Inside!” I repeated, holding open the cage’s gate. “Move it.”

To my surprise, the command was obeyed. Not by Attila, who didn’t even look at me, but by Leo. It was apparently a snap decision, which he instantly regretted, but I closed the latch before he could dart back out. While it wasn’t exactly the result I’d hoped for, it was better than trying to separate two mortal enemies with my bare hands.

I crossed over to Mrs. Whitley’s house and rang the bell. Once. Twice. Then I knocked. Still no response. I was on the verge of simply leaving the dog in the cage and stopping at a pet shop to buy another one when I remembered that her backyard was fenced. While I hated to leave the dog outside when no one was home, that was still much safer than letting him roam the neighborhood, as his owner had clearly done.

Once I had Leo back in his yard, I returned to Caroline’s house to find Attila sitting on the doormat. He gave a plaintive meow and scratched at the door.

“You want to go inside.”

Another meow.

I sighed and sat down next to him. “She’s not there, big guy. I’m sorry.”

It had been cruel to stop here, even if it was unintentional cruelty. I should have realized he’d think I was bringing him home to see her.

I reached over and rubbed his ears. He allowed it, eying the cage warily, and then moved away to claw at the door again. “Okay,” I said. “Let me get the keys and we’ll go inside. You’re going to be sad either way, but at least you’ll be able to see for yourself.”

The cat spent the next half hour wandering around the house.  I followed him from room to room. Finally, I reached the point where I was going to miss my flight if we didn’t leave.

Attila didn’t resist when I put him in the cage. He didn’t even respond when Leo yapped from Mrs. Whitley’s backyard. “Just a few more hours and you’ll be home with Paige, big guy. She misses you.”

As I backed the car out of the driveway, I saw Caroline at the window again, watching us pull away. It took all of my willpower not to go back inside.

Get a grip, I told myself. It’s only your imagination.

I repeated that mantra many times during the long trip back to LAX.

Only your imagination.

When Dean Prendergast’s name popped up on my phone a few days later, I felt a surge of panic. That wasn’t too surprising, I guess, given that the last time she’d called me was to break the news of Caroline’s death. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, she asked if I’d found a job.

“Not yet. I’ve actually held off applying for the past few weeks, given the holidays and needing to wrap things up with Mom’s house.”

“Well, I may have an opportunity for you,” the dean said. “One of our theater professors has resigned rather abruptly. The timing couldn’t be worse, because the other professor is scheduled to chaperone a group of students in Rome this semester. So...would you be interested? The salary probably won’t be what you were making at the dinner theater, but the cost of living isn’t nearly as high here as it is in LA so you might even come out a bit ahead.”

The question caught me off-guard. I’d never really considered teaching, aside from acting classes I taught twice a year at the dinner theater. The idea was appealing, though.

“It’s tempting, but I don’t think I could justify uprooting Paige for a single semester,” I said, a bit reluctantly.

“Oh, no! I mean, you’d be on probation for the first year—that’s standard. But I’m talking about a permanent position.” She went on to say that she’d taken the liberty of pulling up my résumé on LinkedIn, and while they’d normally prefer a candidate with a doctorate rather than a master’s, my “practical experience” in the industry would make up for that.

“I’ll need to talk to Paige,” I told her. “Could I call you back later today?”

But that was really only a technicality. I already knew what Paige’s answer would be. She’d been miserable since Delaney moved to New York. At least North Carolina would put them in the same time zone. And while she’d miss her grandfather, she loved Caratoke.

The clincher, though? Nathan was in Caratoke.

“Of course, Tig. Assuming she agrees, do you think you could be here by Monday?” Dean Prendergast asked hesitantly. “It’s only five days, and I know that doesn’t give you much time to pack, but…”

“Sure,” I told her, and we ended the call.

Five days? I glanced around at the boxes stacked in every corner of the guest house, still untouched after our recent move. Packing wasn’t going to be a problem. Plus, I already had a house near the university. A possibly haunted house, but I was on very good terms with the ghost.

And it was a job. A decent job that I might even enjoy.

Most important of all, however, it was a job on the other side of the country. A job that would keep my daughter far, far away from Nic Carbone.

* * *

Next up: A sneak peek at CURTAINS FOR ROMEO (Coastal Playhouse Mystery #1)

* * *

Excerpt: Curtains for Romeo (Coastal Playhouse Mysteries #1)

I’m not the type of person who is habitually late. In fact, I truly loathe being late. I’ll get up an hour before I really need to in order to be sure I’m on time. Maybe even early.

But on important days, those days when I’m trying to make a good impression or look like a real professional? On those days, something invariably happens.

The first thing that happened was falling asleep on the couch without setting my alarm after fifteen consecutive hours of driving. Luckily, my daughter, Paige, had set an alarm. It was for an hour later than I’d have liked, but it still had us out the door with a few minutes to spare.

The second thing that happened was the little yapper that belonged to my new neighbor. He trotted through the hedge between our properties and left a housewarming present on the welcome mat. Because I was carrying a large box of books, I didn’t see his little gift. It was only after I placed the box of books in the trunk and was about to crank the engine that I caught a whiff of something incredibly foul.

“Ewww!” Paige, who was already in the car, barreled out at light speed.

I yanked off my shoe and hobbled to the edge of the driveway. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

“Because I didn’t see it! I came out through the garage.”

I like dogs. Actually, I love dogs. If not for Attila, the large gray cat I recently inherited from my mother, Paige and I would already be hunting for something floppy-eared and adorable now that we have a place with a fenced-in backyard. Attila earned his name in battle against many foes, most of them canine. He hates dogs.

In particular, Attila hates the dog next door, an obnoxious creature named Leo, whose equally obnoxious owner keeps him mostly shaved, except for a poofy lion’s mane around his tiny face. And as I scraped the little lion’s leavings from the bottom of my shoe, I felt a new sense of kinship with Attila. The next time I saw the horrid little creature, I’d probably hiss, too.

Paige stood off to the side, holding her nose. “This isn’t going to make us late, is it? Because it would really suck to be late on my very first day.”

I was tempted to note that it was also my very first day, but I held my tongue. As nervous as I was about my new job as theater professor at Southern Coastal University—a job for which I felt deeply unqualified—I knew that my daughter was facing an even worse ordeal. Paige was starting a new high school in a new town on the opposite side of the country. In some ways, on the opposite side of the world. Both schools were reasonably close to the ocean, but aside from that, Caratoke was barely in the same universe as Burbank. This was a fact to which I could speak with a certain degree of authority since I made the same move in reverse, from North Carolina to California, twenty-three years before.

Paige had taken the news that we were relocating quite well, even though it was the middle of the school year. Even though we’d had less than a week to say our goodbyes, pack our belongings, and drive cross-country in order to arrive by the beginning of spring semester. She told me it was a relief, in some ways. That she’d never really fit in with the Burbank crowd.

I didn’t believe a word of it. Paige was happy in California. She certainly never lacked for friends. That said, her best friend, Delaney Foster, had moved to New York with her mother the past summer, which meant they rarely saw each other in person anyway. They still spend tons of time together. Delaney is at our place in virtual form while Paige gets ready for school, eats breakfast, does homework, or whatever. The fact that living in North Carolina once again puts Paige in the same time zone as Delaney was almost certainly a factor in favor of the move.

I suspect Paige also picked up on the fact that I had reasons—reasons I’m still not ready to share with her—for taking a job nearly three thousand miles away. She’s a smart girl. She can tell when her mom is stressed.

But I was under no illusions. The single most important factor in Paige being so cooperative about the move was a seventeen-year-old boy named Nathan.

I still hadn’t met Nathan, but my mom, Caroline, said she knew the boy’s family, so I wasn’t worried. The romance kindled over the previous summer, when Paige was in Caratoke. Paige and Nathan began texting regularly when she returned from vacation. It quickly progressed to Facetime and enough hours on the phone that I was glad our family plan had unlimited minutes.

“You can still make it on time if you give me a hand.” I tossed the mostly depoopified shoes onto the lawn next to the realtor sign I’d yanked out of the ground last night when we arrived. “Find the disinfectant wipes and take care of the floorboard while I dig out another pair of shoes.”

Paige wrinkled her nose but went to search for the Clorox wipes.

And search was definitely the operative word. The U-Haul trailer we’d towed from California was still in the garage, and we were very much in the maybe-it’s-in-that-box stage of unpacking.

I located one of the mystery boxes in the living room and began rummaging through in search of shoes that might halfway match what I was wearing. “I’m tempted to introduce Leo to Attila.”

“Good plan,” Paige said. “Attila outweighs the little creep by at least five pounds.”

“Maybe Attila could teach him a lesson about manners. And boundaries. Too bad we don’t have time to track the nasty little rodent down.”

“He’s already back inside,” Paige said, after finally locating the wipes. “I heard Mrs. Whitley calling him as I headed out to the car.”

“Wonderful,” I replied. “He drops his little jewel right in my path and dashes back to Mommy.”

“And Mommy wuvs her wittle Weo vewy, vewy much,” Paige said with a snort as she headed outside to deal with the mess.

Even though I’d not yet had the pleasure of meeting our new neighbor, I had heard plenty of stories about Rebecca Whitley from my mother and from Paige, who’d spent a good part of the summer here since she was in elementary school. The house is walking distance from the beach, and unlike me, my mom had the summer months off and could spend time with Paige building sand castles and hunting for shells.

Mrs. Whitley was a relatively new arrival to Caratoke, showing up two years ago when her youngest son, Andrew, enrolled at the university. According to Caroline, Whitley had followed her son to each of the three colleges he’d managed to get kicked out of. Every day, she dropped him off in front of the campus bell tower with his backpack and a sack lunch. And she doted on her silly-looking dog even more than she doted on Andrew.

I shoved the first box aside and began digging through a second. Just as I was about to give up on that one too, a voice startled me so badly that I dropped the box, spilling its contents onto the carpet.

“Get a pair from that box in my closet, Tig. The one marked for Goodwill. Your feet are narrower, but they should fit well enough.”

I’d thought I was alone, but my mother was now sitting on the window seat, sharing a patch of early morning sunshine with a peacefully snoozing Attila. Two cross-country car trips in three months hadn’t been easy on him, and he was clearly glad to be home. Did he even know Caroline was there?

I visually scanned the stuff from the spilled box, but it was mostly linens. Mom was right. At least there was only one box to go through in the bedroom closet. I ran upstairs and, after a brief search, found a pair almost identical to the navy pumps I’d been wearing.

I turned to thank her for the suggestion before dashing out to the car, but Caroline was gone. The window seat held only Attila, still asleep.

Of course she’s gone, I thought. Because she was never there in the first place. You need to get a grip.

Paige had already tossed the soiled floor mat onto the lawn and was just finishing cleaning the brake pedal. The car now reeked almost equally of disinfecting wipes and dog poop. We rolled down the windows, braving the slight January chill to keep from gagging, and pulled into the circular drive at Caratoke High with four minutes to spare. Paige’s hair was a bit mussed from the wind, but at least she wasn’t late.

I wasn’t as lucky. By the time I found a parking spot near the theater, it was already nine minutes after eight. I didn’t even have a chance to locate my new office and drop off my things. Instead, I shoved open the side entrance to the main auditorium with my shoulder, still lugging the box, and nearly collided with two students who had obviously decided they’d waited long enough for the new professor. They turned back around to join the others, grumbling under their breath. I couldn’t really blame them, though. They were so close to a clean getaway.

I said good morning, and apologized for keeping them waiting. They stashed their phones back into their bags and slumped down into their seats.

“For future reference, do you have a PhD?” This question came from a guy wearing a sky-blue baseball cap emblazoned with the SCU logo and a black frat T-shirt—one of the guys who’d been making his escape.

“No,” I answered. “But this building is on the west side of campus. You have to add an extra minute to the standard ten for that. Plus, I’m a legacy—my mother taught here—so add another two minutes. If you total all that up, you’ll see I’m allowed a full thirteen minutes before you can leave class without it counting against you.”

A few students chuckled at my response, including Baseball Cap, so they must have picked up on the snark. Everything I’d just told them was total garbage, but it played into the long-standing urban legend that there’s a complicated calculus involved in determining the official grace period for a late professor.

There was no standard rule on tardy professors at SCU. If such rules actually existed elsewhere, the students in that room probably knew better than I did, since they had more notches etched into their collegiate belts. Not in terms of degrees earned, but in the sheer number of institutions they’d attended. Statistically speaking, the average student at Southern Coastal has been kicked out of at least two other schools. The running joke in town was that the letters SC in the university’s name actually stood for Second Chance. My mom’s description had been even more pointed—she’d said it should be called Last Chance University. Screw up here, and you’ll have to run Daddy’s corporation without the benefit of a college degree.

“Not that potential tardiness will be an issue in the future,” I assured them, handing a clipboard with the attendance list and a stack of printed syllabi to two students seated closest to the aisle. “I’ll be assigning each of you a week to lead the class in theater warm-up exercises. So as soon as the bell rings, you can get started, even if I’m held up for some reason.”

That elicited a general groan, which I considered a very good sign. Any group of students who actually enjoy theater warm-ups is a group of potential sociopaths who should be watched carefully. No one in his or her right mind likes pretending to be a tree. It’s simply a rite of passage. Theater professors all suffered through it as students, and by the Bard, so will the next generation.

I looked around for the portable whiteboard I had requested, but there was no sign of it. No chalkboard, either, so I’d just have to rely on everyone reading along on the syllabus. And I would definitely need to get someone to clean this auditorium. The place had an odd, slightly pungent odor, possibly from being closed up over the holidays.

“This is Theater and Society, also known as Drama 231. I’m Antigone Alden, the new assistant drama professor. Actually, the only drama professor for most of the semester, since Dr. Peele will be leaving shortly to supervise the spring semester abroad.”

Several of the students exchanged looks. “I thought they left last Thursday,” one girl said. “I decided not to do the Italy semester because my family already had tickets for a cruise over the holidays and I couldn’t do both.”

“There was another transit strike,” I said. “From what I’ve heard, they’ve had a difficult time rebooking flights for a group of fourteen.”

The girl huffed. “Great. I could have spent spring in Rome.”

I gave her a sympathetic smile and continued. “My office hours, website, and other information are listed on the syllabus. Feel free to call me Professor Alden or Antigone or just plain Tig.”

As a kid, I truly loathed my first name. Classmates and even teachers had an unfortunate tendency to pronounce it as Auntie Gone instead of Ann-Tig-Oh-Nee. When I landed my first real acting gig, I presented my agent with a shopping list of much better stage names, or what my twelve-year-old self considered better. But he went with my nickname instead. He said that Tig was memorable, and it evoked the image of a baby tiger. That wasn’t what I’d been going for, even at age twelve, but I accepted the compromise.

A blonde girl leaned forward in her seat and asked, “Are you the same Tig Alden who was on Charlie’s Angels?”

I smiled, hoping that it hid my clenched teeth. “Right actress, wrong show.”

What I was thinking, however, was, No, I was not on Charlie’s Angels, you little twerp. I’m thirty-eight, not seventy.

Although I guess it’s possible that the girl’s question was an honest mistake and not a dig at my age. To anyone under twenty, a show that ran in the late 1990s and a show that ran in the 1970s are probably both ancient history.

Private Eye High enjoyed a five-year run on The WB, and to be fair to the blonde cheer-goddess who’d asked the question, the producers clearly were trying for an Angels vibe. Three girl detectives, frequently in disguise, with a shadowy boss who gave them a new mystery to solve each week. I’m quite certain their pitch to sell the series had been something along the lines of Charlie’s Angels meets Nancy Drew.

I played the nerd—editor of the school newspaper and capable of hacking into highly advanced computer systems faster than most people could type in their AOL passwords. They’d glammed me up occasionally to go undercover, and to exploit that age-old trope where the plain girl is suddenly gorgeous when you yank off the glasses and add lipstick. But most weeks, Addy Thorne was in jeans and a sweater, and that was perfectly okay with me. I usually got more lines and more screen time than the perky cheerleader—who had actually looked a bit like the impertinent student who had just asked about Charlie’s Angels—or the wealthy debutante on the team, because Addy was almost always the one who put the pieces together and solved the mystery.

“If you’re interested,” I told the class, “the details of my acting career are online. Aside from my five years as Adeline Thorne on Private Eye High, my personal favorite role was Yoga Girl (uncredited) in a Harrison Ford film. It really allowed me to stretch my talents.”

That earned me another groan. I flashed them a sorry-not-sorry grin, and was about to move on, but the girl wasn’t done.

“So then…why are you here and not acting?” She tossed her blonde hair expertly over one shoulder, and continued in a sly voice that perfectly matched her serpentine smile. “I mean, we’ve all heard the saying. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach. You could still act on stage, right? Isn’t that what older actresses usually do?”

“Whoa, Bethany.” Baseball-Cap Guy shook his head, and then said in a lower voice. “You really don’t have a filter, do you?”

Bethany rolled her eyes. “She knows what I meant, John.”

And yes, I knew exactly what the girl meant, which was why it was harder to keep my expression pleasant this time. I wanted to tell her that “older” actresses do a lot of things. They write. They direct and produce. They manage community theaters, like I’d done for the past five years. They even continue to act. But truthfully, they also wait tables, work as telephone solicitors, and drive taxis when the money runs out.

In my case, the money ran out wicked fast because ninety percent of it had been pilfered ten years back by the manager I refer to only as She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, who is probably living happily on her own private island somewhere in the Caribbean. My dad lost even more than I did, but James Alden rose from the financial ashes, brushed off one of the impeccably tailored suits that hadn’t been taken when he declared bankruptcy, and went on to win four Emmys in six years for his portrayal of Vincent Coletti on The Sands of Time, one of the few surviving daytime dramas. He was almost out of debt now.

“Some actresses continue working in live theater,” I said. “In fact, I was on stage for several years with a repertory company. That involves a lot of travel and odd hours, though, and…I have a child. And even if you land a career break early on, smart actors realize that getting an education is important. I went back to school. Even earned a master’s degree. So when this opportunity arose, I was fortunate enough to be able to take advantage of it.”

I didn’t mention that there were probably dozens of candidates more qualified for this position than I was, at least on paper. There was no doubt in my mind that my mom’s three decades of teaching psychology at SCU, combined with her recent accident, were a critical factor in this job offer. If not for my mother, I doubt the administration would have been as willing to weigh my practical experience in the industry more heavily than my slim academic credentials and total lack of teaching experience.

And it probably didn’t hurt that I’d said yes, I could be in Caratoke in five days, when the dean called. She’d received an email from the previous professor saying that he was resigning, effective immediately. Caroline’s house was only a ten-minute drive away, so I hadn’t even needed to house hunt.

“Fortunate for you, maybe,” Bethany said. “But what if Professor Amundsen shows up and wants his job back?”

“He resigned,” I said. “In the middle of the year. You don’t generally get to come back after that.”

A girl in the front row turned back to the others. “Mandy Bierce told me he ran off to Barbados with that girl Ashley who graduated two years ago.”

“He did not,” Bethany retorted.

“You’d think he could’ve waited until final grades were posted,” another guy said. “I still don’t have my grade for his Playwriting class.”

Baseball Cap snorted. “You were failing that class, weren’t you? Are you sure you didn’t off Amundsen and toss his body into the ocean?”

“Half the class was failing,” the first guy said. “Can’t pin this one on me. More likely one of the girls who wasn’t happy with her…ahem…extra-credit grade. Where were you over the holidays, Bethany?”

The blonde girl glared at him, and I cleared my throat to restore order.

“I don’t know any more than the rest of you. The only thing I was told is that he resigned.” That wasn’t entirely true. I’d also been told that he abandoned his car in the parking lot and hadn’t bothered to clean out his office. But going into all the details seemed a bit gossipy, and I needed to get things back on track before Miss Bethany thought up another snarky question.

“If any of you have evidence of foul play,” I added, “please call campus police and give them your statement. But for now, we need to take a look at the course objectives.”

I spent the rest of the hour explaining the scope of the course, my expectations, the fact that class participation was a considerable portion of their grade, and other housekeeping tasks. All in all, it went better than I had expected. One kid mumbled that she was dropping, and another flat-out left when he learned he’d have to write a five-page paper, something he claimed was outrageous for a class that was an elective. But the rest seemed at least somewhat eager to learn, and I sighed in satisfaction when the class was over.

Maybe the new job wouldn’t be as bad as I had feared.

CHAPTER TWO

I had just finished stashing the extra syllabi and class roster in my box of books when a tall, thin guy entered from the back of the auditorium.

“Professor Alden? I’m Ben Baker.”

“Hi, Ben.” I dug the roster back out and scanned through the list, looking for his name. “You’re running a bit late. We just wrapped up.”

“Oh, no. I’m not in the class. I was Professor Amundsen’s student assistant last semester.” He shrugged. “So…I guess I’m your assistant now. If you need help, that is.”

I laughed. “If you’d arrived during class, you’d know I’m going to need all the help I can get. Welcome aboard!”

“Cool,” he said. “I’ll also be stage manager for the Coastal Players this summer. You know about that part of the job, right?”

Ben’s mention of the Coastal Players took me instantly back to the summer after my mom started teaching at Southern Coastal, and I couldn’t help but smile. Early in the season, Mom had bought tickets for the two of us to attend a show at the little melodrama theater located about eight miles up the coast, near the town of Duck.

I can’t remember the plot of that summer’s show at the Coastal Playhouse, but they were all pretty much the same. Damsel placed in distress by mustachioed villain, and dashing hero comes to the rescue. Usually there was a pirate or seaside theme woven into the story, as well. What I remembered most vividly from that particular season, however, was the “vamp,” a femme fatale in a long crimson dress. Even as a little kid, I realized that the vamp had a far better part than the heroine. Better songs, too.

That was the summer the acting bug bit me hard. I persuaded my mom to take me back to the show three times, and I learned the vamp’s part word for word, practicing each gesture in front of my bedroom mirror draped in an old red tablecloth, wearing Caroline’s darkest lipstick. I even learned the song the actress sang: “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”

The final show of the season fell on the day after my ninth birthday. Mom presented me with a kid-sized version of the crimson dress and three tickets. I was delighted with the dress and thoroughly confused as to why there were three tickets, until my father, with typical dramatic flair, burst out of the closet. He had flown all the way from Los Angeles for my birthday, the first and only time that happened.

What I didn’t realize until the actress pulled me onstage was that my parents had also arranged for me to sing the final verse of the vamp’s song. It could have been a recipe for disaster if stage fright had kicked in. My dad had worn a worried frown for the first few minutes. But Mom knew better. She’d watched me practice all summer and knew I had the act down to the tiniest gesture. I got a standing ovation and left the stage positively drunk on applause. It was my best birthday ever. I still have a framed picture of my nine-year-old self with my parents and the actress—Melinda Barry—who signed the back of the photo.

The Coastal Playhouse closed down about twelve years back, however, when the owners reached retirement age. No one seemed eager to take over, so they put the building on the market. But people hated to see the local tradition die, and a wealthy patron from up north who spent summers on the Outer Banks purchased the property with the understanding that the university would be granted an indefinite lease as long as they continued to run the Playhouse during the tourist season. Thus began the tradition of tasking the junior drama professor with managing the troupe. Most professors seemed to view the summer duty as beneath them, but for me, it had been a factor in favor of taking the job. Definitely not the only or even the biggest factor, but it was a nice little perk.

I realized Ben was staring at me, waiting for an answer.

“Sorry!” I said, laughing. “I’m afraid you sent me wandering down memory lane. Yes, I know all about summers at the Playhouse. But thanks for reminding me. Dean Prendergast said that I might want to offer some extra-credit opportunities this semester for anyone willing to put in some sweat equity. Apparently some areas of the building need a little TLC.”

“Kind of an understatement, from what I’ve heard. Amundsen said the place took a lot of damage in that storm that hit in late November.”

“I guess I’ll add that to my list of things to discuss with Dr. Peele before he takes off for Europe. Thanks again for letting me know.”

“No problem, Professor Alden,” he said, scooping up the box of books. “I’ve got an hour between classes if you need me to show you around.”

“I haven’t even found my office yet, so I will happily take you up on that offer. But if we’re going to be working together, you should definitely call me Antigone. Or Tig. I answer to either.”

“Sure thing. You gotta know Antigone is seriously the best name for a drama professor. It’s like your mother knew where you’d end up.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “I’m quite certain the blame for that lies with my dad. My mother would have named me something a bit more sensible.”

Caroline Riggs-Alden had made exactly one rash decision in her life—marrying my father. In 1979, when she was a newly minted psychology PhD from UCLA, she was hired as a consultant on a film called Murder for Hire, in which James Alden played a dashing, razor-witted detective in search of a serial killer who was also a professional hitman. Most of Caroline’s time on the project had involved working with the writers, but she did spend one day on the set. Because if you get the chance to work on a movie in any capacity, of course you spend a day on the set.

Caroline was pretty and smart, so naturally she caught my dad’s eye. And James Alden was absolutely gorgeous back then. Even now, in his midsixties, my dad is still stunning, something that I can freely acknowledge without feeling the slightest bit weird. It is a simple, objective fact. I have never met a woman (and very few men) who would argue the point.

In addition to being unbelievably handsome, James was suave, sweet-natured, and an excellent listener. Caroline was, as the saying goes, swept off her feet. A mad, whirlwind romance ensued, followed by a Vegas wedding, and a honeymoon in Greece, where James was starring in a horribly written Hollywood adaptation of…you guessed it, Antigone.

“They split up a few months after I was born,” I told Ben, “when my mom realized they were a pretty major mismatch. My dad was heartbroken, and I’ve always suspected she let him name me as a consolation prize.”

Ben led me to a narrow hallway off to the right of the main entrance. The first office we passed belonged to my new colleague, Martin Peele. My office was located a few doors down, on the opposite side of the hallway. Someone had removed Amundsen’s nameplate, leaving a discolored rectangle in the center of the door, just above a corkboard for student messages.

As I dug around for the key that someone from Dean Prendergast’s office had left in the mailbox at Mom’s house, Ben said, “By the way, I’m…sorry about your mom. Should have said that first, I guess. I took one of her classes freshman year. She was a really good teacher.”

“Thanks, Ben. The past few months have been kind of tough.”

I opened the door to reveal a small, dimly lit office lined with bookshelves. Ben placed the box of books on the ancient wooden desk in the center of the room. The desk was empty, aside from the computer and an oddly ornate eight-by-ten picture frame, still in plastic wrap. The bookshelves, however, were full. I made a mental note to ask whether I should box them up for Amundsen’s family.

There was still a little over an hour before my scheduled lunch with the dean, so I grabbed the ring of keys hanging on the back of the door. Since my afternoon class schedule included Intro to Theatrical Design, it couldn’t hurt to locate the dimmer room, storage area, and so forth. Muncey Auditorium wasn’t state-of-the art, but it was quickly apparent that it was a step above the community theaters I was used to. In most of the places I’ve worked, the equipment was held together by duct tape and prayers because there was no room in the budget for anything new. Once Ben finished showing me around, I asked if he knew whether there might be a portable blackboard stashed in one of the storage rooms.

“The tech people said they’d have an interactive whiteboard for me,” I told him, “but if there’s one around, I couldn’t find it.”

“Not surprised,” Ben said. “The SmartBoard went on the fritz last semester. It was only a year old, too. You may need to nudge them again.” He stopped for a moment, thinking. “They store a lot of stuff down in the trap room. Flats from old productions, gear for the stage-combat class, a safe with old exams, even some of the costumes and stuff that spills over from the prop room. The blackboard Amundsen used before we got the high-tech version might be down there, too. Hold on. Let me grab the remote.”

He ran backstage and brought back something that looked like a garage door opener. “We can just open the trap and take the lift down. It’s quicker than going around, and I need to show you how it works, anyway. It’s a little quirky, but I figured it out when we put on Macbeth last spring.”

I was glad to hear the place had a lift, since I’ve worked in several small theaters that weren’t so lucky. You can get by without one, but they definitely come in handy for changing sets quickly between scenes, or if the Wicked Witch needs to melt into the floor.

But once we were centerstage we realized someone had moved a set of choral risers on top of the door to the trap room. Ben grumbled, noting that they weren’t supposed to leave equipment there, but it was a fairly quick fix. I helped him unlatch the three columns of metal bleachers and roll them toward the back of the stage.

“Here you go,” Ben said, handing me the controls. “I’ll let you do the honors. Just press the center button—that opens the trap and sends up the lift.”

When I pushed the center button, two concrete planks on the floor in front of us separated. The two halves tented upward, and then began to retreat, slipping into place below the main stage to reveal a small, pitch-dark concrete room. As soon as the planks clicked into place, the low whine of the machinery began.

The smell hit us at the same instant. Ben gagged, covering his nose and staggering backward as the lift delivered a very dead body to the stage.

We hadn’t found the blackboard, but we had found Dr. Amundsen.

* * *

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About the Author

Jessa Archer writes sweet, funny, warm-hearted cozy mysteries because she loves a good puzzle and can't stand the sight of blood. Her characters are witty, adventurous, and crafty in the nicest way. You'll find her sleuths hand lettering inspirational quotes, trying to lower golf handicaps, enjoying a scone at a favorite teashop, knitting a sweater, or showing off a dramatic side in local theater.

Jessa's done many things in her long career, including a stint as a journalist and practicing law. But her favorite job is spinning mysteries. She loves playing small town sleuth and transporting readers to a world where the scones are delicious, wine pairs with hand lettering, and justice always prevails.

www.jessaarcher.com

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Copyright © 2019 Jessa R. Archer

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Cover Design: Amy Queau

The Phantom of the Opal/Jessa Archer. — 1st ed.