Penelope and The Birthday Curse

By Ron D. Voigts

LOOK OUT, HERE COMES PENELOPE!

An isolated mansion in the country...stranded in a snowstorm...someone is murdered on Penelope’s birthday.

But who did it? Her gangster uncle on the run from the law. Or the Broadway actress who’s her own biggest fan. Maybe the jealous husband. Don’t forget about the mob hit man hiding in the woods behind the mansion.

A young fortune teller weaves a tale of a gypsy curse where three people will die. And it happens on Penelope’s 13th birthday. The adults bumble along, trying to discover the killer, while Penelope sleuths with the help of her friends to find the culprit. It’s a race against time before Penelope becomes the third victim.

This book for ages 9-12 weaves a mystery with madcap characters, who done it clues and non-stop action that’s a fun read for the whole family. The story is full of humor, suspense and mystery that will keep the reader guessing until the very end.

What others are saying about PENELOPE AND THE BIRTHDAY CURSE:

“Wonderful, whacky and lots of fun. Just scary enough for juvenile readers.” A.B.

“I found myself laughing out loud in parts and sighing in sympathy in others.” M.W

“On par with Harry Potter...” C.D.

“This book was awesome!” J.H.

“...there is plenty of mystery and merriment to keep all ages laughing and scratching their heads, trying to figure out, ‘Who did it?’” C.B.

“All in all, a very good read, especially late at night, during a storm.” T.P.

PENELOPE AND THE BIRTHDAY CURSE is a fun read for ages 9-12, but the “big kids” will enjoy it, too. Be sure to check out the other books in the Penelope mystery trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ron D. Voigts
• Release date: May 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458001030

Ron D. Voigts

Originally from the Midwest, Ron D. Voigts now calls North Carolina home where he and his wife have a home off the Neuse River. Ideas for his stories comes from the rural areas where he has lived, places he has visited, his love of the paranormal, and an overactive imagination. Ron considers his writing to be a literary fusion of mystery, thriller, paranormal, and any genre that suits the moment. When not plunking out a novel at the keyboard, he spends his time sharpening his culinary skills, watching gritty movies, and eating cookies with chocolate chips.

Book preview

Chapter 1 – Something’s Waiting in the Forest

Sometime in the past…

From her bedroom window, Penelope spied something moving through the trees at the edge of the property line. She had seen deer in the thicket, but this was different. Without Mother knowing, she sneaked out to the woods to investigate.

Whatever she had seen was gone, and yet she had the feeling of not being alone. A brisk wind caused the hairs on her neck to stand up. A twig snapped. She stiffened and turned but only saw a bush shaking in the wind.

Above her, a bird roosted on a tree limb, puffed up in the January cold. Poor thing. Did your friends fly South without you? The bird tucked its head under its wing and shivered.

Tap-tap. Tap-tap. The noise startled her, but it was only a shutter on the old cabin, flapping in the wind.

Penelope had discovered the shanty four years ago when she was nine. She spent her summer days there, defending the fort, feeding hungry pilgrims, and doing whatever else she imagined. One evening, Penelope failed to come home for dinner. Mother found her rubbing two sticks together by the fireplace in the shack. After an hour long lecture of the dangers of playing in abandoned buildings, Mother banned her from returning to Fort Penelope. Father put a hasp and padlock on the door.

Flakes of snow drifted from the gray sky. She held her hands out, letting them land and melt in her warm palms. She opened her mouth and let the ice crystals fall on her tongue.

From the corner of her eye, something moved. She gasped and turned, but again nothing was there. Perhaps it was her imagination.

In the distance, she heard Mother call, Penelope Angelique Amour.

Tonight was the meet and greet party. Guests packed the house, and tomorrow was her birthday party. On January 8, she turned thirteen. This was the first real birthday she’d ever had. She had begged, pleaded and sulked for a real birthday party, and Mother finally relented.

As she hurried home, she looked back. Something flashed yellow by the old cabin, but then it was gone.

~~~~

Chapter 2 – Life is a Fish Poofy

Penelope slammed the backdoor of the Manor with enough force to rattle the pots and pans hanging above the eight-burner stove. She pivoted off a throw rug in the mudroom and turned left, kicking it back into the corner. Ten feet into the kitchen, she stopped, breathless.

Where have you been? Mother scolded. And must you wear that silly hat? It looks like a stretched out sock. It was cute when you were nine, but you’re almost thirteen, and much too old for such nonsense.

Penelope pulled the stocking cap tighter around her head, forcing her curly hair to bulge more from around its edges. I like this hat. It says me.

Mother wrinkled her nose. Look at the rest of you. Your hands are dirty, your shirt’s stained and your pants are too long. You’re a mess.

Penelope pushed her hands into the pockets of her bib overalls and stared down at the bunched fabric by her ankles. I’m four-foot-nine, Mother. Everything I wear is too long.

Winifred Amour, author of seven books of the Old American West, stood with perfect posture at the counter, chopping vegetables with a vengeance. She never wore an apron while cooking, and she never spilt anything on herself. Her red fingernails contrasted against the growing mound of green peppers.

Wear the white lace dress with pink ribbons for our guests. She punctuated her sentence with a chirp.

Penelope gritted her teeth and shuddered. It looks like the bathroom curtains. I never wanted that dress.

As I recall, the dress was a gift for your twelfth birthday. Mother grabbed another pepper and turned it to pulp.

The back door slammed again.

Father rushed into the kitchen, waving a snow shovel with a six foot AC cord attached to it. We’re having a blizzard. At this rate, we will have enough snow to test my self-defrosting snow shovel.

Gustaf Amour, Penelope’s father and inventor, always wore three-piece suits, always in grey tweed, always pressed. His face was chiseled, his jaw square. A handlebar mustache floated above a droll smile. To battle the weather, he had wrapped a red scarf around his neck.

A fabulous invention. Penelope examined the back of the shovel where Father had attached heating coils. She held the AC cord out at arm’s length. Unless you plan to only remove snow on the porch, shouldn’t this be longer?

Father stroked his mustache and studied the invention. Excellent observation. I will need an extension cord.

Gustaf, the snow can wait. We have guests. Mother stopped chopping. My sister Natalie will not be coming. Her illness again.

Penelope could not remember her aunt. But she had a son, Cousin Lemmy. She remembered him from a week at the beach when she was five.

She never comes to these things. Father walked to the back door and held up the shovel. I’ll put it away.

Penelope hoped to escape, too, but Mother pushed a tray of appetizers in her hands.

Take the fish poofies to our guests.

My life is a fish poofy, she said, yielding to Mother’s demand.

~~~~

Chapter 3 – The Gangster and the Actress

Uncle Elmer pulled the parlor window curtain back and peeked outside. He wiggled his head from side to side, adjusting his view. Snow’s coming down too heavy. Can’t see anything, he mumbled to himself.

Penelope crept up behind him. Fish poofies.

Ahhhh! Uncle Elmer jumped a foot off the ground and pressed himself flat against the wall away from the window. Jeez, Penelope, you scared me.

Uncle Elmer was her father’s brother, but they looked nothing alike. While Father stood erect, Uncle Elmer slouched. Father had hair, Uncle Elmer had a few strands combed over a bald pate. Father’s face was bold and sharp, Uncle Elmer’s mug was soft and squashed.

Sorry. Sometimes I sneak up on Father and scare him, too. Penelope pushed the tray out. Fish Poofies. As he took one, she added, Were you looking for something outside?

Yes, no. Uncle Elmer swallowed, sounding like a bull frog croaking. The snow sure is coming down hard. Not a fit night for man or animal.

Realizing he had said it wrong, she corrected him. Not a fit night for man or beast.

That’s what I said. He pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket and poked it into his mouth.

Mother says tobacco is a nasty habit. Penelope looked at the Stogie and wrinkled her nose. Her rule is no smoking in the house.

No kidding. He licked his lips and pushed the cigar back into his pocket. Maybe I should have gone with Madeline to the Cayman Islands.

Aunt Madeline is on vacation?

Vacation. Yeah, that’s a good word for it. A long vacation, out of the country. He peaked out the window again.

Penelope looked with him. The porch light glared off the curtain of snow falling as it mounded around the edges of the house. Beyond, the world was lost in a white haze.

If you tell me what we’re looking for, I can help.

Uncle Elmer stepped back and pointed his finger in her face. Mind your own business. Better you don’t know.

From the foyer strutted a woman with a proportioned figure, and the portions were all large. Her cheeks were pudgy and her face full. She wore a tight dress trimmed in white ermine. She removed a scarf from her head, and a beehive of red hair blossomed out.

Agnes O’Connell is here. Let the party begin. She opened her arms, waiting for anyone that wanted to hug her.

Uncle Elmer leaned toward Penelope. Who’s the dame?

According to Mother, she’s a Broadway actress. I think she’s called the understudy.

Mother waltzed into the room. Agnes, you look fabulous. The two women exchanged pecks on the cheeks. That dress accents your figure.

Makes her look like a French poodle, Penelope added.

Lucky my Broadway show closed last week. I told my manager, Murray, I was going to a birthday party in nowheresville. He begged me to stay in New York, but I said I got bigger plans.

She took a fish poofy and tossed it in her mouth. Eyeing Penelope, she said, I see proper servants are hard to find out here.

Mother chortled. This is our daughter Penelope. It’s her birthday tomorrow. Say hello to Miss O’Connell, dear.

Penelope curtsied. Hello, ma’am. If you won’t need anything, I’ll leave.

Don’t overdo it. Mother sniffed.

Agnes strutted across the parlor’s length and struck a pose in the light of the Bavarian floor lamp. Once you’ve lived in New York, coming to the boonies is a shock to the nerves. She raised her chin and sighed.

Actually, boonies is a misnomer for our town. Father entered the parlor, pulled the scarf from his neck and paced across the room to the ponderous globe of Earth resting on a three-legged stand. He spun the sphere on its axis. Europe and Russia gyrated by his outstretched hand. When United States came around, he poked his finger into the earth, stopping its spin. The Manor is right here where I marked a red dot.

The Manor was a curiosity. The house was a tall three-story box of red brick and anorexic windows. At one end of the house, a turret with octagonal windows jutted to the sky. The house rested squarely on seven acres of land that had scarcely a tree, except for a cluster of dogwoods at the front corner by the highway, where the road sign announced Route 72, Dillwood 14 miles ahead. The driveway, two threads of gravel tracks, ambled from the highway to the house and circled around back to a three-car detached garage.

Agnes’s head bobbed as she looked around the parlor. It’s humble.

You will grow accustomed to it, Mother added.

I have. Penelope waited to see if the comment would get her lectured.

The room you put me is not the motif I prefer. Something more New York would suit my taste. Agnes donned a patronizing smile.

Mother applied her decorating skills to the guest rooms in the Manor and each had a theme. Agnes was assigned to the Wyoming Room on the third floor. On one wall was a mural of the Grand Teton Mountain Range and on another a plaque with a mounted Bowie knife. Cow horns hung over the bed’s headboard.

The room reflects my writing, Mother said. Knowing your own artistic nature, I naturally assumed you would appreciate it.

Maybe, we can move Miss O’Connell to some other room, Penelope suggested. The idea was, at best, to placate the star of Broadway.

Where do you suggest? We are full to the brim with guests. The only places left are the family bedrooms and the attic. Mother huffed and glared at Penelope.

From behind Agnes came a small voice. I like my room.

A boy in an argyle sweater stepped out. His hair hung straight like overcooked spaghetti. White tape mended the frames of his eyeglasses.

My room looks like Africa. His eyes sparkled behind the thick lenses. The bed sheets and pillowcases are leopard print and a zebra pelt lies across the bed. Mosquito netting hangs over it. It’s a nice room.

Agnes sighed and pushed him aside. Wendell, you’re eleven years old and have no taste. You’re like your father, my second husband.

My father was your first husband.

Mother sniffed. Didn’t I recall you’d remarried recently?

I married my fourth husband Bobby last year, but the divorce is final in a few days. Divorce. Ha! That’s a first for Agnes O’Connell.

What happened to your other husbands? Penelope hoped to hear something juicy, but Mother pushed her to the side behind the potted philodendron.

Goodness, we are nosey. Mother wagged her finger in Penelope’s face. It’s not polite to ask guests such things. We do not want to embarrass her. Mother chirped and stomped off.

Penelope felt thoroughly berated and indignant at Mother’s response. She was not being nosey, well maybe a little. After all, meeting someone married four times was not an everyday occurrence, and Miss O’Connell certainly seemed not to be the embarrassed type.

I can tell you. Wendell stared at her through the thick lenses of his eyeglasses. Her first husband, my father, died of food poisoning. The second one disappeared, and Miss O’Connell had him declared dead. The third one drowned. Wendell removed his glasses and looked off thoughtfully. They dredged the bay for three days before they found the body. He pushed his eyeglasses back on and shook his head. Not a pretty sight.

Penelope tried to imagine what three days in water did to a body. Fish nibbling at its flesh. Water swelling it to the size of a small whale. Maybe something with sharp teeth swims by and chomps off something. Penelope bit her lip and shivered, deciding best not to ask for any more details.

She stepped out from behind the plant and spied Mother and Agnes by the fireplace.

Mother stood stiff and erect. The only place left to put you is Penelope’s room.

Wendell stepped next to Penelope. It’s not good when Miss O’Connell is unhappy.

Agnes scowled and shook her head. She turned her back to Mother and stared at the painting above the mantle, an impressionistic piece of what looked like an angular giraffe on fire. She wrinkled her nose and finally blurted, No matter where I stay, it will be a humbling experience. The Wyoming Room will do for a few days.

Wendell wiped his forehead. That was close.

Penelope sighed, relieved, because she really didn’t want to donate her room to one of the guests.

~~~~

Chapter 4 – Gypsies and Some Old Friends

Ka-chump!

The front door flew open.

At the doorstep stood a mountain disguised to look like a man. He wore a fedora hat and ankle high work boots. Black hair hung across his steel eyes. His face had been hewn from rock.

"Sastimos," the man shouted.

Hide, Uncle Elmer cried, and he dove behind the davenport.

Under the circumstances, Uncle Elmer’s advice should have been taken, but Penelope saw something in the man’s face that dispelled her fear. She flashed her ten-dollar smile. We have company.

The man’s thick arms grabbed Father. Without any apparent effort, the man carried him around the foyer, dancing and singing a song that sounded like nothing Penelope had ever heard.

Father laughed between bounces. Stop. You’ll tire yourself.

Finally, the hulk set Father down next to Mother. I will never tire. A heavy accent tainted his words. Not when I am around you and your lovely bride Winnie. He bowed to Mother and kissed her hand.

She blushed. Burt, it’s good to have you here, but how did you make it through all that snow?

Snow does not stop Burt, he crowed. I go where I please.

You can come out now. Penelope waved to Uncle Elmer, who cowered behind the davenport. He’s a friend.

It’s snowing out here, someone outside the door said.

A slender young teenaged girl in a patchwork skirt, short waistcoat and babushka peeked inside. Her cheeks were sunken, her forehead too large. I’m cold.

This is my niece Esmeralda, but I call her Ruthie. He sprinted out to the porch, scooped her up and carried her in.

I’m Penelope. She held out her hand. Glad to meet you, Esmeralda.

Call me Ruthie. She touched Penelope’s hand and a spark passed between them. Ruthie pulled her hand back and rubbed her fingertips.

Sorry. Penelope looked at her hand. It must be static electric. The dry winter air does that.

The dry air permits our bodies to build static charges and release them in the most unsuspecting places. Father shuffled his feet on the floor and touched Mother’s hand, but nothing happened. He tried again and touched Penelope’s shoulder. Well, it doesn’t work all the time.

Wendell watched Father’s demonstration and tried his own experiment. He shuffled his feet on the Persian throw rug in the parlor and poked his finger near Uncle Elmer’s hand. A weak spark shot between their hands.

Ouch. Uncle Elmer pulled his hand back. Why’d you do that?

See, Penelope said. Sometimes it works.

Ruthie studied the place where the spark had touched her hand. Her brow lowered into almost a scowl. I don’t think this was caused by the winter air.

Has anyone seen my son Orson? A woman with a pony

Reviews for Penelope and The Birthday Curse

[scoshie · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Cute young adult mystery story. Penelope is having a party but she doesn't really know the guest but her mother makes her attend anyway. Once the first body is found it seems that Penelope and her new friends try to figure out what's going on before someone else gets killed. Not a bad way to spend an afternoon in the sun.

[pupylov · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Very cute. A lot like Clue with all the different characters. Really fun read for adults and young mystery readers!

[rickbylina · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Agatha Christie perfected the locked-room murder. Nancy Drew stumbled into murders that mystified adults. However, PENELOPE AMOUR must solve a murder that confounds the adults in her world before she becomes the next victim. In Ron Voigts’ debut novel, we laugh and scratch our heads at the antics of the invitees to Penelope's 13th birthday party in an isolated mansion ruled by her strong-willed mother and eccentric father. Then, Ron takes us to the darker side. After the first murder, a gypsy foretells of two more. We shudder as the killer stalks Penelope, and the action gets too close to our heroine. Sometimes a young girl has to become a strong, levelheaded woman to prevent the murderer from killing her so she can get to the birthday presents she deserves. Though it is a Young Adult novel at heart, there is plenty of mystery and merriment to keep all ages laughing and scratching their heads, trying to figure out, "Who did it?” Five starts out of the gate.