Dickens of a Death

By Ashantay Peters

Dickens' Days - an annual event of Victorian decorations and dress, caroling, roasted chestnuts, and this year, murder. The tyrannical Days Coordinator stops at nothing to fulfill his goals. Until death halts him in his tracks. Katie Sheridan's best friend Ginger and Ginger's mother top the suspect list when the victim is found outside their home. The weapon? A potpourri of toxic holiday decorations. No one railroads her friends, so Katie begins snooping. Detective Dirk Johnson believes keeping Katie safe is difficult even when he's at her side, but breaks up with her to keep the lead investigator position. He must solve the case within days or turn the file over to a detective with less experience and a direct connection with the mayor. Will small-town politics allow a killer to go free or will Katie and Dirk find a Christmas miracle?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Nov 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781628305784

Ashantay Peters

Ashantay Peters lives in the North Carolina mountains, the perfect location to escape reality through reading. She likes to flex her writing muscles penning a variety of genres, which is why she's written paranormal books along with romantic suspense, contemporary romance, and an erotic novella. All her books contain humor because what's life without laughter? She loves to hear from readers and promises not to stalk anyone who contacts her.

Book preview

Inc.

Dickens

of a

Death

by

Ashantay Peters

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Dickens of a Death

COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Ashantay Peters

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Diana Carlisle

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Mainstream Mystery Edition, 2014

Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-578-4

Published in the United States of America

Dedications

Mom, thanks for supporting

my childhood Nancy Drew addiction.

~*~

To Lori Waters, and Robin,

thanks for your ongoing support.

Chapter One

You know I’d help you bury a body. Rob a bank. Not that you need money. But volunteer for Dickens Days? I shuddered. Please, Ginger, don’t ask. I’m not ready to think about Christmas. I’m still recovering from Halloween.

We were six weeks out from the annual mid-December Granville Falls city event. The weekend was begun to lure tourists to spend money in our picturesque downtown. Not only was Dickens Days a big tourist event, the income from tours and vendors supported local charities.

My best friend, Ginger Howe’s big brown eyes exerted a tractor beam effect, pulling me into her pleading gaze. Katie, I need you. Richard Shorter is the committee head, and you know what he’s like.

Yeah, I know. I snickered. Said backwards his name is Little Dick. What were his parents thinking?

She pushed a lock of her red hair behind her ear. I think you’re the only person in town who calls him Dick instead of Richard.

Just cause he’s got one doesn’t mean he has to act like one. Even though his actions prove he has a small penis.

Ginger sighed. That’s why I need your help. I just left the organizational meeting. Dick, I mean Richard, assigned me to head decorations.

I groaned. Ginger had drawn the worst assignment. Not only did the chair have to coordinate with the city Public Works Department, they rode roughshod on any homeowner who tried to slip in LED lights instead of using traditional garland and such. Some of the new folks from Charlotte, North Carolina, who’d bought into the Granville Falls Historic District had more money than, well, tradition. The decorations chair had to walk a fine line. For sure, it was no plum assignment.

Why you? I backtracked. I know you can handle the job, but I thought Mrs. Goodnight had a lock on the chair position.

She narrowed her eyes. If you’d been listening to me, you’d know Mrs. Goodnight just had emergency surgery. She’s in rehab and not expected to be fully recovered until New Year at the earliest. Mrs. Goodnight agreed to help, she just can’t get around town.

Lucky you, I mumbled. Mrs. Goodnight, unlike Little Dick, did not live up to her name’s potential. You’ll just have decorations, right? Not the costumes too?

During the weekend event, our historic homes opened for tours and citizen volunteers strolled the main residential boulevard dressed as late nineteenth- century characters come to life. Chestnut roasting stands and street vendors selling sweetmeats and hot cider added veracity. The costumes chair had the biggest headache outside of the decorations chair. Or the Granville Falls Police Department’s overworked security detail.

No, thank goodness. Ginger exhaled a big breath. Remember that year I got stuck with costumes?

I looked down to hide my grin. Is Joey Cannoli working as a musician again?

Two years ago, Joey Cannoli—that was his grade school nickname, his real last name long ignored—had worn a Sgt. Pepper’s costume in his role as an itinerant street musician. He’d earned good tips from the Baby Boomers. Ginger hadn’t fared so well with the event coordinator.

Ginger grinned. I should have paid Joey for that stunt. My name has never been mentioned in connection with costumes again. Her grin died. So will you help me? My mom wants you, too. She’s chairing the home tour, so her hands will be full.

Damn. She’d brought out the big guns. My pulse skittered. I owed Ginger, and her mother, Patricia Winslow, my life. Literally. My parents had died when I was nine, and the Winslows had given me refuge from the tyrannical aunt who’d had my guardianship.

Shoot. Okay. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and Shorter will keel over. Your mom would be a much better event coordinator, and everyone would enjoy themselves in the process.

She shook her head. Got that right. I think the man’s collected one too many Napoleon-era baubles for his own good.

I put on my innocent expression. Speaking of dictators, you can tell my hunka burning love Dirk, that my helping out is your idea. This time, if something goes wrong, I want him to know it was all your fault, Ginger.

Dirk Johnson is my sexy live-in cop and shouldn’t be confused with Dick Shorter, even though their first names are only one letter different. Dirk is tall, dark, and built like a horny woman’s fantasy. His butchered haircuts and crooked nose only add to his appeal.

To further the comparison between Dirk and Little Dick, nothing about Dirk Johnson is short. Nothing. We share his home as my 1920s bungalow is under perpetual renovation. Plus, he has a hot tub. Enough said, right?

She narrowed her eyes. Since when do you need permission? What can go wrong with decorations? Besides someone using mangoes instead of oranges in a centerpiece?

I didn’t answer Ginger’s questions, wishing the chill traveling down my spine was excitement.

****

Dickens Days is the craziest damn weekend of the year. Dirk ran his fingers through his hair. Well, second to July Fourth, but still. I’d rather you weren’t in the thick of things that weekend.

If it were up to Dirk, I’d be Suzy Homemaker—one of our ongoing bones of contention. At least I’ll be inside, in one location. Have I mentioned that the decorations committee also dressed in costume while conducting open house tours? Yep, I was one lucky volunteer.

Plus, Ginger will be with me. What kind of trouble can I get into with her?

His eyes narrowed into slits. Oops. Maybe I shouldn’t have reminded Dirk that Ginger and I had gotten involved in one too many murders over the last year.

I quickly added a disclaimer. We’ll be stationed at Winslow House.

His expression blanked.

Ginger’s parents’ house. Her mom will be there with us. Ginger’s childhood home was large and so historic it rated a name.

Dirk shook his head and glanced at Ginger. This is already a done deal, isn’t it? he mumbled under his breath. How’d you get sucked in by Little Dick?

I turned to face Ginger. See? I’m not the only one who calls Shorter by his correct name.

She looked at the ceiling and didn’t answer, but her lips quirked.

Determined to keep my promise to Ginger, I pulled out my almost nonexistent flattery skills. Besides, you’ll be on duty, so nothing will go wrong.

He snorted. As I said, I’ve never learned the girly-girl stuff. Which probably explains why I work in the construction industry.

Dirk pulled me against his side. He leaned to nuzzle my neck. Well, maybe I’m not hopeless in the flirting department.

I’m not your parent. You don’t need my permission. He nipped my ear. It’s just that the two of you find trouble faster than anyone I know. Moving to nuzzle my jaw, he continued. I hate I won’t be there with you.

Don’t let him kiss you into submission, Katie. Ginger’s laughter filled the room. Unless that’s what you want. Her good-bye sounded as the front door clicked shut.

Promise me you’ll be careful. I’ve seen way too many holiday celebrations gone bad. He rubbed the back of his neck. I’d rather we were skiing in West Virginia that weekend.

Nothing will happen with you on the security detail.

Enough flattery. I’m hungry. Let’s eat.

His lips came down on mine.

This time, the spine-tingling chill really was excitement. Oo-la-la and pass the candy canes.

Chapter Two

The intervening weeks passed quickly. Bare branches replaced hillside vistas of colorful leaves. Lawns turned brown. Holiday decorations were up and ready for judging. The proverbial chill hovered in the air. Now our biggest task remained surviving the event weekend without murdering Little Dick.

I’d had it with Shorter’s iron control, and I hadn’t had to deal with him directly. Listening to Ginger and her mother complain about him set my nerves on edge. My friend’s last minute request to beard the man in his den had not endeared me, either.

Katie, it’ll just take a minute.

Why can’t you e-mail Little Dick? God knows he’s got the Internet running through his veins given his daily message blasts. Ginger had shown me one of his e-mails. The three pages resembled a field marshal’s orders. For sure, the man had a control mania.

I don’t need to talk with him. We’re meeting Mom. I promised to run interference and pull her out of the man’s clutches.

I still searched for a reason we should make a phone call claiming an emergency when my friend delivered the coup de grace.

Mom said she’d treat at the Chocolate Fix.

Not that I really needed a bribe to help Mrs. Winslow or a reason to visit my favorite shop. Ginger and I never passed up our weekly visit to the store alternately known to us as Heaven on Earth. Seconds later, with smiles on our faces, we entered Richard Shorter’s antique store.

A light scent of lemon oil didn’t entirely mask the smell of old wood, though dust wouldn’t dare settle here. Differing from many places filled with old stuff, however, this store was laid out with clean lines and simple displays highlighted with discreet lighting and even more circumspect price tags. No kitschy 1950’s pieces or frilly knick-knacks positioned to catch my elbow in here. Just another indication the merchandise would forever remain out of my price range.

His holiday decorations were equally as elegant. Bouquets of holly and white mums were scattered throughout the store. Garlands of long-needled