Death in a Pink Cadillac: The Door County Special

By Kathy Buchen

The humor ramps up when Rhi and Didi, the Lucy and Ethel of crime fighters, crash a Supreme Cosmetics workshop while on vacation in Door County. Supreme Cosmetics is owned by Fantastic (Frantastic) Fran, President and resident Valkyrie in charge. The narcissistic "I'm just fabulous" diva of her own cosmetics empire is hated by many. When Frantastic Fran ends up dead in her pink Cadillac, dead from her big hair extensions to the tips of her pink soled Manolo Blahniks, the dynamic duo of Rhi and Didi go to work to solve the crime. Of course, there are multiple suspects to choose from. Is the murderer Fran's jealous ex-husband, her best high school frenemy, her current toy boy, her much put upon assistant, her marketer with the deep dark secret, or one of the attendees of her workshop who has an ancient ax to grind? Suspects, plot twists, and red herrings abound.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543927009

Book preview

Darling!

Chapter One:

Awaken the Diva Within!

The Moving Finger writes, and having writ,

Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

From The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, translated by Edward Fitzgerald

By the time I was finished with my next mystery adventure in Door County, Wisconsin, also known as God’s country, I would beg the karmic wheel for mercy. The experience only lasted a little more than a week, and it wasn’t as bad as the day I accidentally brushed my teeth with estrogen cream, but it was close. The tarot card reader at the fair told me that this would be my year. Really? I don’t want to know what happens when it’s not my year. Is it a blessing to have a mind like mine, or is it a curse? I really don’t know. After you have read this Door County special installment of the perilous adventures of Rhiannon Nolan, small town lawyer and bumbling amateur sleuth, perhaps you could tell me.

Just one caveat before we begin. Although I love animals and have owned quite a few, there are no talking dogs or cats in this book who help me solve the mystery. And I’m not giving you recipes at the end of every chapter with enough sugar in them to cause your doctor to tell you that you are pre-diabetic. My easy practical recipes are for those like me who can’t cook, can’t bake, can’t sew, can’t crochet, can’t knit, flunked Home Ec, or were afraid to take it at all. Just wanted to get those ground rules established right away.

How I ended up in a scene reminiscent of a noir forties movie being chased by a murderous monster across a bucolic Door County landscape, with me covered in mud, dirt, hay, sweat, and chased by the meanest pig in history (and I mean that literally) I don’t know. I’m used to adversity, but this one blew the cork. I never dreamed that I, Rhiannon Nolan, would get interested in the glitziest makeup business this side of the Mississippi, nor that I would be dragged into the world of Fantastic Fran, the deranged diva of Supreme Cosmetics. I’m talking about the Fran of I’m fabulous and so are you! fame. Uck! Some of the ladies whom I met in my Door County adventure should have come with a sign, I have too much testosterone and I know how to use it!

I never dreamed that I would end up bound and tied to my best lifelong friend Didi Spencer in the back seat of an ancient Rambler with a hole in the floorboards, staring at the murdering monster’s wildly askew and crazy wig, which brought back memories of a precious guinea pig I once had. I never dreamed that Didi would have panicked conversations with Doctor Phil as we prepared to die. But then, it would make sense, as Didi’s new favorite phrase is, But what would Dr. Phil do?

I ask you, how do I end up in these crazy situations like something out of a foreign film, probably French? In spite of having taken French in school, I can’t understand a word of the spoken language, I don’t get the plot, and it seems like everyone is out to get me. And indeed, they usually are. Sometimes modern life really does imitate modern art. It makes no sense at all. You know this book is going to get a lot crazier before the final credits roll and everything returns to relative sanity, just like raising kids. But let’s start at the beginning and go right through to the end, as my composition teacher used to say.

When the story started, it was another beautiful day in Candy Land, also known as New Belgium, LaFollette County, Wisconsin, where people are happy and life is heavenly. Or so it says on the billboard at the entrance to town, just after the Population 364 sign.

Honorable second daughter and third esteemed child, I have a favor to ask. I said to Tabby. She looked at me as if I’ve been around since Moses came down the mountain with the Ten Commandments.

Really, Mom? Really? Who are you trying to be? Tikki Tikki Tembo’s mom? Would you knock it off? said Tabby. What do you want?

I want you to improve my website for the law office, make a Facebook page for me, and teach me how to use a smart phone and how to text message. Tabby sighed and rolled her eyes. She almost did the lip curl, but restrained herself at the last second.

The website I can do. The Facebook page I can do. Teach you how to use a smart phone? Mom, you can barely use a dumb phone without hanging up on people. And as for texting, those fingers of yours are not going to do the walking, I can guarantee you.

Did this response cause me consternation? Did it cause me to lose my cool, my poise, my legendary sangfroid, which admittedly occasionally blows up into spontaneous combustion? No, I have grown crafty and shrewd in my old age, and learned, like any good negotiator and deal maker, that when asking offspring for favors, you’re likely to get about half of what you ask for, so make the sky your limit. Besides, I’ve raised two other teenagers. I’m a battle scarred veteran.

Alright, fifty percent isn’t a bad batting average. I’ll take it, I said. Don’t forget, you promised! I called to Tabby as she stomped her way up the steps to turn on the Ramones and bemoan her mother’s ancient sensibility and inept tech aptitude.

Just at that moment, the front door slammed and my best lifelong friend Didi breezed in on a waft of spring. She tossed her bag on the couch, flipped her blonde locks over her shoulder, launched herself into an armchair, threw her long legs over the side, and stretched like a cat.

Seriously, Rhi, the agent told me she couldn’t sell my romance novel because there wasn’t enough sex, shopping, and shoes.

Oh, dear. Maybe you should forget about writing a romance novel altogether and write something else. You could write really sad sagas and market them with a little packet of Kleenex attached. You know, you have to have a marketing strategy. You have to have an angle like everyone else in the world. Everybody’s got a gig, and you need one too. Or, how about this? Why don’t you try mysteries? You could write about our adventures solving crimes in New Belgium, LaFollette County, Wisconsin.

That’s too boring. No one would buy those.

Gee, thanks a lot. I think some of our harrowing crime fighting escapades would make great stories. If I had the time I would write a best seller. It would be easy. People would pay big money for my deathless prose.

Think so? Why don’t you try it? Just try to write one chapter. You’ll see how easy it is, little know-it-all, said Didi.

I’ve got it. You should write one of those crafty, cozy mysteries and put in a recipe every ten pages. And have talking cats and dogs who help the amateur sleuth solve the mystery. And she owns a Hallmark shop with cute collectibles and moonlights as a knitting baker who wins the bakeoff contest every year. Those sell like hot cakes. Don’t put in any of my recipes, though. That will send your manuscript to the scrap heap for sure. Didi sighed.

Your recipes aren’t bad. It’s the way you bake them that sends people running to the medicine cabinet for an antidote, she said. But I could use you as the murderer in a cozy mystery. Your cooking might poison anyone.

Very funny, little Miss Charm School, I said. I know you’re a great cook so don’t rub it in. You can knit, bake, cook, garden, make pottery, and sculpt clay. When we were eight, you even made better lanyards and potholders in craft class on summer playground activity days. Is there anything you can’t do? You can even play bridge, for God’s sake. You would probably even be good at mahjong, whatever that is. That’s just too much for me to bear. Is there anything, anything at all that you can’t do? Before you answer that, just know that I already totally hate you. My daughter Tabby walked into the room, back from her sojourn upstairs.

Mother, please. Don’t be so immature. You should try to set a better example for me. Didi, you’ll never get published if you don’t write sex scenes. It has to have sex in it. If not, you could throw in some vampires. Those are always good. Or better yet, vampires in love. That would be the best. Sex, death, violence, and vampires in love. That’s what you have to write if you want to make money. Didi and I looked at each other. It was obvious at this point that neither one of us would ever be a best-selling author.

I know, said Didi. I need a vacation. Rhi, do you want to go up to Door County for a week? I’ll do some research for my book.

What kind of research? I asked.

"I don’t know. I’ll think of something. How about lighthouses? Lighthouses are very romantic. Love at the Lighthouse. How is that for a title? We’ll research lighthouses."

I don’t need a vacation, I said. Tabby rolled her eyes.

Puh-lease! Trust me, Mother. You need a vacation!

I’ll think about it, I said.

The next day, Randy, otherwise known as Rambo, as they called him about town, stumped into my law office on Main Street and heaved his bulk into a chair. He looked somewhat like I imagined Bilbo Baggins would look if he were a giant, except Bilbo Baggins had better social skills. Randy paid me periodic visits, during which he tried to wheedle free legal advice, and today looked to be the usual.

The first thing Randy did was cough in my direction, the kind of cough that shakes the bodily frame and spews out a mist of germy phlegm into the air and onto every available surface. After he repeated several giant sized expulsions of germs and hack ups of mucus, during which I swallowed hard and tried not to throw up, I thrust my hand over my nose and mouth to try and block the incipient virus.

Can I help you, Randy? I asked through my fingers. At this point, my smart as a whip crack secretary, Eunice, called out Going for coffee! and rushed out the door as fast as her sensible shoes could carry her.

I sure hope so, Randy croaked. Otherwise, this is not going to be a very productive visit. I waited patiently while he considered his latest plight and the deeply intellectual questions it provoked and the answers that it, indeed, demanded. He stared up at the ceiling and addressed the light fixture. You see, I have this friend who has this legal problem.

Uh-huh, I said with what I hoped was a noticeable absence of enthusiasm.

Yes, I have this friend who got himself into a bit of a pickle, said Randy. What followed was a rambling discourse on a sticky situation involving the IRS, some business associates, and what might or might not be considered a binding legal agreement, all cloaked in the guise of asking advice for his friend. I sighed deeply, and advised him on the wisdom of honoring contracts and following a policy of absolute truth and transparency in tax matters.

In other words, Randy, your friend better shut up and pay up or suffer the consequences. A good, honest accountant is what your friend needs. The longer he waits to pay up, the more painful it’s going to get. After all, if you have an infected finger, you don’t wait three months to get into the doctor, and if you do, you’ll be lucky to get away with anything less than a lot of lancing and bloodletting on top of the antibiotics you should have taken to begin with. If you wait until the amputation stage, don’t blame me. If this friend of yours waits to call me in until he is looking at three years in prison, I’m going to have the distinct pleasure of making him pay through the nose to save him, plus he will just have to pay all the taxes he owes and a nice, big hefty fine.

Really? croaked Randy.

Really. ‘Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.’ Know who said that? I wouldn’t argue with him if I were you. Now, I’m not comparing our great republic to Caesar’s Roman Empire, although the comparison of lack of moral fiber is startling. And add in a nation that expends itself on foreign wars, and is crumbling from within, well, like I say, the comparison is startling. Just understand this. I don’t recommend trying to hide things from the IRS, especially not in this technological age when every breath you ever took leaves a digital footprint that anyone can get at. You can only fool the IRS for so long before the karma catches up with you. And all those stories you hear about the super-rich owing millions in back taxes? You can depend on it that sooner or later, even they will be paying their poodle-groomed lawyers very hefty amounts of money to keep their useless criminal carcasses out of prison.

Randy sighed and slumped in his chair, hacked up more phlegm, and spraying it all over me, said, That’s what I thought you would say. I’ll have to tell my friend you weren’t much help. I’m afraid that this hasn’t been a very productive visit. Sigh. This is why I have a love hate relationship with the human race. I love people. I love everyone. I am calm. I’m just like the Dalai Lama. Really.

Randy, I may not be much help and tell you what you want to hear, but if your friend takes my advice, he’ll see that paying up is much better than spending time in prison, I advised, not without some degree of acidity. And I told you the same thing the last time you asked my opinion. Remember? Randy heaved himself out of the chair, and after coughing and spewing a few more germs in my direction, headed for the door. Immediately, I reached for the cleaner and sprayed a copious amount on every surface, including the door handle.

You’re welcome! I called after him. Eunice returned with a latte clutched in her little hand, her porcelain skin pink with the exertion of avoiding the germ king of New Belgium.

Thank God he’s gone! What a walking germ incubator! Any more of him today and I’m going to Great Expectations Bookstore to spend the day with my sisters. And if that crazy Agnes Wrokowski calls and tells me one more time that she better file for divorce before she murders that ancient husband of hers, I’m going to tell her to file or just kill him and get it over with.

She sat down at her desk. Eunice’s sisters Pat and Fayne ran the Great Expectations Bookstore down the block, and Agnes Wrokowski has been threatening to divorce her completely innocuous husband since 1975. If you ask me, he is the injured party, having to put up with her for over forty years. After all, being boring is not grounds for divorce. Eunice looked over the top of her bifocals at me.

It’s about time you had a vacation, she said. You’re driving me crazy. Get out of here and relax for a week. Go research the lighthouses for Didi’s books. There are certainly enough of them to keep you busy for at least a week. I went straight to the telephone.

Didi? Are you there? Listen, about that vacation in Door County. Sign me up now, immediately. Stan can take care of Tabby, the house, and everything else.

Are you sure? asked Didi, incredulously.

Yes, I’m sure. So what if Stan is my fourth husband and a relatively inexperienced stepfather? He will survive, maybe just barely, but into every life some teenagers must fall. Tabby and her BFF Krystal, the punk rocker formerly known as Constance, are going away to college in Madison in a few months to join siblings Jennifer and Matt. Surely they are mature enough to handle a week without me hovering over them. Maybe.

But Jennifer and Matt are coming home from Madison for the summer on Tuesday. Can Stan handle the whole gang for a week by himself? asked Didi.

Oh, you’re right, Jen and Matt are due home on Tuesday. I kind of blanked that out. Stan will just have to handle it. I have a terrible case of ennui, of existential angst, of lawyer’s block.

I think you’re getting into crackup mode. We better go, said Didi. This is what happens when your repressed, locked up emotions start to burn a whole in your brain. You get way too wound up. Don’t you have anything between mysterious Sphinx in a trance and whirling dervish nutcase? You go from Dalai Lama to serial killer in sixty seconds. You’re either terminally serene or bubbling over like Mt. Vesuvius. Can’t you find a median?

"Me go from existential philosopher to strung tight as an old fashioned cat gut tennis racket in seconds? Moi? Sometimes life pushes me to the edge of sanity. At times I think I’ll go live in a rundown double wide near my birthplace in Upper Michigan on forty acres of wilderness, drink straight Jim Beam from the bottle, smoke Camel straights, let my teeth fall out, and my hair go gray. Then I’ll teach my two German Shepherds to eat anything on my property that remotely resembles a trespassing human. I would include Zoro in that canine posse with the German Shepherds but he is a big fat baby masquerading as a big bad Siberian husky. He thinks he is a lapdog. Rambo Randy the germ king was just here driving me nuts. In other words, it’s either a week’s vacation or immediate incarceration in the nuthouse."

When?

ASAP, the sooner the better. Can we leave tomorrow? Ring up that Roamer’s Resort you love so well and let’s go. Door County here we come! Yippee skippy!

I promised you recipes, didn’t I? #DoorCountyherewecome

Pineapple Casserole

20 oz. can crushed pineapple

20 oz. can pineapple chunks, drained

2 c. shredded sharp Cheddar cheese

¼ c. sugar

6 T. all-purpose flour

1 sleeve round buttery crackers, crushed

½ c. butter, melted

Optional: pineapple rings, maraschino cherries

Mix together all ingredients except crackers, butter, and optional ingredients in a greased 13 x 9 baking pan. Top with crackers; drizzle butter over the top. Bake uncovered at 350 degrees for 30 minutes or until heated through. Do not wait until you finish the chapter you are reading to take the casserole out of the oven. Garnish with pineapple rings and cherries if desired. Vegetarians will love it. This one is great for potluck or the office Christmas party, and so easy even I can do it. When people ask you for the recipe, tell them that it is your grandmother’s secret recipe, and no, you will not give it to them.

Chapter Two:

Discover Your Inner Goddess

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages.

From All the world’s a stage, by William Shakespeare

Didi and I found ourselves installed in a cozy condo in Roamer’s Resort in short order. And it was decorated in a nautical theme that fit in perfectly with our week of sightseeing and lighthouse hunting. The very first day, Didi wanted to visit Peninsula State Park, drive the length of the peninsula, and take pictures of three lighthouses. It was a beautiful, breezy, sunny day. The sun shone down on us like a beatific halo of light in a watercolor of late spring. The landscape was awash with bright hues found only here in God’s country.

We drove south again from Roamer’s Resort and started in Sturgeon Bay with the Canal Station Pierhead Lighthouse at the entrance to the Sturgeon Bay ship canal adjacent to the U.S. Coast Guard Station on Lake Michigan. We walked to the end of the pier and Didi took numerous pictures of the bright red structure while I listened to the comforting lap of the waves and the cries of the seagulls.

From there we drove back north to the Eagle Bluff Lighthouse off Shore Road in Peninsula State Park in Fish Creek. This lighthouse was restored and opened to the public in 1963. It was first lit in October of 1868, and automated in 1926. The fixed light in the tower is visible for sixteen miles on the water. There we joined the tour given by members of the Door County Historical Society. We marveled at the hardiness of the original people who manned the lighthouses, who weathered innumerable storms and harsh winters to keep the beacons lit for the mariners of the Great Lakes.

The weather was perfect, with a light breeze and rays of cheerful sun smiling on us. The air was redolent of the just blossoming deep purple lavender and the last of the fast fading lilac bushes. Tall roadside flowers nodding a greeting, and happy tourists smiled with camaraderie.

There is only one thing wrong with the tourist industry in Door County. There is too much of it. Why can’t they all go home and leave it to the birds, the deer, the darling little animals that rustle around in the hedges, the locals, and me? Did you know that tourists are a giant pain in the butt? I ought to know. I’m one of them.

We stopped for lunch at the White Gull Inn in Fish Creek, home of great food, where Didi talked me into a not so great sensible salad sans nuts, cheese, carbs, creamy ranch salad dressing, or any other accoutrement of good tasting caloric satisfaction. It consisted of a few lettuce leaves, three cranberries, two drops of oily salad dressing, and not a lot else. Good thing I had stolen a nice, buttery, crumbly dinner roll from the basket when Didi wasn’t watching and shoved it in my pocket, to be eaten later when Didi went to comb her hair. O.K., two buttery crumbly dinner rolls. So sue me.

We then visited the haunted lighthouse at Cana Island in Bailey’s Harbor on the Lake Michigan side of the Door. Built in 1869 and first lit on January 24th, 1870, this island lighthouse gives tourists a window on the history of the Door County lighthouses and the hardy men and women who made their solitary way here and thrived in harsh conditions. Twenty years after the Cana Island lighthouse was built, the swampy island on which it stands was filled in, raising the house to its current height. In 1902, the tower was encased in steel due to deteriorating brickwork. Didi was fascinated.

And it didn’t hurt to hear about a ghost or two who seemed unable to leave the rocky shores and windswept coastlines of Door County. I couldn’t say as I blamed them, since Door County has to be one of the most beautiful places in this world or any other. After the ghost stories, to which I listened entranced, Didi wanted to go back to Fish