Death by Diamonds

By Kelly Rey

From USA Today bestselling author Kelly Rey comes a hilarious mystery with a sparkling twist ...

Diamonds are not always a girl’s best friend.

At least that's what legal secretary turned reluctant sleuth Jamie Winters realizes when a dead body shows up on her boyfriend, Curt's, patio...with a pocket full of diamonds! The dead woman was Amber Freeling, an old college friend of Curt’s, and the deeper Jamie digs into her death, the more it appears someone was out to get Amber. With the help of her teenage sidekick, Maizy, Jamie tries to determine if Amber was an innocent victim or a jewel thief. And as the case leads them to a shady pawnshop and its shadier staff, Jamie realizes no one is whom they appear to be and everyone is a suspect. Was it the wannabe-mobster owner, his long-suffering wife, his spoiled daughter, the gold-obsessed clerk, or the inscrutable security guard? Or possibly it was the owner’s hired muscle nicknamed the Disposer...who just may dispose of Jamie and Maizy! One thing is for sure: the killer will stop at nothing to reclaim those diamonds, and if she isn't careful, Jamie could just be the next target in the way!

Jamie Winters Mysteries:
Motion for Murder – book #1
Mistletoe & Misdemeanors – short story in the "Cozy Christmas Shorts" collection
Death of a Diva – book #2
Motion for Misfits – short story in the "Killer Beach Reads" collection
The Sassy Suspect – book #3
Verdicts & Vixens – book #4
A Playboy in Peril – book #5
Death by Diamonds – book #6

"Move over Stephanie Plum—there's a new girl in town! Jamie Winters is smart, sassy, and laugh-out-loud hilarious. Mix one fun mystery, some fantastic romantic chemistry, and witty quips throughout for a sure-fire winner! Who knew a lawyer's office could be so funny?"
~ Gemma Halliday, New York Times bestselling author

"Rey delivers an impressive, well-plotted and well-written... treat that leaves readers eager to whet their appetite with all of Jamie Winters' wacky investigations!"
~ Diane Morasco, Long Island Book Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gemma Halliday Publishing
• Release date: Feb 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781947110960

Kelly Rey

From her first discovery of Nancy Drew, Kelly has had a lifelong love for mystery and tales of things that go bump in the night, especially those with a twist of humor. Through many years of working in the court reporting and closed captioning fields, writing has remained a constant. If she's not in front of a keyboard, she can be found reading, working out or avoiding housework. She's a member of Sisters in Crime and lives in the Northeast with her husband and a menagerie of very spoiled pets.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

My life skidded sideways on a sweltering Sunday night in August, and I had no one to blame but myself. And Maizy Emerson. Mostly Maizy.

I'd reserved the night for her uncle, my smoking hot landlord, Curt Emerson, the kind of night that would bring a smile to my wrinkled face sixty years on, when I sat in a nursing home trying to remember my name. A few years back, I'd lucked into the apartment on the second floor of his home, newly renovated, with a private entrance and a sliding rent scale that usually skewed to zero, because I worked for lawyers and everybody knows that crime doesn't pay.

I'd also lucked into a thing with Curt, an ebb and flow that was currently less flow and more tsunami, which explained the anticipatory tingle in my whosis. But the first sign that it wasn't to be was that he'd come home so late from work that I'd incinerated the frozen pizza slices and polished off the dessert ice cream, because I'm no Martha Stewart and have poor impulse control to boot.

Still, hormones are stubborn things, so when he'd come up to my apartment bearing apologies and my personal kryptonite, Butterscotch Krimpets, my pique had melted away instantly. Now I languished on the sofa bed, trying to look as sexy as a woman with no discernible curves and a belly full of chocolate mint can look, while I waited for him to emerge from a courtesy shower. Even my cat, Ashley, had read the tea leaves and made herself scarce. Considering her adoration of Curt, she was probably in the bathroom, peeping at him through the shower curtain.

I heard a noise and opened my eyes to find 17-year-old Maizy standing next to the sofa bed.

That was the second sign.

Oh, good, she said. You're still awake. We've got a new case.

I'd share a word about Maizy, but there were no words to describe her. Well, maybe one. Indefatigable. I knew, because I'd looked it up. To say Maizy danced to her own beat was like saying water was wet. She wore head-to-toe black, from the smudgy eyeliner on one end to the scuffed Doc Martens at the other. Maizy was Curt's only niece, and she was 115 pounds of body piercings, attitude, and crazy schemes. She was also the brains behind our ersatz crime solving enterprise, while I was the mature voice of sober reason that she totally ignored. And that wasn't even her most annoying quality. Her Smurf blue hair hadn't even depoofed in the humidity that practically beaded on the ceiling, which almost irritated me more than the fact she'd broken into my apartment. Deadbolts meant as much to Maizy as personal boundaries and a normal sleep cycle. Just because we'd bumbled through a few murder investigations together didn't mean I wanted her practicing her lock-picking skills at my expense.

My name's Jamie Winters, and when I looked in the mirror, I saw average. I drove a geriatric Escort, worked at a personal injury mill in Southern New Jersey called Parker Dennis, and I definitely was not planning on a visit from Maizy.

I grabbed a pillow to cover my nonexistent cleavage, my heart slamming so hard in my chest that I could practically see it on the outside. How did you get in here, Maizy?

You don't know me at all, she said sadly.

I basked in that thought for a few blissful seconds.

You really need to replace that lockset, she added. I saw that brand at the dollar store. You'd be better off sticking a chair under the knob.

I ignored that. I'd heard it before, along with Maizy's surgical assessment of my job, my car, my diet, and my age. What are you doing here?

Did you forget already? she asked. I just told you, we've got a new case. Want to hear about it?

No.

Are you sure? There's a dead person involved.

That's not possible, I said. Not another one.

She beamed at me. I know, right? Talk about luck.

Yeah. Luck.

I don't want to hear it, I said. Call the police. I'm not getting involved.

You always say that, Maizy told me. Can we stop the charade? You know you'll change your mind when you hear the whole story. Besides, this one's different.

No, it isn't, I said. Go home, Maizy.

You always say that, too. But you don't mean it. She sat down on the bed, close enough that I had to wriggle a comfort zone between us. This is a good case.

I tugged the sheet out from under her backside. Involving a dead person.

Duh, she said. We can't make a name for ourselves finding lost poodles.

I didn't want to make a name for myself. I'd lived my thirty-never-mind years actively trying not to make a name for myself, and except for one brief period when I'd been a murder suspect, I'd done spectacularly well.

You haven't asked me the best part, Maizy said.

That's because I knew there wouldn't be one.

Look. She whipped out a little velvet bag with a drawstring close and shook it at me.

I stared at her. "You robbed a dead person?"

What? No, of course not. She upended the bag into her palm. I heard soft clicking and saw a lot of sparkling, and then she held out her hand to show me. Know what these are?

Cubic zirconia? I knew knockoff when I saw it. My entire wardrobe was an homage to knockoff. Except for my Hanes Her Way cotton panties. Those were genuine. In fact, they were vintage.

Look again. She stuck her hand under my nostrils. They're diamonds, she said. There's eight of them.

I looked again. There's seven of them.

Oh, really? She funneled them quickly back into the bag and shoved it into her pocket. I guess one fell out on the way up the stairs.

Right.

Maizy pointed an accusing finger at me. Hey, what's going on? You usually sleep in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt.

It's in the hamper, I said. Maizy didn't need to know about my love life. Not that she couldn't figure it out from the vanilla scented candles on the coffee table or the fake crystal wineglasses, both half-filled with the finest wine they could put in a box. I'd even dusted around the junk mail and Star magazines on my coffee table. If that wasn't commitment to the cause, I don't know what was.

Why are you smiling? she demanded.

I'm happy, I snapped. By the way, you could have knocked.

She shrugged. I did. You didn't answer. I thought you were dead, and I needed to decide which case to solve.

I did an eye roll. If you thought I was dead, why didn't you call the police?

I wanted to know for sure, she said. Before the crime scene was tainted by amateurs. She tilted her head, listening. Is that your shower?

I don't hear anything, I said.

Your shower is running, she said very loudly.

The shower abruptly shut off.

I don't hear anything, I said. "Maizy," I added, just as loudly, in case Curt planned to stroll into the room in only a good mood.

A few moments later, the door opened and he came out in faded jeans, no shirt, no shoes. His thick, dark hair was wet, wavy little tendrils dripping onto the bath towel slung around his neck. Tiny beads of water glistened on his chest. As I'd suspected, Ashley pranced out right behind him with a self-satisfied expression. Tart.

Curt's dark eyes swept past Maizy before settling on me, questioning. I gave a little shrug.

Maizy didn't miss a beat. Is your shower broken, Uncle Curt?

He grinned, showing straight white teeth in a tanned face stubbled with five o'clock shadow. Curt had a five o'clock shadow at eight in the morning. The man was the Mt. Vesuvius of testosterone. Nope, he said.

She looked at his feet. You don't have shoes on.

He draped the towel over his head and ruffled his hair with it while his six-pack flexed. Honestly, the man had no shame.

Or a shirt, Maizy said. She sucked in a breath. Oh. My. God. She stuck her fists on her hips. You two did nicky-nack!

Wrong. Technically speaking, we were going to do nicky-nack, maybe even many nicky-nacks. I was pretty sure Curt was good for many nicky-nacks a night. No one could be that well equipped to take the field, only to head back to the locker room after the first inning.

Are you done? Maizy asked in the same tone you'd ask a dog if he'd eaten the garbage. I can come back in five minutes if you want.

Curt snorted. Five minutes.

I can't wait much longer than that, Maizy said. She might start to stink up the neighborhood.

I gave her an icy glare. Excuse me?

Relax, Maizy said. I didn't mean you. I meant the dead lady downstairs on the patio.

I sat up straight. You never said there was a dead lady downstairs on the patio!

There's a dead lady downstairs on the patio, she said.

And I was supposed to relax?

Curt went still. What are you two talking about?

Our next case, Maizy said. Don't worry. I called the cops.

What's taking them so long? I screeched.

She shrugged. They might have gotten the impression it's just a case of trespassing. Which it kind of was. Until it wasn't. She looked at Curt. I think maybe she knew you, Uncle Curt. She said something before she died.

What did she say? he asked.

"She said Curt," Maizy said. Seems like a clue.

Curt was already halfway to the door. I jumped up to follow him.

Don't you want to hear my theory? Maizy yelled after us.

It really didn't matter. The dead lady on the patio had already ruined my night.

CHAPTER TWO

The dead woman lay at Curt's back door, wearing blue cropped pants, silver sandals, and a white top with bell sleeves. Her toenails were painted hot pink. Her long hair, dark and shiny, shielded her face.

I'd seen dead people before. But this woman was the most un-dead looking person I'd ever laid eyes on. Somehow, despite her infinite stillness, everything about her screamed vibrant. Until I noticed the pool of blood beneath her head, which immediately made a terrible situation so much worse.

Did she fall and hit her head? I asked in a whisper, trying not to look at it.

That wouldn't be much of a murder investigation, Maizy told me.

Curt brushed her hair aside and immediately recoiled. His face paled. Amber, he whispered.

Amber?

He pressed his fingers to her neck, checking for a pulse. A siren mushroomed in the distance. Cicadas gossiped amongst themselves in the bushes. The heavy summer air folded us in its clammy embrace.

I studied Amber through narrowed eyes. Overlooking that whole dead part, she was gorgeous. Her hair wasn't just brown. It was rich chestnut. Her eyes, staring plaintively up at Curt, weren't just green. They were a deep, rich emerald. Her nose was straight and patrician, her mouth full. I tried not to notice, but the rest of her wasn't bad, either.

Curt knew women who looked like this, and he was interested in me?

I touched his arm. "You do know her?"

He nodded without speaking, the muscles in his jaw bunching when he looked away. Whoever Amber was, she'd clearly meant something to him. I felt a jolt as I realized I might be jealous of a dead woman. How pathetic was that?

Maizy hovered behind us. She's pretty. Who is she? An old girlfriend or something?

What were the chances an old girlfriend would show up out of the blue and then die on his patio? That sort of thing never happened. It would have to be the mother of all coinci—

We went out a few times in college, he said.

Oh.

Well, that wasn't so bad. Not like that had been recent. Curt was in his thirties, after all. The question I really wanted an answer to was why she was there, on his patio, on this night, all these years later.

The guy who ran off into the bushes must have followed her here, Maizy said. "I bet his getaway car was parked down on Kennedy. That's where I'd park if I was going to do something like this."

Curt looked at her over his shoulder. What guy?

The one who killed her, Maizy said. When I came around back, he ran off over there. She pointed to the row of high bushes along the property line. Beyond the bushes lay three backyards and then Kennedy Avenue, the easiest way to flee the area.

You saw who did this? Curt asked.

She shrugged. Only from the back.

Curt stood. Describe him.

Nothing much to describe, Maizy said. Kind of short and thin. Black jeans, black sweatshirt with the hood up. The doofus obviously never heard of heatstroke. She shook her head. I could've taken him for sure if it wasn't for the battle-axe.

Don't say that, I told her. It's disrespectful.

Maizy rolled her eyes. "Read a history book. It's a weapon. God."

Still, I said, he killed a woman.

I'm not saying it would've been easy, Maizy said. Hey, what's that on her neck? Hickeys?

We all looked at the red marks on her neck.

Oh. My. God. Maizy whipped out her cell phone and snapped a picture. They're not hickeys. That's a vampire bite!

Maizy. I shook my head at her.

Knock it off, Maize, Curt said flatly. They're hickeys.

Was it my imagination, or did he seem annoyed about that?

It's your imagination, Maizy told me.

I really had to stop thinking so loudly.

She studied Amber's neck thoughtfully. It could have been bad aim. Battle-axes can be tricky if you're not used to handling them.

Like she would know.

On second thought, she added, "there's no way a battle-axe put those there. I've seen battle-axe wounds."

Where have you seen battle-axe wounds? I asked her.

She shrugged. Those Renaissance Faires can get pretty feisty. I'm going with vampire bites.

Car doors slammed at the front of the house, followed by the sound of footsteps on the driveway.

Curt glanced at me. You might want to go get dressed. His eyes cut to Maizy. Why don't you go with her?

I bristled. Why? I want to stay here. You know, to support you in your time of need.

I appreciate that, he said. But you're nearly naked.

Not too insulting, a man telling me to put my clothes on.

Come on. Maizy pulled at my arm. I make it a policy to be nowhere near the undead when midnight comes.

You're being ridiculous, I snapped, but I glanced back over my shoulder anyway on my way to the stairs, just to be sure. Amber was either still dead or doing a reasonable facsimile of it.

When we were back upstairs in my apartment, Maizy slouched sideways in my recliner with her legs slung over the arm. Hurry up and get dressed. We've got to get started.

I stuck my hands on my hips, which wasn't exactly intimidating since I weighed less than a hundred pounds, and ten of it was head. Doing what? Don't you think we should be here for Curt?

She blinked at me. "We are here. She considered. I've never heard of an Amber before. Wonder how she knew where he lives."

I sort of wondered that, too.

Maizy pulled out the pouch of diamonds. Why do you think she had this when the vampire bit her?

Maizy, there's no such thing as vampires, I said wearily.

Yeah, she said. That's what Charley Brewster's friends thought, too.

I couldn't help myself. Who's Charley Brewster?

You're kidding, right? She held out her phone so that I could see a ghoulish Hollywood representation of a vampire looming over a spooky old house. "Fright Night? It's only one of the best vampire movies ever made."

That's not scary, I told her. It just looks like a clown with too many teeth.

And what, clowns aren't scary? She glanced at it, did something on the screen, and held it up again. The poster had been replaced by a publicity photo of a dark-haired, dark-eyed, full-lipped man staring straight into my libido. "Here's the vampire. What's this look like?"

I couldn't swallow. Think we can get it on DVD?

Leave it to me, she said. We'll call it research.

She could call it homework. I'd still want to see that movie. I headed for the hamper to retrieve the shorts and T-shirt I'd stashed there. I'll be right back, I said. Don't start investigating without me.

As if I could, Maizy said.

CHAPTER THREE

Tell me about Amber, I said a little while later, after Curt had come back upstairs and Maizy had gone back outside. While I'd waited, I'd folded up the sofa bed, poured the remaining wine down the drain, rinsed the glasses, and snuffed out the candles. When I couldn't think of anything else to do, I chain-fed Ashley cat treats while my imagination conjured up a backstory on Amber that only made me feel worse.

Curt glanced around my apartment without really focusing on anything. Which was for the best, since I wasn't much of a decorator. He'd done his part, renovating the kitchen and bathroom, before my decorating purple thumb had taken over. The walls were white, the furniture bland, the artwork nonexistent. I'd managed to hang curtains, and Curt had installed plush new carpet, but beyond that, we might as well be sitting in a motel room.

He was still barefoot and shirtless, but if it didn't bother him, it didn't bother me. Curt had a business degree, but he wasn't built for the nine-to-five cubicle life. He drove for a package delivery company, the years of hurling weighty boxes at front doors shaping his physique into a Greek sculpture. Studliness ran in the Emerson genes. His older brother Cam, Maizy's father, was an inch taller and two inches wider, all of it in the shoulders, which made his police uniform fit like Saran wrap.

But there was more to Curt than good looks. On top of being gainfully employed, he could fix just about anything, he could cook, and he was sensitive enough to bring me soup when I was sick. He was the guy Lifetime made movies about, minus the secret wife–secret life part.

I hoped.

I went to the kitchen to pour him a glass of water. Amber? I prodded. You went out in college?

Just twice. He took a drink. I helped her out of a tough spot.

You mean like changing a flat tire?

Curt pushed a hand through his hair. You really want to talk about this?

No. Yes.

Only if you want to. I hesitated when he didn't respond. Curt, it's okay to have an emotional reaction to the death of your friend. I refused to say girlfriend. He hadn't said it. Why should I?

I know, he said. Still, his eyes stayed dry and his glass was