Murder Takes A Holiday: Billie Bly Series, #12

By Don Weston

Four Billie Bly P.I. short books that will keep you on the edge of your seat.

Billie Bly finally has a date for Valentine's Day when other suiters begin to line up to ask her out. One of them wants to kill her and her new boyfriend, and before she knows it, she has a cast of surly some sweethearts. But which one will try to kill Billie before Cupid has a chance?

On the Fourth of July, Billie hosts a neighborhood celebration, but gets more fireworks than she expects. As a P.I., she develops enemies and they all seem to come uninvited on this explosive mystery.

Billie is asked to investigate a house a neighbor believes may be haunted. Too bad this case coincides with Halloween. Before she can say boo, ghouls and goblins are not the only scary apparitions. Someone wants to make her a ghost and they aren't very subtle about it.

A train full of children, Santa and his elves, candy canes and crooks. Something bad is about to happen on the train to Christmas Town, and P.I. Billie Bly has been hired to prevent it in this Christmas Heist story. Time is running out for her to save Christmas because the bad guys have the edge.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Weston
• Release date: May 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393127093

Don Weston

I am the author of the Billie Bly Mystery series, a collection of four short books and four regular books featuring P.I. Billie Bly, a hard boiled ex-cop eased out of the Portland Police Bureau for what she terms unnecessary roughness. I recently moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico after living in Portland, Oregon most of my life. After retirement, my wife persuaded me it was time for an adventure and she packed me up with all of our belongings and spirited me away to New Mexico. If I make it sound like I had no choice, although a bit reluctant at first, I love New Mexico. My characters and books will begin making the transition as well. There are many exotic and interesting locales here to stimulate my plot ideas. My Billie Bly P.I. series has been centered in Portland, most likely known as of late as the location for TV shows Stumptown, Portlandia, Grimm, and Leverage. My new home in Albuquerque is known tor talented authors such as mystery icon, Tony Hillerman, and the fan-favorite T.V. show, Breaking Bad.  Recently I visited Madrid, New Mexico, and the Diner where Wild Hogs was filmed. It now sells motorcycle memorabilia and Wild Hogs movie-related  items instead of food. There is an old writing idiom which suggests you should write what you know so I will continue to utilize my diverse set of work experiences in my new location. I graduated from Idaho State University with a degree in Journalism and worked as news and sports reporter on several newspapers, including The Oregonian, The Gresham Outlook, and The Idaho Statesman. I've also been a Realtor and the head of a 6,000-member union representing health care and janitorial workers. I like to spend time with my family and grandchildren and do some fishing when I'm not writing.

Book preview

The Deadly Valentine

BY DON WESTON

VALENTINE’S DAY HAS a way of sneaking up on me, but I’ve never experienced the total adoration during the special day like the most recent one had brought me. Men were falling out of the sky and landing at my feet, apparently in an attempt to lure me into their love nests. Okay, it might be a bit of a stretch, but seriously, I’ve never been so popular.

My name is Billie Bly and I’m a P.I. in Portland, Oregon. Normally I’m not a big fan of Valentine’s Day but this year I had a good reason to be. At least in the beginning.

In the past, I’d rarely had a date and often not even a boyfriend to celebrate with on Valentine’s Day. It still mystifies me. How can a woman make it into her thirties and count on one hand the number of times she has had a boyfriend when this heart-shaped holiday lowers the boom? It’s not as if I have always been busy on a case. February is notoriously slow in the P.I. business.

To make things worse, the past few years my assistant, Angel, and her loopy boyfriend always have big plans on Valentine’s Day. Chris doesn’t just send Angel flowers and candy and call it a day. He wines and dines her with days of flowers, sweets, and little love notes.

I could throw up just thinking about it.

But this year I had a date and things were looking good. I had a handsome hunk of a boyfriend and our relationship was heating up. Brett is a man of many surprises and he signed us up for a Valentine’s Day Swing Dance with two of Portland’s most popular bands.

Afterward, if our legs can still support us, he’s whisking me away to the Monaco Hotel for a late evening tryst where butlers will serve us a local sparkling wine with oysters and caviar.

And how the tables have turned. Angel and Chris are fighting again and have both threatened to find another date for the supposed holiday for lovers. I would crow but my history with them indicates it might be wiser to take a refresher course in my stop, drop, and roll defense tactics in preparation for whatever nuclear devastation their warfare might bring.

Valentine’s Day was a week away when I noticed the change in the air. I was at Whole Foods and looking for a ripe pineapple when it happened the first time. A young man appeared from behind a counter of lettuce.

You’re Billie Bly, aren’t you? He spoke in a sexy Italian accent.

I sized him up as young, very handsome, a little unsure of himself, dazzling blue eyes, black hair, and a classic square face. He wore a green apron and had some lettuce dangling from one of his black shoes.

Yes, I said. How do you know my name?

Everyone knows you. You’re practically famous since you thwarted that Chinese assassin a year ago.

Do people still say thwarted? Well, thank you. It was really nothing.

Nothing? You saved fifty-thousand people from being blown up by a drone.

Several drones, I said. This had been happening to me with frequent regularity lately. I didn’t set out to be famous. In fact, I don’t really know how I get myself involved in some of these fixes. Trouble seems to seek me out and my survival instincts kick in.

Uh, Miss Bly, my name is Frederico Rossi. I’ve been watching you for some time now, trying to build up the courage to ask you something. I know this is somewhat forward of me, but do you have any plans for Valentine’s Day?

He had to be kidding. He might have been twenty-three. And I might have misjudged his shyness because now he was stepping up to the plate. Yes, he was handsome, but he also was probably ten years younger than me. Maybe more.

Yes, I do, I said.

Oh, of course, you would have a date, he said. Someone as pretty as you would be booked well in advance.

Where was this kid last year, and did he have an older brother? Down, Billie. You have Brett and as good-looking as this kid is, Brett has him beat. Although when he was in high school with me, he wouldn’t have been able to compete with Frederico.

Brett Wright was a skinny nerd then with thick black-framed glasses and, yes, he did use white tape to mend them after a football player mistook him for a tackling dummy in the hall one day.

Now he looks nothing like his former geeky self. He has grown into his body by lifting weights, replaced his glasses with contacts, and somehow became ruggedly handsome with curly brown hair, matching bedroom brown eyes, and a dimpled square jaw. And he’s intimately romantic if you get my drift.

Maybe the week after Valentine’s Day, Frederico said. I know a nice romantic Italian café with the best seafood cioppino.

Thank you, Frederico, but I have a boyfriend.

Oh sure, he said. What would a world-famous beautiful woman like you want with a lowly produce guy at Whole Foods?

This is where I made my first tactical mistake. I took his hand and squeezed it. Frederico, you’re sweet, and you have a lot going for you. You’re young and handsome and if you were a few years older, I could certainly go for you. Somewhere out there is the perfect girl for you. Don’t ever put yourself down or count yourself out.

I let go of his hand and smiled. He smiled back. It reminded me of a puppy dog wagging its tail.

I paid for my groceries and carried my paper bag the few short blocks toward my home office. On the way, a thick-set man set himself square in my path. He had crewcut hair, a bulbous nose, and dark, menacing eyes.

You’re Billie Bly, aren’t you?

You’re in my way. I juggled the grocery bag to get a better grip. He had almost run me off the sidewalk.

You’re responsible for me losing my business, he said.

Me? What did I do?

You’re dating Brett Wright? His business took off after your little escapade in Pioneer Square last year, and he got the credit for helping you. As a result, he won a huge government contract that should have been mine.

Now, I didn’t know how my stopping a Chinese female assassin from bombing Portland’s Pioneer Square last summer could have helped Brett. Although, he did teach me how to fly drones, and that knowledge certainly helped me stop three drones from killing innocent people. I guess Brett might have benefited. His name was in the newspapers and TV news as much as mine.

I’m sorry you feel he got some advantage over you, but we almost got killed, I said. Now, if you will please move out of my way, I’d appreciate it.

Oh, I’m not going to step out of your way. I’m just beginning to be in your way. When I’m done, you’ll wish you never heard the name of Curt Helmer.

I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t heard it.

Screw you. He bumped past me.

I shook my head, rebalanced my grocery bag, and continued walking to my office, which is inside a 1940s Tudor home left to me in my Uncle Vern’s will. As you step through the front door, Chris’s desk sits to the left and the room beyond his desk and filing cabinets is my office.

Angel used to have Chris’s job until I promoted her recently as my private investigator operative. I had to move her office down the hall into a bedroom when her boyfriend took over her receptionist duties. My living room doubles as a waiting area for clients.

Angel sat at Chris’s desk, staring at his computer. At first, I thought she was playing a game. Closer scrutiny disclosed a dating website. Her eyes appeared glazed over, and she clicked the mouse fervently, jumping from profile to profile featuring men’s photos.

Angel! Dating sites? Are you going Looney Toons on me? I sat my bag of groceries, with a huge pineapple protruding from the opening, on the edge of her desk.

She jumped a full three-inches above her chair. You scared me. I didn’t see you come in. I need a date for Valentine’s Day. I’m going to teach Chris he can’t take me for granted.

Yes, but isn’t this the act of a desperate woman?

She put the computer mouse down and swiveled her chair toward me. "I am desperate. I think he’s already found a date."

I should mention that lately Chris and Angel have been fighting. A lot. It’s reminiscent of their early days when Chris and a fellow named Earl vied for Angel’s attention. Vied as in getting into a fistfight in the lobby of my office. Oh, for the good old days.

I perused a stack of printed color photos with men’s profiles downloaded from the website. "This one is almost not ugly. This one has shifty eyes. I think I saw this one on America’s Most Wanted, and this one . . .  I held the photo up to the overhead light. This one is almost not ugly and looks like a con-man. His profile says he’s looking for a woman with financial means for a good time. I mean, he’s practically asking for a Sugar Mama."

Angel sighed. It’s rough out there.

I know, I’ve been out there for a long time.

There are no good men, Angel said.

Certainly not on this website. You need to get out in the real world. I just met a handsome young man who tried to pick me up in the produce section at the grocers.

Yeah. When you’ve got a man, suddenly everyone wants a piece of your action, she said. But when you’re alone, it’s as if all the good men know it and think there must be something wrong with you.

"What’s wrong with you is you’re too desperate."

Just then, Chris came into the office, all smiles, his trademark tan chinos and a blue Henley shirt under a tan sports coat.

Hi, all. Guess what? I have a date for Valentine’s Day, and she is gorgeous. 

Angel threw her stapler at him. "See! It’s easier for men. He just waves his hand and women fawn over him. There’s just no justice. Chris grabbed my bag of groceries and ran into the kitchen. I followed him in and started putting away my purchases.

She’s a little high-strung today, Chris said.

What do you expect? You made an effort to gloat in front of her.

She’s the one who dumped me. Now she gets upset every time I go out with a woman. She wants her cake and to eat it too. Throwing my date in her face was the icing on my cake.

Whom are you taking out on Valentine’s Day? I asked.

Her name is Mercury, he said. She’s five-foot-seven, red hair, weighs one-hundred and-twenty-five-pounds and teaches aerobics.

Did you find her online?

Yeah. My first choice isn’t available this year.

Angel?

"Heck no.

Whom would your first choice be?

Uh, she has a date already, he said. You wouldn’t know her. I’ve sort of worshiped her from afar, as they say.

Does Angel know you’ve had a thing for this other person?

She knows. It’s one of the reasons we fight all the time. She isn’t happy about it.

Now, you’ve got to tell me her name, I said. All this time you’ve had a secret crush on this mysterious woman? How come I’ve never heard of it?

Oh, go on, he said. You’re making fun of me. I’m going to do the filing. At least Angel doesn’t tease me about her.

I watched him walk away. I had a hunch who this secret love of his life was. Years ago, he followed me around like he used to do with Angel. I cooled his jets at the time, or so I thought. It was after one of my first cases, and he still thinks I saved his life when someone started shooting at us.

I merely pulled him down with me so we wouldn’t make easy targets when a sniper tried to kill me. I had explained how in extremely dangerous situations, it would be easy for someone like him to identify someone like me as his savior and confuse the aspects of heroism with love. He said he understood and soon after gravitated toward Angel.

But once in a while, I catch him looking at me with a vacant stare, indicating his mind is wandering and perhaps wondering what might have been. I’ve never mentioned it to Angel. Now, Chris has implied I’m a threat to her relationship with him. Welcome to my world of goofy dramas.

The doorbell rang and a minute later Chris came to the kitchen with a beautiful bouquet of red roses. You got flowers, he said.

I took the vase, wrapped in green tissue paper, with approximately two-dozen long-stem roses and sat them on the counter. There was a card. I opened it and read the message. Chris watched me and grinned when he saw my reaction.

Dearest Billie, you have touched my life in ways you could never imagine. Someday I hope I can have the same effect on you. An Admirer.

Someone really likes you? Chris said.

I guess so. Thanks for bringing them to me, Chris.

My pleasure. You have a great smile when you’re happy. He grinned and went back to the lioness’s den with Angel.

How sweet. I dialed my sender at his business. Brett, honey, thank you so much for the beautiful flowers.

The line was quiet for a minute. Are you insinuating I should have sent you some flowers? Don’t get nervous. It’s still several days until Valentine’s Day.

You didn’t just send me two-dozen gorgeous red roses? I asked.

No.

The card says they’re from an admirer.

There’s no signature with it? he said.

No. I thought you sent them.

Should I be jealous?

I laughed. Maybe so. I wonder who sent them?

When you figure it out, call me. I want to punch him in the nose.

We laughed, and I hung up. Then I started playing the whodunnit game, a familiar gambit among private investigators. Chris? He had a sort of wry smile when he brought them to me.

Steve Thomas, my ex-boyfriend? He had dropped some subtle hints about making a mistake in letting me, as he put it, get away. And lately, he seems to pop up periodically with some lame excuses about wanting to get my take on one of his cases.

My mind drifted further into implausibility. The boy in the produce department? I picked the card up again and scrutinized it, thinking the flowers may have come from Whole Foods. But I could find no retail markings on the card or envelope.

Odd, I thought. Usually, a store or florist would brand their name on a card or envelope. I went into Angel’s office area and found Chris behind her, on his knees, sorting various invoices into the lower credenza drawers. Angel had turned the monitor in such a way, Chris couldn’t see the display of her dating site. Tap, tap, tap, click. Tap, tap, tap, click.

Chris? Which delivery company brought these flowers?

I dunno, he said. Some woman carried them in and handed them to me.

Was there a slip of some kind to identify where they originated?

I don’t think so. She gave them to me and I carried them to you.

Did you see a delivery van outside?

"I never looked. Isn’t there something on the card or envelope? Usually, there is, you know, so you might order something from them the next time you send flowers."

I thought so too, but there were no markings of any sort.

Angel swiveled her chair until she faced me. You have a secret admirer? How cool is that?

Very cool, I guess, I said. But it wasn’t. I didn’t like not knowing why someone would send me flowers anonymously. Maybe because in the past, I’ve had anonymous notes from people who weren’t very friendly.

LATER IN THE DAY, WE had a walk-in client. His name was Pete Carpenter, and he was another old high school classmate of mine. He was still tall and ruggedly handsome, with a chiseled face, crystal-blue eyes, and perfect teeth.

I don’t know if you remember me, Pete said. We had Social Studies together in high school in our senior year.

How could I not remember him? The quarterback of the Wilson High football team, a star player on the basketball team, and the envy of every girl in school. His Social Studies reference didn’t create much of a relationship between us. He had a permanent daily hall pass from the instructor to supposedly to go to the library for a special project for athletes.

I’m surprised he even knew who I was. I’m sure he didn’t in high school. The jocks lived in their own world with other jocks and cheerleaders. The rest of us were scrum only good for either their admiration or doing their homework. Do I sound bitter? Maybe because Pete Campbell made Brett do his homework for him.

Yes, I remember you, Pete. How can I help you?

There’s this girl I used to date, he said. I broke it off with her last year, except she won’t quit pestering me. I took out a restraining order, but she’s always careful to approach me when there are no witnesses.

Sounds rough, I said. Is she pretty?

Very much so, but she’s just not my type.

What’s your type?

Oh, you know. A career woman. Someone who is not going to hang on me all the time. Independent. Pretty. I guess blondes attract me the most. Someone like you, I guess. How did I miss you in high school?

I don’t know. I was just lucky, I guess.

He winced but recovered quickly. I have an idea. You could pretend to date me and when she comes out of the woodwork, you’d be there to catch her. You could be my witness. Maybe a stint in jail would cool her off.

I didn’t like this idea on so many levels. First, dating him. Eew! Second, the whole reversal of roles with a man being stalked by a woman. It seemed unfair to women who have suffered at the hands of men in domestic disputes for centuries. Third, Eew! Fourth, this felt like a well-orchestrated come-on. Was he trying to pick me up? Which takes me back to reasons one and three.

I don’t take stalking cases, I said. They’re too unpredictable and dangerous.

He offered a slight smile. "Are you telling me you’re afraid? I’ve heard you have taken on serial killers and bombers. We’re just discussing a five-foot-four, hundred-pound brunette, here. You probably have fifty pounds on her.

Hey, I said.

Sorry. He gazed at me and scrunched his nose. Twenty-pounds at the most but you’ve got to be five inches taller than her so you still look nice. Look, I’m willing to pay your fees. The worst thing likely to happen is you might put on one or two pounds going out to dinner with me a few times.

I’ve got a boyfriend, I said. He wouldn’t like it.

"Now, that’s a good excuse. Bring him along. I’ll tell people he’s my cousin from Seattle down to spend a few days with me. Who knows? Maybe I’ll give him a run for his money. What’s his name?"

Brett, I said. Brett Wright.

Not the skinny little four-eyed creep from high school?

The one and only, I said.

How did a pretty little thing like you hook up with a nerd?

He’s not a nerd any longer. He owns his own aircraft company. He makes drones.

"Oh, I get it. He’s got money. I’m not doing so bad myself, honey. I’m a stockbroker and I’ve managed to put a little money aside too. You know, I think we would get along well together if you’d give me a chance."

Pure come-on lines and very vulgar. I don’t think we’re going to be compatible.

He opened his wallet and withdrew a sheaf of hundred-dollar bills, waving them in my face. Here’s a retainer. I’m willing to pay a thousand-dollar bonus if you can get this woman off my back.

I took the stack of bills and counted them. Five-hundred-dollars. I rubbed a few of them between my fingers. I wanted to check and see if they were real but wondered if it might seem crass. Then I opened my desk drawer and found my magnifying glass. After I finished checking the paper’s fibers, making sure the ink didn’t smudge my fingers, and that they had sequential numbers, I stuck them in my bra.

Well, it seemed the moment called for something dramatic and they did build-up my image a bit.

Pete laughed. "Look, Billie, I know I’ve been coming on somewhat strong with you, and I apologize for that. But you are kind of famous now, and I’m a little awe-struck. On the one hand, I think you can help me. On the other hand, I’m kind of intimidated. I thought coming in and acting grandiose might impress you. I can see it’s having the opposite effect."

I was still working on grandiose. Sometime between social studies and now, Pete had apparently accumulated a vocabulary. I wondered what else I might have misjudged.

"I’ll tell you what. I’ll give it a try. I’ll be available for our dates any night during the next week except Valentine’s Day. I have a date with Brett and I don’t want to miss it."

Swell, He grabbed both of my hands and shook them vigorously. I’ll pick you up tonight at seven. We can go where my ex works and let her get a whiff of you. Wear something sexy. The sooner we trap her, the sooner we can put this behind us.

Tonight? I . . . okay. I guess I don’t have anything planned.

I know it’s sudden. You can bring Brett along if you want. I’ll tell her he’s my cousin if she asks. But you and I will have to pretend to be, you know, an item.

I think it might be better if Brett doesn’t come on these little dates. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. But if things get out of hand . . .

I get it. You can always bring him later if you want.

Where does your ex work? I asked.

Tonight, she’s working at Mary’s Club, he said. She works at more than one bar.

Mary’s? The strip club on Broadway Street?

That’s the one. We’ll stay long enough for a drink or two, and I’ll take you to dinner anywhere you want. She gets off at ten so it will have to be a late dinner unless you want to eat there. Bring a camera or something to film her in case she follows us.

Pete, a few questions. Why do we have to leave at seven if she doesn’t get off until ten? And are you violating the terms of the restraining order if you show up at her club?

I want to make the rounds with you at a few other places Jade frequents so her friends will tell her we were together. And no, I can be anywhere I want. She doesn’t violate the order if she’s at her place of work or her own home.

These other places? Are they strip clubs?

A few of them. One or two, she works occasionally or has a friend there. Don’t worry, we’ll only have a quick drink and move on. I want them to verify our relationship. Heck, they’ll probably call her before we get to Mary’s.

New plan, I said. We go to dinner first. If we still have time, we can go to one strip club before Mary’s, so pick the one most likely to produce results. I’m not hanging out all night looking at naked women. You can take me out to a light dessert after we hit Mary’s Club, and she can either follow us or not.

He sighed. You drive a tough bargain, Billie Bly. See you at seven tonight.

I looked at my watch. In four hours? I didn’t have a thing to wear. I caught Pete as he approached the front door.

Pete? Did you send me flowers today?

Nope. Do you want me to send you some?

No. Someone gave me flowers anonymously. I thought maybe you had done it to help talk me into taking your case.

"Most likely it was Brett. Maybe I should send you some flowers. Jade might get wind of it if I played it right. I could do it in front of one of her friends. We do have a few mutual friends."

No more flowers, I said.

Brett might not like it if I had too many admirers. He also might not like it if I went out on a date or three with his old high school nemesis. I didn’t plan to tell him if I could avoid it.

"ARE WE ON FOR TONIGHT? Brett asked over the phone. This being a Friday night, we have a standing date but nothing definite.

Sorry honey. A last-minute case fell into my lap. I’m going to have to work surveillance tonight and maybe tomorrow.

I slipped my black cocktail dress over my head with one hand, dislodging my mobile phone from my ear to do so, and shimmied, allowing the dress to slip down and over my hips.

What kind of job is it? he asked.

Stalking case. That’s all I can tell you.

You sound kind of far away. Are you having problems with your phone?

No, I was changing into my work clothes for tonight.

Black jeans, black shirt, and a black stocking hat for the surveillance?

Yeah. All black. I nudged one of my slutty black high-heels from the bottom of my closet with my toes.

Okay, but take care of yourself. Hey, guess what? Someone sent me flowers today, too. Was it you?

I stopped my shimmying and nudging. Uh, no. Why would I?

"Just asking. Still six days until our swing dance date. Funny. The card with the flowers was very mysterious. It said Dearest Brett, you have touched my life in ways you could never imagine. Someday I hope I can have the same effect on you. From an Admirer."

Brett, your note is identical to the one I received today, word for word.

Really? I wonder who our admirer might be?

What kind of flowers are they? I asked.

Two-dozen-roses with a black orchid in the center, he said.

"A black orchid? That’s nice. I have to go, honey.