Tinkerbell and the Storybook Murder

By Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

She's 5'2", gamine, and weighs ninety-four pounds in a soggy trench coat. The nickname “Tinkerbell” has followed her from high school. It's hard to imagine her riding a Harley or packing a baby blue .357 Magnum. She does both. She’s Gina Miyoko, P.I. When a local businessman is murdered on the eve of his company’s IPO, Gina is invited to consult on the case. Coming from Detective Chief Ramon Mirande, that invitation is remarkable enough. But then a celebrity author whose plots are ”ripped from the headlines” turns up to shadow the investigation. Mirande can’t tell her to take a hike—she’s a friend of the DA—but he can assign Gina to babysit her. What happens then turns their investigation on its head.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff
• Release date: Jun 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781611389623

Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff is the award-winning author of short fiction whose work has appeared in publications such as Analog and Interzone. She has authored a number of Star Wars novels, including the New York Times bestseller The Last Jedi. She currently resides in San Jose, California.

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Copyright& Credits

Tinkerbell and the Storybook Murder

Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

Copyright © 2021 Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

First digital edition Book View Café 2021

ISBN: 978-1-61138-962-3

Cover photograph: Odua

Cover designer: Maya Bohnhoff

Cover designer’s website: http://www.mayabohhoff.com

Production team:

Beta readers: Sara Stamey, Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

Copyeditor: Sara Stamey

Proofreader: Alma Alexander

Formatter: Jennifer Stevenson

JKS10312020

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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The Storybook Murder

Anthony P. Holcraft was found dead in the master bathroom of his stately Telegraph Hill home the morning after his company’s celebration of their initial public offering (known in the stock biz as the IPO). To say his death was embarrassing would be an understatement. Anthony Holcraft died in one of those freak situations that makes every mother who’s ever expounded the virtues of clean underwear wag a finger and say, I told you so.

His tighty-whities were all Holcraft was wearing when his body was found. The only other item on him was the toothbrush sticking jauntily out of his foamy mouth. I know this only because I happened to be in the Medical Examiner’s office when the call came in, consulting with the assistant ME, Alvie Spielman, on one of my cases. Alvie’s boss was on vacation, which left Alvie holding the reins. If the ME had been there, I would not have had a prayer of tagging along, but Alvie and I go back to our Police Academy days, where he taught my class crime scene procedures and forensics. There is also the slightest possibility that Alvie has a bit of a crush on me—if my mother is to be believed.

At any rate, this is why Alvie allowed me to hop on my Harley (a sweet ‘83 Super Glide II named Boris) and follow when he went to view the body in situ. That is, the fact of my being there, not his possible crush.

Holcraft was lying on his side approximately two feet from the sink, as if he’d taken a step or two backwards before falling to the floor. The toothbrush, as I mentioned, was still in his mouth which hinted that whatever had struck him down had done it hard and fast. His lips were twisted in a wry grimace that caused the brush handle to poke up at a disturbingly comic angle. He looked like a man who appreciated the absurdity of his repose. His underwear, for the record, was brilliantly white where he hadn’t soiled it in his final moments, and undeniably expensive.

I stood in the middle of the absurdly opulent bathroom, careful not to touch any surfaces, or get in the way of the forensics team. From my catbird’s seat, I watched Alvie go through the checklist of things an ME must do at the crime scene: having the forensics team take pictures from every angle, directing what should be bagged, checking the temperature and lividity of the body, and other things pursuant to determining a cause of death.

As he was doing this, the imposing figure of Detective Chief Ramon Mirande appeared in the bathroom doorway. I could tell by the furrowing of his brow and the telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth that he found the scene bemusing.

What do you think killed him? the Chief asked.

Alvie glanced up at him. "I won’t know until I’ve done a tox panel and an autopsy, but right now it’s looking