Death by Association: Wellington Cozy Mystery Series, #2

By M. A. Comley

From NY Times bestselling author of the Carmel Cove Cozy Mystery Series

Lucy Diamond has one main ambition in life, to write a bestselling novel.

After giving up her full-time job as a journalist with the local paper, she finally sets up her office ready to write. However, things soon go awry when her friend, Marnie, fires a shotgun from her window,

Lucy fears Marnie, who is agoraphobic, is losing her mind. Problem solved when Winnie shows up looking for a job as a companion and moves in next door, or is it?

Meanwhile, Lucy's new beau, Sergeant Brendon Colt is working all hours, investigating the murder of one of the town's local dignitaries. Lucy finds it difficult to ignore the intriguing investigation and decides to set her writing aside to chase the clues, but in doing so, she stumbles across information which puts her own life in mortal danger.

Other books in this series are:

Death on the Coast.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeamel Publishing Limited
• Release date: Nov 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201246501

M. A. Comley

I am a British author. I moved to France around ten years ago, and that's when I turned my hobby into a career. I'm fortunate to be represented by New York agent Richard Curtis. I share my home with two crazy dogs that like nothing better than to drag their masterful leader (that's me) around the village. I hope you enjoy reading my books, especially the Justice series, Cruel Justice, Impeding Justice,Final Justice,Foul Justice and the newest addition, Guaranteed Justice. Ultimate Justice is due out in Feb 2013. If you'd like to keep up to date with new releases you can find me on facebook by following this link http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mel-Comley/264745836884860 If you fancy a lighter read, why not try one of my romances: A Time to Heal, and A Time for Change--Based on a TRUE story. I also have a selection of short stories and novelettes available which I know you'll enjoy. You can find out more about me at the following blogs. http://melcomley.blogspot.com http://melcomleyromances.blogspot.com  

Book preview

1

Lucy stomped the snow from her penny loafers before pushing against the heavy glass door and entering the shop. The chill in the air made it the perfect reason to pay a visit to Sal’s Sweets with the other locals. Lucy heard her name, and several women waved their arms frantically at her.

Whew! Lucy set her damp backpack on the counter, opened the zipper, and pulled out her change purse.

Cold out there, is it? Sally asked, the dimples in her chubby cheeks accentuating her pleasant, rather nosy, and inviting personality. The locals adored her good nature, and Sal’s Sweets was their favorite hangout in the village.

Lucy rubbed her gloved hands together. It sure is. It’s been a long winter. I thought I’d get by without boots, but now I’m not so sure. Hi, Dan! Lucy waved to Sally’s husband, who was out back, punching donuts out of a flat blob of dough spread over the floured worktable.

Lucy, he acknowledged her and then turned back to his work, the apron over his ample torso stretched tight and knotted to contain him.

I haven’t asked you about Sonia and Felicity lately. How are they doing, Sally?

Oh, you know they’re typical teenage girls. They want everything without having to work for any of it. I told Dan just last night that either they get down here and help out, or they’ll be going to their proms in their underwear.

I’m sure that would go over well, Lucy laughed, as she pulled off her gloves and tucked them into her coat pockets. I’ll take a mocha decaf and, this time, two of your chocolate donuts.

Sal nodded, lifted the top of the donut display and removed two chocolate ones with a piece of tissue and set them on a plate. How’s the book coming along?

Oh, just okay. I suppose, a little slow. She pointed at the bag. I thought I might get a little work done down here. It’s often too quiet at home, if that makes sense?

I don’t know how you do it—writing up there with no one other than the bloody bodies in your crime novels to keep you company. She visibly shuddered and turned to remind Dan to reset the oven temperature. Dan appeared less than pleased.

Lucy couldn’t let things slide. Everything okay with you and Dan?

Sally nodded. Oh, sure. You know how it is. I have to remind him to breathe most days, or he’d stop and fall over dead.

Just then, Dan appeared, carrying a tray of freshly frosted goodies to put in the display case. You give yourself too much credit, Sal, my love. Ever think maybe I do it on purpose? He grinned, revealing deep dimples that made you want to hug him.

He left the tray and went to the back room, leaving Sal with a quizzical look on her face. Lucy laughed, picked up her purchases, and made her way to her favorite table in the far corner.

It felt like home every time she visited Sal’s Sweets. People were used to the mild-mannered threats Dan and Sally regularly swapped. It was part of their charm and added to the overall experience of a visit.

After depositing her bag on the table, Lucy sipped the hot coffee, and enjoyed the stream of warmth that trickled down her throat. Now divorced and living alone, she realized there were few things worth savoring; a good cup of hot coffee among friends was undoubtedly one of those.

She glanced up to see Jenny waving at her. Lucy waved back and invited her good friend to join her. As Jenny manipulated her wheelchair between the tables, Lucy got up and pushed a chair aside so Jenny could sit snug to the table.

It’s so good to see you again, Lucy. Jenny’s enthusiasm was genuine, and for a moment, Lucy felt guilty for not seeing her more often.

A friend who had been murdered had unexpectedly bequeathed a gift of funds for Lucy. It had been enough that she could quit her job at the newspaper, obtain the divorce from Mark, and it also meant she had the funds to convert Mark’s old study beneath the eaves into an office to complete the task she’d always dreamed of doing—writing a book.

I’m sorry. I know I’ve been hiding away, but there just seems to be so much to do.

Oh, you don’t need to apologize, Jenny urged and shifted slightly in her chair. I’m happy to see you’re finally settled and at peace with life, but we do miss you around town.

I must admit, after being locked away all day and every day, I’ve missed all of you, too.

Then this must be a good compromise. Bringing your laptop to the coffee shop? Jenny beamed.

That all depends on how disciplined I can be. I may just sit here, gossip, and eat cookies all day. But heck, if I do, then maybe I’m not ready to be a writer yet. I’ve been doing some research on the subject; they reckon, most writers while away several hours a day procrastinating instead of pounding out the words.

Oh, don’t say that. Jenny’s face held support. We all think you’ll do exceptionally well. I always loved the articles you wrote for the newspaper; you’re a talented author, and you need to remember that at times when the words aren’t flowing properly.

I hope I can count on at least one or two of my friends to buy my book, if I find a publisher, that is.

The bell tinkled on the door, and Lucy looked up to see Brendon entering. He removed his police cap, nodded at her, and headed toward the counter to buy his usual cup of coffee and a donut from Sally. Lucy watched him exchange a few words with Sal.

Once he’d paid, he joined Lucy and Jenny and asked, Hi, how are you both?

Jenny’s face lit up. Just fine, Brendon. Nice to see you again.

Lucy leaned forward and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. You look a little harassed.

He laid his cap on the table, stirred his coffee with the slender wood stick and nodded. You might say that. Bad morning over in Leestown.

The reporter instinct in Lucy refused to be quelled. Oh? What happened?

Can’t tell you all of it, naturally, and Lucy, this is off the record.

I know, I know. I’ve stopped all the reporter stuff, remember? What’s up?

We were called over to Leestown to help out. The victim was found in bed early this morning by her husband.

Oh no, how shocking, expressed Jenny, her hand slapping against her cheek.

Something tells me there’s more to this story, Lucy said.

Which is why you’re writing mystery novels, I suppose, Jenny said.

C’mon, spill the beans, Lucy urged.

Brendon took two bites of his donut and gathered his thoughts. He had to limit what he perceived to be public knowledge. Okay, so the victim, whose name I can’t release yet, was discovered earlier this morning. Her husband is a doctor, and he was called out for a patient overnight. I felt bad for the guy. You could tell the guilt was overwhelming him. Not in that respect, before you ask. I meant, he probably thought that if he’d been at home, he might have been able to save her.

We’ll read about it in the papers, I guess, Lucy said, resigned to waiting to hear more once it was out in the public domain.

Brendon sipped at his drink and nodded. Oh, yeah, you sure will.

He’d grabbed Lucy’s attention with that remark. It could only mean one thing. The deceased was either very well-known, or there was some suspicion surrounding the death. She felt the familiar prickle of intrigue run down the length of her spine. She could hardly wait for Brendon to leave and obtain more of the story.

At least, the snippet sparked an idea.

2

As a former reporter, Lucy had learned early on that sometimes, the best information came by sitting back and listening to people talk. One by one, each would offer up their opinion or conjecture; and if she was lucky, clues would present themselves as to what might or might not make sense, given the people involved. They were like her private research staff.

Now, she had discovered an even greater luxury: not only could she collect those very same things, but she was no longer required to verify every tiny morsel of information she overheard. She could pick and choose—to either embellish the facts or hide them.

Lucy could see immediately that it gave her a heady power, one that she could easily get carried away with. Something she had to be mindful of as the locals tended to believe what she wrote. Of course, the opposite would be true with any works of fiction she wrote. She would have to make it clear that it was a work of fiction without ruining the entertainment the readers would create for themselves as they followed the clues and came up with their own theories as to what was about to unfold.

Once Brendon said his goodbyes and returned to work, Lucy opened her backpack and removed a spiral notebook and pen. Jenny caught the hint.

I’ll leave you to it then, busy author. She wheeled herself over to one of the other tables to visit another friend.

Lucy got to work. She began to write.

---

November 13

The scene of the crime is Leestown.

The victim is an older woman, wife of a local doctor who must be called out for his patients, perhaps overnight, so he’s not likely to be a doctor of psychiatry or plastic surgery or other disciplines that involve matter-of-fact, expected treatments.

Possible motives are too early to tell, but the main ones are still in play. Jealousy over infidelity, money, lack of a healthy physical relationship, the discovery of a damning secret.

Things to explore would be to get as many clues as possible from the locals, particularly Brendon.

---

With that, she wandered up to the counter to obtain Sal’s opinion, along with a second cup of coffee. You know any doctors in Leestown?

Sal pursed her lips as she thought. Oh, I imagine I do. We get them in here from time to time. Just because they live in Leestown doesn’t mean they only work there. It’s not like gang territory, after all.

You are funny.

There’s more, not many housecalls these days, so my bet is he works mostly through a hospital. During the day, emergencies would be referred directly to a hospital and not to his private office.

Good points, Sal. Exceptionally good points. Lucy took her coffee and returned to her table.

She pretended to be working, and while that wasn’t far from the truth, she was covertly transcribing the conversations she heard going on around her. It felt good to be free to quote people without needing to give them any credit. It was all foundational material. Later, when she was home, she could cull it, sifting out the parts that made sense and tossing aside what didn’t. In the meantime, she witnessed how her readers’ minds would work and how to present the clues in her stories at a rate that would keep people interested without giving away the ending.

By mid-afternoon, Lucy’s mind was frazzled and she’d had enough. With a wave, she left and headed toward Brendon’s office. Everyone knew she and Brendon were in a relationship now, so no one stopped her as she made her way into his office.

Hi, there, she greeted him. He was bent over a report he was writing out at his desk.

Hey. His voice was distant—an indication he was pre-occupied with his work.

That the case?

Hmm…? His preoccupation was yet another mental clue Lucy stored away.

The case from this morning? she prompted, pointing at the report.

Oh, Mrs. Stilt—, he stopped abruptly and then got up to shut the door. Lucy, forget I said that. You caught me when I was concentrating, and I should never have…

Relax, Brendon. I repeat what I said back at Sal’s earlier, I no longer work for the newspaper. Remember?

He flushed. Still, my tongue ran away from me, and you shouldn’t have heard that.

Don’t worry. I get it. Inside, Lucy was rejoicing. She had a name, and that would give her a head start. In her mind, she was already composing the opening paragraphs.

Physician under suspicion? It was a grabber, certainly.

Is there something I can do for you? Brendon asked, drawing her out of her reverie.

Me? Ah, oh, yes. I stopped by to invite you to dinner. Nothing fancy. I’m making a pot of chili, and you’re welcome to join me.

Still hunched over his desk, as though trying to shield the paperwork from her with the bulk of his body, he smiled. Sounds good. I’ll come over as soon as I’m done for the day.

Good. See you then. Lucy blew him a kiss, left his office and slowly made her way back to the main entrance.

As she walked, she looked at the other officers on duty, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever they were working on at the moment. She listened in on phone conversations, trying to put what they were saying in the context of the dead woman’s case.

Lucy left feeling particularly smug, having combined her natural reporter’s instincts and tools with her need for inspiration for her book.

It had been a fruitful and interesting day so far.

---

Lucy heard Brendon tap on the pane of glass in her front door before entering the house. Luce, it’s me, he called to her.

Come on through. I’m in the kitchen, Lucy bellowed.

Brendon appeared in the doorway. He approached her and planted a kiss on her cheek. Lucy, a ladle in her hand, stopped long enough to give him a quick squeeze. You timed that well. The chili is done so we can eat anytime. In fact, the longer it simmers, the richer the flavor becomes, she added.

I love your chili; no matter how you cook it, he complimented her and hung his coat on a hook in the front hall. He walked toward the small table and chairs set up on the other side of the narrow kitchen snack bar, relaxing with a weary sigh into the chair.

You look tired.

Probably because I am. It’s been a long day.

More on the… the woman who passed away? She was careful not to reinforce the slip of his tongue by using names. She knew that would possibly end up creating an awkward atmosphere between them.

Nothing but that. It’s like the rest of the world has gone on pause over this thing. I don’t get it.

Lucy set a bowl of steaming, spicy chili before him and one on the table next to him for herself. She kissed the top of his head before returning to the kitchen to fetch a couple of glasses of cold milk and a dish of sliced mozzarella cheese. Want cheese on yours?

That would be good, thanks.

She sat down, put her napkin on her lap, and dipped her spoon into the steaming concoction before blowing on it.

Why is the name being withheld? she asked, eager to obtain whatever miscellaneous crumbs of information she could. She felt a little guilty, if not even a little manipulative. She told herself that was what good writers had to do. The slice of life view usually came with a significant price.

Lucy, I know you’re dying to find out all the details, but I won’t fall for this probing inquiry sneakiness.

She had the grace to blush and said nothing.

You thought I wouldn’t notice? he pressed.

You’re right. I’m sorry. My reporter roots are long and strong.

He sipped his milk, wiping his mouth smoothly with a sweep of his napkin. You’re no longer a reporter, remember?

She blushed further as he took pleasure in using her own words against her. Let’s forget the whole thing, shall we? I had no right to pick at you for information. If I’m going to be a novelist, I need to find the resourcefulness to come up with my own plot. Contrary to her words, Lucy had already sourced the phone book for doctors in the area and knew the victim was a Mrs. Stiltson. Victoria Stiltson.

Very true. What’s on television tonight? Any good movies, or even a boring one? I’d just like to put my arm around you and forget the day.

Lucy smiled. I think we can arrange that.

After dinner, and by the time Lucy had cleared up the kitchen, Brendon had already made himself comfortable and found a movie to watch. He lifted his arm, and she slipped smoothly beneath it, pulling her legs up and beneath herself. He pecked her on the lips. I like this, she murmured.

A shrill noise startled her. It was coming from his pocket.

New ringtone, he mumbled and reached for the phone. He studied the screen and then slid it back as he stood up. Sorry, Lucy, I have to go. It looks like this case is going to be time-consuming and problematic from the outset. He read the disappointment on her face. Brendon leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. Sorry about this. Life of a cop, what can I say?

It’s okay, she lied. I understand that work comes first to someone as dedicated as you.

He pulled his jacket off the hook and thrust his arms into the sleeves. I’m glad you understand. I’ll call you when time permits, I promise.

With that, he was gone into the night.

Lucy circulated through the house, locking the doors and windows and turning off lights with a sadness wrapped around her heart. She thought about poor Mrs. Stiltson while she brushed her teeth. Who could have possibly killed her? She sighed and then climbed into bed.

There was a copy of John Grisham’s book, The Guardians: A Novel on