A Plague Among Us: A Chautauqua Murder Mystery: Mimi Goldman Chautauqua Mysteries

By Deb Pines

A Plague Among Us is the eighth book in Deb Pines' traditional whodunit Chautauqua Mysteries featuring the wise and witty reporter/grandma sleuth Mimi Goldman.

"An Agatha Christie for the text-message age," Indie Reader says.

It's August 2020 when Al Martin, the editor of a satiric Chautauqua newspaper, dies and is declared the summer arts community's first coronavirus death. The local consensus is: good riddance.

Shannon Martin, a sister, arrives with questions like why was Al cremated in such a hurry and who was pranking him (with near-Biblical plagues) near the end. The police stay out of it.

Reporter and relentless snoop Mimi Goldman agrees to help. But when she and Shannon unearth some ugly secrets lurking among Chautauqua's charming cottages, leafy streets and masked-for-COVID residents, Shannon flees.

So it takes Mimi, with help from her usual sidekick, 95-year-old Sylvia Pritchard, to find which of Al's many haters -- including an estranged wife, three bitter siblings, a secretive caregiver, old enemies and numerous targets of his poison-pen sarcasm -- might be a ruthless killer.

Fans of Agatha Christie and Louise Penny and "Only Murders in the Building" will enjoy this twist-filled mystery Kirkus Reviews calls "An intriguing and engaging crime tale with some levity to lighten the pandemic element."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deb Pines
• Release date: Dec 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201142292

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

"SEE US IN The Bugle again last week?"

Mimi’s question to Sylvia, from her socially distant end of a Bestor Plaza bench, launched their next murder case before either realized.

"Great, Sylvia said, meaning the opposite. Why?"

The paper’s got a running gag about Chautauqua plagues this summer. There’s the obvious plague of COVID, right?

Right.

Then, the paper calls other people and things plagues, too. The water turning to blood? Algae blooms on the lake. Frogs? Blowhards in the administration. Wild animals are dogs off-leash. Locusts are lake flies and—

How do we fit into this nonsense?

Hail, Mimi said. We’re hail.

Three-fourths of Sylvia’s face were covered in a gray mask. Still, her narrowed, gray-blue eyes and tiny upturned hands made her point, even before the exasperated sigh.

Hail? Why are we hail?

Since we supposedly clamor like a drumbeat of hail for attention. Should I read it to you?

Not waiting for an answer, Mimi slipped on her glasses. She found the reference in The Bugle, a twice-weekly online paper that called itself satirical but, to Mimi, was mainly mean.

The plague of hail is Chautauqua’s own geezer gumshoes: Me-Me Goldman and Over-the-Hillvia Pritchard, she read aloud. Desperate for attention, Me-Me and Over-the-Hillvia keep inserting themselves into local criminal cases. They claim to solve them. They don’t, say two Chautauqua County Sheriff’s Department sources. ‘The women just get leaks from our investigations, go public and claim the credit,’ one source said.

Garbage, Sylvia huffed.

Of course, said Mimi. Want to hear the rest?

No, thanks. Sounds like a rehash of last year’s garbage.

Pretty much.

And people find that funny?

Mimi shrugged.

For a while they lowered their masks and drank their coffees.

The insults couldn’t dim Mimi’s pleasure. At being outside. In the sunshine. With her pal. Surrounded by Bestor Plaza’s greenery. Facing the coleus and magenta and purple petunias outside the bookstore.

Summer 2020 was quiet. But people were still going in and out of the post office and bookstore. Others, like Mimi and Sylvia, looked happy just to be out.

The biggest drama? A dog, frantically barking past them, after a squirrel. The chase ended at the base of a sugar maple.

Helpless, the dog watched the squirrel clatter up the trunk, out of reach and sight.

Next time, his owner consoled.

Not likely, Mimi thought. But why tell the dog?

"Did you ever find out who’s behind The Bugle?" Sylvia asked.

Didn’t I tell you this already?

If you did, I forget.

"Ryan, my boss at The Daily, said it’s one guy. A name I didn’t recognize: Al … Albert Martin. Who lives at the top of Park, near the South Gate."

Sylvia’s eyes widened.

You know him? Mimi asked.

You and I were just talking about him on the coffee line.

Mimi racked her brain for the context. She could only recall small talk about family, the recent heat wave and Sylvia’s griping, for the millionth time, about the price of Starbucks coffee.

When did we talk about Al Martin?

He’s the man the radio guy said died last week and is being called the first COVID death in the Institution.

CHAPTER TWO

AMY MARTIN, in a nod to her widowhood, chose a black dress and black mask to wear with her Bell Tower charm necklace and sensible flats. That was it. She wasn’t canceling her 10 A.M. showing or staying home in a phony tribute to Al.

A HINO (Husband In Name Only), joked her friends, since she had moved out in January. Probably for longer.

Now that buyers were out looking, Amy had to be out selling.

She parked her trademark pumpkin-colored bicycle out front and let herself into the tiny ground-floor Franklin Manor efficiency.

When she flipped on the lights, she felt pleased. The owners had done what she had asked: painted the walls her favorite neutral color, shitake gray. They decluttered and depersonalized.

The place showed extremely well.

New GE kitchen appliances. A charming Queen Anne upholstered wingback chair. Serviceable IKEA table and chairs. Lovely Bell Tower watercolor. Two twin beds pushed together to make a king.

From her bag, Amy shook out her dahlia-patterned Amish quilt. She tossed it over the bed. She spritzed Windex everywhere. And voila!

At 10, came a tentative knock.

Be right there.

She donned her mask, fluffed her blond hair and stepped out, expecting a client named Kelly McDougal. Sure enough, a tall girl, who looked about 12 years old, towered over her on the mat.

What a gorgeous day this is shaping up to be, Amy gushed. You must be Kelly, right?

I am, she said. Hope I’m not too early?

No, you’re perfect. I was just making sure everything’s ship-shape.

As Amy spoke, she inspected the girl more closely and revised her age estimate up to 30, maybe even mid-30s. Good haircut, stylish mask, designer jeans, Birks and no wedding ring.

Amy’s guess: single, rich, big-city professional looking to work remotely near family.

I can’t go in with you because of the health department regs, Amy said. Please take a look—with your eyes, not your hands. Want a floor plan?

Kelly accepted a plan.

Want to ask questions now or …

Is there reliable Internet?

Absolutely. Very reliable.

How about a parking spot?

This year? You’d have no trouble finding one on the street. Normally? You’d have to park in a lot.

The girl nodded.

The place is also winterized. So you could come year-round or rent it out in the off-season. It has its own washer and dryer. Do you have a dog?

No.

Good. It’s a no-pet building. I like to mention that early, so we don’t get too far and then you tell me you’ve got a pet.

The girl remained silent, so Amy kept chattering.

Another thing. Maybe I should have asked first: Are you familiar with Chautauqua? I’m happy to give you background.

Kelly waved Amy off. I’ve been coming all my life. My parents have a condo on the Overlook. So I’m exploring getting my own place to work remotely. Near my folks. Not on top of them.

Amy nodded happily, hoping to convey understanding. And not Bingo, I nailed it.

As Kelly glanced at the floor plan, Amy was tempted to give her usual spiel anyway. About the place being just steps from the Amp, Chautauqua’s main venue during a normal nine-week summer season of lectures, concerts, church services and other activities. Mere minutes from Bestor Plaza, Chautauqua’s main green.

She held off.

Please, she said, instead. Take a peek inside. See what you think.

When Kelly stepped inside, Amy’s hopes soared. The unit could work for two people. One, though, was perfect. And if the family had money … and if she just wanted to work there, not entertain, and …

Stop, she scolded herself.

Some litter by the curb was a welcome diversion. Amy grabbed her broom. She was sweeping up leaves, candy wrappers and discarded Kleenex when she sensed someone approaching.

Straightening, she saw a skinny woman in maybe her 40s. She wore running clothes—red sweatpants, a gray T-shirt and white New Balance sneakers. She had short, spiky platinum-blond hair, three earrings in each lobe, a beaded bracelet, three rings on each hand. And sharp blue eyes.

The eyes.

They were the give-away.

Shannon? she asked. Could that be you?

Shannon Martin smiled. You’re amazing. It’s been, what? Ten, fifteen years? And I’m in a mask. And now blond!

Amy tried to take the compliment as a compliment. And not feel patronized by another snobby Martin, Al’s only sister who, last Amy heard, was an art teacher in San Diego.

I’m just stunned and speechless, Amy said. And, if you remember me, I’m never speechless.

Both women laughed.

Can you talk? Or is this a bad time? Shannon asked.

Not now. Sorry. I have a customer inside and—

As if on cue, the door opened, and both women turned toward the sound.

Be right with you, Amy yelled.

Okay, Shannon said. Just quickly, I was hoping to get your help, as Al’s next of kin, in asking for an autopsy to make sure that—

Amy held up her hand.

You must not have heard that Al and I split up. And I’ve really gotta—

Can you call when you’re free? Shannon handed Amy a business card. I’d love to catch up. But, real quick, can you say where I’d find Al’s body? Still at the hospital—

I’m sorry, Amy said. I’m not the one who … Why don’t you stop by the house? Patrick is running the show.

CHAPTER THREE

PATRICK WAS RUNNING the show—reluctantly.

The third-born Martin, he was now the eldest surviving sibling. But, temperamentally, he was still an indecisive middle child.

The problem was that Liam, the baby of the family, at 42, was still a baby. Shannon, No. 4, had shown up looking to second-guess and point fingers—to get things undone, not done.

So Patrick took a deep breath and redialed Al’s lawyer.

After four rings, he heard the same damn recording.

You’ve reached the law offices of Barry Grayson. Because of the pandemic, our offices are closed. Leave a message and we’ll get back to you in 24 hours.

Horseshit.

Patrick had been calling since Wednesday. And no message was returned even after 48 hours.

He left another.

Dr. Patrick Martin. Again, he said. Just to repeat. We found a will of Al’s here in his safe. Maybe the most current. Maybe not. Either way, we’d like to get moving on what needs to get done. Please call.

Patrick’s wife kept telling him to relax. It’s Chautauqua, not Chicago. Things move at a different pace. But he was beyond done.

He stared at the tangle of trees, brush and rocks across the street. And remembered playing Werewolf there as a kid. Club’s version of hide-and-seek, in which a designated werewolf searched for everyone else, hidden and howling in the ravine.

A blue jay, flitting in and out of the scene, lifted Patrick’s spirits. And he made his move.

He preheated the oven. And started playing his Beatles playlist through Al’s Sonos.

Trade-offs.

He loved the sound system, but missed his own kitchen. Especially his KitchenAid mixer. He made do, stirring together the softened butter and sugars by hand, taking breaks.

He added the eggs and vanilla and rested again. Next came the dry ingredients, added little by little. Then chocolate chips.

He sang along with Paul, "Blackbird singing in the dead of night."

When he pulled out three baking sheets, he also grabbed a cereal bowl and two spoons. One spoon was for forming the cookies, the other for snacking.

As he slid his first cookie tray into the oven, he sang the chorus.

"Blackbird fly, blackbird fly. Into the light of a dark black night."

Smells amazing.

Glaring at the interruption, Patrick held up a hand.

Kerry stood there in her oversized purple mask, saying nothing. But her eyes, with fake lashes and glittery lids, were laughing.

Patrick closed his own eyes, listening to the song to the end.

Name that band? he asked.

Kerry, to Patrick’s horror, threw up her hands.

You don’t know?

Nope.

It’s the once-in-a-generation, music-changing—really, world-changing—band called … The Beatles. Heard of them?

Of course, the aide said, laughing. Just didn’t know the song.

He shook his head.

Hope you’ll still share some cookie dough, she said.

He scooped dough into another bowl and handed it to Kerry with a spoon.

Thanks. I’m getting milk, she said. Want some?

Yes, thanks.

She poured two glasses, left his and started to hurry off.

‘Blackbird’ isn’t about a bird, by the way, Patrick continued. It’s about the civil rights movement. Paul’s tribute. Saying it’s time for a black woman to rise. Want to hear it again? And really listen?

She didn’t answer.

So what? His kids, also in their 20s, rolled their eyes at his Beatles lectures. Hearing more real music by real musicians would do this generation good.

He pushed replay.

When a timer rang, Patrick subbed out his first tray for a second. He put the first by the window. And he started forming cookie blobs on a third.

By the way, isn’t eating raw dough dangerous? Kerry asked. You’re a doctor and you’re eating it. I always thought it can make you sick.

He swallowed another spoonful, loving the sweetness and creamy texture, chasing it with milk.

It can. The eggs are typically heat-sensitized. Some bacteria can remain on the outer shells and contaminate things when they’re cracked. The uncooked flour has its own E.coli risks. Cooking kills any issues. As far as the risk? It’s greater for the vulnerable—very young, very old, pregnant women. I love the dough, so I’m taking a calculated risk. Like we all do.

She turned to go.

How’s the laundry?

Maybe half done. If you’re thinking Salvation Army, I—

Maybe tomorrow. I haven’t found what’s open. Or figured out the COVID rules. I’ll tell you when I know more.

When she was nearly at the door, he yelled, One more thing.

She stopped.

I still haven’t connected with my sister. How was she?

Kerry squinted, confused.

Like how’d she look?

Super skinny and nervous.

Patrick resisted the impulse to pat his own substantial gut. A bad habit. And a shock every time.

She asked for you, then Liam and …

Her voice trailed off.

What?

She asked if I thought that, well, Al really died of COVID.

And?

I said I’m no expert. If the doctors said so, why would I doubt them? And, okay, yeah, she also asked if I knew some local ladies who solve crimes. And if one of them works at the newspaper and—

Patrick glared at her.

I said I wouldn’t know.

CHAPTER FOUR

MIMI GOLDMAN was still working at The Chautauquan Daily. Only her work, like most people’s, had been turned upside-down since March.

After spending the off-season helping with Chautauqua public relations, Mimi was back full time at The Daily. But most of her work was being done remotely, for publication online, not in the usual newspaper.

With a summer staff of 12, down from 19, Mimi had more responsibilities. She was covering opera and her usual youth programs and recreation (sports, in other words). But with so little happening, she had way less to do.

That didn’t stop her boss Ryan Petrovic from holding daily 1 P.M. staff meetings via Zoom.

That Saturday, Mimi signed in at 12:45, expecting everything that could go wrong would go wrong. Her Zoom link, computer and Internet worked fine. So that gave her a little extra time. She put away her farmers’ market gazpacho. Poured herself a coffee. And improved her Zoom setup.

Following her son Jake’s advice, she built a computer tower—with two 35-ounce tomato cans and a fat dictionary—to be seen at the meeting from a more flattering angle.

When Ryan signed in at 1 P.M., Mimi appeared in the top left of the four-by-three grid of postage stamp-sized faces popping up on her screen.

Afternoon, all, Ryan said from Mimi’s right.

Nods and headshakes followed.

Ryan went around, asking for updates. When he reached Rachel Karlson, a new religion reporter (also covering environmental issues and the Bird, Tree & Garden Club), Mimi paid special attention.

Rachel, who lived in Lakewood, was fun to watch because she usually brought Paco, a fluffy white doodle, to their Zoom meetings. Mostly, he slept. When he acted up, Rachel, a sweetie to all humans, made stern under-her-breath threats like, Don’t make me put you in your crate.

That day, Paco was an angel. He slept on Rachel’s lap as she described her story on an inventory of every single plant in Chautauqua’s public gardens: flowers, shrubs, vines, trees, ground cover.

The project was being conducted on Wednesdays and Fridays by volunteers from the Bird, Tree & Garden Club and Chautauqua