Killer Confession

By Kelly Rey

From USA Today bestselling author Kelly Rey comes a mystery full of twists-and-turns and laugh-out-loud moments…

Legal secretary and reluctant sleuth Jamie Winters might have thought her hectic life was about to slow down...but she was dead wrong.

Vicious Vic Hartman is the tabloid Grapevine's star reporter and celebrity host of television's Grapevine Live. But he's made lots of enemies on his climb to the top of the trash journalism heap, so when he's found murdered after a party at his home, there's no shortage of suspects. Which is why the victim's family hires Jamie and her sassy teenaged sidekick Maizy to figure out just which one of the not-so-grieving is his killer. Between Vic's intimidating boss, a bitter ghostwriter, an unscrupulous would-be replacement, a jilted girlfriend, and an assortment of disgruntled neighbors and family members, the dynamic duo have their work cut out for them—not to mention trying to avoid the menacing Lincoln Park Loper and a creepy doll named Tara who may or may not be stalking them! Can they find the killer...before they become the next victims?

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: May 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005141820

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

I'd always known that my sweet tooth would get me into trouble. It finally did in the local supermarket on the afternoon of September 13th, while I was actively ignoring the healthy fruits and veggies for the tasty sugar and fat of the snack food aisle. I'm not talking about a couple of extra pounds kind of trouble. At 98 pounds, I'd welcome that. A little Tastykake weight could only give me a few much-needed curves.

The trouble came when a woman just on the other side of the endcap said, Gillian, I've been worried about you since Vic's murder.

I'm managing, another woman, presumably Gillian, said. But I can't tell you how hard it's been.

Maizy Emerson elbowed me in the ribs, almost making me drop a box of Butterscotch Krimpets. "Did you hear that? She said murder."

Maizy was the seventeen-year-old niece of my landlord slash man-of-my-dreams, Curt Emerson, and the Batman to my Robin when it came to crime-solving. That is to say, she was the one who programmed the Batcomputer and drove the Batmobile while I stood around in slack-jawed wonder at her insane skill set. Despite the difference in our ages, intellect, employment status, and sleep requirements (she had none of the latter two, too much of the second, and the first, never mind), we'd bonded over our shared affection for Curt as well as the murder investigations we'd managed to bumble into and out of together.

Maizy's go-to look was tattered jeans, a baggy hoodie, scuffed Doc Martens, heavy black eyeliner, and vivid Smurf-blue hair. Maizy sucked up all the oxygen in the room, which was fine by me because I tended to avoid attention like a gremlin avoids sunlight. Probably for the best, since my go-to look was mom jeans, sweatshirts, and bargain bin sneakers.

My name is Jamie Winters. I'm in my early thirties with blah brown hair, meh hazel eyes, and the body of a pubescent boy. Oh, and I drive an antique car—and not the valuable kind. Other than that, I had it going on.

Do you mind? I snapped, clutching the box more tightly.

Mind what? she asked. "You poisoning yourself with five pounds of sugar and cholesterol and bleached flour? Why should I mind? They're your arteries."

I rolled my eyes. "Let's go. I want to be home before Tattletales comes on." I had a serious crush on the host, Bert Convy—never mind he'd been dead for years. Timing had never been my strong suit.

Maizy grabbed my arm. Your social life is an inspiration, but I think that's Gillian Hartman's voice. You know who that is, don't you?

I shook my head. Not a clue.

She blew out an exasperated sigh. Gillian Hartman owns Glow. She must have noticed my lack of comprehension. Glow? The fancy spa in Watersford that charges a couple hundred bucks for a mud wrap?

Why would people pay someone to wrap them in mud when they could wade into the Delaware River and do it for themselves? Also, that would explain why I didn't know Gillian. Watersford was a pricey historic town along the river, a place where elegant mansions with wraparound porches sprawled beneath hundred-year-old shade trees. Now that she'd brought it up, I remembered a write-up in one of the Philly papers. Glow was so upscale it was practically a private club, catering to the well-to-do, ladies-who-lunch set and local television personalities who favored champagne brunches. I didn't have the financial status to get beyond its glossy red door.

And, Maizy added, she's married to Victor Hartman. Or she used to be anyway.

I looked at her blankly.

The guy who wrote about aliens and gossip and three-legged albino widows? she prompted.

I felt a jolt of recognition. "You mean those nasty articles in Grapevine?"

She nodded. "And on TV. Vicious Vic's Grapevine Live. But you've probably never seen that, 'cause it comes on at ten p.m. It's a real chuckle-fest. Oh, and he wrote that trashy biography of that rich business guy."

I'd never watched Grapevine Live, but I'd read a few of his gems in the highly profitable rag that trafficked in unverified stories and ridiculous conspiracies. He'd come by his nickname honestly. Vicious Vic had managed to concoct stories worthy of Twilight Zone, stirring them up from the gutter, if necessary, in between skewering celebrities, politicians, and lesser luminaries alike with his stiletto pen. He'd recently published a scorching unauthorized biography about J. Wayne Steele, a local businessman, and his alleged shady deals and stable of sugar babies. If Mr. Steele had been livid after its release, Mrs. Steele had been lethal. Because of Vicious Vic's exposé, she was suing her husband for half his fortune and custody of their Bouvier de Flanders, Pierre Le Chien de Fantaisie aux Cheveux Gonfles, better known as Pip. Rumor had it Vicious Vic slept with one eye open and paid the paper delivery boy to start his car every morning. If he'd been murdered, the field of suspects would be wide and deep.

Do they have any suspects? the first woman asked.

Maizy's eyes got wide. She swept aside the boxes of Tastykakes and practically climbed onto the shelf to get a better listen. Murder, she mouthed to me.

I really didn't want to hear it. I shook my head so hard my eyes nearly crossed. Sure, we'd come through our misadventures alive, if no wiser, but that didn't mean I was eager to do it again.

Not yet, Gillian Whoever said. The police are still talking to everyone.

Police, Maizy mouthed to me.

They haven't been able to get in touch with that secretary of his yet, Gillian added. His boss claims she's conveniently been out on personal leave since Vic died. Not that I trust a word that woman says.

I bristled a little. There'd been an unmistakable element of suspicion in that comment. Why did everyone always blame the secretary? Why did someone like Vicious Vic even have a secretary? He hadn't needed any help in slinging the mud.

Shady, Maizy mouthed to me.

Maizy had a big mouth. I'd had enough of it and launched into an elaborate pantomime routine meant to infer that I was taking my impending sugar buzz to the checkout.

She rushed over to me. Where are you going? We can't leave now. This is a new case for us.

I don't want a new case, I told her. "I'm still not over the old case."

"You might not want it, she said. But you need it. It's not healthy to obsess over the past."

It was three weeks ago, I said.

She shrugged. Not the point. You have to learn to let go.

Good advice, I told her. "You have to—"

Two women suddenly emerged from the next aisle, both dressed impeccably, both with mirror-smooth, blonde bobs, both carrying bags that could not only accommodate every dollar I owned in the universe but cost it as well.

Here's our chance. Maizy gave me a shove, and I stumbled directly in front of them like a sloppy drunk, blocking their path. They each took a simultaneous step back with matching expressions of horror. Which I really didn't get because, while I might not have been ready for Fashion Week, I didn't think I looked that bad.

Excuse me, I mumbled. I didn't mean to—

You're Gillian Hartman, aren't you? Maizy stepped up beside me, holding a slip of paper between two fingers. I frowned down at it, but she passed it to Gillian too quickly for me to read it. It sounds like you could use our services.

Our services? We didn't have services.

Gillian barely looked at the paper. Instead, she stared at Maizy's blue hair. Who on Earth did that to you?

Did what? Maizy asked.

Your hair is blue, her companion said, managing to sound polite as she gaped.

Oh. That. Maizy shrugged. Accident of birth. Anyway, about your husband's death. Sympathies, condolences, blah, blah, blah. We can help you find out who killed him.

Gillian blinked at her. I beg your pardon? What do you know about my husband's death?

I know he's dead, Maizy said. And thanks to the acoustics on Aisle 7, I know he was murdered. That's where we come in.

Her approach could have used some work, but it prompted Gillian to finally read the paper in her hand. Tee? What's Tee? What is this?

Tee is me, Maizy said. That number is the Pibbs Investigations hotline.

Tee? Pibbs Investigations? That familiar sense of dread started to swirl around my gut. Maizy had found her newest adventure.

Are you trying to tell me you two are investigators? Gillian asked.

"Not trying to, Maizy said. You'll find I'm fairly succinct."

She narrowed her eyes. Aren't you a little young to be a private investigator?

Maizy pointed her chin at me. Don't worry, my partner ups our average age considerably.

"I don't know about considerably," I said through tight lips. And what was with Pibbs? The only Pibbs I'd ever heard of was Miss Pibbs, aka Ashley, the calico cat I'd liberated from a murder suspect after she'd gone on the lam, then given a more fitting name. Would Maizy possibly do something so outrageous as to call herself Tee and concoct a phony private investigation business using the discarded name of a purloined cat?

Of course she would.

I nudged her. Can I talk to you?

Plenty of time for talking later, she said. While we work on this case.

I haven't agreed to that, Gillian cut in. "And I'm not going to. You're rude and tactless, and you have blue hair."

Maizy stared at her open-mouthed before shaking her head. Wow. Seriously?

She's not rude— I began defensively.

Maizy interrupted me. You think blue hair signifies some kind of intellectual challenge?

This conversation is over, Gillian said. She brushed past us, her chin in the air. Come on, Evelyn.

Maizy stuck her hands on her hips and turned to stare at me. Tell me she was kidding.

I gave a helpless shrug. I didn't think she'd been kidding. She'd looked dead dog serious to me. Or was that dead husband?

Evelyn lingered behind with a glance after Gillian. She kept her voice low. Don't mind her. She's not usually like that. It's just with all that's going on…

We understand, I said. She's stressed. We're stressed. Life is stressful. What can you say? I looked at Maizy. We did all we could.

Maizy snorted. Hardly.

She won't hire you, you know, Evelyn said. There's no point in pushing her. She doesn't believe in private detectives.

"Believe in them? Maizy repeated. We're not ghosts."

Evelyn colored slightly. That's not what I meant. She's a very private person, and the idea of an investigator poking around, invading that privacy, is horrifying to her.

We understand, I said. No hard feelings. Nice meeting you.

Evelyn shot another glance in Gillian's direction. But there might be another way.

There usually is, Maizy said. We're listening.

Maybe she was, but I wasn't. I was busy eyeing those chocolate Kandy Kakes.

Gillian's got a sister, Evelyn said, Her name's Heather Baddenlooper and—

I cut in. Baddenlooper? I remembered that name. Anyone who'd ever heard it would remember it. Heather Baddenlooper had been, maybe still was, a client of Parker Dennis, the law firm where I slogged through eight grueling hours a day avoiding my bosses and deciphering lawyer scribble.

You know her? Maizy asked me.

I didn't want to divulge any of Heather's personal business. I shook my head. It's just an unusual name.

"Not if your name's Hoppenscotcher," Maizy said.

I ignored her.

Heather's easier to deal with, Evelyn told us. She's less, you know… She trailed off.

Superstitious? Maizy asked.

Private? I asked.

Volatile, Evelyn said. In fact, Heather always reminded me of Tinkerbell somehow. She works at Bamboo, the hair salon at Main and Fifth? I'm sure she'd be interested in hiring you.

Oh, great. A fancy spa and a hair salon. It was like my worst nightmares come to life as conjoined twins. I ran a furtive hand across my hair.

Maizy pushed it down. Be who you are.

Sure. That had gotten me far in life.

I'm going to put Heather in touch with you, Evelyn said. I know she'll want you to look into Vic's death.

Why would she hire us if her sister won't? I asked. And why had I asked that question? I didn't want anyone to hire us. I wanted to go home and watch forty-year-old game shows and eat Tastykakes.

She sighed. Look, I know we're talking about Vicious Vic Hartman here. He was no one's favorite person. I get that. But Heather was close to her brother-in-law and is very close to her sister.

Thanks, Maizy said. But we don't chase clients. All evidence to the contrary, since at this very moment we were standing in a supermarket doing just that. Maizy whipped out another scrap of paper and scribbled her cell number on it. Give this to Heather, and we'll see what happens.

Evelyn looked at it. Are you T. Pibbs?

I can neither confirm nor deny, Maizy said. My identity is classified. She can speak freely to the person who answers the call.

I turned my head so that Evelyn wouldn't see my eye roll. I waited until she had tucked the paper into her purse and hurried off, shopping basket in hand, before I turned on Maizy. Are you happy now?

"That question implies that I'm sometimes unhappy, Maizy said. But false assumptions aside, yes, I'm happy. We've got another case."

No, we don't. You heard her. Gillian won't hire us.

But Heather Boopenlager will, Maizy said.

Baddenlooper.

She steamrolled on. Now we need to lay some groundwork and find out more about Vicious Vic.

I already knew enough about him to know I didn't want to know anything else.

I've already got a job, I said. If you want to waste your time researching this guy for nothing, be my guest.

Maizy's cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen, and a little smile played across her lips. She answered it in a brisk, professional tone. Pibbs Investigations. Tee speaking.

My jaw went slack.

I've been expecting your call. Maizy grinned at me. Did she? Well, isn't she efficient. Of course my partner and I will be happy to meet with you. Two o'clock it is. She disconnected the call.

I glanced around for hidden cameras. Am I being punked?

Why are you so surprised? Maizy asked. I told you we had a case. Evelyn called her from the dairy aisle and told her about us. I like that Evelyn. She's a real go-getter.

We really need to have a talk, I said.

Need some more advice about Uncle Curt? she asked. Here it is. Put down the Tastykakes, and let's go buy you a cookbook. Man cannot live on takeout pizza alone.

Then Man can pick up a spatula and cook his own meals, I said.

She grinned. Sometimes I'm proud to call you my mentor.

"You never call me your mentor."

Well, this isn't one of those times, she said. Anyway, I didn't say you had to make a habit out of cooking or whatever that is you do in the kitchen. Once a month ought to take care of it.

Good thing. Even I didn't want to make a habit out of eating my own cooking.

I can't blame you, she said with a grimace. You should probably stick with cereal and leave the complicated food to the pros.

I told you to stop doing that, I snapped. Maizy had an annoying habit of climbing inside my head—no telling when she might decide to rewire the circuitry just for fun.

Fish in a barrel, she said with a shrug.

Besides, I added, your boyfriend lives on french fries.

That's different, she said. Grunt's not my boyfriend. He's my X chromosome challenged associate.

We'd met Grunthold Grimm, Grunt for short, during the course of one of our alleged investigations, when he'd emerged from the shadows inside a dead mall where Maizy, Curt and I had been meeting an informant. Grunt thought age was irrelevant and money was immaterial, probably because he was young and loaded. It turned out Grunt's implacable Zen had been a cover for a laconic overachiever with a dozen patents, a slightly skewed worldview, and an IQ that rivaled Maizy's. They'd hit it off instantly. I liked Grunt, but he was way more boyfriend than associate by any definition.

Also…

This isn't about cooking, I snapped. You have to stop looking for murders to solve.

Her eyes got all wide and innocent. What do you mean? I don't look for murders. They look for me. Besides, we're getting a rep now.

For what? I asked. We aren't detectives.

That's not what the answering service says. Come on. We have to get ready for our meeting with Heather.

She had an answering service?

I don't know what 'get ready' means, I said, following her to the checkout lanes. But I'm telling you right now, I'm not wearing pantyhose and answering to a letter like some kind of James Bond character.

Maizy took the Tastykake boxes from my arms and dumped them unceremoniously on the conveyor belt. I suddenly noticed a magazine on the checkout rack blazing the headline, "Vicious Vic's Murder—Taste of His Own Medicine?" Tacky but compelling. I pulled it off the rack and tossed it onto the belt.

I knew you would say that, Maizy said. Don't worry, you can go as you are. And your name isn't T.

Good.

It's Dee. She met my glare with another grin.

I really needed some new friends.

CHAPTER TWO

Gillian is going to kill me for doing this.

We sat in the waiting area of Bamboo, the salon where Heather Baddenlooper worked, an area furnished with several white velvet-covered settees, each so tiny they accommodated just one bum each, provided that bum wasn't bigger than a size four. White-framed, oval mirrors hung on glossy white walls at each of the eight stylists' black lacquered stations. The stylists wore black cocktail dresses with sky-high heels, their hair slicked back into matching buns, which showed off sparkling, shoulder duster earrings. The effect was vintage Robert Palmer video.

It was intimidating to be confronted with so much perfection given that my own wrinkled outfit appeared to have been recently liberated from a week in a duffel bag. My reflection, caught in one of the merciless, white-framed mirrors, reminded me I was badly overdue for a trim. Maizy, on the other hand, gave herself a brisk nod of approval and turned her back on Mirror Maizy. I could only hope to have that kind of confidence someday.

I'd expected a rush of recognition upon sight of Heather Baddenlooper, but that didn't happen. She was just another of the breathtakingly, jaw-droppingly, head-turningly gorgeous, long-legged blondes you see every day. Heather shared her sister's blonde hair and sense of style, and if you squinted just a little, they could have passed for twins. But Heather's whole aura was softer somehow; she smiled readily, and her eyes lacked that bird-of-prey glint. If she 'd noticed my fashion faux pas, she was polite enough not to show it. She'd paired her sleek black dress with leopard print heels and perched herself on the velvet settee with her legs angled to the right, demurely crossed at the ankles. The shoes contrasted sharply with the black-and-whiteness of the place, effortlessly commanding attention.

Nice place, I said, as if I stepped into fancy salons every day of my life. Have you been working here for long?

Almost four years, Heather said. Isn't it wonderful? These girls can practically perform miracles. Maybe I can do something with your hair, if you want.

No, thanks, I said quickly. It's just how I like it. Flat and frizzy.

She looked at Maizy's blue hair. What about you?

Don't try to fix me, Maizy said.

Heather's smile faltered. Of course not. She hesitated. So how long have you known Evelyn?

Evelyn? Maizy did a careless wave. In some ways, it seems like just five minutes.

I rolled my eyes.

Heather smiled, showing even, white teeth with very pointy incisors. I know what you mean. Isn't she wonderful?

Her relentless perkiness was starting to irritate me.

Heather turned to me. You look very familiar. Have we met before?

I have a very common face, I said. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about work in public, with a client.

She snapped her fingers. I know! We go to the same gym.

I ignored Maizy's snort. Afraid not. I don't have a gym membership.

We do your nails, then.

Again with the snorting. This time I shot Maizy a dirty look before holding up ten unmanicured fingers in response. At least they were clean.

Heather shrugged. It'll come to me. Anyway, you already know that Evelyn gave me your name and number. She paused. Well, your number. She looked at Maizy. "She said