Fields' Guide to Dirty Money: The Poppy Fields Adventure Series, #6

By Julie Mulhern

Poppy Fields, social influencer and secret spy, is on Grand Cayman. Her mission? Maid of honor at her mother's wedding to Russian billionaire Yurgi Prokorhov. No surprise, Chariss Carlton is a difficult and demanding bride.

 

When Poppy witnesses a murder, her days change from irritating to dangerous. She and her partner Thor (real name Mark Stone—but a dead-ringer for a Norse god) are tasked with catching a killer and shuttering a billion dollar money laundering scheme.

 

Between bombs, bridal showers, high-speed car chases, a missing wedding planner, and a femme fatale with her eye on Thor, it will be a miracle if Poppy makes it to the church on time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julie Mulhern
• Release date: Sep 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393628538

Julie Mulhern

ulie Mulhern is the USA Today bestselling author of The Country Club Murders and the Poppy Fields Adventures.  She is a Kansas City native who grew up on a steady diet of Agatha Christie. She spends her spare time whipping up gourmet meals for her family, working out at the gym and finding new ways to keep her house spotlessly clean--and she's got an active imagination. Truth is--she's an expert at calling for take-out, she grumbles about walking the dog and the dust bunnies under the bed have grown into dust lions. Action, adventure, mystery, and humor are the things Julie loves when she's reading. She loves them even more when she's writing! Sign up for Julie's newsletter at juliemulhernauthor.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I peered through the door (plate glass with a clear view through the dining area to the sparkling Caribbean). Ornate crystal chandeliers hung above sandy-hued travertine tile. The tables and chairs were clear Lucite. The walls were the same aquamarine-meets-turquoise as the sea.

Hope flared in heart, and I crossed my fingers. Tightly. This might be the place. It ticked Chariss’ boxes. I stepped inside.

At three o’clock in the afternoon, only one table was occupied. The lone man looked from up his phone and frowned at me.

Are you— I checked my cell for the manager’s name —Yves?

No. The restaurant is closed. An American accent—somewhere in the south. Georgia? Mississippi? I couldn’t tell. In his mid-thirties with sandy hair, a stubble-roughened jaw, a loosened Hermès tie (pink with fez-wearing monkeys riding snails) around his neck, and sleeves rolled to his elbows, he looked like a playboy who’d dragged his hung-over self into work.

I have an appointment. A lie. But I doubted the restaurant manager would mind. Cassava stood to make tens of thousands of dollars. I’m planning a wedding shower. And I’d already scouted and rejected fifty (okay, five—but it felt like fifty) restaurants on Grand Cayman.

The man glanced at his watch (a Rolex Cosmograph Daytona), and his lips thinned. Closed. He crossed a tanned ankle over a poplin clad knee.

I’m not here to eat. I’m meeting with Yves.

A curled lip and narrowed eyes said he’d rather toss me out the front door than tell me if Yves was there.

I smoothed my dress and put on my sweetest smile. The shower is for my mother. Chariss Carlton. She’s marrying Yurgi Prokorhov. An afternoon spent explaining who I was and what I wanted meant I’d grown accustomed to restaurateurs’ fawning (my mother was one of Hollywood’s brightest stars and her groom ranked among the ten richest men in the world). The man at the table remained unimpressed. Are you the owner? I asked.

He sneered. A full-face sneer—lips, eyes, brows, even his nose participated.

Totally rude. There was a reason he sat alone. He might be rich enough to wear a hundred thousand dollars on his wrist, but no one could stand to be near him.

Is Yves here?

With a flat stare, he pointed to a hallway that ran past the mirrored bar.

I left him to his solitude, made my way down the hallway, and tapped on the only door not marked as a water closet. Yves?

No one responded.

Drat. If I returned home and admitted defeat, Harmony, Chariss’ wedding planner would stare at me with disappointed blue eyes the size of half-dollars. Her lower lip might quiver. And Chariss, who’d embraced the bridezilla concept with both arms wide open, would explode as if I’d set out to sabotage her dream wedding.

Finding a site for the shower seemed like a job for Harmony, but Chariss insisted her new assistant was too busy. Also, according to Chariss, the hostess should pick the venue. Lucky me. I needed a restaurant that could cater to special diets (keto, paleo, Whole30, Ornish, Nordic, GOLO, gluten-free, and dairy-free) (we could serve water). A place both elegant and casual, hip and homey. A fantastic view was essential. As were plentiful parking, a highly trained staff, and the promise of confidentiality. I needed a signed contract yesterday.

I tapped on the door a second time then turned the knob and peeked into the office. Stacks of paper littered a utilitarian desk and a hint of cigarette smoke lingered in the air. I stepped inside and circled the desk. Someone had repaired the chair’s cracked leather with duct tape. The computer monitor displayed a snow-covered ski slope. An array of ballpoint pens and yellow pencils filled an It might look like I’m listening to you, but in my head, I’m skiing coffee mug. Snow globes acted as paper weights, and a wastepaper basket overflowed with crumpled notes and empty Red Bull cans.

Yves? Silly. There was no place to hide in the tiny office.

I returned to the hallway and glanced at the time on my cell. This place was near perfect. I could afford to wait. I propped against the wall and scrolled through Instagram rather than return to Rude Dude in the dining room.

Crash!

The sound reverberated the length of the hall.

Had Rude Dude tripped? Had a chandelier fallen? I hurried toward the dining room.

Rude Dude had not tripped. A man (a giant) had thrown Rude Dude onto a table and wrapped his fingers around Rude Dude’s neck. The Lucite table never had a chance. Its legs had collapsed beneath their combined weight.

On the floor, Rude Dude’s fingers searched for a weapon. He found a shard of broken Lucite and sank the sharp plastic into his attacker’s upper arm.

The hold on his neck loosened, and Rude Dude twisted free and leapt to his feet.

The other man grimaced and jerked the Lucite from his arm. He dropped the shard, ignored the blood coloring his white linen shirt, and rushed his opponent.

The new guy had thirty pounds (all muscle) and four inches on Rude Dude. When his arms wrapped around Rude Dude’s waist, the two fell backward. Another table shattered.

These idiots were destroying my last best option for Chariss’ shower.

Stop!

They ignored me.

Rude Dude landed a knock-out punch on New Guy’s jaw, but New Guy shook off the blow. If anything the attack on his chin seemed to annoy him. He slugged Rude Dude in the gut.

Oomph. Rude Dude scrabbled away and pulled himself (no leaping this time) to standing.

New Guy rose to his feet, and the two men assessed each other’s injuries, searching for weaknesses. Their eyes shot lasers. Their mouths formed hard lines. Their cheeks were granite planes.

I’d seen that exact expression on men’s faces before, and a dart of fear pierced my dulled-by-wedding-shower-plans brain. This wasn’t a simple argument settled with fists. This was a fight to the death. Only one of the men would walk out of this restaurant.

Time for me to leave—I’d find a different location for Chariss’ shower, a place with intact furniture and no blood. I glanced over my shoulder, hoping for an EXIT sign or a window at the hallway’s end. I found neither.

The only way out was through the dining room.

Perfect. Just perfect. I was trapped with two guys trying to kill each other, and the winner wouldn’t want a witness. I retreated a few steps and dialed my partner, Thor (real name Mark Stone, but he looked like so much like Chris Hemsworth I’d renamed him in my head). He was drool-worthy. He was smart. He was tough. And he had dead-eye aim with a Glock. The perfect partner. The perfect man.

Have you found a place for the party?

Crash! There went another table.

What’s happening?

There’s a fight. I might need your help. I peeked into the dining room.

New Guy lowered his shoulder and rammed Rude Dude.

Rude Dude shattered a Lucite chair across New Guy’s back.

I definitely need your help. I’m trapped.

Where are you? Thor asked.

New Guy straightened and batted the chair’s remains from Rude Dude’s hands. The plastic splintered against the tile floor.

A restaurant called Cassava.

I’m on my way. Stay on the phone.

New Guy kicked. His foot hit Rude Dude’s ribs, and the sharp crack of a breaking bone echoed off the restaurant’s hard surfaces.

Rude Dude grunted, and his face blanched but he kneed New Guy in the groin.

New Guy gasped and bent at the waist.

Please hurry.

Rude Dude pulled the Hermès tie from around his neck and wrapped the silk around New Guy’s throat. Then he pulled.

I edged toward the door. They’re killing each other.

Get out of there. In the background, an engine roared to life. Thor was on his way.

New Guy’s fingers clawed at the pink silk, and his cheeks flushed a bright crimson. He stomped and kicked and struggled.

Rude Dude’s face was an emotionless mask.

I took Thor’s advice and edged faster, slipping on bits of broken plastic.

Don’t. Move. The voice sent shivers down my spine.

I froze with my fingers inches from the door handle, I’d come so close.

New Guy’s body was slack, and Rude Dude let him collapse to the floor.

He took a step toward me then another. He still held the pink monkey tie, and his face spoke of death.

This wouldn’t end well.

I backed up till my shoulder blades touched the door.

Rude Dude came closer.

Which rib was broken? If I had to hit him, I’d aim there.

My fingers circled the door handle.

Choo!

Rude Dude stumbled. His hands lifted to his chest, and a bemused expression flitted across his face.

He lowered his hands, and blood welled between his fingers and ruined his tie. For a brief second, surprise flashed across his face, then he crashed to the floor.

With one hand rubbing his bruised throat, New Guy shifted his gun’s aim to me.

I stared into merciless ice blue eyes. Adrenaline cut off the blood flow to my fingers and dried my mouth. Fight or flight?

Flight!

I threw open the door and ran.

Behind me, Cassava’s plate glass entrance shattered. My steps stuttered, and I nearly dropped the phone.

Poppy! What happened?

New Guy shot at me. Hold on. My feet flew across the pavement, and I dodged strolling tourists laden with shopping bags. When two blocks of candy-colored stores and restaurants stretched between me and the man with the gun, I ducked into a shop with blue iguanas painted on the windows. I’m okay.

Where are you? Never mind. I’ll trace your phone. I’m on my way. Are you safe?

I think so. The store sold t-shirts, travel mugs, baseball caps, cheap sunglasses, and island-themed flip-flops. I pretended interest in a rack of postcards while I kept an eye on the entrance.

What happened?

I honestly don’t know. I was at Cassava and went to the back to see if the manager was available. I heard a crash and found two guys fighting in the dining room. New Guy killed Rude Dude.

Someone’s dead? Thor’s voice carried an edge. Cassava? Was that place on Harmony’s list?

No. But I met a local who recommended it. It’s too bad this happened. The place would have been perfect. I sounded shallow, a woman who didn’t care that a man had just died, but I needed a location for Chariss’ shower, and murder was no excuse for failure. What I mean is—

I get it. He’d witnessed Chariss screeching meltdown over the shape of the ice cubes at the reception (she wanted round not square). If I failed to find a suitable spot for the wedding shower, Chariss’ hurricane reaction would make yesterday’s ice cube storm seem like a gentle breeze. I’m almost there.

Five minutes and a Tortuga rum cake later (I had to buy something and didn’t see myself wearing a straw hat with Grand Cayman embroidered on the crown), Thor pulled to the curb in an Aston Martin DBS convertible.

Thor and I were staying at Yurgi’s beach front house (house was a loose term for a twenty-five thousand square foot behemoth), and Yurgi had given Thor the run of the six-car garage. Thor could drive the Aston Martin, a Porsche 911, a Rolls Royce Phantom, two Range Rovers (one black, one silver), or a Mercedes-AMG S65. Thor could drive—not me. I wasn’t allowed behind the wheel (driving on the left side of the road was hard).

I lifted Consuela, my long-haired Chihuahua, from the car’s passenger’s seat and climbed into the Aston Martin.

Consuela licked my nose, and I cuddled her close to my chest.

Thor studied me carefully. You’re not hurt?

Not a scratch. The adrenaline had done its job. Now that I was safe, my heart neared its normal rhythm.

Yip. You’re sure you’re okay?

I stroked Consuela’s fur and dropped a kiss on her silky head.

Thor pulled the car away from the curb. Tell me what happened.

I told him.

Where is this place?

I directed him to the restaurant, and he slowed in front of Cassava. We both watched police swarm around the destroyed entrance.

What did the dead guy look like? The edge in his voice was sharper now.

Mid-thirties, sandy hair, bad attitude, great tie.

Accent?

American. Southern.

Damn. His shoulders slumped into the driver’s seat buttery leather, and he pulled to the curb.

What’s wrong?

Rather than answer, Thor hit speed dial on his phone. It’s Stone.

He listened.

I’m there now. Poppy saw the murder. He held out the phone. Mr. Brown wants to talk to you.

Mr. Brown was our boss. He ran a super-secret government agency dedicated to keeping the U.S. secure. He recruited me after a Mexican drug cartel abducted me (long story) and he openly questioned that decision on a regular basis.

My fingers tightened around the cell. Hello.

Again, Ms. Fields?

Trouble had a habit of finding me.

What did the killer look like?

Tall. Brown hair. Square jaw. Not bad looking. I didn’t add that part. Light blue eyes.

Scars? Tattoos? I could hear Mr. Brown’s annoyance.

Not that I saw.

You’re sure Sanders is dead?

Sanders?

Our agent. The one you saw murdered.

Uh-oh. Pretty sure.

Sit down with a sketch artist. We need to know who killed him.

But—

Sanders was undercover. A joint operation with our friends from across the pond. The Brit may be in danger. Put Stone on.

I handed the phone to Thor.

I understand, sir. I’ll tell her. He dropped the cell into his lap and put the car in gear.

What?

Sanders and Ian Grant are—were—working undercover. A money-laundering sting. He pulled the Aston Martin into traffic.

Their covers were blown? I asked.

Thor rubbed his chin. Not necessarily.

Thor had a point. I’d spent less than five minutes with Sanders and understood why someone might murder him.

You think a sketch will help?

Can’t hurt.

Thor drove, and I stared through the windshield. Hotels and private estates blocked the view of Seven Mile Beach. Instead of water, white-washed walls and gated drives stretched into the distance. The wind tugged at my hair, and I breathed air tinged with sun and sea and money.

According to Yurgi, the Cayman Islands had more registered financial services companies than it did residents. The government imposed no taxes on corporate profits, capital gains, or personal income. Yurgi was considering applying for a residency permit (he had to prove income, keep half a million dollars in a Cayman bank account, and invest just