Unmasked: Venice Murder Mystery Series, #1

By Agnes Lester Brown

Brie Cullen's well-organized life in New York is thrown into disarray when her mother suddenly dies, leaving Brie destitute. With nothing left to lose, she travels to Venice, Italy on a whim, in the vain hope of meeting her long-lost Venetian relatives. It all turns into a nightmare when Brie becomes the victim of mistaken identity, and ends up in the cross-hairs of a shadowy hitman with a predilection for poison darts. Facing certain death and with no one left to turn to, Brie is forced to team up with a flamboyant ghost from Venice's turbulent past in order to get to the bottom of a bewildering web of intrigue. Who is Laura, the girl who tragically drowned in the lagoon? What is Mr. Fantastic's true intentions? And what secrets are hidden away in the dilapidated boat houses in Chioggia?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Lantern Publishing
• Release date: Aug 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781393496281

Agnes Lester Brown

I wrote my first story when I was six years old and yes, it was about puppies. I’ve kept writing ever since, in one form or another. Starting off as a newspaper reporter in the heyday of print media I later jumped ship to a long career in business writing, followed by blogging and writing for websites. For the past few years I’ve been rediscovering the joy and art of storytelling, crafting stories about magic, murder and mystery. Nothing makes me happier than browsing a whimsical second hand bookshop , home made vegetable soup on a cold winter’s evening, or devouring yet another whodunnit while snuggling with my Norwegian Forest cat, Matisse. You can see details of upcoming books and new series, as well as titbits on characters on my website at http://www.agneslesterbrown.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

It’s five after nine on a balmy weekday evening in Queens, New York. Aware of how tired my feet are, I close and lock the front door of Pages and Pages. I turn the plastic sign on the door with the Victorian script to Closed. Go Home and Read before returning to the front desk. There, I fumble for the cash register’s power switch to turn it off. I can’t remember ever having to do this during all the time I’ve worked here. I know my way around technology, but this darn thing is older than the hills. Mother stubbornly refused to buy a new one.

This one’s fine, and anyway, I’m the boss, she kept telling me every day. Every day, that is, until she collapsed and died two weeks ago, right where I’m now standing.

I sit on the frayed cashier’s stool and push the bits and pieces of paper lying on the counter next to the cash register into neat little piles. My eyes fall on a business card bearing the distinctive logo of Pages and Pages. It’s an ink drawing of a pair of reading glasses—Mother’s own design. Printed below it is her name in an ornate Victorian script:

Margaret Cullen

Owner

I never had a business card like Mother did. I just worked here. She was the boss, but she’s gone now.

Dry-eyed, I toss the business card in the bin. I tear off a yellow Post-it note and write Print business cards for myself with my name, Brie Cullen, in capitals below it, sticking it on the side of the cash register as a reminder.

Only a few minutes ago, the shop was still humming with the hushed voices of customers doing last-minute browsing before closing time. Even after the last customer has left, their presence lingers, complementing the warm, cozy ambience second hand bookshops are legendary for. I’ve come to love the congenial atmosphere in here–have always, even when I was still crawling around the shiny parquet floor in diapers. I adore the musty smell of antique books and polished wood.

I get up and wander among the ceiling-high shelves crammed with books, and I’m among friends once more. Mother may be gone, but if I ever had to abandon Pages, it would be the biggest heartache ever for me.

I hear a soft knock on the front window and look up. A familiar, round, friendly face below an olive-colored trench hat is smiling at me while a gloved hand points to the door. It’s my godmother, Beatrice Winterton, who is–was–Mother’s best friend and confidante.

Quickly, come in, it’s icy outside, I say as I open the door. I hug Mama Bee, the name I’ve called her ever since I can remember. She kisses me on both cheeks, as she always has. I pour two mugs of coffee and we sit down at one of the reading tables strewn with newspapers and books waiting to return to the shelves.

We haven’t seen each other since Mother’s funeral, and so we spend a few minutes catching ups. Mama Bee seems a little distant, as if she’s come here with a purpose and is looking for an opportunity to speak her mind.

I know you well enough to know when there’s something you’ve come to tell me, I say after a while, during a lapse in the conversation. Go ahead and get it off your chest.

Her face becomes severe. Brie, I need to talk to you. You know your mother and I have been friends since kindergarten. She entrusted me with her secrets, and I did the same.

I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to excuse myself but manage to stay put, only folding my arms. Something is about to be revealed, and I have a feeling I’m not going to like it.

You probably didn’t know this, but your mother had a very special gift. She had a connection to the supernatural. She could communicate with the souls of the departed. Ghosts, she adds when she sees my frown.

I recoil in horror. I’m not a girl who’s prone to be at a loss for words. I’m a New Yorker, after all; we never stop talking. We’re all born with the gift of gab. Wise guys, all of us. But right now, my mouth is hanging open in silence. Mother might have been many things I disliked, but being an airy-fairy was not one of them.

Mama Bee slowly nods. Yes, Brie, it’s true. Your late mother–may her soul rest in peace–could see and speak to ghosts. She interacted with them like they were ordinary people she met on the street. She takes my hands where they’re lying limp on my lap. Honey, I have to ask. Do you think you have that same gift?

I withdraw, shake my head and sit back. Mama Bee’s hands are a little too cold for me.

No, oh no, definitely not. I don’t believe ghosts exist. It’s all made-up stuff, figments of the imagination. She looks unconvinced, so I continue. You know me better than anyone, Mama Bee. I’m a very flesh and blood sort of person, and I’m definitely not into that sort of mumbo jumbo. I’ve never even seen that movie Ghost, and Patrick Swayze is still one of my favorite actors. I sit back. Spooky stuff isn’t for me. Halloween is the worst time of year. And don’t even get me started on zombies. I shiver.

That is unusual, Mama Bee says and frowns. Your dear mother always said it was a family trait. A gift she inherited. It never crossed my mind that you weren’t born that way, especially since it came so naturally to her. She was a sensitive soul. That’s why she was able to speak to the departed. Are you sure you’re not suppressing it? Mama Bee holds my gaze with her soft blue eyes.

I think of my family for a moment before answering. My father died of a heart attack when I was seven years old, but I don’t ever remember him and Mother talking about ghosts.

After his death, my mother built a wall around herself and got buried in long hours of work, unpacking books and filling shelves in Pages and Pages below the first floor apartment where I grew up here in Queens.

Apart from helping run the shop, I spent countless hours lost in books; adventures, stories, romances—whatever I could get my hands on. Memories of my mother started fading the day after she died, yet the fond, vivid memories I have of Mama Bee remain clear as daylight.

I still remember when she took my tiny hand in hers, and we walked to the play park she took me every morning while my mother worked. She was the one I ran to when I got into fights when I was older. She who comforted me. Mama Bee, not Mother.

Mother was at the shop fourteen hours a day, working. I only existed on the fringes of her life. It continued that way until Thursday, two weeks ago, a mere fifteen minutes before the paramedics arrived and tried in vain to resuscitate her.

She was standing at the very same spot behind the counter she’d stood each day for the past twenty years while our lives slowly drifted apart, even though we saw each other almost every single day. The coroner said it was a massive brain hemorrhage, and death was instant.

Nope, I finally say, bringing my thoughts back to the room and looking around my late mother’s bookshop. It’s nothing like that. She was far from being a perfect mother, but that’s water under the bridge. I don’t know why she never told me she had a thing for ghosts. Maybe she’d seen me avoid reading anything to do with the paranormal and believed I’d think she was silly if she spoke about it. Or maybe she just didn’t trust me enough to share it with me. And I’m glad about that.

I sit up and drink down the last bit of coffee that has gone cold in my mug. I’m happy to carry on with life here in the bookshop. It’s a steady income and an uncomplicated way of life, and I like it that way, I say.

Mama Bee shifts in the antique upright chair she’s sitting on.

That’s another reason I need to speak to you, she says, still holding her serious expression. Has Paul Riley spoken to you at all?

It takes me a few seconds to recall who Paul Riley is. He’s a corporate-looking, thirty-something guy in a pin-striped suit and rimless specs who came to the shop a few times and asked to speak to Mother. I remember because I was reading Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express at the time.

No, he hasn’t contacted me, I say. He visited here on and off, but Mother didn’t introduce me. She always sent me on an errand when he arrived—probably so I wouldn’t overhear their conversation. Who is this guy? Do you know him?

He’s your mother’s accountant and executor of her will, Mama Bee says. I introduced her to Paul many years ago, and he’s looked after her affairs ever since.

"So much for her trusting me to do that, especially since we were so close and all, I say in a voice laden with sarcasm. Anyway, thanks for the heads-up. Should I speak to him about taking over the shop? I’m sure there’s paperwork and stuff to do. I’d like to get that out of the way as soon as possible and get things back to normal."

Apart from shifting about, Mama Bee is now also wringing her delicate hands in her lap.

What’s the matter, Mama Bee? I say, trying to catch her downcast eyes.

I… I… may as well tell you now what Paul let slip to me at your mom’s funeral. I better do this so it’s not a shock to you when Paul reads the will tomorrow. She looks at me with pleading eyes. Please don’t be mad at your mom.

I can’t bear this any longer. What’s going on? Is there something–

She didn’t leave you the bookshop in her will. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. I know how much Pages and Pages means to you.

For the second time in less than ten minutes, I’m struck dumb.

But… but… that’s impossible, I blurt out when the shock subsides a little. I’ve always been the one to dust shelves and run all the household errands because she was tied up with work. I deserve to inherit Pages and Pages. I bang my fist on the table in frustration. Who is it going to, then?

Mama Bee hesitates before answering. She left it to Mark, Brie.

I can’t believe my ears.

Mark? Are you serious? My brother Mark, who hasn’t set foot in this shop in, what, ten years? Who neither Mother nor I have seen in as many years because we don’t fit in with his fancy Hamptons lifestyle? What on Earth would he do with a bookshop except sell it to pay for his next holiday in the Caribbean? I throw my hands in the air. See, I’ve always told you, Mama Bee—my mother was a vindictive old… I struggle for words, overflowing with resentment and anger. My face is burning. I’m approaching a meltdown.

Worst of all, Mama Bee is shrinking back further in her chair with each biting word I utter. Her head is sinking low onto her chest. Seeing her like that snaps me out of my tantrum, so I breathe in deeply and dial my voice back from shouting to speaking.

Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I say and put my hand on Mama Bee’s arm. This is unfair of me. You’re just the messenger. But please, help me out here. You knew her better than I did. Why would she do that?

Mama Bee looks up, her eyes moist.

She didn’t want to have you growing old here in this musty old bookshop the way she did, Brie. She wanted to set you free, so you can experience life beyond these four walls. And she knew you weren’t going to do that by yourself while you remained in your comfort zone, sitting here reading and paging through magazines day after day. That’s why she did it. Because she loved you, no matter what you may think. She wanted you to experience life, not just read about it.

I can’t bring myself to believe Mama Bee’s explanation, but I say nothing. Instead, I tap my foot on the parquet floor and ponder what I’d just been told. If anyone else had said this to me, I’d have dismissed it as a crude joke. But this was coming from the person I trusted most, by far.

And you agreed with her? That I need some sort of freedom enforced on me?

Mama Bee looks at me tenderly and with love in her eyes. Go find your own bookshop, Brie. And I’m not talking necessarily about a place like this, she said and waved her hand around the shop. You need a new space where you belong and can be happy on your own terms. A completely fresh and new you. For the first time since she arrived, Mama Bee breaks into a broad smile, and her eyes twinkle.

I’m happy right here, and, besides, I have absolutely nowhere to go, I protest and throw up my hands. I undo the bandana that holds down my unruly mop of curly black hair and run my fingers through it. I can’t believe I’ve just lost my livelihood. At least I was covering costs helping Ma out here at the shop, but you’ve just told me that’s gone now. I may as well go and… I don’t know…. go and–

–travel the world? Mama Bee completes my sentence with an enigmatic smile.

I shake my head from side to side. No, that’s definitely not what I have in mind. I’ve never even been across the state border. I can’t travel the world. I’m not convinced that’s something I could do. But don’t worry, I can take care of myself. Tomorrow, I’ll go searching, and I’m sure I’ll find other bookshops here in New York where I can get a part-time job to earn a living.

Mama Bee isn’t letting up. I’m not so sure that’s a good choice, sweetheart. You need to get out, far away. Experience different cultures, food, and histories.

I go into sarcasm mode again. Well, why don’t I just apply for a job as an air hostess or go work on a cruise ship? Is that you have in mind?

Mama Bee ignores my snarky retort. I have an idea, she says, getting up. Go spin that globe you have in your room, point your finger somewhere on it, and come tell me where it lands. Her voice sounds more like a command than a request. I’ll make us more coffee in the meantime. I’m convinced your next destination is somewhere that requires a journey. She motions towards the back door of the bookshop that leads to my tiny little bedroom. Go on, do it.

I’m taken by surprise. I don’t recall Mama Bee ever seeing the inside of my chaotic bedroom. An ex-boyfriend had given me a plastic globe with a cheap lightbulb inside years ago, but I never touched it. I never even mentioned it. It’s been gathering dust in the corner ever since we broke up. How could she have known about it? Perhaps Mother told her.

And what happens then? I ask, not sure I like where this is going. What if my finger lands on the North Pole? Or worse, a country where I won’t understand what they’re saying?

Just go do it, she insists, giving me a little push. For me, please?

Of course, I can’t say no to anything Mama Bee asks of me. Getting up, I take my