Killing the Carol: Grave Theatrics, #3

By Sam Cheever

FaLaLaLaLa the songbird's dead.

 

It seems like a bad joke. I mean, Carol Ling? What cruelty of parental whim would make people name a kid Carol when her last name was Ling? But that's not really the point, is it? The point is her death. Or really murder. Carol died with a song on her lips and my PI boyfriend and I intend to find her murderer. With an assist from my genius Pomeranian, Shakespeare, and a couple of quirky neighbors, we're on the killer's trail. If only he doesn't turn the tables and get us first.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Electric Prose Publications
• Release date: Mar 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781950331987

Sam Cheever

USA Today and Wall Street Journal Bestselling Author Sam Cheever writes mystery and suspense, creating stories that draw you in and keep you eagerly turning pages. Known for writing great characters, snappy dialogue, and unique and exhilarating stories, Sam is the award-winning author of 100+ books. NEWSLETTER: Join Sam's Monthly newsletter and get a FREE book! You can also keep up with her appearances, enjoy monthly contests, and get previews of her upcoming work!  https://samcheever.com/newsletter/ ONLINE HOT SPOTS: To find out more about Sam and her work, please pay her a visit at any one of the following online hot spots: Her blog: http://www.samcheever.com/blog; and Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/SamCheeverAuthor. She looks forward to chatting with you! She has a technique for scooping poop that she knows you’re just DYING to learn about.

Book preview

1

I ’m pretty sure I don’t need the corset, I told the flashily clad octogenarian clomping around my bedroom in a pair of hot-pink kitten-heeled slippers. Pinella Gerrard was an eighty-year-old spinster who thought she was a sexpot. And, since she’d decided to adopt me, I was currently suffering under her questionable expertise regarding the period costume I was being forced to wear for the evening’s caroling event in the town square.

Humming along with the Christmas carols playing on TV, Pinella tugged the top of her leopard-spotted bra up above the too-low neckline of her pink angora sweater and pulled on the waistline of her yoga pants. Of course you do, dolly. You want to look your best for that handsome Mr. Dietz, don’t you? She straightened the neckline of my dark blue velvet dress. This color really makes your pretty blue eyes pop.

Thanks. I’d opted to leave my long, dark-gold hair loose and curling over my shoulders. When I pulled it back into the bun I’d initially planned on, my rounded cheeks gave me a chipmunk with a mouth full of acorns look that wasn’t flattering. Unfortunately, I’d gained a few pounds recently, as I always did around the holidays.

I sighed, tugging on the slightly too tight waistline of the gown. I’ll be wearing my cloak the whole time anyway. He won’t even see me in the dress.

He’s not coming here after? Pinella asked in her trademark New York City accent. She waggled tattooed eyebrows and winked at me. Remember dolly, if you don’t want him, I’ll take him off your hands.

I nearly grinned at that. Deitz would not thank me if I told Pinella she could take a run at him. Not that I ever would. I was pretty much crazy for the guy. And I thought it was safe to assume he felt the same.

You can’t have him, I said, grinning at her. Get your own guy.

I been tryin’, dolly. Your sexy neighbor won’t give me the time of day. She sighed. I’ve borrowed about fifteen pounds of sugar from him so far, wearin’ my sexiest clothes. And he hasn’t once taken the bait. She patted her rounded belly. I’m pretty sure I’m wearin’ those fifteen pounds of sugar in my middle.

My sugar-begging neighbor was referring to Doug, my mostly monosyllabic next-door neighbor whose medical use of marijuana made him jovial and laid back. But didn’t do anything to make him amenable to the oversexed octogenarian’s wiles.

Pinella eyed the corset. Are you sure you don’t want to wear the girdle?

I didn’t bother explaining to her…again…that it wasn’t a girdle. I’m not going to wear it. You can borrow it tonight if you want.

Pinella clapped her hands, giddy with excitement. Snatching up the corset, she headed for the door. What time do you need me there? she asked over her shoulder.

Five o’clock. Don’t be late. Technically, my neighbor hadn’t been invited to carol with us. The event was only supposed to be for my community theatre group. But Pinella had all but begged me to let her come. And I’d heard her sing. She had a loud, beautiful voice. I was planning on standing next to her and mouthing the lyrics in the hopes that everybody would think it was me singing.

From the next room came a high-pitched warbling howl. I smiled at the sound. My dog Shakespeare, an adorable gray Pomeranian with bright button eyes, loved to sing when Jingle Bells came on. He had a very unique howling technique that I was hoping would drown out my own off-key wailing should Mrs. Gerrard somehow escape from my sphere.

As it turned out, Pinella beat me to the town square. She’d made an early entrance, giving one and all a thorough look at her get-up. I had to admit, it was memorable. Rather than the Dickens-esque, Christmas Carol theme we’d been aiming for, Pinella provided a stark injection of the seedier side of an 1843 Christmas. Dressed like a woman of ill-repute in a boob-lifting bodice that showed more wrinkly flesh than anyone ever wanted to see, Pinella was breathing a bit shallowly and her face was the