French Toasted

By Renae Janecek

Revenge is best served warm and drenched in syrup...

Lia Short's life is filled with murder and mayhem - and not just between the pages of her mystery novels.

Life in the little diner is flipped upside down when Lia is whisked into another investigation. Agatha Maine, fellow writers' group member, implores Lia to dig into the strange death of her nephew. Sticky situations ensue with conflicting witness statements, an exasperated macho detective and a killer looking to squash probing questions.

Can Lia catch the culprit before the egg timer runs out?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Renae Janecek
• Release date: Sep 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215378526

Book preview

French Toasted

A Short Diner Mystery #2

By Renae Janecek

Copyright 2023 by Renae Janecek

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the author.

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Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. The characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to actual persons, places, or events is coincidental.

Dedication

For Dan and Julie

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Acknowledgements

I owe a big THANK YOU to Jenny, Ellie and Dan for their critiques, comments and suggestions. You went above and beyond, and I appreciate you immensely! If there are any mistakes in my story, the fault is entirely due to author error.

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Cover Photo by Canva

Cover design by Ellie Oberth

Edited by Jennifer Oberth

Proofread by Ellie Oberth

***

They’re going to kill me, my best friend, Harris Greeves, whined.

Oh, please, I said with more humor than compassion. They’re cats. If they’d wanted you dead, you would’ve been toast by now.

Don’t push it, Lia, Harris said. You’re the one who encouraged Aggie to host today’s writers’ group, and you know how torturous it is for me!

The innocent felines, Mittens, Boots, and Scarfy, sat in a large bay window staring daggers at Harris. I knew as soon as we entered Agatha’s house her cats would be all over my friend. They intrinsically knew he was allergic to them, and, therefore, they would smother Harris with lethal affection.

Harris loitered on the sidewalk. Can we stay outside a moment longer?

A brisk fall breeze unsettled his perfectly-gelled hair. Despite it being a Sunday, Harris still dressed like the supervisor he was during the work week. In fact, I don’t think he knew how to be anything but a professional—it was part of his DNA.

Sorry, we’re already ten minutes late. What would—

Don’t you dare say their names, Harris warned. I already know what Wren and Penny would do. Keep your imaginary matrons of mystery out of this!

Nonsense, my characters are always welcome in group. Everyone loves the sticky situations my pesky senior citizens get into. Besides, what kind of mystery author would I be if I didn’t plunge my characters into unnecessary peril?"

You know Wren and Penny are only in your head, right?

Please, they’re more real to me than myself some days.

Harris shuffled up the porch stairs in tiny baby steps. That’s because you’ve been writing them for years.

If you keep up whining, you’ll make an appearance in my next mystery—as the victim. I gently pushed Harris up the rest of the steps.

Regardless of our quibbling, the inspirational ploy worked, and Harris walked, albeit slowly, toward the front door. It was autumn in our little, northern Texas town of Sunsville, and another gust of wind sent a cold breeze down my back. I appraised the overcast sky, hoping to see a glimmer of sun, but dark, grumpy clouds blocked its rays.

Technically we’re not late. Hunching his shoulders against another burst of wind, Harris rapped his knuckles against the door.

How do you figure?

Well, group was supposed to meet yesterday. Saturdays are always reserved for writers’ group. We never meet on a Sunday.

Nice try, bud, but I don’t think your logic works here. Besides, you know we had to reschedule because Earl had a ‘thing’ yesterday, I said, putting air quotes around the word.

The door swung open, and wails of anguish greeted us.

***

This is awful! My poor, poor Coltie! Agatha Maine wailed before Harris and I even removed our jackets. A shattered plate of chocolate chip cookies lay scattered on the carpet.

The entire writing group was in attendance and in their usual seats, expect for one member. There was a vacant spot on the loveseat where a stony-faced man would sit. The stoic figure in question, Gray Ryan, was being used as Aggie’s human tissue. Gray patted her awkwardly on the back as she continued to sob.

Colton? I asked. Did something happen to Agatha’s nephew?

Stellah Crick rushed toward Harris and me in a tidal wave of hairspray and fruity perfume. She added in a loud whisper, Yes, the guy went and killed himself last night.

That’s awful! I cried.

Images of Aggie’s sullen nephew seeped into my brain. Colton had been the typical, tall, dark, and handsome type, and he sometimes accompanied Agatha to writers’ group. Most of the time he dissolved into the background while we discussed our writing, but occasionally he’d interject a mundane platitude that usually had nothing to do with the actual conversation. Aggie doted on the man like he was a modern-day Shakespeare—I just found the guy irritating.

What happened? Harris asked, drawing me back into the conversation.

The roommate found Colton early this morning—dead in the tub.

Did Colton drown? Most of Harris’ question was stifled by a wet sneeze into the crook of his elbow. He swatted a futile hand at the three cats circling his legs. His rejection fueled their ardor, and one feline attempted to climb Harris’ leg like a tree trunk.

Bless you. I shooed two of the cats away, but one stubborn black-and-white pest lingered at Harris’ feet.

No, he didn’t drown. Stellah ignored Harris’ nasal outburst and continued relishing in her salacious tale. He electrocuted himself. Colton dragged a plugged-in radio into his bath water.

I gasped and Harris sneezed again. Stellah, on the other hand, practically glowed with the scandal. Her normally hooded eyes were round with excitement.

That seems very extreme, I said. Fatally electrocuting one’s self on purpose sounded too severe to even comprehend. I’d never pretend to be an expert on human suffering, but something about the entire incident bordered on the ludicrous.

Now isn’t the time for you to don your detective hat, Harris advised. Apparently he’d noticed my skeptical squint and felt it necessary to whisper this hasty warning to prevent any insensitive questions—or so I assumed. It wouldn’t be the first time Harris acted as a filter for my unintentional—yet still offensive—words.

"Agatha received the dreadful news about five minutes after I arrived. Poor thing