Day In, Day Out

By Patti Larsen

Trading stock can be murder...

When Daisy is hired to look into a partnership deal for a new client, she does her best to learn the ins and outs of the stock market while juggling the three men in her life who don’t want to take no for an answer. But when someone connected to the assignment dies right in front of her, Daisy is pulled into the investigation, the stakes now much higher than she was expecting. With both sides of the pending partnership not quite as they seem, it’s up to her to uncover the truth behind the death before her client’s business can go belly up as well!

Welcome back to the Daisy Bruce Cozy Mysteries!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patti Larsen
• Release date: Oct 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781998948130

Patti Larsen

About me, huh? Well, my official bio reads like this: Patti Larsen is a multiple award-winning author with a passion for the voices in her head. But that sounds so freaking formal, doesn’t it? I’m a storyteller who hears character's demands so loudly I have to write them down. I love the idea of sports even though sports hate me. I’ve dabbled in everything from improv theater to film making and writing TV shows, singing in an all girl band to running my own hair salon.But always, always, writing books calls me home.I’ve had my sights set on world literary domination for a while now. Which means getting my books out there, to you, my darling readers. It’s the coolest thing ever, this job of mine, being able to tell stories I love, only to see them all shiny and happy in your hands... thank you for reading.As for the rest of it, I’m short (permanent), slightly round (changeable) and blonde (for ever and ever). I love to talk one on one about the deepest topics and can’t seem to stop seeing the big picture. I happily live on Prince Edward Island, Canada, home to Anne of Green Gables and the most beautiful red beaches in the world, with my pug overlord and overlady, six lazy cats and Gypsy Vanner gelding, Fynn.

Book preview

Day In, Day Out

Daisy Bruce Cozy Mysteries: Two

Smashwords Edition

© Patti Larsen 2023

Find out more about me at

http://www.pattilarsen.com/

***

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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***

The large glass lobby’s glowing white light perfectly offsets my silver fox (faux, of course) collar, flashing against the oversized mirrored lenses of my sunglasses. I’m blinking sparkles from the shift in illumination from the blazing February sunlight to the interior, but my beaming smile matches the ticking enthusiasm of my stilettos as I mince my way toward the curved white desk between the two fluted glass columns that house the elevators to the upper floors.

"How pretty! I gush at the lovely young woman on the other side who seems startled by my greeting, and as I slide free the giant shades that hid my fake lashes, allowing me to bat them at her with a vapid expression that matches my breathlessness, I lean in, allowing my excessive cleavage to protrude from my white wool swing coat. I have ever so much money to invest," I say, artfully loud whisper barely lowering my tone and likely making me even more audible to everyone in the space. A brief and echoingly empty giggle follows while she visibly struggles for composure and judges me.

As I choose to be judged.

Do you have an appointment, Ms…? She trails off, already reaching for her phone while I tsk under my breath and wave the giant rock on my hand, the diamond as gaudy as it is expensive, one of the many gifts my former fiancé, Emile Reis refused to accept back after I ended our engagement the perfect party favor for this particular endeavor.

"Mrs., darling, I say with a simpering pout, letting moisture rise to my eyes. Diana Abernathy. My poor Nathan just passed. I sniffle and look away, waving at my face with one hand, showing off the diamond again, along with the tennis bracelet to match. Oh, and the Rolex on my other as I set my white leather gloves on the counter next to my Gucci handbag. The picture of a grieving and gullible widow with far more money than is good for anyone. I can’t believe he’s gone and left all of his fortune to little old me."

I barely have time to finish off my little show with a toss of my honey curls and I’m being ushered onto one of the sleek elevators, on my way to the tenth floor.

Go ahead. Underestimate me. I’ve been doing it to myself for years.

***

Oh, dear. I did it again, didn’t I? Jumped ahead into the story and didn’t give you even a second to get caught up. I’m so sorry. It’s just exciting, you know? This job of mine. I get a bit wrapped up in the fun parts and forget I’m not in this alone.

All right. Let’s back up a little and get started again, shall we? It all began…

Chapter One

…with a new client on a lovely early February morning, the kind of mid-winter day that dreams are made of, when the blue sky is so bright and cloudless it’s like summer promises it’s not far off, despite the crispness of the air, not a hint of a breeze to ruin the moment.

I stride into the lobby of a small brick building (not the glass one, that’s later, I’ll get back to it, promise!) and nod to the security guard standing off to one side, catching his grin and nod back. Some people overlook those who serve, who carry on the invisible jobs, the behind-the-scenes positions that keep the world moving. I do my best not to. Why? Because everyone has a story, don’t they? And you never know when a smile or a wave or a bit of kindness might change everything.

I know, I know. Me and my optimism and sense of fair play. Both have served me well enough, however, despite the fact there are those who think being kind makes one soft. But I’ve seen far too much darkness to accept it as inevitable. And besides, it takes so little to be nice.

Says a lot about someone, too.

Why is this so important? Let’s just say, as I head toward the back of the foyer and the small hallway where the elevators to my destination waited, I encounter the opposite of my own philosophy. I spot him waiting, hear the ding as the door slides sideways, hurry my steps with one hand raised and my smile widening.

Excuse me! My high-heeled boots are loud enough on the tile flooring, certainly, my voice no less so as I speak again. Hold the door, please.

I wish I could say he ignores me. Perhaps I could have given him a pass in his expensive overcoat, his pricey dress shoes inappropriate for a snowy sidewalk, the flash of a gold watch on his wrist as he turns to meet my eyes. He grins, handsome face skewing sideways as his gaze narrows and he salutes me with a merciless grin.

Before stepping onto the elevator and letting the door slide shut behind him.

I almost make it, reach the sliding metal just as it shuts, allowing a tsk of frustration out at his rudeness. If he’d tried such a thing on my best friend, Fiona Fleming, or even the two amazing detectives I work with, ex-FBI SA Liz Michaud or ex-Sheriff Jill Wagner, I have no doubt he’d have regretted it immensely. He’d be hunted down and taught the error of his ways, either with a tirade of redheaded fury, a cold and calculated dressing down or a heated but controlled schooling that would have left him in a puddle on the floor.

Really, Daisy Bruce. I sigh as I hit the up button and wait patiently for the elevator to return from the sixth floor where it ended up. I check the note on my phone and sigh again as the numbers on the panel over my head began to tick down once more. The elevator had stopped on the very floor I am heading to, of course.

Please, let him not be my contact for this job. I’m not Fee or Liz or Jill, but I’ve recently begun to push the boundaries of my niceness and the last thing I want is to lose Fleming Investigations a contract over something as silly as rudeness.

The elevator is empty when I step on, the mirror in the back reflecting back my pink cheeks and tightened lips and I purposely click the button for the sixth floor before facing off with myself again. My mouth softens as I guide it to a vague smile, brow unfurrowing into nonchalance, hands unclenching from the tight fists around my new navy leather gloves that match my wool overcoat. I chose a suit today, though I’m still adjusting to wearing it, my boots the only real nod to my more girly sense of style. But this is a first impression I’m making and again, my team is relying on me to present myself as professionally as possible.

Though I do miss my swing skirts and twinsets, darn it.

By the time I turn to face the exit, I’m firmly back in full Easy Dais-it (giggle) and ready to woo our client into signing the contract I’ve been sent to present. With my new briefcase in my right hand and the left smoothing a curl back from my cheek, I stride out into the reception area of the financial firm and head for the front desk.

Naturally, the man of the hour is standing there, leaning over the young woman who sits behind the station. He’s saying something under his breath I don’t catch, but it’s obvious to me she’s very unhappy with his presence or what he has to say—or both. Whatever the cause of her discomfort specifically, he barks a laugh, shooting her with his right thumb and forefinger, before striding off like he owns the place. I find myself whispering another prayer he not be who I’m here to see and force my smile to return as the young woman glares after his departing back, not noticing my approach.

I take in the OTC logo and name of the company printed on the wooden front of her reception station, Orson Trading Co., and pause to give her a moment to revert her attention to her job. When she does, she squeaks a little at the sight of me, cracking my own irritation and raising a giggle that has me sighing out the last of my irritation past my genuine smile.

Good afternoon, I say. Daisy Bruce, Fleming Investigations. I’m here to see Calvin Orson? He’s expecting me.

She nods though she’s still red-faced and clearly upset. Just a moment. She shuffles through a pile of something on her desk just past my view over the lip of the counter, turning away and sneaking a tissue that she uses to dab at her eyes before carrying on.

Remember my niceness? It gets the better of me, as usual. Are you all right? I can’t help the compassion in my voice, glancing toward the frosted glass that hides the interior of the rest of the office from reception. He’s long gone, but he’s left an impression with her, too.

"Hank Pressing is a total jerk. She shocks me with her venom, and surprises herself, it seems, because she gasps a little, dark eyes wide as she realizes what she said. Her pink cheeks turn pale, sharp nose turning downward as she hunches her shoulders inside her dark suit and shakes her head, shining dark hair swinging. Please, have a seat, she says in a muffled voice. I’ll let Mr. Orson know you’re here."

There’s not much more comfort I can offer, so I do as instructed, the only person waiting in the small but nicely appointed reception area. The leather lounge chair I sink into is comfortable and sunlight pours in over the dark wood coffee table before me, lighting the room and warming the deep stain tone of the flooring and walls, some exposed brick on the far wall giving the space a sense of old-world charm.

I take the time to review my notes. I know very little about day trading or brokerage firms, and while I dove into research yesterday when I was assigned the job on our group call, I knew I couldn’t tolerate going into the contract conversation without some information. I’ve spent my entire life fighting the belief I’m stupid. It’s taken a lot of work and effort to convince myself otherwise. Knowledge is power, isn’t it? My father always said that, and I’ve done my best to educate myself even when I don’t think I’m good enough to handle what I’ve been assigned.

The fact that John and Fee both want me on this case helps, of course. As does knowing Liz and Jill both agree. But I can’t completely shed my sense of discomfort that I might let them down, so even as I wait for my appointment with the man who called us, I do my best to learn what I can so I don’t make a mess of this contract.

I’ve just reviewed my notes for the third time when the girl appears, her composure as restored as mine is now rattled.

"Mr. Orson will